Happy Valentines Shana! SIAT Percy and Tonks or something Heated Rivalry?
Ilya slept fitfully and curled around the spot Shane had been, trying to lie to himself about chasing his scent on the sheets. He feels like shit and he's in a shit mood and his teammates laughing like a bunch of hyenas really isn't helping matters.
"What so funny?" he snaps, poking at rubbery eggs that look worse than usual. They're never staying at this hotel again.
"Hollander got wasted last night," Marleau snickers, "and rejected, apparently. Maybe he is mortal like the rest of us."
"What?" His stomach drops. It's a good thing he didn't eat anything, because it would be crawling up his throat otherwise. "What are you saying?"
Someone's phone gets passed down to him. It's a screen recording of a live and Shane's there, wearing jeans that absolutely do not fit him and maybe make Ilya's mouth water a little. He can't remember ever seeing him tipsy, but here he is very obviously drunk, face flushed and eyes glassy.
There's a slur to his words as he talks, a light downturn to his lips that Ilya wants to lick. He's talking about him. He's talking about a girl, but it's him, it's definitely him. He almost reaches up to his hair and just barely stops himself.
"The comments are crazy," Marleau says. "It's full of girls offering to let Hollander kiss them whenever he wants."
He won't be reading those. In public, anyway. "I see," he says, mouth dry. He grabs a bagel from the table and stands. "You' are all giving me a headache. I will finish packing now."
There's a chorus of jeers behind him that he ignores. He texts Shane and then waits, pacing back and forth, trying to think. Shane's words keep replaying in his mind.
There's a hesitant knock at his door.
He yanks it open and Shane steps inside, swallowing. His eyes are bloodshot and his hair's limp, pale in a way that could be from the hangover or something else. "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have gone out last ni-"
Shane is still for half a second and then he's melting into him. Ilya shoves him against the door and cradles his face in his hand, kissing him again and again, shallow and quick, then deeper.
God, he's missed this. He'd missed it last night too. He thought he was being smart, that he was protecting himself, that Shane being pissed at him wasn't as important as making sure that Shane didn't break his heart.
He hadn't realized it wasn't just his heart on the line here.
"Sorry," he mumbles, kissing the corner of his lips like he'd wanted to when he saw the video. "Sorry I did not kiss you."
"It's okay," Shane says, breathless and overwhelmed and leaning his face into Ilya's hand. It makes his chest clench. Ilya thinks how easy it would be for him to have just as much of Shane as all those girls in his comments, how Shane is gorgeous and perfect and he could have anyone he wanted, man or woman. Clumsy and earnest and so beautiful. Who would say no to that?
Not Ilya. He's made it a habit not to want what's not meant for him to protect against when he inevitably loses it. It's smart, rational, the only sensible decision he's ever managed to make.
"I mean," Shane swallows, searching his face. "It's just fucking, right? We don't owe each other anything."
He's not that great at sensible decisions anyway. "Would you like to?"
He feels it when Shane stops breathing. "What?"
"Would you like for us to owe each other something?" he asks.
Shane bites his bottom lip, his eyes bright. He swallows before saying, "Yes."
Ilya kisses him again, Shane pulling him closer and sliding a hand through his hair.
Now that he knows that Shane wants to kiss him, he doesn't know how he's going to stop.
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