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It makes sense, in a weird way, that everything gets solved in a hotel room. Everything might seem like a big word, of course, but after the hell he has been through for the last months, this clarity is enough for Shane, a common place to start from.
Hotel rooms have been the background for so many things in their shared life, even after they started using each other's homes to meet. They used to mean something good until they didn't: sex, the thrill of secrecy, the opportunity to be real for just a second with each other.
It's a bigger surprise that it happens in fucking Florida, maybe, but Shane guesses some things you just have to take as they come.
Florida is declared a neutral state after what happened today. A confession and shared secrets on top of a bed. And that hug, god. Shane tries to think if it was the first one they had really given each other in all of these years, and maybe it was not, but all the others were probably given under the disguise of other touches. Nothing compares to this. Nothing compares to thinking I want to kiss him and just being allowed to do it.
Hotel room 1217. Shane does not remember most of the numbers they have shared over the years, but now he admits he does save in his brain some of the most important. He can't stop his brain from doing it; he is good with numbers; they just get fixed on his brain as much as on his heart.
The bed is already on its way to ruined, half the pillows on the floor, the covers all thrown out with their feet as they hug, after Ilya has been crying in his arms for an undetermined time. Shane could've stayed there the whole night, if necessary. In the month since Rose had helped him get his shit together, he had envisioned a hundred and a half different ways for this reunion to go, but having Ilya Rozanov clinging to him had not been one of them. All these years of trying to get something out of Ilya, and only having glimpses of it made him wary and prepared for the disappointment, but Ilya talked to him and basically confessed without so many words that he likes him too—holy shit— and Shane doesn't really know what to do with so many feelings.
His lips are on Ilya's neck, and his hands are tangled in the lovely locks, squishy from the humidity, easy to make a mess out of; at some point, Ilya just looks up at him, and he's so pretty that Shane can't stop himself from kissing him. They kiss and kiss, and Shane licks the salt from Ilya's lips and cheeks, and the mood changes in a second, without Shane being able to actually pinpoint when, and they are suddenly frantic about touching each other. Their hands just don't feel big enough to hold everything they want from each other, his lips not enough to kiss every place, every warm patch of skin.
Three months since the last time or seven years since their hands touched for the first time in fucking Regina, Saskatchewan. The need to be naked overcomes them, the fabric is an obstacle, preventing them from feeling skin against skin; they need to be closer, inside each other, and they can't, but they try.
They try pretty fucking hard.
Shane is pleasantly sore after, the afterglow of it still overshadowing the stickiness that always follows sex. Sweat and spit and tears. He has made his peace with not getting a minute of sleep tonight just to stretch the night into more time. In the grand scheme of things, it's still early. In the grand scheme, early enough to have half a night where they always had only an hour is really, really early.
Ilya is laid beside him, and they are both present and open like a wound for the first time in years. Shane exposed himself and his secrets; he said them out loud, and the world did not explode or stop in its tracks.
Ilya is splayed on the bed face down, looking at Shane only with one twinkling eye and half a smile visible. Light conversation rises and falls as they seem unable to stop kissing each other. Shane kisses him in places he hasn't yet, like on the corner of his eye and his sweaty temple and the tip of his ear.
Shane has to support himself on his arm first and get closer after to reach every place he wants: the nape of his neck and his shoulders and his bicep and the corner that his armpit makes with his back, soft skin that makes Ilya squirm, which makes Shane delirious because Ilya has never squirmed like that under Shane; so many new sounds he is getting to discover. Shane keeps going and builds a path of kisses through every mole that covers Ilya's back like a map with the secrets to find the way home. this is my favorite, he murmurs, but then he gets to the next one and murmurs against it, no, no, I said it wrong; this one is my favorite. And Ilya laughs softly and whispers the other one is jealous now, and Shane gasps, oh, no, let me kiss it again for good measure, and even when he can't see Ilya's face, Shane can feel his smile in the air, a sweetness on the tip of his tongue.
Ilya laughs when Shane gets to ticklish skin on his sides and then sighs when Shane covers his spine in fluttering pecks as he goes down, down, down, reaching the place the back loses its name to something that has been, by unspoken agreement, out of bounds. Shane presses a last kiss just in the beginning of his ass and then deviates so he can bite down on the soft meat like he has wanted to do since the first time he saw it in those showers, a perfect round thing that is asking to be touched. A soft bite, a kiss, and a harder bite, just enough to leave the imprint of his teeth for a second (mine), his hand trickling down the side to thumb over it, separating his ass cheek just enough for his breath to reach Ilya's rim, which puckers and closes in reaction. Shane pants and a whiny sound gets lodged in his throat, the want sudden but not surprising.
He looks up at the back of Ilya's head, the tension in his back; Shane hesitates for a second and then presses a kiss just below the rim, on the smooth skin that would lead to the back of his balls if he wanted to go there. The room has gotten so silent, suddenly, that he can hear Ilya sigh and then the rustle under his legs when he lets the right one fall open almost unnoticeably, were Shane not directly on top of them.
"Ilya," he sighs, but he does not wait for an answer before the flat of his tongue starts on the point he was kissing and then travels up and away, and Ilya's breath stutters. Shane takes his time in the beginning, first because it's the first time he does this, but most importantly because he wants it to be good for Ilya, and the way his brain is basically being fried up with desire forces him to take it slower, to enjoy every second. He keeps lapping gently, tongue swirling around without pressing inside until Ilya cants his hips back and makes an impatient sound. Shane laughs a little and nods to himself, bullying himself in the middle of Ilya's legs; if he is doing this, he needs all the access he can get.
Hands on the inside to spread him, and Ilya presses his face more into the pillow. Embarrassed, maybe? Shane knows how fucking vulnerable one feels in this position. The first time Ilya did it to him, they were face to face and Shane could not look down just in case he would blow his load right there and then, untouched and unmoored.
The next time he licks him up, he tenses his tongue and tries to press the tip of it into Ilya. The muscle tenses, not used to the intrusion, but Shane knows enough about this to know how it works and doesn't take it personally; he keeps trying, moving around almost as if he were kissing Ilya's mouth, wanting to reach every corner of his body. Another stab and Shane can't stop himself from making a low, satisfied sound when it goes just past under the first rim.
Ilya tenses again, but it's shorter and weaker, and then it gets easier going in each time. Ilya is grinding his hips against the bed and then trying to get more from Shane.
"Wait, Ilya, let me," Shane starts and chastises himself because he was so starstruck about what he was doing that he had not even bothered to think. "Don't move." He says, as he launches himself off the bed to recover one of the pillows that had been discarded on the first round. Shane hopes the one he picks up is the same that already has his own release in it; at least they will only ruin one this night. Hopefully. He can't promise anything, though.
"Up," he says, and slips the pillow under Ilya until his ass is open and ready for Shane. "God."
"Just Ilya." Shane laughs weakly and doesn't lose time to spread Ilya open again. He gathers saliva and then lets a stream of it fall into the already spit-slicked hole. "Filthy, Hollander."
"Your fault. Best ass I've seen in my life," he says, because compliments are on the table too. Ilya laughs, and then his voice gets a little softer.
"Did you think about this?"
Shane swallows and then answers, truthfully. "No. I was too afraid to want more."
"And now?"
"Now I don't know how I will stop wanting everything."
"Fuck, Shane. "
It's okay, Shane thinks, incoherently, diving in again, pressing more and more tongue inside it, sucking his own thumb for a moment to pucker the rim and look at it; Ilya keeps circling his hips, and Shane follows the movement, substituting the thumb with his tongue and adding more saliva.
Ilya sounds—wrecked.
"I need—Shane. Shane," he repeats; his name has just never sounded better, more reverent, more needed. Shane feels drunk on power. He searches blindly for the lube until he finds it, cap still open and leaking on the sheets. It's the good one, too, that Shane brought, full of hope of using it but ready for the disappointment if it did not happen.
Ilya's entrance feels raw and open, just for him, ready and wanting, pulsing around the tip of his thumb. "You want this?"
"Yes," Ilya answers, but the real convincing argument comes from the way his hips stutter.
Shane drops some lube on his fingers and warms it up as much as he can, starting to press on his index while his mouth is against the cheek, kissing it and giving it little bites.
"Do you—do you usually like it?"
A moment of silence. Then Ilya raises his head, props himself on his elbows, and looks back at him, smiling like he is not about to drop a hydrogen bomb directly on Shane's heart. "How would I know?"
Shane can just imagine how wide his eyes open, almost as comically as his mouth. "You have not—"
"Nope," Ilya winks at him. "Now make it good, Hollander," he says, and lies back down, increasing and releasing the pressure around Shane's finger inside him.
Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ on the altar. It's not that Shane thought Ilya was doing what they were doing with a lot of other people, and certainly Ilya has never wanted anything different with him than topping. The idea of being his first makes his hands shake.
He nods to himself once, twice, and then presses in with his lubed-up finger, slowly, as he peppers kisses on the tender skin of his asscheek. There is no obstacle for him, his finger all the way in almost before he is able to gather his thoughts about it. In and out, following the undulating movements of Ilya's hip, up and down. Crooking his finger just so on the way out, once, twice, until suddenly Ilya's whimpers turn into a full-on groan.
"There you are," Shane says. It took him long to find his, and no one has touched it like Ilya; he is glad he has been able to get to that point on his own. Stupidly proud, he does it again and again. Ilya is not stopping now; he scoots his right leg up, giving more access to Shane.
"—ane. Moy lyu—Shane, davai bolshe, I—please."
Shane tastes with his lips and tongue around his finger, taste of the lube be damned, and drags it back, almost all the way back out. It's like putting his finger into a furnace. Shane wonders, probably for the first time in his life, how it would be to have his dick inside Ilya.
"Yes, baby, sorry, tell me." Baby. It spills from him without his input. Fuck. Shane would feel himself blushing if his face were already not on fire, his arms straining at the position and his neck starting to ask for mercy. Shane looks up, but if Ilya has heard him, he does not care about Shane using a pet name. "You want more?"
"Yes. Fuck, yes, I need—"
"I promise I know better than anyone what you need." Shane says, sinking in the second finger with the first one into the molten heat.
"Oh my fucking god." Breathing in and out. Shane keeps his fingers still.
"Does it hurt?"
"Just give me a second. I feel like I'm dying."
"Good dying or bad dying?" and it's Ilya's turn to laugh, his rim spasming around Shane and then relaxing a bit. Shane knows how it is, thinking too much, delving into the awkwardness of the feeling instead of everything else.
Ilya's back loses its tension, and his hips are moving now, against the fingers and away from them, looking for something, overwhelmed. "You can move, just—please, don't—don't tease me."
Shane scissors his fingers, carefully opening him up, keeping up the distraction with his words.
"What, do you think I will take revenge for all the times you haven't given me what I need?"
A weak laugh. "Maybe."
Ilya is lifting his ass more and more; Shane shifts into his knees, following him. The new position allows him full access to Ilya's cock, and Shane seizes the opportunity to reach it and stretch back the foreskin to be able to circle the palm of his hand against the tip, fast and sudden and a little bit mean. Ilya's gutted moan breaks into little whimpers.
Ilya's voice, goddammit. Shane has never heard it like this. Desperate, open, raw. They won't be able to come back, Shane knows. This is all or nothing now. Shane will do anything to have it all.
Shane admires his work; Ilya's rim is now the loosest Shane has felt it, squirming around his fingers, sucking him in.
"I was not teasing, Ilya," he lies. "I'm just trying to be careful."
"I won't break," Ilya spits through clenched teeth. He feels on the verge of coming, heaving and panting and almost incoherent. Shane prepares himself to scorch that almost from the face of the earth.
"Yeah, well. Maybe I want to break you apart, just a little bit," he says, and then he hooks his fingers just enough; he recovers the hand on Ilya's cock to apply force on the skin between the rim and his balls, doubling the attack against his prostate. Ilya just mutters, Shane, what— and then Shane doesn't know what else he says as Ilya smothers his face against the pillow, muffling as many as possible of the sounds that are being almost punched from his mouth. He still doesn't know what has hit him when Shane pushes his fingers back in and out.
With each movement, Ilya loses his mind more and more, and when he's basically wailing on the pillow, Shane's hand regrettably leaves his perineum to tighten a rim around his cock with his fingers. "Yes, take it, babe," he murmurs, and he's not sure if Ilya hears him, but his body knows what to do in the space that Shane has created where he just has to move his hips to his own rhythm, moans dragging out in staccato. So close, so close, Shane can almost taste it.
"Give me everything, Ilya. Give me everything I want," and that apparently does it, Ilya stops like he always stops for a second before really coming, and then he is grunting and shooting on the pillow, through Shane's immobile hand, the fingers inside Ilya the only part of Shane that's working on keeping the waves of pleasure that go through Ilya. The moment Ilya starts spilling, Shane softens the movement to avoid overstimulation.
The second Shane carefully brings his fingers out, Ilya's hips stutter for a second at the feeling, and then he crumbles down, panting, face still against the pillow, one knee still raised up, everything on display.
Shane groans and says, "I'll be there with you in a second, baby, I just can't—" and his hand flies to his cock, untouched and reddened and so hard it really, really hurts. He is fast, always, the fastest between them, and if he really wants to give Ilya the care he wants, he can't feel like a—like a fucking bitch in heat. Ilya, like the motherfucking miracle he is, brings his own hands to his back and opens his asscheeks, not a single word uttered but the desire clear. Shane all but scrambles, almost without time because he is so close to the edge, just close to tipping over, and positions his cock against the rim. Not with the idea of pushing it inside, but Ilya is loose enough for almost half the head of his cock to get in anyway.
Not fully inside but just an idea of it as he strokes himself to finishing, white liquid leaking out, he can't stop the rush of possessiveness. Mine, he thinks. You're mine. Maybe he even says it out loud; he doesn't care about anything apart from the waves of pleasure shaking him to the core.
He paints Ilya's crack with his come, spreading it after with his rapidly softening cock and finally with his fingers. "Fuck," he says, as he lets himself drop down to lie beside Ilya, one possessive leg on top of him, an arm over his back.
When Ilya's lovely face emerges to look at him from the pillow, Shane feels just a little bit embarrassed at his display, but not enough to say anything about it.
"That thing you did in the end—not fair to have your own tricks, Hollander. Tricks are supposed to be my thing."
"Not a trick. Just something I discovered when, like, on myself. Glad you liked it, it was way more difficult to do it on my own because of the—"
"Shut up. Don't give me details; if I get hard again, I will die." He groans. After a minute, he says, "You could have told me to do it to you."
Shane feels guilty. "You were not there," and Ilya sighs.
"I am here now."
They nuzzle their noses together, kissing sloppily, too sated to do anything else.
Shane wants to say a lot of things, so many that they get lodged in his throat. It's too soon. He wants too much. What he says is, "Thank you."
"I think maybe I should be the one saying that," Ilya says, and the tone is light.
Shane shakes his head. "For trusting me."
Ilya licks his lips and then bites them, his eyes shining again. Shane's thumb caresses his cheek. Ilya swallows down and then nods, lifts an arm, wordlessly asking for him to come closer, even if it's not possible. They end up a mess of limbs, Shane's torso half under Ilya and his legs between Ilya's.
"Do you want me to clean you up?"
It must be uncomfortable, just as their position under this heat, the air conditioning not being enough to refresh the air of the room. Shane should be embarrassed about the mess he has left there; in reality, he feels capable of just going down on him again and licking him clean.
Ilya nods. "In a minute. Just—give me a minute, first."
"Okay," Shane accepts. "We have time."
"Yes, we have time."
They stay there for a while, Shane pressed against Ilya's chest, the metal of the cross warm on his lips.
They have time.