Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander & Yuna Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

hospital scene rewrite, Relationship Reveal, POV Outsider, Shane Hollander is High on Pain Medication, Public Display of Affection, Love Confessions, Non-Linear Narrative, Pet Names, the power of calling someone baby, Tender Sex, Dry Humping, Shane Hollander Calls Ilya Rozanov "Baby", Soft Dom Shane Hollander, Sub Ilya Rozanov, Subspace, Out of Character, If youre strict, my shane is possessive and obsessed idk ab yall, no ai used id rather kill myself, hospital scene rewrite bc im going back to my roots, POV Yuna Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-22 Words: 6,243 Chapters: 2/2

love of mine

Summary

He’s high, she knows he is. But he’s smiling faintly, his eyes glassy, and he looks so painfully fond that Yuna doesn’t know what to do with herself.

He looks like he’s in love.

Notes

Chapter 1

April, 2017

Shane is high.

He’s humming something to himself, staring blankly at the ceiling, allowing the doctor— a lovely lady by the name of Dr Yu— to check on him, pressing a stethoscope to his chest, pulling at his eyelids and checking how his pupils react to a tiny bright light. Yuna can’t quite make out what he’s humming, if it’s a song or if it’s just soft noises, too quiet to reach her ears.

She’s nibbling her thumbnail, watching worriedly as Shane sighs, letting his head fall back as Yu releases his face. He looks delirious, and part of Yuna is endlessly charmed by it, helplessly fond of him, but the rest is sick. He shouldn’t be like this, shouldn’t be bed-bound and pitiful.

David’s hand reaches for Yuna’s, and he draws it away gently, careful like he’s trying not to startle her. She lets him, exhaling shakily, letting their fingers lace tightly. She shakes his hand upside down roughly a few times. He lets her.

“Everything looks good,” Yu says lightly, smiling as Shane’s head rolls to look up at her with a vacant smile. She pats his head, and his eyes close. “The morphine will last a little while longer, and it’s making him a little drowsy, isn’t it?”

Shane just hums, smile lingering on his face.

“Little bit,” he mumbles, voice slurred. “Sleepy.”

“He’s fine to sleep,” Yu continues, looking up at David and Yuna with a faint smile. Yuna can’t quite tell if it’s genuine or if it’s just bedside manner. “I’ll be back in a little while to check on him, and you can always hit the button if anything changes, but right now, the best thing is to let him rest.”

Shane makes a soft noise, and Yuna looks at him intently. It makes her ache. There’s bruising across his face, across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, and it’s covering his freckles, flushing him pinkish red. His expression shifts, his smile falling, his eyebrows furrowing a little. He lifts his head, eyes opening just enough to squint across the room, glancing around himself. His nose wrinkles, and he mumbles something.

“What’s wrong, Shane?” Yuna asks, hand tightening on David’s.

He exhales heavily, head falling back like he’s exhausted, his eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed into a frown.

“‘S my b’by,” he mumbles, voice suddenly grumpy. Yuna blinks, frowning, tilting her head.

“What?”

“Where’s my baby?” Shane enunciates clearly, raising his voice.

Yuna blinks again.

She turns to look at David, who looks equally confused, his lips parted, his eyebrows drawn together.

“Uhm.”

Yuna looks at Yu, who meets her eyes after a moment.

“...Does he…”

“Not that we know of,” David says dryly before Yuna can get anything out. “Shane, your baby?”

“My baby,” Shane whines, face scrunching into something pained, like he’s agony. “Want my baby.”

“Alright, buddy,” Yu says lightly, reaching for him, petting his hair gently like it’s familiar to her. “Get some rest, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane mumbles, exhaling heavily. “O–kay.”

“Okay,” Yu says, nodding even though Shane’s eyes are closed, and she lingers for a moment before she looks up at Yuna and David, nodding toward the door silently. When they leave, David shuts the door with both hands, as gently as possible, wincing as it clicks as though it matters at all. “So.”

“Is that normal?” David asks, tucking his hands into his pockets, stepping close to Yuna. She turns toward him absently, slipping a hand into the crook of his elbow. “We’re fairly certain he doesn’t have kids.”

“Morphine makes people say a lot of things that don’t make any sense,” Yu says lightly, perfectly calm, not at all alarmed. “It makes sense in their brains, but to other people? Nonsense.”

Yuna exhales shakily, nodding, glancing back at the door. He said it like he was so certain, the word enunciated so perfectly, so clearly even though his eyes were glassy and glazed. It feels bizarre for him to seem so sure of himself— it’s a recent development, Yuna thinks. He’s always been so shy, so tentative in everything he’s done, everything he’s said, and recently— the past year or so, maybe— he’s seemed confident, almost cocky. He meets people’s eyes like he’s never done before, and he doesn’t seem to hate it like he says he does. Sometimes it makes Yuna worry, because he doesn’t have to do that, does he? He doesn’t have to force himself to do things just because everyone else does, or because everyone else expects him to.

“So, recovery,” Yu starts, turning to face them, her expression light, like she’s optimistic. “Do we know if Shane will be home with you guys or at his own place?”

“He’ll be with us,” Yuna says briskly. “If he’s out for the playoffs he’ll be home to watch it with us.”

“Okay, good,” Yu says with a nod. “Recovery is going to be fairly straightforward. He might put up a fight if he’s as stubborn as my nephew, but he’s just got to rest. It’ll be easier to keep an eye on him if he’s at home with you. Make sure he isn’t over-exherting himself, trying to work out or do training, and—”

Yuna stops listening, looking past Yu down the hallway, where her eyes have found Ilya fucking Rozanov, looking down at his phone and then back up at the signs that border the tops of the walls like he’s searching for something. His eyebrows are drawn together, and his shoulders look tight, and he’s wearing a visitor pass clipped to the hem of his shirt just like Yuna is. He looks almost frantic, looking up at the signs and back at his phone and then up at the signs again, and Yuna thinks he looks fairly put-together, his hair neat, his jacket zipped, but something in her itches.

She pats David’s arm gently and steps away, nudging past Yu, who falters and watches her pass by before David says something that prompts her to continue.

“Rozanov?” Yuna says as she approaches him. He startles, turning toward her, wide-eyed, his phone lowering. He seems to recognize her, his eyes widening more. Her voice softens. “What are you doing here?”

“I want to see him,” Rozanov says quickly, accent heavy. “I want to see that he is okay.”

Yuna nods, analyzing him for a moment, pausing.

“He’s resting right now,” she says. “He’ll be out for the playoffs, but he’s going to be fine, okay? You can tell your teammate—”

“No, I need to see him,” Rozanov says in a rush, shaking his head, his eyes fluttering. “I am not— It is not sportsmanship, I need to see him, please. I need to see that he is okay.”

He looks at her, eyes flickering back and forth between hers like he’s desperate, like he’s on the verge of panic, and Yuna remembers, suddenly, that he’s just come back from his father’s funeral.

“Please,” he says weakly. His voice breaks. He sounds small, like he’s just a little boy, and it breaks her heart.

“Okay,” Yuna says softly, already nodding before she can think better of it. “Okay, yeah.”

She beckons, turning, and he follows without hesitation, tucking his phone into his pocket. Yuna meets David’s eyes, and she sees the confusion register on his face, watches him mutter something to Yu, who nods and says something back that Yuna can’t quite hear before she walks away, passing by Yuna and Rozanov with a light smile.

“Hi,” David says blankly, looking Rozanov up and down like he’s a spectre, like he’s trying to make sure he’s real. “What’s going on?”

“We just wanna make sure Shane’s alright,” Yuna says lightly, too lightly, and David nods, good-natured as always, and he follows. It’s awkward, of course it is, but Yuna doesn’t think Rozanov has even noticed. He’s silent, but when Yuna glances at him, he’s got his lower lip between his teeth, worrying it in a way that could make it bleed, and his eyebrows are furrowed so hard there’s a crease on his forehead, and he looks scared in a way Yuna never could have imagined on him. He’s such a menace, a force to be reckoned with on the ice and off of it, but he looks pitiful right now. Yuna wants to hold him, but she refrains, opening the door to Shane’s room and stepping back for Rozanov to enter.

Shane stirs at the noise, squirming as much as he can while practically sedated, his head rolling, and then he opens his eyes, looking blearily across the room for a moment before he gasps brightly.

“My baby!”

Yuna blinks, glancing up at Rozanov in confusion, and he looks worse. He’s stiff, his eyes wide as he stares intently at Shane, and as she’s looking, his lip quivers.

“Uhm,” Yuna says blankly. “He’s on morphine, so he’s kind of…”

Rozanov doesn’t react, like he can’t hear her at all. He’s still looking at Shane, taking him in. The sling, the bruising, the monitors. His brilliant smile and his hand lifting to reach for Rozanov, fingers grabbing at the air between them.

“Come here,” Shane says. “‘S my baby.”

Yuna glances at David, who’s lingering in the doorway, looking just as confused as Yuna feels, and then she glances at Rozanov.

He’s still frozen, but his eyes are glistening now, and something is settling into place just as he lets out a rough exhale.

He moves toward Shane like something’s been cut loose, like he’s been released, like he’s allowed, and he takes Shane’s hand as Shane lets out a light Yay!

Their hands join, fingers lacing like it’s easy, and Shane is grinning, tugging Rozanov’s hand to make him sit on the edge of the bed.

“My baby,” Shane says again, his voice light. “Hi, my baby.”

His slinged arm shifts like he’s trying to reach for Rozanov, and he looks down at it with a pout like he’s forgotten about his injuries. Rozanov makes a sound that Yuna just barely hears, a sniffle like he’s crying. Shane looks at him, his expression falling into something anguished from whatever Rozanov’s face is doing.

“No-o,” Shane whines, his hand detaching from Rozanov’s to touch his face. “No, don’t cry, Ilya.”

Ilya.

He says it smoothly, like he’s said it before, like the shape of it is familiar in his mouth. Yuna’s chest tightens.

“Oh,” Shane says, whining. “Baby.”

He shifts, squirming a little, but Rozanov stops him with a sharp sound, shaking his head and reaching out to hold him in place.

“No, stop,” Rozanov says, his hands sliding over Shane’s waist, one of them reaching for his shoulder to hold him gently. “Don’t move, stay— stay here.”

Shane huffs, pouting a little, looking at Rozanov’s face before he draws him closer, leaning in, reaching to touch his face.

“You scared me,” Rozanov chokes, his voice tight. He’s crying. Yuna can hear it down, the sniffling, the hiccuped breaths, and she can see it. His shoulders are shaking, his head falling forward into Shane’s hand. “You fucking scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane coos, his head tilting as he looks at Rozanov pitifully. “I’m so sorry, baby, I’m okay.”

“Shane—”

“Look, that’s my heartbeat,” Shane interrupts, looking up at the monitor next to him. “See? I’m okay.”

Rozanov follows his gaze. Yuna watches the back of his head, watches him face the monitor and stay, watching the steady pulsing, watching the numbers.

“See?” Shane says again. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Rozanov says softly with a nod. “Okay.”

“Do you wanna feel it?”

Rozanov faces him again, and then he nods choppily, clumsily. Shane smiles, his head tilting like he’s fond, and he reaches for Rozanov’s hand, drawing it up to his neck. Rozanov cradles the side of it for a moment, his thumb brushing over the delicate skin before his hand shifts into a less affectionate touch, something less tender. His fingertips press into the side of Shane’s neck, just under his ear, shifting and prodding until he stops, lingering in one spot. He exhales shakily loudly enough for Yuna to hear it.

“Feel it?” Shane whispers.

Rozanov nods, his hand settling in place. His palm covers Shane’s jaw, and his thumb touches the corner of his mouth, and something in Yuna is screaming, hurting like it’s burning, because Shane is gazing at him, his head tilted just enough for Yuna to see his face clearly.

He’s high, she knows he is. But he’s smiling faintly, his eyes glassy, and he looks so painfully fond that Yuna doesn’t know what to do with herself.

He looks like he’s in love.

And Yuna has been in love— she is in love. She falls in love all over again every fucking day. She knows what it’s like.

The love on Shane’s face, that sweet tenderness, the soft shine of his eyes and the way he presses a gentle kiss to Rozanov’s thumb, isn’t something that happens overnight. It isn’t something new, Yuna thinks.

It’s an old kind of love. Something aged and familiar to them.

Yuna’s stomach twists. Her eyes burn, and her throat tightens, and Shane is still gazing at Rozanov like he hung the moon, leaning toward him until their foreheads are pressing. He’s whispering something, murmuring softly enough that Yuna can’t make it out.

“Yuna,” David whispers. It startles her, but she can’t tear her eyes away, reaching absently for David’s arm. He lets her hold him, his hand sliding over her knuckles.

Shane lifts his head and looks at Rozanov again, smiling fondly.

“Gimme a kiss,” he says lightly.

Rozanov makes a choked noise like a startled laugh, and he’s shaking his head, muttering something that Yuna can only hear part of. Your parents, he says with that soft, rolling accent. Shane doesn’t seem to care at all.

“Please,” he whines in a way Yuna’s never heard. “Just one.”

“Shane.”

“I need it,” Shane says pitifully. “What if it fixes me?”

It makes Rozanov laugh wetly, his head falling forward, and Shane looks like he’s proud of himself, his face scrunching up under a bright grin. It makes Yuna smile weakly, something like relief washing over her even through the pain.

“Please…” he says. “Please.”

Rozanov mutters something in Russian, exasperated, and then he’s nodding, tilting his head as he leans in, and.

Yuna is watching her son kiss Ilya Rozanov.

It’s soft, tender, silent as Shane’s hand appears sliding around Rozanov’s head and pushing into his curls. Yuna’s breath catches, and she only realizes that she’s crying when tears fall over her cheeks, hot and then cold when the air meets her wet skin. Shane hums softly, cradling the back of Rozanov’s head, and Rozanov sniffles, his hands finding Shane’s face. They separate with a soft, wet noise, and Rozanov lets out a deep sob.

“‘S okay,” Shane whispers. “I know.”

“Fuck, Shane.”

“I know,” Shane repeats, nuzzling their noses together. “I got you.”

Yuna’s vision blurs. Her hand tightens on David’s arm, and his hand tightens on hers, and she can’t make herself move, rooted to the ground with her eyes on the two sweet boys in front of them. Big and strong and crying.

“Shane,” Rozanov is saying, his shoulders shaking, his voice strained and weak. “Shane. Shane.”

“I’m okay,” Shane says. “I’m right here, baby, I’m okay.”

“Fuck, I love you—”

Shane makes a weak noise, pulling at Rozanov’s hair to make him lift his head, and he kisses him again, his eyebrows furrowed, holding Rozanov in place even as he groans shifting like he’s trying to get away.

“I’m sorry,” Rozanov gasps when they part. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, I don’t—”

“I love you,” Shane interrupts, meeting Rozanov’s eyes intently, unblinking. “I fucking love you too, Ilya, I love you—”

“Shane.”

“I love you.”

“You’re high,” Rozanov says firmly, taking a hiccuping breath. “You’re high, Shane.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Shane dismisses with a shake of his head. “I fucking love you, Ilya, I love you sober. I love you right now, and I loved you yesterday, and I’ll love you tomorrow, okay?”

“Shane.”

Shane makes a disgruntled noise, drawing Rozanov into another kiss, wrapping his arm around Rozanov’s neck, and Rozanov sobs, falling toward Shane and catching himself on a hand like, even in his anguish, he’s trying not to hurt him, conscious of his injuries. Yuna watches for a moment longer before she rips her gaze away, squeezing her eyes shut and turning toward David.

He draws her into his arms and pulls her away, into the hallway. The door shuts behind them.

Yuna lets out a sob, burying her face in David’s neck, wrapping her arms around him tightly. David is crying too. She can feel his chest rising and falling with short, stuttered breaths. She hasn’t seen him cry since Shane was born.

David wasn’t allowed to cry as a child. They’d done their best to not raise Shane with the same rules, to keep him from growing up with his emotions tucked away inside of him, but it turned out to not matter at all. Hockey fucked that up for them, but Yuna thinks it might also just be how Shane is. He’s always been a private person, even as a child.

“I didn’t know,” Yuna says weakly. “How could I not know?”

“He didn’t want us to know,” David says, muffled in Yuna’s hair. “It’s his choice, honey, you know that.”

“He couldn’t— He couldn’t tell us—”

“Stop,” David murmurs. “Stop.”

He pushes her away and ducks his head to meet her eyes, holding her face. He wipes away her tears even though his eyes are glistening too.

“We’ll talk with him,” he says firmly, “when the morphine’s worn off. And we’ll tell him that we love him no matter what, and if there’s anything we’ve done, or we’ve said, we— Yuna, honey, we’ll make it better, okay?”

She squeezes her eyes shut, leaning into the pressure of his lips on her forehead.

“We’ll figure it out,” David murmurs after a moment. “And we’ll talk with— with Ilya, and it’ll be okay.”

Yuna just nods, tucking herself into her husband’s chest and letting him sway with her in his arms.

Chapter 2

January, 2017

They rock back and forth so slowly Ilya barely notices at first.

He’s crying, which he hasn’t done in a while. He doesn’t even remember the last time he cried. Sveta has told him before that he should cry more often, that it would be good for him. But he can’t imagine how it could help. It’s a bizarre feeling, the pressure in his eyes, the stinging and burning, the tightness of his throat. It fucking sucks.

Ilya knows, at the very least, that he’s an ugly crier. Shane doesn’t seem to mind.

He’s caressing Ilya’s head, cradling him, and he’s kissing the top of his head like he can kiss it all away, like he can fix him.

“I got you,” he says softly, running his hand over Ilya’s head, his voice soft by Ilya’s ear. His breath is warm. “‘S okay.”

Ilya takes a hiccuping breath, squeezing his eyes shut. He buries his face in Shane’s chest, hugging his waist so tightly it must be uncomfortable, but Shane doesn’t complain. He’s heavy, of course he is, but it feels good, the weight of him on Ilya’s lap, holding him in place.

“Sorry,” Ilya chokes.

“Don’t,” Shane murmurs. “It’s okay, just… It’s okay.”

Ilya lifts his head, furrowing his eyebrows, his breath stuttering in his chest as he attempts a smooth exhale. Shane hums, combing his fingers through Ilya’s hair,brushing their noses together. It makes Ilya’s breath catch, makes him lean closer instinctively.

“Can I say your name?” Shane whispers.

Ilya forces his eyes open, blinking until his vision clears and he can see Shane’s beautiful face. He looks so soft like this, his gaze sweet. There’s a smile teasing his mouth, and Ilya looks at it, nodding. Shane’s smile widens, and he caresses the side of Ilya’s face, wiping away his tears that won’t stop falling.

“Ilya,” he breathes. “Ilya, Ilya, Ilya, Ilya…”

Ilya’s eyes flutter shut again. Shane is cradling his face, both of his palms pressing to Ilya’s cheeks, holding him close as he whispers his name over and over and over and over again, like he can’t say it enough now that he’s allowed to. Ilya feels like he’s basking in sunlight, soaking in Shane’s soft affection.

“Ilya,” Shane says after he falls quiet, his voice firmer. “You with me?”

Ilya’s eyes open. His lips are parted like he’s awestruck— he might be. Shane is so fucking beautiful. A force of fucking nature. Ilya nods.

“Yeah?” Shane says lightly, almost condescending. Ilya nods again. “God, you’re so…”

He trails off, tracing a line over Ilya’s forehead, his head tilting like he’s fond.

“So what?” Ilya whispers. Shane’s lips twitch into a smile.

“Perfect,” he murmurs. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

Ilya lowers his gaze, pulling away, but Shane grabs at his hair, tugging it so Ilya lifts his head again. Ilya’s stomach does a somersault, and he stifles a groan.

“You’re perfect,” Shane repeats softly, his grip loosening in Ilya’s hair. “Okay?”

Ilya is nodding before he can think anything of it, before he can register that he’s being asked a question. It makes Shane smile, his expression lightening, his gaze softening like he’s proud, and Ilya thinks he would do anything to make Shane Hollander smile like that, to make Shane Hollander proud.

They look at each other. Shane brushes tears away from Ilya’s cheeks, and he pushes Ilya’s curls back, and Ilya lets him, and he lets him, and he lets him. Shane looks into his eyes.

Ilya loves his eyes. They’re so warm, always so shiny. He doesn’t get to look into them very often— Shane has never seemed particularly fond of eye contact, every meeting of their gazes fleeting unless they’re in bed. It’s the only time Shane seems to like it, to savour it, drawing Ilya in so their eyes meet like he needs it to breathe.

Shane scans his face, caressing his cheek, tracing something absently. He looks fond, like Ilya is something to be fond of, and for some fucking reason, his eyes start to sting again.

His lip quivers, and he can’t look away from Shane’s pretty face, especially when he’s looking at him like this, so sweet and pitiful, back to borderline condescending.

“‘S okay, baby,” Shane murmurs, nodding.

Ilya’s breath catches in his throat. He forces it out, his eyes flickering back and forth between Shane’s, and he sees it register in him, sees Shane process it.

“You like that?” Shane breathes. Ilya doesn’t respond, silent, searching his face again until Shane leans in to nudge their noses against one another. “Tell me.”

“I like it,” Ilya chokes, nodding, squeezing his eyes shut. “Yes.”

“You wanna be my baby?”

A sob rips its way out of Ilya’s chest, and Shane’s hands tighten on his face, and he kisses him clumsily. Ilya can barely kiss back.

“Yes,” he says weakly, his voice muffled by Shane’s mouth. “I want to— I want to be your baby, Shane—”

Shane nods, kissing him again, his shoulders lifting to his ears as Ilya clings to him. Everything in him aches, sore like he’s bruised, like Shane is squeezing his entire being between the palms of his hands. He’s breathless, still crying, and he’s trembling, gripping Shane’s waist to steady himself. It doesn’t work.

He hugs Shane’s waist tightly, pulling him against himself as hard as he can, and Shane groans, pushing a hand into Ilya’s hair and squeezing at his curls.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya bursts when they separate to breathe, gasping.

“I know,” Shane says, just as breathless. “I got you, baby, ‘s okay.”

He tilts his head into Ilya’s neck, still murmuring as he kisses him, and Ilya lets him do that too, tilting his head, letting his eyes close. It always feels so fucking good when Shane kisses him like this, when he lets himself be clumsy with it. He licks and sucks and nips at Ilya’s skin, lingering at his most sensitive spots— his earlobe, along the crook of his jaw, just above his collarbone.

And Ilya should have a higher tolerance for this after all of his sexual exploits, shouldn’t he? He should be able to handle more than some necking before he’s rendered a pitiful mess, but he was already a pitiful mess before Shane’s mouth met his skin. He’s whining, biting his lip to keep himself quiet, his eyebrows drawn together. His stomach is doing somersaults, fluttering like he’s swallowed a swarm of butterflies, and he feels fucking mindless. He should have a higher tolerance, but he doesn’t think he’s ever felt like this before, so blurry and distant even as he’s overwhelmed by it all.

“Shane,” he chokes.

“Okay?” Shane whispers, lifting his head to look at Ilya’s face. He’s flushed pink, and Ilya can’t help but kiss him desperately, nodding, reaching up to touch his face, to draw him down again. Shane lets out a soft huff of laughter into his mouth. Ilya breathes it in.

It’s a clumsy kiss, messy and sliding and barely there at all. Ilya groans, letting Shane pull at his hair and nudge his face so his head tilts back again. He shifts, squirming a little against Shane’s weight. He swears under his breath.

“You’re okay,” Shane murmurs. “I got you, baby, I’m right here.”

Ilya nods, burying his face in Shane’s neck, panting as Shane shifts on his lap. He knows it’s fucked up that he’s getting hard just from being babied, just from Shane’s sweet cooing voice and gentle hands, but he can’t help it. Shane doesn’t seem to mind it, combing through Ilya’s hair and murmuring something softly.

“Shane,” Ilya says weakly.

“‘S okay,” Shane whispers. “I know.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t,” Shane says. “Don’t apologize, it’s okay.”

“Shane.”

“Ilya,” Shane says firmly, tugging at Ilya’s hair and forcing him to lift his head. Their eyes meet. Shane’s head tilts, and he caresses Ilya’s cheek. “Just let me, okay? Let me take care of you, baby, whatever you need.”

Ilya’s breath stills in his chest, and he searches Shane’s eyes.

He’s so gentle. Tender. It makes Ilya’s chest feel warm. It makes him feel loved.

“I just need you,” he breathes.

Shane smiles.

He leans in close and he lingers, rubbing his nose against Ilya’s. Ilya closes his eyes, taking a shaky breath, his hands clutching at the fabric of Shane’s shirt. He wants to take it, to kiss Shane now, but he resists, savouring Shane’s warm breath, savouring his closeness. He feels almost claustrophobic with it, surrounded by Shane’s touch and his warmth, and it’s bizarre, he thinks, feeling something like this in a hotel room in fucking Florida.

“You got me,” Shane breathes.

Ilya nods, wrapping his arms around Shane’s waist. Shane nods again, and then he’s sliding his tongue along Ilya’s lips almost playfully, and Ilya can’t help but grin, opening his mouth.

Shane kisses him, tilting his head to get closer. Ilya groans, lifting his chin, leaning up to reach, and he was right. He needs this.

He clings to him, squeezing him so tightly it almost hurts, and Shane just nods, letting their tongues slide. He’s pulling at Ilya’s hair, tugging and squeezing and scratching at his scalp, tangling Ilya’s hair like he’s on a mission to ruin it. Ilya moans, sliding a hand up Shane’s back, shoving under his shirt clumsily.

“Yeah,” Shane gasps when they part, nodding. Ilya’s eyes open to look at him, but they’re so close that he’s blurry. Ilya’s eyes can’t focus, but he can still see the glisten and shine of their spit on Shane’s lips and chin. He stares at it, hypnotized, and he leans in to slide his tongue over it. Shane lets him, humming like it feels good.

“Fuck, can I…”

“Yes,” Shane gasps, nodding. “Anything, just take it, baby.”

Ilya sniffles, nodding, gripping Shane’s thighs tightly as he stands and turns to set Shane on his back. Shane’s limbs wrap around Ilya, and he’s breathing hard, gripping Ilya’s curls tightly.

“Shane, fuck—”

“Yeah, like that—”

Ilya groans, burying his face in Shane’s neck, letting his weight fall to rest on top of him. He’s hard too. Ilya shivers, shifting involuntarily, his jaw clenching.

“Shane.”

“‘S okay,” Shane whispers, nodding, tucking his face against Ilya’s as he reaches down. His hand finds Ilya’s ass, squeezing like he’s trying to prompt him to keep moving. “Just like that, baby, come on.”

“Fuck, I’m— I can’t—”

“I know,” Shane says, his hands tightening. “Take it. Just let it feel good.”

“It feels good,” Ilya mumbles, his hips rolling, his stomach flipping. “Fuck, you always feel so fucking good.”

“I know, baby, it’s okay.”

Ilya swears under his breath, relaxing against Shane’s body. Shane’s hand squeezes him, groping his ass before he pulls it away and slides it under the waistband of Ilya’s pants. It’s a tight fit, and he struggles a little, letting out a huff of laughter as he shifts, snaking his hands between their bodies to loosen the pants. Ilya squeezes his eyes shut, nodding at Shane’s soft Alright?

“Fuck, that feels good,” Ilya chokes. “You…”

“Keep going,” Shane says breathlessly, fingers tightening, groping, pulling up the hem of Ilya’s underwear to reach his skin. “Fuck me, baby, come on.”

Ilya groans, falling forward to tuck his face into Shane’s neck, propping himself up on his forearms that are framing Shane’s head. Shane moans softly, his hand finally releasing Ilya’s hair to slide under the fabric of his shirt, smooth over his skin before he drags his nails over it. Ilya curses, moving faster.

“Holy shit,” Shane gasps. Ilya forces himself up to look at him. His eyes are closed like he’s blissful, his mouth kissed red and shining, his cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink that Ilya falls in love with. He’s moving with every thrust of Ilya’s hips, letting out the sweetest keening noises Ilya’s ever heard, like they’re both bare, like Ilya’s cock is inside him. “Fuck, yeah.”

Ilya moans, kissing him clumsily before he looks down at their bodies. They’re fully dressed, except for the undone zipper of Ilya’s pants, but it’s still somehow fucking obscene, like they’re filthy even clothed. He presses down hard, lingering, rubbing, and Shane gasps, holding Ilya in place.

“Fuck, yes, yes—”

Ilya lets out a rough moan, grinding against him helplessly. He should be embarrassed by it— he might be, a little— his desperation. He’s needy in a way he doesn’t think he’s ever been, all because Shane is sweet to him. All because he’s allowed to cry.

“Can you— Can you say it again?” he chokes, sliding a hand into Shane’s hair. “Please?”

“Baby,” Shane breathes, strained, hips lifting against Ilya’s. “My fuckin’ baby.”

Ilya stops short, teeth closing on his lip, eyes squeezing shut tightly. His breath trembles.

“I didn’t say stop,” Shane says, hand pulling at Ilya’s ass, shifting against him, squirming like he’s trying to get even closer. “Come on.”

“I’m close,” Ilya confesses, his voice breaking, and he’s crying again, pitiful and weak and needy and pathetic, and he fucking hates himself, he hates himself, but Shane.

Shane just drags him into a messy kiss, pulling Ilya down and humping against him, legs tight around his hips, and he just nods, breathing hard into Ilya’s mouth.

“Then come for me,” he whispers. “‘S okay.”

Ilya lets out a whimper. His mouth falls open for Shane’s tongue, and he can’t help himself, can’t help but hump against Shane’s dick desperately, can’t help but come. He freezes again, trembling, tightening, and a rough noise escapes his throat. Tears fall from his eyes, and they land on Shane’s face, but Shane doesn’t seem to mind. He’s clutching Ilya’s hair, breathing hard in his mouth, murmuring brokenly under his breath.

He collapses against Shane, forcing his eyes open. He can see Shane’s pulse under his skin. It’s fast.

Their chests press, rising and falling together quickly as they try to catch their breath. Shane is shifting under him, his hips lifting and pressing to Ilya’s absently, and his hand emerges from Ilya’s pants to hold his head, cradling him, guiding him into his neck, where he melts.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya chokes. He can feel Shane’s hands shaking, trembling against Ilya’s neck, in his curls.

“I know,” Shane whispers, tugging at Ilya’s hair. “Hey, look at me.”

Ilya lifts his head, squeezing tears from his eyes. He’s a fucking disaster, and he knows he is. He knows his face is ruddy and tear-streaked, knows his nose is running, knows his hair is a wreck, knows he’s making horrible, ugly sounds as he cries, but Shane doesn’t seem to notice. Or he just doesn’t care at all.

He runs his thumbs over Ilya’s cheeks, his eyes soft, gazing.

“My sweet fucking baby.”

Ilya’s eyes flutter shut. He exhales slowly, and Shane draws him closer, pulling him into a soft, lingering kiss before he prompts him to relax against him again. Ilya goes easily, burying his face in Shane’s neck and pressing as close as he can while Shane’s hands run over his head and back. He can hear Shane breathing steadily, can feel his chest rising and falling, and he can hear his heartbeat, quiet and distant with his pulse just out of reach.

He smells like he always does, masculine and smooth, but somewhere in it, there’s the salt of the sea and of sweat, and Ilya wants to fucking consume him, wants him in a way that’s so permanent and insane that he can never be away from him again. He knows it’s absurd. He knows it’s unrealistic.

He kisses the side of his neck anyway, lingering with his lips pressed to Shane’s heartbeat, breathing him in. Shane hums with a light sigh, his head tilting, his hands running across Ilya’s back.

“I really like you,” Ilya says quietly, lips brushing Shane’s skin.

Shane hugs his neck, cradling the back of his head.

“I really like you too,” he whispers. “A lot. So much.”

“I don’t know what to do with it,” Ilya says quietly, shifting like he’s trying to get even closer, like he needs to somehow climb inside Shane’s very body, to share his skin. “I have never felt this before. I don’t know where it goes.”

“I don’t know either,” Shane says. “I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

Ilya watches Shane’s throat bob. He lifts his hand and touches it, tracing his Adam’s apple lightly.

“Now what?” he whispers.

Shane hums softly. Ilya can feel it against his fingertips, and he thinks it’s a beautiful feeling. He wants to carry it with him in the palms of his hands, in his chest pocket.

Shane moves after a few moments, rolling onto his side and pushing Ilya so he’s on his side, facing one another. Their faces are close, and Ilya moves closer, holding the side of Shane’s neck. He can feel his pulse.

“I don’t know,” Shane says, eyes scanning Ilya’s face like he’s looking for something. “I think… I’m going to have to go back to my own room at some point tonight.”

Ilya’s stomach falls, and he looks away, but Shane just laughs a little, touching his face, pulling at the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

“Don’t pout at me,” he says lightly. “You know this is how it goes.”

Ilya’s eyes drift to his mouth. He has such a pretty mouth.

“But it’s different now, no?” he says hesitantly.

Shane just looks at him, his eyes skimming his face. He looks sleepy, and anybody else would look at him and think he looks bored, or apathetic, or indifferent, but Ilya knows him. He knows his face.

“Yeah,” Shane says softly, tucking Ilya’s curls back. “‘S different now.”

They fall quiet again, looking at each other, and looking at each other, and looking at each other, and Ilya kind of feels like crying again. It doesn’t happen, but he doesn’t try not to— he knows Shane wouldn’t mind if he did.

Shane kisses him. It’s slow and lazy and so sweet it makes Ilya’s jaw ache. He takes it the way he’s supposed to, letting Shane lick into his mouth, letting him suck at his tongue and nibble his lips like he’s having fun with it, like he’s just fidgeting. He smiles, letting his mouth fall open, letting Shane push him onto his back and hover over him. He’s known that Shane likes kissing— he’d taken to it so quickly that first night, in spite of his obvious inexperience, his anxiety. His breath had caught just right and his hands had wandered and his mouth had fallen slack like he was made for it.

Or like Ilya was made for him.

Shane pulls away slowly, tugging at Ilya’s lower lip. Ilya shivers.

“Will you fuck me?” Shane whispers.

“Yes,” Ilya says so quickly it makes Shane laugh, dropping his head to Ilya’s chest. “If I ever say no to that, you should kill me.”

Shane laughs harder, snorting, muffled in Ilya’s chest, and Ilya grins at the ceiling, letting himself feel it all.