Fire Exit
The rocking pulled Ilya back into his body, away from the frantic spiral of his thoughts, away from the dark place where he'd been searching for a way out. The hotel room narrowed until it felt almost alive: ribs, blood flow, breath. With his face pressed into the center of it, he caught the phantom smell of Irina’s cigarettes, the smoky sweetness of her calloused fingers scratching circles into his child-soft scalp.
He dug his nails into Shane's waist, anchoring himself to that familiar warmth and softness. He wanted only a few more seconds of this before Shane came to his senses, before he pulled away toward the door again. He should have kept his mouth shut that afternoon; asking him to stay at all had been asking too much.
Ginger ale?
Tuna melt?
How fucking stupid.
Stupid.
Ilya squeezed his eyes shut, reaching for the thinning memory of his mother: the weight of her pale braid, her cool gold chain brushing his eyelids as he drifted off to the steady thrum of machinery in his childhood home.
Shane pressed Ilya's head closer to his chest.
Could he feel her too?
The tears came back without warning, soaking into Shane's shirt. Ilya began to pull away, an apology already forming, but warm fingers caught his jaw and tipped his face upward. He met Shane's worried brown eyes and understood, with startling clarity, that in this moment right here, he truly could either live or die for them.
"Do you want to talk about him? Your dad?" Shane whispered, thumbs brushing moisture from Ilya's lashes.
"There's too much going on," Ilya said quietly. "I don't think I'll know how to start."
"That's okay," Shane said. "You don't have to.”
Ilya nodded, leaning into the touch. "I'm okay. Nothing to be done now."
Shane bent and kissed him firmly. "Do you want to lie down for a bit?"
"Yes. Okay."
"Okay."
Shane rose from Ilya's lap, kicked off his loafers, took off his shirt and shorts, laid them to the side, and slid neatly beneath the leaf-lined sheets. He looked up at him, waiting.
Ilya watched, lingered at the edge of the mattress, the sudden absence of contact hollowing him out once more. He moved slowly, first shedding his tank top, then his trainers, and slipped into the space Shane made for him, their heads resting on the pillows.
Shane turned his body toward him and studied his face for a long moment before leaning forward to kiss him again. When he pulled back, his voice was steady. "I really am sorry about the other day, for leaving you like that," he said, perhaps his third or fourth apology of the night. Those sweet, sorry eyes. "It wasn't you. I need you to know that."
Ilya held his gaze. He could imagine a thousand sensible endings. Clean cuts. Dignified exits. Nothing made more sense than stopping here, before this grew into something more painful for both of them.
But Shane had always been the sun. Even now. Especially now. And Ilya--carved empty by his guilt toward his father, by his self-loathing, by the fresh sting that was Rose Landry and all the new possibilities that came with her presence in Shane’s life--could not pretend he wasn't still orbiting.
He didn't want to think of her, not right now. But his eyes moved on their own, tracing the line of Shane's collarbones, searching for a mark, some careless proof that she had been there. He wondered if Shane had made those same soft, broken sounds for her, if she had seen the way his eyes clouded when he lost his footing. Does she know what color your cheeks turn when you taste yourself on my tongue?
I do.
The thought sent a low, unwelcome heat through him.
Ilya kissed Shane's breath quiet, slower now, more deliberate, jaw slack, and felt the immediate answer in Shane's body. Shane stilled for a moment, considering, then slipped his hand between them, fingers sure as they slowly slid through Ilya's black briefs and closed around him. He hooked a leg over Ilya’s hip.
Ilya let out a shaky sound that surprised both of them—that was half a laugh, half a confession.
"Тебе с ней было хорошо?" he whispered, Did she make you feel good?, shifting to push two fingers between their tongues as the kiss deepened, before gliding them down the arch of Shane's back, down his boxers.
"Она тебя так трогала?" Did she touch you like this?
Shane's head thrashed back as Ilya teased a finger inside him, but he forced his eyes back toward him, pupils blown wide, dark enough for lIya to drown in.
"Fuck," Shane gasped, searching Ilya’s face. "Ilya."
Ilya mouthed at his chin, his jaw, breathing him in as fingers found the soft, deep heat again and again—one, two—until counting stopped mattering, until each touch dissolved into warmth and pressure and need and he no longer had a sense of time, place or reason. His movements grew less careful, less gentle, chasing sensation, chasing Shane, needing some type of answer, and needing it now.
Shane's grip tightened around Ilya's erection, his rhythm faltering. His free hand shot up to Ilya's neck and stayed there, steadying him, drawing him close until their foreheads touched.
"Hey," Shane said, voice breaking. "Look at me. Ilya, look at me."
Ilya froze immediately.
"I'm here," Shane whispered, following his gaze. He kissed the corner of his lips. "I'm right here. No one else, okay?"
Ilya didn't know what to say. I love you? I would fucking die for you? He bent and took his mouth into another strong kiss, tasting salt and toothpaste and hints of fruit candy.
Shane's hand went faster, every motion now more insistent. Ilya thrust his fingers deeper and deeper inside.
They moved together with breathless urgency, uncoordinated and desperate, as if speed could make up for all those lost years of touching without daring to name what it meant. The sheets twisted beneath them. Ilya's head tipped back, his eyes slipping shut as he arched into Shane's touch, a broken sound pulled from his throat.
"Please," Ilya whispered against Shane's chin, breaths going shallow, the word splitting open with everything he didn't know how to say.
Please don't leave again.
Please let this be enough.
Shane held him there, meeting every movement with a gasping moan until the world narrowed to the space between them. Then it came, a muted rupture, tension tearing loose. Shane shuddered, breath stalling as his body tightened around Ilya's fingers, and Ilya followed, collapsing into him as the feeling ebbed, leaving him shaking.
"Don't go back there," Shane whispered into his curls, panting hard as he held him close and rubbed circles into his neck. "Stay here with me. Need you to stay with me."
Ilya did. He let himself sink down, face pressed into the warm curve of Shane’s throat, listening to his heartbeat slow.
For a moment, just this one, the world felt suspended.
No consequences. No before or after.
Ilya stayed very still, as if the slightest movement might break it, and wished—hopelessly—that time would forget them here.