Chapter Text
It started the way most things between them started lately. Quietly, without announcement, like it had always been inevitable.
They were on the couch after dinner, some documentary on the TV that neither of them were really watching. Shane had his legs tucked under him, his anatomy notes abandoned on the coffee table twenty minutes ago. Ilya was beside him, close the way he always was now, his arm along the back of the couch behind Shane’s shoulders.
It had been raining all evening. The windows were dark and streaked and the apartment felt sealed off from the rest of the city, just the two of them and the low light and the sound of rain against glass.
Shane was not sure who moved first. He thought maybe it was him, turning slightly, and then Ilya was there, his hand moving from the back of the couch to Shane’s jaw, tilting his face up. They kissed slowly, the way they had learned to kiss over the past two weeks. Unhurried, like there was nowhere else either of them needed to be.
Ilya’s thumb traced Shane’s cheekbone and Shane felt himself lean into it, into the warmth of Ilya’s hand and mouth, the solid certainty of him.
They kissed for a long time. The documentary kept playing.. The rain kept falling. Shane’s hand found the front of Ilya’s shirt, that same instinctive grab, and Ilya smiled against his mouth.
“You always do that,” Ilya murmured.
“Sorry.”
“Do not apologize.” Ilya kissed the corner of his mouth. “I like it.”
Shane looked at him in the low light. At the way Ilya was watching him, steady and warm and with that thing underneath it that Shane was still learning to recognize as want.
He had been thinking about this for days. Longer, if he was honest. But specifically, concretely, for days. Thinking about it and then talking himself out of thinking about it and then thinking about it again despite his best efforts.
“Ilya,” Shane said quietly.
“Mm.”
“I want.” Shane stopped. Swallowed, tried again, keeping his eyes on Ilya’s face. “I think I am ready. For more than this.”
Ilya went very still. His thumb stopped moving against Shane’s cheek. He looked at Shane with an expression that was unreadable for exactly one second before something in it softened considerably.
“Yeah?” he said. His voice had dropped.
“Yes.” Shane held his gaze even though his face was already warm. “I have been thinking about it. I want to.”
Ilya studied him for a moment, that careful attentiveness that Shane had come to rely on. Making sure, always making sure.
“We do not have to,” Ilya said. “There is no rush. We have time.”
“I know we do not have to.” Shane pulled gently on his shirt. “I want to. There is a difference.”
Something moved across Ilya’s face. He leaned in and kissed Shane slow and deep, his hand cradling Shane’s jaw, and Shane felt the intention in it. The shift from one thing into something else.
When he pulled back his eyes were dark. “Okay,” he said softly. “Come here.”
He stood and took Shane’s hand and Shane followed him down the hallway.
Ilya’s room was dim, the rain loud against the window, the city outside reduced to blurred light and sound. Ilya sat Shane on the edge of the bed and stood in front of him, and Shane looked up at him and tried to keep his breathing even.
Ilya reached out and pushed Shane’s hair from his eyes. That gesture. Always that gesture.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” Ilya said. “Any point. Any reason, yes?”
“Yes.” Shane reached up and grabbed the front of his shirt. “Now come down here.”
Ilya’s mouth curved. He followed Shane back onto the bed, catching himself on his forearms, settling over him with that careful controlled strength. Shane felt the warmth of him all the way through and exhaled slowly.
They kissed. Long and slow, Ilya’s tongue tracing Shane’s lower lip before Shane opened his mouth and let him in. Shane’s hands slid up Ilya’s back, feeling the shift and pull of muscle. Ilya kissed with his whole attention, like every other time, like there was nothing in the world except this. Except Shane.
Shane’s fingers found the hem of Ilya’s shirt.
Ilya pulled back to look at him, checking. Shane looked back steadily. “Yes,” Shane said before he could ask.
Ilya sat up and pulled his shirt off in one motion, and Shane allowed himself to look properly this time, without the frantic self-consciousness of the doorway on move-in day. The gold cross settled against his sternum. Shane reached up and touched it, then Ilya’s chest, feeling his heartbeat under his palm.
“Your turn,” Ilya said quietly, his hands at the hem of Shane’s shirt.
Shane lifted his arms. Ilya pulled it off carefully, setting it aside, and then sat back and looked at Shane with an expression that made Shane want to look away and also never look away simultaneously.
“So beautiful. Like model,” Ilya said. Simple and certain.
“You always say that.”
“Because it is always true.” Ilya leaned down and pressed his mouth to Shane’s collarbone. His chest. The center of his sternum. Shane’s breath stuttered.
Shane’s fingers went into his hair. He was already warm all over, already feeling that slow building heat that Ilya produced in him so effortlessly. His heart was hammering but it was not quite anxiety anymore, or not only anxiety. It was want, simple and enormous, and he was done pretending otherwise.
They worked the rest of their clothes off slowly. Ilya patient and careful, pausing at each step, hands always asking. Shane tried not to feel self-conscious and mostly succeeded because Ilya kept looking at him like that, like Shane was something extraordinary, and it was very difficult to feel small under a gaze like that.
When there was nothing left between them, Ilya hovered over Shane and just looked at him for a moment. Shane looked back. The rain on the window. The low light. Ilya’s cross hanging forward between them, catching the dim glow from outside.
“Still okay?” Ilya asked softly.
“Still very okay.” Shane pulled him down into a kiss.
Ilya kissed him deep and slow, his tongue moving against Shane’s, both hands framing Shane’s face like he was something worth holding carefully. Shane arched up into him and made a sound against his mouth and felt Ilya’s breath catch in response.
“Every time,” Ilya murmured. “Every time you make that sound I lose my mind a little bit.”
“Good,” Shane breathed, and kissed him again.
Ilya’s mouth moved from his lips to his jaw, his throat, the soft skin below his ear. Shane’s head fell back. Ilya worked down his neck, his collarbone, his chest, his mouth warm and deliberate, learning the map of Shane’s body with that same unhurried thoroughness he brought to everything.
Shane’s hands were in his hair, on his shoulders, gripping and releasing. He was making sounds he had no control over, soft and involuntary, and Ilya responded to each one like they were something he was collecting.
“Ilya.” Shane’s voice came out unsteady. “I want to. Can I.” He stopped, his face burning.
Ilya lifted his head and looked at him. Understanding moved across his expression immediately. His jaw went slightly tight.
“Shane,” he said, his voice considerably lower. “You do not have to.”
“I want to.” Shane held his gaze even though his entire face felt like a furnace. “I want to. Please.”
Ilya closed his eyes for exactly one second. “Fuck,” he said quietly, his composure visibly strained. “I almost came just from you asking.”
Shane’s face went completely nuclear. “Is that a yes?”
Ilya opened his eyes. They were very dark. “Yes,” he said. “God. Yes.”
Shane moved, following Ilya’s murmured guidance, and Ilya’s hand came into his hair. Shane worked out the mechanics of it, nervous and earnest, watching Ilya’s face for feedback without quite meaning to. Ilya’s head had dropped back slightly, his jaw tight, his expression something Shane had never seen on him before. Undone, almost. Like he was working very hard to hold himself together.
“Baby.” Ilya’s voice was rough. His hand stroked through Shane’s hair. “You look so good. God, Shane. You have no idea how you look right now.”
Shane felt that all the way down. He kept going, getting less nervous and more focused, and the sounds Ilya made above him went straight to every nerve ending he possessed.
After a few minutes Ilya pulled him gently back up, his jaw tight with the effort of restraint. Shane could see it in the lines of his face, the careful control. Ilya kissed him immediately, deep and hungry, his hands in Shane’s hair.
“Your turn,” Ilya said against his mouth, low and intent. “I want to take care of you.”
Shane’s stomach flipped completely. “Okay,” he managed.
Ilya kissed down his body again, slower this time, more deliberate. When his hands moved to Shane’s hips and his mouth went somewhere entirely new, Shane’s back arched off the mattress.
“Oh,” Shane breathed. “Oh god.”
Ilya hummed against him and Shane made a sound that he was fairly certain was not a word in any language. His hands fisted in the sheets. His whole body felt like it was dissolving at the edges, heat radiating outward from every point of contact.
“Ilya.” His voice came out wrecked, high and desperate. “Please. I need.”
“I know.” Ilya pressed his lips to Shane’s hip, his stomach, working back up. His voice was low and steady, grounding. “I know what you need, baby. I have you.”
He reached for the nightstand. Shane watched through hazy eyes, his breathing uneven, his whole body wound tight and trembling slightly. Ilya looked at his face the entire time, reading him, adjusting.
“Tell me if it is too much,” Ilya said quietly.
“It is not too much.” Shane exhaled shakily. “It is not enough.”
Ilya’s mouth curved, that slow certain smile. “So demanding,” he murmured, and did something that made Shane gasp. “Better?”
“Yes.” Shane’s hands found his shoulders, gripping. “Yes, that is. Yes.”
“Good.” Ilya kissed him slow and thorough, his tongue moving against Shane’s while his hands were patient and careful and devastatingly attentive. Shane felt himself relax by degrees, the tension shifting into something warmer, something that hummed instead of ached.
“You are doing so well,” Ilya murmured against his mouth. His voice was tender underneath the heat. “So good, solnyshko. So perfect for me.”
Shane made a completely undignified sound. His face was burning and he absolutely did not care. He pulled Ilya closer by the shoulders and kissed him harder, needing something to do with all of it, all this feeling he had nowhere adequate to put.
Ilya worked slowly, carefully, watching Shane’s face at every step. Checking in with quiet words and careful hands, reading every flicker of Shane’s expression. Shane had not imagined it would feel like this. Like being paid complete and total attention to. Like being the only thing in the world worth looking at.
“Ilya.” Shane’s voice came out breathless. “I am ready. I am. Please.”
Ilya kissed him softly. Then pulled back to look at him properly, holding Shane’s gaze with that steady dark focus. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” Shane touched his jaw. “Please.”
Ilya held his gaze the entire time. Moving with devastating slowness, watching Shane’s face for any sign of discomfort, pausing when Shane’s breath caught to press his lips to his cheek and ask quietly if he was okay.
“Yes.” Shane exhaled slowly, adjusting. “Do not stop. Please do not stop.”
“I have you.” Ilya’s voice was low and certain against his temple. “I have you, baby. Breathe.”
Shane breathed. The overwhelming feeling settled gradually into something else, something warm and deep that built in slow steady waves. Ilya moved soft and careful, missionary, one hand cradling Shane’s face and the other braced beside his head, his forehead nearly touching Shane’s.
“You feel so good,” Ilya breathed. His voice had frayed at the edges, that careful control wearing thin. “Shane. God. You have no idea what you do to me.”
Shane pulled him down into a kiss, messy and uncoordinated and entirely honest. Ilya kissed him back with his whole mouth, tongue and heat and want, moving slow and deep. Shane’s hands were on his back, feeling every shift of muscle.
“Look at me,” Ilya said softly, pulling back just enough.
Shane opened his eyes. Ilya was watching him with an intensity that made Shane feel completely exposed in the best possible way. His thumb traced Shane’s cheekbone, that gesture, always that gesture.
“There you are,” Ilya murmured. Like Shane was something he had been searching for.
Shane felt his eyes sting slightly and blinked it away. He pulled Ilya back down by the necklace and kissed him deep, long, with tongue, both of them breathing hard against each other’s mouths. The slow rhythm between them built gradually, warmth cresting in waves, and Ilya’s hand moved between them and Shane broke the kiss with a gasp.
“Ilya.”
“I have you.” His voice was strained now, fraying further. “Come on, solnyshko. Let go for me. I have you.”
Shane held onto his shoulders and let himself go.
It crashed through him in waves, enormous and warm, and he heard himself make a sound that he would probably be embarrassed about later when he had enough brain function to be embarrassed. Ilya followed shortly after, his face pressed to Shane’s throat, saying Shane’s name in a low wrecked voice that Shane felt like a physical thing.
They stayed tangled together afterward, neither of them moving for a long time. Shane’s breathing came back slowly. His whole body felt loose and heavy, like something had been wound very tight for a very long time and had finally been allowed to release.
Ilya pressed his lips to Shane’s hair, his jaw and his cheek. Small soft kisses, checking in without words.
“Hey,” Ilya said finally, quietly. He pulled back to look at Shane’s face. His hand brushed the hair from Shane’s eyes. “You okay?”
Shane looked up at him. At the careful attention in his face, the tenderness. “Yes,” he said. His voice came out softer than he intended. “Really yes.”
Ilya’s expression did something warm and private. He pressed a kiss to Shane’s forehead. “Stay here.”
He disappeared, and Shane heard water running. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling and tried to locate his thoughts, which had scattered considerably. The rain was still falling outside. The room was warm. Shane felt like he was made of something soft and unhurried.
Ilya came back and took care of him gently, matter of fact, not making it strange. Shane let himself be taken care of without protest, too satisfied and too sleepy to construct any self-consciousness about it.
When Ilya settled back beside him and pulled the blanket up over them both, Shane moved instinctively into his side. Ilya’s arm came around him immediately, warm and solid.
“Solnyshko,” Shane said quietly into the fabric of his chest.
“Mm.”
“What does it mean?”
Ilya’s hand moved slowly up and down Shane’s arm. “Little sun,” he said. “It means little sun.”
Shane turned that over. Felt it settle somewhere warm and permanent in his chest, slotting into place beside everything else he had collected about Ilya. Two weeks of careful details, and now this. Little sun.
“Oh,” Shane said softly.
Ilya pressed his lips to the top of Shane’s head and said nothing.
Shane was already most of the way to sleep, warm and heavy, Ilya’s heartbeat steady under his cheek. The rain on the windows. The quiet of the apartment. The easy weight of Ilya’s arm around him.
“Ilya,” Shane murmured.
“Yes?”
He thought about saying something that matched what was in his chest right now, this full and frightening thing he did not have adequate words for yet. But he was too sleepy and too content and some things could wait for daylight.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just. Thank you.”
Ilya’s arm tightened around him.
“Sleep,” he said softly. His lips pressed once more to Shane’s hair. “I have you.”
Shane closed his eyes.
But somewhere beneath the warmth and exhaustion, the thought of eventually having to tell Jackson made his heart beat a little faster.