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"And is that what you want?" A beat, a silent prayer spoken to no one in particular; a filament of light strung between ribs, hopeful and taut and waiting. "To be together?" He keeps his voice from breaking with the weight of emotion. Barely.
Shane grins, soft and breathtaking. "So much," he whispers. "So much it scares me".
And then something is cracking open in Ilya's chest. Something is going fucking supernova. Tears pricking the corners of his eyes, he turns his head, a thousand unspoken things lodging in his throat. A shaky exhale. A coil of heat takes root in his stomach and spreads like wildfire. Then Shane's hands are on his face and he's looking at Ilya like he's the sun.
"Hey…”.
And Ilya shatters. An ocean behind his eyes, he leans into the kiss like he’s drowning, like Shane’s the only sight of land in a sea of endless blue. Shane—his lighthouse, his compass pointing ever home. He leans back, and Ilya follows, chasing his mouth. He thinks he would follow Shane to the ends of the earth if it meant he could keep kissing him like this.
The bed creaks as Ilya moves to straddle him, legs tangling in the sheets. Mouth to chest to throat—skin that tastes of soap and sweat and a decade of silent hope. He kisses him, open mouthed and wanting. Shane’s hands in his hair, on his jaw; Shane’s hands buried wrist-red in the gore of Ilya’s heart.
Desperate, like a man dying, he whispers the words he tried so hard to bury in the shallow grave of his rib cage. Again and again, he murmurs it like a prayer, a hymn, into the crook of Shane’s neck. And then he’s falling into the dark of Shane’s eyes and he’s saying it in words they both understand.
“I love you”.
It comes out more like a sob than anything; a confession uttered into a universe devoid of anything and anyone but the two of them.
Shane breathes in sharply, eyes searching Ilya’s face with an inscrutable expression. He blinks, light catching on his eyelashes. Ilya thinks it might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He holds his breath (he holds his heart out in his palms, waiting).
“Holy shit,” Shane exhales, his gaze never leaving Ilya’s.
Oh. Oh. He’s moved too quickly, hasn’t he? Said the wrong thing? Opened his mouth and let tumble out words that Shane never wanted to hear? A lump builds in Ilya’s throat and he stammers out a broken, “I mean—”.
“I love you too”.
And the world condenses to the shape of the man sprawled beneath him—to the bend of his mouth, the slope of his throat. It’s like breaking the surface of the water; it’s like coming up for air. Every atom in his body electrified, Ilya buries his face against Shane’s throat. He thinks he might actually die.
“Fuck, Hollander”.