Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Casual Sex, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, ethical slutting, shane hollanderology, and they were neighbors

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-03 Words: 16,642 Chapters: 1/1

stars and moons

Summary

Shane can do casual. He fucking loves casual. He’ll be Toronto’s king of casual.

Notes

well, it was only a matter of time.

i read the books while writing this but only considered the show as my basis for canon. idk what the age differences between everyone are supposed to be so i just freestyled it.

heads up there is canon typical shane food issues in here, though it is not a focus and just mentioned in passing.

“You’re late,” Rose says. “Who died?”

“No one,” says Shane. He sits beside her at the bar and she pushes his beer over. “My neighbor is an asshole.”

Elena, on Rose’s other side, leans forward. “The one with the dog who barks too much?”

“The one who blocks the hallway with his bike?” Rose says.

“Oh, I know,” Kyle says from the far end of the bar. “The one who sublets her place on Airbnb.”

“Stop eavesdropping, Kyle,” Rose and Elena say as one. Kyle gives them the finger and turns back to the register.

“None of those,” Shane grumbles. “The one who didn’t take his laundry out of the dryer until forty-five minutes after the cycle finished. I mean, that’s so rude! Who does that?” Rose unsuccessfully hides a grimace behind her glass. “Don’t tell me you do that.”

“I mean, once or twice! Cancel me. It happens.”

“You have to set a timer so you know when to come back.”

“I know, but people forget to set timers, too.”

“Shane doesn’t,” Elena says. “Right, Shane?”

“Never,” says Shane, aghast. Elena and Rose crack up. They do that sometimes after Shane says the most innocuous things. He’d asked Rose why once and she’d told him it was because he was adorable, which made even less sense.

“I had a schedule,” Shane says over their giggles. “I would have been early. But I can’t air dry my laundry inside in the winter. It’ll get that mildewy smell.”

“I can’t believe how many shitty people live in your building,” Rose says. “You’re sure it isn’t just one ultra-shitty person being the worst neighbor in the entire country?”

“I guess this person could be the same as one of the others. I didn’t see his face. Just his laundry. It was all blindingly white boxer briefs.”

Elena snorts. “An entire load?”

“Yeah.” What kind of guy would do a load of solely white briefs and then forget it for almost an hour? The dedication to cleanliness did not align with the lack of timeliness.

Rose holds up a hand. “This is a distraction. We are meeting here tonight for one reason.”

She extends her palm to Shane. Immediately, he can feel the back of his neck start to heat up. “No.”

Elena raises her eyebrows. “No?”

“I mean, not here,” Shane says quickly. He’s known Elena for only a year less than Rose and still he’s so much more scared of her than Rose, who he was a little scared of until he saw her sing karaoke while blackout drunk on New Year’s Eve in 2016. He’d never been able to listen to Ironic again. “Is there a booth?”

There isn’t, but Elena charms a man taking up a whole booth against the back wall into letting them take it. “Thank you! I love you!” she calls after him.

“One day these men will start to believe you when you say that,” Rose says.

“It’s a gay bar, honey. If any of them believed me, it would make my year. Phone.”

Shane puts his unlocked phone in her hand, and slides down in his seat as she and Rose bend their heads over it. Suddenly he can’t watch, even though this was his idea. Sort of. 

Three Fridays ago, Rose had been over at his place, both of them drowning in work and on the verge of nervous breakdowns, and Rose had groaned, “This sucks. I need to get laid.”

Shane had made the mistake of saying, “Me too.” Rose had shut her laptop, fixed him with an evil look, and now here he is, two of his closest friends selecting him a hook-up for the night.

Actually, now that he’s thinking of it, why were Rose and Elena trawling through his DMs instead of Rose’s? She was the one who’d said it first. Shane opens his mouth to bring this up, and then remembers Elena’s look earlier. He decides to stay quiet.

“Wow,” Rose says. “Gay men on apps are a different breed. I mean, I knew it, but it’s another thing to see it. Do you think all these dicks are real or are some of them AI?”

“What would be the point of putting an AI-generated dick on Grindr?” Shane says. “People would know you’re lying as soon as you take your pants off.”

“Here.” Elena held out Shane’s phone. “Nice dick. Close by. Online three minutes ago.”

A fleeting glance confirms all of the above. “Sure. Yeah.”

“Great.”

Elena starts tapping away. Shane pretends to be scanning the bar, trying to see if anyone else they know is there.

“Shane,” Rose says.

“Yeah.”

“Shane.”

Shane meets her gaze. “You don’t have to do this,” she says quietly.

“I know,” he says, meaning it. “I want to. I hate you both, but thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Elena says. She hands his phone back to him. “Mr. Nice Dick is meeting you on the corner outside your apartment in fifteen minutes.”

—-—

It’s just enough time to run home, brush his teeth, and stuff the freshly folded laundry covering his bed into his dresser. His phone pings. Here.

When was the last time he had a stranger in his apartment? Has he ever? Everything in it takes on a new light as he runs down the two flights of stairs and out the front door. Should he have taken his graduation photo down? Why did he let Rose talk him into hanging up that Lady Gaga poster?

The street is almost empty, which is normal. It’s one of the reasons he likes his apartment building, shitty neighbors aside. Close to the train but tucked back from the bustle. A short walk to everything without being in the middle of it.

The walk to the corner has never felt longer, though. There’s a man standing there, his back to Shane, silhouetted by the streetlight. He’s tall, and he carries it well. Even though Shane himself is tall, sometimes he feels like he doesn’t suit it. Like he was meant to be short and someone forgot to tell his body. No matter how much he works out, the uneasy feeling lingers.

But every line of this guy telegraphs ease. He’s just a guy waiting on a street corner, yet he looks like it’s his street corner. He turns.

“Hi,” says Shane.

“Hello,” says the guy. He has an accent. Slavic? He puts his hands up, making a frame, and centers it over the lower half of Shane’s face. “Yes. It is you.”

Shane remembers—his photo on Grindr is just the bottom half of his face and his chest, ending at his abs. Unconsciously, he lifts a hand to touch his own chin, visualizing it in isolation without his eyes, and then puts it back down quickly when he realizes the guy is watching him. And staring at his mouth.

Shane clears his throat. “Want to come up?”

“Yes.”

The accents shortens the word even more. Clearly, this guy isn’t talkative. They’re both silent on the walk up the street and into Shane’s apartment.

But that’s fine. This isn’t about talking. I can be casual, Shane had said to Rose. It’s not me you need to prove that to, Rose had said back.

The guy stands in the middle of Shane’s living room, looking around, while Shane hangs their jackets in his hall closet. “So this is your place,” he says.

He sounds amused. The fucking Lady Gaga poster is staring at Shane from across the room. “Yeah. Can I get you anything?”

The guy shoots him a look. Oh yeah, he’s definitely silently laughing at Shane now if he wasn’t before. “No, thank you.”

Belatedly, Shane realizes this guy is very good-looking. He’s got curly, blonde hair and ice-chip blue eyes that—another belated realization—are already undressing Shane. He doesn’t move, though. Just keeps standing in the middle of Shane’s living room with that little smile on his face.

“You are good?” he asks Shane.

“What? Oh, yes. I’m good.” Did he seem not good? “Shall we…?”

The guy follows him to the bedroom. There’s nothing embarrassing on the walls in here, at least. Shane’s saved from overthinking the color of his comforter (which he’s had since college) by a light touch on his shoulder.

He turns. The guy is right there. He has a mole on his cheek and another two on his neck. His eyes are really blue. Hypnotizingly blue. Shane can’t look away. He didn’t think that was a thing he was into.

“You are sure you are good?”

“Yes,” Shane says. The annoyance he feels could be for the repeated question or the self-consciousness it awakens. He shifts back, shoulders rising.

“I am just checking. Sorry. I’ll shut up.”

He leans forward. Shane tilts his chin up and lets the soft kiss land on his mouth. The next one is deeper, and on the next Shane’s arms go up and around the guy’s neck, self-consciousness forgotten.

They say nothing else the rest of the night. Maybe the guy is chastised by Shane’s annoyance, because for a moment, after he’s put on a condom and is holding himself over Shane, Shane can feel that he wants to ask again. You good? To forestall it, Shane reaches down and guides him until he’s fully inside, hips flush against Shane’s ass.

It’s good. It’s been so long. And it’s not like Shane’s sexual history is full of that many highlights. More lows than highs, if he’s being honest. This one’s definitely going in the highs column. The guy fucks with long, even strokes, hands firm on Shane’s waist. And his dick looks exactly like it did in the Grindr photo. No AI needed here.

He must be able to sense when Shane’s close. He jerks Shane off just like he fucks. “Fuck,” Shane grits out. The sound of his voice in the room suddenly makes all the other sounds much louder and closer: the slap of skin on skin, the guy’s panting breath, the groan coming out of the depths of Shane’s throat as he orgasms.

“Yeah, fuck,” the guy grunts, in a way that would be weird and porny from someone else but just sounds normal in his accent. Shane covers his face, letting the last few hard thrusts carry him through the orgasm into almost-too-much. But then the guy pulls out and jerks himself off, coming in the condom while still hovering over him. Shane shivers.

Afterwards, at the door, the guy says, “That was fun.”

“Yeah. Thank you.” Shane gives him a quick kiss.

“Maybe I’ll see you around.” The guy has that amused look again.

That wouldn’t be very casual, but Shane says, “Yeah, maybe. Have a good night.”

“You too,” the guy says. One more little smile over his shoulder and he’s gone, heading for the stairs, and Shane can shut the door, exhale, and look for his phone to text Rose and Elena mission accomplished.

—-—

Technically, it’s the beginning of the mission. Shane’s going to count the small wins along the way, though. Not only did he have a casual hook-up, he enjoyed it. He can do casual. He fucking loves casual. He’ll be Toronto’s king of casual.

“You can’t let things some rando told you get to you like that,” Rose told him once. “They don’t get to define you.”

The rando in question was the first guy Shane ever dated, so this negated her point. It was back in college and when Cam had broken it off after three months, he’d told Shane he wasn’t ready to be serious. I just don’t think I’m an intense, serious relationship guy. It’s okay that you are, though, Cam had said, but not in a way that made nineteen-year-old Shane feel like it actually was okay.

He’d fucked around a bit when he first moved to Toronto, but he can’t get used to picking people up in clubs, and apps are just so weird. He always feels like he’s scrolling through the online store in a video game or something. Every time he opens one, he ends up turning his phone off and working out for two hours in dead silence because the experience is so eerie.

So that’s where Rose and Elena come in. His hook-up brokers, as Rose had started calling it. It should have been weird but as with many other things, Shane finds that if he doesn’t think about it at all, it’s actually perfect. Once a week, they will meet at Dorothy’s in the Village, go through Shane’s apps, and find him someone for the night.

Slavic Guy is just the beginning. Through October into early December, Shane sleeps with a white guy who confesses to only sleeping with Asian men, two different Americans visiting from (of all places) Denver, a guy too obsessed with Shane’s abs, and several guys who definitely did use AI dick pics for their Grindr profiles. He has to kick someone out just once and it’s really only because he smelled so bad as soon as he took his shirt off.

“Well, what’s the ranking?” Kip asks him when he’s in Toronto one weekend and Shane is telling him about his hot slut winter (Elena’s nickname). Three drinks later, Shane’s got a five-tier ranking in his Notes app. Slavic Guy is the only one to land in S-tier.

“You should call him again. S-tiers are rare. I don’t think I had one until I met Scott,” Kip says.

“That’s against the rules,” Shane tells him. “And I don’t have his number.”

“What rules?” Kip laughs. “Do whatever you want! Have another S-tier fuck!”

That wouldn’t be very king of casual of Shane. No, Slavic Guy will stay a memory to be occasionally taken out for late night jerk-off fodder.

Or late afternoon. Shane works from home on Fridays, sue him. Sometimes he lays on his couch when he needs his project manager to get back to him and his kitchen is clean and he’s waiting for his laundry timer to go off. He sticks a hand in his boxers and visualizes Slavic Guy looming over him, chest heaving. Yeah, fuck.

He draws it out too long. His timer goes off when he’s just getting into the rhythm. He stuffs himself back in his boxers and throws a ratty pair of sweats over them. They’re so thin they don’t help that much, but all his other pants are in the wash.

The laundry room is in the back of his apartment building, in the basement. The sky outside is an angry grey, threatening snow. Hopefully it’ll hold off. Shane pushes the laundry room door open and reaches for the light, but it’s already on. At the other end of the room, unloading bright white underwear from the dryer, is Slavic Guy.

“What?” Shane says stupidly. He’s frozen in the doorway, hand still on the knob. What the fuck is Slavic Guy doing here? Stealing underwear? Why would he even do that?

“Ah, it is you,” Slavic Guy says. He straightens up. His amused little smile is just how Shane remembers it. “I was wondering when we would run into each other.”

“What?” Shane says again, even more stupidly. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” Slavic Guy says.

“You… what!?”

“I. Live. Here,” Slavic Guy says clearly and patiently, as if Shane actually didn’t hear him.

“I don’t understand,” Shane says. “Why wouldn’t you tell me that?”

Slavic Guy shrugs, one shoulder lifting and falling with nonchalant grace. He picks up his laundry basket and rests it against his hip. “If the sex was bad, it would be weird, and if the sex was good, it would be weird. Also I have lived here for two years and never seen you, so I thought maybe I would never see you again.”

“Got it.” Shane does not got it. Nothing about this situation makes sense right now. Slowly, he moves inside the laundry room, puts his laundry bag on top of the washer. The machine is flashing, indicating the cycle ended, but he can’t move further.

“You are upset?” Slavic Guy says. He’s watching Shane with those ice-blue eyes.

“No.” Shane realizes it’s true after he says it. He feels… something, but it isn’t upset. “Sorry, you’re just the last person I expected to see right now.”

“It is no problem. We can pretend we don’t know each other. Easy.”

He brushes past Shane, making for the exit, but Shane puts a hand out, stopping him. “No, no, it’s not that! It’s fine. I was…”

How was he going to finish that sentence? He can’t remember. Slavic Guy is very close, and smiling at him. He glances down at Shane’s hand on his arm. “Ah,” he says.

Shane snatches his hand back. “No, that’s not what I mean either! I, uh, I—”

As Shane stumbles over his words, Slavic Guy turns, places his laundry basket on the washer, takes Shane by the hips, and kisses him.

If Shane couldn’t form a thought before, he definitely can’t now. He finds his hands fisted in Slavic Guy’s hoodie, kissing back hard. Slavic Guy steps closer, caging Shane up against the washer, and then laughs into Shane’s mouth. “That is for me?”

He means Shane’s hard-on, pressed to his thigh. In more ways than you know, Shane thinks, but he says nothing, just hauls Slavic Guy in for a deeper kiss.

They end up in Shane’s apartment again. This time Slavic Guy blows him. Shane’s dick makes ungodly sounds hitting the back of his throat. Between that and still being worked up from earlier, he comes in minutes.

After he gets Slavic Guy off in a similar manner, they lay in bed, shoulder to shoulder. Fuck. Out of all the men he’s hooked up with over the last couple months, it’s this one who lives in his building. On the one hand, it’s great luck. On the other, it’s going to be extremely awkward if he sees Shane bringing someone else home.

“I am Ilya,” Slavic Guy says.

“Shane,” says Shane.

Slavic Guy—Ilya—offers his hand. Shane takes it, smiling. They shake. “It is nice to meet you,” says Ilya. “I am in 6B.”

Three floors up. “You’ve lived here for two years and we’ve seriously never met each other?”

“I work weird hours.”

“What do you do?”

“Public relations.” He says it with irony. Like it’s funny that’s his job. But Shane doesn’t really know what PR people do, so it’s lost on him.

He’s not going to admit that, though. “Cool. I code.”

“Cool,” Ilya says in the same light tone.

“Cool,” Shane says.

Ilya laughs. He pats Shane’s thigh and sits up. “Okay. This was still fun. You know where to find me if you want to do it again.”

“Same.”

Ilya picks his way around Shane’s bedroom, putting his clothes back on as he finds them. He kisses Shane one more time, and lets himself out.

Shane lays there, watching the snow fall outside his window, playing everything over in his head. And then he remembers. His laundry is still in the washing machine in the basement.

—-—

What kind of person knocks on their neighbor’s door for sex? Is Shane that kind of person? He thinks about it all week, through a mediocre Grindr hook-up with a forgettable westerner, and drinks Friday night for Rose’s birthday. She’s one of those people who celebrates her birthday all month, so the drinks are just the beginning. In the morning, they pile into Shane’s SUV to drive down to Holiday Valley and spend the day pretending they’re all not too hungover to ski.

The skiing’s not even really the point; the point is Scott Hunter’s cabin twenty minutes away from the resort. Shane had assumed it was a can we use your empty cabin for the weekend while you’re in the city kind of thing, but when they roll up, Scott himself is chopping firewood outside.

“Oh my god,” Elena says, sounding slightly disturbed. “That has to be illegal. His arms.”

Shane’s met Scott only once, while visiting Kip in New York City last year, and at first the vibe is sort of like someone’s dad being there. Scott’s only eight years older than him and Rose, and only three years older than Kip and Elena, but he just feels so much more like a real adult. He owns a cabin, for fuck’s sake.

A very nice cabin. Shane feels more than one kind of envy as Scott gives them the tour. “This is my bedroom here, and I figured the ladies could take this one. Sorry, Shane, that means you’re stuck with the couch. It pulls out, though.”

“That’s fine, I’ve slept on worse,” Shane assures him. Scott’s thought of everything, of course—the fridge is stocked not only with food and beer, but a cake for Rose too. It has her name on top in pretty frosting.

“Scott, you’re too sweet,” Rose says. She hugs him. In the second it takes Scott to hug her back, Shane sees someone who desperately wants his boyfriend’s friends to like him.

Scott and Kip are so good as a couple, Shane’s not sure how anyone who loves Kip couldn’t love Scott. He watches them cook dinner together out of the corner of his eye, half-assing a game of gin rummy with the girls. The two of them barely have to speak, stepping around each other with practiced ease. At one point, Kip offers Scott a bite of the pasta sauce. Scott wraps his arms around Kip’s waist as he tastes it. The intimacy is as natural as it is sweet.

Shane wonders if anyone’s ever told Scott he’s too serious.

“Shane, Kip told me you’re doing some sort of dating experiment?” Scott asks him at dinner.

Rose snorts a laugh into her glass of wine. Shane ignores her. “Uh… I guess you could call it that. I’m just, sort of…”

He tries to find a word that isn’t crass. “Sleeping around?” Rose supplies.

Shane glares at her. She winks back. “Yes, I’m sleeping around. As an experiment,” Shane says.

“What’s the experiment?” Scott’s interest sounds genuine. He at least isn’t making fun of Shane.

“I wanted to prove to myself that I could do casual. You know, I haven’t really been dating so I haven’t really been having sex. I just wanted to see.”

“Good for you. You can’t knock it until you try it. Though I’ll be honest, I don’t miss those days.”

Kip scoffs. “What days, Mr Serial Serious Relationship?”

“Oh, I meant literally. My sleeping around phase measured in days. My heart’s not cut out for it,” Scott says cheerfully.

Even though he did most of the cooking, Scott insists he should be the one to do the dishes. Shane’s parents raised him to be a good guest, though, so he hovers at Scott’s elbow until Scott lets him rinse the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. They work in a comfortable silence, the others chattering in the living room, until Shane says, “Can I ask you something?”

Scott looks up from the glasses he’s arranging in the rack. “Of course.”

He smiles encouragingly at Shane. “How did you know your heart wasn’t cut out for sleeping around?”

Scott thinks for a second before answering. “Well, I just didn’t feel good after having sex with random people. Actually, it’d be more accurate to say I felt bad. Empty. Lonely. Not really the way you want to be feeling after sex.”

“No, totally. I get it.” The answer cheers Shane. He definitely doesn’t feel that way after his hook-ups. He feels good physically. And not lonely. He likes his space.

They drink beer and play cards late into the night, breaking only to go outside and look at the stars once the moon sets. It’s freezing but the sky does look incredible. The stars are so thick, layers and layers and layers of them sparkling over top one another.

Back inside, Scott builds up the fire before bidding them all good night. Kip goes with him, and the girls go to bed not long after. The pull-out couch is chilly. Shane rolls himself into a little ball, waiting for the fire to warm him.

He hears Kip’s voice from inside his and Scott’s room, laughing and then saying something indistinct. It could be anything, but for a second Shane’s mind supplies an image of him and Scott in bed together, intertwined.

He pushes it away immediately and searches for something else to occupy his thoughts. The next one his mind gives him is Slavic Guy’s eyes—no, Ilya’s eyes as he went down on Shane last week.

That’s no good either. Shane’s not about to jerk off while sleeping on Scott Hunter’s couch. He rolls the blankets tighter around him, ignoring any stirrings of his body until he gets warm enough to fall asleep.

His dreams are torturous, all tangled limbs and sweaty kisses. He wakes up feeling sore from skiing, hungover from drinking, and unbelievably horny. There’s nothing to be done about it. They have a lovely breakfast and then Shane has to drive Elena and Rose back to Toronto. Both of them sleep the entire way, which just worsens Shane’s mood.

Rose kisses him on the cheek when he drops her off, though. “Thank you for everything. Love you.”

“Love you too. Happy birthday.”

“We’re going dancing on Thursday! Miles is in town! Don’t say no to me,” she says as Shane starts to groan, “it’s my birthday.”

Technically, her birthday was two days ago now, but she’s impossible to say no to. Shane rolls his eyes, knowing full well he’ll be there. Elena’s apartment is next, and then finally, Shane is alone.

An idea is growing in his mind. In the back, where he doesn’t have to think about it too directly. But it’s there, all through parking his car and lugging his shit two blocks and up four flights of stairs to his apartment. He dumps his bags in the middle of his living room, and before he can overthink it, he turns around, climbs up three more flights of stairs, and knocks on 6B’s door.

He’s not home. He won’t open. He’ll have someone with him. The overthinking hits like a tsunami in the ten seconds between his knock and the door opening. Ilya is home, alone, and shirtless, black sweatpants riding low on his hips. He looks golden and perfect. “Hello,” he says.

“Hi. I, well, I figured I’d swing by and… see if you meant what you said.”

Ilya raises his eyebrows. “What did I say?”

Oh god. He didn’t mean it. Shane’s face is burning with embarrassment. “Oh. Never mind, then—”

“I’m kidding,” Ilya says. He grins widely. Oh, great, another person who enjoys teasing Shane. Why does he attract them like flies to honey? “Come in.”

Ilya’s apartment is the mirror image of Shane’s, looking onto the street instead of the back courtyard. It’s brighter since the windows face south. “Must be nice in the summer,” Shane says.

“Gets boiling hot. I can never sleep.”

“Oh.” Shane can’t think of anything else to say. But he doesn’t need to. Ilya pushes his coat slowly off his shoulders. Shane lets it fall, already growing hard in his jeans. Ilya’s hands are gentle on his face but his mouth is not.

There’s no need to ask if Shane’s good this time around. He can’t stop moaning. When Ilya sticks his hands in Shane’s pants to cup his ass, when they tumble into Ilya’s bed with Ilya on top, when Ilya pushes both his thighs up and back to push in. “Fuck, oh god, sorry,” Shane pants, trying to get a hold of himself.

“No, no,” Ilya grunts, “let me hear you.”

Shane obeys, allowing the pleasure to overtake him. He keens, high and desperate, when he comes. “Oh my god. Oh my god,” he babbles.

“Oh, fuck.” Ilya is pulling out, still hovering over Shane.

Shane realizes what’s happening. Without thinking, he says, “Take it off.”

Ilya pauses, hand on his dick. The slick condom gleams obscenely in the light. “Yeah?”

Shane nods. Ilya strips it off, and they both watch as he jerks himself off, coming onto Shane’s already-messy stomach.

Fuck. The sight is too much. Shane’s never been into this sort of thing before. What makes this so hot? “You like that?” Ilya murmurs. Shane nods again, not trusting his voice.

Ilya drags two fingers through it, up Shane’s chest to his mouth, then taps them on his bottom lip. There’s a moment where Shane thinks about pretending he’s not going to do it, but he can’t. He opens his mouth and lets Ilya stick his fingers in, lets him swirl it on his tongue and into the back of his throat until Shane gags, too overcome to breath. “Fuck,” he gasps.

“Sorry,” Ilya says, and drops a kiss on Shane’s mouth to seal the apology. In reply, Shane wraps his arms around his neck and kisses him back. Ilya lets his weight fall onto him and they make out like that, legs intertwining, heedless of the mess, the winter sunset painting the room orange around them.

They only stop when Shane’s stomach growls loudly enough for them both to hear. It’s Shane’s turn to mutter, “Sorry.” Ilya just laughs at him.

“Come. I’ll make you something.”

It’s an unexpected turn of events. They clean themselves up, then Shane sits on Ilya’s couch while he makes them sandwiches. And not a shitty ham and cheese: a real sandwich, on toasted sourdough and cut in half, with chips and pickles on the side. It’s so good Shane doesn’t think about how he shouldn’t be eating white bread or dairy. “I’d make you my signature tuna melt, but I just ran out of the key ingredient,” Ilya tells him.

“Oh yeah? What’s the key ingredient?”

“Tuna,” Ilya says.

There’s a second of silence, then they both burst out laughing. “That makes sense,” says Shane.

“You are very cute when you blush.”

Of course that makes Shane blush even more. He hates how red he gets. In the summer, when his freckles darken in the sun, it makes them stand out. “Thanks,” he says, though, trying for graciousness. “Sorry for, like, barging in here and eating your food.”

Ilya tilts his head to the side. “Sorry? Why?”

“You probably had things to do, or whatever.”

“Nothing I wanted to do. In fact, you saved me. This was good—what’s the word—procrastination.”

“Well, then, you’re welcome?”

Ilya nods, serious. “I am very grateful.”

Shane finishes his sandwich, then his pickle. He’s down to his last two potato chips, then Ilya says, “You want a drink?”

After his weekend, not really, but Shane says, “Yes, please.” The cold beer can gives him a reason to linger. Ilya brings the bag of chips, too, and dumps more on Shane’s plate at a nod from him. The quiet is companionable, not awkward. Shane waits for the moment to break and turn weird.

It doesn’t. Ilya picks up the remote, switches on the TV. YouTube is up. “I’m addicted to these. Don’t judge.”

It’s a four-hour celebrity gossip breakdown video. Shane laughs. “Seriously?”

“I would say it’s part of the job, but isn’t really. It’s just fun.”

“Right, public relations. So you work with celebrities?”

“Sometimes. Right now, I am at a company specializing in fashion. Models. That sort of thing.”

Shane suddenly remembers. “Don’t tell me. Big Calvin Klein photoshoot recently?”

Ilya frowns. “What? How did you know that?”

“Your laundry.” Shane laughs. The mystery is solved. “It was all underwear.”

“You noticed that?”

“It was kind of weird! Who does full loads of white briefs?”

“Okay, that is fair. I’m the newest person, so I get glamorous duties like buying coffee and washing underwear after photoshoots.”

“Sounds fucking awful,” Shane says honestly. Ilya exhales a laugh.

“It can be,” he says. “But it can also be fun. And I want a Canadian passport, so I will do whatever I need to.”

“Right. Of course. Where are you from, again?”

Ilya gives him a very direct look, like he knows he’s never told Shane. “Russia,” he says.

It’s quiet again, but not like before. Ilya is tense beside him, fingers absently twisting in his hair. Shane drains the rest of his beer and tries to think of a not-obvious way to leave him in peace.

“My father died last year,” Ilya says suddenly. “So now I don’t need to go back again.”

“Oh.” Shane pauses. He doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. “I’m sorry. He was your only family?”

“The only one I still needed to care about,” Ilya says. He sets his expression with a determined brightness and stands. “Another beer?”

“No, thank you. I shouldn’t. I have so much to do before tomorrow.” His bags are still sitting on the floor of his living room downstairs.

Ilya sees Shane to the door. He kisses him goodbye to Shane’s surprise, though Shane tries to hide it. “Thanks again,” says Shane.

“No, thank you.” Ilya smiles. It’s genuine this time, none of earlier’s false brightness. “See you around.”

—-—

Shane should have invited him out dancing. He thinks of it too late, once they’re already pregaming at Rose’s on Thursday. He doesn’t have Ilya’s number so he can’t text him.

Maybe it’s for the better. It could have been weird, one of those unspoken boundaries better left untouched. He imagines Ilya here among Shane’s friends. What would he be like with Rose? Would he be nice? Would he flirt? Is he also into women?

The thought is shocking, because Shane has no idea. He sets it aside. Miles, Ilya could handle. They’d be a good match for each other, Ilya’s leonine grace against Miles’ cunning charm. Shane’s a bad match for it. Something about the ease with which Miles flirts makes Shane flounder into self-consciousness.

“He totally has a crush on you,” Rose says in the Uber on the way to the club. They split into two groups and it’s just her and Shane in this one.

“No way,” Shane says. It’s got to be another one of Rose’s jokes.

“I swear to god! He told me.”

“I can’t date someone like Miles,” Shane says. “He’s way too cool for me. I look like a loser next to him.”

Rose gives him a look. “Shane. You do not. And you don’t have to date. Miles isn’t looking for a relationship either. Just have fun!”

Right, of course. He’s Toronto’s king of casual. He can casually hook up with Miles. It’s as simple as standing next to Miles when they do shots at the bar, letting his arm bump into Miles’. Then meeting Miles’ eyes when he looks over, then following him to the dance floor.

Normally Shane feels like an awkward idiot on the dance floor no matter who he’s dancing with. It helps that Miles leads, putting Shane’s arms around his neck and his hands on Shane’s waist. They aren’t even really dancing, just swaying to the music pounding over the speakers. Shane tips his head to the side and lets Miles mouth along his jaw.

For a second, he thinks he glimpses a familiar profile in the crowd. But no, it must be the alcohol and the lights. Because why would Ilya be here, tonight of all nights? Why would he be dancing at the same bar as Shane, grinding up on a blonde girl in a sparkly dress? Why would he be looking up, catching Shane’s eye, and grinning like a predator?

“Oh my god,” Shane says. His stomach turns. He thinks he’s going to be sick.

“Yeah?” Miles is smiling at him. He leans in for a kiss but Shane jerks back.

Surprise crosses Miles’ face. “Sorry, sorry,” Shane says—slurs, more like. “I need to find the bathroom.”

He dry heaves in one of the stalls for a few minutes, then chugs a whole bottle of water. He scans the dance floor, hoping it was a hallucination. But no, Ilya is there, still dancing. He looks pretty occupied with whoever that girl is.

Is this punishment? For what, Shane has no idea. It’s not the 1800s anymore—if there is a God, he wouldn’t punish Shane for having consensual gay sex. Would he?

Oh my god, Shane has to get out of here. He’s going to have a panic attack any second. drank way too much, going home. love you. tell Miles sorry, he texts Rose, and flees.

Back at his apartment, it takes an hour for his bedroom to stop spinning. Could be the alcohol or the panic, he doesn’t know. Why did Ilya smile at him like that? It’s pasted on the back of his eyelids when he closes his eyes and it’s the first thing he thinks of when he wakes up in the morning.

There is no explanation he can come up with. He just knows he won’t be knocking on Ilya’s door again anytime soon.

It’s a bleak day, inside and out. Snow is falling thickly from a gray sky. Shane does the bare minimum amount of work from his couch, still in his pajamas long past noon. In a moment of weakness, he has ramen for breakfast. To make up for it, he subjects himself to dry granola and an apple for lunch, which makes him feel even shittier. He’s weighing having ramen again for dinner when there’s a knock on his door.

Shane checks the peephole before opening. It’s Ilya.

He could pretend to not be home. But why would he? He didn’t do anything wrong. Neither did Ilya, for that matter. Shane’s not going to hide out of simple awkwardness. They’re adults.

He opens the door. “Hey.”

His nonchalance sounds forced even to his own ears. Ilya is wearing black joggers again, paired this time with a black sweatshirt. Shane’s suddenly keenly aware of his ratty pajamas, wrinkled and probably smelly after hours of wear. “Hey,” Ilya says, and smiles. “I need an egg.”

He is always saying the thing Shane least expects. It’s like a test for mental acuity. “Like a chicken egg?” Shane clarifies.

“Yes. Although if you have other kinds of eggs I will consider them.”

“I only have chicken eggs. Hold on a sec.” Thank goodness he’d been too gloomy to put an egg in his ramen that morning. He has just one left in his fridge.

He brings it back to the door. “Here. My last.”

Ilya takes it slowly. “Are you sure? I can go to the store.”

“No, it’s all good. It’s still dumping snow, you don’t want to go outside.”

Ilya nods. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Enjoy.”

There was probably something better to say as his farewell, but back in his apartment, Shane thinks that didn’t go too badly. He could have asked what Ilya was doing with the egg, but that feels risky. What if that blonde girl stayed over and she wanted breakfast for dinner?

At least he wasn’t making her his signature tuna melt. Shane’s not the best cook but he knows you don’t need eggs for a tuna melt. Ilya didn’t make it for Shane either, but the thought improves his mood regardless enough to shower, change, and make a passable dinner of roasted sweet potatoes and miso soup.

There’s another knock on his door not long after he finishes eating. It’s Ilya again, but this time he has a plate—of muffins. “You bake?” Shane says stupidly, failing the mental acuity test.

“About twice a year. My friend is visiting. She likes muffins. These are for you, to thank you for the egg.”

Shane accepts the plate. The muffins are still warm. They smell like cinnamon and sugar. “Thank you, that’s really kind. You didn’t have to.”

“All the same.”

“Your friend won’t be mad?”

“Even she can’t eat twelve muffins.”

Shane laughs. “Right, of course.” Before he can lose his nerve, he says, “She was—that was your friend last night?”

Ilya looks at him for a moment. Then, slowly, he smiles. “That was you, then? I thought I imagined it.”

“No, yeah, haha, that was me.” His face is likely beet red right now. “I left pretty soon after. I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Too bad. If you stayed, we could have danced. And that wasn’t my friend. Just some girl. You know.”

He didn’t, but Shane says, “Yeah, totally. Another time.”

“You know where to find me.”

The muffins were unbelievably good. Ilya had put butter on top before bringing them down. Shane eats both of them without meaning to, hunched over the plate on the couch. Despite the fact that the sugar will certainly have him breaking out tomorrow, Shane feels absurdly cheerful.

—-—

Christmas is the following week, and Shane spends the holiday lying on his parents’ couch in Ottawa and eating his dad’s home-cooked Swedish meatballs for every meal. He goes to a party on New Year’s Eve hosted by someone he knew in high school, more so his mom doesn’t get on him about being anti-social.

Shane regrets it. They drink even more than Shane’s Toronto friends. But then there isn’t that much else to do in Ottawa. “You gotta loosen up, Holls, you’re too uptight!” Mark, with whom Shane went to eight summers of hockey camp, yells when Shane tries to get out of the third round of shots.

Evan, another hockey camp guy, starts a chant. “Shots. With. Shane. Shots. With. Shane.”

Everyone joins in and Shane is forced to smile and do a shot or look like a total fucking loser. And he did enough of that in high school.

“Have you thought more about buying a place?” his mom asks him during New Year’s Day lunch. Every time he visits, she has a new fixation. All last year, it was if he was drinking enough water.

“Yes, Mom, I have. When my stock vests in the summer, I can use that for the down payment.”

“They have all these programs now, you know. You can put barely anything down. This is something to think seriously about.” And on and on. Shane knows this is how she shows she cares. He supposes he should be grateful that, since coming out to his parents six years ago, she’s bothered him a lot less about getting married and having children.

Unexpectedly, at a lull in the conversation, his dad asks, “Are you seeing anyone?”

“Oh. Uh, no, Dad, I’m not.” Shane keeps his eyes focused on his plate and resolutely does not think about all of the things he’s gotten up to over the last few months.

“No nice men in Toronto?”

“I’m sure there are. I’m just not really interested in dating right now.”

His dad lets it go. In some ways, he’s nothing like Shane’s mom, who will almost definitely call Shane tomorrow with the names of four different Toronto realtors. But when Shane’s packing up his car to head back, his dad brings out two ziplock bags of meatballs and one of mashed potatoes. “I know they’re your favorite.”

He even has a little cooler for Shane to keep them in on the drive. “Thanks, Dad.”

They hug. Shane’s dad squeezes him tightly, then says, “Just know. If you ever did start seeing someone, we’d love to meet them.”

He says it so sincerely, Shane feels the tiniest bit guilty. Shane dating someone seriously would make his parents so happy, regardless of gender. Too bad he was basically doing the opposite.

He gets back to Toronto as the sun is setting, which means he has just enough time to dress for Hayden’s New Year’s party. It’s basically going to be the most boring, normie party you can imagine, Hayden had texted him. So please bring some of your cool friends to spice it up.

Hayden knew Shane on his own wouldn’t do much spicing, but everyone was busy or still out of town. Except one person, Shane realizes. He pauses on his way out, looking at the staircase up to the next floor. Should he?

Ilya doesn’t answer the door. Shane waits a minute, then knocks again, just to make sure. Nothing.

All right. Fine. Shane tries not to feel slightly disappointed. It probably would be weird to bring a guy he barely knows and that he met on Grindr with him, anyway.

It’s freezing outside. Shane waffles between driving or calling an Uber—then stops. On the sidewalk in front of him, leaning against a tree, is Ilya.

He’s facing away, staring out at the street. He’s smoking, Shane sees as he draws closer. “Hey,” Shane says.

Ilya glances over, uninterested, then does a double-take. “Oh! Is you!”

“Me.” Shane knows his grin is foolishly big, but he can’t control it. “Happy new year.”

Ilya dips his head, smiling. “Happy new year.” He looks Shane over. “Going to party?”

“Sort of. My friend is having a thing.”

“How nice. I am having party. Of one.” Ilya laughs, falling back to lean against the tree, and Shane suddenly realizes: he’s drunk.

Really drunk. He almost slips, even though the sidewalk is completely free from ice. Shane moves closer to catch his elbow. “Whoa there. You good?”

Ilya dips his head again in a bobbling nod. “I am good. Of course I am good.” His accent is much thicker than usual. He blows his cigarette smoke out away from Shane’s face, then drops the butt on the ground to stomp it out. “Just came out to smoke. Landlord told me he would kick me out if I smoke inside again.”

“Can’t have that,” Shane says. “You’re going back inside?”

“Yes. If I find keys.” Ilya makes a show of patting all his pockets. He finds them in his jacket and shakes them at Shane, making them jingle, and promptly drops them. “Oops.”

Shane picks them up before Ilya can fall over trying to. “Here, I got you. Let me walk you up.”

“No. You have party. I am good. Give me.”

Shane evades his hands easily. “It’s going to be boring, I’d rather be late.”

“Ah. Procrastination. This, I understand.” Ilya launches into a monologue about the joys of procrastination. It distracts him enough that Shane can guide him back into their building and up five flights of stairs. He unlocks Ilya’s door and pulls him inside.

“Home sweet home,” Ilya says glumly. He falls onto the couch, still wearing his coat and shoes. On the table in front of him, there’s a half empty bottle of vodka and a glass.

“Jesus,” Shane mutters to himself. That amount of vodka would put him in the hospital, personally, but maybe it was different if you were Russian. “Come on,” he says to Ilya.

It occurs to him after he gets Ilya sitting in bed, down to just a shirt and underwear, that Shane is overstepping. They barely know each other. Is it really his place to stand by Ilya’s bed and make him drink an entire glass of water?

“See? All gone,” Ilya says, showing him the empty cup.

Shane decides he doesn’t care. He’s just doing what a good neighbor would do. “Good,” he says, and goes to take the glass back. But Ilya catches his hand and pulls him in.

Not expecting it, Shane almost falls, hand gripping the headboard by Ilya’s shoulder. His nose bumps Ilya’s. “Sorry,” Ilya murmurs, then kisses him.

Shane was also not expecting that, although he should have been. Automatically, he kisses back. Ilya tastes like vodka and cigarettes but also, surpisingly, toothpaste. Ilya curls his fingers through Shane’s hair to pull him closer.

Shane starts to melt into him, then catches himself. He pulls away. He sets the water glass on the side table, hand shaking slightly. “We shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” Ilya cups Shane’s face to turn him back towards him. His eyes are heavy-lidded, sparkling with desire.

Fuck, Shane wants him. “Not while you’re drunk. It wouldn’t be right.”

Ilya scoffs. “I’ve had sex with you sober, why wouldn’t I have sex with you drunk?”

He’s got a point. Still. “No. I can’t.”

Ilya jerks his chin towards the living room, where the vodka is still on the table. “Have some. Then we will both be drunk.”

Shane has to laugh at his logic. “I can’t drink straight vodka like you. It would kill me.”

Ilya makes a whining sound in the back of his throat, tugging on the front of Shane’s coat. Shane lets him drag him down and kiss him a little bit more, slow and deep. Of course Ilya is just as good a kisser drunk as sober.

Shane pulls away again when he starts getting hard. “You should sleep.”

Ilya lays back on the pillows. “Can’t. What do you think the vodka is for?”

Shane hadn’t considered that. “Why can’t you sleep?”

That casual, one-shouldered shrug. “Dunno. Thinking. Remembering. Always when I am alone.”

Ilya closes his eyes. For a moment, his face is totally unguarded. Shane feels the pain on it in his own chest.

He makes a decision. “Okay.” He takes his jacket off and hangs it over the back of a nearby chair. He sits on the bed on Ilya’s other side, on top of the covers. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

Ilya cracks an eye open, raises an eyebrow. “Only sleeping!” Shane clarifies hastily. “I’m not changing my mind.”

Ilya heaves a dejected sigh. But he snuggles down in the blankets and turns on his side as if to actually sleep. “Stop watching me,” Ilya says after a moment, eyes still closed.

Shane had been staring down at him. “Sorry,” Shane says. He redirects his gaze away, looking around Ilya’s bedroom. He hadn’t really taken it in, last time. It’s decorated much more stylishly than Shane’s. There are a couple framed black and white photographs on the wall, and a nice sculptural lamp in the corner. He has real curtains, the sheer pretty kind, instead of the ugly default blinds Shane still has up in his apartment.

“Sorry for ruining your night,” Ilya says quietly.

“Shh. You didn’t. No more talking now.” Shane puts one hand on the top of Ilya’s head, barely touching him through his hair. With the other he fishes his phone out of his pocket. Running late, he texts Hayden. Jackie made seven layer dip, Hayden texts back quickly. I won’t be saving you any. Shane texts back a crying emoji.

“Feels nice,” Ilya mumbles, even quieter than last time. Unconsciously, Shane had started stroking his hair. He puts his phone away, leans back against the headboard, and repeats the motion in earnest. Ilya’s curls are silky, less substantial than they seem. Shane wonders what it would feel like to wind one around his finger.

He’s quite tired himself, he realizes. Maybe he can take a quick nap and leave once Ilya falls asleep. He should set an alarm on his phone so he doesn’t lose track of time.

The next thing he knows, Shane is waking up to a bright ray of sunshine hitting him in the face. The crick in his neck from sleeping sitting up is agonizing. He rolls it out slowly, blinking into awareness.

Ilya is fast asleep beside him. He pulled the covers over his head sometime in the night. Only his eyes and the tip of his nose is visible.

Fuck. Hayden’s probably furious. Shane checks his phone. Did you die??? Hayden had texted him about an hour after Shane’s sad emoji. Then, an hour later, I ate all the dip. Around midnight, Just let me know you’re good, dude.

So sorry. My neighbor got too fucked up and I got caught up making sure he was okay. Shane winces as he sends it. He doesn’t see Hayden enough as it is. The next time he goes over for dinner, he’ll need to apologize profusely and compliment Jackie’s cooking no less than ten times.

Speaking of which. Shane’s stomach is growling. Immediately he thinks of his dad’s meatballs, in his freezer downstairs. It feels wrong to leave Ilya sleeping to go eat, though.

Obviously the solution is to bring them up here. After all that vodka, Ilya would probably appreciate a good home-cooked meal. Shane slips out of bed, careful not to disturb him.

Shane’s seen his dad do this at home many times. The meatballs go in a small pot. The potatoes go in the microwave. His dad always puts fresh parsley on top, but Shane will have to settle for dried. He doesn’t bother with bowls; Ilya’s are probably nicer than Shane’s.

Ilya’s door is unlocked, like Shane left it. He can hear the shower running, though, so Ilya must be awake. Shane dishes the food up and puts it on the table in the living room, clearing the vodka and glass to the kitchen. Ilya has one of those espresso pod machines, and Shane makes a couple cups for good measure. Coffee and Swedish meatballs for breakfast. Well, it was definitely better than straight vodka for dinner.

Shane’s sitting on the couch, sipping his coffee, when Ilya comes out of the bedroom. He’s shirtless, wearing just sweats, which Shane is realizing must be his usual attire when home alone. He’s toweling off his dripping hair, but freezes the moment he sees Shane.

He thought Shane left. Shane sees it from his perspective immediately. Shane had said he was only staying until Ilya fell asleep, and when Ilya woke up, Shane was gone. Only to reappear in his living room. How was he going to explain this? “Good morning,” Shane says weakly.

“You stayed,” Ilya says. It’s not a question. His eyes are darting around, looking from Shane to the food then back to Shane.

Shane can’t read his expression. “I fell asleep,” he confesses. “Woke up hungry. Thought you might like some food too. My dad made it…” He trails off. Embarrassment is flooding through him. If last night was overstepping, this definitely is.

Ilya comes closer slowly. He sits beside Shane on the couch. “Your father made this?”

“Yeah. Well, the food. I made the coffee. Using your machine.”

Like the sun breaking through clouds, Ilya smiles. Brighter than Shane has ever seen. He turns toward Shane and having that smile directed at him is breathtaking. Shane can’t think. Can’t speak. “Thank you,” Ilya says.

Shane understands. Those two words contain far more than just thanks for the meal. He finds his voice. “Of course. How’s your head?”

“Is fine. I’m Russian.” They dig into the food. “Wow. Your father is good cook.”

“Yeah. This was my favorite meal growing up. My parents told me it was the only thing I’d eat when I was seven.”

“Must be why you’re so big and strong.” He winks at Shane shamelessly.

Shane laughs, only blushing a little. “Yeah, that and not the hours I spend in the gym.”

“Probably.”

There’s something gratifying about seeing someone else enjoy his dad’s cooking. Shane wasn’t really the type to have friends over very often growing up, and as he was just reminded, he’s never brought anyone home to meet his parents. “Did you do anything fun for the holidays?” Shane asks Ilya once they’re on to their second serving.

“Slept. Worked out. Went to New York City to see friends for a few days. Nothing much.”

“Sounds relaxing,” Shane says.

“Sure, yes. Relaxing. You saw your family?”

“Yeah. My parents. They’re in Ottawa, where I grew up.”

“Ottawa. Relaxing.”

Shane has to laugh. “Yeah. There’s not much to do there, that’s for sure. Did you grow up in a big city?”

“Yes. Moscow.”

“Ah. The biggest.”

“The biggest,” Ilya agrees.

“How does Toronto compare?”

“It doesn’t. Nothing does. But that is all right. It was another life.”

Shane wants to hear all of it. He realizes this suddenly. He wants to make another cup of coffee, curl up under a blanket, and hear all of Ilya’s stories of growing up in Moscow. What made him leave? And how did he end up in Toronto of all places?

He’s trying to think of a question to ask, some elegant way into the conversation. Ilya interrupts his thoughts. “Sorry about last night.”

He says it quietly, staring down at his plate, clearly embarrassed. “What? No, it’s all good. Everyone has their bad days,” Shane says.

Ilya nods slowly, still looking down. “Yes. That day is always a bad one for me.”

“New Year’s Day?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Is the day my father died. Is very like him. His doctors were saying he wouldn’t make it through the end of the year. Of course he had to prove them wrong.”

Ilya’s tone is wry, like this is all very amusing. But Shane remembers the pain he saw on his face last night. “I’m sorry. That’s hard.”

The one-shouldered shrug. “At times. But also… freeing. I don’t know. I feel different every day.”

Shane puts a hand on his knee. He’s probably overstepping again, but as with last night, he cares more about doing the right thing. In this moment, that’s doing anything that will make Ilya’s gaze come back from that distant place.

It works. Ilya smiles down at Shane’s hand, and covers it with his own. “You are a good person,” he says.

Shane blushes. “I mean, I try to be.”

“Last night, I was wishing you were a little less good.”

The tone of his voice leaves no room for misinterpretation. Shane is suddenly aware throughout his body of their single point of contact, clasped hands resting on Ilya’s knee. He swallows. “Well. There’s always—”

Now. Before he can finish his sentence, Ilya kisses him. His hands go to Shane’s face, cupping it. Shane finds his are tangled in Ilya’s hair. These aren’t the slow kisses from last night; already, this is urgent.

Need floods through Shane. He tugs on Ilya’s legs, until Ilya is leaning back against the couch armrest and Shane is over him, knees on either side of his thighs. He kisses down Ilya’s bare chest, the sparse hair on his belly. Ilya groans as he mouths at his hardening dick through the thin fabric of his sweats.

“Yes,” Ilya breaths when Shane pulls them down and out of the way. He’s stroking his fingers through Shane’s hair, and the sensation only adds to how turned on Shane is right now. He stops sucking Ilya off for a second to adjust himself.

“Blowing me gets you hot, huh?” Ilya says in a low voice. God, his accent was so fucking sexy. Shane doesn’t want to stop to answer him, so he just moans around his dick. Ilya’s cradling his head now, pushing up into his mouth just a little bit on every bob. “Fuck, sweetheart, it’s so good. You’re so good, so so good.”

The praise and pet name burn through Shane in equal measure. He might come in his pants before he gets Ilya off. He focuses in on Ilya, working him harder, blocking out his own body’s needs.

“Fuck,” Ilya groans again moments later, and comes in Shane’s mouth. His hands are too tight in Shane’s hair, but the pain actually helps stave off Shane’s orgasm.

“God,” Shane pants, finally sitting up. His heart is still racing.

Ilya is limp with pleasure, staring at him. “I take it back. You are bad. You’re very, very bad.”

Shane huffs out a laugh. “You’re welcome?”

“Mm. Thank you.” Ilya tucks himself back into his pants, heaves a sigh. “After a meal and head like that, I need a nap.”

He closes his eyes. Shane stares at him in disbelief. He’s so hard he could pass out. “Are you fucking for real?”

Ilya grins, eyes still closed. “I don’t know, are you fucking for real?”

“You’re real fucking brave when I know where you live.” Shane tries to make it sound threatening but in reality, he’s pretty close to begging for any sort of contact with his dick whatsoever.

“Ooooh,” Ilya coos in that low voice. He sits up. “Are you going to come back here in the middle of the night? What will you do?”

Shane can barely string a sentence together, let alone engage in some sort of fantasy play. “I’d tell you to get on your knees and suck my dick.”

“Oh no. Suck your dick?” Ilya moves with easy grace, kneeling on the floor in front of Shane. He pushes Shane’s thighs apart and rests his arms on them. He blinks innocently up at Shane. “That’s what you want?”

“Yes,” Shane groans. He grips the edge of the couch with both hands to stop himself from grabbing Ilya’s head.

“Hmm.” Ilya dips his head down and drags his mouth over Shane’s clothed crotch.

“Goddamn it.” Shane chokes the words out. Every nerve in his body is strung tight, ready to snap.

“Okay, okay. I’ll go easy on you.” Suddenly businesslike, Ilya pulls down his pants and underwear in one go, and takes Shane in his mouth.

Shane’s eyes roll back in his head. He lasts barely twenty seconds before he’s coming down Ilya’s throat, hands tangled in Ilya’s hair, hunched over so his forehead is touching the back of Ilya’s neck. “Fuck. Oh my god.”

Ilya pulls off and gives him a quick kiss. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t leave you like that.”

“No,” Shane gasps. “You’d just tease me until I die of blue balls.”

“It was a character building exercise.”

“I don’t want any more character. I have enough.” Shane leans his head back on the couch. His whole body is still tingling.

Ilya rubs a hand over his thigh, then gets up to start tidying. The sound of water running and dishes clinking in the sink brings Shane back to reality quickly. He’s been in Ilya’s apartment for, what, over twelve hours at this point? Certainly, he has overstayed his welcome.

He stuffs himself back into his pants and stands. “I’m heading out!” he calls towards the kitchen once he’s at the door.

The water shuts off. Ilya comes out. “Okay,” he says. He opens his mouth, and then closes it.

“Happy new year,” Shane says.

“Happy new year,” Ilya says. He comes closer and, hands light on Shane’s arms, kisses him once.

Shane closes his eyes and kisses him back, also just once. For a moment, in that kiss, he feels something he can’t name.

When they part, Ilya is gazing at him, a question in his eyes. Shane doesn’t understand the question any more than he understands what he’s feeling right now. All he knows is he needs to leave. “Okay, see you around,” he blurts out, and beats it.

—-—

rose: hny babe 💋💋💋
rose: it’s been a minute, should we do dorothy’s & get you a dick appointment on thurs? sorry i know we’ve all been busy, hope you haven’t been withering away from sexual frustration

More often than not, Shane forgets to reply to his texts, but he doesn’t forget to reply to Rose. He types out a response—actually i wanted to talk to you about that—then erases it. A day later he types out another response—i need to tell you something—only to erase it again.

What is wrong with him? Wasn’t this what he wanted? To have fun? Prove something to himself? He shouldn’t be having this sick feeling in his stomach at the thought of opening Grindr.

His dumb fucking brain is playing tricks on him. He’s a hot, horny twenty-something in a dope fucking city with a great queer scene. He has cool sex-positive friends who don’t make fun of him for his app hang-ups. He is Toronto’s king of casual.

rose: hellooooooo
shane: sorry! yeah lets do it. see you tonight

It’s just him and Rose, no Elena. “She has to work late.”

“Too bad,” Shane says, though he’s secretly glad. Rose is so popular, they barely get to hang as two best friends. Other than his parents, she’s maybe the only person Shane knows where he feels just as comfortable with her as he does by himself.

They get their drinks from Kyle and find a booth. “Did you have a good Christmas?” Rose asks him.

“Yeah, saw my parents, hung with my high school friends. How was Michigan?”

“Freezing. My oldest brother’s kids are so big now! They’re obsessed with playing hockey on the little pond behind my parents’ house. Just like we used to way back when.”

She shows him pictures. Her nephews and nieces are round, puffy, brightly colored marshmallows in their winter coats. “So cute,” Shane says.

“I know. Anyway. That’s not why we’re here.” Rose holds out her hand. Slowly, Shane pulls his phone out of his pocket and gives it to her. “What are we feeling tonight?”

“I don’t know.” Shane laces his hands together on the table in front of him and scans the bar. It’s emptier than usual—the combination of the holidays and New Year’s resolutions always means January is slower. Kyle’s talking to a regular at the bar. There’s a trio of cute guys, probably a little older than him, at a table near the windows. They’re talking and laughing—likely friends. It’s sweet. Shane takes a deep breath. His face is suddenly feeling flushed, and his eyes are burning.

“Shane?” Rose is watching him.

“Yeah?” It comes out a little shaky. Shane doesn’t realize he’s crying until a tear drips off his chin and onto the back of his hand.

“Oh, babe. Hey, hey hey hey, it’s okay. What’s wrong?” Rose slips out of her side of the booth and comes around to sit next to him. She puts her hand over his, peering up at him with concern.

“Nothing. I don’t know.” Shane scrubs the tears away and hides his hands in his lap. Rose is in his line of sight so he can’t stare back out at the bar; he looks the other way towards the wall.

She knows him too well. “Shane. If this isn’t fun anymore, you should stop.”

“That’s not it. It is fun.”

“Babe. You’re crying in a booth at Dorothy’s. You don’t look like someone having fun.”

“I am. I was.”

“Then what?”

Shane’s mind is so scrambled. He can’t line up his thoughts. “I just—I don’t…”

The words die out. Rose waits patiently. Shane tries again. “Maybe I want to—take a break.”

“Okay. Easy.” She waits again, knowing there’s more.

“I feel like I failed,” Shane finally gets out.

Rose lets out a shocked laugh. “At what?!”

“At what I wanted to do. I wanted to show myself that I’m not too serious. I can have fun.”

He finally looks at Rose. She’s biting her lips, clearly trying not to laugh. “You think that’s silly,” he says. God, he’s such a fucking idiot.

“No!” She puts her hands together in a conciliatory gesture. “I think any of us who know and love you think of you as a very fun person. We love being around you. But…”

“But what?”

“But you’re also serious. You’re methodical. You decide what you want from life and you go get it. I love those things about you too. What’s the problem?”

A good question. “The problem is, this was supposed to be just fucking around, hooking up.”

“Yes. Babe, I feel like I’m missing something here.”

Shane closes his eyes, shutting everything out. He tries to tune into himself, past the ambient panic and tears building up in his throat. One word at a time, son, his dad always used to say. That’s all you need. “I think… maybe… I met someone,” he says finally.

“Shane!” Rose beams. “But that’s great!”

“It isn’t! It’s not what I was supposed to be doing!”

Rose laughs again, this time disbelieving. “Let me get this straight. You had a great two months of slutting it up. You were safe, you had fun, and in the midst of it all you met someone you like. Do you know how rare that is?”

“It’s not what was supposed to happen,” is all Shane can say. He appreciates Rose trying to make him feel better, but she’s not getting it. The way she’s looking at him now, with such sympathy, makes him feel like even more of a miserable idiot.

She must see it on his face. “Okay, okay. I’ll just say one more thing.” She pauses. “You can change your mind at any time. You get to decide what you want. Not me. Not your parents. Not even Shane from three months ago. It’s your life. Right now.”

—-—

Right now.

Shane moves through the weekend in a daze. He works out, cleans his apartment, looks for Ilya out of the corner of his eye every time he goes out his front door. Of course he doesn’t see him.

What does Shane want? Three months ago, he wanted to prove, if only to himself, that he wasn’t the intense, overly serious person he’d been told he was his whole life. Which, now that he’s really considering it, is fucking dumb. He is intense. He is serious. But he thinks about his friends. His parents. The people who know him, and enjoy him.

He thinks about Ilya.

Now, maybe, he wants Ilya.

It’s a horrible thought. He’s lying on his couch on Saturday night, playing a video game, when it finally crystalizes in his mind. He has to pause the game and gather himself.

It’s not just Ilya’s body. It’s him asking Shane you good? and actually listening for an answer the first time they hooked up. Him not telling Shane he lived in the same building in case it was awkward. The sun-filled smile. The fucking muffins.

So now what?

He gets stuck there, tossing and turning as he wrestles with it. What’s he going to do, knock on Ilya’s door and say do you want to be my boyfriend? Invite him over for sex and drop it on him mid-blowjob?

Shane’s seriously spiraling, deeper and deeper into panic. And then, Sunday around noon, there’s a knock on his door.

Shane knows who it’s going to be. “Hi,” he greets Ilya.

He smiles. He can’t help it. Ilya looks so good, a black sweatshirts on top with the hood pulled up and his usual black sweatpants on the bottom. He smiles back at Shane. “Hello. My heat is out.”

“The fuck? Oh my god, it must be freezing up there. Come in. Are they fixing it?”

“Yes. The handyman came, then left to go buy some part. But said it would be a while. Is like, 5 degrees in there.”

Considering it was below freezing outside, that wasn’t bad, but also nearly fifteen degrees colder than in Shane’s apartment. He gets extra blankets from his bedroom and makes tea and brings both to Ilya on his couch. “Thank you,” Ilya says, cupping the steaming mug in both hands.

“Of course. I’m glad you came down. That’s what neighbors are for.” Shane winces as soon as the words come out of his mouth. What a dumb thing to say, especially after what he’d been crashing out over for several days.

Ilya doesn’t notice. Shane’s eyes snag on Ilya’s lips as he blows on and drinks the tea. And then grimaces. “Sorry,” Shane says quickly, “it’s really hot. Want some milk to cool it down?”

He’s in the kitchen fetching it from the fridge before Ilya replies. “Yes, thank you,” Ilya says, glimmers of amusement in his small smile. He holds his cup out with both hands and Shane splashes the milk in.

They sit on Shane’s couch, blankets pulled over their laps, drinking their tea. Shane had the TV turned on to a sports channel but it’s muted now. Shane’s too antsy to let the silence linger long. “When did your heat go out?”

“Sometime in the night. Woke up shivering at like 2 a.m. Called landlord at 7 a.m. He called me back at 10.”

Shane scoffs. “Asshole.” He hasn’t had to interact with the man other than to pay rent, but that was proof enough.

“Yes. And he wasn’t going to send someone out until I sent a photo of my thermostat.”

“You should have just come down here when you woke up,” Shane says.

“At 2 a.m.? You are a good person, but not that good.”

There’s no elegant way to argue with that. If Ilya had knocked on his door at 2 a.m., Shane probably would have thought it was a hallucination anyway. “I hope they fix it quick.”

“Me too.” Ilya looks down at his phone. “I am probably not that lucky.” Shane snorts. “Ah. You don’t believe in luck.”

“Well.” Shane tries to find diplomatic words. “As a metaphorical concept, sure.”

Ilya wrinkles his brow. “Meta… what?”

Shane laughs. “No. I don’t believe in luck.”

“That is because you are lucky. This is my theory. Lucky people don’t need to believe in luck, because they have good luck. Unlucky people,” Ilya gestures to himself, “must believe in it. Only other explanation is we are cursed.”

“That can’t be completely true. Okay, so you’ve had a tough go of it in some areas. But you have to have had a few good breaks elsewhere.”

Ilya ticks them off on his fingers. “Unlucky in family. Unlucky in career. Unlucky in nationality. Unlucky in love.”

Love. Hearing the word spoken out loud unexpectedly has a weird effect on Shane. He has to look away, covering it with a laugh. “I don’t believe you. There’s just no way.”

“It is very sad. The people I want never want me back. Or they only want one thing.”

“Come on. I saw you at that club,” Shane scoffs, dredging up the woozy memory for evidence’s sake. “You can have anyone you want.”

“That is sex. Not the same thing.”

Obviously. Suddenly Shane feels embarrassed. He tries for a joke. “Well, maybe you have bad taste.”

“The worst,” Ilya sighs. He sinks back into the couch and covers his face with his hands.

“See, I told you. It’s not luck. It’s taste,” Shane says. “You can do something about that.”

“Now you sound like my therapist.”

“Oh—you see a therapist?”

Ilya drops his hands and fixes Shane with a look. “Yes.”

Shane realizes how his surprise comes across. “That’s great. I mean, good for you. I’m not one of those guys who thinks therapy is emasculating or whatever.”

“I don’t know what that word means,” Ilya says, a little impatiently.

“Sorry. It means, like, makes you less of a man. Which therapy doesn’t. Do you like it?”

It’s an inelegant question, but Ilya takes it at face value. “I hate it. But it has helped.”

Shane nods. “That takes guts. To do it anyway.”

Silence falls. Shane can’t read Ilya’s face. He has to look away again, to stop himself from spiraling over it. “Are you hungry?” says Shane.

“Yes. But you are not cooking.”

“Why not?” Shane says, prepared to defend his admittedly limited cooking abilities.

“Because it is time. I will finally make you my famous tuna melt.”

They go through Shane’s kitchen for all the ingredients. “This will do,” Ilya pronounces once everything’s laid out on the counter. “I have tuna upstairs. But we must go get bread.”

“I have bread.”

“Good bread,” Ilya amends.

“It’s healthy!” Shane protests, shoving the wheatless multigrain loaf back in his freezer.

“And probably tastes like sawdust. No. We’ll go to my favorite bakery, is four blocks away.”

It’s blindingly sunny and bitterly cold outside. The last snow was wetter, so all the trees are coated, branches laden with it. They cut through the little park a street over, and despite the temperature, there are children out playing, people walking their dogs.

Ilya nudges Shane’s sleeve. “This way.”

Shane follows him to the bakery, which is packed. The college-age kid behind the counter greets them. “Hey buddy! The usual?”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Plus two of the streusel muffins.”

“You got it.”

“You’re a regular,” Shane says to Ilya while the kid bags everything.

“Is the best sourdough and muffins in Toronto. You have never been here?”

“No.” Shane’s not good at exploring the neighborhood on his own—the only time he goes to new places are with Rose, or his other friends. “I don’t really eat white carbs.”

Ilya shakes his head in disbelief. “I am very sad for you.”

Back outside with their haul, Ilya pauses to light a cigarette. “That’s terrible for you,” Shane can’t stop himself from saying.

Ilya full-on rolls his eyes. He says something in Russian. “Am I supposed to understand that?” Shane says. He starts walking, Ilya following.

“There is a Russian saying. ‘I ran from the wolf but ran into a bear.’ For me, is the opposite. I ran from the bear. So a wolf doesn’t seem so bad.”

“Okay,” Shane says, mystified, but then he thinks about it. Even with the little he knows about Ilya’s life, it makes sense. In the grand scheme of things, what’s a cigarette?

He watches Ilya out of the corner of his eye as they walk. His eyes match the blue shadows in the snow still heaped on the northern parts of the sidewalk. Shane has only ever seen him clean shaven, but stubble is coming in faintly on his chin.

As if he feels Shane’s gaze, Ilya rubs a hand over his face. “Hold on. Look at this,” Ilya says.

They’re a block away from their apartment building. Ilya pulls Shane’s sleeve and Shane goes, unresisting, letting Ilya turn him to face the street. “What?” says Shane, shivering. The younger trees on this block are snow-covered, and it’s cold in their shade.

“Just wait,” Ilya says behind him and then without warning, the tree beside Shane shakes—and dumps all the snow on it onto Shane.

Shane stands still, frozen in place, for several moments. He’s not wearing a hat, and he can feel the snow turning to cold water and dripping down his neck underneath his coat collar. There’s ice in his eyelashes. He scrapes it away with a gloved hand to see the boot print on the tree’s trunk where Ilya kicked it to get the snow to fall. “You. Mother. Fucker.”

Ilya is laughing so hard he isn’t making any noise. “Sorry,” he gasps out, “I couldn’t re—”

His words get cut off by a snowball to the face. Shane’s already packing another together by the time he wipes it away. When Ilya dodges it, Shane settles for simply grabbing him by the coat and grinding the next handful of snow into his face.

The snow fight probably would have ended with both of them on the ground if a clear, “Excuse us!” hadn’t interrupted them. They stand to the side while a disapproving woman walks her Husky past them.

“Sorry,” Shane says.

“Yes, sorry,” Ilya repeats. His eyes, when they cut towards Shane, are dancing with unrepentance. Shane can’t help it. He laughs. They dissolve into a fit of giggles together, clutching at each other to stay upright.

“You fucker,” Shane says finally. “I’m freezing. And you dropped your bread.”

“Oops.”

The bread, retrieved from sidewalk, is fine. They hurry back to their building, shedding wet winter clothing the moment they’re inside Shane’s apartment. Shane’s good once he towels off and changes, but one of the snowballs Shane hit Ilya with must have been dirty, because Shane finds him in the bathroom finger combing it out of his hair. “Serves you right,” Shane says.

“Yes, probably,” Ilya says, still smiling and remorseless.

“Feel free to shower if you want.” Shane pulls his extra towels out of the hall closet. “Use my shampoo. It has seaweed in it.”

“That’s supposed to be a good thing?”

“Fuck you. It nourishes your hair,” says Shane, and closes the bathroom door in Ilya’s laughing face.

The ingredients for the tuna melt are still laid out on Shane’s kitchen counter. He puts the loaf of bread beside them. Right, they still need the tuna. “I’m running upstairs to yours to grab the tuna!” he calls over the sound of the shower.

“No need, I will go after!” Ilya calls back.

That doesn’t make sense when Shane can just go right now. Ilya’s keys are on the floor in the entryway by his winter coat. Shane hangs up all their wet outerwear to dry and snags them. There are only two keys on it; the one to the building’s front door, and the one to Ilya’s apartment.

Ilya’s apartment is flooded with the same pale winter sun that blinded them outside. His kitchen is so much more well-stocked than Shane’s. The cans of tuna are neatly stacked in the cabinet beside the stove. Shane grabs all three. He’s about to walk out when he realizes. Ilya’s apartment is warm.

For a moment, Shane stands in the kitchen, looking around, as if a random fire or something could explain it. There’s nothing. So he goes to the gas heater on the wall in the living room, same as the one Shane has in his place, to check. It’s hot to the touch. Stuck to the wall beside it is a note. CALL JACOB IF MORE PROBLEMS THANKS with a number below.

Shane stares at it. Then he goes back to Ilya’s kitchen, puts the tuna cans right back where he found them, and goes back down the three flights of stairs to his apartment.

Ilya is still in the shower. Shane sits on the couch, looking off at nothing. So Ilya lied. Or did he? Does he know his heat is fixed? Maybe he hasn’t checked his phone.

If he did lie… why? Shane can’t quite grasp the reason. If he wanted to hang out with Shane, he could have just come over. Shane’s shown himself to be pretty easy for him. Not that he’s exactly proud of it.

They haven’t even kissed all day, Shane realizes. Have barely touched, other than while roughhousing. Not that the desire isn’t there. Just then, Ilya comes out of the bathroom in a pair of Shane’s sweatpants. Typically, he’s shirtless. Shane takes him in from his wet curls to his feet (also in a pair of Shane’s socks). No. The desire is definitely there.

“I will get the tuna from my apartment,” Ilya says, oblivious. “Then we can eat. Okay?”

“Okay,” Shane says, faintly. He clears his throat. He puts all his thoughts away and focuses on the now. “I mean, yes.”

Ilya goes upstairs. He says nothing when he comes back, so Shane doesn’t either. Under Ilya’s direction, he chops half an onion and some pickles. Beyond that, he drinks a beer while Ilya actually puts the tuna melts together, mixing everything in a bowl, then carefully melting it on a slice of the sourdough in one of Shane’s pans. “This pan sucks,” Ilya grumbles, fiddling with the heat.

“A master doesn’t blame his tools,” Shane says. This rhythm of teasing one another is starting to feel natural.

“A master has never had to use this shitty pan of yours. If it burns my nice bread, I will be very upset.”

The bread ends up maybe a little bit south of too toasted, but Shane says nothing. They’re delicious regardless. “And we have these for dessert,” Ilya says, unwrapping the streusel muffins. They’re definitely a little battered from being dropped on the ground but again it makes no difference.

“They taste like the ones you made,” Shane says.

“Yes. They gave me the recipe. Was too cold to leave that day, so I made them for Svetlana. My friend.”

Shane does the dishes after eating. Ilya lounges on the couch, scrolling on his phone. “Still no word from the handyman?” Shane asks. He’s careful to sound nonchalant. “It must be freezing up there.”

“No word,” Ilya says. “And yes, very cold. Maybe I should buy a space heater.”

“Maybe,” Shane says. He doesn’t understand it. Ilya lies so easily, about something so meaningless. It’s not like Shane’s going to kick him out, even if his heat were fixed. Shane picks up his TV remote, turning it on to something at random. “Tomorrow, if you want to. You can stay here tonight. You can stay as long as you need,” he says, to be clear.

“Only if you get a better pan,” Ilya says. He smiles.

For the rest of the day they just… hang out. They watch TV, play some video games, lay around on the couch and look at their phones. A normal Sunday. At dinner, Shane makes a passable meal of roast veggies and bratwursts he found in his freezer.

They don’t touch. Not in an bad way. If Shane scooted over on the couch and kissed Ilya right now, he’s pretty sure Ilya would welcome it. But for some reason, they’re both holding back.

The hour ticks later. “Do you have to work tomorrow?” Shane asks Ilya.

“Mmm. You?”

“Yeah.” On Mondays, Shane has to go into the office, too, which means he’ll have to leave on the earlier side. “I might turn in.”

He showers and resolutely does not touch himself. To jerk off while Ilya is in his apartment would feel like a strange boundary cross.

He lies in bed, scrolling mindlessly, for a while. He can hear Ilya come back from having gone upstairs to get his toothbrush and some clothes. Shane listens to his shuffling footsteps as he goes through the apartment turning out the lights, then into the bathroom.

Shane should have jerked off in the shower. His dick, at half-mast since then, is fully hard. Lying here waiting for Ilya to come out of the bathroom and get in bed beside him is torturous.

The bathroom door opens. Shanes turns away and onto his side quickly, but not before seeing that Ilya is only wearing boxers. Shane, in a t-shirt as well as pajama pants, feels like an idiot. He may as well have dressed in a chastity belt.

The bed shifts as Ilya slips under the covers. “Good night,” Shane says.

“Good night,” Ilya says, low.

Shane puts his phone on the bedside table and turns off the lamp. He has never felt less tired in his life. The chance he’ll actually get any sleep tonight is zero.

The bed shifts again. Shane feels the heat of Ilya’s body behind his before he actually feels it press up against him, from his back all the way down to his thighs. A hand slips under his shirt, caressing his stomach. Ilya’s lips touch the back of Shane’s neck, and he murmurs, “Are you actually sleeping?”

“No,” Shane says on an exhale. He rolls over, directly into Ilya’s embrace, and they kiss. And god, it’s even better for not having touched all day. Ilya wastes no time, sticking his hand in Shane’s pants. Shane moans but it’s swallowed by Ilya’s mouth, still on his.

Shane breaks away when Ilya starts jerking him off. “No, no, don’t.”

Ilya stops immediately. “You don’t want to?”

“I’ll come,” Shane says. Thank goodness it’s dark. Ilya can’t see how red he is.

Ilya laughs, a quiet sound of pleasure coming from deep in his chest. “You were just lying there, on the verge of coming, hoping I would touch you, huh?”

That was exactly what Shane had been doing. “Shut up,” he says. He pulls away to take off his pants, and then flips them so he’s straddling Ilya. The tip of Ilya’s own erection pokes him in the ass; Shane ignores it, reaching for the drawer in his bedside table that has lube and condoms.

Without speaking, Ilya takes the lube and coats his fingers. Shane takes his shirt off and leans over him, bracing on the headboard. Ilya has less leverage from this angle, so the chance Shane will come from being fingered is smaller. In that sense, it’s good the lights are off. He wouldn’t be able to handle Ilya watching his face as he fingers him right now.

“Relax,” Ilya says, and Shane tries to, exhaling deeply. In, out. In, out. Ilya pets over his hip with his spare hand, in time with his fingers inside Shane. The motion strikes Shane as oddly tender.

“Enough,” Shane says. He scrabbles in the sheets for the condom. There’s an awkward moment where Ilya has to take off his boxers, their limbs tangling, but then the condom’s on and Shane’s sinking down onto his cock.

"Fuck.” He’s already on the verge of coming, again. He has to sit there, gathering himself for a few moments, fingers a tight circle around the base of his dick. In the darkness, he can see Ilya cover his mouth with a hand, muffling his laughter. “Shut the fuck up.”

“I cannot believe this. All day you have been acting like a cat who does not want to be pet. The whole time you were needing it this bad.”

“No I fucking wasn’t,” Shane growls. He clenches around Ilya in revenge.

Ilya swears in Russian. His hands land on Shane’s thighs, squeezing. “Shall we just sleep like this?” he says in a low voice, dangerously close to a purr. “Is comfortable.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Shane snaps. He cannot handle anything like dirty talk right now. Experimentally, he rolls his hips, finding a rhythm and angle that he can maintain.

The darkness magnifies the sounds. Their bodies working together. Every moan that slips out of Shane’s mouth. “Fuck,” Ilya whispers. “Want to see you.”

Shane’s got himself under control enough that he’ll allow it. He leans over to turn on the lamp.

It’s a mistake. He has never seen Ilya like this: flushed all the way down his chest, curls pasted to his forehead with sweat. Worst is the look in his eyes. He’s staring up at Shane like a man returning from a long voyage, starving for even the sight of his home.

Shane can’t return his gaze. He closes his eyes, tipping his head back. Ilya says something in Russian. “What?” Shane says.

“Nothing. Please, can you?”

His hands are back on Shane’s hips, helping him find his rhythm once more. “Ugh, fuck,” Shane groans. He’s close again.

“Just let go,” Ilya says. “It’s okay.”

Shane gives in. He leans back, hands braced on Ilya’s thighs, and rides him for all he’s worth. “Oh, fuck, oh my god.”

Orgasm hits in every nerve at once. Ilya takes over, fucking him through it, but he barely lasts a few thrusts before he’s grunting and coming as well.

“Fuck,” Shane pants. He’s light-headed.

Ilya sits up, just in time for Shane to crumple onto his chest, head onto his shoulder. “Whoa, whoa, you okay?”

“Yeah. Fuck. Just… holy shit.”

Ilya lays them both down, tipping on to their sides. His hands are doing that tender, soothing stroke on Shane’s back. “You sure you are okay?” Ilya asks after a few minutes.

“Mmm.” Slowly, Shane is coming back to his body. His mind is still a little fuzzy, every limb heavy.

Ilya kisses his forehead. “Getting something to clean you up. I’ll be back.”

Ilya does it gently, wiping the cum off Shane’s chest and belly with a warm damp washcloth. “Thank you,” Shane sighs.

Ilya just kisses his forehead again. Shane tips his face up and Ilya kisses him on the mouth. “Sleep now,” Ilya says, and then says something else in Russian.

“Stop doing that. I can’t understand you,” Shane murmurs. He’s already almost asleep.

“Yes, I know,” Ilya murmurs back. “I am counting on it.”

—-—

Shane wakes to someone gently shaking him. “Hmm? S’thing wrong?”

“No.” It’s Ilya. Shane blinks up at him blearily. He’s dressed for work, a charcoal blazer over a graphic t-shirt. “I have to leave. Sorry to wake you. I didn’t want to…”

“’S okay,” Shane mumbles. He finds Ilya’s hand on his arm and drags it up to his mouth to kiss it, since he’s too sleepy to sit up and actually kiss him. “Have a good day, okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya says. Shane falls back asleep before he leaves the room.

He wakes again to his alarm going off a little past seven. It takes a few moments for his dreams to subside, and for Shane to realize that Ilya waking him hadn’t been one of them. How early had he needed to leave for Shane to not only fall back asleep but also dream?

Once he’s up, reality has a strange feel to it, like Shane might actually still be asleep. He keeps looking for little confirmations that yesterday happened. The used condom in his bathroom trash. The tuna cans in his recycling. Two plates on the drying rack by the sink.

He goes through his day on autopilot, headphones on at his desk, pretending to debug his code, when really he’s playing over every single second of the last twenty-four hours in his head. Fuck.

He has to tell Ilya how he feels.

To keep going without that will start to feel like lying, and Shane won’t do that. If it screws things up…

He pulls himself back from precipice. He won’t think about that. In fact, he won’t think about anything at all the rest of the day. He turns up his music and actually starts working.

On the drive home from work, he calls his mom, who talks enough Shane only has to mmhmm and oh, really? occasionally to keep the conversation going. The few blocks walk from parking to his apartment building is so cold he couldn’t string two thoughts together if he wanted to.

Then he gets back to his dark, empty apartment.

Ilya isn’t there, obviously. But Shane locked his door before leaving that morning, so he couldn’t have gotten in regardless. And Shane doesn’t have his number.

Holy shit. Shane has to laugh. They don’t have each other’s numbers.

Fuck it. Shane goes upstairs to knock on Ilya’s apartment door. No answer. Well, at least he knows. He busies himself with throwing together some dinner. Normally, he’d go work out after that, but for whatever reason he feels like he can’t leave the building until he talks to Ilya.

He pretends to distract himself by reading a book. He’s reread the same page a million times when there’s a knock at the door.

Shane is up to open it in seconds. It’s Ilya. “Hey,” Shane says breathlessly, and smiles.

Ilya’s already smiling. But he says, “You wear glasses?”

Shane forgot he was wearing them. “Oh—yeah. Only when I read.”

“I will remember that.” Ilya holds up a bag. “I brought you something.”

They’re the streusel muffins from the bakery. “A thank you,” says Ilya. “My heat is fixed.”

“I know,” Shane says. He doesn’t feel like pretending about anything anymore. He leads Ilya into his apartment, closing the door. “I went upstairs to your apartment yesterday to get the tuna, and I saw.”

“Oh.” Ilya takes a step back, clearly thrown. His eyes dart around.

“I would have let you stay,” says Shane. He opens his mouth to continue, but hits a wall. He can’t find the words.

“Sorry,” Ilya says when Shane doesn’t go on. He looks carefully expressionless, and tense, like he’s waiting for Shane to start yelling.

“No, it’s not that,” Shane says, impatient with himself. What the fuck is wrong with him? He takes a deep breath.

“What, then?” says Ilya.

Shane looks at him. He strings his thoughts together a word at a time. “Maybe… this was just sex at first. But for me, it isn’t any longer. I think… I really like you.”

There it is. Shane’s heart held out in front of him in the space of three sentences. It’s met with complete silence. Ilya’s face does not change. He doesn’t say anything. In his mind, Shane can see the precipice of rejection yawning. “Well?” he says sharply, anxiety pushing him into frustration.

Then he sees. There are tears glinting in Ilya’s eyes.

Shane reaches for him just as Ilya turns away. “Wait, hold on,” says Shane in a completely different tone. He grabs Ilya’s shoulders and turns him back around. Ilya’s eyes are closed, as if that will hide his tears. “What’s wrong? What happened?” Ilya chokes out a laugh, covering his face, but Shane won’t allow that either. “Stop that. Talk to me.”

He takes a page out of Rose’s book, and waits, holding Ilya’s hands in his. Ilya looks up at the ceiling. He blinks tears away. “I thought you were about to say something else,” Ilya says eventually.

“No,” says Shane.

Finally, Ilya looks at him. Why had Shane always compared his eyes to ice? Now they’re blazing, like a star going supernova. Shane is falling into them, ready to be burned alive. He brushes Ilya’s jaw with the backs of his fingers. “Ilya,” he says, because the silence is killing him.

“Yes,” Ilya says. In turn, he cups Shane’s face with a hand. “Yes, okay.”

“Okay what?” Shane says. He needs to hear it.

Ilya smiles at his resurgent impatience. He leans forward to kiss Shane’s cheek, right on his freckles. “Okay, I will like you back.” Shane huffs out an annoyed laugh. Ilya kisses his upper lip. “And I will date you.”

“Don’t do me any favors,” Shane starts to say, but Ilya cuts him off with a real kiss. His words had been playful; the kiss is serious. By the end of it, Shane is breathless, melting into Ilya’s arms.

“You were saying?” Ilya says.

Was he? Shane doesn’t remember. He pulls Ilya in to kiss him again. They’re both grinning like idiots when they part. “You dropped your muffins,” Ilya says.

“What? Oh.” Sure enough, Shane dropped the bag Ilya had handed him on the floor. He decides he doesn’t care. “Do they taste okay cold?”

Ilya understands his meaning right away. He nuzzles under Shane’s ear to kiss him there. “Even better.”

If Shane doesn’t move them to the bedroom now, they’ll end up fucking on the floor. “Good. Come on.”

The sex that follows is not their most graceful, but never has Shane felt so happy in bed. He can’t stop smiling. Neither of them wants to leave off kissing to blow each other so they make do with messy hand jobs, pants pushed down just enough. Shane buries his face in Ilya’s neck when he comes; Ilya bites Shane’s shoulder when he does.

Shane shudders. “Oh, fuck.” Ilya licks over the bite, and Shane inhales sharply. There are so many things he thought were on his not interested list that he’s now finding out he’s into—if it’s Ilya.

Ilya laughs and says something in Russian. “Stop,” Shane complains, “I hate when I can’t understand you.”

Ilya kisses the hollow of his throat. “But I love it.”

“I’ll learn Russian then,” Shane says stubbornly.

“Will you?”

Shane had been joking, but Ilya’s expression—half-doubtful, half-eager—has him saying, “Yes. Teach me to say something.”

“Okay. Mne.”

“Mne.” Shane dutifully repeats every syllable after Ilya, trying to mimic the way he holds his lips. “Mne vezet vse bol’she. What does it mean?”

Ilya doesn’t reply at first; he kisses Shane again, another deep and serious kiss. Then he says, “My luck is turning.”

Shane smiles. His happiness is reflected on Ilya’s face before him. “Yes. You can share mine.”