Their last night at the cottage, (that first time, after the first I love yous and first real time together) they fuck until the early hours, they can’t help it, they try to sleep but they can’t really seem to stop- both desperate and scared of the time apart.
They go until Shane is sore, shaky, use mouths and hands when he physically needs a break. But then it’s nearly light out and they have to leave by 8am sharp (the car is packed, Ilyas suitcase packed, everything pre sorted to save every minute they have today for as long as they can. Ilya had watched Shane pack up Ilyas case for him (because Shane told him he was doing it wrong), pissing him off as he goes, sneaking things of Shane’s into his case, weirdly enough at one point the book from Shane’s bedside, less weirdly Shane’s glasses. Once everything was where it was meant to be (minus one of Shane’s metros sweatshirts, but Shane won’t realise that will much later) Ilya had helped Shane put it in the car, before drawing him down to the water for one last swim).
It’s purple grey, soft light and Shane feels a panic flicker in his chest because they should try and sleep after this, even for an hour- even if it’s just them eyes closed trying to sleep because it’s a long drive and Shane has his precious cargo to deliver to the airport. But now, for now, Ilya is inside him thick and heavy and hot and he’s sore and achy and throbbing from taking him but his stomach turns at the thought of being empty. So his arms tighten around Ilya, over his shoulders, hands greedy and hungry ofer the muscles of his back, nails digging in, in. And his thighs are tight, tighter around Ilya because he’s thinking about sleeping alone in this bed tonight, in many beds across many months that aren’t his and aren’t Ilyas and it hurts. Shane doesn’t want to cry so he swallows and presses his face right into the curve of Ilyas neck, breaths him, feels the thunder of Ilyas pulse in his neck, against Shane’s mouth.
Shane doesn’t want to cry but then Ilya is so deep inside him, pushing him open open open and tears are stinging in his lash line, he can feel Ilyas hand gripping hand to his hip, so hard it might bruise, Shane hopes he feels it tomorrow, alone in this bed and the thought of that makes his lips part, turn his face and he sinks his teeth into the muscle of Ilyas shoulder where it connects to his neck and he bites. He doesn’t cry, he bites and he sucks and he pulls his tongue over the skin, tongue and teeth and tongue and soothes himself with the taste of Ilya, of him here here here. He comes with his teeth sunk in so hard he is surprised not to feel the split of skin.
He feels less hysterical after, then Ilya cleans him and kisses him and cooes at him, they cuddle and touch and fit into each other until they find some kind of hazy sleep. Shane knows they will be ok, as he half drifts, half awake, half asleep, feeling Ilya on top of him, face on his chest, heavy and real and his and Ilya will be his even when it’s hotel rooms and seperate beds and his favourite boy in the world just living in his phone.
The hysteria maybe maybe comes back when they drag themselves awake, heavy and tired and sad, quiet, fidgety. Restless for the looking goodbye- the hysteria is back when Shane watches Ilya brush his teeth and sees the fucking welt his mouth has left from last night- thoughtless to it till now, that it would leave such a mark. Its teeth indents, still and dark red purple, burst Bood vessels under skin- and before he can apologise Ilya is shaking his head. “Say sorry about it and I’ll send a picture of it to your mother” because he loves to say something stupid and Shane is hot hot hot inside. Burning inside. But he doesn’t want to apologise then- he worries, deep and throbbing like a wound that somehow someone will know it was Shane’s mouth that left it- worries that it’ll give them away, when Ilya is no doubt ribbed about it at training in a few days- but.
Another part of him, another part hopes Ilya will think of Shane of the cottage of the I love you’s whenever he turns his head, lifts his arm, shifts his body. He worries, but he hopes against it that bruise lasts weeks
