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Shane makes it twelve minutes on the tile before he starts crying.
Whoever designed this shower knew exactly what the fuck they were doing. Ilya has watched Sveta shave her legs enough times to know that this ledge doesn’t need to be this wide. It doesn’t need to be strong enough to support Ilya’s weight, or high enough that he can comfortably sit with his legs spread and his feet flat on the floor. The drain slanting down behind Shane has seen things.
Ilya’s just getting started.
“Ilya,” Shane slurs, trying his best as a new tear slides down the flushed curve of his cheek. It rivers down to the ocean of saliva pooling at the corners of Shane’s open mouth.
Shane’s on his knees, legs spread and shaking, his thighs bunched up as he shifts on the grout biting into his skin. His hands are clasped behind his back, held in place with a word. Ilya tracks the cord of spit racing down Shane’s chin, how it changes colors in the warm vanity lights shining on them from the bathroom mirror, pink-teal-gold-to-ruby as it drips down to Shane’s chest. Shane doesn’t budge. It’s taken Ilya years of stolen fluency to know the inflections of Shane’s discomfort – the twitch of his cheek, the zip-tie pulling his shoulder blades up, the quarter-beat his breath makes as he sniffles, the dam-break of tears finally overflowing his eyes.
Ilya hums. Shane’s so fucking pretty when he cries. Ilya inches forward, smiling softly as Shane shifts toward him just to wince. He wouldn’t be comfortable even if Ilya let him back in the bed. Shane needs one thing, and he’s fighting it hard. That’s fine. They have time.
Six hours. In the dog years of their time together this is an eternity, a honeymoon. Ilya will sleep on the plane. He’ll sleep when he’s dead. He’ll sleep when Shane finally drops that last bit of tension he’s been worrying between his teeth all night. He always takes the losses personally.
Shane is so still, surface tension hiding the vast depths behind those big, glassy eyes. Ilya wants to squeeze him until the juice runs out of every hole in his body, tears and snot and sweat and spit and more, more. Ilya always wants more.
“Ilya.” It’s so needy Ilya could shave it to the bone and pick his teeth with it. He caresses his thumb over Shane’s bottom lip, ever-plush but exceptionally full tonight after Ilya had hung Shane’s head upside-down over the bed and fucked his throat until he could see the shape of his cock stretching Shane’s skin. Belly-up, neck bared, all the soft parts Ilya hoards exposed.
It’s the soft parts that haunt him. Ilya slides his hand down, pressing over the dense swell of Shane’s belly. Shane is touchy here, which it turns out does not mean he likes to be touched on this luscious part of himself, like this small store of fat is some personal failing and not a swathe of deep, endless obsession for Ilya.
He pushes, hungry for the muffled whine Shane makes, like he’s trying to say “Stop” but can’t get his mouth to lie for him. Besides, he can’t say much around Ilya’s jockstrap stuffed between his teeth.
“You are going to do this.”
Ilya had played in it, scored goal after goal, chasing after it until sweat dripped into his eyes and the buzzer had sounded, victorious. He’d snuck it into his back pocket and stuffed it into Shane’s mouth right after he’d come down Shane’s open, gasping throat.
“Stop fighting.”
Shane sniffles again, wet-nosed and wet-eyed, at his best when he’s gleaming. Shane wears desperation like a crown, shining above the ermine-tipped cape of his sweat and bruises, the scepter of lube leaking down his thighs. A thing for church naves and royal galleries, not a top-floor apartment in Montreal where no one can hear Shane scream. Tendrils curl into Ilya’s mouth, how regal, how resplendent Shane is, how devastating the shining bubble of spit that pearlesces at the corner of his mouth.
These things are so hard to say in English. This dog-bark, jackboot language that stymies his every attempt to tell Shane how fucking gorgeous he is, that Ilya’s heart clenches when Shane hocks out a fat rope of spit and gets right back on his cock, that his vision gilts at the edges when Shane’s tears pool in his eyes as he pushes Ilya’s hand harder against his own throat, that he glimpsed divinity the first time he slipped both thumbs in next to his cock and watched Shane come all over himself.
“I want you filthy.”
There is something buried inside Ilya, bright and barbed, a hunger that he keeps at bay most days. Sometimes it sleeps, a fitful respite drowned in booze and pills and the endless training that keeps him strong enough to do his job. Tonight, it wants to hook hard enough into Shane’s soft parts to keep him down in the dirt forever.
Shane’s skin prickles, flushed from his tits to his cheeks as goosebumps ride up his arms. Ilya tracks over them, nails dragging over cut muscle and sweat-tacked skin. He digs his thumb into the crescent scar on Shane’s shoulder, inordinately jealous of anything that gets to leave a permanent mark on Shane.
“Shane.”
He’d fucked Shane on the floor first, doggy, his hands cutting into the cello-curve of Shane’s waist and sweat gleaming in the dimples F-cut above his ass. There’s a noise Shane makes when his face is pressed into carpet, a furious resonance that rakes over Ilya’s guts and sharpens him into a single blade of purpose. Ilya has memorized the precise arch of Shane’s back, the in-swept note of shock when Ilya hits it just right, the jolt-snap tempo of his hips, the curve of his own spine as he bends to the exact bow-sweep to make Shane come.
That rugburn must be killing his knees right now.
“You know how to stop this, Shane.”
Ilya leans in to lick a single tear from the corner of Shane’s eye. The price of salt is so precious when it’s stolen. He’d licked the sweat off the fretwork of Shane’s spine, nosed into the hum of his body as he came on Ilya’s cock, hands-free, immaculate.
“Does it hurt?”
He digs his thumb into the start of Shane’s featherweight happy trail and doesn’t stop until Shane garbles out a snot-nosed bark of protest. Ilya does it again. “You are so full.”
Shane’s eyes veer toward closed, too close to closing in on himself. Ilya snakes a hand into Shane’s hair and tugs, mean and quick, until the blinds snap open and Shane rears back to attention.
“This is easy thing.”
Ilya’s got an itch under his skin he can barely stand, the pressure inside him building up to criss-crossed legs and fingernails in palms. Shane bears pain as his due, stoic and penitent, a few beads of sweat and the convex promise of a tear the only sign of distress he allows. Ilya would be a fucking mess in his place and they both know it.
“Here. Let me show you.”
Ilya bites his cheek, wills his cock into half-soft submission so he can actually do this. His breath hitches, fighting some school-aged panic, a cold sweat springing to his neck. He grabs the hank of hair in his fist and presses the head of his cock to Shane’s lips, denting the spit-wet fabric until he can feel Shane’s tongue. He hisses out a breath, pushes it through his teeth, lets the sibilant echo slide down the watching tile.
“Oh, fuck.” Ilya’s piss comes out in a rush. The hairpin turn between urgency and release stuns him, simple pleasure cascading scalp to toe, a guttural sound escaping his throat as he holds himself snug to Shane’s gagged mouth.
Shane’s eyes are mutinous. Ilya’s been holding it as long as Shane has, and he’d plied them both with enough water to make it count. Shane is whittled down to two choices, choke or swallow, and Shane can spit it out if he wants but he won’t. He never does.
Shane doesn’t even watch porn. This is all the autochthonous issue of Shane’s bruised psyche, sprung from the root and stuffed into darkness until Ilya rips it out with his teeth. It’s Shane, under-covers and nuzzled against him, eyes closed while Ilya’s still blacked-out inside him, “I want you to use me.” Serpent-tongued, soft, “choke me, spit on me,” coiling around Ilya, warm, “I want you to piss on me,” fang-first into the apple of Ilya’s heart, “I want you to make it hurt.”
“Oh my God.” White cotton goes pale yellow as Shane overflows, rushing over his chin and his skip-beating chest, pooling at Shane’s shaking knees. There it is, the bob of his throat, the rise and fall of his chin. Shane swallows and Ilya’s heart freefalls, circles the drain, douses him in gasoline and condemns him to a lifetime of immolation at Shane’s bare feet.
“Oh my God, Shane.”
There’s so much. Ilya’s too much, he knows this, try as he might to guard his endless, keening hunger for Shane. He tries so hard to stuff it down, keep it buried in this whitewashed sepulcher of tender violence. Some days he even succeeds. He pulls his dick back, lets it graze Shane’s battle-knit collarbones, pooling in hollows of bone to furrow down over the tits that haunt Ilya’s sleepless nights.
“Beautiful, perfect, beautiful.” At least he can hide in his native tongue.
Of all the sins Ilya swallows, liar seems feeble among them but still. It’s what he is. Shane, astute even when he’s fucked out of his mind, always curious and prodding at any secret wound Ilya tries to shield from him, had asked him what those words mean, what Ilya calls him when they’re so deep inside each other Ilya can’t breathe. “What a good little slut you are, what a whore for my cock, two perfect wet holes for me to use.” Ilya had looked him in the face and said these safe, awful things Shane loves so much, things Ilya loves saying, barks them out in English and bathes in the heat that beams from Shane’s face.
Ilya isn’t thinking a single one of those words when Shane blinks up at him and swallows again.
There’s no language for this, nothing that can translate the crack that opens in Ilya’s chest. One limpid glance from Shane that finds the chink in his armor and pierces him through the heart. It hurts. Every time, it hurts, and every time Ilya prays it never goes away, that Shane will keep looking at him like he’s full of something other than broken glass and sharp teeth.
“You are so beautiful.”
Ilya would pry his own tongue out before sharing this liturgy with anyone else. The heat that ripples off Shane’s skin, the rasp of his breath around soaked cotton, the animal scent of Ilya all over him. This joyous, horrid moment when Shane is about to break. When he will need Ilya to put him back together.
“Do it for me.”
Ilya slides down to tile and pulls his soaked jockstrap out of Shane’s mouth. It lands with a wet plop that barely registers over the animal noise Shane makes as he turns his head and spits. Ilya chases it, dragging his thumb over Shane’s lip, not sure if he’s wiping it clean or rubbing it in.
“I want to feel it.”
He pulls Shane up, presses against him, warm and wet and shaking all over. Ilya’s kissed a lot of lipstick off a lot of people and none of it is as pretty as the pinked-up fluster splashed across Shane’s cheeks, rouging his lips and diving down his neck.
He’d tried to explain this to Shane once, the play on words that melds his native homophones, red and beautiful, krasny and krasivy, that in the fairy tale of Ilya’s life he is the red-belted prince and Shane his krasna devitsa, his fair red maiden, most beautiful in all the land. Shane had just rolled his eyes and made a joke about his Asian flush, a term Ilya didn’t know. He’d been appalled when he’d looked it up, horrified that Shane thought he could joke about this and amazed at how spectacularly he’d fumbled this attempted overture. Stupid, for thinking Shane needs him for anything but ruin.
“Shane.” It’s a perfect fit where their foreheads meet and his lips are right against Shane’s and why the fuck not, like there’s any world where he won’t kiss Shane if God gives him another chance. He can learn from his mistakes.
“I want to feel you make a mess for me.”
He grabs Shane’s jaw, squeezes until those blow-up lips purse out, hot and saltbox nasty when Ilya licks into him. All of it, Ilya wants all of it.
“For you,” Shane sighs into his mouth, cut from strings as he leans against Ilya and lets go. Warmth blooms in Ilya’s chest and seeps down his thigh. Relief, revulsion, a whimper, the lax sweep of Shane’s tongue – Ilya takes it all like a dog to scraps, wolfs it down before it disappears. The dank warmth of Shane’s piss soaks into his leg and unfurls some animal part of Ilya, burrowing and ever-hungry, awake and alive as he squeezes every secret drop he can get from Shane’s shaking body.
“You are so good, you are so good for me.” Ilya holds him close, won’t let him squirm away until he’s emptied out. It’s so hot between them that Ilya’s back goes clammy in the open air. He reaches down where Shane’s hands are still clasped behind his back in obedient miracle. Shane is so good, so much better than Ilya deserves but he’ll take it nonetheless. He guides Shane’s arms around his neck, where they both know Ilya’s more than strong enough to hold him. He hauls Shane up, his poor knees and his filthy body and every perfect, ruined inch of him slumping to his feet.
“Krasny,” Ilya whispers, safe to risk endearments when Shane’s eyes are barely focused and he’s boneless in Ilya’s hands, wrung-out and his to fill back up. He buries his face in Shane’s neck, open-mouthed, drunk on this fleeting second when he teeters on the edge of disgust just to plunge head-first into the pit of abject adoration. That Shane, golden Shane, stinks and sweats and needs just like Ilya does. Maybe he’ll never bring Shane flowers or buy him jewels or ring him in gold the way he deserves, but he owns this part of Shane. He’ll clamp his jaws around it until they break. For the space of a breath, Shane is his, red and gold and shining in Ilya’s hands.
Shane is shivering against him, strung out and teeth chattering. Ilya needs to get him showered and bedded and kissed and stitched back better than he started and he will, he will in one second. He clasps his hands around Shane’s blooming, blissful face and stares, shameless and greedy. This is what paints the backs of his eyelids when he’s pretending to sleep on a plane or his empty bed or some other wretched place that isn’t Shane’s arms.
“Ilya.”
For one precious moment, Shane is covered in roses.
“I have you.” Ilya smiles, his head swimmy and thick, all the lenses greased as he answers the needy pull of Shane’s hands in his hair. Shane needs him to be kind now. Shane needs him. Shane could suck the rotten marrow out of his bones and Ilya would just ask if he wants more.
He runs the water hot and scrubs every inch of Shane clean. Shane’s so biddable like this, pliant and sudsy, clinging to Ilya as he towels off Shane’s hair, one hand around Ilya’s waist as they both brush their teeth. Shane’s drowsy before they even get under the covers, tucked up to Ilya’s chest and eyes half-lidded as he drags his fingernail down Ilya’s chain.
“I was thinking,” Shane says, pausing to look up at Ilya through his lashes, krasna devitsa. Why does he always look so beautiful after Ilya tears him apart? Why does Ilya know he’ll answer yes to whatever Shane is about to say? Yes, I will burn my life down for you, yes, yes, yes.
“Next time you should do it inside me. After you fuck me.”
Ilya isn’t built for fairytales. He doesn’t get to pop champagne and make it rain when Shane wins. He gets to piss in Shane’s mouth when he fumbles a goal. Still, he tucks the communion wafer of next time under his tongue and lets it dissolve. He will swallow anything if it keeps Shane in his arms for a little while longer.