Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova, Hayden Pike, Rose Landry, Zane Boodram, Luca Haas, Troy Barrett

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Casual Sex, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Emotional Sex, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Anxious Shane Hollander, Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov, Happy Ending, Oral Sex, Top Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander, Safe Sane and Consensual, Praise Kink, Enthusiastic Consent, Coming Untouched, Sexting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Rimming, Consent King Ilya Rozanov, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Communication, Tattoo Artist Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Angst and Romance, Out and proud Shane Hollander, out and proud ilya rozanov, professional cyclist Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Has Yearning Bottom Eyes, Shane Hunglander, Pining While Fucking

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-29 Completed: 2026-10-08 Words: 80,818 Chapters: 6/6

Two Fingers Down

Summary

Shane Hollander is a former professional cyclist who now owns a bike shop in Colorado. Ilya Rozanov, the tattoo artist who owns the shop next door, thinks boy scout Shane Hollander should take a ride on his motorcycle instead. But what starts out as a casual fling can't stay that way for long--not once Shane and Ilya discover the depths of their chemistry (and Ilya the many benefits of little spandex shorts). Both of them have been hurt before, and the only way to move forward is to get over their pasts. It's a hill climb in both directions, but if Shane Hollander can do anything, it's push himself to endure the burn when he knows the ride home will be that much more satisfying.

Chapter 1: Boy Scout

Chapter Notes

Ilya sits at the red light, fuming. It’s a stupid stop light on the cusp of downtown, not even an intersection but a crossing for the park. It should be a blinking red. Everybody knows this. But it’s solid and camera-monitored so he waits, the noon sun blazing across his black helmet and jacket, for a woman on a mountain bike who gives him a nod, and then some pedestrians crossing so slowly, Ilya wonders how they can tolerate being on two feet instead of wheels. There’s a little boy holding his mother’s hand; he points at Ilya’s bike excitedly, babbling, so Ilya revs the throttle a couple of times and sends him into hysterics. The woman waves at him appreciatively and he lifts a gloved hand to her. She can’t see his small smile under the mask of his helmet.

Ilya is running a few minutes behind today but the light finally turns green and he guns it (reasonably) up Main Street, hitting the next green (thank Christ), and finally parking out front where there’s a designated motorcycle spot. He rushes inside; Svetlana’s already in her station.

She says, “Wow. Wow.”

Ilya takes his helmet off, revealing the smashed curls he musses quickly with his other hand. “Do not even start. I hit every fucking red light on the way here.”

“I thought the whole point of that bike was to beat traffic.”

Ilya goes to his station, shaking his head, and sets his helmet on the table in the corner. He peels off his jacket and hangs it on a hook. The air is warm today, dry, but nothing compared to the heat that’s built up inside the leather coat. “It is not about beating traffic.”

“No?” Svetlana swivels in her stool, legs crossed, lowering her tablet. “Isn’t that what you always say? Oh, Sveta, I can lane split through the cars so I am always in the front! I am so hot off the line, nobody can catch me! And yet here I am. Here before you.”

“You also left before me. You cheated.”

“Then we will have a rematch tonight and see what happens.” She raises her tablet again, connecting to the sound system and starting a station of early aughts R&B. Not Ilya’s favorite but she was here first so he lets it be.

Zane, the piercer, comes in then and says good morning even though it’s just past noon. He props the door ajar with a big rock for airflow, signaling the workday has begun.

Ilya has two clients on the books: both repeat customers getting custom neo-trad designs of a good size that he stayed up last night finalizing for today. Svetlana has three small ones, all fine-line blackwork, her specialty, and Luca’s coming in later to finish a massive back piece. Just as Ilya stands to start setting things up for himself, someone enters.

It’s early for a walk-in but Ilya can’t imagine this man in the entryway is here for an appointment with any one of them. He’s dressed in khaki pants and a light blue button-down done all the way up his chest, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. He’s tall, Asian, with shiny black hair parted just off center so it frames both sides of his forehead. He’s probably around Ilya’s age, thirty-two, but where Ilya feels his age is starting to show in the lines of his face, this man looks almost polished, his skin so warm and smooth. Golden. His brow furrows darkly serious above equally dark and serious eyes. He also, Ilya sees, has freckles.

Svetlana stands and takes two steps toward the counter before Ilya tugs her back by the waistband and moves ahead of her. He ignores the irritated Russian hiss behind him, reaching the front and nodding. “Hello.”

The man steps forward. “Hey.” He fidgets briefly with his sleeve, then adjusts his collar.

Ilya looks him up and down, making no attempt to hide it. This guy can’t be here for a tattoo…but maybe. Or maybe a piercing? Something discrete. One nipple. Ilya wonders what’s hiding underneath all that blue cotton and khaki.

Ilya says, “What can I do for you?” and the man swallows painfully, staring at Ilya’s chest and then away. When his gaze returns, Ilya smiles but gets nothing so generous back, and it’s then that Ilya notices the tense shoulders and mouth.

“I don’t think we’ve ever met,” the man says finally. “I’m Shane Hollander. From next door?”

Svetlana calls out, “Hello, Shane,” and Shane waves to her and says, “Hey.”

Ilya looks behind him; Svetlana smirks at her tablet.

Ilya turns back to Shane and repeats, “Shane Hollander. From next door,” and it clicks then that he has seen this guy before from afar on the sidewalk, locking his door, donning a helmet before pedaling into the sunset on an old yellow bicycle. “The bike shop.”

“Right,” Shane says. He looks away again. Then back. “So listen. Is that your motorcycle out front?”

Ilya gets the impression that Shane knows very well whose bike it is, like maybe Shane has seen Ilya out the window before too, when he’s pulled up and parked and taken his helmet off and unzipped his jacket on the street right in front of his window.

“Yes,” Ilya says slowly. “Why? Did someone hit it?”

“No! No.” Shane laughs a little then. At what, Ilya couldn’t say. But he goes on: “This is stupid but I wanted to ask if you could move it? You park it right in front of my bike shop every day and it confuses people.” Ilya stares at him. “They think it’s a motorcycle shop.”

“Ah, okay. And this is a problem for you?”

“Well, yeah, actually. I’ve got these motorcycle guys coming in looking for, like, Harley gear, and then they get pissed at me when I explain it’s a cycling shop. And like, who even knows how many cyclists aren’t coming in for the same reason.”

Ilya laughs. “Maybe you should try selling Harley gear.” That gets him a scowl, but it’s such a funny face, all scrunched and petulant, that Ilya can’t help himself. “Would be much cooler than your little bicycles. And faster.”

Shane doesn’t react. His gaze locks on a large painting of a traditional design: a crawling black panther, teeth bared, eyes furious.

“Would look good on you,” Ilya says, nodding to the image. Shane looks at him. “Is classic. Kind of looks like you, too.”

Again, nothing. Shane glances around the rest of the shop, at the walls covered in flash designs and music posters and the occasional animal skull or hide. His mouth pinches tighter. Ilya tosses a glance to Svetlana over his shoulder and she shrugs, one eyebrow quirked. Ilya turns back to Shane, who’s looking at him again.

“So will you move it?” Shane asks.

Ilya puts his hands up. “Move it where? That is the designated spot. Where do you want me to park?”

“Anywhere else,” Shane says. “I don’t care.”

“Well, that is a lie. You care very much. You come into my shop to ask me a favor and you don’t even give me...” Shane stares at him hard and Ilya forgets the word. Fuck, it’s been a while since that’s happened. Svetlana laughs behind him. Ilya says, “You are giving me a problem with no answer.”

Shane seems to consider that seriously for a moment. “You can park it in the alley, right by the backdoor of my place.”

“Oh,” Ilya says, rolling his eyes. “So you want me to park in a dark, scary alley because you are afraid of bikers. I am here very late sometimes, Shane.”

“It’s not—I’m not—” Shane abruptly rubs his chest, touching either the muscle or his heart or the breath fluttering in his lung. Ilya isn’t sure. He’s annoyed by Shane’s request but still, he’d mostly just been giving Shane a hard time for the fun of it. It’s such an anxious gesture, so transparently self-soothing, that Ilya finds himself unexpectedly moved and resolves to be a little nicer.

Shane says, “Look, the alley’s well-lit, and there’s a security camera that’s always recording, and there’s a bike rack—except I guess you don’t need that.”

“No, I do not,” Ilya says. “Where is this alley?”

The rest of the irritation Shane brought in with him finally seems to melt away at Ilya’s sudden acquiescence. Shane’s broad shoulders drop, his mouth relaxes. Ilya likes the way the fabric stretches over Shane’s biceps when his loosely crosses his arms.

“It’s just on the other side of my shop. There’s an awning—”

“Where?”

“You’ll see it. Or I can show you. Just go into the alley and you’ll see a door with a covered area right next to it where you can park your motorcycle.”

“It is a bike,” Ilya says, hand flat and sweeping to cut Shane off. “Nobody calls it a motorcycle.”

“Yeah, well. Whatever. Do you want me to show you?”

“I think I will find it.”

“Okay. Cool.” Shane puts his thumbs into his pockets and rocks on the balls of his feet. So awkward. But he looks at Ilya again with all this reluctant expectation, mouth twitching, and Ilya tries one last time and then Shane finally smiles back at him. It’s a quick one, sort of halfhearted, but a nice look either way.

Shane steps toward the door. “All right. Thank you. I guess I’ll…see you around.” His eyes find Ilya’s chest again briefly before snapping up.

“Yes,” Ilya says. He leans his elbows on the counter, looking Shane over one last time. “I will maybe see you in the alley, Shane.”

Shane’s eyebrows shoot up but he turns quickly to go. He nearly walks into a woman on the sidewalk in his rush to get back to his own shop.

As soon as he’s gone, Ilya leans against the counter to face Svetlana. “Weird guy.”

She laughs hard, a nice trilling sound over the music. “Maybe a little. But he is very nice. I didn’t know you hadn’t met him yet.”

“No. When did you?”

“I don’t remember.” She sits on her stool with her back against the wall, inspecting her long, red fingernails. “A few months ago, I guess. Sometime right after we opened the shop. He came by and we talked and he was friendly. Very shy but you know—still brave enough to come right in and say hi. He shook my hand. It was funny. Zane, he shook yours too, remember?”

Zane looks up for the first time from his equipment and laughs. “Oh, yeah. I remember Mr. Manners. Full handshake and a nice to meet you, welcome to the block.”

Ilya frowns. “He did not shake my hand.”

Svetlana tuts at him. “Well, he was mad at you. You did not tell him your name and then you teased him. No handshakes for mean, rude bikers. Sorry.”

Ilya stares out the front window, watching strangers pass who glance in at the shop, families dragging kids and dogs along in the sunshine toward the park.

“What are you thinking?” Svetlana asks, no longer preoccupied by her nails and settling her full attention on Ilya’s thoughtful expression.

“Nothing.”

She scoffs. “Ilyushka.”

“I am not thinking anything. I will move my bike so he does not get mad again.”

Svetlana stands and approaches him. Her heels clack sharply on the vinyl floor. “I have talked to him a few times on the sidewalk in passing. He is a boy scout, Ilya. Do not bother him.”

“He bothered me first.”

“You would ruin his life.”

Ilya’s breath catches with surprise. He looks hard at Svetlana and clears his throat, turning away from her, but her hand leaps to his arm.

Her voice drops low and she switches to Russian. “Ilya, I didn’t mean that. Not like that.”

“I know. It’s fine.”

“I would never—”

“It’s fine, Sveta. I have to move my bike and get ready for my client.”

Ilya heads outside. It’s June and the day is already scorching, his handlebars ablaze from their short time in the sun. Maybe parking under an awning won’t be so bad for the summer. He looks in the big windows of the bike shop, Downtown Spokes, and sees Shane just inside, talking to a customer with much more smiling and eye contact than he offered to Ilya. The store is organized beyond obsession, bikes arranged in neat lines, evenly spaced, wheels perfectly straight and clean. Ilya wonders what, if any, music is playing inside. Shane sees him over the customer’s shoulder and gives him half of a smile. Ilya looks away as though he didn’t see.

The alley and the awning are right where Shane said they would be, not so much farther from Ilya’s shop to be a real hassle. Shane’s bicycle is there too, locked to the rack, and up close, it looks even older than Ilya thought it was. It has a yellow frame, black lettering: Bridgestone. Never heard of it. But it’s a pretty bike and the lock on it is more serious than any lock Ilya has ever seen. He parks his cherry red Honda beside it. They make a funny couple that way.

He smokes a cigarette on the sidewalk and then heads back in, back to his station to prepare. He pulls up the first design of the day on his tablet with intense concentration. The client is easy and the design is already finished; Ilya doesn’t need to spend any more time fiddling with it. But he can feel Svetlana’s eyes on him, urging him to look at her again, and he doesn’t want to meet them until he’s sure he can smile at her. When he finally does, she smiles back sadly, then leaves to get them each an iced coffee from the cafe down the block. She returns a few minutes later with a donut for him as well, and Ilya grins sincerely then and finishes his treat just as his client appears.

Ilya is busy the rest of the day. He has the two appointments and then some walk-ins that night that he and Luca divide and conquer, once he’s finished with his backpiece. It’s a good day money-wise, especially for mid-week. Decent tips, decent customers. Ilya’s favorite is the walk-in he takes: a young red-haired woman who chooses a traditional cowgirl pinup from one of his flash sheets.

“Good choice. She looks a little like you,” he comments. She relishes the compliment and loves the tattoo. She promises to send him a photo once it’s healed and Ilya follows her back on Instagram immediately. After she’s gone, and with Instagram open anyway, he searches Downtown Spokes Bike Shop. The profile is all photos of…bikes. Disappointing. But it doesn’t take much longer to find Shane Hollander in the followers, and his Instagram proves much more interesting.

Shane Hollander does not just sell bikes—he rides. Mountain biking, street commuting, gravel trails all over Colorado. Ilya scrolls back farther and finds even more—that he races. Professionally. Or, Ilya guesses, at least he used to, based on the couple of years that have passed since his last post about it. Shane Hollander with his team on the UCI World Tour (whatever that is, but it looks impressive). Shane Hollander, winner of the 2023 Tour Down Under, swathed in blue spandex, black sunglasses, and a massive, sweaty grin. Shane Hollander, second place in the Grand Prix Cycliste de Québec. Shane Hollander racing in Germany, China, America, Italy. Shane Hollander competing in the Tour de France. Shane Hollander, with his blue button-down and khaki pants and complicated gaze and I guess I’ll see you around is a professional bicycle racer who didn’t shake Ilya’s hand. Ilya drops his phone.

“All good?” Svetlana says in Russian. “I’m ready to get out of here.”

“Yes, fine, give me a minute.”

“Is this another head start? Because I thought you wanted to beat me home.”

Ilya picks up his phone and thrusts it into his backpack. He beats Svetlana home by several minutes through the sheer force of his desire to scroll.

At home, they speak Russian exclusively, though neither has much to say after a long day of work and a lifetime of companionship. Ilya eats with her quickly in the kitchen, his phone burning a hole through the table.

“Ilya,” she says, and he knows she wants to apologize again for her earlier comment. He stops eating and lets her say it; the least of what he owes her is his attention.

“I know, Sveta. Seriously.” Ilya takes her hand and jostles it. “I’m over it.”

She kisses his hand sweetly before letting go. “But I wanted to say too that if you want to bother Shane, you should.”

“I don’t want to.”

“But he’s nice. And I think he’s probably gay.”

Ilya smirks over the lip of his beer. “Oh, yes? Because he wasn’t interested in you?”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s part of it. But it’s also just little things he’s said when we’ve chatted. He’s excited for the Pride parade this weekend. He has a flag up, if you didn’t see it. We should put one up too.”

“Mm.” Ilya stands, taking their plates to the sink to rinse them. “Well, thank you for the information. I will probably never speak to him again.”

“Ilyushka.”

Ilya puts the plates in the dishwasher and kisses the top of her head.

The tides change once Ilya’s in bed, alone in the dark, on his side, on his phone. Ilya opens Shane’s profile again and scrolls back as far as he can possibly go. He watches the videos of Shane’s races. He was fast. And lean, then. Much smaller than he’d looked today in the shop. The clothes had been boring but the body beneath them had looked powerful, though Ilya wonders now if it was just an illusion. Or wishful thinking. In the video, Shane wins another race, grinning ear to ear as he crosses the finish line, and a man’s voice behind the camera screams, “Let’s go, babe!”

Interesting. Ilya likes the video without thinking, unlikes it, and then says fuck it and likes it again. He scrolls all the way back to the top. Shane’s most recent post is nearly three months old: a selfie in a helmet and jersey, taken at the top of some sun-drenched mountain, surrounded by snow the altitude had preserved. Shane’s eyes are pinched shut from the bright light. And it’s not the same smile he wears after a win, but it is nice. He has a curvy mouth. Very…soft. Ilya doesn’t think Shane is on Instagram enough to see the notification but decides it doesn’t matter to him either way. He likes the selfie, too.

Shane is in bed when his phone chirps at him. He’d gotten home from the shop around 8pm, showered, eaten, and propped himself up with a book about the recent history of doping in the Tour de France. It’s a good read but sobering. He’d never doped personally but he’d certainly been around it, and pressured to do it, offered a million different substances and techniques he could try to improve his performance. The friendly suggestions only intensified once he stopped winning as often, but they stopped all together once he wasn’t winning at all. It’s bittersweet to recall; he wonders as he turns the page why he doesn’t read something less likely to dredge up old anguish. So it’s a relief when his phone chimes with an Instagram notification: IlyaRozTattoo liked your post.

Shane hadn’t known his name when he’d gone into the tattoo shop. And he still didn’t know it—he only realized once he was on the sidewalk again—after he left. The guy had never introduced himself, and Shane had been too flustered to ask. Rude on both their parts; they hadn’t even shaken hands. Shane had kicked himself about it all afternoon.

The man was white, as tall as Shane—maybe even a little taller—with stunning blue eyes and curly light-brown hair and tattoos covering most visible skin on his body. Even his hands, which Shane had tried not to watch too carefully. He wore a patterned, tan, linen button-down shirt, open nearly to his stomach, exposing so much flesh and hair that Shane’s irritation about the motorcycle had halved immediately. Shane could see the fragments of art, all the lines and colors that splashed over Ilya’s body. His chest was incredible. So sculpted. Shane couldn’t even look at it, the way it instantly sent a rush of heat deep in his stomach. He stared too hard at the man’s face while giving his own name, desperate not to let his eyes drop a second time. They had, of course, a couple of times, and Shane was sure he’d been caught based on the undeniable taunt of that final comment. Ugh.

By the time the conversation was over, Shane could hardly remember a word they’d exchanged. He recalled an accent—Russian maybe?—and that he’d blushed when Ilya said he would see him in the alley. As if that really meant they’d see each other. Like they’d meet up there to make small talk from time to time. Six months had passed as downtown neighbors without them ever meeting or even waving as they passed by. Shane’s shop opened before Ilya’s and closed earlier too. It would take a deliberate act to change things now.

IlyaRozTattoo liked your post. Ilya. Was that a Russian name? Svetlana was Russian, Shane recalled. He clicked the notification and saw, with dismay, that the like was on an old post, so old it felt like it was from another lifetime. It was a video of a qualifier, back in his prime, when he was winning races and spots on championship-contender teams and sponsors were rolling in with endorsements and free gear. He still had a lot of it; some of it he’d sold, or passed along to young hopefuls just starting out who could never afford practice gear like the kind Shane had gotten for free. He decorated the shop with a few of his trophies, only because Hayden and Rose insisted it was good for business. They were right obviously, but sometimes it stung to see.

Shane navigates to Ilya’s profile and finds it’s mostly tattoos, which Shane can’t make heads or tails of in terms of artistry or quality. But every now and then there’s a selfie, or a group photo with the other artists at Love is Evil Tattoo. He can’t remember the other guys’ names since first meeting them so long ago, but he’d met Svetlana several times. She was coy but friendly, and very beautiful, Black, with kind eyes and auburn hair. Shane scrolls back to the top of the page and sees the full name: Ilya Rozanov. The most recent post is a carousel of photos: gym selfies, work selfies, smoking selfies, and photos of his motorcycle. It’s a red, vintage Honda. Shane zooms in to see the detail as if it hasn’t sat outside his shop every day for the past six months.

Another notification—IlyaRozTattoo liked your post—and Shane laughs, too loudly for the quiet, empty house. He covers his mouth as though anybody is watching. This new like is on a recent post—his photo at the top of Cheyenne Mountain, back in April when there was still some snow up there. What a great ride. He’d seen a black bear and hit an uphill PR from the adrenaline. He wasn’t king of the mountain on Strava but he was in the top ten of all time. Not nothing. Shane wonders if Ilya saw that screenshot, too. He had thought for a minute in the tattoo shop earlier that maybe—maybe—Ilya was looking at him less with casual derision and more with loaded curiosity. Shane felt like such an asshole coming into the shop like that, arguing about parking, but he’d just been accosted by two middle-aged assholes in bandanas and Shane had expected Ilya to be that way, too. Not his age and his height and so, so hot. Fuck. Now Shane wishes he could acknowledge the like somehow, but since he can’t, he returns to Ilya’s profile and likes a standalone photo of his motorcycle. Bike. Whatever.

The next morning, Shane rides to work like always, cruising down the winding backroads, a small section of gravel trail that pops him into the park before he flies up Main Street in the protected bike lane. It’s a great city for biking—part of why Shane’s stayed so long. He only drives his car when he absolutely has to. On his ride, he thinks about his plans for the day, how he needs to get a handle on a few repair orders, the customers sure to be calling to pick up before the weekend. He pulls into the alley and locks up his commuter, a Bridgestone NJS track frame he customized down to the smallest component. It’s bordering on too special to be a lock-up bike but Shane loves it too much to only ride it for leisure so he just bought himself a better lock instead. He licks his thumb and wipes some mud from the frame.

Shane goes in and finds Rose already in the workshop. “Morning.”

“Hey, hey.” She wipes the edge of her palm across her forehead and smears a little grease there. Par for the course.

“What’re you working on?”

Rose rubs her hands together. “Basic tune-up. This guy claims he’s been riding for fifteen years but honestly I don’t think he’s ever even changed a tube on his own before. Disgraceful.”

Shane laughs, just as Hayden rolls in with a bag of bagels, coming over to thump Shane on the chest with his fist.

“Buddy.”

“Yes, buddy.”

Rose gets up and wrenches the bag from Hayden’s hands, bringing it to the desk to serve herself. The workshop can get messy with parts and tools, different fluids, general working chaos, but the desk is clean enough to eat on and she does.

“Buddy, you missed everything last night,” Hayden says. He joins Rose and Shane follows. Shane already ate breakfast (an overnight quinoa bowl), but he enjoys the ritual, all of them together to start the day. And it’s a nice look if anybody comes in right at opening, peering into the back to the see them all upright and ready.

Hayden talks through a mouthful: “Me and Jackie ended up at this bar after dinner and there was this guy there running karaoke who was so up your fucking alley, it was insane.”

“I’m sure.” Shane crosses his arms, exchanging a glance with Rose. He’s had this conversation with Hayden enough times to know that Hayden’s version of up your fucking alley means a guy who’s basically the male version of Hayden’s wife: tan, petite, dark-haired, and probably pretty. Very Boy Next Door. Which is great! For Hayden, and everybody else who likes that kind of guy. But not Shane, despite Hayden’s best efforts. So every time Shane gets a there was this guy, he resists the temptation to delve further into Hayden’s repressed psyche. Rose just plays along.

“We should go back some night,” Hayden says, wiping a crumb from his chin. “All of us. You sing, right Rose? Jackie has an amazing voice.”

“I do it all, Hayden,” Rose says. She finishes her bagel and gets back to the tune-up.

Hayden punches Shane’s shoulder lightly. “So what do you think? This weekend? We could get dinner and take a group ride, then double-back for a little late-night karaoke cruise. Jackie was complaining she hasn’t seen you in ages, man. Plus the parade is on Saturday and you know the bars will be fully stocked for you.”

Before Shane can answer, he hears it: the motorcycle coming down the alley, roaring, then creeping to a stop right outside his backdoor. So early. The tattoo shop doesn’t even open for a couple of hours. If Shane really wanted to, he could watch on the security camera. He could open the app right now from the motion alert and he could watch Ilya take his helmet off and run his fingers through those soft curls. But Shane keeps his arms firmly crossed. A couple of likes on Instagram, a quick appraisal, doesn’t mean anything.

What does mean something is the jingle of a customer entering, and Shane peering around the doorway to see Ilya with his helmet tucked under his left arm. The leather jacket’s on but unzipped. He’s wearing another barely buttoned shirt underneath that.

Hayden says, “I got it,” and Shane says, “Nope, no, no worries, all me.” He makes it as far as the front counter before realizing he has no idea what to say. He stops there, just for a second, and sees Ilya smirk at the hesitation in his step. Shane pushes forward.

“Hey.”

“Hello.”

They look at each other. Shane swallows again and sticks out his right hand, and the look that comes over Ilya’s face then is so complex, and so handsome, a wry smile drenched in what’s undoubtedly relief, that Shane feels some of his anxiety deplete on the spot.

“I did not introduce myself yesterday. Properly. Ilya Rozanov,” he says. Then cocks his head. “From next door.”

Shane laughs. “Right. Nice to meet you.”

“Yes, you as well. Good manners are important.”

Shane doesn’t know how to respond to that so he lets his hand drop, then bites his lip. After a second, he manages, “Did you…need something? Is the alley okay?”

“The alley is great. Perfect. Better than the street.”

“Okay, great.”

Ilya looks around the shop, maybe searching for something to say. “I see your bicycle out there too. You ride to work every day?”

“Pretty much,” Shane says. He doesn’t know where this is going but a not-so-small part of him is so thrilled, he starts to panic. He smooths his hand over his chest, reminds his heart to calm down; Ilya’s eyes track the motion in a way that doesn’t help.

“I did not know you were so into biking.”

“Cycling,” Shane corrects. “And what—you thought I just owned a bike shop for the hell of it?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya says. “I thought maybe you were a big fan. Maybe you like the outfits.”

“You caught me,” Shane says in as flat a tone as possible. “Big spandex guy.”

Ilya laughs, a breathy, honest laugh that ricochets off all the metal frames surrounding them, and the pride Shane feels about it is borderline pathetic.

“You were a professional, yes?” Ilya says.

“A professional?”

“You race these things.”

So they’re not going to pretend the Instagram likes hadn’t happened.

“Oh, yeah.” Shane nods, then shakes his head. “I mean, I was a pro, yeah, but not anymore. Not for a couple of years now. I’m retired.”

“Mm,” Ilya says solemnly. “Because you are now too old and slow?”

Shane sputters, “I’m thirty-two, and I retired at the average age for professional cyclists. And I’m not slow.”

“Okay. Then you are average. But I think in a race, I would probably win.”

“What, on your motorcycle?” Shane balks. “I mean, yeah, probably. But—”

“Have you ever been on one?”

Ilya shifts the helmet under his arm. He looks at Shane, unflinching, and the tone says it all plainly but Shane doesn’t pause long enough to think about what he should say.

“No. Never. Honestly, I think I’d be too anxious? It’s not about the speed, I just—I like the power to all come from me. My ex was really into doing these ATV tours up in the mountains but I never felt totally safe doing it. I don’t know.”

For a moment, there’s an absence of air, of movement, in which Shane knows he’s probably said the most wrong thing he could’ve said, so he waits with clenched teeth to see if Ilya will give him an out—or another in. But Ilya just nods thoughtfully, looks Shane over once more like he’s assessing a puzzle, and exhales.

“Too bad for you,” Ilya says. He pulls out his phone, glancing at the time. “I have to go. So. It was nice meeting you properly, Shane.”

“Yeah, you too, Ilya.”

Shane stands frozen in the middle of the shop for a solid minute after Ilya’s gone.

When Svetlana arrives at work two hours later, the first thing she says is, “So? Did you talk to him this morning?” and Ilya drops his head onto the table in his work station with a thud. She laughs. “What happened?”

Ilya picks his head back up slowly, rubbing his eyes. “I think you were right about him. He is very pretty but I don’t know. I think maybe we are racing on different tracks. I should probably leave him alone.”

“Wow,” she says, plopping into his lap to hug him. He puts his arms around her and she smells like vanilla and lavender. “So mature of you, Ilyushka. Who is this new man? Where is my asshole husband?”

Ilya pushes her off, laughing, and tries to let work take his mind away from all the other things he could do with Shane that don’t involve taking him for a ride on his bike.

Pride weekend comes around and the little downtown bursts into new life with rainbow flags, cowboy boots, and a lot of walk-in business for Love is Evil. Ilya, Svetlana, and Luca put together a Pride flash sheet, arms and legs only, twenty options, full color or black and grey. Ilya’s favorite is the cowboy pinup with assless chaps and a big, heavy mustache. He hopes he gets to do it at least once or twice. On Friday, the fun starts with a tattoo raffle in which half of the proceeds go toward an LGBTQ advocacy group, and on Saturday, it continues with the flash day. They stay non-stop busy from the moment they open the doors at noon. There’s a line on the sidewalk to get on the signup sheet, and then Ilya does two tattoos an hour for the first half of the day before he has to go eat. And smoke a fucking cigarette. He clenches and unclenches his tired hand.

Outside, the parade is in full force. Music, confetti, dancing. Ilya walks down Main Street to check out the myriad tables, at which different local groups offer information and opportunities to volunteer, Pride merch from rainbow buttons to discreetly advertised sex toys, plus some tables where strangers are just giving out hugs from moms and dads, big brothers and big sisters. Ilya doesn’t linger.

He grabs the shop’s order from the sandwich place and makes the walk back in the heat. He feels his blood run thicker at the sight of Shane on the sidewalk, leaning against the brick wall between their two front doors.

“Having fun?” Ilya asks. Shane jumps a little, apparently startled by Ilya’s quiet appearance even in the midst of all the chaos around them. It’s cute and Ilya swallows how much he likes it.

“Oh, yeah,” Shane says. “It’s a slow day for us so I figured I’d watch for a bit, maybe walk around. I should probably just close up.”

He peers around Ilya into Love is Evil. The seating area is full to bursting, tattooed legs and arms sticking out in every direction. Piercings and dyed hair, girls with dark makeup. The door is propped open and the music pouring out is some kind of European electronica. Festive.

“You guys seem swamped today,” Shane says.

“Yes. We do a special event for this, draw up Pride designs. It goes all day and we stay open late.”

“You do Pride tattoos?”

Ilya’s eyebrows shoot up at the tone—skeptical. Almost accusatory. “Of course I do Pride tattoos. I am bisexual.”

Shane stares and says, “Are you really?”

And Ilya barks out a disbelieving laugh. “What kind of a question is this? Are you really? I do not ask you are you really a cyclist? Are you really boring? Do you really have freckles? You show me these things and I see them with my eyes and I believe.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Shane says quickly. “You just surprised me by saying it.”

“Oh, because you do not think I look bisexual.”

“I don’t think you look anything. I don’t make assumptions like that about people.” Shane chews the inside of his mouth. “But I guess maybe I thought because you’re Russian…and I know things are…difficult there for queer people…culturally…”

Ilya frowns, shifting the sandwich bag to his other hand. “Ah. Okay. So you think I am probably a homophobic asshole because I am Russian. Is that right?”

“No, I—”

“You think I am prejudiced when really it is you. Terrible, Shane.”

“Stop!”

“So let’s see.” Ilya holds up his free hand, counting off his points with his little finger first. “You are biphobic, probably homophobic, and—” Fuck, Ilya can’t remember the other word. Whatever. “—and you hate foreign people. Shane, you need help. It is 2026. You are—”

“I’m Canadian, you asshole, so technically I’m a foreigner too. And I’m not homophobic or biphobic. I’m gay.”

The name-calling takes Ilya by surprise much more than the confession. He smiles, eyes narrowing.

And Shane, despite trying so hard not to (Ilya thinks by the way his mouth pinches up so tight and small) smiles back at him and holds his gaze.

Ilya says, “I have to take these inside,” and gestures to the paper bag. “But do not go. I am coming back. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Ilya delivers the bag to Zane, who alerts Luca and Svetlana that the food is ready whenever they are. Ilya tells his next client he needs ten more minutes and heads back outside. He’ll eat later.

Shane’s still there, watching the parade with a cautious expression that Ilya thinks is more to do with him than the scenery. Ilya pulls his cigarettes from his pocket and Shane turns on him.

“You’re going to smoke right now?”

“Yes.”

Shane takes a step away and Ilya bursts out laughing. He lights the cigarette anyway.

“Here,” Ilya says, and grabs Shane around his bicep, dragging him to the other side so they’ve switched places on the sidewalk. The contact hits Ilya with a buzz better than any cigarette has ever given him. He lets go of Shane reluctantly, but he does it, and says, “Now you are upwind of me. I will not blow smoke near you.”

Shane grumbles a thank you and they both lean back against the wall.

They stand for a few seconds in silence, Ilya smoking his cigarette, smiling privately to himself. He steals a glance at Shane and finds him staring. Shane doesn’t look away so Ilya doesn’t either.

Ilya blows smoke the other direction and says, “You should come inside since your store is so slow. Come get a tattoo from me. For Pride.”

Shane smiles and shakes his head. “No way.”

An especially exuberant float arrives, bass pulsing out of the speakers and directly into Ilya’s chest. When it passes, he asks, “Why? You are ashamed?”

“No,” Shane says. “Fuck no.” He rubs the back of his neck. In the sun, his skin glistens with that gold shine he always seems to have. Ilya feels his own forehead turning pink from just a few minutes in the high UV. “I just would never get a tattoo.”

“Ah. So you do not like them.” Ilya keeps his voice free of inflection, though his heart drops. Another setup for rejection, another opportunity for Shane to say no to a question Ilya hasn’t asked outright.

But Shane, for all his effort thus far to seemingly be cool and not obvious, immediately looks at Ilya’s arms, and then his chest, where his tattoos are exposed by the low neck of his black knit tank top. “No, I like them. On other people. I just don’t think I’d like one on me.”

Ilya takes a step closer as a large group shuffles past. They stand close enough that their shoulders brush and Ilya holds his cigarette out and away. “How can you know for sure if you never try?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Some things you just know. It’s too much of a commitment.”

“Mm. You like less commitment. More casual.”

“Maybe. For some things.”

“Let’s get a drink tonight.”

Shane doesn’t even try to hide his shock, hitting Ilya with a lot of rapid blinking. Though he doesn’t look unhappy. He might even be contemplating another smile.

He says, “Like a date?”

Ilya laughs without meaning to, but fortunately Shane does too. Ilya says, “Like a drink, Shane. But you can call it a date if that is what you want to call it.”

Shane nods seriously, eyebrows pinching together. “But—what do you want?”

The noise around them surges again as several motorcycles come through with flags hanging off the back. They rev their engines, a cacophony of cheers goes up. Ilya is only distracted briefly. Shane turns his head to watch them go and Ilya leans into his ear, close enough to smell Shane’s salty hair product and warm cologne. He says, “I want to get a casual drink with you. And then we will see.”

Shane asks, “What time are you done?”

“Ten at the latest. I will meet you in the alley. Yes?”

“Okay. Yes.”

They finally close the shop at quarter to ten. After barely a break all day, Luca, Svetlana, and Zane all head straight home, pockets lined with cash tips, though no one’s in the mood to go spend any of it at the bars. That’s fine with Ilya. He tells Svetlana his plans and she kisses him on the cheek before heading home.

“Be safe,” she says. Ilya tells her not to wait up for him.

Shane’s wearing different clothes when Ilya meets him in the alley: well-fitting dark jeans, a tight white t-shirt, nicer tennis shoes. He has his shirt tucked into the jeans in a way that draws the eye to his taut stomach. And lower. Ilya still has on the same clothes from earlier, which is fine, though he might’ve liked to change if he had known Shane was going to.

“You look nice,” Ilya says. “Very clean. Starched. Except this wrinkle right here.” He flicks Shane’s stomach hard enough to move him and Shane deadpans but runs his hands over his shirt to smooth it anyway.

“Where do you want to go?” Shane asks.

“I am easy,” Ilya says. “I will go anywhere with vodka and a patio.”

Shane grimaces. “So you can smoke?”

“Nooo,” Ilya says, drawing it out. “So we can sit outside and have a drink with a view. Much nicer.”

“It’s dark out.”

“Well, I guess we will have to look very hard.”

Ilya shoulders him gently; Shane does it back with a small smile. They walk out of the alley and onto the street, finding a tapas bar with a back patio facing the mountains that can just barely be seen in the moonlight.

They get their drinks—a vodka neat for Ilya and a Moscow mule for Shane—and take seats on either side of a small metal bistro table. Their chairs scrape harshly on the terracotta as they adjust position. Ilya pushes his chair out further and slouches, while Shane scoots in closer and sits upright. Ilya’s legs stretch under the table and his knee bumps briefly into Shane’s. The patio is lively but not too loud, mostly men, though it’s not strictly a gay bar. Shane rests his arm on the table, clutching his copper mug.

Shane looks stiff, eyes wandering all around him and landing anywhere but on Ilya. It goes on long enough that Ilya begins to wonder if this was a mistake, if maybe he should have listened to the part of him that could see clearly that Shane was not this kind of man—the kind who likes tattoos and motorcycles and casual fucks with acquaintances. But he also looks so handsome, Ilya can’t resist watching him. There’s a slight five o’clock shadow on his upper lip, an especially vivid freckle under his right eye. He pushes his hair back off his face and it falls forward so effortlessly, it reminds Ilya of a feather, the way the barbs float perfectly back into place after running your finger along them the wrong way. Shane’s forearm is toned, smooth and veiny, lying on the table like he’s begging Ilya to touch it. Instead, without overthinking it, Ilya pushes his knee into Shane’s again, deliberately this time. Shane pushes back and holds the contact; neither of them readjusts.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says, finally looking at Ilya and shaking his head. “I’m being weird. To be honest, I’m kind of nervous. I don’t, um, go out a lot.”

“We did not have to,” Ilya offers.

Shane sits forward. “No, I really wanted to. I—” He cuts himself off, taking a drink. Ilya opts for silence to let Shane figure out what he wants to say.

It turns out to be: “So…how long have you been a tattoo artist?”

Ah, a nice question. Simple. Basic info. They’re getting to know each other and Ilya doesn’t hate this part. He says, “A long time. Since before I came to America.”

“How did you get into it?”

“Hmm,” Ilya says. “I had a friend back in Moscow who liked art. He showed me things, and then I began drawing on my own. Later I bought a tattoo gun and we started experimenting on each other. I liked it so I kept doing it.”

As predicted, Shane looks flabbergasted. Ilya laughs, loving the look on his usually so serious face.

Shane says, “You just started giving each other tattoos. Before you had ever done it. Did either of you even have a tattoo at that point?”

Ilya shakes his head slowly, smirking over the edge of his glass.

“That’s insane to me.”

“I gave some to myself too. All terrible. But it was good practice.”

“I can’t even imagine. What the fuck.”

Ilya laughs. “It is not that hard. Maybe I will show you sometime. Give myself a freckle here to match yours.” Ilya points to the spot under his own right eye to mirror Shane’s.

Shane laughs—maybe his first one all night—and turns red in a way that Ilya wants to see again. And things get a little easier from there. They get another drink, and Ilya watches as Shane gradually sits back in his chair, lets his shoulders drop, seemingly unbuttons himself enough for Ilya to really peek inside.

God, he’s pretty. Ilya wonders if Shane would like to hear that or if it would make him slink away again.

Ilya says, “So you are Canadian.”

Shane tilts his head and nods. “That’s right.”

“This must be why you are so polite. Mr. Handshake.”

“All right.”

“Mr. Manners.”

Shane turns away, but his smile is undeniable. So teasing is okay. Good. Progress.

Ilya says, “Why are you here and not in Canada?” He thinks it will be a simple question, like Shane asking how long he’s been doing tattoos, but Shane hems around it, taking a drink, clearing his throat, bobbing his foot suddenly under the table where his legs are now crossed. After a few seconds, Ilya pushes him again.

“It’s kind of a long story?” Shane says. “If you want to hear it. The short version is that I like it here. For the long version, I’d have to talk about my ex. Is that going to bother you?”

“No,” Ilya says, though he feels a quick pinch in his chest. “We are just having a drink, Shane. I do not care who you talk about. Tell me.”

Shane blanches at that but otherwise doesn’t react. After another long drink, he says, “So, I was with someone for a few years, while I was racing. Cole. He was American, and we were competitors at one point, doing the long distance thing, but then for a while we were actually on the same team.”

Ilya nods.

“I loved it. But then—” Shane pauses, maybe to decide some words, running through several options in his mind before settling. “I think once we were together all the time, as teammates, he didn’t like that I was always beating him. It was almost like it made the competition between us worse than it was when we were actually racing against each other, even though he lost a lot to me then, too. But I loved it any time he’d beat me. I was always rooting for him, and I loved the challenge and the push and, fuck, the weird thrill of competing against each other and then being together after. It was exciting. But at a certain point—I don’t know. I guess he couldn’t handle it.”

Ilya frowns. “And he broke up with you for winning too much?”

Shane looks into his drink. “No. He just sort of…stopped. Wanting me, I think. The more I won, the more he pulled away, and the harder it was for me to get anything from him. I was in love with him, or I thought I was, and I guess I sort of started spiraling. And then I started losing.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “On purpose?”

“No, not exactly. I don’t know.” Shane finishes his drink, swirling the ice cubes around in the copper mug like it’s a spell that might make more liquid appear. “Not on purpose. It was more like—I just wanted him, and I was so sad, and I let it affect me too much. I wasn’t in a good headspace and I started losing, and then—I guess I should’ve seen it coming—”

“He wanted you again.”

“Yeah.” Shane smiles sadly. “For a little while. But eventually I think watching me lose was even worse for him than watching me win. He asked me to move out, and by then it was too late for me to do anything about any of it. I was out of my racing prime and tired and heartbroken. So I just said fuck it and retired. It all feels so stupid to me now.”

“Not too stupid,” Ilya says. “Maybe a little.”

Shane laughs. The server appears and Shane declines another drink so Ilya does to.

“So what happens next?” Ilya asks. “How does this bring you here now?”

Shane picks up his water glass, nodding. “We lived here together, and through it all, the ups and downs, the worst times between us and the best, I just really loved being here. The climate, and the environment. I love being in the mountains. I’ve always had, um, a lot of anxiety.” He waits a moment like Ilya might make a comment, but he doesn’t, so Shane goes on. “But I never feel anxious when I’m on a bike. The sun shines here 300 days a year, it doesn’t rain a ton, and when it does, it dries up quick. The winters are mild. So almost every day that I’m here, I get to do the one thing I love more than anything in the world, the one thing that makes me feel like myself. And I get to see the mountains while I do it. So when Cole and I broke up, I realized I didn’t want to go, but not because of him. I’d already lost my team, my standing, my drive to keep competing seriously, and I decided I could at least stay where I wanted to be. I opened the shop and started my life over without him.”

Ilya understands that so well, an ache hits his chest that he has to quell with a deep, sobering breath. He asks, “And him? Does he still live here?”

Shane says, “I think so. We haven’t spoken since the breakup but last I heard from mutual friends, yeah, he’s still around. He kept racing for another year after I retired. Didn’t win anything.” Shane says it with a smirk. It’s the first Ilya’s ever seen from him.

“This is not surprising,” Ilya says. “He sounds like a loser.”

Shane laughs. “Maybe.”

“No, he is a loser. Clearly in more ways than one.”

Shane smiles at Ilya and gives his forearm a tentative, appreciative squeeze. Ilya waves to their server and puts some cash on the table.

As they’re leaving the bar, Ilya places a hand on the back of Shane’s neck; Shane shivers at his touch. It’s a bold contact but neither of them says anything until they’re out on the street and Ilya’s hand glides down Shane’s back and then away.

“This was nice,” Shane says.

“It was. Are you tired?”

“No. Are you?”

“No.”

They reach the alley and Shane stands beside his bike. He says, “So what now?” and Ilya places his hands on Shane’s waist, backing him up to the brick wall with a soft thud. The alley is lit by the single light above the door, aided by the peripheral light sneaking in from the street. Ilya leans in and Shane meets him there, no hesitation. His mouth opens to Ilya’s like he’s been waiting all night for it. Shane moans into it, a little hum, and puts his arms around Ilya’s neck to bring him closer. At Shane’s eagerness, Ilya presses his body forward, tucking his face into the space under Shane’s ear.

“You want this, yes?” Ilya asks.

“Yes.”

Ilya kisses Shane’s throat and hears his shaky exhale, shifts closer as Shane’s hands find Ilya’s back and knead into him. They move to his shoulders, caressing the muscles, then land on his narrow, firm waist with a squeeze.

Shane says, “God, your body is insane.”

Ilya laughs into the hinge of Shane’s jaw, biting him gently. “You have not even seen it.”

Shane swallows; Ilya feels it against his lips. And Shane murmurs, “Am I going to?”

“Mm. Open this door. Now.”

They tumble through into the bike shop, then into the short hall that leads to the back office, where there’s nothing to lie down on but a small desk. Ilya pushes Shane toward it immediately, leaning him back and then lifting him onto it with two hands under Shane’s thighs. Ilya fills the space in between Shane’s spread legs and pulls Shane’s shirt over his head.

“Your body,” Ilya says, seeing it at last, the smooth chest and brown nipples and stomach ridged with abs that flex under his touch, “is also good. You are big.”

Shane fingers the hem of Ilya’s shirt before taking it off. Instantly, Shane rubs his palms all across Ilya’s bare, sculpted chest. He stares at it, running his hands through the hair and over the tattoos.

Shane asks, “Did your friend give you any of these?”

“No. Those are lower.”

Shane laughs. His fingers stop on the Cyrillic letters over Ilya’s heart. “What does this one mean?”

Ilya looks down like he doesn’t know what’s there. “Nothing.”

“Really?”

“Is not a tour, Shane. Later.” He palms Shane’s cock through his jeans and Shane gasps, dropping his head onto Ilya’s chest. He kisses the flesh there reverently and runs his tongue over the designs like he’s tracing them. Shane’s inhale is loud and his exhale hot through his mouth. Ilya hopes his cologne has held up through the day. He can only smell Shane now, the scent of him sopped by his own skin after kissing every inch of his throat.

“You want me to touch you,” Ilya says.

Shane nods against him, his hands digging into Ilya’s hips, pulling him in tighter so Ilya’s back arches to leave some space between them for his own hands to work. Shane kisses down Ilya’s body, bending to reach his stomach. He starts undoing Ilya’s belt, hands shaking.

“Or,” Ilya says, “maybe you want to touch me first?” He lifts Shane’s chin, forces him to look up. Shane's lips are red, his eyes intense. Ilya says, “Tell me what you want.”

Shane nods. “I want to blow you.”

Ilya removes his palm from Shane’s cock, going for his own belt before Shane knocks his hand away, looking at Ilya and smiling and undoing the belt for him, then the button, and the zipper, until Ilya’s hard cock is visible through his white boxer briefs, too thin with the strain on the fabric to hide the dark peachy shade of his tip. Shane slides from the desk to his knees on the floor. He presses his mouth to the bulge and Ilya moans at the heat of his breath. Shane rubs Ilya through his briefs with his face, dragging his mouth over Ilya's cock, his lips catching on the fabric. Shane pulls Ilya’s jeans and briefs to the floor, barely giving him time to step out of them before Shane’s face is there again, just nuzzling.

Ilya puts a hand in Shane’s hair and it’s silkier even than he imagined, like touching the lining of a fine suit. “Fuck, Shane. You are—” Ilya cuts himself off with a curse word in Russian when Shane gently bites the head of his cock, then sucks it.

“Tell me if you don’t like something,” Shane says.

Ilya scoffs, sliding his hand to the back of Shane’s neck. “The only thing I will not like is you stopping. Do what you want.”

That’s all the permission Shane needs to take all of Ilya’s cock into his mouth and suck hard, moaning around it. Ilya swears again, more Russian, as Shane massages his balls and bobs his head, taking Ilya deep into the back of his throat. Shane does it so smoothly, no gagging, though Ilya knows he’s big and sees Shane’s eyes start to water. Shane sucks him roughly until Ilya holds Shane’s head in place and rolls his hips once, gently; Shane’s eyes fly open to stare up at him. Shane nods around Ilya and Ilya thrusts again, moaning through it as Shane’s hands wrap around his ass and pull him forward faster, harder. Within a minute, Ilya is there on the edge, and Shane is trembling, flushed across his entire torso.

“You are so—fucking—good,” Ilya says, punctuating the words with thrusts before slowing down again. He notices how Shane immediately sits up straighter. “Ah, you like that? My big cock down your throat while I tell you you are good?” Shane’s eyelids flutter. “You are good, Shane. You do not even choke on me. Your mouth is perfect.”

Shane moans around him, hands still digging into Ilya’s muscles, his own cock untouched and straining in his jeans. Ilya rolls his hips and Shane moves with him, flexing his jaw and throat, taking him so deep he presses his forehead hard into Ilya’s stomach. When Ilya gets close again, he pulls out slowly and exhales through it, leaving his head resting gently on Shane’s lips.

“Enough,” Ilya says. “Get up. I want to see you.” Shane stares up at him, eyes glazed, and Ilya pulls Shane to his feet and kisses him. Shane’s mouth is slick and hot now, salty, with the barely lingering hint still of ginger and lime. Ilya rips open Shane’s jeans, expecting briefs, or boxers, or maybe even nothing except his hard cock, and instead finds a black jockstrap bursting at the seams. He freezes, cupping Shane’s cock through it. There’s a wet spot there big enough for Ilya to feel with his palm.

“This is what you wear?” Ilya asks. “All the time?”

Shane shrugs, eyes closed, writhing against Ilya’s hand. His voice comes out raw: “We’re on a date. I thought—”

Ilya doesn’t know or care what Shane thought. He spins him around against the desk, pulling his jeans all the way down and palming his exposed ass, spreading him open. “You thought I was going to fuck you tonight. That is why you wear this. For me.”

“Fuck,” Shane moans, pushing back into Ilya so hard, it’s the first time Ilya truly appreciates his strength. Shane's whole body is muscle. His thighs are solid rock holding him up, and the shaking in his legs is from want, not fatigue. Not even a little. “Yes.”

“This is what you want?” Ilya asks. His mouth fills with saliva. His mind races. He spits in his hand and rubs it over Shane’s hole.

“Yes—” Shane moans again, through clenched teeth. “But I don’t—” He gasps as Ilya’s finger slides in. “Fuck, Ilya. Not here. I don’t have anything here.”

“Oh, you do not keep a drawer full of condoms and lube at the bike shop? Just in case?”

Shane laughs but it’s cut off by another gasp, a grunt, as Ilya’s finger presses deeper and flexes inside him. “No. But just—fuck, just keep doing that. That feels amazing. Fuck, I—”

“You want more?”

“Yes.”

Ilya pushes a second finger in, dropping his other hand to Shane’s back to force his chest down onto the desk. Shane grips the edges, lets his cheek flatten against the wood.

“I am going to fuck you with my fingers, Shane. Just like this. Until you come.”

“Fuck yes. Please.”

Ilya presses his cock to Shane’s ass to let him feel it still, to let him push back against it as Ilya’s fingers curve inside him.

“Harder,” Shane says, moving with him, back arching as he shifts himself off his heels and onto his toes, fucking himself on Ilya’s two big fingers.

Ilya bends over enough to spit on Shane’s hole and Shane swears, cries out, as Ilya fucks the spit into him, pulling the straps of the jock up to watch them dig into Shane’s flesh. Ilya finally slips his other hand inside the jock and grips Shane’s cock. He’s so wet. Leaking precum like melting snow. And he’s also (Ilya regrets first discovering with his hand and not his eyes) huge.

“Fuck, Shane. You are—”

“I know. I know. Just keep going. Please don’t stop.”

But Ilya removes his fingers and pulls Shane upright, spinning him so they face each other. Shane’s face is wrecked, sweating, red from where it was smashed against the desk. Ilya leans Shane back and drops to his knees, pulling the jock down to see him. All of him. Immediately, Ilya knows Shane is bigger than any other guy he’s been with. He puts one of Shane’s legs over his shoulder and Shane leans back to balance himself, holding the edges of the desk. Shane swears when Ilya’s fingers enter him again at this new angle, curving up, hitting just right, and Ilya finally takes him in his mouth to taste the precum that’s been pooling since the alleyway. He can’t take the whole length of it.

“Ilya, fuck, I’m going to come.”

Ilya hums his approval, bobbing his head, pushing his fingers just deep enough to land perfectly on Shane’s prostate and drum against it over and over.

"Fuck, Ilya, yes, fuck, please, oh my god."

Shane cries out when he comes down Ilya’s throat, tapering into a whimper as Ilya keeps pressing until he’s sure Shane is finished. Ilya feels Shane’s cock throbbing on his tongue for a few seconds after, and then he removes his fingers and lets Shane fall heavily from his mouth. Shane pulls Ilya to his feet before Ilya can catch his breath, kissing him. Ilya opens for Shane to lick the cum out of his mouth.

Fuck. Shane’s a good kisser. Ilya can feel so much neediness in him, the desire to prove himself, to go farther, to make Ilya come harder. Shane starts to go to his knees again but Ilya stops him. “Use your hand. Stay here.”

Shane makes a funny little face when Ilya spits in his palm, and Ilya laughs—apparently that’s the line. But Shane does it too, and their saliva mingles together around Ilya’s cock while Shane strokes him. He kisses Ilya hard, claws at his chest and nipples and bites his neck. Ilya yanks Shane’s hair back to look him in the eye.

Shane says, “You gonna come for me?”

Ilya grits out, “Fucking make me.”

They breathe into one another’s open mouths until Ilya swears into Shane’s in Russian, finally coming hard in between their bare stomachs.

Shane drops his forehead onto Ilya’s shoulder, loosening his grip on Ilya's cock but holding it still. “That was…”

“Yes.”

“Fuck, Ilya, you’re so…”

“Yes. You too.”

They laugh. When they’ve mostly caught their breath, Shane picks his shirt up from the floor and wipes his hands, his stomach, wherever else there’s cum. He hands it to Ilya to do the same.

Ilya says, “You will bike home without it? Or wear it like this?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “I don’t have condoms here but I do have hundreds of t-shirts.”

“Hm. Very bad planning on your part. You will have to fix this.”

Ilya waits with his bike in the alley, the light above buzzing but the street quieter now than it was earlier. There’s still some noise around, a car horn beeping, a person shouting. It all sounds very far away. Ilya barely hears a thing outside of the peaceful drone in his own head. When the door opens at last and Shane appears, he’s dressed in a t-shirt from a cycling event with last year’s date on it. His old shirt—cum-stained, neatly folded—slips into his bike bag.

“Do you live very far?” Ilya asks.

“Not too far,” Shane says. “Five miles, maybe.”

“How long will that take you?”

Shane clicks his helmet into place and Ilya likes the way the strap tucks so well under his chin. It reminds him of the straps under Shane’s jeans.

Shane smiles at him oddly. Indulgently. “Maybe twenty minutes if I’m taking my time. Or if I’m tired. Under fifteen on a normal day.”

Ilya does some math in his head. “You are fast.”

“I told you I was.”

Shane mounts his bike, thighs straddling the frame. Ilya should be getting on his own bike but he doesn’t even have his helmet on yet. He fingers his keys in his pocket.

“What direction are you going?”

Shane points west, toward the mountains, waving vaguely.

Ilya says, “I am going that way too.”

Shane nods. His foot jumps to the pedal and he kicks off, balancing there so the bike seems to idle on its own, and Shane stands tall above Ilya now that his feet are off the ground.

“So. Get home safe,” Shane says. He smiles, looks away, a little shy now even after all of that.

“Yes, you too.”

Ilya thinks perhaps he should say something more. We should do this again or I had a good time. Give me your phone number, I’ll call you. It was maybe kind of a date; it would be a normal thing to say. He’s said something similar to a hundred people before, whether he was sure he wanted to see them again or not. But before he can figure out why the words won’t come, Shane’s gone.

Chapter End Notes

Chapter One complete! I've been wanting to write a longer fic for ages but I was waiting for the right idea to strike me; this one hit me so hard I wrote for three days straight. I have the next two chapters already semi-drafted and the rest of the story broadly outlined. I cannot wait to write and publish more :)

Some general notes about this story and where it's heading:

I wanted to write Shane as still anxious, still awkward, still a freak in the sheets (of course), but also as a grown adult man who has some experience with sex/relationships and knows who he is. He's 32 years old; he doesn't need to wait around for someone else to tell him what he wants (but obvi he still likes to be told what to do). I love a Shane who's out and proud, and who's only held back by other people's perceptions of him. Shane's arc here is about reaching long-overdue satisfaction and finally getting the life he's always wanted.

For Ilya, is simple: he has to be an asshole, he has to be down-bad for Shane immediately, and he has to let Shane's clumsy, well-meaning brand of love and vulnerability free him from his self-imposed prison so the true lover boy within can finally be free. Ilya's on a redemption journey and he needs Shane Hollander to help him see it through to the end.

Thanks so much for reading. It truly means the world to me.

Chapter 2: Hill Climb

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya can't stop thinking about their first hookup in the back of the bike shop and quickly make plans to meet again. When their next date takes an unexpected turn, Shane pedals harder, while Ilya needs a push to reach the other side of this first bump in the road.

Chapter Notes

Russian dialogue translations in the end notes :) Please forgive me that I used Google Translate so they're almost certainly inaccurate!!

Shane’s ride home is perfect. He hits every green light, no cars or other lunatics come near him, and the cold spot in his pants warms up pretty fast, the heat of his body radiating through every part of him and out into the air to warm the entire world too.

He can’t believe he hooked up with Ilya Rozanov in the bike shop.

God, he can never tell Hayden or Rose.

When Shane gets home, he throws the soiled shirt in the washer, then puts himself in the shower to get clean for bed. He runs his hands all over his body to remember. Ilya’s mouth here, Ilya’s hands here. Ilya’s teeth, Ilya’s fingers, Ilya’s cock. Shane opens his mouth and stands under the shower, letting the warm water run down his throat to soothe the slight ache. Shane loves this. He loves the feeling after almost as much as the act itself. He feels tired and sore but alert from his ride. He wonders if Ilya is feeling the same, if he flew home on his motorcycle too fast from the adrenaline. Incredible.

It’s been a while since Shane’s hooked up with anyone. He wonders if the way his stomach is still flipping now is because of how badly he needed it in general or how badly he’d wanted it with Ilya Rozanov.

The date, even before the sex, had been nice. Shane liked how Ilya prodded the conversation along until it smoothed out, how he kept that contact between their knees the entire time they were at the bar. Shane had felt so grounded by it. This man wanted to touch him, so he did, though maybe Ilya didn’t understand the jolts of pleasure rushing through Shane at every slight adjustment he made under the table. And after Shane told him all about Cole, and Ilya looked at him so seriously and spoke to him so kindly (He is a loser. Clearly in more ways than one.), Shane touched Ilya’s arm and saw it plainly on his face: want. Shane starts to get hard again in the shower remembering it. Those eyes.

And Ilya’s body. God. Every part of him sculpted and leading Shane’s eyes to his cock. The tattoos; there were so many Shane could hardly focus on specific ones. So many bold, black lines, occasional bursts of colors. There was a snake around Ilya’s bicep, some sort of ram skull on his sternum. And the Cyrillic letters over his heart. Shane finds himself wanting to see it all so badly again, he shivers.

Once he’s in bed, Shane opens Instagram. He navigates to Ilya’s profile and looks at some of his photos; they don’t even come close to seeing him in person. Shane opens a message thread. He types and deletes a few options before finally sending: Home safe?

He puts his phone down but it chirps at him and he fumbles it bringing it back to his eye.

Ilya: Yes. Ages ago.

Shane: Me too.

Ilya: Oh sure. Because you are so fast.

Shane: I’ve been home for like an hour. Just took a shower. He considers and then adds: Needed it ;)

Ilya: Right. Okay. Maybe if you had sent a photo in the shower I could believe you.

Shane bites his lip. He sends: Next time we’ll have to race.

A minute goes by and Shane’s fingers twitch, his mind whirls, debating if he should say something else. Next time—does that sound desperate? Like a pathetic plea and not just flirting? They hooked up an hour and a half ago and Shane’s already in Ilya’s DMs asking for more. Fuck.

Ilya: Yes. Maybe next time. Goodnight Shane.

And then a notification: IlyaRozTattoo started following you. Shane laughs, follows him back, then falls asleep so fast, in the morning he can’t even recall closing his eyes.

However Ilya thought Shane would be as a hookup, it was not like that. The way Shane dropped to his knees, then looked up at Ilya with those big, brown, wet eyes absolutely alight as Ilya offered that first slow thrust into his mouth: every part of it said take me, use me, make me. Ilya couldn’t stop thinking about it from the moment he woke up.

Or Shane’s cock in that jock strap. His huge cock that Ilya could barely manage—now that was a drug. A challenge. Shane had taken Ilya so deep, it spurred an almost imperceptible blip of insecurity in Ilya. Not because his own size was anything to feel bad about, but that perhaps he’d met a competition he has no chance of winning here with Shane. Time will tell. That, Ilya was certain of, even before Shane’s clumsy, endearing message about next time. They will be seeing each other again.

Svetlana is on him first thing in the morning. She’s waiting in the kitchen with coffee in hand, a floor-length silk robe wrapped tightly around her like a gown.

“You got home late,” she says in Russian.

Ilya hums and gets himself a mug. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I do worry about it. I hate when you ride so late.”

Ilya brushes her off but the notion is sweet. He pours himself a cup of coffee and brings the French press to the table to top hers off.

“Are you going to tell me what happened or not?”

“Don’t be so nosy.”

“Don’t be so withholding.”

Ilya sits across from her. The kitchen is warm, windows open, sun creeping in to hit Svetlana’s plants through the sheer curtains. Ilya has always loved this house, a stucco bungalow not too far from downtown. It has three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a two-car garage and a small fenced in yard with some cacti and other strange desert plants that Ilya didn’t know grew in Colorado until they moved here. The house is in Svetlana’s name, technically, but Ilya has lived with her as long as he’s been in America, following her across the country to wherever she wants to set up their life next. He’s lucky through all of it that she’s let him tag along.

She sighs. “If you won’t tell me everything at least tell me something.”

Ilya sips his coffee, taps his fingers on the table.

Svetlana asks, “You had a good time?”

Ilya nods. “Very good.”

“Yes?”

A nice breeze rolls in and ruffles the curtain. It reminds Ilya of the wind in his face the night before, soaring home with the smell of Shane’s throat still warming him from the inside out. “He’s different than I expected.”

“How?”

When Ilya smirks then, she swats his arm.

“He’s no boy scout,” Ilya says. “That’s all I’m saying about it.”

“Ilyusha. You’ve corrupted him already.”

“I did nothing!” Ilya says. “If anything, he’s corrupting me!”

“I’m so sure.”

“Fine, believe what you want. But he is…” What is he? How could Ilya describe Shane Hollander to someone who would never experience him the way Ilya had? “He’s funny. Very nervous. Anxiety, he said, and very quiet. But so easy to read, Sveta. I don’t think he even knows the way he wears all his thoughts on his face. But he’s so eager, and sincere, all that anxiety just turns into, like, energy. He’s always sort of vibrating. I don’t know.” Ilya looks away and then says fuck it. “It was all very charming.”

Svetlana sits back, eyebrows practically at her hairline. “Very charming. Wow.” She drinks her coffee slowly, lips pursed with concentration.

“Don’t be jealous,” Ilya tells her.

“I think you know me a little better than that. I’ve just never heard you talk about someone that way.”

Ilya stands up from the table to get some distance so she won’t see him blush. “You asked for something.”

“Yes, and that sure was something.”

“Okay.”

“So you’re seeing him again?”

Ilya leans against the kitchen counter and smirks. “Yes. He already messaged me about it.”

Svetlana stands then and smiles before turning to go. Over her shoulder, she says, “Sounds like he finds you charming too. Just remember to be nice to him.”

“When am I not nice?”

Svetlana doesn’t answer and Ilya swallows her well-meaning admonishment with a sip of coffee that burns his tongue.

At 11:30am on Wednesday, Shane is highly aware of the noises outside. There are cars, pedestrians, a lot of cyclists—it’s a beautiful day—but no motorcycles. Shane hasn’t heard from Ilya since the messages late on Saturday night. On Sunday, Shane normally takes the day off and lets Hayden or Rose run things, but that Sunday he went in for a bit…just because. On Monday and Tuesday, Shane went in like normal, but when noon came and went with no engine revving in the alley, he realized those must be Ilya’s days off. But today is Wednesday. Not that Shane especially cares.

Hayden comes around the counter, rifling for something in a drawer before giving up and settling his eye on Shane, who yawns then, still staring out the front windows. Hayden gives him a narrow-eyed glance.

“You all right?”

Shane whips his head around. “Yeah. Why?”

“You seem distracted.”

“I’m fine.”

Shane takes his phone out and opens Instagram on impulse. Nothing. Why would there be? Sure they had messaged about next time but nobody follows up so quickly. Nobody sane. Except Shane, who did it the same night. Ugh.

Hayden asks in a suspicious tone, “What’d you end up doing Saturday night?” and Shane, despite having already resolved to tell Hayden nothing, can’t help a smile.

“Wow. Haven’t seen that look in a long time. What’d you do?”

“Nothing,” Shane says, still grinning. He schools his expression back to pleasant nonchalance with underpinnings of anxiety.

Hayden comes closer and thumps a hand on Shane’s chest, looking at him seriously.

“All right, back up,” Shane says.

“You might as well just tell me. You go out with somebody?”

“Hayd—”

“Wait—or maybe got into somebody?” Hayden pushes him. “You’re fucking blushing, dude.”

“Hayden. Please shut the fuck—”

And then two things happen: first, two customers enter in quick succession, both of them looking like they need some attention; and second, Ilya’s motorcycle rips up the alley loud enough that Shane actually jumps.

Hayden laughs. “You good?”

“Fine,” Shane mutters. “Go sell some fucking bikes.”

“With pleasure.”

Hayden takes the young guy looking at e-bikes, and Shane the lithe elderly man browsing water reservoirs. Shane’s explaining the pros and con of lumbar versus backpack style when the door opens again behind him.

Hayden calls, “Hey, welcome in,” and Shane nearly passes away when a cool Russian voice responds, “Thank you.”

Shane glances over his shoulder; Ilya meets his eye and nods. There’s a tiny, taunting, nearly imperceptible smile on his face and Shane can’t do anything but focus on his customer. He keeps an ear attuned to the room behind him until eventually he’s able to come around the side of the display and see what’s happening.

Ilya is looking at road bikes with a passable imitation of interest. He has one hand in his back pocket, the other caressing the handlebars of a Specialized Allez. Red. Not surprising.

The elderly man asks Shane the differences in volume between two bags and Shane has to look away again. The next time he can check on things, Hayden is finished with his customer and approaching Ilya with his best salesman smile, his hand already cocked for a shake.

It starts well enough. For a minute. And then Hayden’s smile begins to wane. His brow deepens into a hard, skeptical furrow. He scoffs—a couple of times—and eventually throws a look to Shane that Ilya certainly notices. Shane can’t hear what they’re saying but he can see Hayden steeling himself, expression oscillating all the while between confusion, irritation, and half-hearted customer service that makes Shane’s anxiety well up like a balloon in his throat.

Finally—finally—the elderly man makes his decision.

“Great, I’ll meet you at the register in a moment,” Shane says. Then he beelines across the store just in time to hear:

“No, maybe you are not understanding me. It does not make sense that it costs so much. There is no engine. No power. There are not even turn signals or lights. You are the turn signal, sticking your hand out like a windmill.” Ilya throws his arm out straight left, which Shane dodges at the last second. “Is just an expensive metal triangle on wheels.”

Shane says, “Hey, what’s—”

Hayden cuts him off. “I understand what you’re saying, but I just don’t think you’re getting the spirit of it all—”

Ilya laughs. Loudly. “Oh, I get the spirit. The spirit is slow and sweaty and wearing spandex.”

“Hayden,” Shane finally gets out. “Can you go check my guy out at the register? If you’re not busy?”

Hayden looks at him strangely. He turns back to Ilya like he might say one more thing, but then shrugs instead and heads for the counter.

Shane and Ilya stand alone. Shane can’t hear the noises outside anymore; he can barely hear the noises inside his own head. Suddenly every thought Shane had had of what to say vanishes.

But Ilya saves him: “Interesting guy you have working here. Not a very convincing salesman.” He chuckles.

Shane laughs a little too, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s great when somebody actually wants to buy a bike.”

“Who says I do not? I might have if your salesman had not been so unimpressive.”

“Hayden's a co-owner and he knows everything about bikes.”

“Mm, okay.” Ilya looks back at the Allez with some modicum of intrigue and Shane wonders then if he’s actually serious.

“So…did you just come in here to antagonize my coworkers?”

“Maybe,” Ilya says. “Or maybe I wanted to look at a bike.”

Shane deadpans. “Really?”

“Yes. Big lifestyle change for me. I have always wondered what I would look like in the—what do you call the little outfit?”

“A bib,” Shane says. “And a jersey.”

“With the straps and the top?”

“Right.”

“Ah. I bet you like those things, yes?”

Shane bites the inside of his mouth. Oh. Ilya came in here to flirt. Shane glances behind him and sees Hayden wrapping up with the elderly man. Rose is in the back somewhere clanking away. Shane says, “I do like those things. Obviously.”

“I thought so.” Ilya touches the bike handle again, fingers wrapping around it, and it takes everything in Shane not to give away that he’s picturing that same tattooed hand squeezing his chest, palming his cock through his jeans, gripping the back of Shane’s head while he jerked Ilya off, his own cock still half-hard even after coming.

Shane slips his thumbs into his pockets. “So. Do you still think I’m slow?”

Ilya huffs. “I think I would like to be proven wrong.”

“Do you—” Shane swallows, then clears his throat. Ilya just stares at him silently with that indelible smirk Shane’s getting more and more acquainted with. “Do you want to maybe go on a ride with me?”

Ilya considers this. “I do not have a bike. And I am not buying one that is $2,000.”

“I wouldn’t let you,” Shane says, then laughs at Ilya’s astonishment.

“Let me?” Ilya repeats.

Shane shakes his head, smiling, and he can feel the way his eyes are crinkling. Ilya’s eyes track all over Shane’s face like he’s mapping a route.

“No,” Shane says. “This is way too much bike for somebody who’s never ridden.”

“I have ridden a bike.”

“Oh, yeah? When? When you were six and your dad taught you?”

At that, a small drop of Ilya’s mouth. Shane frowns, but before he can ask, Ilya’s already recovered and taking a step closer.

“Maybe you will have to show me.”

“If you’re serious,” Shane says, “I have a bike you can borrow and we can go…some evening this week?”—Too much, dude!—“Or, actually, I’ve got kind of lot happening the next few nights. So…maybe Sunday morning? If you’re not working? I’ve already got a route in mind and it’d be good to go before it gets too hot. I think the weather is supposed to be nice. But the UV will probably get”—Stop!—“um. High.”

Shane waits for whatever teasing is about to come but Ilya just nods and steps back, removing his hand from the Allez at last. “Sunday morning.”

“Cool,” Shane breathes. “I’ll message you.”

More smirking. “I’m sure you will. Goodbye, Shane.”

“Bye.”

Ilya heads out without a look back.

Shane exhales loudly, smiling to himself, before facing the counter and finding Hayden alone and staring at him. He looks from Shane to the doorway and back again before letting out a long, aching, “Nooooo. Come on, Shane.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“Fuck, dude, you don’t have to. It’s plastered all over your fucking face.” Hayden does something so sappy and pathetic with his expression then that Shane flushes red.

“Fuck off, Hayd.”

“I can’t fuck off!” Hayden says. “I’m in distress about this!”

“Try minding your own business.”

Hayden drops his head on the counter. “Shane, he was such an asshole. I can’t believe that’s the kind of guy you’re into.”

From the back: “Why? He was hot.”

Hayden lifts his head and they both turn to look at Rose, wiping grease from her hands on a rag. She gives Shane a thumbs up. “Nice work, babe. Solid pull.”

“I’m not—”

“Saying anything. Right.” Rose and Hayden exchange a glance.

“Don’t you guys have work to do?” Shane says.

“Uh oh. He’s big-bossing us.” Rose puts her fists up to fight but she returns to the workshop anyway, and Shane flees for the back office before Hayden can say anything else.

He’s safe there for a minute. Until Hayden slides into the doorway with his arms crossed, leaning on the frame.

“Buddy.”

“I’m not interested in having this conversation, dude. Seriously.”

Hayden comes all the way into the small room. “Look, I’m sorry for giving you a hard time. I’m just shocked. Like, that guy isn’t even close to your type.”

“That guy’s name is Ilya,” Shane says. “And how would you know what my type is?”

“He’s nothing like Cole.”

“Yeah, well, that’s probably a good thing. Don’t you think?”

Hayden sighs. “Yeah, maybe. Have you—” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I mean. You talk to him at all lately?”

“No. Have you?”

“A little.”

It’s not such a shocking revelation but the knowledge cuts right through Shane’s lingering happiness.

“Not for real, though,” Hayden says. “He posted a new bike on Instagram and I commented. We messaged a little. Seems like he’s enjoying retirement.”

“Great for him.”

“Right. So there’s no chance you would ever—”

“Hayden.” Shane gives him a hard look. “No fucking chance. Like, less than zero.”

“Okay,” Hayden says, dropping his arms to his sides. “Just asking.”

A small, terrible part of Shane wants to ask Why? Was he asking you about me? Did he want to talk to me? To apologize? But instead he gives Hayden a nod, then returns to his pretend task.

Shane’s nearly passed out in bed when his phone lights up beside him. He wouldn’t normally check it when he’s trying to sleep, but intrigue draws him to it and he’s instantly rewarded.

Ilya: I am still laughing about your terrible salesman. The SPIRIT.

Shane beams at his phone; his heart pounds. He sends: He’s not terrible.

Ilya: He is. Do not argue. The customer is always right.

Shane: You just don’t get it. The spirit is real!

Ilya: Maybe. But it can’t compare to motorcycle spirit. Not that you would know this.

Shane doesn’t know what to say to that—another veiled invitation? His stomach flips at the thought. He types something stupid and deletes it and decides instead to change the subject.

Shane: Did you have a good day despite Hayden?

Ilya: Yes. I finished a big piece for a good client.

Shane: What was it?

Ilya sends a photo of a woman in a black thong lying face down on a table in the shop. She’s looking over her shoulder and grinning, giving a thumbs up to the camera. Her body is almost totally covered in tattoos, but her ass is tinged red and freshly decorated by two mirrored peonies—one on each cheek. Shane zooms in for a better look before remembering this is a woman’s ass.

Ilya: Outline healed, color done today.

Shane: Looks incredible.

Ilya: Pervert.

Shane: I meant the tattoo. It’s pretty.

Ilya: Yes thank you. It helps that she is so tough, sits well. Ass is not an easy spot to get work done. Very painful.

Shane bites his lip. He hadn’t had the chance to look at all of Ilya during their hookup. It had happened so fast, with Shane on his knees or his stomach for the bulk of it.

Shane: You know from personal experience or just from doing it to other people?

There’s a minute of silence. Then finally:

Ilya: I think you will find out for yourself soon.

Shane’s whole body goes hot underneath the covers. He throws a leg out, letting the sharp sting of the air conditioning crawl from his toes to his inner thigh.

Shane: Will I?

Ilya: Yes. But not tonight.

Shane laughs.

Ilya: Goodnight Shane.

Shane: Goodnight.

On Friday afternoon, Shane can’t stop thinking about their date—the one they’ve already had and the one that’s only a couple of days away. He’s caught in the limbo between memory and anticipation, staring at his phone as he runs through their bike route again in his head.

Shane opens Instagram.

Shane: How high is your endurance?

Ilya: For what? ))))

Shane: Cycling. Cardio. I have a route planned for Sunday but wanted to make sure it’s not going to be too much for you.

Ilya: Do not worry about me. I can go forever.

Shane: How long?

Ilya: Hours. All night sometimes.

Shane: I’m talking about BIKING for our BIKE RIDE. Do you know your average resting heart rate?

Ilya: No and this is very boring.

Shane: Awesome. Then I’m thinking 8am. 10 mile loop.

Ilya: You are trying to cheat by making me wake up so early. You want me to crash from exhaustion.

Shane: No!! I’m trying to beat the heat!!! 8:30? 9?

Ilya: I will be at your house at 9am and not even one tiny second earlier than that.

Shane: Cool, sounds good.

Ilya: ))

Shane: :)

Ilya: Do I need to bring anything for our pretend race tomorrow?

Shane: Nope! Just your winning personality :) 1221 Ute Ave. Park on the right side of the driveway.

Ilya: Each day I am getting more excited to see you lose.

Shane: Enjoy that feeling while it lasts :)

Ilya: You were not this mean to me at the bar. Or in the back office.

Shane: I was nervous.

Ilya: Not anymore?

Shane: Not as much but maybe a little.

Ilya: Good. You should be.

Shane: Okay go to sleep. It’s late and you have to wake up early!!

Ilya: Bossy. Getting ready for bed now. Dinner, shower, one cigarette.

Shane: Do NOT smoke before our ride >:(

Ilya: Because you know it will make me stronger or because you do not like the taste? ))

Shane: Goodnight!!

Shane’s house is a midcentury bi-level with white stucco, dark trim, and a three-car garage. Ilya pulls up outside of it Sunday morning, parking his bike as Shane instructed. He’s been wondering for days if they’re really going to do this, if they’re really going on a bike ride or if he’s going to be invited in straight away, led to Shane’s room, pulled there by his waistband and pushed onto the bed. He assumes here that Shane will let him fuck him. Here they’ll have everything they need, plus privacy and time. He waits in the driveway to see what’s going to happen.

The answer comes quickly when the garage door opens and Shane steps out in black bike shorts and a colorful, logo-splattered jersey with the zipper undone to his stomach. The shorts are skintight: huge thighs, huge bulge. Shane’s eyes trace over Ilya’s whole body while Ilya does the same to him.

“Hey,” Shane says. “You made it.”

“I did. This is very nice.”

“What?”

Ilya points a finger at Shane, up and down. “Is this from your racing days?” He touches the zipper before he can stop himself, finger nearly slipping inside. Shane reddens, just slightly, but smiles.

“No, I couldn’t fit any of those anymore. I was way leaner then.”

“And now you are so out of shape?”

Shane laughs. “Just a different kind of shape. Pro cycling you want to be as light as possible and I was already at a disadvantage being tall. Like, Tadej Pogacar is 5’9”, 140.”

Ilya wonders briefly whether or not Shane just spoke English. “Who?”

“Oh, he won the Tour de France last year. Crazy good.”

“Better than you?” Ilya teases.

Shane doesn’t say anything to that, maybe because the answer is yes, or maybe because the thought of competing now to find out hits a tender spot this early in the morning.

Ilya pivots. “If you were 140 you would shrivel into nothing. You would be bones. You look good now. Very sturdy.”

Shane shrugs but Ilya can see that the compliment hits right.

“I was never that thin,” Shane says. “Maybe 160 at my absolute lightest.”

“And now?”

Shane glances upwards in thought. “Around 200. Started lifting once I wasn’t cycling like that anymore.”

“Ah yes,” Ilya says. “I am 210. Makes sense you weigh less since you are so much smaller than me.”

Shane scoffs and stops responding to him, leading him into the garage instead. On the left is Shane’s car—a black Subaru outback with a very serious bike rack on the hitch—and in the middle and right, at least ten bicycles and everything a person could ever need to tend to them.

“Wow, do you think you have enough?” Ilya asks. “What if nine more people come over?”

Shane ignores him, which Ilya finds oddly thrilling. What will it take to get a rise out of him?

“This one will be good for you.” Shane pulls a bike down off the wall like it weighs nothing. Ilya isn’t sure why this bike in particular would be any better for him than the others, but he likes that it’s red and accepts it when Shane rolls it toward him.

“I need the outfit too, yes?” Ilya says.

“No.”

“Let me borrow a shirt at least. Or the shorts.”

“No way,” Shane says. He absentmindedly adjusts his zipper. “You’d look ridiculous.”

Ilya steps closer. “You do not look ridiculous. You do not think I could pull it off?”

Shane looks at Ilya like he doesn’t remember exactly what Ilya’s body looks like beneath his jeans and jacket. “No offense, but you’d look like a Jerry.”

Ilya frowns at him—another cyclist ex? “Who is this? Who is Jerry?”

Shane laughs and retrieves two helmets from a shelf in the corner, talking all the while: “It’s just an expression. Like, Jerry is the guy who buys an eight-thousand-dollar bike and all the best gear but doesn’t actually know what he’s doing. He’s riding on full carbon aero wheels but getting passed on the road by college kids on beer runs. The other cyclists can tell.” Shane holds out a helmet.

Ilya doesn’t take it. “And they will do what? Push me into traffic? At least give me some shorts.”

“No,” Shane says. He shakes the helmet and Ilya still doesn’t take it. “You’ll distract me. You can borrow some regular athletic shorts.”

“Oh, do you think they will fit? Might be tight on me anyway.”

“Take this,” Shane says. He pushes the helmet into Ilya’s hands.

“Seriously?”

“Absolutely. You wear one on your motorcycle.”

“That is dangerous high-powered machinery,” Ilya scoffs. “This is a bicycle.”

“Just put it on. And stop whining so much.”

Ilya doesn’t laugh. He wants to but he holds it in, taking the helmet, but not before stepping a little too deeply into Shane’s space to do it.

“You are very funny today,” Ilya says. “Not nervous at all.”

Shane doesn’t step back; he meets Ilya’s eye and shakes his head. Shane opens his mouth to say something, then closes it and shrugs as a funny half-smile crawls across his face. Ilya doesn’t know what to think of it but he likes it—a lot. So this is another side of Shane Hollander; more comfortable at home with his bikes than in a bar late at night with Ilya. He’d certainly been more comfortable at the bike shop later, though he hadn’t been nearly as much of a brat then.

Shane takes the helmet back and hangs it over the handlebars, then guides Ilya’s bike gently to an open rack in the garage before leading him inside to change.

Shane’s house is minimalist almost to the point of sterility. White walls, wood floors, simple, functional furniture with a few sparing pops of color in the details. The windows in the living room face east and the morning sun pours through them. Ilya takes off his jacket and drapes it over the couch, which Shane glances at but doesn’t say anything about. Shane’s bedroom is similar, though a little warmer with nice thick curtains and a sturdy walnut bed. When they enter, Ilya feels the physical distance Shane holds between them; Ilya doesn’t push it. He guesses Shane really wants to take this ride.

“Here.” Shane pulls a neatly folded pair of blue athletic shorts from a drawer. “Do you want, um—privacy?”

Ah ha. Now that’s more familiar. “I am not shy,” Ilya says. “Stay if you want to.”

To his delight, Shane does stay. So Ilya undoes his belt and zipper, removing his jeans to stand in the middle of Shane’s bedroom in black boxer briefs and a fitted white tank top. He takes the shorts from Shane and makes a show of holding them out, holding them up, assessing whether or not they will fit (of course they will). Shane is obviously staring, though saying nothing, and Ilya stares back at him. He finally puts the shorts on when he feels himself forgetting why he needs them in the first place.

Before Ilya can get closer to Shane, Shane is at the door and beckoning Ilya back out. He leads a quick pace toward the garage, stopping only briefly to pick up Ilya’s jacket from the back of the couch and bring it to the coat rack.

In the garage, Shane assesses Ilya’s legs and adjusts the seat post slightly on the red bike. He squeezes both tires, then grabs a pump and gives them some more air. He takes a water bottle from the counter and shoves it into the holder. Finally, he hands the bike (and the helmet) back to Ilya, before pulling his own bike out onto the driveway.

“Not the yellow one?” Ilya surveys the bike Shane’s holding now: a thin blue and purple frame, curved handlebars wrapped in green tape. Bianchi.

Shane straps his helmet on. He pulls dark sunglasses from his pocket and slides them up his narrow nose. The zipper of his jersey finally reaches his throat. He shakes his head and grins and Ilya can see the way his whole energy changes, the pro cyclist coming to the surface with one click of the helmet buckle.

“This one’s faster,” Shane says. “But yours is too. Ten mile loop. You ready?”

Ilya snuggles his own helmet onto his head. “Let’s go.”

Unsurprising to Ilya at this point—despite how much grief he’s given him—Shane is fast. Extremely fast. Shane’s house sits high in a hilly neighborhood and when he kicks off, Shane goes flying down the hill and around the corner before Ilya has even found a fully comfortable grip on the handlebars. He kicks off after him, following Shane’s turn, and immediately meets another massive hill. Fuck. Shane is already halfway up, legs pumping furiously.

He doesn’t wait for Ilya at the top.

There’s no talking on the ride. Shane leads them through the neighborhood and out into the city, cruising through bike lanes and curving streets, up and down endless hills. Ilya’s sweating, his legs on fire by the time he reaches what must be the halfway mark: a park so high up, he can see the mountain range in its expanse from the top. Shane looks relaxed when Ilya finally reaches him, drinking his water and smirking.

“Doing okay?”

Ilya doesn’t speak; as soon as he does, his breathing will give him away. Though he’s sure Shane can tell anyway, judging by the smug grin. Ilya drinks his own water and nods.

“You’re doing great,” Shane says. Ilya scoffs and Shane laughs. “Especially considering you fucking smoke.”

Ilya just shakes his head. Shane laughs at him some more and Ilya wants to push him off his bike. They spend another minute taking in the view.

“I have some good news for you,” Shane says.

When Ilya thinks he can speak without panting, he says, “What?”

Shane slips his water bottle back into place. “The rest of the ride is downhill. So, you know—this is your one chance to beat me. If you still think you can.”

Fuck. How can Ilya possibly say no to that? His stomach is churning, his heart pounding so hard he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. His hair under his helmet is going to be a stupid, sweat-soaked mess when he’s finally free of it. And meanwhile Shane is golden and grinning, and all Ilya wants to do is beat him back to his house, then do whatever it takes to steal that smug look and make him swallow it.

“Let’s go,” Ilya says.

Both of them are flying. Shane keeps his body low, shoulders down, legs in, whipping through the streets like a missile Ilya can only dream of catching. And Ilya doesn’t feel like he’s going slow. Compared to the climb, when he thought he might die, the downhill is like a rollercoaster. He barely pedals. Even when he does, he can’t get close to Shane, so far ahead Ilya has to remind himself to watch him for the next direction. Left, right, a long, snaking drop in which Ilya finally manages to get within a few feet of him—until Shane glances over his shoulder, then laughs and hops a curb around the next corner and seems to simply pedal faster. By the time they make it back to Shane’s street, Shane’s completely out of view. Ilya pedals as hard as he can, dripping sweat, only to rip into Shane’s driveway long enough after Shane that Shane’s already dropped his bike in the grass and lain down beside it.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Shane,” Ilya gasps; there’s no use pretending after that last surge of effort. He drops his bike unsteadily, then collapses beside Shane in the grass.

They pull their helmets off and toss them aside, both of them running a hand through their hair. Shane flings his sunglasses off too and sprays some water on his face. Ilya can see now the way his eyes are lit up, ecstatic, like his body is filled with lightning. Shane’s chest is heaving hard now, up and down with shaky, stomach-deep breaths.

Shane says, “Nice effort. But I think it’s safe to say I won.”

“Fuck you.”

“Maybe next time.”

Right now Ilya isn’t sure there’s going to be a next time—at least for cycling. He swears in Russian and tries to let his heavy body sink into the earth beneath him. Maybe if he tries really hard, he can turn into a rock and never feel his legs or chest again.

“You are a freak,” Ilya says. “You are sick.” He turns his head without moving his body and finds Shane already facing him in the same sprawled supine position. Shane’s face is so flushed and happy, beaming, sweat pooling in the divot of his throat, and Ilya can’t help himself; he reaches over and tugs the zipper down Shane’s chest, putting his hand inside to touch him. Shane lets him do it, staring hard at Ilya’s mouth, and Ilya finds himself grinning stupidly too with Shane’s barely elevated heartbeat underneath his palm. He waits a few seconds for Shane to say something, but when nothing comes except more prolonged staring and breathing, Ilya suddenly thinks, What the fuck am I waiting for?

He rolls over and kisses him.

Shane hoists himself up into Ilya’s kiss, meeting him so hard their mouths crash together. God, he’d wanted this since Ilya pulled into his driveway that morning. He’d thought about it through all the teasing, all the flirty taunts and pointed glances that Shane had tried to joke around. He’d thought about it when Ilya peeled his jacket off, when he’d followed Shane into his bedroom and stripped out of his jeans and told Shane to stay if he wanted to—as if Shane ever would have wanted to go. He’d almost canceled the ride right there. It would’ve been so easy to go to his knees and suck Ilya to the edge again and then hope and pray and possibly beg to be fucked if that was what needed to happen. But this, the two of them in the grass, drenched in sweat, red and writhing as their chests press together and Ilya brackets Shane’s face with his forearms, is better.

Ilya breaks the kiss and hovers there. Shane rises a little to meet him again but Ilya pulls back.

He says quietly, “How much do you care what your neighbors think?” and only then does Shane recall that they’re in the front yard. He cranes his neck to peek behind him and sees his neighbor pulling out of his driveway, looking determinedly in the other direction.

Shane settles his hands on Ilya’s waist. “Do you want to come in?”

Ilya stands and pulls Shane to his feet with so little effort, it sends a rush straight to Shane’s cock. He opens the garage and they wheel the bikes in, Shane ignoring a snicker behind him while he puts both bikes back on their designated racks, the helmets on the proper shelves, before holding open the door for Ilya to come into the house.

It only takes as long as the millisecond of the door latching before Ilya has Shane backed against it. His tongue in Shane’s mouth is like a whispered secret in his ear, so compelling, sending a shiver through him. Shane is hard immediately. God, it feels good to want something so much and know he’s going to get it. Shane’s stomach lurches, his chest warms, as Ilya grinds his cock against Shane’s pelvis through the minimal fabric of both of their athletic shorts. Ilya breathes into Shane’s mouth, “Bedroom? Or maybe shower?”

Shane likes the sweat. He likes the salt and the scent of grass they’ve brought in with them from outside. It’s been so long since he’s had anyone like this—here in his house and so obviously interested—that Shane feels all at once overwhelmed. He brings a hand to his chest.

Ilya notices. “Okay?”

“Yeah. Yes,” Shane says. He feels his heart. “It’s just…been a really long time since I’ve had anybody over. Like this.”

“Ah.” Ilya leans in and presses kisses to Shane’s neck, cupping Shane’s chin to tilt his head back. The sensation is so delicate, Shane’s stomach flips. Ilya says, “But you want this, yes?”

“Yes. God, yes.”

Ilya licks Shane’s ear and Shane’s knees nearly buckle. He moans; Ilya breathes, “I want to fuck you, Shane. If that is what you want.” He pulls back just enough to see Shane’s face.

Shane nods, eyelids fluttering shut as Ilya unzips Shane’s jersey completely, rubbing his hands over his chest and nipples and stomach, kissing his neck more aggressively. Shane rolls his hips against Ilya’s and pushes his hands underneath Ilya’s tank top until Ilya lifts his arms for Shane to pull it off. Ilya’s skin is still hot, a little damp but cooling now that he’s out of the sun. Shane wants to lick the sweat from him. He imagines himself doing it—would Ilya like that? Would it be weird? Too much?

Ilya bites at Shane’s ear and starts to stroke him through his shorts. “So where do you want me?”

Shane says, “Bedroom,” and Ilya grabs him, pushing Shane down the hall without taking his hand from Shane’s cock or his mouth from Shane’s throat. Shane feels teeth against his skin and gasps.

Shane falls onto his back in bed, with Ilya heavy on top of him before he rolls them over and fits himself between Ilya’s legs. He kisses him hard into the pillows, sliding down Ilya’s body to taste him. He has to. He runs his tongue everywhere, up the jut of Ilya’s esophagus, down his pecs and sternum, over his nipples and abs and navel. He kisses Ilya again and pushes the salt into his mouth with a moan.

“Take these off,” Ilya says, hands tugging the waist of Shane’s bike shorts. “Now.”

Shane works his shorts off and Ilya does the same, leaving them naked with Shane upright and straddling Ilya, their cocks against one another. Shane takes them both in one big hand. Ilya’s eyes track down Shane’s body to watch.

“Comparing?” Shane asks, stroking them together, shuddering and leaking even while he’s trying to tease. He looks down to watch too, and his cock is obviously bigger than Ilya’s—it’s bigger than every cock Shane’s ever touched—but Ilya’s is thick, uncut, throbbing in Shane’s hand as it grows harder. “I love how thick you are.” Shane wipes the precum from his cock down Ilya’s.

Ilya sits up and pulls Shane’s face closer by his chin. Shane squirms under the intensity of Ilya’s gaze, the painful grip he holds on Shane’s waist.

“I am just thinking about how I am going to fuck you. I want to see your cock when you come.”

Shane jerks them both faster, tighter, sensation rippling through his core. “It might be kind of fast.”

“Stop,” Ilya says, and Shane drops his hand. He stares into Ilya’s bold blue eyes and his heart races.

“Turn around,” Ilya says.

“Why?”

“I want to see something.”

Shane adjusts to face the room, his knees still straddling Ilya’s pelvis, and Ilya pulls him back onto his lap so he’s seated there. With Ilya’s cock upright against Shane’s ass, Ilya says, “Do you feel that?”

“Yes.”

“This is how deep I will be. Feel.”

Shane brings a hand behind him and Ilya takes it, guiding him. Shane strokes Ilya’s cock once slowly from base to tip, pressing it firm against his body and imagining.

Ilya says, “You think I will fit inside you?”

Shane’s glad Ilya can’t see his face, his jaw tight with anticipation, his eyes fluttering closed, practically shaking with how much he wants this. When was the last time Shane was really fucked? He’s had hookups, sure, some better than others, but most of them more of a means to an end. A good looking guy with a decent dick making him come: Shane can find that anywhere. He wants more from this. He wants to be fucked.

“Can you take it?” Ilya asks.

Shane leans forward, crawling off Ilya’s lap to wait on all fours in front of him at the end of the bed with his knees apart, exposed, begging. “Only one way to find out.” Please please please please.

Ilya exhales slowly. Shane feels the mattress shift as Ilya moves to his knees.

Ilya opens Shane’s nightstand wordlessly, finding lube and a condom, which he tosses on the mattress. He kneels behind Shane and rests a palm on his ass before pouring lube directly onto his hole.

Shane moans. The sensation gets him every time: that slippery glide of warm, dense flesh over his opening. Shane is so ready, Ilya pushes a finger inside with no resistance, and Shane drops his face to the bed to cradle his head in the crook of his arms.

“Mm,” Ilya says. “Yes, like that, Shane. Open for me.” Ilya slides his other hand to rest on Shane’s lower back, caressing him in firm circles. “Now we will see how much you can take.”

“Please fuck me,” Shane says, his breath hot against the comforter. Ilya’s finger slides in and out of him until it returns with a second finger that gently bumps his prostate. Shane pushes back against it. Two fingers is never enough, like tasting chocolate in someone else’s mouth and not your own. Shane feels lightheaded with need, overheating, desperate for Ilya to do whatever he wants to him.

Ilya scissors his fingers gently and Shane gasps, “Oh my god.”

“Okay?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need more?”

Shane hums, nodding into the mattress. The delicacy of Ilya’s fingers flexing and the soft petting on Shane’s back is like a feather tickling every inch of his body.

“Another finger?” Ilya asks after a minute, his voice low. “Or do you think you are ready for me?”

Shane doesn’t answer right away. He’s debating with himself, not wanting to go too fast because it’s been a while since he last used a dildo on himself, let alone fucked another person. But he also feels so ready for it the room has started to spin.

“One more, I think,” Ilya says then, deciding for him. With his free hand, he pours more lube on Shane and slides his ring finger inside. Then he brings his other hand around to grip Shane’s cock.

“Fuck, Ilya. Oh my god. Yes.”

Shane could come right now if Ilya would just go a little faster, a little harder. He’s being so gentle, Shane feels like a cactus surviving on filtered light.

“Fuck, you love it,” Ilya says, more to himself than to Shane. “How close do you think you can get without coming before I fuck you?”

“I don’t know,” Shane sputters.

“Ah.” Shane can hear the smirk even if he can’t see it. “What did you say before?” Ilya pushes deeper inside him, strokes him faster. “Only one way to find out.”

Ilya strokes Shane’s cock roughly then, playing with the head, curling his other fingers inside him until Shane is constantly making noise, a moan, a whimper, swearing and begging. Shane pushes back and fuck, he’s close. He’s really close. Ilya’s hands are so good and his touch so real and his voice—Shane wants to hear more.

“Will you talk to me?” he says.

“What?”

Shane lifts his head and chokes out, “I want to hear you—talk more. I’m so fucking close, Ilya. I want—”

Ilya removes his fingers and pulls Shane upright with an arm wrapped around his torso. He brings his mouth close to Shane’s ear, digging hard into Shane’s stomach where he holds him. “What do you want me to say while I fuck you?”

“Anything. Anything.” He turns his head to kiss Ilya again. It’s incredible how easily Ilya’s tongue meets his own exactly where Shane wants it to be. Shane’s head is spinning for real now, his cock dripping and throbbing, and Ilya lowers him onto the mattress.

“You are so fucking hot, Shane.” Ilya kneels between Shane’s legs. He retrieves the condom and slides it over himself, applying more lube, gazing down hungrily. “So fucking hot like this.” He pushes Shane’s knees wide and lines himself up. Shane forces his eyes to stay open; he wants to see Ilya enter him. “I am going to make you come on my cock. I want to watch your big fucking cock cry when you come all over yourself for me.”

Shane nods quickly, holding his thighs so he’s spread wide open. The air in the room is heated from their movement and breath. The curtains are slightly open, the bed creaking quietly beneath them. Ilya crowds over Shane, and when the head of his cock touches Shane’s slick hole, Shane throws his head back onto the pillow and Ilya kisses his throat. Ilya pushes his cock inside so slowly, Shane feels all of it when Ilya finally bottoms out. The first gentle thrust is accentuated by a string of Russian words Shane can’t possibly understand, but he thinks must be equivalent to what’s happening in his own head:

Fuck me hard, please, I need you, I need your cock, I need this so bad, just do whatever you fucking want to me, I need to come, oh my god, Ilya, please make me fucking come, please, Ilya, please.

“I will,” Ilya says.

Did Shane say that out loud?

“Fucking look at you,” Ilya grunts, pulling out and thrusting back in hard. “You needed this, eh? Thought about it all week?”

Shane arches off the bed, desperate for that perfect angle. “Every fucking day. Every day since the bar.”

“And now you have it. You are so fucking wet, Shane.” Ilya wipes his hand across the tip of Shane’s cock and brings it to Shane’s mouth. Shane opens and licks the precum from Ilya’s fingers.

“Jesus. Are you always like this?” Ilya asks, a little teasing. He pushes down on Shane’s chest, finding a rhythm, fucking him and gripping him and leaning down to kiss him again before Shane can answer.

When Ilya pulls away, Shane asks through choked breaths, “Like what?”

Ilya laughs; the sound and the smile bring Shane even closer to the edge.

“Like you need it,” Ilya says, close enough still that the words land hot in Shane’s mouth. “Like you will die if you do not get fucked like this. Are you always like this with a cock in you?”

“No,” Shane gasps. He doesn’t mean to say it.

Ilya laughs again. God, that laugh. The waves and waves of pleasure climb with the sound of it.

“No?” Ilya sits up and adjusts the angle and there it is. Shane cries out, opening his eyes and meeting Ilya’s serious gaze.

“Just for me,” Ilya says. Shane nods. “You are only like this because you wanted my cock so bad. One taste and you need it now.”

“Yes,” Shane says. “Yes. Harder, fuck, I’m right there.” He goes to touch his cock and Ilya grabs his wrist, holding it against the mattress and driving into Shane hard enough to move the bed.

“I think you will come just like this, dorogoy. I takaya goryachaya, takaya, blyad', otkrytaya mne.”

Shane wishes for a moment that he understood Russian, but then—no, he doesn’t. “More.” Shane’s head falls back again, his eyes pinched shut, mouth open, taking in all the Russian words he doesn’t know but feeling each syllable as it’s spat onto him.

“Ya budu trakhat' tebya, poka ty ne zaplachesh'. Ya dumala ob etom vsyu chertovu nedelyu, kazhdyy den', malysh. O tvoyem ogromnom chlene. Ya khochu konchit' vnutri tebya i napolnit' tebya. Ya khochu pochuvstvovat' vkus tvoyey spermy u tebya na zhivote. Chert, ya uzhe blizko. Konchay dlya menya, malysh, ya khochu eto videt'.”

The words light up Shane’s chest and he’s sweating and trembling and he feels himself coming before he can even process it so he says belatedly, “Fuck, I’m coming,” and shakes under Ilya as his release paints his chest and stomach, all the way to the underside of his chin. Ilya’s pace and intensity doesn’t relent. “Ilya, fuck, it’s too much, please—”

“You want my cum?” Ilya says through gritted teeth.

“Yes, oh my god, Ilya—”

Shane grips the back of Ilya’s head as he drops on top of him, moaning and shaking and thrusting twice more as he comes.

Ilya wakes up to a mechanical whirring outside his window. He blinks, listens harder, slowly coming to understand that this isn’t his window at all. It isn’t his bed, or his house, and there’s a tuft of black hair beneath his nose that smells like grass and cedar. He’s holding onto Shane hard, both of them naked. He flexes his hand on Shane’s chest to feel the muscle and it makes Shane stir just slightly before he settles back against him with his ass a pillow for Ilya’s cock. Ilya swallows the complication blooming in his chest.

“Shane,” Ilya whispers. No response. He brings his hand up and brushes it against Shane’s cheek. Those freckles. He says a little louder, “Shane. I have to go.”

“Hmm?”

“I have to go. We fell asleep. I did not mean…” Ilya trails off, unsure how to explain himself.

Shane rolls over to face him and god, he’s cute this way, his hair sticking out in every direction, his face soft and eyes half-open. He smiles and rubs one of them and Ilya gets hit with another wave of fear.

“You fell asleep,” Shane says. “I went to clean up and when I came back, you were passed out. I tried to wake you up and you just growled at me in Russian.”

Ilya nods sardonically; that does sound like him. So Ilya was asleep and Shane just got back into bed with him. It was Shane’s bed. They’d just fucked. Of course he got in. But then he got into Ilya’s arms—for what? To nap together? Because he wanted to cuddle?

“What else are you doing today?” Shane asks.

For a split second, Ilya panics that Shane is about to ask him to stay longer, get lunch, hang out. It must be obvious because Shane frowns at him.

“Sorry. Here.” Shane pulls himself up and starts looking for clothes. Ilya sits up too as Shane tosses him his shirt, his jeans, a couple of socks that Ilya isn’t sure aren’t Shane’s.

He stands and wipes a hand down his face. Get a fucking grip. “I have plans with Svetlana, then work.”

“Oh. Nice. What’re you guys going to do?” Shane pulls on clean shorts from a drawer, then a gray t-shirt. So soft. Like a cloud. He puts his hands in his pockets and watches Ilya get dressed. Without meaning to, Ilya turns away.

“Roommate stuff,” he mutters while his own shirt is over his head. “Yard work.”

“You and Svetlana live together?”

Ilya doesn’t look at Shane but the surprise in his tone is clear. He’s not dealing with this right now.

“Yes,” Ilya says. Finally he’s dressed, and he looks at Shane and Shane at him and Shane is so handsome and awkward and smiles a little and Ilya wants to smoke a cigarette and then die.

“I’ll…walk you out,” Shane says.

Shane leads Ilya through the house, grabbing Ilya’s jacket from the hook and handing it to him at the door. He stands there, so obviously confused and trying to be cool about it and the pain of it all hits Ilya squarely in the gut. Just remember to be nice to him. Fuck. Ilya exhales and taps his finger on Shane’s chest.

“This was good,” Ilya says.

Shane’s smile softens into something more genuine. “Yeah. We should—”

“So I will see you around. Okay?”

Shane winces at that. But he says, “Right. Thanks for coming.”

Ilya can’t help but raise an eyebrow. Shane rolls his eyes and pushes Ilya out the door.

Ilya gets home and away from Svetlana before she can ask him too many questions. He doesn’t have time to think through all this right now. He has a client, and some errands, and more crucial things to do than think about Shane.

That night, Ilya thinks about Shane. He gets a message from him (Hey, how was the rest of your day?) and doesn’t respond. He spends Monday and Tuesday not responding, not thinking, and focusing entirely on the chores Svetlana has laid out for him and on taking a long, solitary motorcycle ride around the city.

On Wednesday, Ilya parks his bike in the alley and goes into his shop and still isn’t thinking about Shane. Or Shane’s mouth. Or Shane’s face when he came all over his chest or Shane asking Ilya to talk him through it in Russian and then coming so hard Ilya’s cock was instantly too much for him and he’d begged Ilya to come too.

Or the fact that Shane is right next door, still waiting to hear from him.

“Ilya?”

“What?”

Luca, Zane, and Svetlana are staring.

“What?” Ilya repeats.

Luca says, “Nothing. Everything good?”

Ilya grabs his cigarettes and bolts for the door. “I am taking a walk. My head is…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, glancing down the sidewalk before disappearing in the other direction.

When he reaches the end of downtown (and the end of his cigarette), Ilya starts to go back and his phone chirps.

Shane: Hey. I was thinking about getting a drink after work tonight. Are you around?

Such a tepid message for someone who just a few days ago was licking Ilya’s chest like a cat with a bowl of cream. Ilya puts his phone away before he does something insane like start typing.

Back in the shop, he focuses on his client. He ignores Svetlana prodding him in Russian for information, and when he leaves that evening, Shane’s message is still unanswered. His yellow bike is gone anyway; it probably doesn’t matter whether Ilya was actually free or not.

He checks Instagram again at home and sees on Shane’s story that he took a ride with Hayden instead. The two of them pose on some scenic overlook beside their bikes. Shane’s jersey is unzipped, and Hayden has an arm around his waist, drawing him in. Ilya cringes. He doesn’t like or comment; it’s bad enough he watched it and that Shane will probably see that.

Shane: Hey. I get it. Just wanted to say I had a good time with you and no hard feelings. See you around.

Ilya stares at the message he receives Friday morning, processing each of the words one at a time. The lump that drops into his stomach is enough to make him fall forward with his head on the table beside his phone.

“Just wanted to say I had a good time with you—”

“Svetlana!” Ilya hadn’t even heard her come in.

“—and no hard feelings. See you around.” Svetlana clutches Ilya’s phone, shaking her head at him. “Ilyusha.”

“Don’t even start. Give it back.”

Svetlana walks with the phone to the other side of the kitchen, scrolling up through the last few days of messages. She sighs. “Why, Ilya?”

It’s all she needs to say. Ilya puts his face in his hands and mutters, “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay. Because I do know.” Ilya looks up at her skeptically. “He was very nice and very sweet and you thought oh no, somebody is going to be nice to me! Fuck!”

Ilya slumps back in his chair. “It was more than that.”

“What then?” Svetlana lifts herself up onto the counter, crossing her long legs. “He was too good in bed? You looked half drunk when you came home on Sunday. Tell me. What did he do to you?”

Ilya can’t bring himself to say it. She’s going to rip him to pieces. “It was just…” But she’s looking at him sincerely, the criticism fading away, and maybe, Ilya thinks, it would help to say it, to tell somebody what happened and be told he was smart for stepping back before anything more came of it. So he blurts it out stupidly: “It was too much! Too good. We fucked and fell asleep and he was so happy to have me there when he woke up, Sveta, and I—I just—fuck it. It’s over now anyway. Doesn’t even matter.”

Svetlana looks at the phone again. “I think somebody who triple-texts with no reply is probably also willing to give second chances.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s for the best.”

Svetlana slides gracefully to the floor and returns his phone. Ilya doesn’t look at her.

“I don’t think you’ve ever known what’s for the best,” she says gently. Her hand pushes through his curls and he leans into the touch. “Ilya.”

He finally meets her eye.

“How long are you going to keep punishing yourself?”

Ilya can’t even begin to respond to that.

The next day at work, Ilya has a cancelation. He’s already there so he figures he’ll stay, take any walk-ins, hope and pray for something cool and not another fucking linework mountain range or cluster of pine trees. Every time he fails to convince someone to get a sick panther instead, he feels his dream slipping further and further away.

At 6pm, a mild victory: a walk-in looking for a sick…sparrow. He’ll take it. Easy money he could earn in his sleep. He’s just about to start the shading when Svetlana hisses, “Ilya. Door,” and he looks up in time to see Shane Hollander peering in the window before abruptly disappearing.

Fuck. Ilya stands without thinking and nearly tips the tray with all his ink.

“Go,” Svetlana whispers in Russian. “Stop being an asshole.”

Ilya shoots her a look but…

“I will be right back,” he says. He sets the machine down, strips off his gloves. “Just—two minutes, okay? And we will finish this.”

The client says, “No problem,” to his back.

Shane is still outside when Ilya gets there, leaning against the wall between the doors. Rubbing his chest. Ilya’s heart sinks.

When Shane sees him approaching, he pushes off the wall and starts quickly toward his store.

“Shane.” Ilya’s voice comes out softer than he means it to, but it works well enough because Shane stops. He seems to exhale before turning around, shrugging then, and it’s such a sad, weary, half-hearted gesture that Ilya can’t help but laugh a little.

“Fuck you,” Shane says. Ilya grabs his wrist before he tries to walk away.

“You were looking for me?”

Shane’s mouth pinches in the corner. The flush on his cheeks is like a beacon.

“I guess I just wanted to see…I don’t know what. I’m sorry. I should go.”

“Shane.”

He stops and turns back again. Fuck. Now Ilya has to say something.

“I am sorry.”

Shane nods. “Don’t worry about it. I’m being stupid. I’ll see you ar—”

“Stop, Shane,” Ilya says, still holding on. “Let me think for two seconds. Blyat.”

“Okay.”

Assured Shane isn’t going to bolt, Ilya lets go of his wrist and the two of them lean against the wall beside one another the same way they did when they first decided to get that drink. Shane looks at the ground, so disheartened Ilya wants to lift his chin and make him stop frowning.

“Okay,” Ilya says. “Okay. I am sorry for not replying to your messages. I was…maybe…”

Shane looks at him. “What?”

Ilya’s going to hate himself later anyway. He might as well say it. “Nervous.”

“Nervous?” Shane balks. “What the fuck?”

“Oh, you are the only one who is allowed?” Ilya throws his hands up. “I was fucking nervous. We woke up like that and maybe…it scared me.”

Shane’s eyebrows couldn’t be higher if he tried. “Woke up like what?”

“Together,” Ilya grits out. “So…close.”

Understanding crosses Shane’s face in the shape of an incredulous snarl. “That’s why you’re being a dick to me now? Because we took a fucking nap and cuddled after you’d literally just been inside me?”

A woman passing on the sidewalk barks a laugh and keeps walking.

Ilya squirms. He wants a fucking cigarette. “I am sorry! Maybe I got a little weird about it because…I have not slept with someone like that in a long time.”

Shane looks like he wants to cuss Ilya out but to his credit, he holds it in. “Ilya…I’m not sure what you’re worried about. You know you started that, right?”

“I did not.”

Now Shane fucking laughs. “Um, yes, you did. I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to wake you up and you grabbed me and pulled me down and held me in a fucking death grip until I fell asleep too. I didn’t, like, trick you into holding me.”

Ilya takes out a cigarette. Shane scoffs but doesn’t comment, fiddling with the rolled up sleeve of his shirt.

“Look,” Shane says, “you told me it was casual and I understand that. You don’t have to worry about it. Okay?”

Ilya takes a drag and says, “Okay.”

“So…I mean…I still want to see you again. And it doesn’t have to be serious—we don’t even have to, like, go out if that’s too much for you. We definitely don’t have to take another bike ride. But if you’re just not interested—”

Ilya cuts him off with an abrupt kiss that backs him to the wall, cupping Shane’s chin with the hand not holding the cigarette.

Shane hesitates only a moment before kissing him back. He wraps his arms around Ilya and leans into it, letting Ilya’s tongue inside, and Ilya wants to pull him into the shop and into his office to fuck him again right now.

But instead there’s a noise behind them: “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

They break apart to find Hayden there with a look of disgust. Shane pushes Ilya away slightly but doesn’t fully let go.

Hayden groans, “Just wanted to check on you, dude, but never fucking—”

“Hayd, just give me a minute, okay? I’ll be right there.”

“Yes, Hayd,” Ilya says, blowing a long exhale of smoke into the air. “Go polish some helmets or something. He is fine.”

Shane rolls his eyes and Hayden storms into the bike shop.

Ilya turns smirking back to Shane. The air between them is a little lighter again.

“So your terrible salesman is also a homophobe.”

Shane pushes Ilya all the way off, straightening his shirt, running a hand through his hair. “He’s actually my best friend and he’s not a homophobe. He just thinks you’re an asshole.”

Ilya laughs. “He is not completely wrong.”

“Trust me, I’m aware.”

They smile at each other. Ilya’s chest floods with relief by how easily Shane is smiling back.

“So,” Shane starts tentatively. “I’ll…see you around?”

Ilya holds in his deep, resigned sigh, resolving instead to rap Shane once on the chest with his knuckles. “No. You will see me later.”

Shane grins. He goes back into his shop with a wave at the door. And Ilya stamps his cigarette out on the sidewalk, ignoring the jolt of panic in the back of his mind.

Chapter End Notes

"I think you will come just like this, sweetheart. So hot, so fucking open for me."

"I’m going to fuck you until you cry. I’ve been thinking about this all fucking week, every day, baby. About your huge cock. I want to cum inside you and fill you up. I want to taste your cum on your stomach. Fuck, I’m so close. Cum for me, baby, I want to see it.”

Chapter Two!! This took me much longer than expected. Real talk: I take my writing extremely seriously and it's hard for me to publish one chapter at a time. In my personal writing, I write scenes/chapters out of order and then go back to connect the dots. I have a detailed outline for this but since I like to find the real story as I go, I'm challenging myself a little bit here :). I'm also normally a literary fiction writer so this is my first time attempting romance. It's been a GREAT learning experience so far and I am having SOOOO much fun. I'm hopeful that by the end of this, I will finally have written a sex scene that's as hot as I want it to be lmao.

Thanks so much to the people who commented on Chapter One. You truly made my day more than you can imagine. There's so much rejection in writing and to have anyone comment that they loved something I wrote means the absolute world to me. I'm off to a solid start with Chapter Three so stay tuned!! Thank you!!!

Chapter 3: Flying

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya get closer--physically, at least--but Shane can't help wanting to know more about the man he's been sleeping with for weeks. They've done a lot more fucking than talking, and while Ilya reveals next to nothing, Shane starts to wonder what it would take to get some answers.

And if this is still a casual ride, why does Shane feel like he's flying?

Chapter Notes

Russian dialogue translations in the end notes :) Please forgive me that I used Google Translate so they're almost certainly inaccurate!

When Ilya appears at Shane’s front door that evening after nothing more than a text exchange of Are you home? and Yes, why?, Shane is momentarily confused and then undoubtedly thrilled. He’d left their conversation on the sidewalk earlier so anxious with anticipation, his hands had been shaking. He’d grinned through all of Hayden’s well-meaning invective and Rose’s congratulatory pats on the back.

“It’s nothing,” Shane had said. “It’s casual.” And then he beamed all afternoon.

“Is this what you want?” Ilya asks now. Shane is pinned underneath him, open and ready, while Ilya kisses his hole with the head of his cock. He pushes in just barely, then pulls out again. “I do not think you want it bad enough yet.”

“Fuck you.”

“Show me.”

Shane can’t stand it. He grips Ilya’s waist and rolls them over, straddling his lap, sinking down onto him so hard, Shane’s eyes well up. He starts to ride and Ilya’s startled, giddy expression is quickly replaced by one of open-mouthed ecstasy. Shane loves this feeling, loves being on top while Ilya digs his fingers into the side of his ass. Shane rides like his legs were built for it—in a weird way, they sort of were. Fuck the Tour de France. All that training led him here. Shane laughs to himself between moans and Ilya stares up from the mattress, mouth open, eyes roving across Shane’s body like he’s memorizing the ripples in his muscles with every movement. Shane watches the way Ilya’s face changes again with a new rhythm and force, the way he switches to Russian and swears when Shane adjusts the angle and starts begging—to no one. Shane’s in control of this. Until Ilya lifts himself off the bed and fucks up into Shane, and the way Ilya’s curvy lips curl and his face flushes and his eyes harden imprints on Shane’s mind like an inscription. It’s a wax seal on a letter that reads: you are the hottest guy I’ve ever fucked in my life. Shane strokes himself and comes first, hard and all over Ilya, who wipes two fingers through it and holds them to Shane’s mouth to suck on until Ilya comes too.

Shane keels over to rest his head on Ilya’s chest for a moment—and then he pulls off, stands up, and goes to the bathroom. His legs shake but he walks it off without complaint. When he returns, Ilya’s still lying there with his eyes shut, breathing deep and steady. Shane gives him one rough, ruthless jab to the ribs.

“Blyat,” Ilya says. His eyes fly open, glaring.

But Shane just smiles. “I think you have to go.”

“Now? Fuck, Shane.”

Shane stares at him incredulously.

Ilya hauls himself to his feet and goes.

A few days later, Ilya is fingering Shane on the counter in his kitchen. They’d texted all day, Ilya teasing, Shane pretending not to be into it, before Shane finally sent: Want to come over for a drink tonight?

When Ilya gets there, Shane leads him into the kitchen and offers him a beer. He pulls one out for himself but doesn’t move to open them.

“No,” Ilya says, taking both beers from Shane and setting them down. He backs Shane up to the cabinets, gripping his waist. “After.”

Ilya has Shane out of his clothes in seconds, up on the counter, opening him up with just one finger until Shane is practically climbing Ilya for more. Ilya grabs Shane’s thighs and lifts, loving the way Shane wraps his legs around Ilya’s waist and lets Ilya carry him to the bedroom. Ilya fucks him from behind until they both come hard enough to forget there was ever any pretense. On his way to the door, Ilya glances back at the beers on the kitchen counter.

A couple of days after that, Ilya finds himself in Shane’s living room. It’s mid-morning on a Sunday and Ilya is bending Shane over the arm of his fancy leather couch, spitting on his hole before sweeping his tongue over it.

“Fuck, Ilya, more, I need—”

Ilya pushes his tongue inside and Shane cries out, pushing back against him, writhing. He tastes clean and warm. And he’s wearing a jock again.

How did they get here? Ilya hadn’t been planning to come over today. They’d been texting a little the night before, like they’d done the past couple of weeks (nothing serious, just flirting, a little bit about their days), when Ilya had gone to Shane’s profile and impulsively checked his tagged photos. He’d expected to see Shane, of course, but not photos of Shane with all these other people.

All these other men.

Okay, most of the other men are Hayden. And there are also quite a few with Hayden’s very hot wife, and with the girl from the bike shop Shane has mentioned before—Rose. But there are photos with other men too, sporadically appearing amidst the more innocuous ones.

A photo of Shane from three months ago on a group ride through downtown. He’s grinning and at ease, helmet on but no sunglasses. He looks like he’s talking to the man on the bike beside him, who’s laughing hard at whatever Shane must have said. What? Is Shane even that funny?

A photo of Shane at a bar with Hayden and his wife, plus Rose looking chipper with a large cocktail and shimmery makeup, and then Shane clustered into the booth with them, pressing himself chummily against Hayden’s side. There’s a half-empty beer beside Shane’s drink, like the owner has only just stepped away. Shane looks good—like he dressed up for the occasion. Which was maybe a date. Is that who took the photo?

There are a dozen others. Shane at a few parties, smiling for the camera, sometimes drinking, sometimes not, but always looking good and surrounded by people who can hardly compare to him. Shane on a bunch of bike rides, or at cycling events, decked out in skintight gear, often sweating and beaming and standing in a line with a bunch of other sweaty, beaming guys. There’s evidence of what looks like a group vacation to Cancun, Shane featured in multiple photos wearing linen button downs, loose pants, and a small, coy smile. Devious. He looks pleased with himself. And in each of these photos: men. All looking right at Shane.

But the worst is a photo from a couple of years ago, undeniable evidence of the ex-boyfriend: Cole.

He’s a good looking guy, though maybe a little ordinary next to Shane. He’s a couple of inches shorter, wiry thin, with dark hair and blue eyes and a single, hideous, asymmetrical dimple to accompany a big white grin. They’re standing with their arms around one another’s waists. Shane’s other hand is resting comfortably on Cole’s chest and Shane looks like a kid at a candy store. Ilya stared at that one for a long time before closing the app and texting: Tomorrow?

He’s thinking about that picture now while eating Shane out. He pushes his tongue inside and fucks him with it, loving the way Shane’s whole body clenches around him, milking his tongue. He’s still thinking about it when Shane is whining, moaning, on the edge for so long without being given what he needs.

Ilya sits up and puts a condom on, then strokes lube down his cock and more onto Shane’s waiting hole. He drags Shane by his hips onto his hands and knees, pulling the jock down to stretch tight around his big thighs. Ilya presses a hand onto the flat of Shane’s back while using the other to guide himself inside. He says things to Shane in Russian:

Baby.

Sweetheart.

Gorgeous.

You take my fucking cock better than anyone.

I could watch you do this forever.

Sunshine.

“What does that mean?” Shane asks afterwards. He’s panting, lying back on the couch with his arms above his head.

Ilya ties off the condom. “What?”

“Any of it. But the last one—Sol-something? What is that?”

“Do not worry about it. Is just—in-the-moment kind of word.”

Shane laughs. “Then tell me. What was it? Sol…?”

Ilya nearly dies, heart throbbing out of his chest. “Solnyshko. Is like saying…my friend.”

Shane looks skeptical. He snorts and says, “Okay,” and it’s so cute, Ilya feels sick. He goes to the bathroom to take a minute but Shane follows, getting into the shower, and what can Ilya do but get in with him? They don’t talk. They wash themselves and get out and dressed and then, at the front door, Ilya kisses Shane goodbye. It must startle Shane a little, because he sort of gasps into Ilya’s mouth before melting into the kiss, a hand coming to rest on Ilya’s chest.

Ilya says, “Bye,” and turns to go before he can stare too long at Shane’s contemplative smile.

On his ride home, Ilya asks himself over and over:

What the fuck are you doing? What the FUCK are you DOING?

He’s been fucking Shane for a few weeks now, and it’s casual, and it’s hot and it’s convenient and Shane likes to fuck exactly the same way Ilya likes to fuck, which isn’t something that’s happened to Ilya ever before with a new person. That kind of alignment is usually the sort of thing that comes with time—time Ilya has only once or twice been able to give someone. Or wanted to give someone. Fuck.

Shane is just so fun to play with. That shy, anxious man is still there, averting his eye, rubbing his chest, the way he does when Ilya first shows up at his door and they stare at each other in weighted silence until Ilya gives in to Shane’s desperation to be told what to do. But then he’s another man in the act—eager and open, willing—and another all together when they’re finished and Shane is almost smug as he’s kicking Ilya out with more haste than seems necessary, really.

So what if Ilya freaked out once? He has to get up before the cum dries because of one teensy little ghosting?

He pulls into his garage irritated for no reason. Svetlana greets him kindly and he replies with a faux cheerfulness she sees right through, but thankfully she lets him go without question. It’s not her job to cheer him up anyway. He gets ready and goes to work. He has clients to focus on, designs to finish.

But at night, alone, Ilya feels consumed. He grips his cock in bed and imagines Shane. He wants to text him now and get an immediate response. Photos, sexting, maybe a video of him doing the same thing. Maybe they could Facetime; Ilya’s never seen Shane jerk off for real, just a few strokes while they fuck to make himself come. Maybe Shane has toys: a prostate massager, a fake cock that sticks to the shower wall. Ilya picks up his phone with his free hand and opens their messages, scrolling back in time to trigger more memories of other recent evenings.

There was a day last week, late, when Ilya had pulled out at the last second, ripped the condom off, and come all over Shane just a few seconds after Shane had come. Shane seemed to like it in the moment, watching with his mouth hanging open as Ilya’s cum mixed with his own all over his chest—even if he did make a funny face after. Ilya smiles remembering it, stroking himself faster.

And now all Ilya can think about is coming in Shane. No condom, no halting moment to readjust things. What kind of face would Shane make then?

Probably the same one: cheeks flushed red and nose briefly scrunched.

But fuck, would Shane let him? It’s been a long time since Ilya’s fucked anyone without a condom. Years. He pushes that thought away. But he hasn’t hooked up with anyone else since he started fucking Shane. He hasn’t even wanted to. Has Shane? Ilya pushes that thought away, too.

As though summoned by horny rumination, Ilya’s phone buzzes. They’ve finally switched from Instagram messenger to real phone numbers. Which is whatever.

Shane: Saw your Instagram story. You’re an asshole.

Ilya laughs. He replies one-handed: You did not like it?

He goes to Instagram and watches his own story as if he were Shane seeing it for the first time: Shane’s bike and Ilya’s beside each other in the alley. The text overlay reads: Supernova made a slow little friend )) So cute ))

Shane: Fuck you. Do we need to race again?

Ilya: Not necessary.

Shane: I thought so.

Ilya: Only because I know my bike is faster. Not because of you.

Shane: Well obviously your MOTORCYCLE is faster.

Ilya: It is good to finally hear you admit it. Wow. I’m hard now.

Shane replies with a photo of his middle finger in front of his face. The photo is dark, like Shane is out somewhere. Not home. Ilya zooms in on his hand, the bits of his face he can see, then back out.

Ilya: I’m serious. Do you want to see?

Shane doesn’t reply to that for a long time. Ilya keeps stroking himself, harder, faster, the anticipation almost as exciting as whatever response he’s going to get.

Shane: Busy. But have fun with that!

Ilya laughs hard. Then he comes in his fist a few seconds later.

Shane stares at the text on his phone screen: Do you want to see?

God. He picks up his drink and takes a long sip. It doesn’t help him calm down. The loud music around him isn’t helping either. He feels wired, like an electric current just ripped through his torso. Do you want to see? What’s he supposed to say to that? He’s out at a bar! They just fucked twelve hours ago! Shane types a couple of things and deletes them.

“Shane, can we have one night with no fucking phone time, please?”

“Sorry,” Shane says. He locks his phone, winces, then unlocks it again. “Just…one second.”

“Weeks of this,” Rose says. She gestures at Shane from across the table, sloshing her margarita.

“What are you even doing?” Hayden leans over to look, dripping salsa from the chip in his hand onto Shane’s leg. Shane isn’t fast enough to hide his screen completely. “Oh, God. I’m leaving.”

“Stop! I’m done.” Shane types his reply and hits send before he can think. Then he screams as loud as possible inside his head and puts his phone away.

Jackie returns to the table, lowering herself gently beside Hayden with her hand on her pregnant stomach. She scrutinizes everyone’s faces. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing, babe,” Hayden says.

Rose laughs. “Shane’s texting his fuck buddy.”

“Ooh,” Jackie coos. “Igor?”

Shane glares at Hayden, who starts laughing so hard, he spills his beer.

“Ilya,” Shane says.

Jackie pinches Hayden’s arm.

“What’s going on with you guys?” she asks. “It’s been like a month, right? Are you dating?”

“No.” Shane looks sideways at Hayden. “But we don’t have to talk about it.”

“Go ahead,” Hayden says. “I’m just giving you a hard time, dude. I’m glad you’re getting your world rocked or whatever. Even if he sucks.”

“Great.”

“So tell me about him,” Jackie says.

Before Shane can respond, Rose cuts in: “Well, first of all, Shane is obsessed with him.”

“I’m not.”

“You are!” Rose says. “I can feel the yearning through the walls. From both of you. You’re making sad puppy eyes out the window and he’s revving his engine in the alley every day like a mating call.”

Jackie and Hayden crack up. Shane laughs too; he can’t help it when it’s true.

“But you’re not dating?” Jackie asks again.

“We went on a date,” Shane says tenuously. “And we took a bike ride, and both were really good. But I think—I don’t know. I think he’s just not a boyfriend kind of guy.” Shane’s tone is more solemn than he means it to be. He eats a chip for something to do and resists the urge to feel his heartbeat.

“Do you want that?” Rose asks, more thoughtful now. “Like—are you falling for him?”

“No,” Shane says way too quickly. “I mean, fuck, I don’t know anything about him. We barely even talk.”

For a long moment, nobody says anything.

Then Hayden says seriously, “You should end it.”

Shane groans. “I don’t want to and I’m not going to.”

“The sex is just way too good?” Jackie guesses. She sighs, hand on her stomach again. “Because I get that.”

“I feel like I should be mad about that,” Hayden says, “but I’m not.”

Shane laughs, even as his ears start to burn. “Anyway. I mean, yes, that part is amazing, and honestly, it just keeps getting better, but it’s more than that. It’s just easy with him. Like, he’s easy to be around, and I feel like we understand each other, and that’s not—you know—the norm for me. And when we do talk, that part’s easy too.”

“But Shane,” Rose says, so cautiously Shane feels his hackles go up, “you are a boyfriend kind of guy. Right?”

“Maybe, but whatever.” Stupid reply and Shane knows it. “It’s fine, guys. So can we talk about something else? Please?”

Jackie is nice enough to steer the conversation back to pregnancy cravings and the kinds of things that have made her cry lately, and that carries them until the drinks are gone.

Shane waits on the sidewalk with his bike while Hayden straps his own onto the rack on the back of his car. Jackie’s waiting in the driver’s seat. Rose takes off on her bike with a salute.

Shane’s looking at his phone—for no reason—when he feels Hayden’s eyes on him.

“Shane, can I just say one thing?”

Shane deserves this. He should’ve kept his phone in his pocket until Jackie and Hayden had pulled out of view.

“Okay.”

“We’ve been friends for a long time. I feel like we understand each other too, right?”

Reluctant but moved nonetheless, Shane says, “Right.”

“Then I just want to say, as somebody who understands you pretty fucking well, that I’m worried you’re setting yourself up for some major heartache here.”

“Hayden, it’s not like that.”

“It’s not?”

Shane clenches his jaw. “No. I promise everything’s cool.”

“Cool. Because you’re super casual.”

“Right.”

Hayden nods for a long time. “So…that means you’d be down to go out with somebody else, then.”

Shane’s heart drops into his stomach. “I mean…if I even met somebody else, yeah. Sure.”

Apparently that was all Hayden needed to hear because he smiles and pulls Shane into a quick hug with a lot of back clapping.

“All right, good to know. Get home safe, okay?”

“Yeah, you too,” Shane says. He takes his time putting his helmet on, adjusting his seat, checking his tires, until Jackie and Hayden finally pull away. And then he checks his phone.

Shane is at work the next day when he gets a text: a screenshot of a medical report dated this morning.

Shane: What’s this? Are you okay?

Ilya: Look closer.

Shane zooms in and realizes it’s an STI panel. All negative. Oh.

Ilya: Just sharing information. Curious if you have similar to share with me.

Shane flushes, debating what he wants to do. He finally goes into his photos and scrolls back—far—before he finds his own screenshot and sends it.

Ilya: From January?

Shane: Yeah. I got tested after the last time I was with someone. But I’ll absolutely go get tested again if you want me to. Not a big deal at all.

No, Ilya replies. I trust you.

That runs warmly through Shane, a steady burn in his chest, but it promptly disappears when Ilya texts: 6 months? No wonder you are so needy.

Shane: All right.

Ilya: Is that normal for you? To go so long?

Shane considers again what to say. He goes with: I’m picky.

Ilya: Wow. So glad I meet your standards. You would rather not get fucked for 6 months than sacrifice.

Shane: I just like what I like.

Ilya: Ah. And what is that?

Shane: I don’t know. I prefer a guy who’s bigger than me for one thing. Shane pauses and then adds: And almost nobody ever is ;)

For a long while there’s no reply and Shane starts to wonder if he’s said the wrong thing. Until he gets a photo from Ilya in the locker room at the gym, phone partially obscuring his face, arm cocked up so his bicep looks bigger than his head.

Ilya: This is what you mean? Or maybe you mean this?

Another photo, this one hidden by the iMessage haze effect. Shane glances around: Hayden is with a customer by the mountain bikes and Rose is swearing at something back in the workshop. A couple of other customers are milling about, checking out grip tape and helmets but not looking Shane’s way. Shane swipes his finger over the blur to reveal Ilya’s stomach and boxer briefs, his hard cock covered by cotton and a hand clutching the bulge through it. Shane puts his phone face down on the counter. He picks it back up and texts: I meant bigger in the first way. And I’m at work.

Ilya: Go to your office.

Shane: No!

Ilya: It will be worth it ))

Shane: I can’t. I’m sorry.

Ilya: Can I send you another photo?

Shane rolls his eyes but can’t help smiling at his phone. He texts: Yes.

The next photo comes a minute later: Ilya standing in front of his bathroom mirror, naked and visible from mid-thigh to mouth, stroking himself. It’s a Live photo; Shane holds his finger down on it and watches a two second clip of Ilya touching himself.

Shane: Fuck.

Ilya: Are you hard right now?

Shane: I’m at WORK.

Ilya: And?

Shane: And if I wasn’t doing everything in my mental power to stop it, I would be.

Ilya: Tell me what you would do if you were here. I am about to get in the shower. All sweaty from the gym. Give me something to think about.

The customers who had been browsing approach the counter, ready to check out, and Shane slips his phone hurriedly into his back pocket. All the while he’s making small talk (“Where do you like to ride? Oh, that’s a great trail. Have you been out to Red Rock Canyon?”), his phone buzzes intermittently against his ass. Shane doesn’t dare take it out again to silence it. He hides his lower half behind the checkout counter and thinks about MIPS. He thinks about lesser known trailheads and group rides coming up that he can recommend to beginners. Somehow he manages to complete the transaction successfully.

When the couple is heading for the exit, Shane whips out his phone and reads the onslaught of texts from Ilya:

Come on.

Shane.

SHANE.

You are not serious.

You are very cruel to me ((

I give you a photo of my cock and you cannot even give me a text (((((

You are bad for this.

Very bad.

You better be busy right now.

And NOT with Hayden.

Fine. Okay.

I was planning to send you a photo after I cum but now I do not think I will.

Shane laughs. His face feels hot enough to steam in the rain. Another text comes right before he can reply: I do not even think I can cum now. I am too hurt.

Shane texts back furiously, smiling to himself: Then don’t.

Ilya: Oh he lives. You are an asshole. Don’t what?

Don’t cum, Shane sends. Just come over tonight.

Ilya: Hmmm I think I am BUSY.

Shane: Please?

Ilya: No. I think you will need to ask me nicer than that after leaving me on read with my dick in my hand. I am barely hard now. Depressed.

Hayden approaches the counter with the customer he’s been helping and Shane blurts that he’ll be back in a minute, then speed-walks to the office.

Behind a closed door, Shane brings his phone close to his mouth and records a voice message in a low, quiet tone: “Hey. Sorry. I’m not great at sexting in general, but especially when I’m at work and trying to give trail recommendations to someone who hasn’t ridden a bike in fifteen years. But I wanted to tell you those pictures were hot, yes I was hard, I still am, I’m hiding in my office right now because I can’t be out there like this, and I’m going to go home tonight and put a plug in and wait for you to come over. I’m not going to jerk off, so if you don’t come over, I’ll just go to sleep. Then I guess we’ll be even but I hope you do come over because I really, really need you to fuck me. Like, please come over and fuck me, Ilya. Please. I need you. That’s it.”

Shane sends the message and lowers his phone to waist-high, gripping his cock through his jeans and taking a photo to mirror Ilya’s. He feels insane doing it but figures Ilya wouldn’t have sent a similar photo if he didn’t think that kind of thing was hot. The urge to touch himself for real pulses in Shane like a hunger pang, eating him up, but he lets go and pushes record again: “But also, if you’re actually busy tonight, no worries.”

After a couple of sobering minutes spent scrolling bike listings on Facebook Marketplace, Shane heads back out to the shop. He can see that Ilya received and kept the message basically the minute Shane sent it, though the day passes slowly without a reply. When Shane leaves work, Ilya’s motorcycle is parked beside Shane’s bike in the alley like always. Shane rubs his hand over the seat like it might still be warm from him hours later.

Shane goes to the gym and lifts heavy until his shoulders burn and his quads shake. He rides home at a leisurely pace, then cooks and eats dinner, showers, preps himself, and lies in bed staring at Ilya’s photos from earlier. That two second frame, over and over. He touches his hole lightly at first, ignoring his cock, even when he’s so hard that precum starts to build at the tip. When he’s relaxed enough he inserts a plug, one of his bigger ones, the one he likes to use before fucking himself with the biggest toy in his small collection. He contemplates sending Ilya a photo, proving to him that he’s kept his word, but he doesn’t. He’ll wait and see.

Once the plug is in, Shane lies there a while longer, adjusting around it, letting himself come back to homeostasis. He checks the time; Ilya’s probably getting ready to leave work about now. He might have even left already. Shane gets up at last and throws on a white tank top and grey sweatpants, planting himself gingerly on the couch and turning on the tv. He flips channels for something low-excitement. There’s a hockey documentary on. Boring. Perfect. An hour later, still no messages. The excitement starts to blur with anxiety:

What if he’s actually busy?

What if he’s mad at me?

What if he’s just not coming and I’m sitting here like an idiot?

Shane puts his phone just out of reach, face up where he can still see it but not constantly check it. The documentary starts to wind down. Shane is admiring Sidney Crosby’s lips for the last time when he falls asleep.

Shane jerks awake to an aggressive knock on his front door. He blinks several times, glancing toward the window. It’s pitch-black outside. His phone says it’s after one in the morning. Still no texts.

Another knock makes him jump. He gets up from the couch, staggers toward the door, and glances through the peep hole.

There’s no conversation when Shane opens the door. Ilya steps inside wordlessly, looking Shane up and down before heading down the hall toward Shane’s bedroom.

Shane follows behind him, yawning. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

Ilya doesn’t answer. He smiles, sort of tauntingly, and pulls Shane toward him by the waistband of his sweatpants. Ilya’s dressed like he's been out: dark jeans, a collared shirt with an interesting pattern, buttons open down his chest. His hands rove all over Shane through his clothing, massaging his ass.

“You look nice,” Shane says, stepping closer before Ilya can move him. He puts his arms around Ilya’s neck. “What were you doing?”

Ilya leans in, tucking his face into the space below Shane’s ear. “I told you I was busy.”

“With who?” Shane doesn’t mean to say it. He meant to say with what but it’s too late now.

Ilya cups Shane’s chin to tilt it up. Shane loves that move. His knees start to weaken immediately. Ilya kisses his throat, turning them around so Shane’s back is to the bed, and then Ilya lowers him onto it. He kneels between Shane’s legs without touching their pelvises together, holding Shane to the mattress with a hand on his sternum. Shane’s hard cock is clear through his sweatpants, Ilya’s more obscured but obviously hard through his jeans. Shane’s hole pulses around the plug. He wants to be touched.

“Did you do it?” Ilya asks. His hand moves from Shane’s sternum to the back of his thigh, pushing his legs further open.

“I told you I would.”

“Still in?”

“Yes. I fell—”

“Take off your clothes. Now.”

Shane sits up and pulls his shirt off, then lifts himself off the bed to take off the sweatpants. He isn’t wearing anything underneath. Ilya watches intently, making no strides to remove his own clothes. Shane settles back into the position they’d been in, squirming a little under Ilya’s intense inspection.

Ilya pushes Shane’s thighs up and further apart, staring at the base of the plug. The attention makes Shane’s cock twitch against his stomach. Ilya notices and smirks. “I did not think you would wait so late for me.”

Shane doesn’t know what to say to that. He fell asleep, sure, but he would’ve waited late. He would’ve waited all night if Ilya had told him to. He’s saved from responding when Ilya drums his fingers on the base of the plug. Shane moans, back arching off the bed.

“Now you want me to fuck you,” Ilya says. “You have been waiting patiently all night.”

“All day.” Shane gasps when Ilya grips the base and gives it the smallest, gentlest tug. Any movement at all when his hole has settled so deeply around the fullness feels incredible. Quick jolts of pleasure ripple through him.

“I think,” Ilya says, drumming harder, making Shane whine, “we are still not even.”

“No?” Shane grits out.

Ilya pulls his hands away completely. Shane’s legs fall to the bed and he lifts his head to look at Ilya.

“No,” Ilya says. “I sent you a photo of me. A good one. And you sent me nothing. You—”

“I was—”

Ilya stands, leaving Shane alone on the bed. “Do not fucking say you were busy, or at work, or talking to whoever it was that was more—”

“Ilya—”

Ilya takes another step back. “Interrupt me again and I will leave.”

Shane’s heart races in his chest. His cock throbs. He stops talking.

Ilya strides all the way to the wall across from Shane’s bed and leans back. He strokes a hand down his own chest and Shane wants nothing more than to replace that hand with his tongue. He wants to crawl on his knees on the floor to Ilya, nuzzle his cock, undo the zipper with his teeth, and swallow him. But he doesn’t move, aside from his heaving chest.

“Touch yourself,” Ilya says.

Shane takes a beat. Then he says, “How?”

Ilya’s eyes light up. Right answer. “I want to see you stroke yourself. How did you get ready for me?” Ilya grips himself through his jeans. “What did you do to your cock before I got here?”

Shane’s breath comes out so hard, it’s like the mattress exhales with him. “I didn’t touch it. I just fingered myself until I could put the plug in. I told you…if you didn’t come over I wasn’t going to do anything.”

Ilya takes his shirt off and tosses it to the floor, crossing his arms over his chest and nodding to himself. The tattoos on his arms change with the movement, catching light and shadow. The trail of dark hair leading from Ilya’s stomach into his waistband is enough for Shane to move his hand to his dick without thinking about it.

“Good,” Ilya says. “Let me see you.”

Shane spreads his legs, one sprawled out and the other up and bent at the knee. He strokes himself slowly, just feeling the roughness of his own hand, the light pressure. He watches Ilya at first, then lets his head fall back onto the pillow. Just knowing Ilya’s looking so intently is enough to make Shane’s stomach flip, over and over. Shane’s never done anything like this before. He’s done some side stuff with guys in the past, lying beside one another in bed, kissing and jerking off together. He’s had video sex. He’s had guys ask to film him (and once or twice seriously considered saying yes). If Ilya took out his phone now and started recording, what would Shane do? The thought makes him stroke faster, thumbing a bead of precum down his shaft. Shane knows he would let him. If Ilya said if he was leaving and that Shane should stop now and not come until Ilya came back, Shane would do it. Even if it was days later. God, who is he? Why does it feel so good to be good this way? For him? On the next downstroke, Shane goes lower, massaging his balls. He lets out a moan and hears Ilya’s deep, quick breath. Shane’s hand drifts further then, but just as he reaches the plug, Ilya speaks: “No.”

Shane breathes, “Why?” but freezes with his fingers hovering over the base.

“Do not touch it.”

Shane lifts his head and opens his eyes. Ilya’s face is so serious, he’s almost angry, but his hand is on the zipper of his jeans. The metallic trill fills the room as he pulls it down, slowly pushing his hand inside.

“What were you thinking about?” Ilya asks. His starts to massage himself, eyes flicking to Shane’s cock and back up. He jerks his chin at him: keep going.

Shane takes himself in hand again and matches Ilya’s slow, methodic pace. “I was thinking…” He trails off. What can he say that won’t sound insane?

Ilya finally pulls his cock all the way out and strokes it toward Shane. Faster. “Tell me.”

“Fuck, Ilya.” Shane can’t decide where to look: Ilya’s eyes or his cock. It’s so late, nearly two in the morning, and his body is tired but on fire with how much he wants this. He wants to be fucked and he wants to come and he wants Ilya to tell him how and when and where.

“Tell me what you were thinking about or we are done,” Ilya says. As if to prove his point, he stops all movement. Shane stops too, with a groan. Then Ilya shakes his head and starts to tuck himself away.

“I was thinking that I would let you do anything to me,” Shane says. He’d been so close, stomach tensing with every wave of pleasure, and stopping now has him aching. “I was thinking…I would do anything you asked me to do. I want you to always tell me what to do. I’d let you take pictures of me. I need you to fuck me.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. Please, Ilya.”

Ilya steps out of his jeans and comes to him, letting his body fall over Shane’s. Their mouths meet wildly as Shane finally feels Ilya’s cock press against him and moans into his mouth, writhing, sending himself back to the edge until Ilya pulls away and puts a hand flat and hard on Shane’s chest. He leans in close.

“Condom?”

Shane knew this was coming. As soon as Ilya sent that screenshot, he’d known.

“No.” Shane forces his hand in between them to touch Ilya’s cock. “Just fuck me. Now.”

Ilya reaches into Shane’s nightstand for lube and sits back between Shane’s thighs. He pushes Shane’s legs up again and makes Shane hold them, makes him spread himself as Ilya swipes lube over his rim. He takes the base of the plug and starts to pull.

“Oh my god, fuck, Ilya, I can’t—”

“Breathe, sweetheart,” Ilya says.

Sweetheart. Shane doesn’t have time to think about it. Slowly, Ilya pulls until the plug is all the way out. The sensation isn’t painful—just a lot. A lot of emptiness. Maybe he should’ve used a slightly smaller one. Shane hides his eyes in the crook of his elbow. He hears the click of the lube bottle and jumps when Ilya’s soft, slick fingers meet the tender rim of his hole.

“Do you need a minute?” Ilya asks.

Shane nods, still hiding his eyes. “But keep touching me like that. I like it.”

Ilya’s fingers explore in gentle circles, dipping just barely inside and back out. His other hand grips Shane’s cock and Shane whines without meaning to.

“Do you still want to—”

“Yes,” Shane says.

Ilya stops, and Shane rips his arm away from his eyes as realization sets in that he interrupted again.

“Bad,” Ilya says. He gives Shane a heavy pat on the stomach. “But I think I can give you a second chance.”

“Really?”

“Mm, yes.” Ilya pushes two fingers all the way in and Shane swears. “But do not test me.”

The lube bottle opens again and Ilya slicks his cock. He lines himself up and pushes inside; Shane is so open, there’s almost no resistance. Instantly Shane is moving, pushing himself against Ilya desperately, and Ilya meets him there, all pretense of composure lost. It feels so good to be full again. Ilya’s bare cock is inside him and Shane can hardly believe it.

“So fucking good, Shane,” Ilya pants.

“More. Harder.”

Ilya goes to his knees in one movement, pulling Shane’s legs up onto his shoulders and bending him in half.

“Is that enough?” Ilya asks. Shane can’t even respond. He feels Ilya’s cock deeper than he thought he could take. Shane’s neck arches back so his head is lost in the pillows while Ilya fucks him, each thrust coming sooner than Shane expects.

When Ilya switches to Russian and starts to lose his rhythm, it hits Shane hard: Ilya’s going to come inside him. He’s going to come so deep in him that Shane is going to feel every ounce of it. Maybe some of it will stay in him after, always. He’ll never forget this feeling.

“Can you come like this?” Ilya asks, barely able to get the words out.

Shane is close but he shakes his head, mouth open, words lost to him. Ilya sits up without losing a thrust, leaning back until the angle’s right and Shane cries out louder than he thinks he ever has.

Because when has it ever felt like this? When has he ever wanted to keep someone’s cum inside him forever?

Shane comes the second Ilya touches his cock, coating the space between them in thick, white bursts. He hears Ilya speaking Russian to him through it and tries to stay grounded enough to pull out any of the words.

“Ty chertovski krasivyy, dorogoy. Sozdana, chtoby prinimat' moy chertov chlen. Sozdana dlya menya. Vot tak, detka, prodolzhay stonat'. Nikogda ne zabyvay: eto moy chlen zastavil tebya tak konchit'. Chert, Shane, ty takaya krasivyy, ya...”

Krasivvy, Shane thinks. Krasivyy krasivyy krasivyy.

And then Ilya comes, pulsing deep and hot into Shane. They stare at each other without speaking; Shane doesn’t have a thing to say anyway. Until Ilya pulls out and gets up from the bed, going straight to his jeans crumpled on the floor. Rather than put them on, he takes his phone from the pocket and returns to his place between Shane’s legs. He’s hard enough still and pushes his cock against Shane’s leaking hole.

“Yes?”

Shane whispers, “Yes,” and Ilya pushes gently back into him. Ilya puts his hand on Shane’s stomach, flexing his fingers to touch as much of him as possible, smearing his hand through the cum there. In his other hand, he holds up his phone.

“You want me to take a picture of you?”

Shane’s stomach rises under Ilya’s hand with his deep inhale.

“This is the picture I want,” Ilya says. He holds the phone up above them, pulling his cock out just a fraction.

“Okay,” Shane says. He must not sound sure enough because Ilya lowers the phone and scans his face.

“Tell me yes or no. It does not matter.”

“Yes,” Shane says.

Ilya raises the phone again and positions Shane’s legs farther apart. He moves his hand out of the way, clutching Shane’s thigh, and Shane stares up at Ilya, not knowing how much of his face or body is in the photo.

Ilya lowers the phone and smiles at what’s on the screen. Shane reaches for it. Rather than look at the photo, he flips back to the camera and points the lens at Ilya. Ilya laughs. Shane takes the same photo from his vantage point, showing his cum-covered body, his half-soft cock on his stomach, and Ilya’s entire body between his legs up to the space just above his mouth. Ilya’s smirking for it. It’s perfect.

Shane and Ilya kiss in the shower. Ilya keeps pushing Shane’s hair out of his eyes, flattening it to a pristine, black finish. Shane touches Ilya everywhere: his chest, his back, his stomach, his ass. His face. Shane smooths both of Ilya’s thick eyebrows with his thumbs and kisses him again. The feeling in his core is like when he won his last race: a steady, pulsing contentedness after miles and miles of flying.

When they’re out and dry, Ilya drops his towel and collects his clothing. It’s after three in the morning.

“You could—” Shane starts. He stops himself. Ilya gives him a look somewhere between patronizing and considering.

But he says, “Not tonight.”

And what does that mean? Not tonight? As in not tonight but some other time, maybe? Shane doesn’t dare ask. Or hope. But his mind whirls all the way to the front door.

“Let me know when you make it home safe,” Shane says.

Ilya rolls his eyes. But just like the last few times, he leans in and kisses Shane goodbye.

Ilya enters his living room to find a few lights left on and Svetlana passed out on the couch. He lifts her gingerly and she presses her face into his chest as he flicks light switches. In the darkness, he carries her to her bedroom and lays her down.

Then he lies down too, far enough that they aren’t touching. He almost doesn’t but the impulse is too abrupt and tempting. It’s not the same as staying with Shane but it’s nice. Familiar. He’ll only stay a minute anyway. Just to pretend.

“What time is it?” Svetlana murmurs.

“Almost four. Go back to sleep.” Ilya moves to get up but she rests a soft hand on his arm and he settles back down.

“So late. Did you have fun?”

Ilya laughs quietly. “Yes. He’s always fun. Very fun.”

“You should’ve just stayed over there instead of driving home so late. Or did he kick you out again?”

Ilya doesn’t say anything. He’d already thought about it the whole ride home. He’s sure Shane was going to ask him to stay, but then he didn’t, because he’d rather Ilya leave now and come back later than ask him to stay and risk him not coming back at all. The realization is enough to make Ilya’s palms sweat.

“We missed you after the bar.” Svetlana nuzzles herself deeper into the pillows. “We ended up at that one club. The girls were asking about you.”

“Good to know,” Ilya says.

Something in his tone must ring oddly because Svetlana lifts her head to peer at him in the dark.

“Ilyusha?”

“What?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he says, turning away from her. “Just very tired. Busy, busy night for me.”

He can’t see her but thinks she must be rolling her eyes. Until she hums and says, “I’m just worried about you. You sound a little sad.”

“Sveta, it’s four in the morning. I worked all day, went out with you guys, then fucked for two hours. I’m tired. Stop worrying about me, I don’t need it.” He sits up then and pets her hair. “Go back to sleep, okay? I’m sorry I woke you up. Maybe next time I’ll just stay there if it means you won’t worry.”

“Mm, yes. That’s why you should stay. Whatever you have to tell yourself.”

Ilya stands. He says goodnight from the doorway and she mutters it back. In his own room, Ilya finally lets himself look at the photos.

The most recent is the one Shane took: his wet, spent body, Ilya’s torso leaning over him, and Ilya’s mouth. Wow. And then the ones Ilya took: the first of his cock in Shane’s hole, their bodies entangled and Shane’s torso streaked with sweat and cum; and the second of Shane’s face. He’d been staring at Ilya so intensely, it almost hurt, and even in the photo, Ilya can feel the depth of those dark brown eyes pulling him closer. Ilya selects the body photo and the one Shane took, then sends them to Shane with the message: home safe. It’ll be a fun surprise for Shane in the morning.

Shane, 7am: Jesus Christ, Ilya.

Shane, 7:05am: What days are you free this week?

Ilya pulls into the alley the next afternoon and receives a terrible surprise: Shane’s bike isn’t there. He parks and frowns, checks  his phone: nothing from Shane saying he wouldn’t be at work. Not that Ilya was planning to see him today but still. All Shane’s constant talk about getting home safe and now he isn’t where he’s supposed to be with no warning. It’s rude.

Before he thinks about what he’s doing, Ilya’s entering the bike shop.

“Welcome in—oh, hi.” Rose looks up from the counter. It’s clear from her expression that she knows everything.

“Hi,” Ilya says. His brain catches up: Is it too late to just leave? What the fuck is he doing? “Rose, right?”

“Mmhm. And you’re Ilya.”

“Yes.” She’s grinning at him like a cat. Great. But Ilya’s here already and he supposes it’s better her than Hayden. “Is Shane here today?”

And now she’s beaming at him. What a nightmare. But finally she jerks her head over her shoulder. “Yeah, he’s in the office. You can go back if you want. I won’t tell Hayden.”

Ilya actually laughs a little at that. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Oh, trust me, it’s my pleasure.”

Ilya walks past her without considering that he should perhaps act like he doesn’t know exactly where the office is, but oh well. The door is ajar and he pushes it open.

Shane looks up from the computer and blinks at him. For several seconds. “What’re you doing back here?”

Ilya scoffs. “Rose let me in.”

“She did?”

“Yes.”

Shane stands and comes around the other side of the desk, leaning back against it. Unconsciously or not, it’s exactly where he leaned the first time they hooked up. Ilya takes a step closer.

“Your bike is not in the alley. I wanted to be sure…”

Shane drops his head and smiles. “Yeah, I drove today.” He lowers his voice, eyes flicking up to Ilya’s. “Too sore to ride.”

Fuck, Shane looks good, even when he’s obviously tired. His skin is glowing, his hair perfectly combed and his clothes wrinkle-free. The only sign of a late night is the barest hint of a dark circle under both eyes.

Ilya nods. “But you are okay?”

“Absolutely.”

“Did you like the pictures?”

Shane tilts his head to glance over Ilya’s shoulder into the hall. Ilya kicks the door closed behind him.

“Ilya…”

“We are just talking. Is fine.”

Shane leans back further, putting his hands on the edge of the desk and crossing his ankles. “Oh, are we talking now?”

Ilya steps forward and puts a hand between Shane’s thighs, forcing them apart before he shoves his own thigh into the space. Shane hums when Ilya lays a soft kiss on his neck. Ilya loves the way all of Shane’s attitude disappears the moment he touches him.

“Wait,” Shane says. “I do want to talk.”

Ilya holds Shane’s ass and presses against him. “About what?”

“I don’t know. Can I…ask you a question?”

“Fine. Whatever.” Ilya’s hard now, which was not part of the plan, or what he came in here for—but then, why else would he come in? What’s the point of being close to Shane if not to kiss Shane and touch Shane and rub his thigh against Shane’s cock?

“What brought you here from Russia?”

Ilya freezes. He doesn’t lift his head from the crook of Shane’s neck. “That is what you want to ask me? Are you running an immigration check?”

“No, I’m sorry, that was stupid.” Shane shakes his head, running his hands up and down Ilya’s back. “I just wanted to ask you a question and that was the first one that popped into my head.”

“It was the wrong one,” Ilya says. He wants to move away but can’t. Shane’s caresses feel too soft and good, like he’s trying to lull him to sleep.

“What about,” Shane says, “which tattoo is your favorite?”

Ilya groans. “Shane.”

“Please?”

Ilya’s deep sigh covers what might otherwise be a shaky breath. But okay. Easy enough. Shane has a question and Ilya can answer it. He lets go of Shane to push up his right sleeve. On the inside of his forearm is what looks like a daisy in a fine line style. It’s different from his other tattoos. Shane runs a finger over it.

“Romashka,” Ilya says. “Chamomile. Is the first tattoo I got in America. Svetlana did it and it is for her but we did it together. She has one too.”

“Matching?” Shane asks.

“Kind of. Different style, but yes.”

“You guys are close,” Shane comments, as though this is new information. Already this question has gotten closer than anticipated to topics Ilya isn’t interested in discussing.

“She is like my sister. We have known each other our whole lives.”

“Oh,” Shane says. “Since you were kids? In Russia?”

“That is what whole lives means, Shane. Yes.” God, Ilya hates this. He hates answering these questions but he loves letting his body settle into Shane’s, even as both of their cocks are softening in their jeans. This is what they could have done last night if he had stayed. Shane might have rubbed his back then like he is now, up and down in smooth strokes, so gentle. Up close like this, in the daylight, without kissing, Ilya can just look at all his freckles.

“I bet you were annoying,” Shane says then. “When you were a kid.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.” Shane squeezes Ilya’s biceps. “A total brat.”

“You are one to talk, solnyshko.” Fuck, that fucking word again. A flicker of recognition passes Shane’s face but he doesn’t comment. Ilya moves to kiss his neck again.

Shane sighs. “I have to get back to work. And you do too.”

“Yes,” Ilya says to Shane’s throat. He has a client who’s probably already waiting for him.

“Can I say one more thing?”

“No.” Ilya sucks the skin where Shane’s neck meets his shoulder. He feels Shane shudder against him, his fingers pressing hard into his back now.

Despite the distraction, somehow Shane gets out: “I don’t want to freak you out so don’t take this the wrong way…but…after last night, I just want you to know I’m not planning to hook up with anyone else while we’re doing this. I want to keep doing things the way we are. No condoms. And you can come over whenever you want. Okay?”

Ilya isn’t moving anymore. He can’t.

“And, I mean,” Shane goes on, “obviously you can do whatever you want. I understand if you still…whatever. But my point is that I’m not going to, and if you do sleep with someone else…I guess just tell me so that I know and we can just use condoms again. But that’s what I want. Is that okay?”

It takes every ounce of strength Ilya has to pull his head back and look Shane in the eye. What he sees there is earnestness, and anxiety, and (more than anything) wanting. All Shane wants is for Ilya to say yes, that he’ll fuck him raw, all the time, come over whenever, keep a good thing going and let it get better. Shane’s words from last night echo: I would let you do anything to me. I would do anything you asked me to do.

“Please don’t freak out,” Shane says. He laughs a little. It’s riddled with underlying regret.

Would it be so wrong to just say yes? Ilya hasn’t even looked at someone else in weeks. He hasn’t thought of anyone else, hasn’t missed fucking other people. It doesn’t have to be more serious than it is. It isn’t, and Shane knows that. It’s still casual. But maybe this could mean there’s no unspoken nervousness undermining them. Who is Shane Hollander without whatever fear he’s still holding in between his body and Ilya’s?

Ilya kisses him softly on the mouth. Shane’s tongue slides in to touch Ilya’s and his hands come to rest on the small of Ilya’s back.

“Okay,” Ilya says.

“Yeah?”

Ilya nods. “Yes.”

Chapter End Notes

Russian dialogue translation: "You are so fucking beautiful, sweetheart. Made for taking my fucking cock. Made for me. That's right, baby, keep crying. Don't ever forget it was my cock that made you cum like this. Fuck, Shane, you're so beautiful, I..."

Chapter Three! First of all, THANK YOU for all the sweet, incredible comments on Chapter Two. I've spent the last month in an intensive graduate certificate program that had me driving 3 hours round trip every day for 7 hours of lectures, and then my evenings and weekends were pretty much just homework and catching up on sleep. Your comments gave me LIFE. Thank you so much! And the good news is I'm back to being plain old unemployed with plenty of time to write and get on a more regular publication schedule :)

One small note: I made an edit to the previous chapter just to have Shane mention Hayden is also the co-owner of the bike shop, not strictly his employee. I felt like it made more sense that way and I wanted Shane and Hayden to be on more equal footing in their friendship. Just an fyi for those who started this before I made the change!

Another small note: I added the 'light angst' and 'angst and romance' tags. Truthfully it didn't even occur to me that this was at all an 'angsty' fic until a couple of comments mentioned it! I've only just gotten into fanfiction within the last few months so if I'm doing anything dumb, please bear with me lol. I'm learning!

Thanks again for reading. It means the world to me <3

Chapter 4: Forcing the Pace

Chapter Summary

Time passes quickly as Ilya and Shane enjoy their new arrangement: kind of, maybe, not actively trying to sleep with other people. But as their feelings become too big to hide behind Russian words and hasty cleanups, Shane finds himself torn between what they’re doing and what he wants. While Shane makes moves to force the pace, Ilya has to reckon with reality. Whether he wanted to or not, he’s been following Shane’s wheel.

Chapter Notes

Russian dialogue translations in the end notes :) Please forgive me that I used Google Translate so they're certainly inaccurate!

August comes on fast and starts to slip away before Shane can blink, the front range barreling toward the end of summer. The days are dry and hot still but the nights finally cool down, and Shane sleeps with the windows open instead of running the AC. He listens to the crickets in his side yard, the skittering of wildlife right outside his walls. When Ilya leaves late, Shane can hear the motorcycle traveling for what he thinks must be almost a mile. Sometimes it seems like he hears it until he falls asleep.

Downtown Spokes is busy, and Shane finds himself stuck in the workshop more often than he’d like, scrambling to meet repair demands as people clamor to get out on the trails and roads while the season’s good. Shane also finds himself at work later and later each night, which is fine. He doesn’t have much else to do anyway, besides take his own rides when he can and wait for Ilya to finish up next door.

Not that Shane is waiting for him every day, even if, for the last month, since he and Ilya reached their agreement to kind of only sleep with each other, it’s been that way for most of them. Just last night Ilya came by after work and fucked Shane against his bedroom wall, holding all two-hundred pounds of him up, until Shane came hard enough to hit the underside of Ilya’s chin.

But before that, Shane had offered him something to eat.

“Ah, Mr. Manners is still in there,” Ilya said, placing his shoes on the mat, hanging his jacket on the hook by the door. “I missed him. You are not as polite when you are—”

“All right.” Shane rolled his eyes. “I just thought maybe you’d be hungry since you came straight from work. We could sit on the deck if you want. It’s nice out.”

There must have been something in his tone because Ilya looked at him curiously, contemplating, before finally saying quietly, “Not tonight.”

Not tonight. Another one of those. They hadn’t talked about Ilya staying over since that one near-mention and subsequent not tonight. Hearing it for the second time, Shane didn’t know what to do, so he just stood in his entry way with his hands in his pockets until Ilya finally came to him and kissed him. At least he knew how to respond to that.

Shane’s stomach flips thinking of it all now, how quickly he’d been dragged out of his own head by Ilya’s mouth. He’d been in a bad mood after an altercation with a driver on his ride home from work. He’d wanted to complain to someone about it and gotten home to…no one. He texted Hayden but he was busy with Jackie, and then he called his mom to check in with her, but she didn’t really get it and suggested he just drive his car if the roads were so unsafe. He’d thought about texting some other buddies from the cycling scene, or Rose, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. What was the point? None of them was who he actually wanted to talk to. And then Ilya had texted him: Lonely?

The tool in Shane’s hand clatters to the floor for the third time that afternoon.

“You okay?” Rose asks.

“Yeah,” Shane says, bending down to retrieve it. “Sorry, just distracted.”

“Good or bad?”

When Shane doesn’t answer her, she smiles sympathetically.

Hayden comes back into the workshop. It’s a little after closing time. “Door’s locked. Either of you trying to hit a quick lap tonight?”

Rose lets go of the tire she’s been wrestling with. “I’m so in. I’m about to rip this thing in half if I don’t get out of here.”

“You have to finesse it,” Hayden says. “Stop attacking it with brute strength.”

Rose deadpans, turning away from him to collect her things.

“Buddy?” Hayden says.

Shane shakes his head without looking away from the project in front of him. “No, you guys go. I promised this guy he could pick up tomorrow.”

Hayden scoffs.

“Go,” Shane says. “I’m tired anyway. Just want to fix this and go home.”

“Uh huh,” Hayden says. “Home alone?”

Shane glances up. “What?”

“You going home alone tonight? For some good, solid rest?”

“I mean, probably?”

“Fine,” Hayden says. “But don’t forget we’re going out tomorrow night. No excuses. It’s probably Jackie’s last big night out before she pops.”

“I’ll be there,” Shane says.

“You fucking better be, dude. And, you know…” He stalls out, which is odd enough for Hayden that Shane rests his tools completely. “You could bring what’s-his-name along. If you wanted to.”

Shane almost laughs. Ilya won’t even have a meal with him; the chances of him coming out to a birthday party for his best friend’s pregnant wife seem slim. But he smiles and says, “Thanks, man. See you guys tomorrow.”

Shane finally finishes the repair around 8. He puts all the tools away, tidies up the workshop with greater attention to the corners than anyone else ever pays, then does what he always does before he heads home these days: checks his phone. Nothing new, just the same back and forth series of Home?, Yes, Tonight?, Yes, Tomorrow? Yes.

Lonely?

Shane goes out the alley door and locks it behind him, but he doesn’t put his helmet on. He checks the time again: almost 8:30. He puts his keys in his bag and hangs his helmet off his handlebars, venturing down the alley and out onto the street. It’s a beautiful night, the sun having only just set and not quite complete in its full descent. He looks out west at the mountains, which in the evening lose their detail and turn opaque, a dozen jagged, navy peaks overlapping one another. His steps carry him down the sidewalk until he’s standing in front of Love is Evil and stepping through the open door.

Svetlana sees him first. She glances up from her stool and grins, leaping to her feet.

“Hello, Shane.”

“Hey.”

“Just closing up?” Svetlana comes toward the front, close enough to talk but far enough that it draws Shane further inside. “It’s late for you.”

“Yeah,” Shane says. “We’ve been busy. A lot of repairs.”

“Ah. Worse problems to have.”

“Right.”

“Mm.” Svetlana looks over her shoulder. “Ilya is in the back,” she offers, “finishing with a client. Unless that is not why you’re here?”

“No, it’s...” Shane doesn’t know what to say. Ilya’s busy. They don’t have plans. God, why did he come over here like this again? Svetlana’s watching him, waiting for him to say something. He starts to say he should head home when another man—not Ilya—comes in from the back area and walks up smiling.

“Shane, right?” he says. “Zane.”

Shane offers his hand and Zane looks at it skeptically before taking it and giving it a firm shake, which Shane appreciates. He’s handsome, Black, very tall, and very pierced. Shane’s eyes track all over his face, from his nose rings to the bar in his eyebrow, the studs in his lips and the flash of silver in his tongue when he speaks again: “You look like you need something.”

“Oh, I don’t—” Shane looks around at the walls. It’s not the kind of art he’d ever put in his house but there is a certain appeal. All those bold lines and bright colors, some classic tattoo designs even he’s seen before, and some things seemingly so abstract Shane can’t begin to guess what they are, let alone if they mean anything. But if he’s learned one thing from Ilya, it’s that most tattoos are just art, and the ones that are more than that are usually private.

“I don’t know, Shane,” Svetlana says. “You come in here again, you look around. Maybe there is something here you need, eh?”

Shane laughs, but it’s more of a surprised exhale.

Zane runs his eyes down Shane’s torso in a way that makes him warm. “Right, you definitely need something. I’m thinking…”

Whatever Zane’s thinking gets lost on its way to Shane as Ilya comes out of some back area, talking in a low voice to a woman buttoning her shirt over her chest. “I am telling you no swimming and no sun. You do not pay me all this money just to ruin my work, do you? Stay pale. Please.”

She laughs, following him to his station. Ilya’s gaze flicks to Shane then and Shane shoves his hands into his pockets in an attempt to look at ease. Then Ilya winks at him, and just like that, Shane’s shoulders come down.

He watches Ilya take the woman’s money, exchange a few more words about aftercare, before she brushes past with a wave back into the shop. Ilya approaches, shoving a wad of bills into his pocket. He flexes his fingers.

“Somebody lock the door. I am finished. Done.” Ilya raises an eyebrow at Shane. “Unless?”

“No.”

Ilya scoffs.

“Do you not have any work at all?” Zane asks. He glances sideways at Ilya. “I’m surprised.”

Ilya sighs. “Shane has nothing. He is very plain under all his collared shirts. Boring.”

Shane wants to argue but Ilya slips an arm around his waist and he melts instead. It’s embarrassing, actually, how quickly he feels his body bend toward Ilya’s. Without meaning to, he makes eye contact with Svetlana, and he can see the wheels turning in her head as she makes some odd assessment about him.

“You know, I’ve got some time right now,” Zane says. “Nipple?”

Shane’s eyes widen. “What?”

“Let’s pierce it. Come on, just one. You won’t even feel it.”

“The pain is not bad, Shane,” Svetlana says. Smirking.

Shane tries to laugh it off but his neck gets hot—even hotter when Ilya brings a hand up and squeezes the back of it. Shane shakes his head. “No thanks.”

“Would look good on you,” Ilya offers. He squeezes Shane’s neck again. Is this a challenge? Or a request? Did Ilya mean it when he said Shane was boring? “You can always take it out if you do not like it.”

Of his own accord, Zane starts prepping equipment, pulling out wipes and little plastic packages, scanning for appropriate jewelry in a case near his station. “Straight silver bar, nothing fancy. You can do something more ornate later. Here, take your shirt off so I can check your anatomy.”

Shane can’t get any words out. He feels cornered, maybe a little peer pressured, but more than anything he feels lost. He doesn’t know what the right answer is here with Ilya. If he doesn’t do it, what does that say about him? He knows he’s not the most spontaneous person…but boring? Is he really boring?

He stares at the unopened needle Zane holds up and feels an actual bead of sweat run down his side.

What if he did do it? Could he swallow the lump of fear in his throat and just fucking do it? He could always take it out. Maybe he’d even like it. Yes! Maybe he’d like something he’s never been drawn to before, or wanted, or even thought about! Would it make him more attractive? Would it make him easier to be around?

Shane starts rubbing his chest. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it until Ilya drapes his arm around Shane’s neck and lets his hand crawl down from Shane’s shoulder to pat his hand. It’s not a hold—just a gentle tap—but Shane feels it. Svetlana won’t stop staring.

“His anatomy is fine,” Ilya says then. He brings his other hand over to rub Shane’s stomach too, and Shane feels enveloped completely, like Ilya’s tucked him in. “But he is good. Do not mess with perfection, yes? Now, come with me, kotyonok.” He drops his arm and guides Shane away by his lower back. “I want to show you something.”

Shane goes willingly, glancing over his shoulder to say something to Zane and Svetlana, only to see them exchange a knowing look and walk together toward the front door. Shane hears it close just as he enters the private room at the back of the shop.

It looks just like the stations out front—plastered with designs, a couple of stools, an adjustable table for clients to lie on—but with walls around it and a black curtain in the doorway. Ilya doesn’t bother pulling it closed.

“Do you work back here sometimes?” Shane asks.

Ilya picks up a spray bottle and starts wiping down the table. “Yes, is for privacy. Some clients do not want to be undressed in the middle of the shop, others do not mind. Some maybe even like it. Are you okay?”

Shane startles. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya says. He sets the supplies down and steps closer. “You seemed nervous out there. They were only teasing you.”

“I’m fine.” Shane’s heart is racing. “Honestly, I almost did it.”

“Mm, no, you did not.”

“Fuck you,” Shane laughs. “I was thinking about it.”

Ilya raises both eyebrows, cocking his head. “No. You looked like a small kitten scared for your life.”

“I wasn’t scared.”

“Oh, somebody help, please,” Ilya says. “They ask me to take my shirt off. They are trying to make me cool. Ilya, please—”

Ilya stops laughing when Shane backs him to the wall, hard enough to rattle the artwork hanging above them. He straddles one of Ilya’s thighs, holding him hard by the waist.

Ilya smirks. “So tough.”

“No, I just—” Just what? Couldn’t wait anymore? Shane drops his forehead onto Ilya’s shoulder. “Do you really think I’m boring?”

Ilya exhales sharply through his nose. He nuzzles his face into the side of Shane’s, then kisses his ear. In a hot breath he says, “Yes.”

Shane’s hold slackens. “Whatever.”

Ilya laughs, feeding his hand up through Shane’s hair and kissing him. Shane’s body softens against Ilya’s when their stomachs meet, the muscles melding like clasped hands as they inhale and exhale on one another’s off beat. Shane doesn’t think he’s ever been with someone as fit for his body as Ilya. Ilya’s thigh is the perfect shape between Shane’s legs, his hands are just right to palm the back of Shane’s head. Shane loves his rounded chest and the hair that spans it, light brown and curly. He pushes his hand up the front of Ilya’s shirt to touch him. Ilya breathes into his mouth and starts to guide him slowly toward the table.

“I have an idea,” Ilya says.

Shane smiles, taking small steps backwards. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yes. I have been thinking about sucking your cock.”

“Really?”

“Mm.” Ilya pushes Shane until he hits the table, but when Shane starts to lean against it, Ilya says, “No. You stay here. Standing.”

Ilya turns them around so they switch positions. Shane moves over an inch, expecting Ilya to go to his knees, but he looks at Shane’s belt and then adjusts the height of the table before lying supine on it with his head hanging slightly off the end.

Upside down, Ilya takes his shirt off and jerks his chin toward Shane. “Come here.”

Ilya waits for Shane to come to him. Shane looks lost in the moment but intrigued, his eyes raking all along Ilya’s splayed body. Ilya runs his hand down his chest to his belt. “Take out your cock.”

Shane goes to the head of the table and unzips his jeans, pulling his briefs down just enough to take himself out. He’s not fully hard yet but getting there, and fuck, he’s bigger almost than Ilya remembers, now that he’s faced with the reality of his own plans come to fruition. He takes Shane’s cock in his hand and strokes it once, tilting it toward his mouth.

Shane looks like he can’t believe what’s happening. He touches Ilya’s face and swipes his thumb across his bottom lip.

“Start slow,” Ilya says.

Shane nods, standing still as Ilya adjusts his position. He lets his neck relax over the edge, lets his shoulders settle, props up one of his knees, before kissing the head of Shane’s cock with an open mouth. Shane breathes out hard as Ilya kisses Shane’s cock like it may kiss him back, until Ilya feels the final swell of blood bringing Shane fully hard.

“So fucking big, Shane.” Ilya kisses along the underside of his shaft, measuring. “I want to see how deep you can get.”

Shane says quietly, “I want that too.”

“Good.”

Ilya opens his mouth and takes Shane in as far as he can at this angle, not all the way yet but deeper than he’s ever been able to take him before.

“Holy shit, Ilya. That’s—oh my god.”

Shane puts a hand on Ilya’s chest, and Ilya brings a hand up to cover Shane’s. He loves the way Shane touches his chest like he needs it to ground himself. When Shane caresses Ilya’s jaw with his free hand, Ilya reaches around to grip Shane’s ass, pulling him in slowly, gently, until he feels Shane’s thighs brush his forehead.

“How will you tell me if it’s too much?”

Ilya flicks him hard on the stomach with his middle finger, making Shane flinch. But he nods.

Shane pulls his shirt over his head, then hesitates a brief second before quickly folding it and setting it down on the tray beside the table. Ilya smiles around him—he can’t help it—then tugs at Shane’s pants until Shane pulls them down enough to remove any barriers. Shane gasps when Ilya cups his balls, rolling them through his fingers.

“Can I move?” Shane’s voice is already breaking. Ilya gets harder in his jeans just hearing it.

Ilya nods, breathing steadily through his nose, willing his throat to open, and it goes without saying that Shane needs to be gentle here, but fuck, Ilya wanted this. He thought about doing it from their first hookup, how to make it happen, and now that it is, it’s better than he imagined. Shane’s moans are needy and tortured; he’s in the position with all the power but so clearly following Ilya’s every move. Ilya’s throat tightens and then relaxes as Shane’s cock comes tepidly into contact with it. It retreats and returns, pushing a little farther each time, until Ilya’s breath is coming in loud, hungry bursts and Shane’s cock is moving in and out of his throat without much resistance. Ilya wonders if Shane can see the bulge. He touches his throat right beneath his chin and he can feel it. He pulls Shane’s hand from his jaw and wraps it there beneath his.

“You’re so amazing,” Shane says, eyes fluttering closed. “I can’t even believe you’re real.”

I am, Ilya thinks. So is this. Shane is beautiful above him, his skin glowing in the soft light and his body flexing with every movement. His chest heaves and Ilya tries to imagine his nipple with a silver bar through it and decides no, Shane doesn’t need it. It would’ve been fun, maybe. Ilya would’ve liked playing with it, tonguing it until Shane was begging him to stop, but he could probably do that anyway, even without the piercing, without Shane doing something that just wouldn’t be him. Ilya pulls Shane in again all the way and Shane shakes. He looks down at Ilya and massages his throat, no doubt feeling his cock inside it. Ilya palms himself roughly through his jeans.

“Fuck yes,” Shane says, following Ilya’s hand. “Let me watch you.” Ilya opens his own zipper, taking out his cock and stroking himself in rhythm with Shane’s thrusts, a little faster now, more desperate. He’s getting whiny. And chatty.

“You’re so fucking hot like this, Ilya. I can’t even believe—god, I want you. Fuck. Don’t—” He stutters over it, pulling out enough that Ilya can taste the precum Shane drags across his tongue. “Don’t come. I want to do it. Please.”

Ilya slackens his hold on himself. Judging by Shane’s breathing, and the death grip he has on Ilya’s chest again, it won’t be too much longer anyway. Ilya wonders how deep Shane will be in his throat when he comes. Will Ilya feel it? Will it hurt? Will Shane be so deep, Ilya won’t even be able to taste it? His jaw is stiff but this feeling is worth it, being able to take Shane as deeply as Shane’s taken Ilya into his body every single time they’ve hooked up. Shane opens for him so generously, like he needs it, and now Ilya can finally give him that feeling in return.

“Holy shit, I’m close.”

Ilya hums, rolling Shane’s balls in his hand, letting Shane reach into him with his cock and touch him somewhere no one else ever has.

“Ilya, fuck, I’m coming, oh my god.”

It doesn’t hurt but it is a lot. For the smallest fraction of a second, Ilya considers tapping out. But he wants this. He can’t taste anything as he feels the initial pulses going down his throat, but then Shane pulls out some and the rest of it lands in Ilya’s mouth. Ilya swallows through it. He focuses on his breathing, determined not to choke, and puts his hand over Shane’s again to hold until he’s finished. When Shane’s cock is still and resting on Ilya’s tongue, Ilya strokes his thumb over Shane’s trembling knuckles.

And then Shane pulls out and drops to his knees. He kisses Ilya from that angle, all over his face, his eyelids, his nose, then his mouth, and their lips meeting in this new way is an anomaly to Ilya. They’ve shared innumerable kisses by this point and somehow it’s like he’s meeting Shane’s bottom lip for the first time, sucking on it and running his tongue along its wet ridges. Shane falls back onto his heels, resting his forehead against Ilya’s.

“Good?” Ilya asks. His voice is slightly hoarse. Shane doesn’t speak but nods, seemingly needing to catch his breath just as much as Ilya needs to. After a minute, Ilya says, “Tell me when you are ready for me.”

Shane lifts his head immediately. Ilya finally sits upright. He has to close his eyes while his equilibrium readjusts to the new position, but he rubs his jaw into place and rolls his head in a circle, loosening his neck and shoulders.

“Are you okay?” Shane asks.

Ilya gets up; he’s shakier than he expected to be. But he stands in front of Shane and brushes his hair with his fingers, tilting his head back. His hair is so soft, and the way Shane’s eyes drift closed happily as he leans into the touch makes Ilya want to forget this and pull him to his feet. He wants to take Shane home and keep playing with him all night, eat him out, tease him, make him come again before he ever lets Shane touch his cock. Make him work for it. But Shane is leaning forward already, lips parted, and Ilya decides he’d rather let him have what he wants.

Shane does all the work. He strokes Ilya’s cock as he sucks, letting his lips and hand meet to form a dense tunnel of pleasure. Meanwhile, Ilya plays with Shane’s hair. He touches his face, runs his thumb up the bridge of Shane’s nose. Shane looks up when Ilya’s index finger lingers too long on the freckles across his cheekbones. Whatever he sees in Ilya’s expression makes him go faster, take him deeper.

“Tak krasivo,” Ilya says. “Tak ideal'no.”

Shane sighs, so undoubtedly pleased with the tone of the comment. Does he know that he’s perfect? Does he have any idea how good he feels? How he looks? Ilya should take another photo of him, and this time let Shane see his own face. But as Ilya reaches into his back pocket for his phone, he realizes it’s too late. He starts to pull out—Shane doesn’t always like to swallow—but Shane stops him.

“You want it, sweetheart?” Ilya says through clenched teeth. He pulls Shane’s hair in his fist. “Fucking take it.”

As he’s coming in Shane’s mouth, Ilya remembers being on the other side just a few minutes before. He can still taste it now, can feel Shane’s cum inside him as his own enters Shane to replace what he took. Good. They’ll be inside each other this way for who knows how long now.

These are crazy thoughts. Ilya feels crazy. He yanks Shane to his feet and holds him up to kiss him, and tasting his cum in Shane’s mouth is better than fucking him. This is crazy. Shane is collapsing in his arms and this is crazy and Ilya is kissing him and saying, “You are so good, Shane. Fuck, you are good. So beautiful, so perfect. I want to fuck you like this every day, sweetheart, give you exactly what you want, let you take it whenever you need it and make sure you have my cum in you every fucking day so you never miss me. Tell me you need it. Tell me you want me like I want you. Fuck, I wish I could have you. More than anything.”

Shane murmurs into Ilya’s mouth: “What?”

Ilya had said it all in Russian.

He doesn’t answer, rubbing Shane’s back until both of them are sane enough to clean up.

In the alley, Shane lingers beside his bike, silently fiddling with the seat post, but Ilya can’t stay any longer. He can’t talk more because who knows what craziness might come out of his mouth?

Ilya says, “Goodnight,” and puts his helmet on.

Shane’s mouth pinches. He gives Ilya one of those small, almost self-deprecating smiles. “Goodnight. Get home safe.”

Only when it’s too late, when Ilya is halfway home and Shane is at least couple of miles behind him, does Ilya realize Shane was probably waiting for a kiss goodbye.

By the time he gets home, Ilya has pushed it all out of his mind. He was in the moment. Shane didn’t understand so it doesn’t matter anyway and no harm was done. All fine. It’s a little after ten and he hasn’t had a cigarette in hours so he heads straight out to the patio, taking a seat in one of the lounge chairs and leaning back to relax his neck on the cushion. He’s sore but he likes it. There’s an ache in his throat like he’s fighting off a cold, and each time he swallows, he remembers that it’s not a sickness. He takes out a cigarette and lights it, enjoying the burn in his throat more than he should.

The back door opens with a creak and Svetlana settles into the chair beside him. “I thought you were quitting?”

“No. But Shane complains so I’m trying not to do it as much.”

“Ah.” She reaches out and Ilya passes her the carton and lighter. They haven’t spent as much time together lately, other than an appointment with Ilya’s immigration attorney last week, which Svetlana came to for moral support more than anything. He was making sure he had everything he needed to apply soon for naturalization. So far it was looking good, and then everything else would go to plan.

“Did you have fun showing Shane the private room, Ilyusha?”

Ilya smirks. “Yes.” He rubs his throat without thinking. “Still couldn’t convince him to get that piercing, though.”

“I don’t think you really wanted him to get it.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything. But he smiles at her wanly before letting his attention wander back to the dark yard. Heat lightning flickers in the distance, briefly rupturing the sky with its teal and purple haze.

“You looked cozy together today,” Svetlana comments. Her gaze penetrates his profile. “Comfortable.”

“Comfortable. Seems right after weeks of fucking.”

“Mm. Months, I thought?”

“What?”

Svetlana scoffs. “It’s nearly September. You started sleeping with him in June.”

“I guess so. Months, then. Whatever.”

An emergency helicopter soars west not too far above the neighborhood, probably to rescue someone who climbed too high and can’t get down. Happens all the time. Ilya and Svetlana both look toward the noise, waiting for it to pass.

“It’s nice,” Svetlana begins, so tentative Ilya starts preparing his defenses before she can even complete her sentence, “how much he likes you. Very sweet.”

“He doesn’t like me,” Ilya says. He slouches into his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Not seriously.”

“Ilya. You know he likes you. And you know you like him. Why deny it?”

Ilya swears to himself, waving her away, and takes another drag. The burn is hurting now, stinging more than before.

“I’m just glad it’s going well,” Svetlana says. “He’s nice. I like him more every time I meet him.”

Ilya doesn’t say me too. Instead he says plainly, “It’s been good. Better even, since—” He cuts himself off.

“Oooh, since what?” Svetlana’s tone is light and teasing, which feels so welcome, Ilya smirks around his cigarette. He can’t remember the last time they joked around at home.

“No,” he says seriously. “Shane is very private. If he were here, he’d put his fingers in my mouth just to—”

“Stop,” she says. “Please. You know you want to tell me or you wouldn’t have even started.” She reaches over with a foot to kick his shin.

“Fine, but it’s nothing,” Ilya says. Why is his face getting warm? “It’s stupid. A few weeks ago, he told me that he isn’t fucking anyone else, and it’s been very good since then.”

Svetlana sits up. “So you’re basically exclusive. You and Shane.”

“No, not exclusive. Just…not going out of our way to fuck other people, maybe. But I can fuck other people. He just asked me to tell him if I do. No big deal.”

She frowns at him. “You’re not really going to do that, are you?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Svetlana opens her mouth with a disbelieving huff, but then she shuts it again. She stares at Ilya for a few moments before bringing her cigarette to her lips. “Never mind. Sounds like you have it all figured out.”

“Yes. I do.”

Svetlana blows a puff of smoke straight up. “You know, you should invite him over here sometime. It doesn’t always have to be his place.”

“Mm, and why would I bring him here when his house is empty?”

“Because this is your home,” Svetlana says, “and I’m sure he’d like to see it. Also, because I miss you.”

“You see me every day.”

“At work,” she says. “That barely counts. I feel like…like I don’t even know what’s going on with you these days."

Ilya doesn’t have anything to say to that. There isn’t anything going on with him—he works, he fucks, he rides home after midnight and crashes hard before he does it all again the next day. For weeks, he hasn’t seen any other people, really, outside of his coworkers and his clients. And Shane. It’s hard to want to do anything else when being with Shane is so easy. Ilya knows Shane better now after three months, and the way they communicate so simply, and always seem to leave each other happier than they’d been before meeting up, is one of those magical side effects of deeply good sex that makes Ilya forget he has problems and concerns. He doesn’t think about the past when he’s with Shane. He’s not worried about Svetlana, or his future, or anything other than what he can do to make Shane come harder the next time he gets to touch him. In three months, Ilya’s learned that Shane likes to be pushed past his limit, just a little. That minute just after Shane comes, when Ilya still hasn’t, when Ilya fucks him harder until Shane’s crumbling beneath him, clutching the bedspread, losing the strength in his legs that in any other situation could outrun, out-lift, out-pedal most other men, Shane never says wait, I can’t, and instead does everything in his power to take what Ilya’s giving him—that’s Ilya’s favorite part. And after three months, he knows it’s Shane’s favorite part, too.

He shouldn’t be thinking of this now. Svetlana is here, Shane is not. And, after what Ilya said in the back room today, he considers that maybe it’s not good for him to be spending so much time with Shane and no one else. Not if it’s making him crazy and making Svetlana miss him.

“We should go out tomorrow night,” Ilya says.

Svetlana opens her eyes; she’d closed them while Ilya had been quiet. “Who?”

“You and me, maybe Zane and Luca and whoever else. Let’s all go out somewhere.”

“Oh, so you can leave early again when Shane texts you?”

“Fuck, Sveta, make up your mind,” Ilya snaps. There’s just a sliver of real anger behind it.

“Psh,” she says. “So sensitive. You’re only mad because you know I’m right.”

She stubs her cigarette out in the ashtray and stands. She looms over him briefly, shaking her head, then leans down and gives him a kiss on the cheek. It’s nice to be close to her; Ilya hadn’t realized that maybe he’d been missing her too.

It’s early enough that the bar is mostly full of people just like them: thirty-somethings who will have two drinks and leave by nine to get a good night’s rest. But after wine with dinner, which Jackie insisted they all have (“Plus an extra one in my honor! And one for the baby!”), Shane is actually feeling pretty good by the time they get their drinks at the second bar. He’s wearing khaki pants, a black belt, and a black button-down loosely tucked in, with one more button undone than he would normally do. Jackie did that to him at dinner. He has dark stubble on his lip that he’d decided that morning to leave, just to do something different, and he likes the way his hair is laying, too. He knows he looks good. It’s sad he won’t be seeing Ilya.

He’s only checked his phone once since the night began. He’d texted Ilya earlier, after a full day of mulling: Going out tonight for my friend’s birthday. Should be fun if you want to come?

A half-hour later, he’d texted again: And my place after…obviously :)

By dinner time, when he hadn’t gotten any sort of reply, he’d cut his losses and put his phone on do not disturb. No sense waiting for something that wasn’t coming. And he’d promised his friends he wouldn’t be on his phone all night.

“All right,” Hayden says. “So who’s singing?”

Rose and Jackie and the couple of friends Jackie brought chime in excitedly. Hayden looks pointedly at Shane.

“What?” Shane asks.

“Dude, come on. Not even for your best friend?”

“No way. Sorry.”

Jackie leans forward and puts a hand on his wrist. “Not even for your best friend’s pregnant wife’s last non-mother birthday?”

Shane laughs. “Well, if you make me, then…maybe.”

Hayden stares at Jackie, beseeching, but she sips her mocktail. “I’m not going to make him sing!”

“Fuck it.” Hayden chugs his drink and stands. “You’re lucky she likes you more than I do.”

Hayden and the girls go to the DJ booth to sign up while Shane holds down the table, watching drinks and purses. The night’s been good so far. Jackie’s friends are nice, up for whatever, and Jackie seems happy even though everybody can drink except her, and she’s only a couple of weeks out from her due date. Shane isn’t really sad that Ilya didn’t come. He doesn’t love not being answered, not even with another demoralizing not tonight, but in a way, that’s fine too; he knows he probably shouldn’t have asked in the first place. It’s a little bit sick how many times he’s been rejected, yet somehow he can’t help asking again.

Maybe he’s crazy.

So many people in this bar are having fun. Every table seems full of people laughing, drinking, smiling. The dance floor is empty but starting to catch on, a few brave (drunk) girls moving their hips in the corner while the person with the mic sings some pop song Shane doesn’t know. There’s a couple kissing blatantly at the bar; when his fingertips dip inside the waistband of her skirt, her back arches. Geez. Shane looks away. Then back. He’s never been into PDA, really. But then, maybe he’s never been out with someone he wanted enough to kiss like that in a bar.

The table fills out again as his friends return and the night presses on. Jackie’s name gets called first and she’s great, then Hayden goes next and he’s terrible. Rose does a rendition of a Lana del Rey song Shane only knows because she plays it in the shop, and then Jackie’s friends do a funny duet. It’s fun for him, just watching, cheering loudly for everybody but especially for the people he knows. Though it occurs to him eventually how boring he is for not even singing a stupid karaoke song.

Another drink later, it’s really occurring to him. The bar is filling up. The signup list is probably getting long—is there even time? Are they leaving soon? Jackie must be getting tired.

A little drunk, Shane hears himself say, “Do you guys think I’m boring?”

Rose bursts out laughing and Shane cringes at himself. Hayden takes a long drink. Jackie raises an eyebrow and says, “Shane…you’re a professional cyclist.”

“I’m retired.”

“Okay, so? You were a professional cyclist, which is not boring. Trust me.”

“Thanks.”

“And,” she says, “you’re successful. You own your own business, you have a cool skill and a cool house. You’re funny, charming, sexy—” Hayden starts choking. “—not to mention jacked, and most importantly you’re like the sweetest guy I know besides Hayden. Breathe, babe.”

“Okay,” Shane says. “Thank you.”

When Rose stops laughing, she says, “Shane, boring is seriously like the last word I would use to describe you. You’re…I don’t know.” She looks around at the others for help.

“Neurotic?” Hayden offers.

Shane deadpans. “Thanks, man.”

“Well, yes, that,” Rose says. “But I was thinking more like…mysterious. Or—oh!” She leans across the table. “Enigmatic.”

“Yes,” Jackie says, pointing at Rose. Hayden gives it some thought and nods in acquiescence.

Shane nods too, taking it in. Enigmatic. Huh. Seems like a generous way of saying hard to understand more than it says not boring. But Shane knows already that not everybody gets him. His friends do, most of the time, or at least they try as hard as they can. But how mysterious or enigmatic can he be when Ilya always seems to read him like an open book? Even if he, apparently, thinks the story on the page is boring. He always seems to know what Shane wants, what he’s thinking, which probably means he knows…

Shane picks up his drink and tosses the rest of it back in one gulp.

The night is barely started and somehow they’ve ended up at a fucking karaoke bar. Svetlana is thrilled, dragging Ilya inside by the sleeve. Luca and his boyfriend stroll in after with Zane behind them, flanked by some girls they met at the last bar. It was Ilya’s fault; he’d recognized his client from across the room and made eye contact. Habit. She smiled at him, and then came right over with her two beautiful friends. Zane was only too happy to offer them drinks, which seemingly bonded them together for the rest of the evening. The girls were mostly talking to Zane and Svetlana, except for Ilya’s client—the red-headed girl with the cowgirl pinup whose name he couldn’t remember. Until she said:

“Heyyyy! It’s Christina. You did this.” She held out her arm to show him the tattoo.

“Ah, yes.” He inspected his healed work: straight lines, strong color saturation, no mistakes or blowouts. “She healed very nicely. Good job.”

“She’s perfect,” Christina said. “Still think she looks like me?” She struck the pose with her imaginary pistols and Ilya laughed. Had he really said that before? So corny.

But aloud, he said, “Yes. Of course.”

Now, crowded around a cocktail table at the Good Libations Karaoke Lounge, Ilya is paying for this slight flirtation.

Christina isn’t doing anything except existing warmly beside him. She looks hot and she’s flirting very sensibly in a way Ilya would have loved if it was any other night—probably—but tonight he’s supposed to be here with his people. Christina keeps touching him, and Svetlana keeps giving him strange, calculating looks, and he feels distracted, and irritated, and (worst of all) off his game. When Christina touches his arm, Ilya doesn’t know what to do with it. She says, “I love this song!” and starts dancing beside him, swaying in her black satin skirt, and Ilya turns his body away. She asks him a question and he can’t hear her properly from the distance he wants to keep between them so he says what? too many times before finally just laughing and nodding.

He wonders what Shane is doing, which is stupid, because he knows what he’s doing. Shane is out somewhere right now with his friends, just like Ilya’s out with his. They probably got dinner somewhere, then rode their bikes to a brewery for a couple of beers, and then they’ll call it an early night and maybe Shane will text him again when he’s home—

Ilya practically has to shake his head like a dog to stop himself.

Christina says, “Fuck, I need another drink before my song.”

Zane offers to get a round of shots for everyone and ignores Ilya completely as he says, “Not for me.” When he returns and doles them out, Ilya leaves his on the table. Christina finishes hers just as the DJ calls her name.

With Christina gone, Ilya wants to look at his phone, so instead he goes around the table to stand by Svetlana. He drapes an arm across her shoulders.

She speaks in Russian for privacy: “Not interested? She’s very pretty.”

“It’s just not what I’m doing tonight.”

“Ah.” Svetlana taps his nose with her fingertip. “Do you need me to be your wife, Ilyusha?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe I should just take her home. It would probably be simpler for everyone.”

Svetlana frowns at him, perhaps because he realizes too late just how strange and pathetic that was to say. But before he can try to cover it, Ilya feels a warmth approach from the side, like a blanket pulled up over his shoulder while he’s still asleep.

“Hi,” Shane says.

Too many emotions flicker across Ilya’s face: surprise, then delight, and then a flash of something he can only name as guilt. He fixes it quickly: neutrally pleased. “So this is where you are tonight. Just your kind of place.”

“Yep. You know me.”

Ilya studies him. “You are drunk.”

Shane laughs, smiling so wide Ilya feels ashamed all over again for ignoring his texts.

Svetlana says, “I didn’t know you were coming tonight, Shane.”

“Oh, no—it’s my friend Jackie’s birthday.” He nods in the direction of their table, where Jackie, Hayden, and Rose are obviously staring. “Jackie’s pregnant and it’s sort of her last big night out before her due date, so, you know—we’re all drinking for two, I guess. In her honor.”

Shane shrugs and lets his arms swing at his sides.

“You rode your bike tonight?” Ilya asks.

“No, Jackie drove.”

Svetlana huffs. “You make your pregnant friend drive on her own birthday? Pozornyy.”

“She wanted to,” Shane insists. “I promise you nobody’s making Jackie do anything.”

“Is not surprising considering Hayden,” Ilya says. He likes the way Shane glares at him. “Are you going to sing for us?”

“No.”

“So scared of attention,” Ilya says. “No fun.”

Ilya meant it to be funny, sort of teasing—they both know Ilya thinks Shane is very fun—but Shane looks toward the stage, his mouth tight and turned down. The song blaring over the sound system hits its chorus and Shane has to yell to be heard over it. “I guess not. Sorry if I’m being fucking boring again.” He rests an elbow on the table but comes down too hard and jostles the whole thing.

“I am getting another drink,” Svetlana says, stepping away.

In Russian, Ilya says, “Get him a water,” and Svetlana replies, “What do you think I’m doing?”

When Ilya looks back at Shane, he’s struck by how abruptly young he looks, like a boy dressed up for the school dance but too nervous to ask someone to come out with him to the floor. His eyes are big, his hair a little messed up from running his hand through it. He closes and re-opens a button on his shirt.

Ilya says, “It was only a joke,” at the same time Shane says, “You didn’t answer my texts.”

They look at each other. Ilya sighs. “I’m sorry. I was—"

“You could’ve just said no,” Shane says. “Or, you know—” He hardens his brow and puts on the worst Russian accent Ilya’s ever heard. “—not tonight.”

The song is finally winding down, bringing the volume with it, but Ilya moves close enough to Shane for their shoulders to touch. He squeezes Shane’s bicep. “What would that have done for you? You like it when I tell you no?”

“Of course not,” Shane says, eyes on the table. “But it’s better than getting nothing from you. You know I just…I really like you, Ilya. And you’re such an asshole about it.”

The entire bar starts cheering so Shane claps halfheartedly too. Ilya’s not sure when he’s ever hated himself more than he does in this moment, and he has a lot of choice memories to pick from. “Shane…”

“What?”

“Maybe you should go back to your party, yes? We can talk later.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Shane blinks a few times and does something funny with his eyelashes. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I’m being stupid. I’m just drunk and—"

Christina returns and squeezes herself into the free space at Ilya’s side, bumping his arm, saying something Ilya still can’t fucking hear. Without even thinking, he nods and smiles.

Christina turns to Shane to say hello, and Shane, as always, has no poker face. He gives her a pained smile, then looks back up at Ilya with an even worse expression than the anger Ilya was expecting: complete, resigned understanding.

“I’ll see you later,” Shane says. “You guys have a good night.”

Christina’s friends fall in around her, complimenting her performance, and Ilya’s so caught up in the sudden burst of activity encircling him that he doesn’t notice Shane is already too far away to stop. He watches Shane reach his friends, who’ve all suddenly stood and gathered up their things to leave. They exchange some words, Shane balks, and then he joins them in a push toward the door with Jackie and Hayden at the front looking shellshocked.

Ilya tries to catch Shane’s eye on his way out but he doesn’t look over. Svetlana returns and stands close to Ilya again. She doesn’t ask where Shane went.

Shane doesn’t respond to any messages the next day, except the ones from Hayden keeping him posted on Jackie’s labor. It was going well so far (though Jackie did have to drive herself to the hospital) and Shane had been waiting anxiously all morning for a photo of his best friend holding his newborn daughter. They kept the shop closed for the day. With Hayden unexpectedly out earlier than they’d planned, the new guy they’d hired to pick up some part-time shifts wasn’t ready to start so abruptly. Rose was scheduled off and Shane was just…not feeling great. So he stayed home. The bikes weren’t going anywhere.

It had been a late night for him and he felt it in his body and his head. After leaving the bar and realizing no one could drive but Jackie, she and Hayden left together while Rose opted to go back into the bar with Jackie’s friends. Shane walked to the bike shop on his own. He hadn’t meant to drink so much; he still wasn’t sure what made him do it. But since he didn’t feel ready to ride home with a sick ache turning his stomach, he went inside to wait it out in his office. Maybe he could get some work done, try to get ahead of things before they fell behind without Hayden, but as soon as he sat at his desk, alone in the silence with his head swimming and his heart pounding, he felt himself start to cry.

He put his head in his arms and down on the desk, just letting it out. It was fine; he wasn’t even that upset. Ilya was back at the bar doing whatever he wanted, which was what they had agreed they would do. So why did it hurt so much more than Shane thought it would?

That was a stupid question. Shane knew why it hurt. But in a way, that knowledge was worse than the reality of his pain: the fact that he’d been lying to himself, and Ilya, about how he felt. And now it was too late to do anything differently.

When Shane calmed down enough, he drank some water and stress-cleaned the shop. He swept every corner, dusted all the little neglected spaces. By the time he left, his head was throbbing, and it seemed like the pressure from his helmet was the only thing keeping it from falling off.

So today he’s been taking it easy. He relaxes on his deck, drinks a green smoothie, reads a book. He only checks his phone once every few pages. He did get a text from Ilya soon after he left the bar: Can I come over?

Shane hasn’t replied. He will eventually, of course, just like he knows he’ll still see Ilya again, but maybe not today, or even tomorrow. His head is too foggy to figure out what he needs to say.

In the afternoon, Shane feels well enough to take a ride. He opts for a forty-mile out-and-back gravel trail that follows the abandoned railroad and guarantees solitude, quiet, and no fucking cars. The trail carries Shane and his Black Sheep along a small river, through forested areas and open plains, before ending at a reservoir where Shane sits to watch the mountains reflect on the water. He only sits for a minute, though; he’d rather be riding.

On the way in, Shane had been racing himself, pumping hard enough to hit a segment PR and top five on Strava. But back out, he cruises, and lets his mind wander places he doesn’t always allow it to go. He recalls how he’d once ridden this trail with Cole.

It was toward the end of things, when Shane was losing races and Cole was pushing him away. It was, looking back, perhaps the worst time in Shane’s life. He was sad all the time, confused and lonely, frustrated, and trying so hard to get the attention of the person he thought loved him unconditionally that he unwittingly sacrificed his hard-fought success for it. And then he got dumped anyway. For a long time, Shane hated himself for doing that. He should’ve chosen himself, or, fuck, he should’ve at least chosen his career. But he’d gone through enough therapy in the months after to know that he’d done the best he could with the information he had at the time. He couldn’t have known it wasn’t real love when that’s what was presented to him. Even at the very end, when he was packing his things and trying to figure out whose gear was whose and which bikes he should keep and which he should just sell so he didn’t have to look at them anymore and think about everything he’d lost, Cole never said it was ending because he didn’t love him. Shane fixated on all of it for weeks. If he had won this race, lost this other one, said these words or tried this gesture, changed this annoying thing about himself, would it have been different?

Probably not. That’s the great thing about time passing: the truth gets clearer or you just move on from it anyway. And since no amount of regret or rumination can change the past, all Shane can do now is try not to make the same mistakes again.

It doesn’t even matter whether or not Ilya slept with someone else; Ilya’s told him before, repeatedly, what this thing between them is, and whatever he wants to do, that’s his prerogative. But when Shane is so torn up by the thought, and simultaneously too afraid of losing Ilya completely to ask for what he really wants, what choice does he have but to try and build back some emotional distance? Space is the only way Shane knows how to do that.

Surprisingly, it’s not too painful to consider taking a step back from Ilya. Seriously. Shane briefly wells up and then continues on his ride. He thinks about it as he glides through a section of fragrant ponderosa pines, taking comfort in the familiar sound of rubber churning dirt and stone. He passes another cyclist going the opposite direction, and when he throws Shane a peace sign, Shane throws it back, which makes him smile. There are eight-billion people on this planet, plenty of whom would probably want to be with Shane.

When he’s nearing his neighborhood, Shane admits to himself he wants that. And when he reaches home, and looks at the life he’s built for himself on his own over all the years he’s waited for someone to share it with, he decides he deserves it.

That evening, he finally gets the photo.

Hayden: Ruby Pike is here!! Your niece, man! Isn’t she gorgeous?

Shane thinks she looks a little like a bowl of mashed potatoes but chokes up at the niece implication regardless. He texts back: Beautiful. Couldn’t be happier for you guys. Can’t wait to meet her.

He stares at the photo a while, smiling, before returning to his unread messages. He responds to his parents, and Rose, and an old group chat with former teammates he almost never participates in, and the new-hire confirming he can start tomorrow instead of next week, before finally, with a lump in his throat, opening his unread text from Ilya.

Ilya: How is your hangover?

Shane almost laughs. He’d expected an apology, maybe some half-hearted explanation, but this is better. Just more evidence that Shane let himself get caught up in something that was only in his head. It’ll be easier now, he thinks, to see Ilya casually. But not yet.

Shane: Hi. Not bad. Took a bike ride actually. What about you?

Shane goes to lock his phone when he notices the text bubbles flaring up right away.

Ilya: Did not drink enough to be hungover. Did you have a fun night?

Shane: Jackie went into labor.

Ilya: Ah. Bittersweet. Did the world really need another Hayden so soon?

Shane: Ha ha.

Ilya: Congratulations to them.

Shane: Yeah they’re happy.

Ilya: When will you meet the baby?

Shane: In a few days. They need some time to settle in.

Ilya: So does that mean you are free tonight?

Shane doesn’t give himself any time to overthink it.

Shane: Not tonight. Honestly I need a little time to myself I think.

It takes a minute before Ilya responds: Time to yourself?

Shane: Yeah. Sorry.

Ilya: Can we talk?

Shane: Nothing to talk about! Seriously. Just need some time. I’ll text you in a few days.

Ilya: K.

“Shane, buddy, can you try not to look so…I don’t know. Horrified?”

Shane adjusts his hold on the back of Ruby’s tiny head. Hayden raises his phone again.

“Yeah, that’s…that’s better. That’s great, man. Smile, Uncle Shane!”

Shane smiles as naturally as he can for a couple of photos. Hayden takes the seat beside him, getting comfortable before reaching over and taking Ruby back into his arms.

“I can’t get over how tiny she is,” Shane says. He keeps his voice low so he won’t disturb Jackie napping down the hall.

“I know. She didn’t look so tiny when she was coming out, though. Like a cannonball.”

“Jesus Christ, Hayd.”

“I’m just saying! It’s no wonder they call it a fucking miracle.”

Hayden slouches deep into the couch, cradling Ruby against his chest. Her eyes flutter open, just barely, before she closes them again and falls back asleep. Hayden turns the TV on and they sit for a while in silence, just watching part of the US Open. Shane loves that he and Hayden don’t always have to talk. Sometimes one of them makes a comment about the match, or Ruby will gurgle or fuss, and they get to just revel in it and enjoy the easy company.

When a commercial comes on, Hayden mutes it and says, “So how’s everything with you?”

“Me?” Shane says. “Good. No complaints.”

“What about you and—” Hayden looks up in pain and evidently decides to spare himself. “—what’s-his-name? Looked kind of awkward at the bar the other night.”

Shane cringes. “I didn’t know you saw that.”

“Oh, dude, we were all fully tuned in until Jackie went into labor.”

Mortifying. Shane was drunk and pathetic in front of everybody he knows. Jackie going into labor was probably divine intervention.

“It’s fine,” Shane says. “I mean, he was there with someone else, I think, which is fine, but I haven’t actually talked to him since. I’m sort of ignoring him.”

“Shit, what a tragedy.”

“Thanks.”

“But like, why are you ignoring him? I thought the whole deal was that it was so casual and super chill?”

Shane chews on what he wants to say, everything he’s been thinking about for the last few days on his own. “Yeah, it is. But you know, I’m actually starting to think…maybe...”

Ruby gurgles and Hayden props her up straighter in his arms. Her eyes fly open and lock in on Shane, as if even she, at six days old, can understand the gravity of what’s coming.

Shane sighs. “I think I’m ready to put myself back out there. Like, for real. I’m thirty-two years old. I want to find somebody serious. I want what you and Jackie have—a real relationship. Maybe a family eventually, I don’t know.”

Hayden leans over and puts Ruby back in Shane’s arms. He starts to protest but once she’s there, so warm against him, it feels like the moment the sun hits when a big cloud finally blows over.

“And you don’t see that happening with Igor?” To Hayden’s credit, he says it with full sincerity and consideration.

Shane rests his chin lightly on Ruby’s head. “For the last few weeks, I thought maybe something more was going on. But then I realized I was just being stupid.”

“Man. For what it’s worth, I am sorry,” Hayden offers. “Personally, I don’t get the appeal, but I know you were into him. Sucks, dude.”

“I appreciate that.”

“But here’s the good news.” Hayden cocks his head, grinning. “I have somebody for you.”

Shane mentally prepares for the worst. “Who?”

“This gay hockey player who goes to my gym. Right up your fucking alley.”

“You think every gay guy—"

“No, shut up. I’m serious.” Hayden practically glows with delight, clearly having saved this conversation for the right moment. “Look, we were talking in the sauna last week and I mentioned being a cyclist, and obviously that led to me talking about the shop, and then you, and listen—he knew who you were. Like, instantly remembered you from before you retired."

“Why were you talking to a man in the sauna?”

“He was asking me about my leg routine and—anyway, it doesn’t matter. The important thing is that this guy plays for the Avalanche and he knows who you are and he was very interested in getting to know you better. Asked me the name of the shop twice. I was half-expecting him to drop in all week. And get this, I didn’t even tell you the best part—he’s Canadian.”

Shane frowns, gently rubbing Ruby’s back. “What’s his name?”

“Troy Barrett. Google him, dude. I think you’re going to be shaking my hand in a minute here.”

Shane passes Ruby back and takes out his phone to do the search and—oh.

“That’s him,” Hayden says, glancing at the screen. “Go to his Instagram.”

Troy Barrett is gorgeous. Brown hair, blue eyes, and sort of brooding in a way Shane hates that Hayden knew he’d like. At first glance, Troy seems shorter than Shane but not small by any means. There aren’t any photos of him smiling, except for one from a Pride Night game a few years prior. Shane does sort of remember it now, when that hockey player came out publicly the season he’d been traded to Colorado. People had talked about it a lot at the time. Troy Barrett. Wow.

Shane scrolls back up to the top. “This guy knows who I am?”

Hayden takes the phone from Shane and taps follow.

Ilya’s just finishing up with a client and mentally doing the same thing he’s been doing for days: oscillating back and forth between patience and anger. He hasn’t heard from Shane in over a week, unless you count that stilted text conversation the day after the bar, which Ilya doesn’t, because that wasn’t Shane talking; that was Shane avoiding, and Ilya being too depressed about the whole thing to push any harder than he’d already done.

But why does Shane suddenly need time to himself? What the fuck.

When Ilya’s at work, he leans into distraction, which makes it easier not to take it too personally. So what if Shane needs space? Sometimes Ilya needs space, too. Not from Shane, necessarily, but from other people. That’s normal. He can get through his day fine and enjoy the company of others and only check his phone a few times. But then, inevitably, the night rolls in again, and Ilya goes home alone too many evenings in a row and starts to take it very personally.

Some of the mornings aren’t any better. Before this, they’d had a little routine going: Ilya would come over early on Shane’s days off, and Shane would let him inside sleepily, soft in boxers and messy hair, or else fresh from the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist, smelling like eucalyptus. Or, if Shane was planning to sleep in, he’d just leave the front door unlocked. Ilya liked those mornings. Sometimes Ilya would come early enough to find Shane still asleep. He’d go into Shane’s bedroom, lit only by the sliver of light flitting through the cracked window, and crawl into bed behind Shane and press himself hard against him until Shane would wake up and push back and let Ilya fuck him like they’d just woken up together. It was nice. Shane wasn’t even really kicking him out anymore; Ilya was always the one these days who had to force himself up and say goodbye.

Now Ilya was spending every morning at the gym or at home with Svetlana. It was good to be with her more, and she’d stopped probing so much about Shane after the bar night, but it wasn’t quite the same kind of company.

None of this is fair. Ilya doesn’t even know what Shane is upset about. Nothing happened with Christina, or anyone else, and all Ilya said that night after Shane called him an asshole was that he and Shane could talk later. What was wrong with that? Shane was drunk and saying things he’d probably regret sober. And it wasn’t like Ilya didn’t know already that Shane was sensitive, and tender, and that this thing between them had clearly spiraled a little bit since they’d stopped trying to fuck other people, but talking about it drunk wasn’t the answer. The fact that Shane now didn’t want to talk about it, or anything, while sober was so frustrating, Ilya felt himself inching closer to implosion each day.

I really like you, Ilya.

That’s the refrain playing over and over in Ilya’s head, all through his workouts and his commutes and his increasingly frequent cigarette breaks, and while he tattoos multiple clients a day who want amiable chit chat from him and instead receive enough half-assed broken English that most of them stop trying before he’s even finished the outline.

I really like you, Ilya. And you’re such an asshole about it.

If we can talk later wasn’t the right response to that, then what the fuck should Ilya have said? What could he have said?

What did he really, really want to say?

Ilya finishes his client off with a rougher than necessary wipe of the paper towel. When the guy’s done grimacing in pain, Ilya charges him a little less than he should. At least the tattoo looks good.

He cleans up his area and goes to hover over Svetlana, halfway through a single-needle floral piece wrapping delicately around a young woman’s bicep.

“Looks good,” Ilya says. It does, but he’d say that even if it didn’t.

“Thank you,” Svetlana says without looking away from her work. “Anyone else on your books today?”

Ilya pops the p as he says, “Nope.” He goes back to his stool and checks his phone: a few DMs from clients that he’ll get to later, a spam call, a red flag warning, and nothing from Shane. It’s nearly time for Downtown Spokes to close for the night.

Ilya doesn’t say anything as he heads for the door. He steps outside and lights a cigarette, strolling as close to the bike shop as he can get without it being too obvious he’s looking in the window. He spots Rose right away behind the counter, a couple of last minute customers, but no Shane. His bike hadn’t been in the alley when Ilya parked there earlier, but maybe Shane drove today for whatever reason. Maybe he’s home sick, or on vacation, or just trying really hard to be sure Ilya can’t see him. Infuriating. Ilya imagines himself going into the shop and directly to the back office, where he’ll certainly find Shane working hard at his desk, and he’ll be so happy Ilya’s there after a week apart, he’ll jump to his feet and kiss Ilya against the back of the door and tell him…something. What does Ilya even want him to say? There’s a part of him afraid Shane will ask him for more, which is only slightly subordinate to the part of him afraid Shane will end it for good. Either way, in the moment, the cigarette is the only thing keeping Ilya outside. Shane asked for time to himself, he said he would text and Ilya believes he will, but fuck, how long is he supposed to wait? He feels angry all over again, and stupid for feeling angry, so instead of barging in to look for Shane, he takes his phone out.

Ilya: A whole week? This is bullshit.

He deletes that.

Ilya: Are you at work right now? Need to talk to you.

He deletes that too.

Ilya: Fuck you. Can I come over tonight?

Delete delete delete. Ilya pinches the bridge of his nose and leans back against the wall.

Ilya: I miss you. Please can we talk?

Before he can hit send, a man walks by too close to Ilya on the sidewalk. “Excuse me. Sorry.”

Ilya glances up to nod at him, and something about the man makes him do a doubletake. He’s seen him before somewhere—on TV? An actor? He’s good looking enough, though handling himself a little nervously as he passes Ilya and goes into the bike shop. Ilya leans over again to look inside after him, just in time to see Shane walking up from the back.

Fuck, he looks good. Nice blue shirt, black jeans, and a warm flush crossing his face as he smiles and offers the man his hand. These aren’t Shane’s work clothes, and that’s not Shane’s customer service face. Ilya can see clearly as Shane’s gaze goes from the man’s face to his chest and lower, before flicking back up and away, clearly unable to meet his eye again. He’s smiling but serious, nodding, and then he adjusts the tuck of his shirt. Oh. Shane is nervous. And excited.

Ilya watches them shake hands, watches Shane laugh a little at something the man says, and the spike of anger in Ilya’s chest swells into a rotten ball of tar that drops into his stomach and starts a steady churn. The man turns as he and Shane start walking toward the front door. Ilya doesn’t wait to see what’s coming next, if they’re going to step out together and walk around downtown, go to dinner, or get into a car and drive somewhere else. Ilya can’t see that man touch Shane somewhere worse than his hand. He stomps out his cigarette and walks quickly back to his shop.

Svetlana says in Russian, “Ilya? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He’s already walking to the door with his jacket, helmet, and keys. “I’ll see you at home.”

“What—"

The door closes behind him. He keeps his head down as he passes the bike shop, manages to reach the alley without looking in again. Helmet on, jacket on, Ilya sweats beneath both from a jealous heat worse than the late August sun. He goes down the alley too fast and pours like a hard, loud rain out into the street, but he’s not fast enough to catch the green at the first intersection.

And then it happens: Ilya at the red light, first on the line, while Shane and this other man cross directly in front of him. Shane sees him—how could he not? He sees Ilya and knows him under his helmet. He knows Ilya’s bike, his jacket, his hands white-knuckling the handlebars. What is he thinking? Ilya’s face is hidden by the tint of his visor, but Shane’s is spotlit by the setting sun as everything glows orange around him. He doesn’t stop walking. He doesn’t smile but nods once at Ilya, clearly not expecting anything back as his attention returns to his date. He keeps on walking without smiling until they reach the other sidewalk and turn. Shane glances back once over his shoulder before they’re gone around the corner.

Ilya doesn’t remember getting home. He makes it there safely somehow and lights cigarette after cigarette without eating any food. No appetite when his stomach is aching like this. He plants himself on the patio, sitting in total silence aside from the quiet hum of the neighborhood and the emptiness clinking the sides of his glass as he finishes his drink. He’s not measuring or counting pours, losing track of how many fingers of vodka he’s consumed over the time he’s sat unmoving while everything’s grown dark around him.

It’s around 10pm that night when Shane pulls into his driveway. The date had been…okay. Troy was a nice guy, better looking in person even than in his photos, but the attraction for Shane started and ended there, and he thought by the end that the reverse was true as well. At dinner, conversation started easily enough, talking about work and sports and where they were from. But when the easiest topics ran out, neither knew what to say, and they took turns coming up with non-sequitur subjects.

Do you like music? Not really.

Hobbies? Just…work, mostly.

Family? Shane talked about his parents but Troy didn’t seem to want to get into it about his.

Past relationships? Neither wanted to go into detail there, and Shane recalled then how easily he’d told Ilya everything about Cole. In fact, there wasn’t anything he found difficult saying to Ilya, except, of course, how he actually felt about him.

So unfortunately, tonight wasn’t what Shane had hoped for. He was sure it wasn’t what Troy had hoped for either, but that was okay. Not the end of the world. They were two shy men looking for chemistry and finding instead a sense of discomfort neither knew how to mitigate. When the server finally came around, they both declined dessert.

On the sidewalk outside the restaurant, they hugged goodbye, and there was a split second where they seemed to mutually consider if a kiss was warranted here. The odd twitch from them both made Troy laugh so Shane did too. They didn’t even do the whole Let’s do this again sometime, I’ll call you charade. Shane had driven to work that day just in case there ended up being somewhere else to go after dinner, but instead he got into his car alone and drove home with a weight on his chest, lessened slightly by the thought that he could at least be proud of himself for trying.

When he gets home, the weight lifts completely, only to be replaced by a violent, thumping squeeze.

“Ilya?”

He’s sitting on the front step, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. He lifts his head when Shane speaks, immediately standing and half-tripping down the steps toward him. Shane catches him as he stumbles. The smell of alcohol and cigarettes hits like a hailstorm. “Jesus, Ilya, are you serious? How’d you even get here like this?”

Ilya slurs something about an Uber. He wraps his arms around Shane and leans into him, resting his mouth against the crook of Shane’s neck. His hands explore freely, untucking Shane’s shirt, sliding into his back pockets, while Shane’s remain still against his back to hold him up. He wants to be mad, and he probably will be tomorrow, but right now, in a sick, self-destructive, and undoubtedly perverse way, Shane is thrilled.

“Here, come on,” he says. He pulls Ilya along by the arm, brings him inside, and puts him to bed.

In the morning, Ilya wakes up alone. There’s evidence Shane was there: the covers made perfectly on the other side of the bed, Ilya’s clothing folded neatly on the dresser. A glass of water and two ibuprofen sit on the nightstand beside him so Ilya hauls himself up and downs both before realizing he’s probably going to throw up.

He makes it to Shane’s bathroom in time—barely. When he’s finished, he uses Shane’s mouthwash, debating whether or not to swallow some to cleanse the sour taste reaching all the way to his stomach. He looks at himself in the mirror: horrific. Bloodshot eyes, pallid skin. If Shane is still home, probably waiting for him in the kitchen with his hands clasped litigiously on the table, he’s evidently decided not to check on Ilya. So fuck it; Ilya strips and gets in the shower, scrubbing himself down with all of Shane’s nice products until he no longer wants to drown himself in the stream. He uses Shane’s soft, fluffy towel, and his deodorant, and his face lotion, as though he just needs to get the outside right and that will fix whatever’s wrong on the inside too.

In Shane’s bedroom, he comes to a standstill while looking at his clothing on the dresser. He can smell the cigarette smoke from a yard away. Fuck. But it’s then that he notices at the foot of the bed a pair of boxers, sweatpants, socks, and a t-shirt that weren’t there when he first got up.

Shane doesn’t say anything to Ilya when he sees him. Ilya waits a few feet from the couch, not knowing what to expect, if he’s about to be kicked out or cussed out or worse, but he’s even more surprised when Shane sets his book down on the table and opens his arms.

“Do you want some food? Coffee?” Shane strokes the back of Ilya’s neck, playing with the small, soft curls that form his hairline. The leather beneath him is cool compared to Ilya on top of him radiating heat. They’ve been lying this way for at least half an hour.

When Shane beckoned, Ilya had come to him right away, crawling into his arms and kissing him gently before settling his body fully on top of Shane’s. He relaxed between Shane’s legs with his face pressed to the side of his neck like there was nowhere else he’d like to be. For Shane now, seeing Ilya like this, wearing his clothes, smelling like him, coming to him so easily when invited, has the tenuous thrill of last night spilling over into the sleepy morning.

“No,” Ilya murmurs. “Thank you.”

Good because Shane doesn’t really want to get up yet. He wonders if Ilya even remembers the night. God, he’d been drunk. So drunk and so sad. He’d come inside easily enough but the trouble started when Shane tried to put him in the guest room. He’d cursed a bit, slumped against him, then slurred out a bunch of disconnected pleas in a mix of English and Russian, the gist of which Shane deciphered as something like: I came here for you, not to sleep alone. No more space from me. Please don’t make me leave. He hadn’t let Ilya kiss him, or take either of their clothing off beyond what was reasonable, but he’d let him sleep in his bed, and he’d let Ilya hold him and snore against his ear for a while because Shane was too weak to say no when it was all he’d wanted for weeks.

“I hate that the first time you’re spending the night is because you’re drunk.”

If Ilya heard it in his sleep, he didn’t acknowledge it. Though Shane thought he might have felt Ilya’s hold tighten.

Ilya’s body now is heavy to the point that Shane wonders whether Ilya’s been hovering at least a little every other time he’s been on top of him. In all the times they’ve fucked, is this the first time Ilya’s ever fully settled? Or maybe it’s just whatever heavy sadness is living in him that he’s too tired this morning to hold up.

“Are you okay?” Shane asks.

He moves on from Ilya’s hair to his midback, running his hands up and down in firm strokes. Ilya sighs and Shane feels it hot on his neck. He feels Ilya’s mouth then, the graze of his teeth, and Ilya’s lips find his earlobe before migrating across his jaw and cheek to reach his mouth.

It’s a meaner kiss than Shane’s expecting, forceful enough to push his head deeper into the throw pillow. Ilya bites Shane’s lower lip and cups his chest, using Shane to push himself up while his other hand digs into the space between Shane and the back of the couch. Ilya readjusts so their hips meet; he’s so hard already it hurts a little to feel his cock press against him. But Shane moans at the sensation and Ilya reacts quickly, pulling up on the hem of Shane’s shirt, feeding his hand inside to play with his chest before sliding back down and under the waistband of his shorts.

Ilya’s holding Shane’s cock when the panic starts to set it. It feels so good now but what’s going to happen when it’s over? Ilya’s going to leave, and Shane will clean himself up and eat breakfast and sit there alone. He’ll spend the whole day mad at himself, spend another week trying to recall the words he’d meant to say before getting distracted and letting the clock reset on his clarity. Ilya pulls his own cock out and aligns himself with Shane, gripping both of them in one big hand and fucking into it. Shane responds by thrusting up with him.

“Good, Shane, yes. Show me what you want.”

Shane’s hands fly to Ilya’s face to hold him there, close enough to look into his eyes but not to kiss.

“Did you miss this?” Ilya asks, pressing his forehead against Shane’s. “This is what you needed time away from?”

Shane’s heart beats so hard, he gets the wild idea it might actually break, just give out like a motor using its final dregs of fuel for one last burst before it sputters and crumbles to pieces. He could die here right now, never having tried to get what he wants, never having done better for himself than another fuck that no longer outweighs his real desires.

“Stop.” Shane’s voice is too loud but far away, like it’s coming from outside his head. “Wait. Stop.”

Ilya pulls away and reclines until he hits the other side of the couch, dropping his head back and rubbing his eyes with one hand. “Fuck, Shane.”

Shane untangles their legs, fixes his shorts. “I’m sorry.”

Ilya shakes his head. With his head still back and his eyes closed, he pulls up his sweatpants.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says again.

“Is fine.”

“No, it’s just…I don’t think I can do this.”

Ilya groans. “Do what? Fuck?”

“This. Any of this right now.” Shane stands. He can’t be there on the couch, still hard, with Ilya across from him, and get this out. “I’m making some coffee. And then…maybe we can talk?”

Ilya mutters some Russian that sounds close enough to begrudging acquiescence for Shane. He goes to the kitchen and starts the coffee, taking two mugs down from the rack on the wall. Ilya comes in shortly after the machine beeps, pulling up a chair at the small, square table.

Shane sets a mug down in front of Ilya but doesn’t take the seat across from him. He returns to the counter, leaning back against it, holding his own mug with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

They look at each other in silence until Ilya says, “Well? You are the one who wanted to talk so bad you could not even wait until your dick was soft.”

Shane’s anxiety relaxes into familiar annoyance. “You’re really going to be an asshole to me right now?”

Ilya shrugs. He taps his fingers on the table, glances out the window, and Shane realizes Ilya isn’t waiting for them to start talking; he’s waiting to be dismissed. He’s just sitting there waiting for Shane to tell him to leave.

Shane sets his mug down. “I really like you, Ilya.”

Ilya exhales, almost laughs. “And I am an asshole. So you have said.”

“No, I—” Shane watches Ilya rub his feet together under the table. He says slowly, “I like you, Ilya. For real. I have real feelings for you, and—"

“Ah, so that is why you fucked someone else? Okay.”

Shane’s mouth falls open. Ilya talks into his coffee cup like it may shield the severity of the words.

“I saw you with him,” he says plainly. “You say you are not going to fuck anyone else, and you have feelings for me, okay, but then you ignore me for a week, fucking nod at me in the street, and go do whatever else with him after. You were not going to text me again.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Shane feels so hot, his palms start to sweat. “How fucking old are you? You ignored me first, for like the third time, and then, while you were ignoring me, you were with that woman at the bar and I didn’t say anything. No wait, actually, I think I told you nicely to have a good night. Did you?”

Ilya rubs a hand down his face. “No.”

“Oh, right. Okay. So is that why you texted me to come over after? Because she turned you down and you still wanted to fuck somebody?”

“No. Tell me what happened with you and that guy yesterday.”

“Oh my god.” The walls in Shane’s kitchen seem to close in around them. “Nothing. We had dinner.”

“Did you like him?”

“He was…fine.”

Ilya’s gaze bores into Shane’s. “What would you have let him do if he was good?”

“I’m not doing this with you. This is insane.”

“Doing what?” Ilya says. “We are talking like you wanted.”

Shane throws his hands up. “I’m not going back and forth like this! Making stupid, drunk confessions with you and then arguing about who’s more wrong. I’m—” Shane has to say it as straight as he can, no room for misunderstanding, no trepidation. “Ilya, I don’t think I can see you anymore. I thought I could be casual with you but I can’t. It’s just not what I want, and I’m sorry that I wasn’t honest with you sooner. I really thought I could do it but it’s just too hard for me.”

Ilya fixes his gaze on the sliding door leading out to Shane’s deck, nodding slowly. “So this is over?”

“I think…that’s kind of up to you right now.” Shane goes to the table and sits across from Ilya; Ilya still doesn’t look at him. “I’m not trying to be complicated. This isn’t, like, an ultimatum or anything. It’s just the truth. If being casual is still all you want…then I think we have to stop. I like you too much to keep doing this and never move forward when I know I want something real. With someone who wants that, too.”

The abruptness of Ilya’s head whipping around is almost startling. “You think I do not want you?”

“No,” Shane says. “I know it’s not that you don’t want me. I realized that last night, I think. But maybe you don’t want me enough, or—I don’t know what.” Shane wishes he were outside, wishes he had somewhere to go, but this is his house, and his heart, and he has to live in them both. “Whatever the reason is, if it’s me or you or something else, it’s okay…but I want more. I need more than this. And I’ve been taking you at your word that you can’t give that to me.”

Ilya breathes in and it fills his whole chest. He reaches for Shane’s hand across the table, gently stroking it with his index finger. “Ty dazhe ne predstavlyayesh', kak sil'no ya tebya khochu. Ty ' i predstavit' sebe ne mozhesh', kakovo eto tak sil'no tebya khotet' i pri etom znat', chto ya tebya ne dostoin.”

Shane shakes his head. “I’m sorry I don’t understand. I wish I did.”

Surprisingly, Ilya smiles. “Me too. Would probably be easier.”

“Can you say it in English?”

Ilya considers him, and Shane thinks he’s going to say no, not today, not tonight, not ever. But Ilya says, “I want that too, Shane. What you want.”

Shane laughs; it’s an honest reaction. “Then why is this so hard?”

“I don’t fucking know.”

Shane knows that’s not true but in the moment, he doesn’t care. They’re both here at the table, talking, and they want the same thing. Whatever it is, this dissonance holding them back, they can figure it out. Because if Ilya really wants him, there’s nothing that would make Shane give that up. He smiles. Ilya stands, leaning over the table to hold his chin and kiss him.

Ilya spends the rest of the morning on Shane’s deck. Shane cooks breakfast for him, pours him more coffee, lets Ilya kiss him even while he's still chewing. Shane has a nice backyard with lots of butterfly bushes and lavender, catmint, a few yuccas, and they watch dragonflies waft overhead in lazy circles. Ilya listens as Shane recounts in egregious detail the day-long ride he and Hayden have planned for the fall. Shane smiles when Ilya touches their feet together under the table, such a covert little gesture of affection that makes Ilya’s whole being buzz with undeserved happiness.

And then, in bed that afternoon, Ilya worships Shane’s body until Shane’s skin is red and every part of him is gaping and waiting for Ilya.

“I do not know if I can give you everything you want,” Ilya says, unable to stop himself when Shane is looking up at him like this. “If I am good for you.”

Shane fingers the letters over Ilya’s heart. “I don’t want anything else. I just want you. Please.”

Ilya nods, lining his cock up with Shane’s hole, but before he can enter him, Shane stops him with a nervous look.

“Okay?” Ilya asks.

“Yes, but…do you need to put a condom on?”

“No.” Ilya stares into Shane’s clear, determined eyes, barely daring to ask the question in case he can’t handle the answer. "But you tell me. Do I?"

Shane processes the words, the tone and implication, before slowly shaking his head. With his legs wrapped around Ilya’s waist, Shane pulls him in.

Chapter End Notes

Russian Dialogue Translations:
Pozornyy = disgraceful
Kotyonok = kitten
“So beautiful. So perfect.”
“You have no idea how much I want you. You can't imagine what it's like to want you this badly and know I don't deserve you.”

Chapter Four complete!! Ahh! Sorry if this chapter can’t compare to the last one in terms of horniness lol. Truly, I don’t know what was happening with me when I wrote Chapter Three, but it was perhaps my magnum opus of smut. Hopefully this chapter was still satisfying, and trust that more good things are coming for these men. We have reached a point of no return and there is no world in which things don’t work out for them <3

Thank you all so, so much as always for the wonderful comments. I read every single one and I smile every time. I also want to give a huge shoutout to the people who talked about this fic on Threads. I had to put my sunglasses on in the Safeway checkout line when a random post about it came across my feed because I was doing a sick combo of beaming and weeping. Thank you!!

As just a random note, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this story and what I hope is being conveyed on the page. I think, for me, what makes Ilya and Shane’s relationship so compelling in canon is the way they yearn for each other so badly even while they HAVE each other. That feeling is what I really wanted to explore here—the experience of having these deep moments of longing, even when you’re as physically close to someone as you could be, even when you both know how much you want each other. It’s like missing somebody when you’re in the same room as them—BUT WORSE!
Anyway, that’s just a little footnote because it’s been on my mind.

Last thing! If you’re interested at all in the cycling jargon used in the summary:
Forcing the pace = to increase the speed of the race to the point that other riders have trouble keeping up.
Following a wheel = to let a lead rider set the pace and guide you along a route.
If you’re curious about the title Two Fingers Down, know that that will be revealed soon too :)

Thanks so much for reading. I love writing this and can’t wait to get Chapters 5 and 6 out there as soon as I can <3

Chapter 5: Earn Your Turns

Chapter Summary

As Shane and Ilya enjoy domestic/feral bliss, external factors start to creep in, and Ilya must at last face the secrets he’s been keeping. But nobody understands better than Shane that you have to earn your turns; you can’t enjoy the ride down without first enduring the road up.

Chapter Notes

Russian dialogue translations in the end notes :) Please forgive me that I used Google Translate so they're certainly inaccurate!

The heat finally breaks in mid-September and Ilya spends most of the month exhausted. He’s been staying up too late, too often with Shane, then waking up too early when Shane gets up for work. Every night, Ilya thinks Tonight I’ll go home. I’ll eat, smoke a cigarette, jerk off, and fucking sleep, and almost every night, he rides to Shane’s house instead. He has some clothing there now, and a toothbrush Shane bought for him and put in the bathroom without mentioning it.

He knows now what Shane eats for breakfast, when he does laundry, when he grocery shops, and what his face looks like when he’s surprised. It’s a good face, very faux annoyed and secretly delighted. Sometimes Ilya shows up without texting or calling just to see it, and because it’s fun to get there and have Shane open the door right as he pulls into the driveway, like he’s been listening for Ilya’s bike coming up the road based on nothing but wishful thinking. Other times Ilya comes inside on his own using the garage door code Shane gave him, parking his bike among Shane’s fleet like it belongs there on a rack. He usually finds Shane outside on his deck or watching cycling videos on his phone. They have a late dinner, whatever Shane cooked, and he’s not a very good cook but he does his best. Ilya tries to help if he’s there in time, but ultimately he eats whatever chicken-vegetable-rice combination Shane serves him without complaint because eating together while talking about their days is nice beyond what Ilya ever imagined.

They’ve been going to the gym a lot. Ilya loves working out with Shane. He spots him as he benches, squats, deadlifts, and gets to see the way Shane pushes himself to do the extra weight this time that he couldn’t do last time. He’s always striving for more, and Ilya can see the true competitor in him so clearly. The winner. Shane can bench more but Ilya reigns on the squat rack. He waits until Shane just catches up to him to add another plate to each side of the bar for himself.

Shane’s jaw drops. “You asshole.”

“Sorry,” Ilya says. “Too heavy? I can ask someone else to spot me.”

He can feel Shane’s scowl burning through the back of his head during his set.

Shane drags Ilya to a yoga class, which is torture. Ilya sweats out every ounce of water in his body while trapped inside a hot, dark room that smells like incense and feet. And he has to watch as the instructor leans over Shane to push on his spine and hips to deepen the stretch.

“You feel it? Here?”

“Yes,” Shane gasps.

“Breathe through it. Really open your hips,” the instructor says, voice dreamy but stern. “Good. Good work. Inhale with me, that’s it, nice and deep.”

It’s actually kind of impressive how fiercely Shane ignores all of Ilya’s jealous teasing, which starts up the second the instructor is out of earshot.

Sometimes after they workout, they sit in the sauna together, inhaling the thick steam with their thighs touching on the bench. If they’re alone, Ilya might slide his arm around Shane to gently scratch his lower back. If he tries to touch him anywhere else, Shane slaps his hand away. He’s been clear so far about no public sex, but that doesn’t align with the look he gives Ilya sometimes, when Ilya can see in him that desire to be pushed. Then he gets Shane to undress beside him in an uncrowded corner of the locker room, standing too close together. Shane’s jaw clenches as he tries not to even look at Ilya, let alone acknowledge the things Ilya’s whispering to him under his breath—about his body, how strong he is, how much he wants to pull him into the shower and fuck him. Shane declines every time but then they get home, back to Shane’s, and Ilya gets to revel in the fruits of his efforts when Shane pushes him hard onto the bed and holds him down, kissing him meanly, only to roll over in complete submission as soon as Ilya pushes back. Moving Shane around the bed, when their muscles are simultaneously alive and fatigued, veins bulging, abs boldly outlined, is more rewarding to Ilya than any PR he’s ever hit.

Besides all the cooking and exercise and nights sitting beside each other on Shane’s deck, they stay up late fucking. Shane—Ilya is thrilled to discover in greater depth—has a drawerful of toys and lubricants. He has two waterproof blankets that are seeing a lot of regular washing. Ilya doesn’t know how it’s possible to be so satisfied yet still almost unbearably hungry for more.

Just last night Ilya came over late enough that Shane had fallen asleep on the couch. Ilya woke him up, took him to bed, and thought Ah, maybe an early night for us both, before Shane crawled into his lap and kissed him so sweetly, Ilya could think of no other option but to eat him out until he was shaking.

So when he wakes up the next morning, he heads home to do laundry and finalize a design for a client that afternoon, thinking the entire time of a truth he hadn’t understood before: apparently it was possible to run himself ragged with pleasure. He drags his body to work, feeling like the best of him is still asleep in Shane’s bed.

Shane wanders into Love is Evil late in the afternoon.

“Hi, Svetlana.”

Her gaze flicks up briefly from the wrist she’s tattooing. “Hello, kotyonok.”

Shane rolls his eyes; he knows that one. He walks over to Ilya’s station, where he’s bent diligently over the large stomach of a large man, finishing the outline of an eagle with a snake in its talons. Ilya doesn’t say anything as Shane appears beside him, peering at his work over his shoulder. Shane watches the way Ilya pulls the lines without shaking and loves the way his brow furrows in deep concentration. Shane doesn’t say anything either, mesmerized as the thick, black strokes appear on this man’s stomach as if placed by a paintbrush and not a needle.

When Ilya finishes the section, he wets a paper towel and wipes gently over the ink and blood, leaving clean lines behind. Shane feels a small, tender twist in his chest at the lightness of Ilya’s touch.

“Really nice,” Shane comments.

The man groans and says, “Doesn’t fucking feel nice.”

“Oh. Sorry. It looks good, though.”

“What are you thinking?” Ilya asks his client, sitting up and twisting on his stool. “One session? Or we split it up? Is up to you.”

The man runs a hand through his thick hair, shaking his head. “Let’s bang this shit out, dude. I don’t want to sit through this twice.”

“Okay.” Ilya looks back up at Shane to answer his unasked question: “Late, I think.”

“Do you need anything?” Shane touches his shoulder, fingers the ragged hem of his sleeve. “I can get you some food, or a coffee, or—"

“No,” Ilya says. “I am good. Do not wait up for me.”

Shane examines Ilya’s face: weary eyes, stubble on his cheek, but both accompanied by a crooked smile aimed directly at Shane. Until Shane says, “You know…maybe you should sleep at your house tonight.”

Ilya frowns.

“No, I just mean—I’m waking up super early to go on this ride with Hayden, so if you go to your house tonight, you’ll probably get more sleep. Like, actual sleep.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I want you to not crash your motorcycle because you’re too tired.”

Svetlana, from behind them, says, “I agree.”

Ilya snaps something at her in Russian and she snaps back the same way. Shane thinks it’s more playful than actually angry, but admittedly, in Russian, it’s hard to tell.

“Okay,” Ilya says, looking at Shane again. “But I will see you tomorrow, yes?”

Shane smiles. Privately, he thinks it’s very funny how quickly not tonight turned into every night. “Yeah. I’ll text you when I’m home from my ride.”

“Okay.”

“Cool.”

He lingers there, wondering if it would be insane to kiss Ilya goodnight here, in the middle of his work day, while he’s with a client. The answer is yes.

“Bye,” Shane says.

Ilya nods. “Bye.”

Shane drops his hand from Ilya’s shoulder and heads out, glancing from the doorway to see Ilya smiling to himself.

Back in the shop, he joins Rose behind the counter.

“Check in on your man?” she asks.

Shane huffs, but he can’t help smiling. “Yes.”

“Uh huh. I didn’t even have to ask. You’ve got that whole I’m-so-in-love glow going on.”

Shane doesn’t say anything to that. Rose crosses her arms, leaning back against the counter. It’s been a slower day. Shane should probably just tell her to head home early.

“So,” she says. (Too late.) “You guys are fully dating now…right?”

Shane needlessly rearranges the items around the register. “I mean, yeah. Kind of.”

“Kind of?” Rose balks. “Oh god, what does that mean?”

“It means kind of! It means—fuck. Yes, we’re dating.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You’re together?”

“Yes.”

“And you totally love him?”

Again, Shane doesn’t answer her. She stares him down until he breaks.

“It’s complicated,” Shane finally mutters. “He’s…sensitive. About some things.”

Rose laughs. “Sensitive how?”

“I don’t know. Like…I can tell there are things he doesn’t want to talk about with me.”

She picks up a pen and twirls it in her fingers. “Like that he’s in love with you and wants to move into your house and keep you there as a sex slave?”

Shane tries not to convey any particular consideration he’s giving to that suggestion. “No. I mean, maybe. But no, it’s more like…there’s stuff he still hasn’t told me about himself. And when I ask, he gets…”

“Sensitive,” Rose supplies.

“Right.”

“Well,” she says, “what kind of stuff?”

The sidewalk outside is busy enough for Shane to reasonably look at instead of looking at Rose. “Like, if I ask the wrong thing about Russia, or his family, or even sometimes Svetlana, he sort of finds a way around answering it directly, or just flat out brushes it off. He’s really good at distracting me.”

Rose nods. “Yeah, I think we’ve all gathered that.”

“Whatever,” Shane says. “And it’s fine. I don’t mind waiting to talk about that stuff until he’s ready, but sometimes it’s just so obvious that he’s thinking about something…sad.”

In the back of Shane’s mind, there’s a running tab of all his days and nights with Ilya, and the many questions he’s asked that have gone unanswered.

Do you like living with Svetlana?

Do you have any siblings?

What are your parents like?

Do you miss Russia?

Why did you leave?

“You’re better than me,” Rose says. “If he was my boyfriend, I don’t know if I could let sad secrets slide.” When Shane looks away shiftily, she adds, “Don’t tell me he’s sensitive about the word boyfriend. Shane—”

“Look, I’m happy with the way things are going, and if he needs time to take things further, I can give him time.” Shane brushes nonexistent dust from his shirt. “I just—” He runs a hand through his hair, tries to pretend his neck isn’t as hot as it is. “I really care about him. A lot. And I don’t want to fuck it up with him by pushing him before he’s ready, you know?”

Rose’s face falls. She wasn’t around during the final, miserable crawl of Shane’s cycling career and last relationship, but she’s been around long enough to have gathered more than the gist of what happened.

“I don’t think you’re going to fuck it up with him,” she says. “But hopefully he doesn’t fuck it up with you. Right?”

Shane shrugs. It’s sad, he considers then, to be thirty-two years old and so pathetic. So he says, “You’re right.”

“I know. So are you bringing him to Jackie and Hayden’s thing? It’d be nice to actually get to know him.”

The barbecue—fuck, Shane still hasn’t even asked him.

“Maybe,” he says. “He might be busy that day. Not sure yet.”

If Rose suspects the lie, she’s kind enough to let it go. Shane goes back to his office and pretends he doesn’t feel anxious about asking his sort-of-boyfriend to come with him to a stupid barbecue.

Ilya: Finally home.

Shane: Same. Now you can get some sleep!

Ilya: First I have a question.

Shane: What?

Ilya: What are you wearing?

Shane: I’m in bed.

Ilya: So nothing?

Shane: Boxers.

Ilya: What color?

Shane: Black. The same color as the inside of your eyelids when you close them.

Ilya: Ugh. So boring.

Shane: I’ll be more exciting tomorrow! And rested!

Ilya: Fine. Goodnight moy lyubimyy.

Shane: :) I like that one.

Ilya: Yeah I know.

Shane: Goodnight :)

Ilya wakes up the next day a new man after ten straight, solid, throbbing hours of sleep. As soon as he’d gotten in the door last night, he’d known Shane was right to send him home. He didn’t even smoke his second of the two cigarettes he’s allowing himself per day, instead eating a fast take-out meal with Svetlana in the kitchen before going to his bedroom, texting Shane, then opening his album of photos from Shane, before passing out with his phone still lit up in his palm on the mattress. It had been a great sleep.

When he finally gets out of bed, he takes a long shower and ponders the unfamiliarity of it. It’s more cramped than Shane’s and he hits his elbow on the wall. He washes himself and realizes he’s forgotten what his own soap smells like.

He takes his time shaving; it’s been a few days and though Ilya likes the facial hair, Shane likes it best when it’s only a shadow. As he wipes the remnants of cream from his face, he uses the moment to look over himself in the mirror. The extra time in the gym is showing. He wants a new tattoo, maybe on his stomach. His hand is drawn to his chest, fingertips running over the Cyrillic letters there.

You would like him, he thinks. He is good, like you.

Ilya takes a photo of himself in the mirror and sends it to Shane.

Ilya: Well? Do I look rested?

After a few minutes pass with no reply, Ilya remembers the bike ride. Shane had said they’d be gone most of the day, some trail system an hour north of here where they’d be stuck in a loop in the wooded foothills until they got back out. He texts again: Send me something when you take a break. Make Hayden take the pic so I can see all of you. Front and back.

He puts his phone away and finds Svetlana in the living room, working on a design on her tablet. He joins her there on the couch and enjoys a couple of quiet hours with her, working side by side. It’s been a while since he put any new designs up on Instagram but he feels alight with creative energy. It’s autumn now: time for angry black cats with brown eyes and whiskers across their cheeks. He smiles to himself doing it. When Svetlana demands to see, she rolls her eyes.

They ride to the shop together, Svetlana on the back of his bike for the first time in a long time. She laughs when he’s hot off the line at a red light, and Ilya thinks about how much he’d like it to be Shane’s laugh in his ear. He probably wouldn’t laugh, though. He’d tell Ilya to slow down, and Ilya would, until the next stretch of pavement where he could really open things up. Then maybe Shane would hold Ilya’s chest and laugh.

They walk over to Love is Evil from the alley. Downtown Spokes is open, but it’s only Rose inside, helping a customer near the window. Ilya looks in anyway as he walks by. She sees him and waves so he waves back, and it’s nice to have people around who wave to him.

His work day goes to plan and by the early evening when he still hasn’t heard from Shane, he goes out to dinner with Svetlana and she mentions again how Ilya should bring Shane to their house some night instead of always going to Shane’s.

“It’s not fair that you keep him all to yourself,” she says. She points at Ilya with a chopstick. “He and I might be best friends if you would let us get to know each other before I’m gone.”

“Ah, yes,” Ilya says. “That’s exactly what I want.”

“What, you don’t want your wife and your boyfriend conspiring against you?”

Ilya smiles and shrugs; that’s the last door he wants to open with her right now—any part of it.

Finally, right when they’re paying and boxing up leftovers, Ilya’s phone chimes with a text.

Unknown number: It’s Hayden. Hospital with Shane. He’ll call later.

Ilya’s heart drops into his stomach, along with too much sushi and a couple of sakes and the desperate need for a cigarette, all of which churn together and make him think for a moment he might actually be sick. A fleet of bad memories races through him: frantic phone calls and paramedics and silent funerals; unlocked doors and shame of every kind and leaving everyone he’d ever known.

“Ilyusha,” Svetlana says. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” He presses the call button but nobody picks up.

Ilya: What happened?

Ilya: Hayden

Ilya: Answer the phone and let me talk to him

Ilya: Please

Unknown number: He’s fine! Chill! We’re literally at the hospital.

Ilya: WHAT HAPPENED

When he calls again and gets sent to voicemail, he slams his phone face down on the table.

“Ilya,” Svetlana hisses.

He stands. “Hayden texted me he’s at the hospital with Shane.”

“Is he okay?”

“I don’t fucking know.” Standing was a mistake. He feels a little lightheaded.

Svetlana takes his phone and reads the exchange, nodding as she does. “Hayden says he’s fine. Just take a breath and—”

He’s out the door before she can stop him, taking out his cigarettes and lighter with trembling hands. He drops the lighter and curses, clawing it out of the dirt. Svetlana comes through the door and leans beside him. She doesn’t say anything but hands his phone back to him before resting her head on his shoulder. By the time he’s smoked the cigarette down to the filter, he’s steady enough to get them home.

“Are you coming in?” she asks in the driveway.

“No.”

She gives him a hug; he barely even feels it. “He’s fine, okay?”

“Yes.”

“Drive safe. Breathe.”

Ilya nods under his helmet before taking off up the road.

Shane keeps his eyes closed during most of the car ride home. Hayden drives, chatting away about how they’ll have to go back and do the trail again some other time. They finally pull into Shane’s driveway and Shane gets out to open the garage.

“And, you know,” Hayden says, stepping out of the car behind him, “maybe next time you won’t crash.”

Shane glares at him. His wrist is throbbing in its brace, his back hurts, and the flesh on his right arm is tender and stinging.

“Aren’t you going home?” Shane says.

Hayden laughs. “I mean, I will. Gladly if you’re going to be in this shitty mood. But I thought you wanted to use my phone?”

Oh, that’s right. On top of Shane’s sprained wrist, sore back, and raw arm, his phone was smashed.

Hayden takes Shane’s bike off the rack. Shane can’t even bear to look at it as Hayden rolls it in and props it up against the stand.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” Hayden comments. “Oh, but your derailleur’s fucked.”

Shane heads for the door. “I don’t even want—” He cuts himself off, finally noticing Ilya’s motorcycle parked beside his other bikes.

The door opens before he can get to it.

“Hi,” Shane says. He ignores Hayden’s surprised huff behind him.

Ilya steps into the garage. His eyes are narrow, hair mussed like he’s been running a hand through it over and over. He reeks of cigarettes when he comes closer and Shane takes a half-step back.

“Christ, Shane,” Ilya says, surveying his ripped shirt and wrist brace and the gravely red rash on his hands.

“It looks worse than it is,” Shane says. But then he flinches when Ilya lightly touches his arm, and the look of nauseated concern that crosses Ilya’s face is enough to make Shane feel almost guilty for crashing. “I was going to call you—my phone broke.”

“What,” Ilya says, closing his eyes and inhaling hard through his nose, “happened?”

“I thought Hayden texted you?” Shane turns around to look at Hayden, who was evidently about to go back to his car.

“I did!” Hayden says.

Ilya spews something so fast and sharp in Russian, Shane can’t even begin to pick out the words he might know.

“Hey, I told you he was fine,” Hayden argues. “And he is. So anyway, Shane, you coming in tomorrow or taking it off?”

“He is taking it off,” Ilya says.

Shane stifles an eyeroll. “I don’t know yet. I’ll text you in the morning, okay?”

“Da, ya napishu yemu chtoby on blyad ugomonilsya a potom budu yego ignorirovat. Asshole.”

“Ilya—"

“Alrighty then,” Hayden says. “Later.” He walks out of the garage with his hand held up in farewell over his shoulder.

Shane closes the garage door behind him, then silently follows Ilya into the house. He has the feeling somehow that’s he’s…in trouble? It’s like he can see the irritation radiating off Ilya’s shoulders, out the back of his head. But then Shane swears loudly when he bumps his wrist on a chair, a white flash of pain ripping through him, and when he opens his eyes, Ilya has turned to face him and Shane doesn’t see anger at all; it’s just fear.

Ilya comes to him but doesn’t touch.

“Sorry,” Shane says.

Ilya shakes his head. “Are you okay?”

“It’s just a sprain. This black bear came running out of the woods and I flipped the bars, landed on a cactus. Hayden was picking spines out of my arm the whole hike out. I think half of them ended up in his hand. The doctors put this adhesive on me and basically waxed my whole arm.”

Shane tries for a smile but Ilya doesn’t return it.

“I hate that you are hurt,” Ilya finally says.

“Yeah, me too. But I’m okay. I’m sorry…if I scared you.”

“Can I touch you?”

Shane turns to the side so his right arm and wrist are safe, then holds out his left arm so Ilya can mold himself into the good side of him. Ilya kisses Shane’s mouth first, then his cheek and neck before sighing into his skin.

“I’m really sorry I didn’t call you,” Shane murmurs. “I thought Hayden told you—”

“It does not matter.” Ilya pulls back and tucks his hand under Shane’s chin. “Come to bed.” He says it in a voice that makes Shane think he’s in a very different kind of trouble. But then: “I have been waiting here all fucking night and I am tired.”

Shane laughs and follows him toward the bedroom.

“I don’t need this,” Shane protests, but he lifts his arms anyway and lets Ilya delicately pull his shirt over his head and around his hurt arm, wincing all the while. He lets Ilya take his pants off, and his socks, and then push him into the bathroom to examine his entire body in the light. He kisses Shane’s shoulder, just above the first red puncture wound. Shane watches Ilya’s face for a sign of what he’s thinking, but now that he’s so close to sleep, the exhaustion is like a weight pulling his eyelids shut.

“How could you crash?” Ilya asks. “I thought you were a professional.”

“Don’t make fun of me. It’s embarrassing.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. His eyes and tone both finally soften. “But you are okay.”

Shane nods slowly. “I’m okay.”

Shane has to lie on his left side in bed so instead of spooning, Ilya lies facing him. He touches Shane’s stomach and chest, careful to avoid the tender spots. Shane watches Ilya’s face the whole time, his blue eyes and dark brows, the enticing curve of his mouth that Shane could probably draw by heart now if he had to. God. He’s in so, so deep here, made worse as Ilya leans in to kiss him.

“Hey,” Shane whispers when they break apart.

“Yes?”

“Will you go to this party with me? At Hayden’s?”

Shane smiles when he hears Ilya scoff quietly.

“It’s just a barbecue,” Shane says. “You can meet my other friends, and see the baby. She’s really cute. Please?”

“Of course,” Ilya says.

Of course? Had it really been that easy?

“Really?” Shane asks.

“Yes. But only because you are hurt. And because maybe I will get a chance to ruin Hayden’s little party.”

“How?”

“Easy. Steal his wife, make his baby love me more than him. Should be simple. Normal night for me.”

Shane laughs as his eyes drift shut with relief. He finally falls asleep.

Shane doesn’t go to work the next morning; Ilya makes sure of that. He cooks breakfast for Shane—professionally folded omelets with vegetables and the perfect amount cheese, coffee brewed just right, and even freshly squeezed orange juice.

Shane takes one bite—unsteadily, with his nondominant but only usable hand—and stares at Ilya. “This is really good.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t know you could cook anything.”

“I can cook many things.” Ilya finishes cleaning up and sits down across from Shane with his own plate. “You cannot. I try to help you and you do not let me.”

“Yeah, well…” Shane lets his complaint peter out into nothing as he takes another bite. He’d woken up too early in pain, which had woken Ilya, and Ilya was faster than him to get up and get the medicine the doctor had prescribed. He brought Shane water and a pill, then they fell back asleep for another couple of hours. By the time they got up, it was late morning, and Shane didn’t even try to go to work.

“Can I use your phone?” Shane asks.

Ilya stills. “I already texted Hayden for you.”

“Great. I’m sure you were very nice. But no, I wanted to call my mom if that’s okay?” Shane holds his hand out and Ilya puts his phone in it. “She called yesterday and I didn’t get a chance to call her back before my phone broke.”

Shane stands from the table, feeling a bit like he should go somewhere private, but that’s stupid, right? He can talk to his mom in front of his…Ilya. It’s not a big deal.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Shane?” she asks. He can hear the sink running in the background and the shush of the water turning off. “What phone number is this?”

“Ilya’s. My phone broke. I’m getting a new one later today.”

“Oh, it’s Ilya’s, huh?” she says. “And how is Mr. Motorcycle?”

God, Shane is glad he didn’t put her on speaker. “He’s fine. Anyway, I just didn’t want you to worry when you didn’t hear back from me.”

“What happened?”

Shane toys with not saying it. Anything could’ve happened to his phone. It fell on the sidewalk. Someone stole it. It dropped into the toilet and the situation was such that it was not worth retrieving. But as painful as his wrist is, it’s somehow even more painful to lie.

“Had a, uh…small crash yesterday. But I’m fine.”

“On the motorcycle?”

“No!” Shane says. “On my bike. I was riding with Hayden and—”

“Are you hurt? What happened?”

Shane sighs and goes into it: the bear, the cactus, hiking out, the hospital. She lectures him for a few minutes about bear spray and emergency radios before Shane finally cuts her off.

“Okay, I have to go. Ilya needs his phone back.”

“No, I don’t,” Ilya says. Shane jumps; he hadn’t realized Ilya was right behind him, leaning against the kitchen table.

“Oh, is that him?” his mom says. “Let me talk to him.”

“Mom, he doesn’t—”

She cuts him off with another insistence and Shane reluctantly holds the phone out to Ilya. “She wants to talk to you…If you don’t want—”

Ilya takes the phone and brings it to his ear. “Yes, hello, Mrs. Hollander.” He winks at Shane and his stomach does a backflip.

“He is okay,” Ilya says. “Yes, just a sprain. Some scratches.” Ilya laughs at something she says, which makes Shane smile. But then there’s a long stretch of silence which Shane is sure his mom is filling with well-meaning harassment about the motorcycle until Ilya’s face falls, just barely. “Yes,” Ilya says again. “I am taking good care of him. Don’t worry.”

Shane wants to pull his shirt over his head and go back to sleep.

“It was nice to meet you, kind of,” Ilya says. “Yes. Maybe someday. Goodbye.” He hangs up and slips the phone into his back pocket.

“Sorry. She’s a lot but she means well,” Shane says. “What all did she say to you?” He tries to keep his voice as uninterested as possible but of course Ilya sees through it. He ruffles Shane’s hair and Shane swats his hand away.

“She said—” Ilya puts both hands on Shane’s hips. “—you are a special guy. Very stubborn. And not to let you tell me you do not need help.”

“Is that all?”

“No. She also said she hopes we will meet in person eventually. She has heard a lot about me. How much do you tell her?”

“Jesus.”

Ilya leans in to kiss him, careful not to touch his right arm even as he pulls Shane deeper into him. Shane’s mind races with the realization that his mom and Ilya just met, that they know each other now, that they’re no longer just names in the stories he tells to one or the other. His heart beats like a bouncing rubber ball held close to the pavement, faster and faster. Ilya murmurs some Russian into his mouth—so pretty, maybe? What was that word? Krasivyy? Beautiful, or pretty, or something like that. Shane says tenuously, “You too,” and Ilya grins as he kisses him. Shane tries to ignore how much he wants to make him smile like that every single day.

Ilya goes over to Shane’s every night that week. It’s not a big deal—he just wants to make sure he’s okay. And considering Shane can barely stand to move his injured wrist and hand for the first seventy-two hours after the crash, Ilya doesn’t feel too bad about it. Shane needs help with ice packs, and opening the pill bottle, and getting dressed. And getting undressed. Ilya decides he needs a lot of help getting undressed, whether Shane believes him or not. He’s in too much pain to do much but that’s okay. Ilya just likes being at Shane’s, and Shane needs him there, and even if it’s too much to admit out loud, Ilya really likes to be needed.

But on Thursday, Shane finally sends him home.

They’re talking on the sidewalk between their shops. Shane’s wearing sunglasses and an annoying little sneer that Ilya loves.

“I don’t need you to do my laundry,” Shane insists. He’s also wearing a shirt Ilya’s never seen before, a too-tight black t-shirt he must’ve pulled from the back of his closet. Ilya can’t stop looking at his chest in it. “I don’t need you to do anything.”

“You can do nothing. Your wrist is still swollen,” Ilya says.

“Barely.” Shane raises it up between them like showing it off in its brace proves anything. At least the red marks all over his arm are almost nearly gone. “Anyway, I have to wake up really early tomorrow to get here in time for this delivery.”

Ilya frowns. “Okay?”

“Okay, so, I think you should maybe go home tonight so you don’t also have to wake up early.”

“Last time you said that, you almost died.”

“I did not almost die,” Shane insists. “I sprained my wrist. Mildly. You’ve been taking care of me all week and honestly, you look exhausted.”

“And you look ungrateful. Zloy.”

Shane pushes his chest lightly. “Just go home and get some fucking sleep, okay? Chain smoke with Svetlana and eat gross take-out and argue all night, or whatever it is you guys do together.”

Ilya doesn’t know whether or not to laugh. Shane isn’t totally wrong, and yet somehow the assessment oddly stings. Has it been that obvious to other people that they’ve been arguing lately? She doesn’t love that he’s been gone so much but he knows she understands. Shane needs him. And there’s nothing he can do for Svetlana these days anyway, and nothing he would dare ask her to do for him. But maybe he’s been unfair to her, being away so constantly.

“Fine,” Ilya says.

Shane leans in to kiss him quickly. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

Ilya watches Shane walk all the way inside and through the bike shop before finally turning around and heading back to work.

Ilya: How is your wrist solnyshko?

Shane stops getting dressed to stare at his phone in disbelief. It’s 5:30am the following day.

Shane: Hi. It hurts! Why are you up so early?

Ilya: Sorry. Could not sleep more.

Shane: The whole point of you going home was so you could sleep in. What’d you do last night?

Ilya: Sveta and I had pizza and watched a movie. Smoked two cigarettes. Not a chain.

Shane: You know the nicotine is probably what’s fucking up your sleep health.

Ilya: No, it is good. Cigarette would never hurt me like that.

Shane: >:(

Ilya: Sleeping alone was the problem. Not worth it.

Shane: Missed me?

Ilya: Yes. And missing you extra right now.

Shane knows where this is going; still, he can’t help himself.

Shane: Oh yeah?

Sure enough, Ilya sends a photo of his bare chest and stomach, his hand mostly covering the head of his hard cock.

Shane: Don’t start. I have to leave and my wrist is killing me. I couldn’t jerk off right now even if I had time.

Ilya: You can’t. But I can.

Shane: So go do it.

Ilya: Oh I will. Send me something ))

Shane: I’m supposed to send you something so you can jerk off without me? I’m in pain!

Ilya: Do this for me now and I’ll take care of you later.

Shane: Really?

Ilya: Of course. If you are up for it.

Shane’s back and arm aren’t hurting anymore, and his wrist still aches but the swelling’s finally gone down. It would be nice to have something to look forward to tonight…

Shane: I might be. But I think you’re probably going to take care of me later regardless and right now I need to go. Sorry! Take a cold shower!

He zips up his jeans over his half-hard dick.

Shane: Or maybe send me another picture and I’ll see what I can do. But I have to leave in 5 minutes. Seriously.

Shane waits, surprised when Ilya doesn’t immediately respond. He’d sort of been kidding by saying no; Ilya knows by now how much he likes this game. But finally, Shane has no choice but to leave, grabbing his wallet from the dresser and heading for the door, when a voice message comes through from Ilya.

There’s only breathing at first, the rustle of bedding, some soft movement. Then Ilya’s low voice: “Is too late for a cold shower, I think. And since you did not take my deal, I thought maybe I would show you what you will be missing tonight. I know you like to hear me talk so here you go, Shane. Me talking. You can listen while I touch my cock.”

Shane walks back to his living room, taking a seat on the couch.

“I was just looking at the pictures we took when you said you would let me do anything to you. I get hard every time I think about it. Fuck, Shane. I can still feel it, how hard you came on my cock that night, like you are here right now. So send me something or don’t. Does not matter. Maybe I have enough of you in my head.”

It’s quiet for another few seconds again, just rasping breaths. There’s a low moan and Shane leans back into the cushions, staring at the screen as the time ticks away. The message is four minutes long.

“Woke up this morning thinking about our first time together,” Ilya’s voice goes on, hitched and quiet. “In your office. Maybe I was dreaming about that fucking jockstrap. When I asked you why you were wearing it, you said we’re on a date, like that was what you always did. But I knew you did not do that for everyone. I knew you wore it for me. You wanted me to fuck you so bad you did not even try to hide it from me. All through our date, I saw it. Your eyes, Shane. Fuck.

“I was also thinking about that day maybe…two weeks ago. Or three, I don’t know. It all blurs together. But you will remember it. We were at your house after breakfast at that diner you did not want to go to, and you were on your knees in your garage because you could not wait. I wanted to take you inside and fuck you but you said no because you did not want to get ready. But you still wanted me to do the work. Chert, kak by ya khotel, chtoby ty byl zdes'. Your fucking knees were—blyat—were red when you got up, and your mouth was red. I made you spit cum in my hand so I could jerk you off. And you said ugh.”

Shane laughs at the same time Ilya does on the recording.

“But you did it. You barely even needed it anyway, so fucking wet all the time, then coming in my hand with my tongue in your mouth. Fuck, I am close, malysh. Maybe you want to hear me come like this.

“Do you want to hear it when I come on myself from thinking about your wet cock?

“Or maybe I will not let you hear it since you cannot even do one nice thing to help me. So selfish. I would never treat you as bad as you treat me.

“Unless that is what you want, maybe. Maybe you want me to come over later and tie your hands together. Or slap your pretty face with my cock. Punish you and not let you come for hours. Maybe you just want me to fuck you so hard you cannot think anymore.”

As Shane listens to Ilya’s ragged breathing, he feels like his own has stopped completely.

“Maybe I have not said it…but I would do anything you wanted too, Shane. Anything you ask for, you can have it. Just tell me. Maybe tonight all you want is for me to jerk you off since you can’t. Maybe I will not even fuck you at all.

“Fuck, Shane. I need another picture of you, on your knees taking my cock. You do not know how good you look that way. That is what I would do if you were here—put you on your knees and fuck you until you could not hold yourself up. Let your pretty cock come all over your stomach while I fuck you hard. Your fucking—blyat, khochu tvoy rot—Shane, this is what you do to me. I wake up thinking about you and it makes me like this. You want me to come for you now? Talking to you? Na russkom tak kak tebe nravitsya, tol'ko moy golos, ved' slov ty ne ponimayesh'?

“You are in trouble tonight, I think. Is over for you. Get yourself ready when you get home and wait for me. Like you did before. I am going to—fuck, Shane, I am going to co—"

Shane opens his eyes again to see what the fuck happened, only to discover that the message ends there. He laughs, rubbing his hand down his warm, flushed face. He’s achingly hard with no time, which he’s sure is exactly what Ilya wanted.

He takes a quick picture of his lap and sends it to him.

Shane: Fuck. You.

Ilya: We will see. Maybe if you are a good boy today.

Shane: What does that entail?

Ilya: Do what I said to do.

Shane leans back, counting his breaths until he’s finally able to stand up to leave. 

Shane doesn’t have a very good day. When he gets to work, the delivery driver is about to pull away, and Shane has to beg him to still drop off the order. Then there’s an inventory issue he can’t figure out, and a customer comes in looking for something somebody (not Shane) supposedly said they’d order for him (they didn’t). In the afternoon, a guy Shane knows from cycling comes in. He asks about Hayden so Shane tells him about the baby, and then when he sees Shane’s wrist, he asks excitedly if he crashed.

“Yeah, a few days ago,” Shane says.

“Shit. How’s the bike?”

Shane doesn’t want to talk about it, yet somehow his grimace and headshake open the conversation to: “It’s funny bumping into you. I was actually out riding with Cole a couple weeks ago and…”

Shane does as much expressionless nodding as he reasonably can before he’s finally saved by another customer with a problem.

On his drive home, he catches every red light, and a small rock falls off a work truck and cracks his windshield. He pulls up to his house to find the wind blew his recycling bin over before the truck came so his yard and the street are littered with debris. He picks it all up and drags the bin into the garage, his wrist feeling like a physical manifestation of his painful day.

Just before he gets in the shower, his phone lights up.

Ilya: 9 o clock. Be ready for me.

Shane stares at it. He’s in such a bad mood, he’s not sure he wants to play out whatever torturous night Ilya has been planning since that voice message earlier.

Maybe you want me to come over later and tie your hands together. Or slap your pretty face with my cock. Punish you.

Shane swallows; the bathroom fills with steam around him as he types and deletes several messages.

Shane: I don’t know about tonight after all.

Ilya: What?

Shane: Had kind of a bad day. I don’t know if I’m up for it.

Ilya: Okay.

Shane: Sorry.

Ilya: Don’t be. Can I still come over?

Shane: Of course.

Ilya: Good. So we can having boring night on the couch while you complain about your bad day.

Shane: Perfect.

Ilya: What else do you need?

Shane: Maybe you could rub my back?

Ilya: Okay. If you are good.

Shane: :))))

Shane’s in a much better mood after Ilya walks in the door. He sinks into a nice kiss in the entry way, then tells Ilya every shitty thing that happened during the day while one-handedly assembling food for him.

“I can do that,” Ilya says, reaching.

Shane pulls the bowl away from him. “And it’s not like I’ve never crashed before. Obviously I have. Everybody crashes.” Shane leads Ilya to the couch. He sets the bowl on the coffee table before collapsing into his seat. “But it’s like, of course it would be today that Taylor comes into the shop.”

Ilya sits beside him and picks up his food. “You do not like him?”

“It’s not that.” Shane lets his head drop onto the back of the couch. “I just know he used to be really close with Cole. I don’t know if he still is, but…”

“But he picked him in the breakup, yes?”

Shane rubs the inner corners of his eyes with his good hand. “Yeah. And, I mean, if they are still close, I know he’ll say something to Cole about seeing me, and about my crash, and I just—” Shane shakes his head, jaw flexing with irritation. “I just don’t want him to know anything about my life now. We haven’t talked in almost two years. Hayden talks to him sometimes but he always tells me about it, and I know he’d never tell him anything about me.”

“Why does Hayden even talk to him?” Ilya asks through a mouthful.

“They were friends before we met. I don’t want to tell him who he can and can’t talk to.”

“Ah, sure you don’t.”

“Whatever.”

Ilya smirks into his bowl, finishing the meal and setting it on the table. Shane’s wrist aches in the compression bandage and he flexes his fingers, which only hurts more.

“Do you have anybody in your past like that?” he asks.

Ilya touches Shane’s hand, stopping his fingers from moving by pressing them gently to the cushion. “Anybody like what?”

“Like…an ex? Or somebody you don’t talk to anymore, I guess.”

Ilya readjusts on the couch, coming closer. “No. What else bad happened today?”

“Nobody?” Shane asks. “I don’t believe you don’t have an ex.”

“Shane,” Ilya says seriously. “There is nobody in my past who wants to know anything about me now. Okay?”

Shane frowns, but he says, “Okay.”

“So what else? Or are you finally done complaining?”

“That’s everything,” Shane says. “Oh. And my wrist still fucking hurts.”

Ilya tugs on the drawstrings of Shane’s sweatshirt. “Wow. You are even whinier than I thought you would be tonight.”

“Fuck you.”

Ilya pulls Shane toward him by the collar. He forces him to lie down, to put his head in Ilya’s lap, and Shane’s chest seems to cave in on itself as Ilya drags a finger across his cheekbone.

“Better?” Ilya asks.

Shane nods and closes his eyes. They stay that way in silence for a while, Shane drifting in and out a little, never quite falling asleep but lulled close to it by Ilya’s gentle caresses.

“Shane,” Ilya says.

“Hmm?”

“Let’s go to bed, yes?”

Shane rises slowly, eyes half-closed, and drags himself to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. Ilya comes in behind him and does the same, and it’s so nice to have him there, Shane doesn’t even mind too much when Ilya laughs at his uncoordinated struggle to brush his teeth with the wrong hand.

“Do you need help?” Ilya asks.

Shane spits in the sink. “No.”

“You should let me do it. Would be easier.”

“Don’t baby me.”

Ilya puts a hand through the back of Shane’s hair and gives it a gentle tug. “Then don’t be a baby.”

Ilya gets into bed first, seating himself in the middle with his back to the headboard. He spreads his legs and pats the mattress. Shane’s nose scrunches with confusion but he goes, getting on his knees between Ilya’s legs.

“Turn around,” Ilya says, twirling his finger in the air. “You asked for this. Remember?”

Shane understands then and turns, letting his legs stretch out along the inside of Ilya’s, and leaning back into Ilya’s firm hands as he starts to massage Shane’s shoulders.

“Fuck, that feels good,” Shane says.

Ilya laughs. “You are easy to please.”

“Maybe.”

The lights are dim, the window cracked the way Shane likes. His mind wanders with Ilya’s hands on him, back to the morning, before the rest of the day went so wrong. That voice message.

“Do you really just look at those pictures of me when you jerk off?” Shane asks.

“No,” Ilya says. “Not just when I jerk off.”

Shane smiles and settles more against Ilya. Ilya’s stomach and chest expanding with his steady breath is like a warm metronome of comfort that radiates into Shane.

“Why?” Ilya asks. “What do you look at?”

“Nothing usually.”

“No?”

“If I look at anything, it’s pictures of you,” Shane says. “The ones you’ve sent me. But now I’m probably just going to listen to that voice message every time.”

Ilya trails his hands down Shane’s arms, scratching lightly in a way that starts to make Shane very sleepy. Ilya caresses both of Shane’s thighs before bringing his hands back to Shane’s neck.

“You’re so good at this,” Shane says softly.

“A shoulder rub is not hard.”

“No, I mean…” Shane leans back into Ilya completely, forcing his arms to come around and hold him. Ilya clasps his hands together on Shane’s bare stomach. “I just feel so much better.”

“Ah,” Ilya says, kissing Shane’s hair. “So you are ready for your punishment after all.”

Shane laughs. “No. But some other time, yes.”

“You liked the message?”

Shane turns his head to look at Ilya out of the corner of his eye. “You know I did.”

“Is that the real reason your day was bad?” Ilya unclasps his hands and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Shane’s boxer briefs. Shane’s stomach clenches. “Because you started it so hard and could not do anything about it on your own?”

Shane takes a sharp inhale when Ilya digs into his hips. “No. I liked that part.”

“Mm, I thought so.” Ilya kisses Shane’s ear, letting his thumbs burn smooth circles into Shane’s skin. Shane sighs happily, closing his eyes as his head drifts back against Ilya’s collarbone.

“Not in the mood to be punished,” Ilya says. “Does that mean not in the mood for anything?”

Shane smiles without opening his eyes, half-hard from the attention even before Ilya started teasing him. “What did you have in mind?”

Ilya sits up, pulling Shane with him so Ilya has more access to his neck and cheek. Over Shane’s boxer briefs, Ilya runs his hands down Shane’s hipbones to the creases where his thighs meet his pelvis, swiping gently up and down them with varying pressure from his thumbs.

“That’s nice,” Shane breathes.

“If you want, I can rub more than your shoulders. Just massage. Very professional.”

“I’m sure.”

Ilya moves to Shane’s inner thighs, pushing his hands in between them and pulling his legs apart. Ilya massages the muscles there, then Shane’s quads, the sides of his ass, before traveling up Shane’s torso to cup his chest without his hands ever leaving Shane’s body. Shane hums through it, giving in to the pleasure. He feels Ilya’s cock hard against his back.

“Did you tell your dick this is a professional massage?”

“He knows,” Ilya says, all the while running his mouth along the side of Shane’s neck, just grazing him with his lips. “He does not need anything. Just watching.”

Shane laughs quietly and Ilya brushes over his nipples with his fingertips until Shane’s neck arches. The sensations rush through him, sending a shiver to his stomach.

“Okay?” Ilya asks.

Shane nods. “Just feels good.”

Ilya pushes his hands down Shane’s stomach, stopping short of his cock, fully hard now and straining against the fabric, to massage the lines forming the vee of his pelvis.

“Fuck,” Shane exhales. His hand twitches on the bed and he brings it to Ilya’s knee.

“Ah, no. No touching, please,” Ilya murmurs into Shane’s ear. “I am a professional.” He pushes Shane forward and leans over to the nightstand, rifling through the drawer until he finds massage oil. He kisses Shane’s temple as he moves back into place. “Do you want to lie down?”

“No,” Shane says. “Can we stay like this?”

Ilya settles against the headboard again. The oil cap clicks open, filling the room with balsam and lemongrass as opalescent marbles drip onto Shane’s chest and stomach. Ilya rubs his hands lightly through them, smearing the oil across Shane’s whole torso in a smooth, circular path. He varies the pressure, light over his stomach but more forceful on his pecs before sweeping his hands back up to his shoulders.

“Lean forward,” Ilya says.

Shane only drops his chin, unwilling to move any further away, so Ilya drags his thumbs over the muscles in the back of his neck. He pushes his fingers into Shane’s hair and rolls his head, massages his temples. Shane’s wrist aches on the mattress beside him but he hardly feels it now. He moans softly when Ilya’s fingers drag down his sides, all the way back to his thighs. Without meaning to, Shane’s hips lift slightly off the bed.

“Relax,” Ilya murmurs. He kisses Shane’s ear. “I made you another offer in that message. Remember?”

Shane nods, eyes closed.

“Take these off,” Ilya says, tugging Shane’s waistband. With one hand, Shane pulls his boxers down, sitting up enough to strip them off and kick them away. As he settles again, his cock lays hard against his stomach, a wet spot already forming at the tip.

Ilya doesn’t touch it. He rubs Shane’s stomach while cupping his chest, playing with him for so long, Shane’s breath catches every time Ilya’s hand gets close. When Ilya raises his hand, Shane watches, waiting, before huffing as Ilya goes back to teasing.

“I said I didn’t want to be punished,” Shane says.

Ilya’s laugh is apologetic. “Oh, did you want more than this?”

Shane takes Ilya’s hand and brings it to his cock, gasping and arching his back when Ilya begins a fast stroke.

“Since you are trying to rush me,” Ilya says, holding Shane tight to him with a splayed hand over his chest, “maybe you are ready to come.”

“Holy shit,” Shane pants, fighting between closing his eyes and watching Ilya’s hands on him. “Not yet.”

Ilya slows. “I did not think so.” He rolls Shane’s balls in his palm then, laying warm kisses all over the side of this neck. “Better?”

Shane nods. Watching Ilya touch him like this is almost as good as the actual act. He loves the way every part of his body is against some part of Ilya’s. Ilya’s big thighs spread around him, knees slightly bent, are like a cage. Or a cradle.

“Do you want to try something?” Ilya asks quietly.

No hesitation: “Yes.”

“Get your phone.”

Shane smooths his hand over the bedspread until he finds it.

“Open the camera.”

Shane unlocks it, opening the camera and pointing it away from them.

“No,” Ilya says. “Face it this way.”

Shane’s finger stutters over the button but he does it, watching as his body and Ilya’s fill the screen. “Oh, god.”

The light in the room is warm, and his skin is shiny with oil. Ilya’s hand moving over his cock is like a potter pulling a vase from wet clay. Shane moves the camera up without thinking, and then he sees his face: flushed, wrecked, and now trying not to reveal how embarrassed and turned on he is by it. Ilya smiles over his shoulder.

“We look good together.” He strokes Shane faster and Shane lowers the camera again. Ilya takes his free hand from Shane’s chest and hovers a finger over the record button. “Yes?”

Shane swallows. “Yes.”

There’s a chirp as the recording starts. Shane holds the phone out so he’s only visible from his neck to his thighs.

“So beautiful, Shane,” Ilya murmurs into his ear.

“Love your hands,” Shane says. He wants to be embarrassed still, or nervous, being recorded, but suddenly instead he finds himself incredibly close to coming. What’s Ilya going to do with this video? Watch it on his own whenever Shane is busy? Make Shane watch it while they fuck?

“You want to see yourself come, malysh?”

“I don’t know.”

“You should see. Imagine you are watching someone else.” Ilya slows again, squeezing the head of Shane’s cock on each upstroke. “Or maybe you imagine someone else is watching you.”

“What?” Shane pants.

“You would like that, I think. If people saw this video. Everyone would tell you how perfect you look like this.”

“Jesus Christ.” Shane puts his head back and feels Ilya’s knee bump his arm up. Without opening his eyes, he knows the camera’s on his face now. He’s so close.

“You can close your eyes,” Ilya says. He quickens his stroke to just the pace and pressure Shane needs. “I have you. You can see later, how good you look. Do you want to come?”

“Fuck yes,” Shane says, writhing against Ilya, almost forgetting about the camera in his hand until Ilya bumps him with his knee again.

“Right there,” Ilya says. Shane feels teeth in his neck, a gentle kiss, cold air blown on the wet spot. “Come for me, sweetheart.”

As if he’d been waiting for the command, Shane comes across his stomach and chest, holding onto the phone without opening his eyes again as Ilya kisses his hair. When Ilya’s hand finally stops, Shane drops the phone onto the bed.

“So good,” Shane gets out. “Fuck.” He opens his eyes and picks the phone back up to stop the recording with another quiet chime.

Ilya wipes Shane’s body with his boxers before tossing them to the floor. Shane loves the way Ilya’s body flexes beneath his as he moves. Carefully, he turns around, kissing Ilya hard and cupping his cock.

Ilya pulls away. “Not yet.”

“I want to.”

Ilya shakes his head, sliding down the bed so he’s lying flat, and pulling Shane with him to tuck carefully under his arm. Shane snuggles against his chest, throwing a leg over Ilya’s. Shane’s good wrist is tucked beneath him and his sprained one is draped over Ilya’s stomach. He flexes his hand and winces.

“You don’t want me to?” Shane asks.

“No. I like this. I want you to relax.”

“Are you sure?”

Ilya touches Shane’s chin and turns his mouth up toward his, kissing him deeply. He nods into it. When they break apart, Shane looks down Ilya’s body.

“You do it,” he says. “And I’ll just…relax and keep you company.”

Ilya laughs and Shane buries his face in Ilya’s neck.

“No, is good,” Ilya says. “I just like the way you say it.”

Ilya palms himself through his boxer briefs, assessing almost, before taking his cock out and giving it a lazy stroke. Shane watches with his face pressed to Ilya’s chest.

“Is your turn to talk now, I think,” Ilya says.

Shane smiles. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Anything.”

Shane props himself up to look down at Ilya’s face. “I can’t do it like you.”

Ilya puts his free hand around the back of Shane’s neck. “Then do it like you.”

Shane rests his head again, bringing his body as close to Ilya’s as possible, inhaling the scent of him. “You’re so fucking hot.”

Ilya laughs; Shane groans.

“I like it, I like it,” Ilya says. “Tell me more.”

Shane tries to think of something hot, anything sexy to say, but what comes out more easily is: “I…really like the way you talk to me. Even when you’re being an asshole.”

Ilya palms the back of Shane’s head, pulling him up to face him again, their noses just an inch apart.

“And I love your mouth,” Shane says. Ilya smirks. “I mean I love the way you smile, the way your lips move. Sometimes I feel like I could just stare at your mouth for hours.”

“Doing what?” Ilya says in a low voice.

“Anything. And your body—it’s almost too much, how often I think about it.”

“Go on.”

Shane tries to drop his head, embarrassed, but Ilya doesn’t let him.

Shane swallows. “I probably think about you first thing every single day, even when you’re not here. And when you are here, I almost can’t believe it.”

“Ah, because I am so fucking hot?”

“Yes,” Shane says honestly. “And because you’re you. I love having you here with me. I love spending time with you.”

Ilya’s expression seems to oscillate precariously between soft and severe. Shane isn’t even trying to watch what’s going on with Ilya’s hand. He stays face to face with him as Ilya holds him in place.

“Can I tell you my favorite thing about you?” Shane asks. His voice is quiet. The only sound in the room is Ilya’s hand over skin.

Ilya nods.

“It’s the way you pay attention. You’re always checking in, making sure I’m good. It makes me feel so…taken care of. And it makes me want to take care of you, too.”

“You do.” Ilya’s breath goes ragged, turning sharper. He looks Shane in the eye and pulls his hair.

“I would do more,” Shane says, bringing his face even closer so he speaks the words directly into Ilya’s mouth. His heart starts beating hard enough that he’s sure Ilya can feel it. “You know…I—”

Ilya cuts Shane off with a hard kiss as he comes. Their teeth clash, their tongues swirl into each other’s mouths, and Ilya moans through it, the filth of it as he coats his stomach in cum, before taking a deep, deep breath and pushing it back out slowly. Shane smiles against his mouth.

But Ilya doesn’t let them bask in any of it; he jumps up and pulls Shane along for the world’s fastest, most cumbersome shower with Shane’s wrist staying on the other side of the glass.

Back in bed, Ilya holds him from behind. Shane feels his inhale against his hair. He can’t stop thinking about what he wanted to say, and if Ilya would’ve let him get it out if he had known.

Shane mumbles, “Goodnight,” into the pillow.

Ilya finally exhales. “Spokoynoy nochi, moy lyubimyy. Bol'she nikakikh razgovorov na segodnya.”

Shane’s in his bedroom getting dressed when he hears it: a mechanical growl that rips through his window and makes him jump. Ilya had stayed again last night, but he’d left in the morning for a client before taking the afternoon off for Hayden’s party. Shane goes to his front door and opens it, stepping out onto the porch.

“Hi,” Ilya says from the driveway. He revs the engine again and Shane resists plugging his ears.

“Hi. Can you please shut the fuck up? I have neighbors.”

“Come here.”

Shane walks barefoot down the steps, buckling his belt and tucking in his shirt.

“This is what you are wearing?” Ilya asks. “To a barbecue?”

“What’s wrong with it?” Shane looks down at himself: khaki shorts, leather belt, pale blue linen button-up.

“You look like you are going to work. Are you the manager of the party?”

“Leave me alone,” Shane says. But he untucks his shirt. “Why are you even here? I was getting ready to come pick you up in like ten minutes.”

Ilya pulls his helmet off to run a hand through his hair. Shane looks then at what Ilya has on: black jeans and a silky red Hawaiian shirt with way too many buttons open.

“What about you? Are you going to a luau?” Shane asks.

Ilya laughs. “Put on your shoes. Let’s go.”

Shane goes inside for his shoes and other things, the bottle of wine he bought, a toy for Ruby. He comes out the garage door with his car keys in his hand, expecting Ilya to pull in and get off, but he’s still idling in the driveway.

“Did you want…” Shane doesn’t finish his question. “I was going to drive.”

Ilya holds out the spare helmet for him. “This will be more fun. I promise.”

Shane doesn’t say anything, looking between Ilya and the bike with obvious discomfort. It’s been a while since Ilya’s asked—maybe a couple of months. He’s teased Shane here and there, of course, but always with the undercurrent of zero expectations.

“Shane,” Ilya says, leaning forward on the handlebars. “When have I ever asked you to do something I did not know you would like?” He laughs at Shane’s frown. “Come on, kotyonok.”

Shane meets Ilya’s eye and looks at him seriously. He expects to see more teasing, some sardonic quip dancing around back there—and there is a little of that for sure—but mostly what he sees is sincerity. Ilya just really wants Shane to go on this ride with him.

“I have not had a cigarette in two days,” Ilya says then. “I need a reward or I will probably smoke at the party.”

Shane huffs a laugh. It’s only a few miles. If he hates it, he’ll never have to do it again.

Shane shows Ilya the wine and the toy. “Am I just supposed to hold this stuff?”

“No, you wear this.” Ilya removes his backpack and holds it out. “And then you are my backpack.”

Ilya pats the seat behind him and Shane tries not to show how much he likes being beckoned. He zips up the bag with the gifts and puts it on, then the helmet next. It’s heavier than a bike helmet and the visor is dark, which is good; hopefully it’ll mask his terror.

“Perfect for you,” Ilya says. “Looks good.” Shane smiles even though Ilya can’t see it.

He hesitates then, unable for a moment to actually get on. His thoughts race:

Fuck, I don’t want to do this.

Or maybe I do.

Or maybe I just wish I wanted to.

Or maybe I just want to make him happy.

He rubs his chest; Ilya watches him over his shoulder but continues waiting in silence.

When have I ever asked you to do something I did not know you would like?

The answer rings as clearly in Shane’s ear as if it were spoken aloud: Never.

Shane throws his leg over the seat and sidles up to Ilya’s back, careful of his wrist. Putting his arms around Ilya’s torso, feeling the vibration and power culminating between his legs while Ilya gives him some basic instructions and prepares to move, Shane’s anxiety begins to mount. He’s probably going to sweat through his shirt by the time they reach the party. Maybe he’s going to be sick. Or pass out. But then they’re pulling away and cruising down the street, and within a mile, Shane knows Ilya was right.

Riding through the familiar streets he normally glides along on his bike, Shane likes the opportunity to look around as a passenger. They pass pedestrians on sidewalks, drivers with their arms hanging languidly out their car windows, and Shane likes that people are seeing them like this, even if they don’t know who they are. They’re seeing two men on a bike together, leaning together through the turns, holding each other. Shane may not be a man who can get a piercing, or a tattoo, but he is a man who rides motorcycles and likes it, and that’s exciting to learn about himself. He sweeps his hand up Ilya’s torso and Ilya takes it and gives it a squeeze. Shane thinks he can almost hear the smile cracking beneath Ilya’s visor.

As they idle at another red light, Shane’s body practically buzzing, Shane says, “You know, I’d probably get there faster on my bike.”

“You would not,” Ilya says, shouting over the noise. “You are fast but not that fast.”

“But I don’t have to stop at all these red lights. I can just go if it’s clear.”

“Ah, so you break the law. Okay. I did not know you were so bad.”

The light turns green and they pass another man on a motorcycle, who gives Ilya a gesture with his left hand, two fingers down, his index and middle finger pointed loosely at the pavement. Ilya returns it.

“What was that?” Shane asks at the next light.

“Two wheels on the ground,” Ilya says. “Is like, stay safe, good luck on your journey. Do not be reckless.”

“You all know it?”

“Yes. Is like a…community thing. Looking out for each other.”

“That’s really nice,” Shane says.

“It is.”

“I always tell you to get home safe. We could’ve had a signal this whole time.”

“Mm, no. You cannot use it. Is only for fast bikes with scary engines. Not nerds with toys.”

Shane squeezes him hard enough around the middle that Ilya sputters, laughing. He puts a hand on Shane’s thigh and grips back just as hard.

“Maybe if you’d shown it to me, I wouldn’t have crashed.” Shane rubs his hand up Ilya’s chest again. He wants to put it under Ilya’s shirt.

“Enough.” Ilya moves Shane’s hand back to his waist. “No more talking or touching unless you want to crash again. Get it together.”

Shane laughs, louder as Ilya hits the gas for the green light and they race away from all the cars and Shane’s fears.

When they make it to Hayden’s, Ilya whips into the driveway with more gusto than Shane thinks he might’ve done if he was alone. With the engine off, they can hear the chatter and laughter wafting from the backyard. Shane stands and takes his helmet off before handing it back to Ilya.

“Well?” Ilya asks.

Shane shrugs. “It was okay.”

Ilya pulls Shane to him by the shirt and kisses him. It’s slow and considered, his tongue sliding in briefly to tease him, and when he lets Shane go, Shane drifts forward for more.

“I think you liked it,” Ilya murmurs. He gives the waistband of Shane’s jeans a tug.

“Maybe.”

“We can take a longer ride next time,” Ilya says. “Maybe then you will be sure.” He tries to open a button on Shane’s shirt but Shane pushes him away. Ilya laughs and takes the backpack, putting an arm around Shane’s shoulders to guide him to the door.

Rose catches Ilya’s eye and waves as they walk in. A few people Ilya’s never met wave to Shane, then nod at Ilya curiously. Hayden comes over right away to greet them with the baby in his arms.

“Hey, just in time!” Hayden says. “I was looking for somebody to take her.”

Shane and Hayden swap the baby and the wine bottle, which Hayden hands off to Jackie as she’s passing on her way inside. Shane keeps the toy—a soft, crinkly brown dog that he crunches in his hand in front of the baby. Her eyes are wide like she can’t believe what she’s seeing, and Ilya feels like his probably don’t look much different; she’s easily the smallest baby he’s ever seen in person.

“What is her name?” Ilya asks.

“Ruby,” Shane says.

Ilya turns to Hayden. “She is very beautiful. Like your wife.”

Hayden stares at him suspiciously for two long seconds before saying, “Thank you.”

“Do you want to hold her?” Shane asks. Before the question’s even out of his mouth, he’s shifting her closer to Ilya like he’s about to plop her in his arms.

“I have never—” Ilya says.

Hayden cuts him off. “Come on, it’s great, and she’s going to have to go take a nap soon so this might be your only chance. Here.” Hayden takes her from Shane and shows Ilya what to do.

Before he can do anything to stop it, Ruby’s gurgling and snuggled against him with her fuzzy head in his palm. Ilya looks at her: tiny pink nose, brown eyes, chubby cheeks. Wow. He touches her stomach and she actually smiles, which makes him smile back like an idiot.

“I wish I had a picture of that,” Shane says. There’s a sweetness to it on the surface and something else brewing underneath. Ilya smirks.

Jackie comes up behind them. “Amazing, right?” She gives Shane a quick hug and then puts a hand on Ilya’s shoulder. “I’m Jackie. I don’t think we’ve met even though I kind of feel like we have.”

“Ilya,” he says. “You have a very nice home.” He looks at Ruby again. “This is good too.”

Jackie smiles, and wow, she is actually very hot. Ilya wonders how Hayden managed to get all this: the house, the wife, the beautiful baby, not to mention Shane’s loyalty. The urge to make a joke at Hayden’s expense is powerful, but somehow Ilya holds it in. When he accepted Shane’s invitation, he’d promised himself he would show up on his best behavior. Ilya may not especially care what any of these people think of him, but, if he’s being honest, he does care what they think of him and Shane.

He passes the baby to Jackie when she reaches for her, surprising himself by wondering privately if he’ll get a chance to hold her again. There’s a small brown dog running around and Ilya gets to meet her next.

The rest of the party is exactly what Ilya expected: all of Shane’s dorky cycling friends drinking light beer and standing around, dressed like they might jump on a bike at any moment. Most of them did ride here, judging by the bikes out front. Ilya sticks with Shane at first, but then, as the conversation turns to remember this, remember that with an old acquaintance Shane hasn’t seen in a while, Ilya walks away to talk to Rose for a bit instead. Unsurprisingly, she’s very funny and nice and glad he’s there. All of Shane’s friends are nice. Most of them shake his hand and introduce themselves right away, then ask him questions about himself.

“That’s gotta be your motorcycle out front, right?” a guy named JJ asks.

Ilya laughs. “What makes you think that?”

JJ laughs too. “Sorry, didn’t mean to stereotype you. It’s sick, though. How long you had it?”

Ilya enjoys the conversation and realizes he knows more about cycling than he thought he did as everyone tries to talk to him about their bikes in return. Once they start talking trails and chafing and chamois and being King of the Mountain, whatever that is, Ilya drifts back to Shane and slides into his conversation, fitting perfectly at his side.

Ilya gets to hold the baby again. After a quick nap, Jackie brings her back out, her cheeks flushed pink and rosy from sleep. When he asks Jackie if she needs any help setting up for the food, she says yes, then hands Ruby to him instead.

Shane comes over and squeezes Ruby’s plump arm.

“You have your phone?” Ilya asks him. When Shane looks at him in question, he mutters, “We need a picture, yes? Just for proof that my plan is working. Obviously.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Oh, should I step out so you can take one with Jackie, too?”

“Not yet,” Ilya says. “Do not rush the process.”

When Jackie returns, Shane asks her to take their picture. He hands his phone to her unlocked and stands beside Ilya, clearly torn between smiling at Ruby, Ilya, or the camera. They pose for a few photos, and then Jackie lowers the phone. Apparently, for some reason, she starts swiping through Shane’s recent photos because she says, “What’s this video of you guys in the dark?”

Shane jolts forward and practically slaps the phone out of her hands. “Sorry. Thank you. Sorry.”

Ilya laughs so hard, he has to use Ruby’s soft hand to wipe away a tear.

Jackie cracks up too as Shane scrambles to retrieve his phone from the grass. “Oh my god, my bad,” she says. “I should’ve known better than to swipe a man’s photos.”

Shane tries to laugh it off but mostly he just turns redder than Ilya has ever seen him. Jackie finally takes Ruby and walks away to tell people the food is ready.

“Did you not even hide it?” Ilya asks Shane, still so giddy his face is flushed.

“Hide it from who? Nobody else uses my phone!”

Ilya squeezes the back of Shane’s neck. “Fuck, I almost wish she would have seen. Might have helped my plan to steal her away from Hayden.”

“Shut. Up.” Shane doesn’t even look at the photos Jackie just took of them. Though as he slides his phone into his pocket, it registers warmly in his mind that these are the first photos of him and Ilya that aren’t in bed. They can look later, together.

By the evening, Shane doesn’t know when he’s ever had such a good time at a party. He gets to help Hayden on the grill while Ilya chats with Rose, meets some of the other guys, tosses him nods and winks from across the yard. Shane loves watching from afar as Ilya’s clearly being charming, delighting in the fact that everybody knows Ilya is here with him. They eat burgers standing around in the grass, talking through mouthfuls. When Ilya teases Shane about using lettuce for a bun, Hayden joins in, and the two of them spend a solid couple of minutes laughing at Shane’s expense in a fond way that makes Shane somehow feel very known and cared about. His throat constricts when Ilya feeds a bite to their friend’s dog and talks to her in Russian in a sweet, lilting voice he’s never heard him use before; he didn’t even know Ilya liked dogs. The sun shines all day. Shane catches up with old friends, talks about bikes, drinks a few beers. Quite a few beers, actually. His head gets hazy and it makes him clingy but Ilya doesn’t seem to mind—in fact, if anything, Ilya eggs him on for more. He brings Shane another beer and laughs at his goofy smile. They’re always touching: hands, waist, back, beltloop. Shane laughs too loudly, right in Ilya’s ear, and when Shane puts his arm around Ilya, Ilya pulls him closer and pats his full stomach. They’re alone together for a moment and Shane says, “Shit, I think I’m a little bit drunk?”

Ilya kisses the side of his head. “Yes. Are you having fun?”

Shane nods. “Are you?”

“I like the dog and the baby best, but yes. Is not bad.”

Shane leans in to kiss him enthusiastically on the mouth, which must catch Ilya off guard because he laughs before kissing him back, hand coming to Shane’s warm neck. Ilya’s hands on him feel electric under the warm blanket of a buzz. Maybe they’ve been here long enough.

“You’re coming over tonight, right?” Shane asks.

Ilya nods at him, smiling.

“I’m really glad you’re here.”

Another kiss. “Me too,” Ilya says. “Do you need anything?”

Shane finishes the last swigs of the bottle in his hand, then passes it to Ilya. “Maybe one more?”

“Mm, maybe.”

Ilya takes the bottle and walks toward the house. As soon as he’s gone, Hayden appears at Shane’s side looking stricken.

Shane laughs at first. “Um. What’s wrong?”

Hayden shakes his head. “I don’t really know how to say this so I’m just going to spit it out. Cole is here.”

“What the fuck? Why?”

“Fucking Taylor brought him. He messaged me after he was in the shop the other day so I invited him over, but obviously I didn’t tell him he could bring Cole. I don’t know what the fuck he’s thinking.”

Shane does. He knows exactly what both of them are thinking. “So he’s here now?”

“They’re in the house. Look, do you want me to ask him to leave?”

Shane looks at Hayden, then glances toward the sliding door.

“Because I will,” Hayden says. “I’m serious. I just didn’t want to say anything to him without talking to you first.”

“No, it’s okay,” Shane says. And surprisingly, he kind of means it. “We’re all adults. If he wants to be here that badly, whatever.”

“You sure?”

Shane nods, glancing toward the door again just as Ilya comes back through it…with Cole and Taylor only a couple of steps behind him. He’s still looking that direction as Cole sees him, turns toward him, and then both Ilya and Cole are coming his way, Ilya completely unaware that anyone’s behind him.

He reaches Shane first and hands him a cold water bottle, then puts his thumb on Shane’s chin. “Finish this before another beer.” Shane opens the water bottle and immediately takes a long drink. Ilya looks pleased.

It’s then that Cole appears in front of him, staring at Shane like he’s never seen him before. And Cole looks…fine. He’s still handsome, still wiry strong. He smiles at Shane and there’s that one dimple Shane always liked, though it doesn’t do anything for him now. Shane had thought he’d feel more seeing Cole after all this time—anger, anxiety, an embarrassing heartache. Really though, as he looks at him now, he realizes he doesn’t feel anything at all.

When Shane finally lowers the water bottle, he caps it and nods at Cole without smiling.

“Long time no see,” Cole says. He claps Hayden on the shoulder, then holds out his hand to Shane.

Shane shakes it quickly. “Yeah. Been a while.”

Before Shane can say anything else, make any introductions, Ilya has his left arm around Shane’s waist again and his right hand extended. Cole takes it, frowning slightly. Seeing Cole and Ilya’s hands together, their skin in contact—now that kind of makes Shane want to scream.

Recognition crashes over Ilya’s face as Cole introduces himself. Ilya squeezes his hand. “Ilya.”

“Sorry,” Cole says. “What is it?”

Ilya smiles wryly and repeats himself. “Ilya. I am Shane’s boyfriend.”

The word hits Shane’s ears like a mistimed firework. He nearly flinches. But Ilya just drops Cole’s hand and pulls Shane closer to him, so instead of flinching, Shane grins.

They exchange some nice to meet yous and Cole doesn’t linger. He moves on to say hello to Jackie, some of the other people he knows, and Hayden asks Shane again if he wants Cole to leave.

“I’m so serious, dude,” Hayden says in a hushed tone. “It’s not even a big deal. I don’t mind.”

“I appreciate it but it’s seriously okay. Like, I know I’ve made a big deal about it before but honestly…I just don’t care.” Shane feels Ilya’s hand brushing up and down his side, fingers tapping.

Hayden finally takes Shane at his word and walks away to mingle. Ilya doesn’t say anything; he just kisses Shane’s temple.

“I feel kind of hot,” Shane says a while later.

They’ve been playing a yard game with Rose and another woman whose name Ilya didn’t catch. Ilya is talking to them from across the lawn, teasing, ready to take the winning shot, but he stops to look Shane over.

“Drink more water.”

Shane obeys without a second thought, and god, Ilya loves when he does that. He watches Shane swallow, all the while stealing glances around the party to see where Cole is. He spots him in a distant corner, still watching them. Good. But Shane notices too and frowns.

Ilya lightly taps Shane’s chest. “Do you want to leave?”

“No,” Shane says. “I don’t want it to seem like I’m leaving because of him. Is that stupid?”

Ilya shakes his head. “Maybe go inside for a bit. Air conditioning.”

Shane agrees, heading in, while Ilya stays outside to finish the game on his own and watch as the situation unfolds: There’s Shane heading for the patio door, stopping briefly to chat with someone before excusing himself and making it inside; and there’s Cole watching Shane the whole time, then following him in a minute later.

Ilya considers what he wants to do. Shane is an adult. He doesn’t need Ilya to bust in and take control of whatever’s happening. It’s Shane’s life and Shane’s ex-boyfriend and who knows—maybe Shane wants to talk to him. Maybe he has things he wants to say while he’s buzzed and surrounded by his friends, and Ilya. Ilya can wait. He finishes the game and suffers Rose’s chirps, then finds the dog again—Allez—and pets her until enough time has passed that he thinks he can justify going inside.

He finds Shane in the hall outside the bathroom door. Cole is there, of course, and the conversation doesn’t look especially friendly on either end. Shane raises his eyebrows. He says something Ilya can’t hear and shakes his head. The conversation ends just as Ilya approaches the hallway.

Cole nods at him, already walking away, looking more confused than upset. He says, “All yours,” and Ilya isn’t sure whether he means Shane or the bathroom, but he pulls Shane inside with him either way and locks the door.

“What are we—"

“Are you okay?” Ilya asks. Shane’s not frowning anymore, or rubbing his chest. He looks thrilled, actually. Maybe even a little scandalized.

“You came in here to check on me? Why?” Shane asks. He grins. “Because you’re fucking jealous?”

“No,” Ilya lies. “You were not feeling well and I wanted to make sure you were okay. I did not even know he was in here. What did he say to you?”

Shane scoffs, but then takes another breath and seems to consider the conversation again. “Well, he said he was sorry, so that’s something.”

“Really.”

Shane nods, leaning back against the sink. “Yeah. Which isn’t something he ever said to me when we were breaking up, so that’s kind of nice, I guess.”

“Very.”

Shane laughs. “And then he asked if we could get a drink.”

Ilya comes closer. “Why?”

“I guess he wanted to catch up. I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

Ilya spreads Shane’s legs with his knee and steps in between them. “What did you say?”

Shane puts his arms around Ilya’s neck. “I told him I appreciated the apology but I don’t want to catch up. I’m pretty busy these days anyway.”

Ilya hums and kisses Shane’s jaw, right below his ear. “With your boyfriend, yes?”

Saying the word again, to Shane this time, more seriously, sends a rush of feeling from Ilya’s chest to his cock. He’s never called anyone his boyfriend before. Now he’s wondering why it took him so long to say it to Shane.

Shane, meanwhile, is whimpering under his teeth. “Yes. I wish we were home.”

“Why? You think I will not fuck you here?” Ilya rubs his hand over Shane’s zipper, delighted to find him getting hard. “With all your friends outside?”

“Fuck,” Shane breathes. He kisses Ilya, pushing off from the sink to back him to the wall with a thud, but then he quickly steps away with a hand out between them. “Don’t touch me. We have to go back out there.”

“Would go away faster if you let me touch you, I think.”

“No way.” Shane turns around to the sink, splashing cool water on his face and watching Ilya in the mirror. He smiles. “Thanks for coming to check on me. I feel better.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything. Shane leans against the counter again, smiling at him until he’s ready to go back to the party.

Maybe Shane is feeling tired, or prematurely hungover, or maybe he’s just feeling a little bit melancholy after everything, but he doesn’t talk much for the rest of the night. He loved being here with Ilya, and he really loved Ilya calling him his boyfriend, but seeing so many people has been draining, and he’s ready when the sun sets to be by himself again, with Ilya.

They make the rounds to say goodbye. Lots of people tell Shane how good it was to see him, and everyone tells Ilya how nice it was to meet him. When Shane’s hugging Jackie, she whispers, “Just wanted you to know I totally get it. He’s great.” Shane can’t stop smiling the whole way to the door.

He doesn’t interact with Cole for the rest of the night either, so he doesn’t see Cole leaving just a minute or two before them. When they get out to the driveway, Cole is there getting ready to head out on his bike.

Neither says anything at first, until Ilya hands Shane the backpack and his helmet.

Cole’s mouth falls open. “You came here on that?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, more nonchalant than he’s ever been in his life.

Cole considers him. “I guess things change. Glad to see you’re doing so much better these days. With the anxiety.”

It’s an obvious dig but Shane just nods, a small smile appearing on his face that he hopes says clearly: You have no fucking clue. He sits behind Ilya and puts his helmet on. “See you around, okay?”

Ilya pulls Shane’s hand to his chest. “Hey,” he says to Cole from beneath his helmet. “Do you want to race?”

Cole forces a laugh. He starts to say something else but Ilya revs the throttle and sends them hurtling into the night.

Shane’s so distractingly happy as they ride, he doesn’t even realize what direction they’re heading.

“Are we going to your house?” he asks when there’s a chance.

“Svetlana is not home tonight,” Ilya says. “Do you want to?”

Shane nods and Ilya tilts his head back to bump Shane’s helmet with his own.

Shane’s been to Ilya’s house before, a few times, just to pick him or drop him off, but he’s never really been inside it for any length of time. It’s cozier than Shane’s house. More colorful, warmer, smaller spaces. There’s no mountain view from the back patio but the yard is nice, and while Shane is still looking around, absorbing all the information he can, Ilya is pushing him backwards until they reach a bathroom.

“Wow,” Shane says. There’s an oversized soaker tub surrounded by green tile, heated towel racks, a skylight.

“Baths are important to Svetlana,” Ilya says.

Shane nods. “Lucky you.”

Ilya starts to unbutton Shane’s shirt. “Lucky you, maybe,” he says, his mouth against Shane’s throat. “What do you need?”

“Nothing.”

Ilya turns on the tap, checking the temperature with his palm as the tub begins to fill.

Shane lets Ilya pull the shirt off him, lets him unbuckle his belt and jeans so Shane can step out of them, then his boxers. He takes off his socks as Ilya undresses himself. Ilya gathers Shane’s clothes and puts them in a pile with his own, but then he sees Shane’s face and takes his shirt to hang nicely off the doorknob instead.

They kiss against the sink while the tub fills. Ilya stands with his thigh between Shane’s legs but he doesn’t press or push for more. His hands explore Shane’s chest, playing with his nipples, without any real escalation even as they both get hard. Shane hears the dreamy, satisfied sigh that leaves his mouth and almost feels embarrassed—until Ilya pulls back and holds his chin.

“Happy?”

Shane nods. “Really happy. Today was great.”

Ilya shuts the water off, then pours in some Epsom salt that makes the whole room smell like lavender. He gets into the tub first, hissing when the hot water touches the sensitive parts of his body. Shane laughs. The water sloshes up the sides of the tub as Ilya beckons to him with an outstretched hand.

“Is there even room for me in there?” Shane asks.

“Yes, Shane. You are very big and muscular and tall but somehow I think we will fit. Come here.”

Shane sits in the water across from Ilya, their knees slightly bent and legs slotting together. The water is perfect: just shy of too hot. They’ll be able to sit for a while before it goes cold.

“I think I’ve finally got the hang of most of the Russian things you call me,” Shane says.

“Is that so?”

“Kotyonok. Solnyshko. Um…malysh. Moy lyubimyy.”

Ilya smiles, probably at Shane’s questionable pronunciation. He pulls Shane’s foot into his lap and rubs it under the water, tugging each of his toes. Shane winces and laughs.

“Not bad,” Ilya says. “You know what they mean?”

Shane nods. “Do you remember telling me solnyshko meant my friend? Right after we’d just fucked?”

Ilya laughs, but he also looks away.

“Sorry, I thought it was funny,” Shane says.

Ilya sinks deeper, sliding his legs around Shane and settling both of Shane’s feet on his stomach. “It is. But I am sorry for lying. And being…confusing.”

“No, it’s okay. I know it’s hard for you.” Shane knows he shouldn’t push but there’s something about the bath, the moonlit room, the only sounds in the house being their voices and the moving water and the occasional creak of the walls settling in the wind. “You can tell me the truth, though. About whatever. How you feel…”

Ilya stares at him.

“Not now, if you don’t want to. But whenever you’re ready.” Shane touches Ilya’s knee. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For a while, Ilya doesn’t say anything. Both men look at each other and gently touch beneath the warm water. When the bath starts to cool, Shane wonders if they’ll get out soon, but Ilya sits up and turns the tap on again until the temperature feels right. In the quiet, he settles back against his side of the tub and sighs.

“I liked meeting your friends today,” Ilya says.

Shane had nearly fallen asleep. He sits up. “Yeah?”

“They are very nice.”

“Even Hayden?”

“He is a good friend to you,” Ilya relents. “So that is something.”

Shane smiles. “He’s like family to me. Maybe like…how Svetlana is for you, I think.”

Ilya nods for a long time at that, clearly thinking. He closes his eyes so Shane does the same, but then Ilya speaks again out of nowhere: “It is nice that you have so many people. I do not have any family left but Svetlana.”

Shane frowns. “What about your parents?”

Ilya’s hand comes out of the water to rest on his chest, over the Cyrillic letters on his heart. “My mother died a long time ago.”

“When?” It isn’t what Shane means to say, but a loud part of him thinks he’d better ask some questions as long as Ilya’s willingly answering them.

“When I was twelve so…it is twenty years now.”

“Ilya, I’m so sorry.” Shane thinks of his own mother, all the times she’s been there for him when it seemed like no one else would be. His dad, too. When Shane came out to them at twenty, he’d been so anxious he’d nearly cried, and then he’d actually cried when they hugged him and told him they loved him more than anything. When he lost his career and his relationship, his mom tried to convince him at first to move home, but really she just needed to know why he wanted to stay. She came to visit for a couple of weeks and Shane got to spend the whole time showing her his favorite places. By the end, she loved it. And in a way, her acceptance was what Shane really needed to believe he was making the right choice for himself. Other than Hayden, she was there for him more than anyone.

“Was she sick?” Shane asks.

“Suicide” Ilya says abruptly, like he needs to spit the word out or else it won’t come at all. “So yes. Depression.”

Shane leans forward and takes Ilya’s hand. The water’s cooling down again but neither of them moves to start the tap.

“This is for her,” Ilya says, tapping his chest with his other hand.

“What does it say?”

He points to the letters, slowly sounding out the word: “Irina. That is her name.”

Shane doesn’t know what to say. He wants to ask more questions, to know everything about Ilya and his past and what’s brought him here now to this warm bath with his hand intertwined with Shane’s and his blue eyes reflecting the movement of the water. But Shane leans forward on his knees to kiss him. He kisses Ilya’s mouth, then his neck, and then his chest, right over the tattoo. Irina. It’s a pretty name. Shane’s sure if she was anything at all like Ilya, then she was beautiful and funny, and probably felt very alone in the world.

Without allowing himself a beat to second-guess it, Shane murmurs against Ilya’s chest: “I’m taking good care of him. Don’t worry.”

In an instant, Ilya has both arms around Shane, pulling him closer, cupping his chin to bring their mouths back together without a thought for the water sloshing over the edge of the tub.

Ilya lays Shane out on the bed. His bed, among all his things and his thoughts and memories. Shane fits right in here. He’s one of his things now. He belongs sprawled out naked on Ilya’s tan linen duvet like a decorative object, or a work of art. Ilya wants to do more than fuck him; he wants to own him. Out of everyone in America who knows Ilya’s name, the only other person who knows anything about his past is Svetlana. Until now. In a way, Ilya feels like Shane owns him now, too.

“I liked seeing you with Ruby today,” Shane says. Ilya guesses he must’ve been thinking about it all night.

“Did you.”

“You were so good with her. It was kind of hot.”

Ilya smirks but continues kissing down Shane’s throat until he reaches his chest, flicking his nipple with the tip of his tongue before moving to his stomach.

“Do you like kids?” Shane asks.

Ilya laughs; the questions never end. But Ilya continues kissing and Shane continues talking.

“Do you want them?”

Ilya pauses at Shane’s hipbone. “Yes, I think so. Probably. Do you?”

“I think so. Yeah.”

“Ah, good,” Ilya says, slipping his hand underneath Shane’s thigh, spreading his legs apart. He slides back up Shane’s torso to bring his mouth to Shane’s ear. “You are ready right now to become a father, yes?”

Shane looks at Ilya seriously and wraps his legs around his waist. “Sure. I think I’m ready to make you one.”

This is a game. It’s eroticism, and fantasy, just dirty talk, but something about the way Shane says it knocks all the wind out of Ilya’s chest. Shane pulls him down into another kiss and Ilya takes the air Shane gives him, lets it fill his lungs back up like that’s a normal thing—one breath for two people. They can share a bed and a bath so why not this too? Ilya thinks if they tried, they could share one body. Maybe that could happen for them if they stay connected this way long enough.

By the time Shane’s ready for more than Ilya’s fingers, he’s red and sweating, begging for it. Shane tried once or twice to roll them over and take control but Ilya stopped him, holding Shane’s arms to the pillow above his head.

“No. You are not in charge and I am going to fuck you just like this. How I want you.”

“Hard?” Shane asks.

“Is that what you need?”

Shane nods, using his legs to pull Ilya closer, almost hanging off of him. Finally, Ilya lines himself up and pushes in, and the way Shane arches with it, looking him in the eye, doing everything he can to draw Ilya deeper, makes Ilya feel kind of crazy again.

God, is it always going to be like this?

Ilya fucks Shane hard like he asked, holding him down. Their faces stay close. Shane’s gaze is as penetrating as a knife and fuck, maybe Ilya should have let Shane be on top. It would’ve felt less intense than this. He feels like he’s been fucking Shane for hours, though that can’t be right, unless they started on the motorcycle, when the whole day veered off in a direction Ilya had hoped for but hadn’t really expected. He’d wanted so badly for Shane to ride with him. He’d wanted to make a good impression on Shane’s friends, to prove to them he was good for Shane, not because he cares what they think of him but because he knows it matters to Shane that all his people can be around each other. He’d wanted to bring Shane back to his house to fuck him in the bathtub, but instead Shane had kissed his mother’s name and spoken to her. And now he’s fucking Shane so hard, he can’t think, and what Shane is thinking is spelled out like a bold newspaper headline written in so many wet gasps and warm moans, and in the emotion displayed all over his face. Do not say it, Ilya thinks. He doesn’t know which of them he means.

Shane comes first, crying out loudly like he always does, and the sound brings Ilya back into his body. He’s fucking his boyfriend. They’re together. And they’re probably falling in love.

Ilya pulls out in time to come on Shane’s stomach because he likes to see their cum mixed together that way. Ilya rolls off and onto his back beside Shane, while Shane lies there panting, arms resting on the pillow above his head where Ilya had held them.

“I don’t think it works that way,” Shane says.

Ilya breathes, “What?”

Shane turns his head toward him and smiles, then laughs. Oh. Ilya laughs too. They get cleaned up and sleep pulls them under soon after.

Shane wakes up first and waits a while before finally giving Ilya a small push on the shoulder. When Ilya doesn’t even stir, or groan, Shane leaves him alone to sleep some more. He doesn’t have a way to get home, though he wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye anyway, so he brews a pot of coffee in Ilya’s sunny kitchen, then makes himself comfortable on the patio.

When he hears the sliding door a while later, he expects it to be Ilya coming to join him, but it’s Svetlana.

“Morning,” she says. She’s in a long silky robe and carrying a mug of the coffee Shane made. She pulls her feet up as she takes the other chair.

“Morning,” Shane says, sitting up. “Sorry if I’m—Ilya’s still asleep. I can—”

“Make yourself at home, Shane.”

They smile at each other and Shane relaxes again.

After a few seconds of silence, she says in a teasing lilt, “Did you enjoy the bath? Ilya thought that tub was too much but I had to have it.”

Shane flushes red, stammering over what to say.

“There was water all over the floor when I got home last night,” Svetlana explains. Her smile is almost apologetic.

“Last night?” Shane must look as mortified as he feels because Svetlana bursts into laughter.

“Shane, please. Ilya and I have lived together for years. I have the best noise canceling headphones in the world, and besides, it is nothing I haven’t heard before.”

“Right. Okay.” Shane doesn’t want to get any more details on that. He sips his coffee, though the heat from it isn’t helping. “Sorry.”

Svetlana shakes her head at herself. “I shouldn’t be picking on you. I’m very glad you’re here. I’ve been telling Ilya for a while to bring you over so we could get to know each other.”

Relief washes through Shane. “I’m glad, too. You have a really nice house. I love the character. And the tub.”

She laughs again. “Thank you.”

Some inland gulls fly overhead in a squawking triangle, briefly stealing their attention.

“I do like this house,” Svetlana says. “I’ll be sad to say goodbye to it.” She drinks her coffee in small sips like a cat.

“Are you moving out?” Shane asks.

Svetlana stares at him oddly. “Eventually, yes. I am probably going to sell this house and…move on.”

“Oh.” Now it’s Shane’s turn to look confused. “Are you moving…to a different neighborhood?”

Svetlana seems to wait as long as she thinks she can get away with before finally saying, “I am not sure. I think I am just ready to live alone again.”

“Sure,” Shane says, trying to steer the conversation to less bizarrely cryptic territory. “You guys have been lucky to live together for so long. I think I’ve really missed living with someone, even if it’s just a roommate. Nice to have the company sometimes.”

Svetlana laughs sort of tersely. “Yes. That is what a wife is for.”

Shane laughs too, though she looks at him strangely for it and there’s a deepened unease between them that Shane doesn’t know how mitigate. Fortunately, Ilya comes outside then, footsteps heavy on the cement.

Shane says, “Good morning,” and Ilya bends to kiss him before stealing Shane’s coffee cup and taking a drink.

Svetlana says something to him in Russian—a question, then something harsher when Ilya doesn’t answer her. Shane looks between them: Svetlana’s wide-eyed disbelief, Ilya’s angry—no, furious—gaze. They exchange some more fast, irritated words until Ilya stops responding altogether.

“Is everything okay?” Shane asks.

Svetlana stands, not taking her eyes off Ilya. “We are being rude. Goodbye, Shane. I will leave you two to talk.”

“No,” Ilya snaps. “I am taking Shane home, and when I get back, we will talk. Panyatno?”

She flicks her hand at him and goes inside. Shane stands, abandoning his coffee and following Ilya to his bike.

“Did something happen?”

“No.”

“Did I do something?”

“No,” Ilya says. “Svetlana is—she is mad at me. Nothing to do with you. Let me take you home, okay? Do not worry about it.”

Shane doesn’t stop worrying about it on their quiet ride home, or when Ilya kisses him quickly in the driveway before turning around to leave.

Svetlana’s waiting in the living room when Ilya gets back. He comes inside but doesn’t sit.

“What did you say to him?”

“That’s what you're worried about?” Svetlana huffs. “What I might have said?”

Ilya pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. “He looked upset. I need to know what you—”

“I didn’t say anything to him he shouldn’t have already known,” Svetlana says easily. “If he’s upset maybe it’s because he could tell something was wrong and you still haven’t told him we’re married. He’s not stupid, Ilya.”

Ilya clenches his teeth so hard, a wave of pain shoots down his neck. “I know he’s not stupid. But he’s sensitive, and I don’t want—”

“So because he’s sensitive you can just keep lying to him? Ilya.” She shakes her head, incredulous. “You can’t treat people this way. He obviously—"

“This is why I don’t bring him here,” Ilya cuts in, blood so hot, he hears it throbbing in his ears. The room begins to blur around him. “I knew you would meddle. You don’t want to get to know him. You just want to make sure I’m not doing anything you don’t approve of.”

“Well, and if I don’t check on you, who will?” The practiced coolness slips from Svetlana’s tone, replaced by an angry quiver. “You’re not thinking about how this will hurt him. Or me, almost telling him by mistake. But you never think about me at all.”

So much shame rushes through Ilya, he doesn’t know when he’s ever felt the emotion so purely. He feels consumed by it, like it’s a part of him, or a piece that’s been swallowed down for longer than he can remember anymore.

“I don’t fucking need this from you, Sveta,” he says. “Enough. You’re not my fucking mother, or my therapist. You’re not even really my wife and you know that. So please just stop. Stop telling me what to do. Stop worrying about me and what’s happening in my life. I don’t need you to save me again. In a few months, this will be over anyway and you can finally move the fuck on. Like you want.”

Svetlana stands, trembling in front of him. “I know I’m not any of those things.” She touches her wrist, the romashka tattoo Ilya gave her. “But I thought I was at least your friend.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything; the guilt is too much for words. He lets her storm to her room and slam the door shut.

Ilya doesn’t go to Shane’s that evening. First he has to go to fucking work, and when Svetlana comes in later for her one quick client, she leaves again without saying a word to him. He doesn’t try to talk to her either. He already feels ashamed, but not ashamed enough to try to apologize. He wouldn’t even know what to say. As he’s leaving, he sees Shane’s most recent text—See you soon? :)—and turns his phone off without responding. He gets on his bike and rides.

At first Ilya rides within the city, through the slow streets of downtown into the suburban sprawl that radiates from the epicenter like an eastern tide creeping farther and farther away from the mountains. The speed limit is a hinderance. When he reaches the most northern neighborhood, he jumps on the freeway and heads back south. It’s been a while since he’s taken his bike out like this—just for the ride. He’d thought it would help him clear his head but even driving 90 down the front range, mountains and setting sun to the west all the while, he can’t get the shitty things he said to Svetlana out of his head. When did he become this person with no good to offer anyone else? Svetlana has given up years of her life for him, and he neglects her, takes advantage of her friendship. And Shane is no different—just another situation in which Ilya takes and takes. Ilya doesn’t want to be alone, but he can’t help but wonder if he should be. And Shane…Shane would do anything for him. Ilya knows that for certain. They haven’t said the words but it’s clearer every day what Shane wants from him. And Ilya wants—of course he does—but what could he ever do to deserve it?

As the night hardens, the population of cars on the freeway dwindles to nothing and Ilya exits south of the city and starts over on the back roads. This is better. In the foothills, with the sky growing blacker and no car headlights illuminating the future turns in front of him, he has to focus. No opportunity for his mind to wander, for memories to resurface like drift wood. There’s a curve, followed by another, and another, and he’s going uphill for too long, gaining too much elevation very quickly, before he starts to feel lightheaded and bleary-eyed and he catches an unprotected turn too sharply, sending loose gravel flying over the edge. That wakes him up. What the fuck is he doing? Being reckless again—with himself and everyone who loves him, because he doesn’t think about anyone but himself. Ilya pulls off to the side of the road and waits, leaning against a yellow-leaved aspen tree until he feels safe enough to continue back down. And as he reenters the city, he stops for gas and a pack of cigarettes. He drives instinctively to Love is Evil, parking in the alley and sleeping on the adjustable table in the backroom.

In the morning, Ilya wakes up uncomfortable but glad not to be on the floor. He feels almost hungover, but it must be from not eating. He turns his phone on and sees the slew of missed calls and texts from Shane.

Shane: Still coming? :)

Shane: I made pasta. Keeping it warm!

Shane: I just called you but it went right to voicemail. Are you getting these?

Shane: Are you okay? Hope you’re just busy.

Shane: I guess I’m going to sleep but please call me when you see this. Whatever time. My ringer is on.

The most recent one is from early this morning.

Shane: Okay now I’m freaking out. I know you’re probably fine but please please call me when you can.

Ilya brings his cigarettes outside and lights one. He smokes about half of it before he can force himself to respond.

Ilya: Sorry I scared you.

Shane: Oh my god finally. What happened?

Ilya: Just took a ride.

Shane: By yourself? Is everything okay?

Ilya: Not really.

Shane: Did I do something?

Ilya: You did nothing. But I need to talk to you. Later.

Shane: Can we talk now? Please?

Ilya stomps out the cigarette butt on the sidewalk. The sun is too bright, the street too noisy. His chest and head and joints all seem to ache like he has the flu.

Ilya: Not now. I promise we will talk tonight.

It takes several minutes before Shane finally responds.

Shane: Okay. Here whenever you’re ready. You know where to find me.

Shane’s wrist is finally healed enough that he can ride his bike to work. He expects it to feel momentous, fulfilling, but instead he feels so miserable he wishes he’d just driven his stupid car. He isn’t sure he slept at all last night. He remembers falling asleep with his phone in his hand, then waking up several times when he thought he felt it vibrate. When Ilya dropped him off, the vibe had been…tense. But Shane didn’t know why it would be. They’d had such a good night—a great night. And sure, it had been a little awkward in the morning with Svetlana, but Shane couldn’t begin to decipher what that was about. He didn’t think it was him, but then she and Ilya had argued in Russian, and whatever she said…maybe it was something bad about Shane? Maybe she was upset Shane was there still, drinking her coffee and using her bathtub after making her listen to him getting fucked the night before? Shane doesn’t know what to think about any of it so he tries not to. He figures he can ask Ilya later when they talk.

He makes it to work and Ilya’s bike is there in the alley too, earlier than normal, but Shane’s already sworn to himself that he won’t walk over. If Ilya wants to talk later, okay. Shane can wait. Nothing to stress about. It’s fine.

Shane spends the entire day so anxious, he can’t eat. He’s in a daze helping customers, pulling up the wrong accounts and confusing styles of pedals so egregiously, he forces himself to drink a protein shake in his office with the lights off until he feels like a person again.

Ilya’s going to break up with him. It seems clear now that last night was too much. He’d been so obvious with his feelings, the whole of them, actually kissing Ilya’s mother’s name on his chest. I’m taking good care of him? God, Shane wants to crawl into a hole and die. In the moment, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. It had come from the truest depths of his heart and Ilya had seen that. Of course it was too much. Ilya had only just called himself Shane’s boyfriend for the first time that day.

Shane sits in his office for a while after the shop closes. He doesn’t know when Ilya will want to talk but he needs to be prepared, needs to have his mind right. He doesn’t want to fall apart right there in front him. Fuck, what if Ilya wants to come over to talk? What if they sit on Shane’s deck where they’ve spent so many mornings together and Ilya says, Shane, I cannot do this? Things had been going so well. Shane was going to tell him—

It’s for the best he didn’t. In fact, Shane’s grateful now, even as his chest aches and his mind won’t stop telling him he fucked it up just like he thought he would. Shane might have to live with knowing how he feels about Ilya, but at least he won’t have to live with Ilya knowing. If Ilya wants to end things, he can accept it. At least they never said the words.

When Shane finally locks up for the night, he finds Ilya waiting for him in the alley. He’s leaning against the brick wall with his head down and his arms crossed.

“Hi,” Shane says, letting the door close softly behind him. He tries for a smile but can’t quite manage it. He imagines Ilya lifting his head, opening his arms for Shane to fall into, but he doesn’t move. It’s a chilly night and Shane can’t feel it at all.

“How was your bike ride?” Ilya asks.

“Fine,” Shane says. “Are you okay?”

Ilya lifts his head then; he looks terrible, like he barely slept. Shane is sure he doesn’t look much better.

“No. But I think I will be,” Ilya says, pushing himself off the wall. “Can we talk now?”

“Can I go first?”

Ilya looks surprised, eyebrows raised, but he gestures for Shane to go ahead.

“I’m really sorry,” Shane says. “I know that the other day was a lot. I think maybe I’ve been…pressuring you lately, to talk about things, or maybe to tell me things you aren’t ready to tell me. And I’m really sorry. I don’t know why I can’t help myself with you.”

Ilya looks so floored by Shane’s apology, it’s almost funny. When he extends a hand toward Shane, arms open like an offering, just the way Shane had hoped for, Shane accepts it and lets himself be pulled into an embrace.

Ilya mutters something harsh in Russian—to himself, Shane thinks—and Shane pulls back to look at him.

“I should not have turned my phone off without telling you I was okay,” Ilya says. “I am sorry. You did not deserve that.”

Oh. Not an explanation really, but Shane nods, unsure what else to do.

“I have not been honest with you,” Ilya says, letting him go. “Or with Svetlana. Or maybe also with myself.”

Shane swallows. He takes a step away. But looking at Ilya now, he feels something much clearer than the confused agony he felt all day. With Ilya in front of him here, so beautiful and gentle and obviously in pain, Shane would do anything to right what’s wrong. They’ve made it this far, after so many bumps and hard conversations—why give up now? Why hide how he feels, or apologize for wanting more when he knows there’s something undeniably real between them? Shane steels himself as Ilya prepares to speak. Whatever Ilya has to say, he’ll hear it without panicking and he’ll take it straight on and he’ll just hope that it’s a bridge they can cross together.

“I have not told you why I am here,” Ilya says. “Why I live with Svetlana. Why I am…hard to be with. I think I am very bad about making good choices. I always think maybe this time I will do things different, but then I am left again hurting people who care about me.”

“I do care about you,” Shane says. He takes Ilya’s hand. “So much. And I don’t think you’re hard to be with.”

Ilya almost smiles. “I think for you to understand, I need to talk about some things from a long time ago.”

“Whatever you want to tell me, I’m listening,” Shane says. Ilya’s hand is warm in his despite the chill in the air.

Ilya starts with, “You know about my mother,” and Shane nods, more worried now than he was before, but still listening. “Things were very hard for me after she died. I was angry, and I made stupid mistakes.” Ilya lights a cigarette and Shane is considerate enough of the moment not to say anything, though he does wrinkle his nose in that way that makes Ilya’s lip twitch. "When I was very young, it was just simple trouble. Not listening to my father, fighting, doing bad in school. None of it mattered to me. My brother was an asshole, and my father got remarried and did not care what I did. And then later, I got in more trouble. Bigger trouble.”

Shane swallows. “How big?”

Ilya takes a long drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke above their heads. “I was with a boy. In Russian.”

“In Russia?” Shane asks, more out of surprise than misunderstanding.

Ilya nods solemnly. Another drag, another puff of smoke clinging to the chill. “It was nothing serious at first. Just casual since we were teenagers.”

The sting of the word hits Shane so swiftly, he has to look away to school his expression. Casual. Even in this reminiscence, nothing to do with him, he finds himself hating that word. “What happened?”

Ilya takes a deep, steadying breath. “It started to become more for him. He told me…how he felt. I did not know what I wanted, but then we were caught together by his family so there was no choice anyway. We both had to leave.”

“Leave?”

“Russia. It was not safe anymore for us to stay there.”

The ache in Shane’s chest spreads to his stomach. “That’s awful. Your family couldn’t have helped?”

Out on the road, a group of pedestrians passes by, peering down the dark alley before moving on with their evenings. The wind picks up as the pressure drops around them.

“My mother had been dead for years. My father had just died a few months before,” Ilya says. “And my brother was police. It would have been bad for me if Sasha’s family told him, and I knew they would tell him. They were…old fashioned.” He says the euphemism bitterly with his eyes on the ground. “So Sasha left for Paris and I did not go with him.”

“Because you didn’t…feel the same way?”

“No, I did not,” Ilya says. “But more because it was my fault we were caught. And I was ashamed.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. I am still ashamed. I was stupid, leaving marks on him, starting things in places I knew were not safe for us. I was very unhappy. I think now, maybe I did that because I wanted something bad to happen to me, but I did not think about what would happen to him. So I ruined his life in Russia, his connection to his family, his home. I could not go with him and ruin his next life in Paris, too.”

“So what did you do?”

At that, Ilya smiles sadly. “I came here with Svetlana. This was maybe—” He looks up at the sky, counting the passage of time in the dark clouds. “—four years ago now. Yes. And I have not told you…Svetlana and I are married.”

Shane’s knees buckle under him before he can stop it, but Ilya takes his arm and pulls him upright.

“I’m okay,” Shane says. He can’t meet Ilya’s eye. “You’re married. Like, right now, you’re married to her?”

“Shane,” Ilya says gently.

“I knew there was something you didn’t want to tell me but, fuck, I thought it was going be that you had been to jail, or you were in debt or something.”

“In debt?”

“I don’t know! You guys are roommates. I just thought maybe you were broke. Not married.” Shane puts a hand over his heart. It’s kind of fast but not too bad. He can still breathe. He can still do this.

Ilya’s own hand presses over Shane’s, wrapping around his fingers but staying in place against his chest. “Shane. It is not anything real. We have been friends since we were kids, and she has dual citizenship because of her parents. When I was caught in Russia, she wanted to go to America, and it was the only way for me to come here with her and stay. We are married still, yes, but not for much longer. I already have a green card, and I will interview for citizenship in a few months. And then we will divorce. One-page document, probably. Sign and done.”

“But were you like—” Shane is afraid to ask but the knot in his gut tells him he has to. “Were you ever together? For real?”

Ilya sighs. “We were never serious but we used to fuck. A long time ago.”

“How long?”

Ilya’s laugh is short, almost like he can’t believe it himself. “It is funny. We have not actually been together since we have been married. Separate rooms from the beginning. I think maybe we thought it would complicate things any other way.”

“That makes sense,” Shane says. “I get why you didn’t tell me until now. I just—fuck, I can’t believe you’ve been married this whole time.”

“Ah, what is married even?” Ilya throws his hands up, cigarette ash flying. “For us, it is just a piece of paper that says here, now you will not be deported and imprisoned for blowjob against the Kremlin. No big deal.”

Shane laughs quietly, though none of it is very funny.

“But I am sorry,” Ilya says, “that I did not tell you sooner. It is…complicated. Legally. And I did not want to upset you.”

“I get that. I just…” Shane trails off, trying to decide which of the dozen thoughts screaming in his head is the loudest. “I don’t understand what all this means…for us. Why are you tell me now?”

Ilya rubs his face. “I don’t know, Shane. Svetlana is leaving, and I do not know yet what I will do when she is gone. I will not go with her, but I do not want to waste anyone else’s life or…depend on them too much. I cannot keep doing the same things over again. I want…” Shane watches Ilya’s sharp jaw move as he clenches his teeth, swallowing around his pain. “I want to be with you, Shane. But I might need more time to know how to do that right. How to be with you the way you want me to be.”

Shane steps closer. “Ilya, I just want to be with you whatever way you’ll let me.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything. Shane watches his profile as he draws the cigarette to his perfect mouth, and he wants to kiss him, or maybe fight. In Shane’s ideal world, right now he just says it: Ilya, I love you so much. Be with me. Depend on me. Waste my life. But Shane can feel it still, that something more has been left unsaid. Ilya is looking at the ground with his lips pursed around a nearly burnt out cigarette, unable to even meet Shane’s eye, let alone his feelings. Ilya needs more time. Shane decides to tread lightly.

“I understand,” Shane hears himself say. It’s not even close to everything he wants to say, but he means it, and he can wait until the time is right to say the rest.

Ilya takes a last drag and finally looks at Shane through the veil of smoke. “And?”

“No,” Shane says. “Just...I understand. All of it. And thank you, I guess—for telling me. Take as long as you need to figure things out. I can wait. Just…don’t make me wait alone, okay?”

He offers Ilya a half-cocked, wet-eyed smile that makes Ilya grab him and kiss him. Ilya drops the cigarette and stomps it out without looking, holding Shane’s face with both hands.

“God, you smell terrible,” Shane gets out, laughing with the absolute burst of relief rushing through him. “Your hands—”

“Stop breathing.”

Ilya moves his grip to Shane’s hips, kissing him into the wall, pressing his whole body against him, and Shane feels so much lighter now, it’s like Ilya’s lifting him off his feet. When they break apart, Shane says, “Will you come home with me?” and Ilya nods with his forehead pressed to Shane’s.

“Can I take you now?” Ilya asks.

“No,” Shane says slowly, smirking a little. “I’m going to ride my bike.”

Ilya drops his forehead back against Shane’s with a thud and groans.

Shane laughs. “I’ll be right behind you! I’ve barely ridden in a month and I need it.”

“But you are so slow, Shane,” Ilya says. “You should get one of those electric bikes. Maybe then you could keep up.”

Shane gives him a push. “That’s literally the worst thing you’ve ever said to me. Worse than you being married.”

“It is going to rain.”

“I can beat it,” Shane says. “I’ll see you in like twenty minutes.”

“More like half an hour.”

“I promise I’ll pedal hard.” Shane puts his helmet on and rolls up his right pant leg. It’s starting to sprinkle and already Shane knows things are going to be fine. He doesn’t know how, or how soon, but he knows they will be. This is only the first step. He smiles at Ilya. “See you at home, okay?”

Ilya doesn’t say anything to that, though he nods, and as Shane gets on his bike and lifts his foot to take off, Ilya puts two fingers down. Shane beams and returns it, his fingers too stiff probably, but still, he thinks he’s got the spirit right. Stay safe, good luck on your journey, though the end of the road tonight is the same place for both of them, even if they arrive there by different means. He pushes off and disappears down the alley, glancing over his shoulder to see Ilya with a hand over his own chest.

Chapter End Notes

Russian Dialogue Translations:
“Yes, I will text him to fucking chill and then ignore him.”
Zloy = Wicked
“Fuck, I wish you were here.”
“Fuck, I want your mouth.”
“In Russian the way you like, just my voice since you can’t understand the words?”
“Goodnight, my love. No more talking tonight.”
Panyatno? = Is that clear?

Chapter Five!! So sorry this update took a little longer but hopefully the length of it makes amends for the wait :) I also hope it’s not too angsty, though I think the chapter ends on a PRETTY high note all things considered! I mentioned in the notes of Chapter One that this story is about Shane getting everything he’s ever wanted and Ilya finding personal redemption through Shane’s love, so stay tuned and NEVER be worried! Ever!! I’m going on a short trip this week and then Chapter Six is my main focus when I return. As sad as I am for this story to end, I can’t wait to get it out there and then catch up on reading all the amazing fics everybody else is writing.

Thanks as always for all the truly wonderful, thoughtful, insightful, funny comments. I didn’t get a chance to go back and reply to each one yet but I’m COMING. It’s unreal to me how many of you take the time to leave such kind words. THANK YOU!!

And thanks again for reading. If you couldn’t tell, it means the world to me <3

Chapter 6: À Bloc

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya reach the finish line.

Chapter Notes

Final chapter. Thanks for being here.

Russian dialogue translations in the end notes :)

Ilya only beats Shane to his house by a few minutes, but Shane doesn’t quite manage to beat the storm rolling in over the mountains. By the time he pulls up, skidding into the open garage, he’s sweating from effort and drenched from the elements. He puts his bike on the rack and doubles over with his hands on his knees to breathe. Lightning cracks close by. Thunder shakes the house around them.

“Are you okay?” Ilya asks.

“Oh, yeah,” Shane pants without standing upright. “Great ride. Fuck, I needed that.”

“You are soaked.”

Shane lifts his head, grinning. “It was worth it. Did you see the lightning? Huge horizontal cracks the whole way. Some of it was green.”

“I did not see. I had my eyes on the road. And on my phone in case you needed me to rescue you.”

Shane scoffs and straightens up, ruffling his hair to release some of the water before pushing it back off his face. His shirt clings to him, sheer with wetness, and his jeans grip his thighs as they throb from exertion.

“Come here,” Ilya says, and Shane comes to him, stopping just short so he doesn’t get Ilya wet too. But Ilya pulls him in. “You need dry clothes.”

“Definitely.”

“Maybe a hot shower?”

Shane beams that winner’s smile.

There’s a delicate, fragile feeling between them as they go inside, as the adrenaline of their conversation in the alley and the subsequent race home wears away. Or maybe it’s only in Ilya. He feels somehow empty and full all at once, still thinking of Shane’s words.

Just…don’t make me wait alone, okay?

The request had come like a hammer to Ilya’s chest, an alarm bell in his mind. Of course Shane would understand everything with graciousness and generosity. Of course he would be kind. That Shane could hear Ilya’s worst shame and respond I understand, and still want him, invite him home—Ilya can hardly stand to think about it, let alone feel it.

There are other things much easier to feel.

Like Shane’s hand in Ilya’s hair, Shane’s body writhing as Ilya tries to take Shane’s entire cock in his mouth. Ilya chokes on it; he wants to feel as much of it inside him as he can. He would almost be embarrassed by how much he needs it if not for how much Shane seems to like the desperation, evident in the rush of fluid Ilya can feel under Shane’s skin with his tongue. He takes him deeper, relaxing his throat more, swallowing around the head and massaging Shane’s balls until he’s just about to come. Then Ilya stops.

“Fuck,” Shane says, chest heaving.

Ilya rises to his feet, still holding him. “I did not think that was how you wanted to come. Is it?”

“No.”

Ilya strokes him slowly with a light grip, dragging his fingers along the length of him. “Or maybe you want to come now, and then again when I fuck you.”

To Ilya’s surprise, Shane shakes his head. “No. Make me wait for it.”

Ilya smirks and drops back to his knees, bringing Shane close one more time with Shane’s thighs trembling under his hands before he gets back up.

“Fuck, Shane.” Ilya strokes him slowly, base to tip. “All of this, so big and pretty. When was the last time you topped?”

Shane’s eyes are closed, his head back against the tile as he pants, “It’s been a long time.”

“How long?”

“Years.”

“Hm,” Ilya says. “Girl or boy?”

Shane laughs. Water flows down the center of his chest in a smooth line, all the way to his navel; Ilya watches the stream like it’s carving a canyon.

“Couple of girls when I was a teenager,” Shane says, “before I figured things out. And a few guys later. The last one was maybe two years ago.”

“How was it?”

“Disappointing, I think.”

“Ah,” Ilya says. “For him or for you?”

Shane sighs at the pleasure of Ilya’s hand and the hot water, the thick steam encasing them. “You know,” he says, opening his eyes to look at Ilya, “I would, if you wanted me to. I know it’d be better with you.”

Ilya tucks a hand under Shane’s chin. “It would be. But I do not want you to. I have tried it once and it was not for me.”

Shane nods, looking relieved enough that Ilya laughs.

“Besides,” Ilya says, bringing Shane closer, tightening his grip. “I do not think you would fit.”

Shane smiles. “You don’t think you could take it?”

“Fuck no. Is not even worth pretending.”

Shane wraps his arms around Ilya’s neck and kisses him. The water dripping from their faces falls into their mouths, droplets meandering down their noses and cupid’s bows to disappear between their lips.

“So…what can you take?” Shane asks.

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Depends what you are offering.”

“Can I eat you out?”

Ilya considers. Shane has done it to him before, obviously, but Ilya’s never let it go on for very long. He’ll let Shane give his ass some attention, but when it rapidly becomes too much, too overwhelming, or when Ilya feels too impatient to get to what he really wants to do, he ends it quickly and switches their position, which Shane never seems to complain about. Ilya likes it better when it’s Shane trembling beneath him, Shane losing control. The way Shane needs him in those moments, like Ilya is the only thing in the world that can give him what he wants—that’s a drug. But now, as Shane massages Ilya’s shoulders, maybe checking for tension, any sign of reluctance, Ilya feels the desire to give in and just…be pleasured. Let go because Shane wants him to. Shane, who’s so patient, and earnest, and who asks for so little: how can Ilya say no to him? Why would he even try? Shane’s hands on Ilya’s shoulders are like two foamy waves molding to the rocky shore beneath them.

Ilya breathes, “Yes. Okay.”

Shane rotates them together so Ilya is out from under the water, against the back wall of the shower. Immediately, Ilya’s head feels sluggish; he blames the steam. He watches Shane kiss down his chest and stomach, so soft it’s barely there, like he’s dreaming, and Ilya thinks about how it always seems to feel that way with Shane: like a fantasy. Shane goes to his knees and takes Ilya’s cock in his mouth.

“Mm,” Ilya says, feeding his hand into Shane’s smooth hair. “Like that, Shane.”

Shane tongues the head and slowly takes him all the way in, opening his eyes to look up at Ilya as he does it. Those eyes. It’s not long before Ilya is close to coming and Shane does to him what Ilya did earlier, stopping when Ilya is ready to come.

Ilya swears and Shane kisses his hip bone. “Turn around.”

Ilya turns, quickly, and feels Shane’s breath on him right away, his hands pulling him open so his hole is exposed to the heat of the bathroom. Ilya puts his hands on the green tile wall. He flinches at the first brush of Shane’s tongue, not on his hole but lower, his perineum. Shane presses hard enough that Ilya feels the pressure inside and gasps. Shane’s brief smile against his skin sends a shiver through his core. When Shane’s hand comes around to hold Ilya’s cock, he doesn’t stroke it but plays with the head, massaging it against his palm, letting the soft pulp of his index finger slide over the tip. With another lap of Shane’s tongue, this time more direct, Ilya feels the pleasure start to roll through his entire body. Shane circles his hole, flicking lightly before pressing down again with the flat of his tongue, and when his lips meet Ilya’s hole to kiss him, Ilya moans.

Shane presses his face in harder, teasing with wet kisses everywhere, on his ass, his hole, the skin all around it. He brings a hand up to cup Ilya’s balls.

“Fuck, Shane.”

Ilya needs a breath. The tip of Shane’s tongue pushes into him, just barely, and Ilya takes a deep gulp of air and tries to relax. He wants to feel Shane’s tongue inside him. He wants Shane to fuck him with it.

But then Shane stands, holding Ilya’s hips from behind and kissing the back of his neck. His hard cock presses against Ilya’s ass and for the briefest moment, Ilya reconsiders if it would be worth trying. Probably not tonight.

“I’m not done,” Shane murmurs, “but let’s get in bed, okay?”

Ilya follows Shane out of the shower. Shane takes a towel from the rack and dries Ilya off, first his chest, then his arms.

“I can do it,” Ilya says.

Shane shakes his head. “I want to.” He finishes Ilya’s body and ruffles the towel over his hair before wrapping it around his waist with a little tug that makes Ilya smile. Shane takes another towel and dries himself quickly, leading Ilya into his bedroom with open-mouthed kisses and silky hands. The temperature difference between the bathroom and bedroom is startling; they both shiver and laugh. At the end of the bed, Shane turns Ilya around again and gently pushes him forward onto his stomach, crawling onto the bed with him, lying beside him at first to kiss his neck and hair and face.

“Can I keep going?” Shane asks.

Ilya nods. He crosses his arms over his head on the pillow, closing his eyes to focus on every bit of Shane’s hands and mouth traveling down his spine. Through the open window, Ilya can hear crickets, feel a breeze with just a hint of the fall chill that’s to come.

He moans—loudly—the second Shane touches his hole, all tongue, hands spreading him open. Shane presses in with the tip again and Ilya shudders. Fuck, he wants Shane’s tongue inside him. With every flutter, every hard press and extremely gentle suck, he breathes, until finally Shane’s tongue enters him a little more and pulls back out, dragging along the inside of him. He sweeps a finger over Ilya’s hole and presses gently, alternating then between his lips and his finger. He spits on him. It’s so unexpected, Ilya feels dizzy.

In fact, Ilya is also shaking. His cock is hard and wet against the bed, his mouth open, breath hot against the inside of his bicep where he’s hiding his face. A bird goes by the window, chirping. The house settles with a small creak.

“Good?” Shane only stops long enough to ask the question before pulling his tongue over Ilya’s hole again.

“Yes. Fucking good, Shane.”

“Can I finger you?”

Ilya swears quietly to himself in Russian, then nods.

Shane’s wet middle finger presses in slowly as a test, finding Ilya relaxed enough to let him slide in and out easily. Ilya feels it all with his face buried in his arm: the pressure, the rippling sensation like the approach of an orgasm from deep in his stomach, relentless. Shane pushes deeper into him, faster, his finger thick and hot and touching so much more of him than Ilya would have thought he’d want.

More.

Maybe, possibly, Ilya wants more.

Into his arm, Ilya asks, "Do you have a toy?"

Shane slows and nods against him, kissing his ass, nuzzling. He rests his finger on Ilya’s wet hole and sits up to reach for the nightstand drawer. He brings out a simple black massager a little larger than his finger and shows it to Ilya.

“Yes?”

“Yes. Do it.” He puts his face back into his arm and lifts his hips a little off the bed.

For a moment, nothing happens, until Ilya feels Shane’s hand come to rest on his spine. “Can you roll over? On your back?”

Ilya inhales and does it, pulling Shane down to kiss him so he can’t look too long at Ilya’s flushed, starstruck face. He’d missed kissing him while he was on his stomach. As good as Shane’s mouth feels on his hole, his body, it’s better here, whispering all his soft moans and small smiles into Ilya’s mouth. Shane lies down on his side against him without breaking the kiss, pulling Ilya’s leg out and draping his own over it to hold him there, open. Shane’s cock is hard and wet against Ilya’s hip, dripping precum now just from eating him out.

Ilya takes Shane’s wrist and brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking on them hard enough that Shane gasps, before spitting them out and positioning Shane’s hand back between his legs. Shane touches his hole gently and Ilya grits his teeth. Shane pushes a finger inside again as he kisses Ilya’s chest, flicking his tongue over his nipple.

“Fuck, Shane.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes. Khvatit menya blyat draznit'.”

Shane picks up the massager and coats it in lube. He plays with Ilya some more with slick fingers before finally resting his other hand in the center of Ilya’s chest and bringing the toy to his hole.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Shane says.

Ilya shuts his eyes and puts his head back, neck arching, as the toy enters him. Shane pushes it in slowly, out a little, in a little more.

Ilya says, “Kiss me.”

Shane smiles and leans in, and Ilya sucks his tongue and bites his lip, wrapping his arms around him. He holds Shane by the back of the neck, squeezing hard when Shane presses a button to turn the toy on.

It’s only a low murmur but the sensation is incredible, like a constant thrum of stimulation that rips through every part of him. Shane pulls his head back to look but Ilya wrenches him forward, kissing him again, deeper, moving his hips as Shane brings the toy in and out of him. Ilya moans into Shane’s mouth. He can’t remember a time he’s felt so deeply in his body, connected to every nerve ending, every follicle. He can feel every bump of Shane’s tongue as it collides with his own. He can feel each millimeter of skin and muscle flexing and stretching to let the toy in. Inside, he feels like he’s already coming. Shane bites Ilya’s lip and Ilya wants to scream; he holds it back but pinches his eyes shut as Shane adjusts the angle of the toy and increases the setting.

Ilya’s head flies back into the pillows and Shane stares down at him, serious, clearly torn between watching Ilya’s face and watching his body take it. Ilya looks down at Shane’s cock against his hip again; there’s a wet line of precum stretched between Ilya’s skin and Shane’s tip.

Shane takes Ilya’s mouth again. “Do you like this?” he says against his lips. “Do you want to come?”

Ilya nods, swallowing Shane’s tongue and his breath and his spit, unwilling to speak because he’s afraid of what he might say.

Shane pushes the button on the toy again and Ilya’s hips lift off the bed. Shane holds him down with his free hand, all his strength.

“God, you look so fucking good, Ilya.” Shane’s voice is low and a little teasing. “So hot. Love seeing you like this. You gonna come for me?” He kisses Ilya’s throat roughly, forcing his head back again.

And Ilya is going to come from this. It hits all at once, a white hot pulse that has him yelling, swearing, coating his own stomach in thick streaks. He feels it in his whole body, like a wave arching out from his core to wash over him. Shane works him through it until Ilya can’t take anymore.

Shane switches the toy off and pulls it out slowly. He takes one of the towels from the corner of the bed and wipes Ilya’s stomach, setting the towel and the toy aside before collapsing beside him.

Then Shane raises his head to kiss him again: his cheek, his neck, his chest. He drapes an arm across Ilya’s stomach and gasps for breath, burying his face in Ilya’s shoulder.

“That was…so fucking hot,” Shane says. “You’re amazing.”

Ilya hasn’t said anything yet though maybe Shane hasn’t noticed. Ilya feels worn out, a little cold, but Shane pressed against him is helping. Ilya slides his arm beneath Shane and pulls him closer, and it’s like Shane’s body was made to be against his, sidled up to slot into him like petals curling around a pistil. Shane’s breath on his skin is hot. His body is shaking hard enough to feel through the mattress.

“Hey,” Shane says. “Are you okay?”

Oh. That’s right. It isn’t Shane who’s shaking. Shane sits up to look at Ilya but Ilya turns his head away. Wordlessly, Shane wipes Ilya’s cheek with his thumb, then pulls Ilya onto his side to face him, wrapping both arms around him. Ilya kisses Shane and wriggles out from his arms, pushing him to roll over until Shane is the small spoon pressed firmly back into Ilya’s chest. Ilya holds him tight. It was good to be held but this is better, like Ilya has everything he’s ever needed wrapped safely in his arms. Nobody can take it; nothing could make him leave right now. He kisses Shane’s hair, inhaling him. Then his fingers trail down Shane’s stomach to his cock.

“Wait, Ilya, I don’t need—”

“I say what you need.” Ilya kisses the nape of his neck, loving the way Shane shudders from the lightest sensation. “You still need me to fuck you.”

Shane nods into the pillow.

“Tell me.”

“I need you,” Shane says.

Ilya wraps his hand around Shane’s cock, thumbing the head, and already, Shane is pushing back against him for more. Ilya brings his mouth right to Shane’s ear. He’s barely caught his own breath but he can’t slow down, can’t stop himself wanting to ride this feeling into more.

“Here is what we are going to do,” Ilya murmurs. “I am going to fuck you with my fingers, and you are going to touch yourself until you are close again. But you are going to come on my cock.” Ilya moves his hand to Shane’s ribs, pulling Shane as tight against him as he can be. “Just like this. You want me to hold you like this while I fuck you. You need it. Say it.”

“I do,” Shane says, twisting his neck to look Ilya in the eye. “I need it, Ilya. So much.”

“Touch yourself, moy lyubimyy. You can have it.”

Shane’s strokes start steadily, building speed as Ilya palms his ass, spreads him open. Ilya finds the lube and coats his fingers, then plays so long with just the rim of Shane’s hole that Shane’s moan is bordering on pathetic when Ilya finally slips a finger inside. Ilya’s half-hard again already.

“How close are you, malysh?” Ilya asks.

Through gritted teeth, Shane says, “Fucking close.”

Ilya pushes a second finger inside and thrusts firmly in and out of him, scissoring his fingers. It isn’t long before Shane is open enough for a third.

“Fuck, Ilya, wait, I’m going to—”

“No, you are not.” Ilya pushes deep, curling his fingers. Shane’s own hand slows until it stops completely. He lets go.

“Keep touching yourself,” Ilya says.

“I can’t.”

“You can.” But Ilya slows his pace. It’s late and he’s tired and he’s so close to being fully hard again that the anticipation is killing him more than it’s killing Shane, and if Shane does come before Ilya can fuck him, he thinks he might die. “I thought you needed this? Did you lie to me?”

“No,” Shane pants. He takes his cock again and strokes it so slowly, it’s laughable. Ilya watches a bead a precum fall from the tip to the sheet.

“You need more,” Ilya says. He kisses Shane’s ear.

“Fucking please.”

“Maybe the toy. Is that what you want?”

“No.” Shane’s voice breaks, his chest heaves. “I only want you. Please, Ilya, I need you so much. I can’t keep—” He cuts himself off with a moan as another drop hits the mattress.

Ilya withdraws his fingers and pours too much lube on his cock; he’s frantic behind Shane, and glad Shane can’t see the way his hands are still trembling. He teases Shane with the head. He doesn’t push in, just caresses, then pulls back to let his cock slap Shane’s hole with a dull, slick thud that makes Shane gasp. As Ilya finally pushes inside, Shane cries out, turning his head to the pillow to scream into it. Rather than thrusting from his hips, Ilya rolls his entire body along Shane’s, thighs to chest, holding him so close his cock barely moves in and out of him but somehow seems to grind inside of Shane, like a muddler in fresh mint, releasing all the best parts of the herb.

Shane is beside himself. He rolls back in rhythm with Ilya, throwing his arm behind him to wrap around Ilya’s head as Ilya buries his face in the crook of Shane’s neck. Ilya kisses him, bites him, and Shane slowly collapses forward until he’s face down on the mattress with Ilya on top of him, rolling, breathing hard in Shane’s ear.

“You are so perfect, Shane. Made for me. Everything to me, sweetheart.”

“Ilya, please.”

“Could fuck you like this every day, watch you lose yourself to me, watch your pretty face when you take my cum.”

“Holy shit. Yes. Harder.”

“Talk back to me,” Ilya says, fucking Shane hard now, still holding him down with a hand between his shoulder blades. “You are not the only one who likes to hear it. Say it or you cannot have it.”

“I want you to fuck me like this every day, Ilya.” Shane’s words slur into the pillow. “It’s all I want. All I think about. Please. Come in me, I want it so bad. Fuck, Ilya, please, I’m going to come, can I please—”

“Come for me, malysh, let me feel it.”

Shane cries out as his hole convulses around Ilya’s cock, the muscles tightening so much, Ilya’s almost pushed out, but he holds himself inside Shane, rolling his hips through it, and then he’s coming too with Shane’s hole throbbing around him, with the scruff of Shane’s neck between his teeth.

“How do you always know?” Shane says after. He’s sprawled out on his stomach with Ilya spread on top of him like a blanket, still inside him. “How do you always know exactly what I want? How do you know me like that?”

Ilya doesn’t answer him. He doesn’t know how to say it, in English or any other language. How could he explain that there was no other option? That he could never have met Shane and kissed him in that alley, thought about him every day since, been charmed by him, gently changed by him before he even knew it was happening, and known him any other way?

Shane wakes up in the middle of the night. Or maybe it’s the early morning; it’s dark out still but the world outside the window is quiet.

He realizes by the silence that Ilya is awake too. Maybe that’s what woke Shane: the volume of Ilya’s thoughts beside him. Shane brings Ilya’s hand to his mouth and murmurs into it: “You can’t sleep?”

Shane feels Ilya press his lips to his hair. He says something too quiet for Shane to hear.

“What?”

Ilya just shakes his head. The room is so quiet, Shane can hear his own heart racing.

“Tell me,” Shane says. He grips Ilya’s arms around him, locking tight. “You can talk to me. Whatever it is.”

“No,” Ilya says finally. “Go back to sleep.”

Shane doesn’t respond, sensing that Ilya may have the words already formed there on his tongue, and Shane just needs to wait for him to feel ready to let them out. Shane hears a motor creeping down the street and smiles; he wonders if someone else is playing the same game they were playing just a few weeks ago.

“I do not deserve this,” Ilya says. The words seem to fall from his mouth like an anvil that shakes the entire house. Before Shane can respond, Ilya continues in a low, sad voice: “Do not try to convince me—I get enough of that from Svetlana. You are…too good, Shane. Too good for me. It hurts me, how good you are, when I do not deserve it. If I were better, I would go home right now, but I am selfish. So please…be quiet, okay? For a little longer.”

Shane pushes back against him. He rubs Ilya’s hand with his thumbs, brings it to his mouth to kiss. When a minute passes, Shane says quietly, “Ilya…I care about you so much.”

“I know, Shane. Me too.”

“Then what—”

“Shh.”

Slowly, Shane turns around in Ilya’s arms to face him in the dark. “I have to tell you something.”

“Not now. Please.”

Shane shakes his head. He pushes Ilya’s hair back out of his face. He looks so beautiful, and so sad, and Shane can only think of one thing to say: “Look…maybe all of that is true.”

“What?”

“Maybe…you don’t deserve it. If that’s how you feel right now, then I don’t know. I don’t think I can make you believe something you don’t want to believe.”

Ilya almost laughs. “Okay.”

“But,” Shane goes on, “The thing is…I definitely do.”

“Shane. Say what you mean.”

“I mean,” Shane says, “maybe you don’t deserve this, but I do—I deserve this.” Shane strokes Ilya’s cheekbone, studies his confused, stern face. “Ilya, this is all I’ve wanted for a really long time. Years. I’ve been alone, and I’ve worked on myself, and I’ve done the best I can to find someone right for me, and now that you’re finally here, honestly, I feel like I’ve kind of earned it. I’ve been working for it and waiting for it. I get that we’re not in the same place right now, but just be with me, okay? Don’t bail on this because you’re freaking out.”

“Shane.”

“Do whatever you have to do to feel right about it,” Shane says, “but believe me that you’re not wasting my time. I’m happy. Like, easily the happiest I’ve ever been in my life. You don’t want to depend on me for your happiness or security or whatever, and that’s okay, but I’m not going to stop being good to you just because it hurts, so maybe that’s something we can work on together. If you need time to feel right about it, that’s okay, but don’t leave or push me away again. Because I really deserve this, Ilya. I want you and I deserve you. Give me what I want. Like you always do.”

Ilya can’t help the tear that rolls out, trailing over the bridge of his nose before Shane comes forward and kisses it. He tries to turn away again but Shane follows, kissing him until Ilya kisses him back hard, so certain and suddenly willing. Ilya clutches the back of Shane’s neck to hold him place, while Shane holds Ilya’s face in a vice. Nobody’s going anywhere; Shane understands that implicitly.

In the morning, Ilya wakes up again with a carrousel of voices in his head: his own, Shane’s, and some choice words from Svetlana. Shane is flat on his back beside him with his head turned slightly toward Ilya, his hand resting on his own bare chest, the sheet thin enough that Ilya can see all of him through it, like the palimpsest of secret notes between lovers, written and erased so only the deepest grooves of text remain. Ilya moves closer and pulls him in. Shane hums in his sleep as Ilya lays gentle kisses on his neck.

“What time is it?” Shane murmurs.

Ilya isn’t sure. “Early,” he guesses. “I need to go home.”

Shane’s eyes open. “Are you coming back?”

“Yes. But I need to take care of some things, okay? I will be back later.”

Shane nods. Ilya leans down to kiss him, then he pulls himself away and goes.

When Ilya knocks on Svetlana’s bedroom door, she says, “What?” in Russian with so much vitriol, Ilya nearly backs away. But he pushes tentatively into the room and finds her in bed. He doesn’t turn on the lights.

“I brought you a coffee.”

Svetlana scoffs. “Set it down there. Goodbye.”

Ilya hasn’t spent a lot of time in Svetlana’s room. It has pale blue walls and an ochre yellow duvet, floral sheets, sheer terracotta curtains that paint the whole space in a warm glow. He sits on the end of her bed. When she doesn’t yell at him, he turns to face her, though she still doesn’t lift her head from the pillow.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says. No better place to start than that. She doesn’t answer him so he scoots up the bed and sets both coffees on the nightstand before lying back beside her. “What I said to you was…not fair. Or nice. I’m sorry, Sveta.”

She rolls to her back to stare up at the ceiling with him.

“And you were right,” he offers next. “Like always.”

“No shit.”

Ilya smiles. “He wasn’t even upset when I told him. I don’t know why I thought he would be. I don’t know why it took you yelling at me for me to tell him.”

“Well, you think the worst of everybody because you think the worst of yourself. And then you bring all this shit to life with your actions. Very impressive talent.”

He deserves this. If anything, she’s not mad enough. That she’s speaking to him at all so soon after their fight feels like a gift.

“I want to try and explain,” Ilya says.

He listens for a moment to Svetlana’s breathing. It’s nice in a way to just lie here with her. It reminds him of when they were kids, before they’d ever had sex, or gotten married, and sleeping together was something they did just because. His house had been difficult; her house had been a sanctuary. She’d always been that for him.

“I think I’ve been treating you badly,” he says. She laughs bitterly but he ignores it and continues. “Because I’m still so guilty for everything that happened.”

She sighs. “I know. But Sasha was—”

“No,” Ilya says. “Well, yes—him, too. But with you, Sveta.” He takes a chance and lightly strokes her arm before withdrawing his hand quickly to his own orbit. “You gave up everything to help me. Russia, your independence, years of your life that you’ve spent with me.”

“So that’s why you’ve been such an asshole?” she says. “I gave you too much and you feel bad? Makes sense.”

“I wasn’t doing it on purpose.” Ilya rubs a hand down his face. It occurs to him suddenly that this is the most Russian he’s spoken in weeks—the most he’s spoken to Svetlana. “I think I just wanted it to be easier…for you to leave. And not worry about me anymore.”

“Did you ever think instead that maybe you could just do better for yourself? And then I wouldn’t have to worry?”

Ilya doesn’t respond to that. The honest answer is no, it hadn’t occurred to him. They lay in silence for a minute, Ilya closing his eyes, thinking, as Svetlana seemingly does the same.

Why hadn’t it occurred to him? Why has he chosen time and again to push people away, ignore them, leave, rather than do anything else?

“I am so fucking tired,” Ilya says, “of being someone you have to worry about. I’m tired of needing other people to tell me all the ways I’m fucking up. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

It feels easier to admit in this dim room, on his back, beside a friend who’s seen all the worst of him and still—hopefully—loves him.

Svetlana turns her head to look at him at last; Ilya continues to stare at the ceiling.

“I don’t know either,” Svetlana says. “You don’t tell me anything anymore.”

“I don’t want to burden you more than I already have.”

Svetlana groans, practically yells, in frustration, “I don’t know where you get these ideas from. A burden. Whoever said you were a burden to me?”

The words pour out of Ilya now like links on a swallowed chain he’s yanking from deep in his throat. “You’ve been stuck with me for fucking years. For years, everywhere you wanted to go, you had to take me. Everything you wanted to do, you had to think of me. You haven’t even been with anyone seriously since we’ve been married. Because—”

“Neither have you,” she snaps. She sits up then, folding over to briefly put her face in her hands. “Until now. And now, as soon as we’re getting divorced, when maybe our life could be normal and we could be normal friends again, you’re leaving me.”

“Sveta, I’m not—”

She cuts him off with a hand. He sits up and gingerly rests his palm on her back.

“I hate that this is so hard,” she says. “I never thought it would be like this to lose you.”

“You’re not losing me,” Ilya says. “That will never happen.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t understand. I’m sad, Ilya. I’m sad that we’re getting divorced. I know you don’t get it, but this meant something to me.”

Ilya stares hard at her profile. He can’t even get the words out to ask what she means. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to.

“Not like that,” she says, and there’s a hint of derision in there that almost makes Ilya smile. “I just mean…obviously it wasn’t what other people think of as a marriage, but for so long, it’s only been you and me, Ilya. We were together even if it wasn’t that kind of love, and when people ask me about it later, I’ll say yes, I was married, but we were better as friends so we got divorced because that’s the truth. This is the right thing to do, and getting divorced is the only option, but I need you to understand that this ending is a loss to me, even if it’s not to you. You’ve never been a burden to me. You’ve been my best friend. We were home for each other and I’m sad that that’s over now.”

“This is your home still,” he says quietly. “Just because things are different—that does not have to end.”

“I don’t even want to go,” she says, so clearly afraid to admit it to him that Ilya wonders if it’s possible to die from shame, to shrivel like old flesh or disintegrate into dust that settles in the cracks between the floorboards.

“I don’t want you to go either,” he tells her, and she lays back into his arms then. He pets her hair and she laughs a little, maybe just to stop herself from crying. He pats the top of her head, and it reminds him again of being children with her, that feeling of holding one another just because nobody else was around who would.

“I’m sorry I made you think you had to leave,” he says.

She takes a deep breath and sighs irritably, a reassuring sign. “Thank you.”

“We are okay now, yes? Or do you need me to beg some more?”

“This was enough,” she says. “You can save the begging for Shane.”

He laughs and tugs her hair and she pushes away from him, moving to get out of the bed and beckoning him begrudgingly to follow her.

They sit across from each other at the kitchen table, coffees in hand, both aware that this is one of the last times they may do this—like this, anyway, as members of the same household. The countdown to the end has started. Change is breaching the horizon.

“I think I need to get my own place,” Ilya says then, as much to himself as to Svetlana.

She drinks her coffee. “You won’t go to Shane’s?”

“No,” Ilya says. “Maybe it doesn’t make any sense but I can’t. Not yet. It would be too easy.”

Svetlana reaches over the table to touch his cheek. “You know it’s okay to do the easy thing sometimes, Ilyusha. Not everything has to be a hardship for you.”

“I know,” he says softly, leaning into her small, warm hand. “But I don’t want it to be easy. I have things to work on, and I can’t do that if I am…”

Too happy? Too satisfied? Too in love and loved in return? Ilya can’t figure out which one is most appropriate but Svetlana just nods anyway.

“Have you told him yet that you love him?” she asks.

Ilya’s afraid to even say no; saying anything will give every soft feeling in his heart away.

“We aren’t there yet,” he lies. “But soon. I think.”

She nods. Then she smirks at him knowingly and Ilya groans. “I want a fucking cigarette.”

“So smoke one. You don’t have any?”

“I fucking quit.”

“Poor thing.” She laughs at him then pats his hand. “But it seems like maybe it will be worth it.”

“I think so,” he says. There’s one more thing he needs from her, though asking her for it feels harder to get out somehow than all the other words he’s managed to say over the past few days. But Shane told him to do what he has to in order to feel like he’s right with himself. And for Shane, Ilya quit other people, quit smoking, quit lying just because it’s easier. He can do this too. It seems like maybe it will be worth it.

“Svetlana,” he says, looking from the table to her waiting gaze. “Do you have any way of getting in touch with Sasha?”

It’s early November and Ilya’s phone buzzes in his back pocket. He doesn’t reach for it immediately since his hands are full.

“She is so big now,” he says, propping Ruby up in front of his face to see her properly. She reaches out and grabs his nose. He pulls back and pretends to bite her hand, grinning when she squeals.

“Yeah, she’s built like a tank,” Hayden says, coming back into the room with three beers. He passes one to Shane, then tries to hand one to Ilya but he’s still preoccupied, so Hayden sets his down before dropping into a chair.

Ilya and Shane sit on the couch, and Ilya shifts Ruby to his lap so he can drink his beer while she plays with his earlobe. They chat awhile. Hayden and Ilya argue a bit, about nothing, while Shane laughs. Then Shane and Hayden descend into bike talk like always and Ilya gives his full attention to Ruby until she falls asleep against his chest. Finally, Ilya takes his phone out.

Sasha: I don’t know what to say either.

Ilya opens his messages, heart racing. His own text is there from a couple of weeks prior: I don’t know what to say. It’s Ilya Rozanov.

Ilya texts back now: Can we talk?

His phone rings immediately. As gently as he can without sacrificing urgency, he shuffles Ruby into Shane’s lap and stands.

“Are you okay?” Shane asks.

Ilya nods, flashing his phone wordlessly to Shane before barreling through Hayden’s house to his backyard. He answers the call as the door shuts behind him.

There’s silence on the line at first, just the static crackle of bare connection.

“Hi,” Ilya finally says.

There’s a small laugh, so familiar it sends him instantly back to those loose, careless days years ago.

Sasha says, in Russian, “Wow. I can’t believe it’s you.”

Ilya responds the same. “It’s me.”

“When you texted me I thought maybe it was a joke.”

Ilya plants himself on the edge of Hayden’s deck, feet on the grass. The temperature is in the fifties and the sun is in full, cloudless shine. Ilya feels the skin on his forehead tighten under it.

“Where are you?” Ilya asks. He doesn’t know where else to start.

“My apartment in Paris.”

“Paris still?” The surprise is evident in his tone. But where else did he think Sasha would be? Not Russia.

Sasha laughs again. There’s a rustling in the background like he’s adjusting in a chair, maybe relaxing. Ilya glances at the time; it’s midday here and evening in Paris.

“Yes, still,” Sasha says. “Why? Where are you?”

“The United States. Colorado.”

“What the fuck are you doing in Colorado?”

Ilya laughs then; they both do. And he settles a little into a slouch, one hand planted on the deck for support. “I came here with Svetlana. We have been trying different places out for the last few years.”

“Ah,” Sasha says. More rustling, a small, sleepy sigh. Does Sasha have someone there with him, head resting on his chest? Or a child maybe, curled up sleeping?

“So…why did you want to talk?” Sasha asks after a few moments of silence. “Are you okay?”

There’s something rattling in Ilya’s core, a heavy ball of lead that’s been bruising his ribs for years. Hearing Sasha’s voice triggers a cyclone, the ball using his ribcage as a velodrome for its rhythmic, aching whirl.

“I’m okay,” Ilya says. “But I have been thinking for a long time now that I need to tell you I’m sorry.”

He hears Sasha’s breath sharpen, then retreat, like he’s pulled the phone away briefly and brought it back at the end of a sigh.

“I don’t need your apology, Ilya. It was a long time ago.”

“Not so long.”

More silence.

“Long enough,” Sasha says. “We made a mistake then but we’re both okay now. Everything worked out, yes?”

We. Ilya’s mind stutters over the word.

“I made a mistake,” he says. “It was my fault. I didn’t care if we were caught because I was so fucked up. I was reckless with you. And you said you were in…”

Ilya can’t finish the sentence but Sasha doesn’t help him.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says again. He rubs his chest hard. Shane told him it helps to feel his own heart, to feel in difficult moments that it’s still beating and hasn’t stopped, or else sped up so fast that it’s out of control. It’s just a heart beating, like always.

“Okay,” Sasha says. “Well, I’m sorry, too.”

“Why?” It comes out harsh and clipped before Ilya can stop himself.

“We were both there, Ilya. We both knew the risks. It’s not like you made me do anything, and I pulled you into dark corners just as often as you did it to me.”

Ilya doesn’t know what to say to that.

“It was a long, long time ago,” Sasha says again. “If you need me to say I forgive you then of course I do, but I never blamed you for what happened. I was just sad things did not work between us and we both were afraid, even if it was maybe inevitable. But I’m not sad about it anymore and I don’t want you to be sad either. My life is good now. So say something better to me after four years than I’m sorry.”

Ilya almost laughs. He wipes his eye quickly, looking out across the yard.

“Tell me about your good life,” Ilya says.

He can hear Sasha’s smile through the phone.

“Well, for the first year or so I was still doing more of the same thing we were doing back home. Parties, mostly. Nothing good. But after that, it was mostly art and working. Eating the best food in the world, drinking the best wine. Making many, many beautiful friends.”

“Aha. Very nice.”

“Not so many friends around these days, just a few good ones,” Sasha says, coy. “Mostly I am home with my husband. And my cat.”

“You have a husband and a cat?”

The rustling moves across the speaker again.

“Marcel and Leo,” Sasha says. “He’s lying on me now, and he won’t stop pushing his face into my mouth so I’m sorry if it sounds weird. The cat is doing that, I mean. Not Marcel.”

Ilya smiles. He likes the image of Sasha relaxing at home with a cat on his chest. Safe.

“I want to get a dog,” Ilya offers, just for something to say. It feels strange to say aloud, and to Sasha—Sasha!—like they’re just old friends catching up on this odd thought and that one.

“You should get one.”

“Not now. I am in an apartment with no yard now, but maybe later.”

“I see. Are you still traveling around with Svetlana?” Sasha asks. “You should come visit me. You can see for yourself how good my life is.”

“Maybe,” Ilya says. “Now is not the best time.”

“No. But in the spring. Next year, whenever you want.”

“I will think about it.”

There’s a brief wave of silence, both of them wondering if the other has said everything they need to.

“For what it’s worth, Ilya,” Sasha begins, tone careful, “I’m glad now that you didn’t come to Paris with me back then.”

Ilya swallows. “Yes?”

“I thought about it a lot, once I was through the worst of it all, and I think we both made the best choice we could have in the moment. And see how things go? Now you live in the mountains with Svetlana, and soon you’ll have a dog. Everything is fine.”

“And you have a cat and a husband you probably paint naked in front of the Eiffel Tower.”

Sasha laughs so hard, it’s like no time has passed at all. They’re in a nightclub in Moscow. They’re in a bathroom while Sasha’s parents sit down the hall. They’re not in love but at least they’re having fun. And they’re friends.

“If you can’t come here, maybe I will come visit you someday,” Sasha says.

Ilya smiles. “Bring your husband. You could stay with me and my boyfriend.”

“Ah, there is a boyfriend.”

Ilya grins into the phone like an idiot. “Yes. Shane.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Sasha says. “Is Shane like you? Lots of late nights, lots of people coming and going? And coming again?”

“No, he is a very good boy. Better than me. Rides a little bicycle around town and reads books.”

“Just your type.”

Ilya laughs.

“You know, you’re good too, Ilya—or at least you were when I knew you. It’s been too long now to say, but I don’t think Svetlana would have given you my number if she thought this would be bad.”

“She told you?”

Sasha scoffs. “I mean, yes. She said you are doing well but sort of sad, and to be nice to you if I could. I told her we would see what you had to say first.”

Ilya hums. Doing well but sort of sad. Well, okay. There are worse things to be. And he’s working on it.

They chat a while longer and find each other on Instagram. Ilya scrolls through Sasha’s photos of his life: pasta and wine, oil paints, a very handsome man and a round-faced black cat. They end the call with a plan to keep in touch. It’s too soon to make travel plans but eventually, maybe. Ilya sits outside for a few more minutes after the call ends, enduring a feeling inside him like he could either cry or fall asleep. He’s so tired. He doesn’t know when he’s ever apologized more often in his life. He thought he’d be instantly lighter after talking to Sasha but somehow everything still feels so heavy.

When he finally heads back inside to Shane and Hayden, it only takes a couple of minutes for Shane to say, unprompted, that they need to get going.

“Was that phone call what I think it was?” Shane asks in the driveway.

“It was Sasha,” Ilya confirms.

Shane looks at him seriously, so cute with his brows knitting together. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not yet,” Ilya says. “I think maybe I will go home tonight. By myself.”

Shane, to his credit, only frowns for a millisecond before correcting it.

Ilya smiles. “What? You will miss me that much?”

“No.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Shane turns his bike helmet around in his hands. “Obviously I’m going to miss you. But more than that…I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I am,” Ilya says. He rubs his hand along Shane’s bicep. “I think I just…need to process for a bit. Would be easier to do alone. You are too distracting.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Ilya laughs. He gives Shane’s beltloop a tug, already doubting his resolve. Fortunately Shane is stronger than he is and swats Ilya’s hand away.

“But you’re really okay, right?” Shane asks.

“Yes.”

“And you’ll tell me about it tomorrow? When you’re up for it?”

Ilya nods. He would tell Shane now but he wants to be sure of what he feels before he speaks on it. One night alone this week won’t kill either of them. Probably.

“I will call you later,” Ilya says. “Just to say goodnight. Nothing crazy.”

“I’m sure.”

Shane puts his helmet on and Ilya buckles it for him under his chin, then kisses him. They take off in the same direction, Shane on his yellow Bridgestone and Ilya on his red Honda. Ilya goes slow so as not to lose Shane before the turn. At the intersection, Shane throws the sign first, grinning when Ilya returns it before Ilya goes right and Shane goes left.

Shane wakes up in the morning to Ilya sliding into bed behind him. He doesn’t open his eyes. Ilya’s mouth meets the nape of his neck, his hand his ass beneath the covers.

“Good morning.”

Shane grumbles, “Morning.” Distantly, he thinks Ilya must be feeling okay if he’s here.

“Remember when you would not let me sleep over?” Ilya asks. His voice is rough, low, scraping across Shane’s ear. “And I would come early in the morning to pretend?”

The admission makes Shane’s stomach flip. “I kind of miss it sometimes,” he breathes. He’s too groggy to argue the point about who wasn’t letting who sleep over.

“This?” Ilya presses against Shane’s ass, pulling him closer.

“Just you waking me up like this. Surprising me.”

Ilya hums. He wraps his arm around Shane’s chest. “You just love to be sleepy. Like a plaything for me, no work, just my cock.”

Shane smiles. “You like it, too.”

“Yes. On your back now, please.”

Shane rolls over, eyes still closed, and listens to Ilya’s breathy laugh upon finding him so hard already as he takes Shane’s cock into his mouth. Shane only opens his eyes after he comes, wide awake.

They lie in bed together for most of the morning. Shane plays with Ilya’s hair as he talks, telling Shane all about his conversation with Sasha.

“Do you feel any better?” Shane asks.

“I think so. A little.”

“Good. I’m really, really proud of you.”

Ilya takes a deep breath, exhaling shakily, and Shane wonders if it hurts more than he’s saying. He thinks it’s probably normal for there to be a little pain still, even when it’s all okay. There’s a small part of him that’s waiting now for Ilya to tell him he loves him. Wasn’t this what Ilya needed to do? They both know they love each other, and that Shane is on the brink of saying it about a hundred times a day, and only hasn’t because he’s promised himself he’ll wait for Ilya to say it first. Ilya doesn’t say it this morning, but that’s okay. Neither of them are going anywhere.

In December, Shane brings Ilya home for Christmas. They stay with his parents in Ottawa, and having him there feels like a dream. He loves the way Ilya treats him in front of his mom and dad: doting, almost reverent, but with that snarky undercurrent of constant teasing that Shane finds so irresistible. And he loves seeing Ilya try so hard with his family, helping his mom cook, listening patiently to his dad talk about work. When Shane gets out of the shower and finds Ilya and his father doing a puzzle together, he’s so moved by the sight of it, he almost takes a photo. He manages to resist the temptation; it’s not like this is the last time he’ll see it.

“I like them very much,” Ilya says. They’re in bed together on Christmas Eve, enjoying the quiet of Shane’s parents’ house.

“They like you, too.” Shane scratches his nails through the hair on Ilya’s chest. “I wish I could’ve met your family.”

“You have met Svetlana. That is enough for me.”

Shane nods against him. It’s not enough when he thinks about it too long, but he knows it has to be. He wonders how other Christmases have been for Ilya. If he’s been lonely. If he feels the remnants of that loneliness even now.

Ilya mutters something in Russian then, against Shane’s hair. Shane catches most of the words: family, grateful, home, my beloved. Shane props himself up on an elbow and says back slowly in Russian: “I am…very glad…you are…here…in me.”

Ilya laughs and kisses him.

“Was that wrong?” Shane asks in English, a little defeated but smiling anyway.

“No, was perfect,” Ilya insists. “Say that to me every day, just like that.”

They spend New Year’s Eve together in Colorado, at Svetlana’s house. It’s bittersweet for Ilya, but mostly sweet, and he’s sure for Svetlana it must be the same. They dance together, drink, laugh at Shane’s face when he tries the straight vodka they’ve been sharing. The house is filled with almost everyone they know. Shane is by Ilya’s side all night, and at 11:59, they all rush out to the yard to try and see what they can of the fireworks shooting from the summit of the mountain. Ilya kisses Shane hard at midnight in the light snow, amidst the bangs and whirrs. There’s a second where he thinks Now! Say it! Say it now! and even opens his mouth, but ultimately he just kisses Shane again, then holds him by the waist to watch the colors fade away into gray smoky imprints in the black sky.

In the New Year, Ilya gets divorced. It’s not quite as simple as a one-page document, sign and done, but it isn’t bad. They use a mediator rather than attorneys, and they agree immediately on how to divide every piece of their four years of life together—except Love is Evil.

“I don’t want it for myself,” Ilya says in Russian. “It’s not mine. You’re an owner, too. You can’t make me take it.”

Svetlana taps her long nails on the table. “I think I can.”

“Sveta—”

“Enough,” she says, putting both hands flat on the wood with a dull but surprisingly loud smack.

“Is this your home now?” she asks. “Is this your life?”

When Ilya doesn’t answer, she speaks for him.

“It is, Ilya. Your life is here with Shane, and Shane isn’t leaving any time soon so you might as well keep the shop for yourself. You can start fresh this way.”

Ilya takes one of her hands. “I don’t want it if it’s not with you,” he says simply. “This is my home because you’re here, too. If you’re staying then fucking stay. Stop being dramatic.”

“So mean,” she says, not looking at him.

“I thought maybe you wanted a messy divorce after all,” Ilya says. “I can cry now if it will help. Throw myself on the table.”

“Please don’t.”

“Then say okay. Let’s keep doing this together. That way we always have something that is for you and me.”

Finally, she smiles.

The mediator clears her throat. “Is there…consensus?”

Ilya drops Svetlana’s hand. In English, he says, “Yes. Sorry. The shop stays in both our names.”

On a beautiful, drizzling day in March, as the daisies are first blooming and an absurdly jaunty rainbow is spreading across the sky, Ilya closes the curtains in his bedroom and logs on for a virtual appointment with his therapist.

The idea occurred to him a few weeks prior, on a dim late-winter evening when Shane was busy, Svetlana traveling, and Ilya found himself extremely, depressingly, almost cosmically alone in his apartment. He should’ve been feeling happy. He’d passed his naturalization test and had his ceremony a day before, which Shane and Svetlana had both attended. They’d gone out after, to dinner and drinks, and then met more friends at that karaoke bar from so many months prior where Shane had been brave (drunk) enough to confront Ilya on his bullshit. This time he’d been brave (drunk!) enough to sing a song with Svetlana, and Ilya had laughed so hard at their rendition of the American national anthem, he cried. But then once he was crying, it was like he couldn’t stop. Too much to drink, or maybe too much everything: joy and intimacy and guilt and lingering shame.

He spent the next day home in bed with a hangover, replaying in his mind all the reasons he didn’t deserve to have everything he wanted at his fingertips. And it occurred to him then that he could…talk to someone. People did that, right? In America, it seemed like everybody had a therapist. He’d consider it another part of his naturalization.

The first few sessions with Dr. Molchalina—a Russian-speaking therapist Ilya found online—were rough, usually ending with Ilya getting back in his bed for a while, lying in silence with his thoughts. Over a few weeks, they covered his mother, his father, his brother, Sasha, and Svetlana. He felt so far like it was a lot of dumping information and not much inner transformation, though maybe he felt a little lighter without it all in his head.

“I just don’t want to think about all of this anymore,” he says now, in Russian. “But I don’t know how to let it go.”

Dr. Molchalina nods thoughtfully, mouth pinched in a way Ilya has come to recognize means she has something serious to say. He waits.

“It seems to me, Ilya,” she says gently, “that everyone you feel you’ve wronged has forgiven you, but you still feel like you need to make amends.”

“Okay?” he retorts, a little snippy. He checks himself. “Sorry. So?”

She smiles sadly. “We can’t ask people who aren’t in our lives anymore to forgive us, but I think what you need to understand is that forgiveness can be a one-way street. Even if they aren’t here to hear it, you can extend the feeling to them in your heart—in a productive way, without ruminating or letting it control your life—and you can forgive them in return for the things that still hurt you. And then, when you’re ready, you can forgive yourself.”

Ilya swallows hard and considers forgiveness as a one-way street. Stop ruminating, stop miring himself in regret. Forgive his family and his country. Forgive himself. Yes, there was maybe something to that. He could try.

Their session comes to an end and Ilya thanks her as always. He stays home alone that night to think, which Shane understands. Ilya sleeps hard and deep, imagining in his last wakeful moments what it would feel like to simply forgive all of it. Forgive every bad memory and let them all go. Move on. Do better going forward and stop living in the pain of the past. It would probably feel pretty good.

He wakes up in the morning with a different sensation in his stomach: a weightless ball of soft light, and only a lingering, dull rumble of the whirring ball of lead.

For Shane’s birthday in May, they take a trip to France. They drink wine in Bordeaux, see Versailles and Giverny, before coming to Paris for the last few days. Svetlana meets them there, which is good.

And dinner with Sasha goes well, too. Shane is only slightly jealous watching him and Ilya embrace, nearly five years of distance rendered suddenly to nothing. But then Ilya introduces him as My Shane, and Sasha hugs him too, and Marcel gives him a good, strong handshake, and it feels much easier to sit around a table together and listen all night to Ilya and Sasha and Svetlana recounting some of their best and worst memories of Moscow, a place none of them has seen since.

But there’s so much lightness in Ilya despite that. Shane sees it in the way he pours drinks for the whole table, the way he brings Leo the cat to his face and kisses him, before holding him right next to Shane and saying, “See? Like twins.”

“All right.”

He has a lot of fun and Shane has to drag him drunk back to their hotel, undress him and give him water and tuck him into their lush king-sized bed. When Ilya’s asleep, Shane mouths it wordlessly against his neck: I love you so much. Maybe Ilya will hear it in his dreams.

On their last morning, a door opens a few rooms to the east—someone stepping outside to watch the sunrise maybe—while Shane and Ilya are fucking on the balcony of their hotel room. Ilya pulls Shane down on top of him, chests flush together while he’s still inside him, and covers Shane’s mouth with his other hand.

He says, “Quiet, sweetheart. Don’t let anyone hear you. Only me. Be good for me,” in Russian. Shane nods and his eyes flutter shut, breathing heavily and whimpering into Ilya’s palm until they hear the door open and close again, and then Ilya flips them and fucks him ruthlessly. Shane keeps Ilya’s hand over his mouth and looks in his eyes and gasps I love you into his palm as he comes.

That afternoon, they’re waiting for their turn at the bottom of the Eiffel Tower when Shane says, “Want to race?”

“What, up these fucking stairs?”

“Yes.” Shane puts a hand on Ilya’s shoulder for balance as he grabs his own ankle to stretch his quad. “Scared?”

“No, but I think you are crazy. And I know you are slow.”

When they reach the first step, Shane looks at Ilya expectantly. He waits about two seconds before taking off. Their laughter is breathless and loud, haggard, as they excusez-moi themselves past other tourists and shove at each other, sneakers squeaking on the iron, until, miraculously, Ilya reaches the second floor first and bursts onto it with a smug grin.

He only stops gloating (and Shane only stops peppering him with insinuations that he cheated) when the elevator dispenses them at the summit. Then they stand together quietly against the metal cage to look out at the serpentine Seine and all of Paris before them.

“So I’ve been thinking about something,” Shane starts cautiously. They’re back home, grocery shopping, a little for Shane’s house and a little for Ilya’s. Shane picks up a box of cereal from the shelf, glances at the nutrition label, then puts it back.

“Uh oh,” Ilya says, leaning on the cart. “Is your head okay? Hurting?”

“I’m being serious.”

“Then tell me your serious thoughts.”

Shane picks up another box and puts it back without even looking at it. “I’ve been thinking,” he starts again, more clearly this time, “that maybe I want to start racing again. Not professionally,” he adds in response to Ilya’s raised eyebrows. “It’s too late for that. Like, way too late. But there are so many races I could be doing now, just for fun. A lot of retired pros do it.”

“Ah, yes. Racing for fun is very you.”

“Shut up. I just miss competing, I guess.”

“You mean you miss winning.”

Shane rolls his eyes.

“I think it’s great,” Ilya says. “If you want to, you should do it.”

“I think I want to. I mean, if it’s just for fun, then…” Shane frowns, cheeks warming. “I don’t know. Maybe it won’t suck as much when I lose.”

“Maybe it won’t,” Ilya says. “Or maybe it will be worse.”

“Thanks.”

“But don’t let the chance of losing ruin it for you, yes?” He picks up a cereal box even worse nutritionally than the one Shane just rejected and drops it in their cart. “Besides. There is also the chance you could win.”

Shane’s training kicks off right away. He signs up for a race toward the end of the summer: a summit climb that’s twelve miles of paved, curving road to the top of a fourteener, gaining nearly 5000 feet of elevation along the way. He’s in the gym every day, hitting more cardio, losing some weight though he never drops below 200. By mid-summer, he’s lean but still strong, and his waist narrows in a way Ilya has to appreciate with both hands every chance he gets. He does what he can to help Shane prepare, which mostly amounts to a lot of massages for his sore legs and a lot of praise whispered in his ear that Shane will hopefully recall during the worse parts of the climb. Ilya also does a lot of cooking for Shane, good things high in protein and healthy carbs for energy.

Ilya’s stirring a pot on the stove while Shane sits reading at the table.

“Are you riding again with Hayden tomorrow?” Ilya asks.

“Yeah,” Shane says. “Just a couple hours, probably. Up and back down.”

“Mm.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Ilya says, licking the spoon. More salt. “Maybe I am wondering why you only want to ride with Hayden.”

Shane looks at him for several long moments. “What—do you want to come?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe I would like to be invited.”

Shane stands from his seat at the table and hugs Ilya from behind. “You’re always invited. Do you want to ride with us tomorrow?”

“Mm, no thank you.”

Shane laughs. He pushes back and leans against the island until Ilya turns to face him.

“That’s probably for the best,” Shane says. “Honestly, it’s a tough ride. I don’t think you could handle it.”

Ilya’s mouth falls open. “Cocky.”

“Just being honest!” Shane says. “It’s like 3000 feet of elevation gain. I’m not sure you have the endurance.”

“My endurance is perfect, better than the last time we rode together. I do not even smoke now.”

“Sure. Because you definitely don’t smoke every time you hang out with Svetlana. You know I have a nose, right? You’re not sneaky.”

Ilya narrows his eyes and nods, turning back to the stove. He considers that he’ll teach Shane something later about endurance.

That night, Ilya puts Shane on top for a long, long time, and when Shane begins to slow and tries to roll them over, Ilya stops him.

“Stay.”

Shane laughs, breathless and legs trembling. “You’re trying to wear me out?” he asks, hips still rolling as Ilya fucks up into him. Shane moves his hands from the headboard to Ilya’s chest, holding him down.

“This is training. Is not my fault—if you’re too tired—for your little ride tomorrow,” Ilya pants. Fuck, he’s close to coming. Shane’s weight on his chest makes him feel lightheaded in the best way.

“I won’t be,” Shane says. Sweat glistens on his temples. He presses harder on Ilya’s chest and squeezes the muscles between his fingers, changing his angle and rhythm at the same time. “Could do this all night. You?”

Ilya is about to come. He moves his hand from Shane’s hip to his cock, stroking him fast as Shane loses his words and his smirk.

“All night,” Ilya says, barely coherent between the pace and the deepened pressure on his chest. “Who are you racing, ah? You want to win this, too? Show me how fast you are, Shane.”

Shane says, in a gasp, “Are you close?”

“Barely. Try harder.”

And somehow, Shane does go harder then, faster, and before Ilya can stop it, he comes inside Shane with a loud moan. Shane comes almost instantly all over Ilya’s stomach, before collapsing forward in an exhausted heap on his chest.

Shane drags himself out of bed in the morning on shaking legs. He chugs some electrolytes, eats breakfast, and gets himself dressed to leave before Ilya is even conscious. Shane kisses him gently and whispers goodbye. Then he leaves Hayden in his dust all up and down the mountain.

A week later, Shane leads Ilya through the house with his hands over Ilya’s eyes.

“Ah, we are going to your bedroom,” Ilya says. “This is the best kind of surprise.”

Shane scoffs. “Sorry, not that. But maybe later.”

“Disappointing.”

Shane stands Ilya in the middle of the room and pushes something square and papery into his hands, which turns out to be a giftbag. Ilya raises an eyebrow.

“What is this?”

“Open it, idiot.”

Ilya tosses the tissue paper to the floor and barks out a laugh.

“If you want to ride with me so bad, we’re going to do it right,” Shane says.

Ilya pulls out the jersey—lime green with a bold geometric  pattern all over it—and a pair of black bike shorts.

“Finally,” Ilya says. He goes to take his shirt off so he can try his jersey on, but Shane stops him, pulling him instead to the garage, where a cherry red Specialized road bike is waiting.

“Don’t say it’s too much,” Shane says. “I get a pretty good discount at the shop. And I want you to have it.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything. He touches the frame and wonders if he’ll ever stop smiling.

Ilya follows Shane on a paved trail looping in and out of an open space, through some neighborhoods, and into a park in the middle of the city that looks out at the mountain range rather than being part of it. It’s the best view of the range if you make it to the top. They stop for water halfway up, pulling to the side to let a sinewy, elderly couple fly past them.

“There’s a really good lookout up there,” Shane says, pointing. Water sloshes down his chin and he wipes it away.

Ilya’s eyes track the distance they still have left to climb before returning to Shane. “So let’s go.”

“It’s pretty steep for a bit,” Shane calls over his shoulder from a few feet ahead. “Low gear, don’t force it.”

Ilya follows the instruction gratefully and falls in beside Shane, legs pumping fast with the lowered resistance, and before he even realizes it’s happening, they’re racing again. Shane is obviously faster, stronger, and keeping Ilya just barely at his back wheel, but Ilya’s head begins to fill with a rush of chemicals so powerful he thinks for the first time that everything about this makes sense.

The spirit.

He pushes himself harder than he ever has physically, still falling behind until he’s racing just himself to the top. He hears Shane stop, knows he’s looking back at him, grinning, probably thrilled to watch Ilya’s struggle. When he makes it, he dismounts while still straddling his new bike, collapsing forward onto the handlebars.

Shane laughs. “You good?”

Ilya steps over the frame and drops his helmet before lying on the rough, flat surface of rock without even glancing at the view.

Shane takes Ilya’s bike, guiding it to a tree and propping it up with his own. He leaves his helmet dangling on the bars, then plops down on the ground, a warm, wet mass of muscle beside Ilya. And maybe it’s the altitude, or the endorphins, or just the hot sun burning through his jersey into his chest, but Ilya realizes there’s never going to be a better time than right now. It’s never going to feel easier. There’s never going to be a more perfect moment to do this.

“Shane,” Ilya says, turning his head. He waits until Shane does the same, their faces a few inches apart. Ilya puts a hand on his own heaving chest, over his heart. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

The grin that appears practically splits Shane’s face in two. It’s clear he understands; Ilya wonders if he’s looked up the words before, just in case.

“I don’t know how to say it back in Russian,” Shane says.

“So say it your way.”

Shane leans forward to kiss him, still catching his breath. “I love you, Ilya. So much. I’ve wanted to tell you for so long.”

Ilya sweeps his thumb across Shane’s cheekbone. “I love you too, Shane. Thank you for waiting.”

“I would’ve waited longer.”

Shane stands then, pulling Ilya to his feet and out to the edge.

The air on the top of the mountain is thin, like each breath has been shaved neatly off the larger one they’d meant to take. At 14,000 feet, they’re above the tree line, feet planted on the bare, tan rock that comprises the summit. Ilya stands huddled in view of the finish line with Hayden, Rose, and Svetlana, and all the other spectators who took the shuttle to the top, and are now waiting on tenterhooks for the men’s 30-39 group to start arriving. They’d watched Shane at the start nearly three hours prior. Shane had looked more serious than Ilya had ever seen him, more determined, dressed in all black and riding an equally serious bike rather than the colorful vintage frames he likes to ride around town.

Hayden leaned over to Ilya and said, “Haven’t seen that look in a long time, dude. He’s got this shit in the bag.”

“Yes,” Ilya had said, still staring at Shane, who only had eyes for the road in front of him. “I know.”

At the finish line, it’s cold. It’s 85 degrees down in the city but there’s snow on the peak. It feels surreal to Ilya that it can be so cold and so hot all at once, the sun bearing down on them all like a spotlight. Ilya has a jacket on fortunately, but only because Jackie had insisted he’d want it when he got up there. He’s grateful now. She stayed at the bottom with Ruby, who was dressed in a little pink t-shirt with TEAM HOLLANDER across the front. Hayden is going to film the finish; they’d all insisted Ilya should just enjoy the moment.

And the moment is upon them. A murmur starts in the small crowd, necks craning to look down the final incline, trying to see bib numbers and pumping figures crawling their way up the last stretch of mountain. It only takes Ilya a glance to know it’s Shane out in front. There are other racers close behind him but not too close, no serious threat. Shane is riding à bloc anyway, full throttle, pushing himself to a height of strength and endurance Ilya finds hard to believe. He feels dizzy just watching, a little sick. Nervous but thrilled with anticipation. His heart starts to pound and his legs tense under him as though a sudden movement could be a distraction to Shane, even as officials and spectators and vehicles amble around. He forgets then that anyone else is there. He only sees Shane, eyes up, teeth bared with effort, glowing golden in the light as his body and mind conquer the last bit of black road.

Ilya watches awestruck as Shane crosses the finish line. First place. Of course. There was never any doubt in Ilya’s mind, yet it somehow still feels like he’s been splashed with cold water. His hand goes to his pocket, fidgeting, gradually becoming aware of Svetlana and Rose shaking him, Hayden shouting, as Shane spots their group and rolls slowly toward them. It feels to Ilya like he’s watching the scene from above, even higher up than they already are. A year ago, he barely knew this man, this city, this mountain, and now it sort of feels like he’s been here at this peak all his life.

Reality hits like another crashing wave when Shane dismounts and throws himself directly into Ilya’s arms. Shane’s pouring sweat, beaming, legs giving out beneath him, black hair falling onto his forehead in wet strands. Ilya holds him tight, so close he’s sure Shane can feel the outline of the velvet ring box in his pocket.

Chapter End Notes

Russian Dialogue:
“Yes. Stop fucking teasing me.”

Notes:
Is writing fanfiction supposed to feel like this? Should I feel forever changed by this experience? Should I feel more connected to my craft and to myself as a person after writing a deeply horny ‘book’ about characters that will never be mine? I don’t know! But here we are.

In August of 2025, I had just finished writing my second unpublished novel, and then I read the entire thing and promptly burst into tears: It fucking sucked! And I didn’t know how to fix it! In reality, on reflection, it was actually not as bad as it seemed, but I was so incredibly burnt out that I sent myself spiraling into a bottomless pit of despair. I didn’t have the energy or desire to do anything. It felt like artistic rock bottom, wanting so badly to create something worthwhile and instead feeling like a total fucking failure. So I can recall vividly the day I was lying on my deck in the sun, still fucking crying, and I Googled something along the lines of “popular gay romances” because I just wanted a distraction. I’d never been a romance reader. I’d read a few before and none had moved me, so I thought, “Well, I guess this genre just isn’t for me.” (Ignorant!) On a completely desperate whim, I pressed play on the Heated Rivalry audiobook because it was available right then through my library. I’d never heard of it, I didn’t care about hockey, but whatever.

And then it changed my entire life. I’m not being dramatic. Heated Rivalry hit me so hard in my spirit, right where I needed it, that it was like waking up from a long, sad sleep. I hadn’t realized how sad I’d been, even before the artistic spiral, and suddenly my world was in color again. Over the next couple of months, I listened to all of Rachel Reid’s books multiple times. Then I read them with my eyes and geared up for the show, which couldn’t possibly be as good as the books but still, it would be fun! And then the show came out! And oh my god, IT WAS EVERYTHING! NOTHING WOULD EVER BE THE SAME FOR ME! LIFE WAS FOREVER CHANGED AND SO WAS I! I won’t go into every detail of what’s happened in my life since August 2025, but every single thing in it is better. I started questioning my shame, my secrets, my desires, and wondering what my life would look like if I shared those parts of myself openly with the people who loved me. I confessed thoughts that I’d held in for years, and not only was I met with understanding, but with open arms. I’ve been on a personal journey ever since, trying to figure out my larger path.

I started writing this story thinking, “This will just be for fun! I want to try writing smut and what a great way to practice! Maybe I’ll even try to write something funny! Haha!” But with each chapter, I found myself more and more consumed by it. I LOVED writing this. I loved making the outline and taking sexy little notes in my phone. I loved blocking out entire days to work on it. It was so much fucking fun, and so fulfilling, and so challenging for me in a new way. I abandoned my third novel draft to write this instead and I have no regrets.

I’m a huge fan of Andrew Sean Greer, author of “Less.” In a recent interview, he recounted an experience he had in grad school, and I can’t stop thinking about it. He was writing weird stories that everybody hated because he thought it would be impressive. They begged him to write something about people, something real, so he finally did it, and surprise! Everybody loved it. And he loved it too, but he was hesitant. What would people think of him? Would anyone take him seriously if he just wrote nice books about queer people? His professor pulled him aside and said this: “There’s no shame in doing what you’re good at. In fact, it’s the only thing you can do.” And now Andrew Sean Greer has a Pulitzer Prize for a beautiful, funny, tender, queer novel about love that he might never have written otherwise. (Please know that I am not even REMOTELY comparing myself to ASG, but his story absolutely moved me, especially when his work has been so influential to me.) After I watched that interview, I looked back on my two failed novels and realized a hard truth: they were always meant to be romances and I kept them from reaching that destiny because of my own shame (a chronic theme for me!). But I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to read horny books about people falling in love, and fuck, I want to write them too! So I think I will! Time will tell.

The point of all this is that I feel this fanfiction has been a formative experience in the shaping of the rest of my writing career. It is absolutely that deep. I feel I’ve grown as a person and an author, and I believe someday I’ll look back on this as the thing that catapulted me in a different direction. So thank you from the bottom of my heart to every person who read (and will read) this story. It truly means the world to me.

Works inspired by this one

Cover for Two Fingers Down by Maudernlover by Nouveau_potatoes