Lately Ilya has spent ninety percent of his time thinking about Shane Hollander. This is a low estimate. And something he would never acknowledge to himself, or even consciously realise or conceptualise of.
Shane on his knees. Shane on his hands and knees. Shane and him fucking in front a fireplace with Shane riding him slowly while they’re sat up chest to chest, real romantic shit. Shane’s mouth open and plush. Shane begging for it. Shane crying for it. Shane saying his name. Shane saying goodbye. Shane saying hi. Shane’s eyes and his neck and his baby rabbit soft ears and his strong forearms. The bend of his elbow. Taking Shane to some stupid resort in the Bahamas or something where they would just lie in a private cabin in the middle of the ocean and hold hands and sunbathe and have cocktails appear in their hands. Where Shane would let him have him on every surface. He thought about Shane’s eyes and his eyebrows and the space between his eyebrows that would crinkle when Ilya said something to rouse him on purpose. The way Shane said what. The way he said what do you mean. All earnest like all honest and vulnerable. The way Shane could look at him in a way that made Ilya feel like he was being pierced through the skin. He wanted to lie awake and watch Shane sleep and whisper just loudly enough that it was heard by the world. I would die for you I would die for you I would I would. Shane holding a baby. Shane’s trim waist roped with muscle, Ilya’s big hand wrapped around it. Mine, mine, mine. Shane’s shoulders and back, rippling through water. Shane drinking a glass of water. Shane drinking a glass of beer. Shane wearing blue jeans and a white t-shirt. Shane’s pinched brow. Making out with Shane open mouthed. Fucking Shane up against a wall. In fact, every surface became a place he could fuck Shane. Every song became about Shane. Every conversation thread had by other people something he could spin into Shane.
It got so bad he simply had to talk to someone about it. Luckily Marley had just met some new chick of the month as well and it was easy to transpose Shane onto some nebulous type girl. They weren’t super sharey in general so he kind of got away with being unspecific, never saying a name. Just any excuse to talk about him. They traded lovesick comments between them like tween girls and sexual fantasies like perverse men. He never said the truly damning shit out loud though. It was just a pressure release. A way to keep from exploding, saying the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person.
Ilya imagined taking Shane into his arms rough and ready in the doorway and saying I missed you. Did you miss me? And Shane admitting I missed you and Ilya would get to smirk into Shane’s smiling mouth and Shane would be overcome with it and kiss him like he was air. Shane in shorts. Shane in briefs. Shane in a jock. Shane completely naked in his bed. Waking up to find Shane naked in his bed. Returning from a shower to find Shane naked in his bed. Returning from practice to find Shane naked in his bed. All dark hair and sweet eyes, sheets tangled around his limbs and hands grabbing at nothing, grabbing for Ilya. Shane and him touching chest to chest with nothing in between. Shane holding him under the covers. Shane complaining that the carrots are overcooked. Or the glass isn’t clean enough. Or the fabrics not organic.
Everytime he stopped at a red light while driving he imagined Shane sliding into the passenger seat, smiling and saying “Hi” shyly before throwing himself over Ilya, Shane’s lips all over his face and neck, hands running like water, and Ilya would chuckle and say “Okay easy. Easy now” which was ridiculous because it was Ilya’s fantasy and so he was the one making Shane act like this. And he would say “I missed you, did you miss me?” and Shane would murmur “Well, obviously” and Ilya would feel like a fucking lottery winner for affecting the man who can’t be moved, for making him admit to his being moved. Shane wearing his hat backwards. Shane blushing from the bridge of his nose to his belly button. Shane folded in half gasping and moaning into Ilya’s mouth. Shane across from him at a cafe or a restaurant or in the seat next to him at a bar. He would know exactly what to order for Shane, for Shane to roll his eyes and then say thank you and Ilya would say show me how thankful you are and Shane would roll his eyes and kiss him even though there were people around.
All things absurd and mundane. But if you asked him, even to himself, he would’ve responded he spent minimal amounts of time thinking about Hollander.
The only thing better than thinking about Shane was having him. Real and in the flesh it was like a dream. No, not like a dream. Like everything made sense. Like waking up. Again, this was yet far from a conscious observation.
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