Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Rose Landry, Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

Shane Hollander is Obsessed With Ilya Rozanov, Minor Rose Landry/Svetlana Vetrova, Frottage, Alternate Universe - College/University, Shotgunning, that moment where you tip from fuck buddies to more, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, chronic overthinker shane hollander, Best Friends Svetlana Vetrova & Ilya Rozanov, Best Friends Rose Landry & Shane Hollander, i looked up the defintion of down bad and there were just pictures of shane and ilya, Dom/sub Undertones, Making Out, Porn With Plot, Teasing, Getting Together, Hand Jobs

Language:

English

Series:

Part 14 of heated rivalry masterlist

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-26 Words: 14,726 Chapters: 1/1

i was hopin' you would come through, it's true

Summary

A memory springs to mind: two weeks ago, drunk on Hayden's couch, curled up with Jackie. His voice, soft and quiet, heartbroken with desire, wavering through words about the impossibility of wanting. About the greed that rises in him. About how he clings so badly when he's around Rozanov that all of his common sense falls to the wayside.

Jackie's voice, rising through the dim gray, as Hayden had snored next to them. All it takes is one of you to make a move, she'd said, their hands laced together, her head on his shoulder. Something's gotta give eventually.

“I—” Shane starts, before pausing. He thinks he's going to throw up. He thinks that they got it right all those years ago, with it's the hope that kills you. He thinks he has to be brave enough for the both of them, to actually ask, and he's so fucking scared, but he can't let Rozanov's quiet offer of something go unanswered—he'll regret it for the rest of his life if he doesn't take a chance. “Ilya.”

OR: Shane wants, despite how badly he pretends otherwise.

Notes

so this is sort of like a tuna-melt scene college au redux [except, spoiler: it ends happily], and it was supposed to be mainly pwp, and now it's mostly plot. sorry!

By the time Shane’s made it to the front steps of the Delta Kappa Epsilon frat house, he’s already fucking annoyed. 

“Two shots,” Rose bargains at his side, as they shove through the mass of people, though he’s not really sure what she’s arguing for, since they’ve already taken two as fortitude. It’s crowded, even for a Friday night, the music loud enough to nearly vibrate through the grass. He can feel it in his fucking ankle bones already—how the fuck does anyone even live around this place? He’d lose his goddamn mind if he had to hear this shit all the time. “Maybe three?” 

He snorts, grimacing as someone elbows his ribs, shoving past him without even a pretend apology. “In your fucking dreams, Landry.” 

She hooks her arm through his, a bright grin on her face. “And I dream about it every night,” she says, smacking a kiss against his cheek. “You know you can loosen up, babes.” 

“I really, really can't,” Shane mutters as they finally make it into the house, the noise so overwhelming he almost wants to cry for a second. It’s a solid wave of sound crashing over him, and even Rose grimaces when he glances at her, her mouth pursing into a sour pucker before he watches her smooth away her expression. 

He has to bend down, his lips nearly catching on her ear. “Is this really what you want to be doing tonight?” 

She shoves at his shoulder, shaking her head in faux disappointment. “The nerve of you, Shane Hollander,” she shouts, her voice almost swallowed up by the roar of the crowd. “C’mon.” 

They push through the initial crush, snagging drinks by the punchbowl, though Shane's not brave enough to try the jungle juice like Rose is, even though it looks more appealing than the beers sweating on the side. 

For a second, they pause, Rose's whole face screwing up at the first taste, before she tips her head towards the back of the house. She barely waits for him to nod, snagging his hand the second his chin dips, and dragging him back out into the thick of it. 

The backyard is equally as rowdy, but far less loud, the noise spilling out across the yards that are all interconnected on frat row, before they come up against the thin woods that surround their college. He follows after Rose, apologizing every so often as he bumps into people, until they're out of the crowd, settling in on the ground, nearly in the woods. 

He sighs, leaning back against the log bench and tipping his head back to stare up at the dark night sky. “Why are we doing this again?” 

Rose hums, knocking her shoulder into his. “Because you want to be ‘more exciting’ for some reason,” she says. “And I miss hanging out with you—you're always busy these days, superstar.” 

Shane groans, shaking his head. “Please stop getting into Twitter fights on my behalf,” he mutters, ducking his head to hide his burning cheeks, even as she laughs, loud and unabashed, turning heads from across the yard. “Every time you do, I get like at least ten messages from people asking if we're dating again, even though it's been years.” 

“Probably doesn't help that I can't stop telling people, oh, you'll never know, when they ask me,” Rose muses, grinning when he squawks with outrage. “What? I have to get my joy somewhere.” 

“Does it have to be at my expense?" Shane says, but he's grinning a little too wide to really sell it, as Rose knocks into him again, her smile fond. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, swaying into her. “Love you too.” 

They’re quiet for another beat, and Shane lets his eyes wander across the crowd. He can pick a small number of faces out, but most of them are strangers; something that terrifies him a little bit, makes his spine go straight, as if someone is going to see him and judge him for simply being here.  

Rose bumps him with her elbow. “Hey,” she says, waiting until he looks at her. “Where'd you go?”

He shrugs, unable to put words to how weird he feels. “Big party,” he says, like an idiot, instead, wincing at how stupid he sounds. “Just—it's a lot of people.”

“Do you want to go?” Rose asks immediately. “We can go back to mine and crash.” She takes a sip of her drink and winces. “I don’t think I have anything as…exciting as this, but I definitely have some, uh, vodka?” 

Shane snorts, fondness curling in his throat. “Vodka, huh?” She shoves at him, grinning, and he shakes his head. “Nah, it’s okay. I just—I dunno, it just sort of hit me where we are.” 

He sighs and hurries to take a sip of his beer, frowning at the lukewarm temperature as he pulls the bottle away to examine the damp and peeling label. 

“I think I hate beer,” he says, as if it's news to him. 

Rose laughs, tugging it out of his hand and shoving her cup in his. “Try a sip of mine. It'll really knock your socks off.” 

He snorts, shaking his head when she grins at him, her eyes twinkling. 

“So,” she says, as he drinks deeply, rolling the sharp, sour-sweet flavor around in his mouth. “What's the deal with you and Rozanov?” 

Shane freezes and then very carefully sets his cup down, pressing it firmly into the soft, broken dirt. “Nothing,” he says quickly. “Why? Did—is someone—did you hear something?” She arches an unimpressed brow at him, and he flushes, dragging his gaze off her to look at the roof of the frat house. 

It's unbelievably idiotic for him to feel so twisted up about goddamn Ilya Rozanov.

“That face tells me something is going on,” Rose says gently as Shane tries to scrub his mind of Rozanov; Rose will never let go of it if she clocks just how entangled the two of them are. She knows about the hookups—because everyone and their goddamn mother does since they can't seem to stop getting caught—but the whole other feelings part of it is awful and new, or at least that's his story, and he's sticking to it. He doesn't have the brainpower to pick through their mess, not now, when he's already on edge at this uncomfortable party. “And Svetlana might've mentioned a mopey Russian the past few times we've hung out.”

Shane twists, frowning at her. “What the hell?” he snaps, shock and annoyance suffusing his tone, all of his modulation thrown off at her news. “When the fuck did you start hanging out with Svetlana, and why didn't you tell me?” 

Rose snorts, shoving at him. “Because you were also being mopey.” 

“Are you going to hang out with her tonight?” Shane asks, ignoring everything else Rose is trying to get him to talk about. He doesn't want to date Ilya Rozanov. He doesn't, no matter what Rose and Hayden and JJ and his own fucking brain think. The possibility isn't haunting him every moment of every day. They're just—hooking up. Near permanently.  Every time they can. They're—friends, if he were to put a label, he supposes. Just two guys being friendly who occasionally fuck, and he's not going to be the person who brings their house of cards tumbling down. “Did you finally get her number?” 

Rose bites her lip, hiding a grin, and Shane shoves back at her, careful not to push too hard. “What the fuck, Landry? You're asking me about literally nothing, and you're sitting on this?” 

“It's not nothing, and my thing isn't really—” Rose starts, before groaning when he crosses his arms and glares at her. “Fine, fine! Maybe it's something, I don't, I don't fucking know.” She sighs, scooching in closer, letting her head settle on his shoulder. “She's just so gorgeous and funny and smart, and I don't even know why she would even talk to me.” 

Shane scoffs, letting his head rest against hers. “Because you're Rose Landry?” he says, taking another deep sip of the jungle juice. He can feel warmth pooling in his stomach, the familiar haze of alcohol settling in. “And she's lucky to hang out with you?” 

“You're sweet,” Rose says, even as she sounds doubtful. “But, I don't—I don't know. I think it's just a little—it's big, you know? Like the whole of it. And then I'm like, it's stupid to feel that way when we've only been hanging out for a little bit, but I want it to be something so bad, and then it's like, okay, well, have I just made it up? Do I want it so bad I'm inventing the looks and the things that feel like excuses to linger?” 

“Yeah,” Shane says, his stomach sinking. “I hear you.” 

They're quiet, the yard echoing with shouts, music pulsing across the grass. He thought he would've hated it more, but it's not so bad, now that he's out of the thick of it. He just doesn’t really get what the point of it is. Why would he ever want to host a party where he doesn’t know the majority of the people? It’s a fucking nightmare just to host his friends, and he even likes most of them. 

Rose sighs, leaning into him harder, dragging him out of his meandering thoughts. “Sometimes, I wish you weren’t gay,” she says wistfully. “We’d be an iconic couple.” 

Shane laughs, shaking his head as fondness slides into his heart. “You don’t want that at all,” he says, curling an arm around her. “You want to do incredibly filthy things with Svetlana, and you want to tell me about it just to see me blush.” 

“So bad,” Rose confesses, dropping a kiss against his shoulder before she pulls herself up, letting him keep an arm around her. “She’s so fucking beautiful.” 

“Oh, trust me,” Shane says, shaking his head. “I’ve been well informed.” 

She tries to scowl at him, but her lips won't stop curving into a brilliant smile, her sheepish delight clear, before the expression drops off her face as she catches sight of something over his shoulder. 

“Oh my god,” she hisses, swatting at his shoulder when he tries to turn and look, his arm dropping from around her. “They're here.” 

“Who?” Shane asks, before he hears Rozanov's deep, rich laughter. Immediately, his face warms, and he ducks his head, taking another sip of his drink. “Oh no.” 

Rose sends him a desperate look before she downs the rest of her beer, making a face. “Why did I do that?” She hisses to herself as Shane keeps watching her, fighting the urge to turn and see just what Rozanov is up to. He can hear him getting closer, can hear Svetlana laughing too as they make their way through the crowd. It would almost be impressive how honed in on Rozanov he is, if it weren't so fucking pathetic. “I'm gonna taste like shit.” 

Wordlessly, he holds out his almost finished drink, and she wrinkles her nose but takes a sip. “Ugh, it's so bad with the beer,” she mutters, before she hands it back to him. “Okay. I'm normal now.” 

Shane snorts, grinning at him when she narrows her eyes at him. “Right,” he says, shaking his head, his brows raising. “So normal.” 

“I’m being—this is—” she cuts herself off, all annoyance smoothing out as her eyes dart to something behind him and her face lights up. “Svetlana, hi!” 

Shane presses his lips together to stop from laughing at her and scooches a little away from her, accepting her sharp elbow to his ribs as his due. He glances up, smiling at Svetlana as she grins down at Rose. 

He has no idea what Rose is even talking about—she absolutely hasn't made it up. Svetlana looks utterly enamored, her eyes sparkling as she drops gracefully down next to her, uncaring of the dirt. 

“Hello, Rose,” she murmurs, before shooting a faint smile Shane's way. “Hollander.” 

“Hi,” Shane offers, before falling quiet as Rose begins to chatter, the two of them sliding into an easy conversation involving people Shane doesn't even know. 

He ducks his head to hide his smile, nudging Rose just once as support, before someone sits down next to him.

“Shane Hollander,” Rozanov murmurs, as Shane stills, turning to look at him. “I am, hm, surprised to find you here.” 

“Why?” Shane asks, narrowing his eyes, readying himself for the usual razing. “Because it's someplace fun?” 

Rozanov blinks at him. “This is fun?” he asks, his nose wrinkling. “It’s a good place for free drinks, but fun?” He shakes his head. “There is already vomit in bushes,” he says, pointing in the direction of the shrubs by the back door. “Is not fun in crowd, but back here? Yes, maybe.” 

“Oh,” Shane mutters, vaguely taken aback. “Yeah, uh, Rose asked me to come. Because—” he glances at Svetlana and back at Rozanov, hoping that’s enough. “You know?” 

Rozanov smirks, his eyes dancing, and Shane fights the urge to squirm, warmth sweeping through him at the fond curl of his mouth as he glances at Svetlana. 

“Oh, yes, Hollander. I know,” he murmurs, shaking his head as he lowers his voice even more, despite also making it clear that he wants Svetlana to hear as both she and Rose fall quiet at his voice. “All day, it has been Rose, Rose, Rose—Sveta was, ah, more than eager to get here.” 

“If you are going to tell tall tales, Ilyusha,” Svetlana interrupts, her eyes dark when Shane glances over at her. “Then there are a few of my own that I can reveal.” 

“Oh?” Shane says, intrigued. He glances at Rose, unsurprised to find a pleased look on her face at the news, before looking between Rozanov and Svetlana's glares. “Is there a problem?” 

“No,” Rozanov says, breaking their staredown to glance at Shane. “But I have forgotten a joint, near my car, I think, Hollander.” He clears his throat, winking when Shane narrows his eyes. “You should come with me to get it.” 

“I should?” Shane says blankly as Ilya pushes himself up. 

“It could be fun?” Rose offers when he glances at her, checking to make sure she's fine with their changing plans—not that he thinks she really minds the chance to have Svetlana to herself. “Uh, not that Ilya offered to smoke with you—” 

“Was an offer,” Ilya agrees immediately, holding a hand out. “Come, Hollander, let's go.” 

Shane stares at Rozanov's broad hand for a moment, the memories of the last time they touched running through his head. 

They had run into each other at the library over a week ago and had ended up furiously making out, tucked away in the stacks. They had migrated eventually; Shane's panting was muffled by Rozanov's warm hand, as he'd backed the two of them into the permanently out-of-order bathroom that's up on the third floor. Shane had gone easily, and, more to the point, cum easily, with Rozanov's hand on his dick, before sinking to his knees to try to give the world's quietest blowjob. It hadn't been very quiet, but the dazzled and delighted expression on Rozanov's face as he glanced down had sustained him all week.

Rozanov wiggles his fingers, and Shane pretends he can't feel his cheeks burning as he settles his hand over Rozanov's. He lets the other man tug him up before he glances down at Rose. 

“Text me when you get home? Or,” he smirks, unable to stop chirping at her, which she deserves after stirring up all those rumors again, “wherever you're going to be sleeping tonight." 

Rose rolls her eyes even as she grins. “Get out of here,” she says, reaching up to pat his ass, smirking when he frowns at her, both of them ignoring the way Ilya barks a laugh, his grip tightening. “Go get loose and be sloppy, babes. I'll hold down the fort.” 

Shane squints at her, but lets Rozanov tug him along. “Okay,” he calls over his shoulder, before they're swallowed up by the crowd. “Have fun!” 

Rose waves, before turning back to Svetlana, and Shane grins; the last sight of the two of them is Svetlana sliding closer, until she's practically in Rose's lap. 

Rozanov keeps their hands clasped as he winds his way through the crowd, and Shane's blush refuses to die, the heat of it permanently affixed to his face. He manages to wave hello to a couple of guys: Bood and Hazy, a flailing arm that Shane thinks might've been Chouinard or Haas, before Rozanov is unlatching the side gate, leading them into a totally different yard. 

“Roz,” Shane starts, discomfort prickling over him as the gate swings shut behind them, but Rozanov squeezes his hand, his eyes bright even in the dark, and Shane falls quiet. 

“You do not like the inside,” Rozanov murmurs, slowing down enough that they're walking side by side instead of Shane being tugged along. “Too, hm, loud, maybe? Too close?” 

“Claustrophobic?” Shane offers, chewing on the inside of his cheek. It doesn't mean anything, he tells himself, despite how badly he wants Rozanov's words to. He's just—used to noticing things about people—about teammates. 

“Da,” Rozanov says, brightening. He swings their held hands in the cool night air, his curls painted silver in the faint moonlight. He looks almost otherworldly as he tips his chin down to grin at Shane, crooked and gloriously mischievous, some sort of spirit sent to tempt Shane to hell. It won’t take much, Shane knows; not with how Rozanov looks at him with smug assuredness. He can't help how he just always wants to get into it with Rozanov—his particular brand of being a bastard always deserves an answer. “Inside is too tight, too much. For me, Hollander. You are just—guest on my shortcut.” 

“Oh, is that right?” Shane says, smirking at him. Neither of them mentions their infamous rookie season party that involved three hundred people crammed into Rozanov's teeny tiny apartment, which had involved no less than sixteen follow-up emails from their coach, an apology to the building, and three shattered chairs. There are many, many words Shane's used to describe Rozanov; claustrophobic would never be one of them. “Learn something new about you every day, huh, Rozanov?” 

Rozanov shrugs, a graceful, careless tilt of his broad shoulders. “I am magical, no?” he concedes, as he leads the two of them out of the shallow side yard between the houses and back onto the street. “Is my special talent.” 

Shane snorts, unable to stop his grin from growing. “Oh, special talent, huh?” 

Rozanov laughs, loud enough to turn heads lingering at the front of the frat house, and Shane tightens his grip on Rozanov's hand, unable to detach from the storm of jealousy that rumbles in his chest. “I think I have many special talents,” Rozanov murmurs, sly enough for Shane to grow hot under the collar. “Would like to show you a few.” 

“Yeah?” Shane asks, breathless with want. He can feel the surge of cloying desire rising, the wave of greed that always surfaces when he's staring at Rozanov's face and helpless against the tides of need. “Like what?” 

Rozanov stops suddenly, Shane stumbling into him. For a moment, they're frozen, their hands tangled, Shane's free hand pressed against Rozanov's sternum, his head tilted back to stare at Rozanov's brilliantly beautiful eyes. 

Rozanov's other hand lifts, gently tucking one of the loose tendrils of Shane's hair behind his ear and out of his sight. Shane's heart is pounding so loudly, he's shocked Rozanov hasn't mentioned the marching band that's taken up residence in his chest. 

“All,” Rozanov murmurs, after another beat. “I would like to show you all my magic tricks, Hollander.” 

Shane blinks at him, his mouth dry. There's nothing else that exists in the world for a moment; just the gentle touch of Rozanov's fingertips against his skin, the firm grip of his hand on Shane's, the soft cotton of his t-shirt under Shane's palm, the thrum of his heart; steady and settled. 

“Okay,” he whispers, staring at Rozanov. He's—he's being normal. This is all very normal, and he's not freaking out at all, and the worst part is how easily he can convince himself that it's all true. That Rozanov means something more than a quip. It’s just that he—like Rose thinks she is, even though Svetlana absolutely wants her—wants so badly that he’s finding meaning when there’s none. “Yeah.” 

Rozanov's face splits open, joy crinkling the corners of his eyes, the glint of his teeth appearing as his mouth curves into a heartstoppingly gorgeous smile. 

“I am—yes,” Rozanov rumbles. “Come, Shane Hollander. Let me show you where the magic happens.” 

Shane should scowl at such a cheesy line; he should have some dignity and thump Rozanov in the arm, should pull back and wrinkle his nose, should snark oh, you think that line'll work on me? 

He doesn't. 

“Yeah,” he says instead, like a fucking idiot, grinning up at Rozanov like they're in on a joke together, like it could mean something. Like it's not gonna break his heart when this is all over. “Yeah, c'mon, Roz—let's see your magic.” 

Rozanov throws his head back and laughs, shattering the intensity of the moment. 

The world rushes in, voices and shouting, the loud music spilling from the house, someone's dog barking a neighborhood over; their college's nightlife is alive and well.

Shane laughs too, after a beat, collecting himself as best he can. He should be better at this, not caught by Rozanov's charm. 

But it's like all his sense disappears when Rozanov is in front of him, all his pointed reminders about ending their push and pull, about figuring it out fades. He's pretty sure it makes him a fool to be so entranced, but it's impossible not to be. 

Rozanov squeezes his hand again and starts off, down the street, away from the frat house. 

“Sveta and I did not want to get caught in madness,” Rozanov murmurs, as the noise fades into more of a distant roar. “And she wanted the walk to settle her, ah, nerves? She is very eager to get to know your Rose Landry better.” 

Shane snorts, endlessly amused. “If anything, I'm Rose's Shane Hollander,” he mutters, shaking his head. “She's the one who figured out I was—” He cuts himself off, cheeks flaring red.

“Do not be shy now, Hollander,” Rozanov says, his whole face softening when Shane glances up at him. He arches a brow, faint amusement painted in the curl of his lip. “Please, tell me of how you are Rose's.” 

Shane groans, well aware of how little Rozanov will let go when he really wants to know something. 

“Rose and I are childhood friends,” he finally says, trying to figure out the least embarrassing way to say—I tried kissing a girl and it was gross, but it took like two months to figure out why and it was only because Rose started googling things—as they round the corner, Rozanov's flashy Mercedes gleaming under the moonlight. “And we tried, uh, dating, before, well, you know.” 

“I do not know,” Rozanov says gravely. Shane narrows his eyes, catching the corners of his mouth twitching. “Please, Hollander, elaborate.” 

“You're such a fucking asshole,” Shane says, with far too much fondness as he lurches into Rozanov, bumping their hips together. Rozanov laughs again, bright and loud, his eyes twinkling when Shane catches them. “You know what I'm saying—you don't need to drag this shit out.” 

“Need?” Rozanov says, grinning widely. “No, no, of course not. Want? Da, yes, I like very much.” He smirks, wolfish and pleased, the sound of the car unlocking almost at odds with the muggy late-summer quiet as he fishes his keys out of his jeans. “Come, Hollander. Let's get high.” 

“Shit,” Shane mutters, his nerves corkscrewing through his stomach, but doesn't argue as Rozanov opens the passenger door and gestures him in. 

The faint light from the overheads spills out across the scuffed and matted yellow grass. It rolls across the thin strip, splashing over Rozanov's Nike sneakers and the cracked sidewalk, widening to reach over the tips of Shane's Reeboks. 

His hand is still caught in Rozanov's warm palm. 

Cicadas buzz in the woods, frogs croaking in the pond that lies at the end of frat row; someone shouts, their voices echoing off the trees before the voice fades back into the distant hum of the crowd, and all Shane can think is, he's still holding my hand.

This is such a bad idea. He knows this is such a bad idea. It's a recipe for disaster; he's already in too deep, and he’s pretty sure he’s mostly sober. Being high around Rozanov sounds like an absolute shit-show that can only end in his embarrassment. 

He gets in anyway, the lure of one-on-one time too great to pass up as he drops Rozanov's hand to swing himself in, grimacing at the tacky feeling of sticky leather against his faintly sweaty skin. 

Rozanov grins at him, shaking his head. “You are so strange, Shane Hollander,” he murmurs, before he leans in, reaching behind the driver's seat to grab a worn-in flannel. He presents it with a flourish, his smile wide. “For you, printsessa.”

Shane's cheeks flare red again, but before he can say anything, Rozanov backs out, slamming the door shut. 

He jogs around the front as Shane watches, his heart in his throat, his fingers gently stroking over the soft fabric. He feels almost blindsided; how long has Rozanov been paying attention? This feels like more than just a teammate thing. This feels like way more than a teammate thing. This feels like a real—

Stop, Shane thinks to himself, trying to smother the swelling of emotion. He's going to lose his mind if he falls down this path; even more than he already is. You're being crazy. 

Rozanov yanks the door open and arches a brow as he clocks the flannel still held in Shane's hands.

“Is it not good enough for you?” he asks, settling into the driver's seat. His eyes narrow and then widen slightly as Shane stares at him. “Or, no, sorry, I did not mean—is feeling, ah, wrong?” 

Shane shakes his head. 

“Okay, then?” he checks, and Shane for a brief moment wonders if he says no, if Rozanov will reach down and pull another flannel out, if he's somehow stocked up for him. The thought of Ilya Rozanov gently touching different shirts and measuring their comfort for him is so dizzying that he can't do anything other than breathe shallowly for a moment.

He clears his throat, nodding as he leans forward to tug it on, relaxing instinctively as his skin stops crawling and he's swallowed up by Rozanov's familiar smell; amber and pine. 

“It’s fine,” he murmurs, leaning back against the seat. “Good. Uh, thank you.” 

Rozanov watches him for another beat before nodding. “Good,” he echoes, before he turns the keys, the car starting. The radio clicks on, a low murmur that Shane doesn't recognize filling the space. Almost cool air immediately begins to roll out from the vents, enough of a breeze that it feels good despite the warmth. “Okay.” 

“Yeah,” Shane says foolishly, endeared, before he realizes they're pulling away from the curb. “Wait—what? Where are we going? Wait, Rose was my ride, Rozanov.” 

Rozanov snorts, his mouth curling up, the glint of his teeth bright as they sweep under street lights. “We are getting high, no?” 

“I thought you said you left your blunt here,” Shane says weakly, before another thought occurs to him. “And that—wait, what about Svetlana?” 

Rozanov slides a sly glance his way, something pleased in the set of his jaw, and Shane gapes at him, dumbfounded. “Did you—is this—you planned this,” he manages to spit out, a series of realizations clicking into place. “You and Svetlana, right? This isn't you just deciding to—this was predetermined, wasn't it?” 

Rozanov shrugs, but the smirk dancing around his mouth doesn't change. “Would be such a shame to leave my bestie at the party, no?” he murmurs, the word bestie dripping from his mouth, his hand dropping from the steering wheel to settle high on Shane's thigh. The banked lust flares, bright and deadly in Shane's stomach, a warning cry of desire. “Good thing she knows a pretty girl with a car, yes? Good thing I am responsible enough not to drive while intoxicated, yes?” 

“Rozanov,” Shane says, biting back a smile. He should not be charmed by this. He's been basically kidnapped; never mind that it's exactly where he wants to be. “Are you taking me back to your house? Didn't you say a joint was in here?” 

“Mm, I said near my car, I think, Hollander,” Rozanov corrects. He squeezes Shane’s thigh, ripples of warmth spreading across his skin, zipping up his spine. “Is not my fault you are too cockdrunk to hear truth.” 

“Oh, fuck you,” Shane shoots back, even though he's grinning too much for it to mean anything. “You're so—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “You're unbelievable.” 

Rozanov shrugs lazily again. “Good,” he says. His mouth curves into a smarmy grin, one Shane's used to seeing on the ice. It hits him just the same as it does in the rink; a gutpunch of desire, a filmy pool of want swallowing him whole. “Is one of my magic tricks, no?” 

Shane shakes his head but stays quiet, daring enough to drop his left hand over Rozanov's as it rests on his thigh. 

Rozanov flips his hand, retangling their fingers together, and Shane just barely manages not to sigh like a lovelorn fool, instead glancing out the window and watching the dark September night slip by. 

Frat row isn't too far from Rozanov's—they could've probably walked, if neither of them minded the mile and a half—but he's glad that they're tucked away, swallowed up by the interior of Rozanov's car. It makes everything feel both more real and also dreamlike, the swirling confusion in Shane's chest lightening with every quiet moment spent together. 

They're getting better at this part of the whole thing, in an almost frightening way. 

They're saving each other seats in the few classes they have together, walking around campus together, and finding each other on the way to games. He has a whole pre-game routine that now includes space for Rozanov. Shane's no longer scared of getting caught by their friends, and it's almost—almost—like they're dating, except for how he has no idea what Rozanov really thinks. 

He doesn't want to push and have the answer be no. 

He doesn't want to regret never asking for the rest of his life, either, though. 

“So,” he murmurs, still watching the houses roll past. He's fairly certain they're taking a long way to Rozanov's; he turned the wrong way three streets back, but Shane's not going to complain. Any extra time with him is something he's going to cling to in the moment and then berate himself for later. He swallows hard and realizes he never said anything else, too caught up in how fucked he is. Holy shit, he's terrible at being normal. He scrambles for another thing to say, instead of just letting his so hang in the air like an idiot. “How was, uh, your summer?”

Rozanov hums, a quiet, solemn sound, and it’s different enough that Shane twists to peer at him in the dim gloom, catching pieces of him as they drive under streetlights; the tousled golden curls, the wrinkle of his nose, the imprint of his teeth sunken into his bottom lip. 

Stop, Shane almost wants to say, greedy and desperate as they roll under another lamp, his face edged in gilt. Stay in the light and let me look at you.

“It was, ah, a summer of quiet, truly,” Rozanov says, his brows furrowing before he darts a look at Shane. “I did not go back to Moscow. Sveta and I lounged—this is word for soaking up sun and being lazy, yes?—around Boston. Was slow, sunsoaked.” 

“You didn't go back to Moscow?” Shane repeats, faintly shocked. “I didn't know you were still around. I would've—” He snaps his mouth shut before he can say something embarrassing like invited you over. 

“Ah,” Rozanov murmurs. His thumb drags a circle around the back of Shane's hand, dizzyingly distracting. “No, I did not. I have, uh, broken with them. My brother is all I have left, and he is not—he is not kind.” 

“Shit,” Shane says. He’d known that Rozanov’s parents weren’t in the picture, but he hadn't realized how alone he was. “You and Svetlana are really close, then.” 

Rozanov smiles, a tiny, quick curl of his lips. “Yes,” he says, his blinker clicking on. They're turning back towards Rozanov's, Shane notices, and tries not to feel too eager about it. He likes their conversations, always, absolutely, but he likes being under the full, hypnotic force of Rozanov's gaze even more. “Sveta is—hm. Irreplaceable. Very annoying sometimes. But I would not want to miss her. For a long time now, she is home.” 

Shane forces back the instinctive jealousy that rises. Svetlana wants to date Rose, he reminds himself. She and Rozanov came up with a whole plan to get Rose alone with her, and that just so happened to get him alone with Rozanov. 

Don't be dumb, his internal Rose murmurs, always eager to make him work for his composure. ‘Just so happened’ is never a thing for you and Rozanov.

“I'm glad you have her,” Shane mumbles when the quiet has stretched out, almost awkwardly long again. He is glad, despite the way the words taste sour in his mouth. He'd never want for Rozanov to feel lonely, even if it means he's hanging out with gorgeous women. “Rose—Rose really likes her, so I have a feeling I'll be getting to know her better soon. She seems really cool from everything Rose and you have said.” 

“I hope you will get along,” Rozanov says, quietly earnest. He pauses, and Shane leans closer, drawn in by the naked honesty that’s melting across his face. “It would be nice to go out, all four of us, yes? Maybe?” He swallows, his eyes firmly on the road. Shane feels like his heart is going to beat out of his chest as he continues, a bright, sweet implosion of potential detonating in his stomach at Rozanov’s quiet words, “If that is not too much.” 

Shane shakes his head, the corners of his mouth curving into something too eager and pleased; he's gone soft with emotion, his heart pattering in his chest as he clings to Rozanov's hand. 

A memory springs to mind: two weeks ago, drunk on Hayden's couch, curled up with Jackie. His voice, soft and quiet, heartbroken with desire, wavering through words about the impossibility of wanting. About the greed that rises in him. About how he clings so badly when he's around Rozanov that all of his common sense falls to the wayside.  

Jackie's voice, rising through the dim gray, as Hayden had snored next to them. All it takes is one of you to make a move, she'd said, their hands laced together, her head on his shoulder. Something's gotta give eventually.

He stares at Rozanov—stares at Ilya—watching his side profile for a long moment as they pull onto his street. 

“I—” Shane starts, before pausing. He thinks he's going to throw up. He thinks that they got it right all those years ago, with it's the hope that kills you. He thinks he has to be brave enough for the both of them, to actually ask, and he's so fucking scared, but he can't let Rozanov's quiet offer of something go unanswered—he'll regret it for the rest of his life if he doesn't take a chance. “Ilya.” 

Rozanov inhales, his grip tightening. “Shane,” he returns, low and quiet, and Shane can't help the shudder that runs through him. He wants to hear his name spilling from Ilya's mouth for the rest of his life. He wants to be caught, pinned down to something with him, and he's finally—he’s realizing that he’s desperately hopeful enough to try. 

“It—you—I want—” Shane fumbles for words, his tongue thick in his mouth, everything tangling in his throat. You make me brave enough, he thinks, and wants to weep at the very idea. “I—” 

Ilya squeezes his hand, and Shane falls silent as they pull into his apartment's parking lot. He parks in his usual spot, Cliff’s car gone from his spot, and squeezes his hand again. 

“We have the place to ourselves,” Ilya murmurs as he turns the key, and an easy quiet settles between them. “We do not have to get—” 

“I want,” Shane interrupts, his cheeks flaring. “You. And I want to—” He exhales, everything spinning together. “I want to, uh, relax with you, and I can't—you're—it's like you sharpen, in my brain, and I can't—” He shakes his head. “It’s stupid.” 

“Not stupid,” Ilya says, drawing his gaze. His eyes are dark with an unnamed emotion as warm amber light from the streetlamps slopes down his face, across the bridge of his nose through the sunroof. He looks happy, genuinely and wonderfully, and Shane can feel his whole face shifting, a smile beginning to creep across his mouth even as he tries to keep himself neutral. It could be a rejection, he reminds himself, even if it doesn't feel like a rejection.

They're quiet for another moment, just watching each other, before Ilya clears his throat. “I am full of bees,” he confesses, his eyes darting away before they return. “It is, hm, nerves and hope, no? We have been—something for long time now.” 

Shane blinks at him, delight crackling across his skin. “Yeah,” he mutters, catching his bottom lip between his teeth, the sting of dull pain soothing before he drops it. “Long time now.” 

“I am—” Ilya shakes his head, and Shane understands him intimately, accidentally; there is no one else who could understand, no one else who has been caught tight in this web of desire. “This—better inside, yes?” 

“Yeah,” Shane agrees, dazedly. He feels drunk on hope, on the rush of potential. “Of course.” 

Ilya leans over, dropping a gentle kiss against his cheek. “Inside,” he murmurs, but Shane can't go without the taste of him for another second, and he turns, catching Ilya's mouth with his, sighing into the kiss. 

Ilya tastes like he always does, familiar and tart, an echo of the sweet gum he likes in the flat of his tongue, on the edge of his teeth. 

Shane shivers when Ilya's free hand slides up, curling around his jaw, sinking into the hair at his nape. Even only slightly tipsy, the sensations skitter through him as though he's fully intoxicated, dancing across his skin as he sinks into the kiss. 

“This is not inside,” Ilya murmurs against his lips as they part. “You are not good at waiting in all things, hm? Not just on the ice or in bed, no, you must always rush.” 

Shane huffs, pulling back far enough to squint at him. “Are you complaining that I just kissed you?” he asks, the corner of his mouth curling at the startled look Ilya shoots at him. 

“Never,” Ilya says, his eyes narrowing. “You think you are funny, Hollander?” 

Shane shrugs, letting his full smirk bloom on his face, before he holds his hand up, his fingers pinched together. “Only a little,” he says, laughing when Ilya groans, even as he blushes, light discomfort winding up his spine. “What?” 

“Nothing,” Ilya mutters, squeezing his hand before he drops it entirely as he tosses his door open. “Did not know you were Mister Comedian.” 

Shane huffs, sliding out and slamming the door behind him, keeping a careful gap between them despite how badly he wants to sink into Ilya. “Just because you think you’re god’s gift to comedy—”

“Think? Ah, no, Hollander, you mean am—”

“—doesn’t mean that you actually are—”

“—like we are on ice, nonstop—”

“—and I’m funny,” Shane says, too loudly, his voice echoing off the buildings, across the quiet lot. He flushes, shoving at Ilya when he starts to snicker. “I don't know why you think you're winning when you're laughing right now. You think I'm funny, so this is a you problem, too, if you try to say I'm not,” Shane points out, wrinkling his nose. 

“I am not laughing at you,” Ilya corrects, bumping him back as they wander in through the side entrance. “I am laughing at the situation. Loud Shane Hollander shouts, I am funny, from the rooftop, and no one believes it is true.” He shrugs, grinning at Shane when he glares at him. “Hm, maybe you are funny. Your audience of one is laughing.” 

“That’s what I thought,” Shane says pointedly, as Ilya leads them into the elevator. “I'm funny.” 

Ilya shrugs again, his mouth twitching. “Ah, is more like an accident,” he mutters, groaning when Shane bumps him into the wall, loud enough for Shane to shush him as they ascend. “Ouch, so vicious, like teeny kitten.” 

“You're such an asshole,” Shane says, lowering his voice as they step out into Ilya's hall. “Does it ever get exhausting being a dick?” 

Ilya shakes his head, grinning. “You are what you eat,” he says cheerfully, his eyes glittering when Shane scrubs a hand across his mouth to try to hide his fond smile. “Is that not the saying?”

“No, it is,” Shane mutters over the jangle of Ilya's keys as he unlocks his door. “I just don't think people meant it as literally as you do.” 

Ilya blows a raspberry at him, holding the door open so that he can enter. Air conditioning sweeps over him, sending prickles across his skin, goosebumps rising. Shane inhales the familiar scent of the lemon cleaning spray Cliff and Ilya use as Ilya continues, “Sounds boring, Hollander.” 

Shane rolls his eyes but steps out of his sneakers, gently nudging them up against Ilya's slides. He's been at Ilya's apartment enough times to know where everything is, the steps he's supposed to take, and his shoulders relax from where they'd been stiffening up. 

Ilya doesn't bother with the lights, once he's kicked off his shoes, and instead captures Shane's hand, tugging him along, past the messy living room that always makes him twitch with a need to clean—no matter how much both of them claim it’s organized—and out onto the balcony. 

“Sit,” Ilya murmurs, gently pushing him onto the couch. He pauses, hovering over him, his mouth in shadow, his eyes serious as Shane looks up at him. “It will be one moment. But—Hollander. Shane, you are sure that this is—we have much to say, and I do not want—” He huffs, looking frustrated. “I am not saying—” 

Shane squeezes his hand, cutting him off. “I know,” he says. “But I'm not—I want to say—I want to get high and, I don't know, make out and stay, if that's allowed, and that's, I dunno, we can—tomorrow? Morning? Have a real discussion? I don't—” He flushes, his ears burning, but refuses to drop his gaze. “Maybe it's stupid to push it off.” 

“You will want to discuss tomorrow, anyway,” Ilya murmurs, looking quietly delighted. “Will you spend the night, Hollander?” 

Shane beams at him, happiness crackling in his chest, spinning up his veins. Warmth zings between them as he nods, a sharp, quick explosion of agreement. “Yes, I—please, I'd really like that.” 

“Yes,” Ilya says, his other hand reaching up. He drags his fingertips across Shane's cheekbone, a gentle caress. “I would like that too.” 

They're still for a beat, set in quiet repose, before Ilya draws back.

The glow from the lot lights bounces off the pavement, swirling with the moonlight, and coats the balcony in dim shades of gray light. It’s quiet outside, the night just beginning for many, but Shane can think of nowhere else he’d rather be than here, on this ratty couch, gazing up at Ilya, a world of softness between them. 

“One moment,” Ilya murmurs, his fingers sweeping across his face a final time, before he pulls away. “A blunt, yes?” 

Shane nods, still smiling faintly as Ilya disappears inside. He leaves the door cracked, and over the hum of the AC, Shane can hear him shifting things around, muttering to himself in Russian, before making an approving ah ha! noise at something. 

He nestles himself back against the arm of the couch, snug in the corner, one leg tucked under him as he lets his head loll back, staring up at the night sky. 

The moon's too bright for proper stargazing, not to mention the ambient lights, but Shane still takes comfort in the few stars he can see twinkling above. They look the same as they always do, cool and distant, beautiful and small; ghosts of his previous wishes scattered far and wide by the wind. 

“You are looking,” Ilya says quietly, as the door creaks shut behind him. He settles onto the cushion next to Shane. “Very poor for stars, no? Too much—” He gestures around, encompassing the entire building as Shane lifts his head. “Even on the roof.”  

“Do you stargaze a lot?” Shane asks, curious as always for more bits and pieces he can pull from Ilya. He pauses, his eyes landing on a ginger ale set out on the low coffee table, next to a gaudy, tarnished lighter that looks as though it weighs a ton; it's normally set high on a bookshelf—Shane didn't even know it worked. “Is the ginger ale for me?” 

“I do not drink ginger ale,” Ilya says, his mouth curling into a smile. “You know this Hollander.” 

Shane blushes, shrugging. “I didn't want to assume,” he mutters, before shifting a little closer, his folded knee bumping against Ilya's hip. “And you never—stargazing? Unless it's, uh, sensitive. Then you can just pretend—” 

“I have only gone few times,” Ilya says, cutting him off. He smiles at Shane, his eyes crinkling up, his mouth a gleam of quicksilver delight. “Sveta has taken me, and once, Cliff, when we were very, very drunk and at his home in Montana.” He tips his head back, squinting at the sky, but Shane keeps his eyes on him, drinking in the sight of him; the edge of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the breadth of his shoulders. He's gorgeous always, but there’s something undeniably beautiful about him sprawled out under the moonlight, some ethereal glow rising from his skin. Shane can hardly breathe as he watches him shift, his head tilting to the side as he examines the stars. “Big sky country, they call it. They do not lie. Is vast, yes, full and very beautiful.”

He shrugs, an easy motion. “I enjoyed, but it was the people who made it. The stars are stars. Reaching for them is only as good as your wishes are.” 

“Did you have any wishes?” Shane asks, his mouth dry. They've had hundreds, thousands, of conversations before, but rarely has he heard this edge of candor in Ilya's voice outside of the bed they've fallen into. 

“Few,” Ilya murmurs, turning his head to meet Shane's eyes. “It is bad luck to speak of them, no? Before they come true?” Shane nods, his eyes darting across Ilya's face, watching as he smiles. 

“Ask me of them tomorrow,” Ilya says, soft promise in his velvet tone, and Shane can't even look at him, warmth rushing through him. 

He's dizzy with want, sick with greed; everything he wants is mere centimeters away, and he's so fucking thrilled he could die from the weight of it.

“We are here to make another wish come true, yes?” Ilya says, the earnest moment drifting away, not quite fully shattered but no longer as present. “As ordered, Hollander, I have a gift.” He lifts his hand, grinning brightly as Shane furrows his brows in faint confusion, before he realizes just what he's looking at. 

He stares at the joint, nestled in between Ilya's elegant fingers, before his eyes drift up to meet his warm gaze. 

“I've never smoked before,” Shane confesses, his cheeks flaring red when Ilya’s eyes widen before they darken into something smug, his mouth curling into a familiar smirk. “Like, I've had an edible or two, but I've never, uh, smoked a blunt?” 

Ilya laughs, quiet and oddly pleased as he snags the lighter before he leans back against the sunbleached couch cushions. “And you are sure, you would like to do this tonight, Hollander?” 

“Yeah,” Shane murmurs, his eyes dropping to Ilya's plush mouth before his gaze shifts back up. He squirms at the look on his face, the arched brow, the quiet challenge that's gleaming in the scythe-curve of his lips. “I just might need some help?”

Ilya blinks at him for a moment before he fully grins, sharp-toothed and predatory. “You are in luck,” he says, bringing the joint up to his lips. “I am an excellent teacher.” 

“I wouldn't go that far—” Shane starts, only to fall quiet, mesmerized by his easy gestures as Ilya lights the blunt, inhaling, the end of it flaring; a beacon of light that Shane tracks easily. 

There's a rhythm in his motions, an ease that sparks under Shane's skin. Ilya looks steady, the same confidence that follows him out onto the ice vibrant and apparent here, on his moonlight-soaked balcony. Shane licks his lips, greed so thick he can feel the pull of it in his navel. 

He wants to soak Ilya in, wants to latch his mouth to his and sink into nothing but feeling. He's nearly dizzy with need, his fingers curled tightly into his palms, aching with a fierce desire to touch.

Ilya expels a cloud of smoke, acrid and heavy, and Shane leans in from where he was settled in the corner, letting the flavor of it coat his tongue as he breathes. 

“Fuck,” Ilya murmurs, tugging the joint out from between his lips. “You are—” He sighs, shaking his head and leans forward, capturing Shane's mouth with ease. 

The taste is louder in Ilya’s mouth, burnt and flat, but Shane chases after it, licking across his teeth, weightless with want, before he swings a leg across Ilya's lap and settles in, curling his fingers into his t-shirt. 

Ilya’s free hand curls around his chin, gently pushing him back. 

“You are sure?” he checks, his eyes searching. 

Shane nods, sagging further into his grip. “I trust you,” he rasps, unvarnished honesty thick in his voice. “C’mon, Ilya, I promise I’m good.” 

Ilya watches him for another beat, his hand firm against his jaw, before he nods, holding Shane still. 

“Easy then, this trick,” he murmurs. “I inhale smoke, and then I exhale to you. Should not be hard for you to keep up, no? You have been panting after me all night.” He leans in, bussing a kiss across Shane's slack mouth as faint humiliation licks up his spine. He can't hate his words too much, not when they make his stomach tighten, arousal crackling through at the thought of how obvious his desperation for Ilya is. “What do you say after a gift?” 

“Thank you,” Shane whispers, his eyes low-lidded as he settles more firmly onto Ilya's lap, still hovering slightly above, too eager to sit fully. 

Ilya smirks. “Good boy,” he whispers back, almost mockingly, before he lifts the joint back to his mouth and inhales. 

Shane can hardly wait for him to pull it away from his lips before he's nudging forward. Ilya's grip on his chin tightens, his thumb pressed below his bottom lip, his fingers curled under his jaw as he guides Shane closer. 

He angles their mouths carefully, meeting Shane's gaze with a smug assuredness, and then exhales, directly into his mouth. 

For a second, Shane almost forgets what they're doing, pushing forward to kiss Ilya, only to be held back by his strong grip, before he inhales the warm smoke. It curls down his throat, settling easily inside of him, and Shane is hit by a bolt of lust; he has literally taken air straight from Ilya. They have shared the same smoke, the same oxygen, the same humid space. 

His fingers tighten in Ilya's shirt, greedy and eager for more. Ilya's lips bump against his, the lightest pressure as Shane whines in the back of his throat. 

“Thank you,” he mumbles, licking his lips and sighing when he accidentally catches one of Ilya's in the sweep of his tongue. “Kiss?” 

“Greedy,” Ilya breathes out, but obliges, dragging his mouth across his cheekbones, pressing spit-damp kisses over his freckles, on the corners of his mouth.  

Shane groans, chasing after him when Ilya pulls away, but Ilya keeps him still, his thumb rubbing tiny circles under his lip.

He feels good. Safe. Caught, and a little raw, as if his chest has split down the center and his heart is visible to the world, but good still. He trusts Ilya, thinks he has always trusted him, from the get-go, all those years ago when they were bumping into each other at hockey camps and arguing for hours.

He can't believe it's been so long, that so many years have been shared between them. He hopes he never has to reckon with life without Ilya, hopes tomorrow brings another road for them to bicker down until the end. 

“Another?” he asks, and Shane nods, panting shallowly. 

He tracks the blunt again, watching the end flare cherry red as Ilya inhales another full lungful of the oddly sweet, astringent smoke. 

Again, Ilya leans forward, and Shane meets him, breathing in the damp lungful, letting the warmth spill across his tongue, over his molars. 

His whole body feels loose and heavy, hazy and intoxicated, drunk on moonlight and Ilya, gently drifting through every breath they share. 

Greed kicks up his spine as Ilya tries to pull away, and Shane slides his hands up, cupping his jaw to pull him back. 

He feels insatiable, even as he drowns in Ilya's touch, in his taste, remade under his hands; a ship of Theseus, lovingly undone. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, in between the wet press of Ilya's lips. He spills it into his mouth, tips it under his tongue. He hopes Ilya can taste the sincerity, the truth cradled in the two simple words, the muted shock. 

He can't believe they have tomorrow.

“You are welcome,” Ilya whispers back, before he pulls away. “Another, solnyshko?” 

Shane nods, eager, his mouth already parted. Ilya groans around the joint as Shane drags his gaze across his chest, absentmindedly watching his fingers flex and clutch at his shirt. 

He settles in, distantly realizing he's been hovering over Ilya's lap like an idiot, and hums, lust pooling as he realizes that Ilya's just as hard as he is. 

His arousal is both potent and distant; the urge to chase after it only rises because it feels so fucking good. 

He likes the drag of their cocks, even through the layers of their pants. The sensation zings through him, rattling across his bones as he sinks deeper into the feeling of it. 

“Be good,” Ilya chides, and Shane's eyes fly open—which he hadn't even realized he had closed them, lost in the rush of simply feeling—and he watches as smoke escapes from his smirking mouth. He whines, the noise high and tight, and Ilya grins, shaking his head, his thumb smoothing across Shane's lower lip. 

“You miss out, when you are greedy, Hollander,” he murmurs, taking another quick drag just to blow the hot smoke into his panting mouth, a direct stream of heat across his soft palate. “Will you be good for me, solnyshko?” 

Shane tries to nod, his motions awkward as Ilya keeps a firm grip on his chin. “Yeah,” he manages after a beat. “I can be—I can be good.” 

“I know you can,” Ilya soothes. Lust churns in Shane's stomach, a slow pulse of need thrumming across his nerves. 

Everything is slow as Ilya brings the joint back up to his lips and inhales again. Shane can feel the weight of his jaw as his mouth hangs open, the wet pool of drool under his tongue. His fingers drift on Ilya's shirt, sliding up until he's gotten both hands curled around the heft of his broad shoulder. 

Ilya tugs, once, and Shane follows his directions easily, his eyes fluttering shut as Ilya finally pulls their mouths together for a real kiss as he breathes the smoke out into Shane’s mouth. 

His tongue follows after, wet and warm; eager as he licks across Shane's teeth, sucks his tongue into his mouth. 

Shane can hardly kiss back properly, too caught up in the buzzing that's rising under his skin, the heat that's simmering in his joints. 

He wants so badly he can hardly stand it, his eyes damp with greed by the time Ilya pulls away, a thin line of spit connecting their lips before his pink tongue flashes and it breaks. 

“You are—” Ilya starts, before shaking his head, his hand finally dropping away from his chin to settle on his hip, his fingers wiggling under the flannel and t-shirt. “How are you feeling?” 

“Good,” Shane answers truthfully, squirming in Ilya's lap. He likes the way he feels, thoughts slowing down until he's got one idea in his brain at a time. He's light enough that he could float away. “I've got bird bones.” 

Ilya pauses, staring at him. Shane can read the confusion on his face and wants to giggle, but forces it down, letting his mouth curl into a wide smile instead as Ilya clears his throat. “What are bird bones?” 

“Birds have hollow bones,” Shane says, after a beat of just watching Ilya's face, tracking the shift of his eyes, the crease of his brow as he listens. “So they can fly.” 

“Ah,” Ilya murmurs, his mouth kicking up into half a smile. He seems amused, fond and soft, and Shane wants to curl into his ribs for the rest of his life. He wants to do stupid, irresponsible things just to keep Ilya looking at him. “And so you feel as if you, too, can fly?” 

Shane nods, and then rethinks it, shaking his head. “Not fly, fly,” he mutters, trying to capture the exact weightlessness that he's feeling. “Float maybe. But I like it here with you, so I'm,”—he nods at his fingers, curled tight into him; he hopes Ilya understands the vast encompassing feeling he's trying to explain—“hanging on.”

Ilya smiles, and Shane drinks in the expression as if it's the only thing keeping him going. Most of the time, he has no idea how he ended up here, how anyone like Ilya would ever be interested in him, when he's a mess of a person. 

It's shocking, still, that after all these years, too, Shane has been able to keep him, essentially. That even if it wasn't exactly what he wanted, that he still got to have bits and pieces, that he's been able to build a stockpile of notes about Ilya Rozanov; his own little hoard of treasures.

“You're hanging on,” Ilya rumbles, still smiling. “Another hit?” Shane nods, slow and loose, and Ilya strokes his fingers across the curve of his hip, a gentle, soothing motion, despite the way it sends sparks across his whole body. “Last one?”

Shane nods again, syrupy decadence sliding down his spine as he slowly ruts against Ilya, caught in the trembling web of pleasure.

Ilya inhales, leaning forward to set the blunt down, before both of his hands slide across Shane's chest to cup his jaw, angling him perfectly. 

The smoke fills his mouth as he parts his lips, damp with Ilya's spit, and Shane moans, vibrantly loud, before Ilya swallows the sounds down.

This time, Ilya kisses him like it's the last thing he's ever going to be able to do, like they're capsizing with a ship, like they're saying goodbye. Feral greed shatters across Shane's mouth as Ilya draws him in closer, somehow coaxing his mouth open more, until they're panting into each other, hedonistic and wanton. There's nothing other than the fierce touch of Ilya, nothing else but the firm press of his hands. 

Let me keep you, Shane tries to impress upon him, tries to worry into his mouth, tries to melt across his tongue. His fingers slide across Ilya; clutching, taking, holding, desperate for more, always. I want you, let me keep you.

He's out of control, spinning out on a track, racing towards nothing but a freefall; the feeling builds and builds as they kiss, wet gasping sounds filling the air between them, until he can't take it anymore and pulls back, swallowing down a whine at the effort. 

Ilya blinks up at him, his mouth bitten red, slack with spit. He looks, at once, both deeply touchable and utterly imposing; as if a god of sunshine awash with moonlight, silver streaking through his curls where it should be gold. They're a mess from Shane's grip, haloing his head. Ilya sprawls out beneath him, his shirt wrinkles from Shane's tight grip, his own hands still cupping Shane's chest, fingers kneading gently against the swell of his muscle. 

Mine, Shane thinks greedily, and flushes at the implications. 

“You are impossible,” Ilya murmurs, his eyes low-lidded and hungry. “You are—fuck, Shane, how am I supposed to—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. Shane tracks the way his tongue darts out, licking across his lips, and is bewildered at the lightning strike of lust that surges; he has no idea how he can still want more when all he knows is greed. “If we do not have the conversation tomorrow, I will go mad with it.” 

“Me too,” Shane admits breathlessly, culled down to nothing more than longing and thirst; an unquenchable need for more which unspools in his navel, rattles in his ribcage. He's awash with desire, his hands smoothing across Ilya's chest, lingering on the warmth of his skin as he shifts. 

He feels unreasonably hot, all of a sudden, and shakes his head. “Could we, uh, move this inside?” he asks, wrinkling his nose when Ilya grins at him, smug and pleased. “Don't even start, Rozanov.”

“I have said nothing,” Ilya shoots back, even as he gently nudges Shane off his lap, listening despite his look of mischief. He snags the can of ginger ale from the coffee table, opening it in one swift move, and presses it into Shane's hands. 

The cool metal is almost shocking against his skin; distracting him as Ilya pushes himself up, with hardly any space between them. 

“Drink,” he orders, his eyes intent on Shane's. 

Shane, as he nearly always does, listens, tipping the gently fizzing liquid into his mouth without looking away from Ilya. The tart ginger flushes the taste of smoke and weed out from where it lingers, sending tendrils of relief down his spine. He hadn’t even realized he was uncomfortable with the taste until it was mostly gone. 

“Better?” Ilya asks, soft and low. He waits for Shane to nod before he moves, slipping his hand into Shane’s free one. “Inside, Hollander. You will feel better when you are cooler.”

Shane follows after him, bobbing along. The cool air is a relief as they enter the living room, washing over him as he takes another careful sip of his drink, relishing in the taste.

Ilya slides the door closed, the latch clicking, before he squeezes Shane’s hand to gain his attention. 

“Bedroom?” he checks, as if Shane could ever want anything else, and grins when Shane nods at him, as eager as ever. 

Liquid desire washes through him as Ilya leads them into his room. It's as messy as usual; pillows askew, sheets tangled at the foot of his bed, his blinds half-lowered and broken, moonlight slanting over walls and floor, pooling across the bed. 

Shane's sure the rest of the room has things he could look at, but all he cares about is the bed and Ilya. 

They come to a stop at the side of it, Shane taking another sip of his ginger ale, before Ilya tugs it from him, setting it down on his side table. 

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya murmurs, his hands settling on his shoulders, massaging his muscles. “Is your special night, no? A first joint deserves its own reward.”

“More than getting high?” Shane asks, biting his lip when Ilya hits a particularly tight knot, his fingers curling into Ilya's beltloops. He can feel heat creeping across his face, the warmth of desire rising. The words he just said—they're almost what he meant. He clicks his tongue and wrinkles his nose, reorienting what he had intended to say. “Or, wait—more than you?”  

Ilya grins at him. “I am glad you have come to your senses,” he says, a pleased look on his face. “As I am the greatest prize, yes?”

Shane nods, unwilling to even pretend that Ilya isn't who he wants most in the whole world, and Ilya's whole countenance softens, the arrogance bleeding out of him. 

“You are the greatest prize too,” he murmurs, his touch shifting to tug Shane in closer, one of his hands lowering to slip under his layers and press his palm against the small of his back. “A privilege to see you.”

Shane melts into him, wordlessly tipping his head to press a kiss to the plush arch of his mouth. Heat spills through him, buzzing warmth and a storm of want; an everlasting pool of desire. 

Everything feels so good as Ilya drags his hands across his skin, rucking his shirt up. Shane responds in kind, catching the hem of Ilya's shirt, before he realizes he's still wearing the flannel Ilya gave him. 

“Hang on,” he murmurs, pulling back to yank it off impatiently, before tugging his own shirt off. He haphazardly folds the two, dropping them onto Ilya's desk chair. His eyes drop to Ilya's still-covered torso, and he raises an eyebrow. “You too, c'mon.” 

Ilya clicks his tongue, grinning. “Greedy,” he mutters, but listens, dragging his shirt off his body. 

The ember of need sparks into a wildfire at the sight of Ilya's chest, as moonlight spills across his ribs, illuminating strips of his face. He looks cast in marble, perfection brought to life, and Shane is bowled over, again, by how much he wants him. 

“Pants too,” Shane rasps, his throat tight with agonizing desire. He doesn't look away as he clumsily pulls his jeans off, before deciding to take his briefs off too, hastily folding them up. He can't even be embarrassed by his obvious arousal, by the damp spots of precum on his underwear, not when he can see Ilya's hard dick in his jeans.

He watches as Ilya slowly follows, a smirk on his face as he carefully steps out of his pants, one leg at a time, ignoring the way Shane's groaning with impatience. 

“You always ask for me to be more careful,” he says, grinning when Shane crosses his arms and glares at him. His boxers are still on, the waistband slung low, and Shane can feel his cock twitch, a heavy stone of hunger sinking through him at the sight of his happy trail coated in silver moonlight. “What is it, Hollander? Am I careful or am I messy?”

“Just—just get naked and get on the bed,” Shane says hoarsely, his mouth dry. “Please.” 

“Bossy,” Ilya murmurs, arching a brow, but he listens, stripping down and settling onto his bed, resting back against his pillows. 

For a second, Shane's struck dumb by the sight of him—an unfortunately common occurrence. 

It's a terrible fact of his life: Ilya is gorgeous everywhere. 

Ilya is on his bed, with his sun-kissed skin glowing in the dim light, his face set into a pleased, smug smirk, his long, muscled legs stretched out before him, the curve of his biceps as he ruffles his beautiful curls; this Ilya is devastating. It's hard for Shane to look at him, a little bit, when he's awash with so much hunger for him. 

Shane wants to cry. He also wants to curl into Ilya until there’s no space between them, until they've sunk into each other. He wants to cling and cling and be clung to in return, until it's second nature to simply know where Ilya is at all times and be known as well. 

He also, unmistakably, wants to cum, his dick hard, precum seeping from the tip as he stares at Ilya’s equally hard cock. 

“You are thinking hard, solnyshko,” Ilya rumbles, drawing him back to center. Shane nods, unable to figure out how to say anything he wants to, and Ilya softens, patting his thighs. “Come, sit.” 

Shane listens, clambering up the bed to swing a leg over his, settling onto his lap with ease. His hands land on Ilya's chest, thumbing across his nipples, dancing over his skin. He traces mole to mole, spellbound by the feeling of Ilya under his palms.

Ilya's hands land on his hips, startling him into glancing up, meeting his eyes. 

“You are still thinking very hard,” Ilya murmurs, his expression soft and open. “We do not have to—” 

Shane shakes his head, near-frantic, cutting him off. “I want to,” he says, the words tripping over themselves. He wants so badly he may explode with the tart pressure of desire that's winding up his core. “I just—” he drags his fingers across the svelte muscle, over the soft skin. “You feel really good. It's—it's distracting.” 

Ilya laughs, and Shane presses his hands flat, soaking in the vibrations as his chest shivers. “You are very cute when you are high, solnyshko,” he says. “A privilege to see.” 

“You said that before,” Shane whispers, his cheeks flushing. He shifts closer, holding in a whine as their cocks brush. “That it was a privilege to see.” 

“Da,” Ilya says. One of his hands drifts up to curve around Shane's throat, pulling him in closer. “That is because it is the truth.” 

“Oh,” Shane says, delight ricocheting through his body. “It’s a privilege to see you, too, you know.” 

Ilya tugs him in closer, their lips barely brushing. “Is it?” he rasps, pressing butterfly wing kisses to Shane's mouth, the pressure there and gone beat after beat. “There is no one else I would rather see me.” 

“Ilya,” Shane sighs and moves, greedy for more. 

Ilya opens under his touch, familiar heat rising between them as Shane licks into his mouth, chasing after him whenever he so much as twitches. 

He could get lost in this, in the simple pleasure of sucking Ilya's tongue into his mouth, of the touch of their lips, the press of Ilya's teeth, the wet sounds of their breathing intermingled and impossible to separate.

His hands smooth across Ilya's skin, stroking down his ribs, scratching up his sternum to curl around his neck. Ilya's thumb presses into the hollow of his throat, sending pulses of heat across his nerves. 

Shane rocks into him, whining at the slick glide of his dick across his stomach, over his cock. He feels impossibly unwound, static fizzing in his joints, a warm haze settling over his mind. 

There's nothing more to him than greed and pleasure, than the rush of touch, the press of Ilya. He's drowning in the waves of lust, the simmering thrum of passion. 

He's never felt so close to flying, Ilya's touch as he drags his hand across his skin, both keeping him anchored and sending him high. 

He's panting into his mouth, their lips damp with spit, empty of everything but desire, as Ilya tightens his grip around his throat for a beat before he drops his hand. 

Shane can't help the whine that kicks up in his chest, pulling back slightly as he feels Ilya's mouth curve into a smirk. 

“I liked—” he starts, only to pause, flustered at the honesty that's rising. 

“Yes?” Ilya murmurs, his voice soaked in honey and sin. 

When Shane manages to crack his eyes open, he's stunned anew at the sight of him, lust crackling. He feels starstruck almost, his whole body stuttering in muted shock as he takes in Ilya's crooked grin, the pleasure that's slanting across his face, the cocky arrogance that's always enticed him, clear as Ilya smirks up at him. 

“Your hands,” Shane says stupidly, his tongue heavy in his mouth. “I like your hands. On me.” 

“Anywhere?” Ilya asks, drawing circles around one of his nipples, his other hand settling on his thigh, his knuckles digging into the muscle. “Or in specific places?” 

“Anywhere,” Shane says breathlessly, because it's the truth. He doesn’t know how he’s still talking, utterly dazed as heat laps at his bones, warmth pooling in the pit of his stomach. His dick drips, precum spilling across both of them, making a mess. “On my throat. On my dick. On me. I like them. I want them—I want you.” 

Ilya hums, his mouth curving into something sharply satisfied. “Ah,” he murmurs, the hand on his chest dropping away. “I see.” 

Shane furrows his brow, but then Ilya's hand wraps around their cocks and he's gone, obliterated through the sheer bliss of having his warm, slick hand on his dick. 

“You are so wet,” Ilya hisses, as his cock drools across his knuckles, their precum mixing together even though it's clear most is from Shane. “Should have known that getting you high would make you like this.” He laughs, a short, sharp sound that bounces through Shane with all the force of a cannonball; Ilya so turned on he sounds annoyed is one of Shane's favorite things. “You get high, and you want to fuck, Hollander, no? You turn into an even bigger slut than normal.” 

“That's not—only for you,” Shane warbles, as Ilya starts up a filthy, slow stroke. The world shimmers around the edges, the pale moonlight slanting in through Ilya's broken shades, the room cast into strips of light, gleaming possibilities swirling around them. Every time he shifts on Ilya's lap, the light pattern reveals a new piece of his skin, of his body; more moles that Shane is mapping out in his head, the exact curve of his lowest rib, the crook of his elbow. 

It's embarrassing how badly all of it turns him on. 

But it's just—it's always been Ilya. 

“Only me?” Ilya repeats, gutted. “You should not say such things, solnyshko, not unless you want this to be over quickly.” 

Shane's cock twitches. “Don't speak Russian when you've got a hand on my dick, you asshole,” he spits out, shuddering as Ilya's thumb smooths over the head of his cock, more precum pearling at the tip. “I can't—you're gonna—ohmygod.” 

Shane can't see Ilya's grin as he nudges his chin up with his nose, tipping Shane's head back so he can plant kisses across the lines of his throat, but he can feel the smirk against his skin. 

He pants, open-mouthed and sloppy, the fizzing in his body growing louder as Ilya guides them closer to orgasm. 

“I want—” Shane manages, before humiliation curls up his spine and he stops, unable to voice it. 

The lewd noise of Ilya's hand stops, and Shane whines, louder than he means to, as Ilya pauses. He sinks his teeth into the meat of Shane's shoulder, the dull ache singing through his body, before he pulls back. 

Shane writhes in his lap, trying to get more friction, only for Ilya's other hand to squeeze tightly from where it's been lingering on his hip. 

“What do you want?” Ilya asks, his grip slackening on their cocks, until it hardly feels like Shane's being touched, other than the hot line of Ilya's dick next to his. “Tell me, solnyshko, and I will give it.” 

Shane pants, his mouth uncoordinated as he fights to untangle the words stuck in his throat. 

What he wants is a weight on his tongue, the salt of his skin, the burning ember of being made to take whatever Ilya is dishing out. 

He wants to be hollowed out, nothing more than something for pleasure; a useful toy, a treasured possession. 

What he wants is to be a fool, to be split down the center with hunger, to chase after his strength, to be pinned down with greed. 

“I want—” he starts, squirming, his dick catching against Ilya's, drool pooling in his mouth. “Can you—” Words are too hard as he tries to place them in the proper order, and instead he grabs Ilya's wrist, dragging the hand that was on his waist up to his mouth and settling his fingers across his lips. 

He nips at his fingertips carefully, before opening his mouth and carefully sucking two of them in. 

Ilya laughs, a low, dark rumble of amusement. “Ah, you must always be filled, hm, Hollander? It is not enough to have hands on you, no, you are greedy for more.” 

Shane hums, his cheeks bright red, even as he nods in agreement. The familiar taste of Ilya fills his mouth, salt and smoke, the musk of his skin; the weight as he presses down on the flat of his tongue, the wet noise as Shane pants around them; all of it builds and builds as Shane rocks in Ilya's lap. 

He laughs again, his fingers dancing across their dicks, light and teasing. “I should see if you could cum like this, no? Just my fingers in your slutty little mouth, the drag of skin—you want to be so good for me, moya shlyukha, no? You would let me take and take and take, until you are nothing but nerves, nothing but feeling.” 

Shane bobs his head forward, dragging more of Ilya's fingers into his mouth, licking across his knuckles, gently biting at him; enough pressure to make Ilya hiss, even as he smirks. 

“I do not know if you even want me to touch you—” 

Shane pulls back with a gasp, his heart racing. “I always want you to touch me,” he rasps, a sheen of sweat clinging to his collarbones, his cock twitching as he rolls his hips again, agonizingly close and nowhere near an orgasm at all. He clings to Ilya's shoulders, restless with greed, his hands everywhere and nowhere. “Please, please, Ilya—I want, I always want you, I've always wanted you. Just—touch me.” 

“Where do you want me to touch you?” Ilya murmurs, his damp fingers pressing against Shane’s mouth, before they drop lower, skating across his skin, over his collarbone. He pinches one of Shane's nipples, and Shane whines, arching into the ache. “Here?” His hand drags dizzying circles, warm ripples spreading across Shane's skin, until he can't remember anything other than his teasing motions. 

“What about here?” Ilya breathes out, his hand sneaking around to palm Shane's ass, his fingers ghosting over his hole, a barely there and gone touch that sends Shane reeling as his mouth drops open. “Hm, no, I think not tonight.” 

“Ilya,” Shane warbles, as his other hand cinches tight around their cocks again, starbursts of pleasure singing up his spine. His nails dig into Ilya's shoulders, and Shane shudders at the groan he lets slip. “Ilya, didn't we already—didn't I say? It's my—please keep touching my dick.” 

“I am,” Ilya says, because he's an utter bastard, and Shane can taste the laughter in his mouth when he steals another kiss from Shane's slack lips. “Is not enough?” 

Shane groans, his hips rolling forward, heat skittering up his spine. 

“More,” he pleads, unsteady with lust. “I want—” Ilya shoves two fingers in his mouth, and the words dissolve like sugar, Shane's eyes falling closed as he sucks. 

Ilya's fingers flutter across his tongue, an echo of his other hand as he strokes their cocks. Pleasure builds, a sweltering storm of devotion and adoration, all the words they haven't said bleeding from their touches; vows sworn with nothing more than trust. 

Drool spills from the corner of his mouth, and Shane whines as Ilya kisses him, an awkward, ungainly kiss around his fingers, and all the sweeter for it, despite how filthy it feels. 

His grip around them tightens, and Shane gasps, wet and loud as the sensation shivers across his skin, exacerbated by the dizzying haze that’s fully blanketing him now. The world is nothing more than feeling, pleasure strung between the two of them, played effortlessly by Ilya’s talented hands. 

Waves of heat lap at him as Ilya groans, the lewd sound of his hand a constant undertone as Shane curves in towards him, his palms stroking across his chest, dragging over his skin. 

“Shane,” Ilya says, and his eyes drift open, his lids heavy with the weight of pleasure. “Shane—” 

“Ilya,” Shane slurs back, the words garbled around his fingers, the taste of him thick, as Ilya presses down against his tongue, blunt and wide as Shane takes them further into his mouth. He can feel an orgasm rising in his blood, hot and glorious, a dazzling swell of pleasure unwinding through his body. 

He latches a hand around Ilya’s wrist, tugging his fingers out of his mouth, just in time to drag his face closer, panting into another sloppy kiss, uncoordinated with sharp greed and fierce hunger. 

“‘M gonna—” Shane manages, drunk on want, heat fizzing in his bones. He doesn’t think he’ll ever feel so good again. “Ilya, please, ‘m gonna—” 

Words escape him as the swell crests, rushing through his body, sweeping everything else away. Shocking starbursts of rapture burst, an unwavering explosion of relentless pleasure as Ilya tightens his grip and he cums, soaking the two of them. 

Ilya is only a beat behind, Shane’s name bitten off in his mouth, before Shane slumps into Ilya, panting hard. 

As the blinding wash of pleasure slides out of his body, the hazy ease of being high creeps back in. 

The feeling slinks over him, blurring his senses. The world shrinks in, the corners folding over until he's cocooned by ease, sliding out of Ilya's lap to topple against the sheets. 

He's never felt so quiet, even the other rare times that he's gotten high. 

The nerves that buzz in his fingertips, the aches and worries that linger in his jaw, in his joints, they fade, culled down to nothing as Shane curls into Ilya, letting his fingers drag across his warm and sweaty skin.

Everything is dampened, and he thinks it would be frightening if Ilya weren't so crystal clear. 

“I like the shape of you,” Shane blurts out, his thoughts muddled and slow. “How you fit—with me.” He presses a hand to his sternum, enjoying the light pressure. “It’s good.” 

Ilya hums, his broad hand sweeping up his back. “Yes,” he agrees, and Shane can feel his heart sing in response, relief seeping through him. He knows it's ridiculous to still worry, but he can't help it. 

He sinks back into dim awareness, fading away from everything that isn't the weight of Ilya beside him, the heat of his skin, the gentle touch of his palm. 

“We're good,” he breathes out, the words raw and solemn, a weight to them he had hardly expected. “Together, I mean.” 

“Yes,” Ilya says again, and all of the tension leaves Shane's body as Ilya rolls over and blankets him. He hums, contentment thrumming in every inch of him. “You and I are, hm, hard to say. Lightning in a bag.” 

“Lightning in a bottle,” Shane murmurs, hardly paying attention to what he's saying. “You're like the spark. I can be the bottle.” 

“Because you take me so easily?” Ilya says after a pause, and Shane can hear the smirk in his voice. “Because I am electric?” 

“No,” Shane says, but even he can hear the lie in his voice, the smile that's creeping under the admonishment. “You're ridiculous.” 

Ilya sighs, as if he's being impossible. “What is the point of lightning in a bottle then, Hollander?” 

“It's like magic,” Shane answers, tension easing even more as Ilya settles more firmly on top of him. He fumbles through an explanation, half-unsure what the answer is, and half-worried he's going to do something stupid like blurt out I like you, instead of a helpful explanation. “Like constant victory. Like we'll never do anything better than what we do together.”

Ilya hums, the sound reverberating through his ribs, knocking against his heart. “Ah,” he murmurs. “Yes. When you step out onto the ice, and you have found your purpose. Lightning in a bottle.” 

“Yeah,” Shane croaks, breathless with the depth of understanding Ilya gifts him. “When I look up and see you and just know, both on the ice and off—that's our lightning in the bottle. It's supposed to be rare, I guess.”

“But we have—” Ilya starts, before he falls quiet. Shane strokes across his back, runs his fingers over the smooth lines of his ribs, and lets himself sink further into the mattress, uncaring, for once, of the dampness between them; caught and content to simply exist. 

“Found it together?” Shane finishes after another long stretch of quiet, half-whispering. “Yeah. I guess we're just lucky like that.”

“I am glad,” Ilya rumbles, pressing his face into the crook of Shane's neck. “To have this. To have you.” He pauses, and then adds, even more quietly, “That you will stay.” 

“Me too,” Shane says, pulling him in tighter, sighing in relief at the weight of him as Ilya somehow gets even closer. “I'm really—I'm—” He can feel his throat growing tight, words jumbling in his mouth. “You're important to me,” he stutters through, feeling like an idiot. 

He knows they said tomorrow, but he's greedy enough to want tonight too, even though he already has it. 

“I don't—I know now isn't the best time,” he says, drawing stars on Ilya's back as he listens to him breathe, steady, gentle puffs of air against his neck. “Because we're not thinking straight—” 

Ilya makes a noise of amusement, and Shane rolls his eyes but ignores it. 

“And I know that I'm gonna say this all again tomorrow, but is it weird that I want to do that? That I want to look at you and say,”—Shane inhales, slowing his words so that Ilya can hear the breadth of meaning in each one—“That I like you and that I don't want to pretend anymore. That I'm, like, pretty bad at pretending, honestly. And that I want—more.” He pauses, drawing a heart across the small of Ilya's back. “And I look at you, and I can see more. And you make me brave enough to—be stupid enough and want more.” 

“You are not stupid,” Ilya murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw. “Or if you are—I am too, then. I want—yes, Shane. I want all of you, more than I can say.” 

Shane blinks, staring up at the ceiling, a wide, dazzling smile spilling across his face. 

“Okay,” he says, but he knows that his joy is clear as Ilya's smile as he presses another kiss to his skin. “Okay. Uh. Breakfast tomorrow, at that diner off of Main Street?” 

“Yes,” Ilya says, laughter tucked under his tongue, a joke just for the two of them. The future spins out before them, glorious and star-speckled, wishes abundant; lightning in a bottle every single time. “It’s a date.”