Summary:

"Jesus Christ," Shane breathes, reaching out more slowly, fingers barely touching as he runs them over the bruising. He has bruised his ribs before; he knows how much it fucking hurts. "What's wrong with you?" Rozanov answers that question, maybe, but it's quick and acerbic and entirely in Russian. Shane fantasies, for a brief moment, about taking him by the shoulders and shaking him until his teeth rattle. "No, really," he says. "What was the plan here? You're practically allergic to wearing a shirt, but you thought you'd just fuck me from behind and hope I wouldn't notice that you didn't take it off?" You thought I wouldn't notice that you were in pain? Ilya is hurt. Shane doesn't care (lying). Sex is obviously the sensible thing to do here.