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Shane knows something's wrong when Ilya doesn't answer his text asking to confirm the grocery list.
It had been a perfectly normal Sunday. Ilya was supposed to send him a list of things he needed while running his own errands, and Shane was supposed to meet him at the house after the grocery shopping. It was one of their rare evenings together where they could simply cook, eat, play video games, just – hang out.
But not only does Ilya not answer his text, but – he's there in the house when Shane arrives, heart knocking loudly against his ribs with his steps a little faster than is casual.
Shane pauses at the doorway to see the last of sunset disappear behind Ilya, plunging him in shadow. He's leaning crooked against the wall, still in his jacket. He smells of wind and evening dew.
It feels wrong. The way he's just… looking at him. Standing at the far side of the room as daylight's warmth fades away. Something cold over his eyes, brittle like a plaster wall full of cracks.
"Are you okay?" Shane whispers.
"Why I not be okay?" Ilya moves off of the wall. "Come in."
Remembering the grocery bag in his hand, Shane resolves to tackle one Problem at a time. "You didn't answer my text." He moves swiftly into the kitchen and unloads the groceries. "Why are the lights off?"
"I am Russian and dark and mysterious."
"You're fucking dramatic."
Shane doesn't notice Ilya approaching while he's putting away the groceries. When he's done, he turns around to startle at Ilya's bright eyes glittering in twilight. "Shit, Ilya."
Ilya's hands come to curl around the lapels of his jacket.
This is wrong. Ilya's hands should be wound around his waist. Groping his ass or his pecs. Grabbing his hair or his face –
Not this. Not this… fragile thing, as if he's afraid to touch him.
"What happened?" he says, hushed as if afraid to spook him. At that, Ilya smiles, a wobbly thing – another crack up that plaster wall.
"If nobody left to love me anymore," he breathes, "will you still love me?"
Silence.
Then Shane pulls Ilya in, and Ilya clings to the kiss like a dying man.
He's cold. It's all wrong – he's always burning hot. Ilya and his temper, his passion, his laughter.
Shane takes charge – pushes Ilya back, back, back – until his back hits the wall of the living room. He holds him there, anchored, and kisses him warm and tender while Ilya clutches at him as if he's drowning.
"I don't love you because other people love you," Shane whispers, detaching at last. The tips of their noses touch as they breathe together. "I don't give a fuck what other people think about you. So you shouldn't either."
Ilya's laughter is a broken one. He bows his head, his hands falling to his sides as if in defeat – and that's wrong too, so Shane kisses him again. Deeply, wholly, thoroughly.
,
,
By the time they tumble onto the sofa, Ilya is already tearing clothes off of Shane and Shane is doing his best to help along. The moment Ilya covers his body with his own, they both breathe out as if they'd been holding their breaths the entire time.
Shane looks up at Ilya, wondering if he should ask.
As if reading his mind, Ilya moves away, leaving a trail of kisses down his neck, his shoulder, his chest – down his abdomen, and before Shane can brace himself, his entire member is swallowed up by a skillful mouth.
Shane throws his head back, overwhelmed. He would protest – but Ilya is in a strange headspace right now, and. Getting him out of that is a priority.
So he lets Ilya have his way. Covers his eyes and bites down his cries as Ilya expertly brings him to climax. Neatly swallows him down. Looks over him, satisfied.
"Wait here," Ilya orders, scrambling to his feet. Shane hears mutters under his breath about needing to stock lube in every room of the house, and grabs his wrist.
"It's okay," he says, still heaving. "I, um, still have some from. This morning."
Ilya's eyes flicker in twilight, a sinful smile curving his lips. He settles back down between Shane's thighs, and two fingers quest between them to test the slickness of his opening.
"Indeed," he says, voice dripping with promise. "Keeping me with you until you can have me again? Shane."
Shane would retort, but he's so overwhelmed with the flush rising up his neck that he can only glare. With a chuckle, Ilya bends down to give him gentle kisses on the lips, which earn begrudging forgiveness. The moment Shane relaxes – Ilya pushes in.
Fuck, it's mind-numbing. Every time.
It is like a rush of darkness over the evening sky, a night and day's difference from any dildo he's tried. Hot and slick and just right – as if molded to his body. Almost enough to burn, but not enough to hurt.
Ilya's cock is like the rest of him: thundering its way in, loud and unapologetic, and yet irresistible for what it offers.
"Ilya," Shane moans, "I'm – not gonna last long if you-" he gasps as Ilya pulls almost entirely out, and slowly thrusts back in.
"Yes," Ilya breathes. "Gonna give you more, baby, don't you worry. As much of my cum as you want."
"Fuck you," Shane pants.
"No, no. That's 'fuck me, Sir'."
Shane huffs out a laugh, and then it turns into a moan as the hot rod of flesh slides against the parts of him that electrify his nerves.
Ilya thrusts with military precision, hitting him at the exact angle that he knows is best for Shane. Soon Shane is writhing beneath him, completely incoherent – and Ilya loses control alongside him, thrusting erratically. There is a wildness to his movements that is – unsteady.
Whatever happened today has Ilya feeling unanchored. In need of a place to belong.
And, well, Shane WOULD give him a hug, but – apparently nothing beats the 'hug' of a good ol' ass squeezing his cock, according to Ilya's many memorable sexts, so.
"Oh, yeah," Ilya pants, thrusting deep. "Fuck, it goes in so easy. Like your body's made for me, baby."
"Ilya," Shane keens, cheeks aflame but unable to string words of protest together. Ilya speeds up and the both of them shake from it, the sensation both too much and not quite enough. Tantalizingly out of reach.
"Say it," Ilya growls as he thrusts. "Say it again."
It takes Shane a moment to understand what he means. "I love you," he breathes, trying not to flush. "I love – Ilya, fuck, I – love you-"
"Yeah?" Ilya growls, gaining speed. "Really?"
"Yeah," Shane gasps. "Love you – love you so mu- ah!" he cries out as Ilya throws restraint out the window and begins to rail him as if the world is ending. Heated grunts and growls drop from his lips as he pounds and pounds and pounds – until he jerks to a stop, trembling. Then thrusts again, fast and deep and desperate to keep going – desperate to stay in the warmth of Shane's body.
And the moment he finally slows, his body bowing over Shane like a toppling tower with a sound suspiciously reminiscent of a sob – Shane wordlessly pulls him into his arms, holds his head against his heart so he won't grow cold.
,
,
It is completely dark by the time Shane finally gets up to light the fireplace.
Ilya opens his arms and wordlessly welcomes him back onto the sofa, which at this point in their lives has a rotating set of blankets and pillows for situations like this. Together they sink into the cushions and stare at the fire, warmth lapping at their naked bodies in the darkness.
"So," Shane says at last. "What happened?"
Ilya makes a punched-out sound. "Alexei called. Wants money."
"What for?"
"What is it always for?" Ilya shifts. "Gambling. Cocaine. Women. Fuck."
"…Isn't he married?"
"Did that ever stop him?" Ilya snorts. "He's having a second kid. Of course I cannot prove that it is true. He knows it is the only way to get me to spit out money." He grinds his teeth, a sharp sound, and Shane reaches out to stop him with a firm hand on his jaw. "Every time I point out his spending, is his excuse. 'I have a wife, you asshole!' 'I have a child, you prick!' What, is he victim now? Because he chose to get married and have kid? Is MY responsibility that he keeps sewing-" he pauses.
"Sowing."
"Sowing," Ilya waves, "his worthless fucking seed all over the place? Yeah, I agreed to give money to his daughter, so now he magically has another kid."
Shane watches him, torn.
Ilya looks at Shane, suddenly looking tired. "What should I do?"
Shane blinks. "You asking me?"
Ilya drops his gaze with a rueful smile. "You know me." His voice becomes small. "I'd do something stupid."
"What." Shane frowns. "No you wouldn't. You'd do something kind." He reaches out and wraps a firm hand around Ilya's. "He doesn't deserve you."
Ilya stares down at their hands. "That's what Svetlana said."
"Svetlana is right."
An infinite silence stretches between them as Ilya stares at Shane.
"Deserve," he says faintly. "It is such… an English mindset."
Shane smiles a little. "Entitled?"
"Maybe." Ilya breathes out. "I don't know."
"I think," Shane says slowly, "it's still okay to think about what you want."
Silence stills between them.
"I want," Ilya rasps, staring at the fire, "I – want to," he swallows thickly. "I wish," he amends, "he was not my brother." He smiles a little, watery. "But fate is cruel, or so our novelists have said."
"Okay, but you can still change the future. You don't want your brother in your life? Then don't. Cut him out."
Ilya blinks. "But the baby-"
"-is not your baby."
"But-"
"It's not cruelty, Ilya."
Ilya stares at Shane.
"You helping is a kindness. Doing nothing is neutral. It's not harm. It's not negative. You don't owe them shit." Heat climbs up Shane's chest as he speaks, the repressed anger creeping into his words. "All your life, you give and give and give. You work your ass off, and for what? So you can give it all away to those ungrateful losers? What have they ever done to deserve a single dime from you? What have they ever done for you? Does your brother even THINK about you, the way you think about him? Cry over him?"
Ilya hangs his head. "I know he doesn't care," he rasps. "But I am pathetic. I am weak. I wanted so much to be-"
"Loved. And you are. You have me. You have my family. They're yours now." Shane leans forward. "You're not weak."
"If I hear his voice again, I'll break."
"That's because you're kind. That's not weak."
"You keep saying that word." Ilya laughs, a strangled sound. "You're the first who ever call me kind."
"Maybe I'm the first to know you like I do."
Ilya doesn't move. Indecipherable Russian words leak out of his lips, quiet and simmering and full of despair. Shane can't take it – he pulls Ilya roughly into his arms.
"You've done more than enough," he murmurs hotly. "It's okay to put yourself first, Ilya."
Something seems to break in Ilya then – and he is shaking, warmth trickling down Shane's naked shoulder. And Shane hates how helpless he feels in it – that for all his money and fame, all he can offer is a bare shoulder to cry on. He squeezes, wishing – for what, he doesn't even know.
It is long after the fire has simmered to embers that Ilya detaches at last. Shane offers him a discarded shirt, and both smile as Iliya unceremoniously wipes his face with it. Shane considers him.
"Give me your phone."
A brief pause – and then Ilya complies. Shane holds up the phone to Ilya's eye level, slowly scrolling until he finds his brother's number. He presses the 'block' button.
They stare at each other.
"You can undo it if you want later," Shane says quietly. "But for now… let's protect your space a bit. Okay?"
The way Ilya watches Shane in wonder – firelight dancing in those eyes, roaring like years of pain unvoiced, squeezes Shane's heart.
"What if," Ilya rasps, "I have moment of weakness and pick up?"
Shane gives back the phone. "Then you give the phone to me."
Ilya's eyes are a sheen of glass. "Really," he rasps.
"Really." Shane smiles. "I'll block them for you if you can't. I'll say no for you if you can't. Bank transfers, attorneys, press statements, whatever. I'll handle it if you need."
Ilya's chest heaves, violently.
Then he closes his eyes, and Shane sees the moment the rest of the plaster crumbles away – revealing something soft and beautiful in its fragile wake. And Shane holds him through it, rocking gently, until Ilya's shaking has subsided into laughter, and limp arms have found the strength to hug him back.
The fire has gone out. But Ilya isn't cold anymore.
,
,
The End