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Shane is disciplined.
He was raised that way; by his parents, by father Matthew, by his belief.
There were hiccups, of course. Small disturbances in Shane's life that he has methodically worked to suppress, to make up for with more discipline.
There was one time, when he was still in high school. He didn't have any friends, there, and the other boys liked to call him names and push him around. They called him "cult buy", among other, more ordinary insults. Father Matthew told Shane that they didn't understand, since they weren't part of their church. Father Matthew told Shane that he should feel bad for them, really, for being damned to suffer for eternity in the afterlife.
However, Shane was only fifteen, and it hurt to be treated like this, regardless of what the afterlife might hold for his tormentors. So, one day, he snapped. Two boys were pushing him around in an empty hallway, laughing and throwing the usual insults at him, when Shane grabbed one of their arms before the next shove could connect.
The boy laughed, at first.
"Aw, is cult boy about to cry?"
Shane pulled back him arm, balled his fist, and swung. The punch connected with the other boy's jaw, and he cried out, stumbling back. There were tears shining in the boy's eyes and Shane was breathing hard, his entire body trembling with excitement. It felt glorious, to have this kind of power over someone else. Shane wanted to push him to the floor and punch him again. He wanted to wrap his hands around the boy's throat and squeeze, hear him gasp from the restriction on his airways. Shane wanted to lean down and bite his lip-
Panicking at the path his own mind had taken, Shane ran. He went home early, that day, telling his parents that he wasn't feeling well, and jumped straight into the shower, turning it as cold as it would go. He didn't dare to touch his erection. He felt dirty, deranged, and like a sinner.
That night, he prayed for hours, apologizing for his transgressions, and begging God to fix him. God didn't, and Shane knew that he was being tested. He just needed to prove his discipline, his devotion, by overcoming this on his own. So he did, for a while.
The second time, he was seventeen. He was on his way home from church, having helped out with clean up after Sunday prayer, when a man cornered him in an alley. He was around Shane's size, but clearly several years older, dressed in all black. The man was holding a knife in his left hand, using his right to push Shane against the dirty wall of the alley.
Shane doesn't remember much of the encounter, now. He knows that the man tried to rob him, not expecting Shane to easily fight back. He knows that he must've disarmed the stranger, surprising him with the strength he had built up over years of discipline, and turning them around, pressing the other up to the wall.
However, what he remembers most vividly, is wrapping his hands around the man's neck. He pressed his fingers into the soft skin, reveling in the choked off gasps, the desperate clawing of hands at his arms. When he finally let go, the man was looking at him with wet eyes, shaking from fear.
"I'm sorry," he whimpered in a hoarse voice, "please let me go."
Shane did, stumbling back in shock, and watched the man run from the alley like he was being chased by a bear. It all felt surreal to Shane. Wasn't he supposed to be the victim? Why was he being treated as the predator?
Luckily, his erection went down quickly, the fear in the stranger's eyes serving as fuel to the guilt churning in Shane's gut. That night, Shane promised God to do better. He begged to be forgiven one more time, promised it would never happen again. Shane would not let it.
So, Shane is disciplined.
He is diligent in his studies at the local university, keeping his distance from people that aren't part of his church. Three times a week, he helps out with service, assisting father Matthew, and cleaning up after.
It's been two years since his second transgression, and he has not let another mistake happen. And he never will.
"Did you hear about the poor Rozanov boy?"
At the vaguely familiar name, Shane looks up from his breakfast, giving his mom a questioning look.
"Sister Sofiya's nephew," she explains, taking another bite of her food before elaborating.
Sofiya Rozanova, Shane realizes now. She is a quiet woman, usually keeping to herself, but always attends service diligently. Shane didn't know she had a nephew.
"Apparently, his father and brother died in a horrible car accident a few weeks ago," Yuna finally elaborates, voice sympathetic. "His mother has been dead for years, and since he's still seventeen, the state asked Sofiya to take him in. Father Matthew told me about it yesterday. He said the boy seems very troubled, but who wouldn't be in his situation? I hope father Matthew will take him under his wing, he will surely need it."
Shane hums, feeling a vague sympathy for the boy. He wonders what it would feel like to lose his parents — let alone two years ago, when he wasn't even an adult yet. Quickly, he shakes the thought off. It's simply too horrible to entertain.
Maybe he should offer this Rozanov boy a helping hand. Surely, he can teach him to find peace in their church.
♱ - ꨄ - ♱
Several days pass before Shane gets to meet the Rozanov boy. It's a Tuesday evening, and service is well underway, when he spots the unfamiliar face in the back. The boy sits next to sister Sofiya, his head angled downwards, a blank stare leveled at the bench in front of him, as father Matthew leads the prayer. Shane can't make out many features besides a head of curly, blond hair, and a glint of gold around the boy's neck.
Once service is over, he decides to make his way over, acting on his vague thoughts of taking the boy under his wing. When he approaches, the boy's back is turned to Shane as sister Sofiya intently talks at him in whispered Russian, hands gesticulating between them. Her voice sounds just at the edge of frantic, but she abruptly cuts off when she spots Shane standing close. Sofiya Rozanova looks caught out, seemingly not realizing that there is no way for Shane to tell what she had been saying at all.
A pleasant smile on his lips, Shane simply clears his throat. "Hello," he starts, his voice catching when the boy turns around at the greeting and fixes his empty, strikingly blue eyes on the space above Shane's shoulder.
He doesn't look like a boy, really. He has some height on Shane, body, though covered by a loose shirt and jeans, clearly built, and his face is angled and sharp, devoid of any of the baby fat that Shane's still clings onto even now. He looks like a man.
Vaguely, Shane thinks that he looks like the kind of man Shane would hope to be chosen to be married to by father Matthew, were he born a woman. He shakes off that thought.
When no reply to Shane's greeting comes, he stretches out his hand and speaks up again. "I'm Shane Hollander. I wanted to welcome you to our community."
Again, there is nothing. It's almost like the man is looking right past him, barely registering that he is being spoken to. After a few seconds of silence, Sofiya elbows her nephew into the side and hisses something in Russian, causing him to blink and look down at Shane's hand. He grabs is, then, grip so soft it's barely there, and mutters one word. "Ilya."
Shane's heart hurts, empathy he only vaguely felt a few days ago swelling in his chest at the lonely figure in front of him. He envelops Ilya's hand in both of his and pulls it towards his chest. The other stumbles a little and looks up at Shane's face in confusion, but Shane just squeezes his fingers between his own.
"Ilya," he says, eyes intently fixed on his face. "I heard about what happened, and I am so sorry. All of this must have been so hard for you."
As he keeps talking, he soothingly circles his thumb over the soft skin of Ilya's wrist. "I want you to know that you're not alone, okay? You're one of us now. I'm here for you."
Ilya is looking back at Shane in bewilderment, blinking rapidly, the earlier emptiness all but gone from his eyes. They're fluttering all over Shane's face, like they're unsure what to focus on, until they finally settle heavily right below his eyes.
"If you ever need anything, or just want to talk, I'm always available for you, okay?"
Ilya's fingers are twitching in Shane's hold now, his lips slightly parted in astonishment.
"Can I give you my phone number?" Shane asks, and Ilya swallows heavily before finally speaking again.
"Oke."
The way his accent wraps around the single word makes something squirm in Shane's gut, but he doesn't pay attention to it as he types his number into Ilya's phone. Once Ilya takes his phone back, he just stares down at it, looking like he's been handed a piece of stardust.
Later, when Shane is walking home after helping with clean up, he feels really good about himself. Father Matthew has always told him that he should be acting as a mentor for younger members, and for the first time, Shane feels like he's doing a proper job at this.
He tells himself he imagined the slight fear in sister Sofiya's eyes as she bid him goodbye.
♱ - ꨄ - ♱
Two days later, Shane is cleaning up after Thursday service, when he turns around and startles so hard he almost drops the bowl he is holding. Ilya is standing right in front of him, so close that Shane can feel his breath hit his upper lip when he breathes out.
Quickly, Shane takes a step back and composes himself, sending Ilya a warm smile — or, really, Shane's approximation of a warm smile.
"Ilya, hello. What are you still doing here? Do you need something?"
The boy shuffles his feet, eyes shifting, and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He looks nervous.
"Can I walk you home? Is very late, when you go home after," he waves his hand around the room, gesturing to the benches, "prayer meeting."
Shane is grinning now, inexplicably charmed. "Service."
"Like a restaurant?"
Shane laughs, shaking his head, and Ilya immediately starts grinning, too, clearly delighted. It lights his whole face up, making him look much more his age than the lifeless expression he wore two days ago.
"Church service, that's what it's called. Doesn't matter, really," Shane turns around, putting away the bowl and closing up the cupboard he is standing in front of.
"Shouldn't I be the one walking you home, though? I'm the adult."
There is no answer until he turns back around, meeting Ilya's baffled expression.
"You are older than me?"
Shane huffs, crossing his arms in front of his chest, and nods. "I'm nineteen."
Ilya takes a few seconds to recover from that information, then gives a quick nod. "Oke. But I am stronger. So I will walk you home."
Grinning, Shane shakes his head. "I bet I could beat you in a fight."
Ilya looks delighted immediately, taking a step closer and crowding Shane against the cupboard. "Prove it."
Shane snorts. "I'm not beating you up, Ilya. That's stupid."
There is mischief in Ilya's eyes, but he just shrugs and turns towards the doors, waving Shane after him. "Then I walk you home."
"Stubborn," Shane grumbles, but falls into step beside Ilya anyway. He locks up the door once they make it outside and starts leading Ilya in the direction of his house.
They walk in silence for a while, nothing but the late spring air between them. It's comfortable, weirdly enough, something Shane has never quite been able to say about his silence. Around the midway point, Ilya decides to break it.
"So, you are in this… church from birth, yes? Because of your parents?"
Shane perks up, shooting a sideways glance at Ilya, who is resolutely looking ahead.
"Yeah. My grandparents joined in their teens, so my dad was also born into it. When my dad met my mom in their first year of college, he asked father Matthew to be allowed to marry her."
There is a pause.
"Allowed?" Ilya sounds hesitant, like he is scared to overstep, and Shane isn't sure why. He knows it's not a common practice, so it makes sense Ilya would be unfamiliar.
"Father Matthew usually chooses a spouse within the community, but my mom was willing to join, so it worked out."
Ilya is silent for a while, and Shane doesn't speak up either, in fear of interrupting the other's thoughts. Their shoulders brush occasionally, and Shane has a fleeting thought of creating some distance, but he decides against it. It's nice.
"Do you not want to choose?"
Shane takes a few seconds to answer, their topic almost having slipped from his mind already.
"My future wife, you mean?"
"Spouse, yes."
Shane shrugs, rubbing his thumb along the seam of his formal shirt to distract himself.
"I've never really thought about it. I've never met a girl I liked like that, and I'm sure father Matthew knows what he's doing. It'll probably be easier than finding someone who's willing to convert."
Ilya only hums in response, and they fall back into silence.
♱ - ꨄ - ♱
When Ilya shows up on Sunday evening to walk Shane home again, he is less surprised than the first time, but also a tad confused, considering Ilya hasn't used his number yet. Clearly, the boy needs a friend, just the way he is going about making one is a little unconventional.
Shane is happy to accept, though. He enjoys Ilya's company, and he promised to be there for him, after all. Shane is making good on his mentor role.
"How do you like it here so far?" Shane asks as they are walking side by side, a little closer than the previous week, causing their shoulders to bump more frequently.
"It is nice."
"And your aunt? Is she taking good care of you?"
Ilya hums, lifting this hand to wave it dismissively.
"She does not like me, but is fine. She is not mean, just distant."
At that, Shane frowns, lifting his hand to grab Ilya's elbow to signal for him to stop, turning to face him.
"That's not fine at all. You went through a lot and just lost your entire support system. She should be here for you right now," Shane rants, voice getting more agitated by the second. Ilya just smiles indulgently, patting Shane's hand.
"Is better from before. My father and my brother did not like me, too. They were mean, she is not. I am oke."
Shane takes a stuttering breath in, looking at Ilya with wide eyes. "What?"
Ilya has moved on to patting Shane's arm, hand steadily moving up. "Yes, is oke. You say I lost… system, but I did not lose much."
"You still had to move away from your friends, that can't be ea-"
"Ah, no. No friends. I had childhood friend, back in Russia, yes? But we have not talked in many years."
Shane knows his breathing is slightly unsteady now, but he can't really control it. His mind is reeling. Just how long has this boy been alone?
"So, no need to be angry at Sofiya. Is big improvement."
Not knowing what else to do, Shane wraps his arms around Ilya's torso and pulls him into a hug, squeezing their bodies together in what he hopes is a comforting pressure. Ilya simply falls into it, arms immediately circling Shane's waist as he buries his face into Shane's shoulder. Stuttered breaths hit the sensitive skin of his throat, and it quickly becomes clear that Ilya is trying very hard not to cry.
"You have me, now," Shane whispers, and he finds that he's never meant anything more. He's known this boy for less than a week, but every cell in his body burns like it was meant for exactly this. Holding Ilya Rozanov as he falls apart without shedding a single tear, and putting him back together to form a person that is not alone anymore.
♱ - ꨄ - ♱
It's a Sunday again, Ilya walking a pace behind Shane as they approach his house, rambling about a dog he saw earlier in the day. When they stop in front of his gate, Shane turns back to Ilya and fixes him with a contemplating look.
"You know," he says, "I really should be the one walking you home. We kind of glossed over that last week, but you are a minor."
Ilya snorts "barely," and grins, cocking his head to the side. "But if you prove that you are stronger, maybe I will let you walk me home."
Shane grins at that, shaking his head. "Wow. How generous. And I'm still not beating you up, you idiot."
Ilya's grin tapers down into a smirk, and he just stares at Shane for a few seconds, considering. Shane is about to just say goodbye and go inside when Ilya suddenly lifts his arm, pulls it back, and swings for Shane.
Eyes wide, Shane immediately moves on auto pilot, grabbing Ilya's wrist and pulling him forward as he dodges to the side, turning to catch Ilya before he crashes into the gate, and expertly locking him into a chokehold.
They just stand there, for a bit, both of them breathing heavily. Shane's arm is wrapped around Ilya's neck tightly, and Ilya is holding onto it with both of his hands. Not grappling, not trying to pull it off, just… holding on.
During a momentary lapse in judgment, Shane squeezes. The gasp the movement elicits from Ilya shoots straight to Shane's groin, and the shock of arousal immediately breaks Shane out of his stupor. He lets go of Ilya, stumbles back a few steps and stares at the hunched over figure of the boy as he desperately wishes to turn back time just a few minutes.
He did it again. He did it again. He did it again.
But this time, it is so much worse. Because he didn't do it to a bully, or a robber. He did it to Ilya. Sweet, lonely, beautiful Ilya. Ilya, who, any moment now, will turn around with fear staining the striking blue of his eyes.
Shane braces himself as Ilya pulls his body up to full height on the fence next to the gate and turns to look at Shane, but his gaze doesn't look scared. Shane can't tell what emotion greets him, but it isn't fear that is swimming in Ilya's eyes. The boy's cheeks are stained red and he looks back at Shane in a way that makes him shiver.
Then, those blue eyes drop down, connecting with the straining erection in Shane's slacks, and Shane simply bolts. He runs past Ilya faster than either of them have time to register and jams his key into the lock, ripping open the door to his home. The last thing he hears is a cut off wait as he slams the door shut behind him and sinks to the floor.
As he sits there shaking, Shane wonders if God still believes him when he promises that it will never happen again.
♱ - ꨄ - ♱
Shane doesn't really expect Ilya to show up on Tuesday, convinced that he scared him away. He probably just misinterpreted the look in Ilya's eyes, not knowing what fear looks like on him. Or disgust, possibly.
So when Shane is alone at church, tidying up after service again, he actually drops the candle he is holding when he spots Ilya from the corner of his eye. He's standing a bit further away, looking at Shane intently as he quickly bends down to pick up the candle and put it away.
"Hey, Ilya," Shane greets, aiming for casual and landing a few degrees to the left of it.
Ilya takes the greeting as an invitation to walk up to him, crooked smile tugging at his pink lips. "Shane."
"You here to walk me home again?"
"No," Ilya purrs, stepping so close to Shane that he has to tilt his head slightly to make eye contact. Their chests almost bump together, but Shane feels like his feet are stuck to the ground, unable to move away. "You proved you are stronger than me, yes?" the Russian says, fingers sliding down Shane's arm, barely touching, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
"Uh, I guess," Shane gets out, mouth dry as Ilya grabs his wrist and pulls it up.
"So, you can walk me home."
Ilya pushes Shane's fingers apart with his, pressing the flat of Shane's palm against the base of his neck.
"Y-yeah, I, okay," Shane stammers out, wide eyes fixated on where his hand sits against Ilya's pale skin. Without conscious thought, Shane lightly presses his thumb into a mole at the side of Ilya's neck, rubbing it in small circles. Slowly, Ilya leans forward a bit more, deliberately pressing into Shane's unsteady hold.
His voice is a bit breathless when he speaks again. "You are ready to go?"
Shane sucks in a harsh breath and steps back, pulling his hand with him. Ilya sways forward a little, like he is chasing the touch, and the movement makes Shane's lungs constrict.
He wants.
Shane shoves his shaking hand into one of the pockets of his slacks and nods stiffly, tidying up what's left in a rush before he turns back to Ilya.
"Let's go."
Shane follows one step behind Ilya as he walks the unfamiliar path to the other's house, though it seems to be mostly the same direction as Shane's own. They walk in silence for a while, until Ilya starts a conversation about a girl in their church, gossiping like nothing at all has changed from last week.
Shane tries to play along, keeping the talk casual, but he can't help but feel like there is something crawling underneath his skin, trying to break out. He keeps thinking of the way Ilya looked with Shane's hand wrapped around his throat.
Ilya turns around at a gate two streets down from Shane's home and smiles, lifting one hand to his chest.
"Thank you for walking with me," he says, voice soft, as one of his fingers trails the mole on his neck that Shane touched less than half an hour ago.
"Yeah, no, of course," Shane stammers out, gaze fixed on Ilya's movement. Ilya lightly presses his finger against the skin, the mole stretching a bit.
"Good night, Shane."
And then, Ilya is gone, and Shane walks home in a daze. He isn't sure how he doesn't get lost, legs moving on their own as his brain plays the same pictures over and over.
He gets to his room in aborted motions, changing into his pajamas like a marionette performing a familiar dance.
Over and over.
The mole.
Fingers around his neck.
The mole.
Pressing against his hand.
The mole.
Shane wants to kiss it. He wants to bite it, suck it, leave the small, brown fleck behind on a bed of purple and blue.
Shane is lying on his stomach, and he can't help he way his hips are jerking in clumsy, unsure motions.
It doesn't count, it's okay.
Shane flexes his fingers around the edge of the bed, and his mind flashes an image of Ilya's neck. His fingers digging into skin.
The movement of Shane's hips speeds up, and he gasps into his pillow as a deep, pulling sensation spreads through his groin.
It doesn't count, he isn't touching himself.
He's shaking, spurts of come leaking into his underwear, and a low, drawn-out moan leaves his lips.
It doesn't count. It doesn't count. It doesn't count.
Shaking, Shane sheds his clothes and stumbles into the bathroom. He grabs his cross from his dresser on the way and locks the bathroom door behind him. He turns the water as cold as it will go and sits down on the shower floor, pressing the cross to his chest with shaky fingers.
"Forgive me," he chokes out, tears mixing with the shower water on his cheeks.
Over and over, he prays, he apologizes, he begs for forgiveness, until his skin is pruney and his teeth are chattering too hard to get any more words out.
God doesn't answer. He never does. Maybe He's always known that Shane isn't worthy of His guidance.
♱ - ꨄ - ♱
Ilya is there again, on Thursday, but he acts normal. He keeps up small talk, casually walking next to Shane like nothing happened at all.
Shane keeps looking.
Ilya's gold necklace catches the light of the street lamps, and Shane wonders what it would feel like against his hand. If the metal is cool, or if it has been warmed up from Ilya's body heat. He wonders if it would leave an indent on Ilya's skin if Shane pressed it in hard enough.
When they finally stop in front of Ilya's house, he looks contemplative, like he wants to ask something of Shane. Shane just waits, not in a hurry to part from Ilya.
"You say you should walk me home because you are the adult."
It's not a question, more of a statement, but Shane nods anyway.
"So, next week, I can walk you home again?"
Stunned, Shane blinks a few times before he can answer. "It's your birthday?"
Ilya hums, nods, and says, "Friday."
"I didn't know it was so soon," Shane breathes out.
Then, another thought comes to him, and he reaches out to grab Ilya's wrist.
"Will you be able to stay with your aunt?" he swallows heavily, uneasiness rising in his gut at the thought of Ilya leaving. He just got him.
Ilya smiles, patting Shane's hand in that soothing rhythm that is already becoming familiar.
"Ah, yes, do not worry. She does not like me, but she feels, ah," he pauses, flapping his hand around as he searches around for the right word, "responding?"
"Responsible," Shane corrects, soft smile tugging at his lips now, as his immediate worry is alleviated. Ilya snaps his finger in Shane's direction, smiling back.
"Yes, responsible," his pronunciation of the word is a bit clumsy, but that only makes Shane feel warmer, "so she will not kick me out."
Another thought comes to Shane, and he immediately blurts it out, worry chipping away at his discipline.
"Do you… want to stay?"
Ilya looks at him for a while, silence settling over them, and Shane bites his lip to hold himself back from demanding an answer. Chuckling, Ilya raises his free hand, Shane still holding one by the wrist, and carefully tugs Shane's lower lip free with his thumb. The movement has heat rushing to Shane's cheeks, and Ilya grants him a sweet smile.
"Yes. I want to stay."
♱ - ꨄ - ♱
Another week goes by, but Ilya never brings up what happened on Tuesday, or on the Sunday before. Neither does Shane. It almost feels normal again, if it weren't for the memories plaguing Shane's mind.
He manages to ignore them, mostly.
They walk side by side, shoulders bumping, jumping from topic to topic, making each other laugh.
It feels good.
On Wednesday, on his way home from one of his last classes before summer, Shane buys a bracelet. Gold, to match the necklace Ilya never takes off.
Shane almost never spends money, despite getting a monthly allowance, despite the bits of compensation father Matthew gives him for helping out. Shane is disciplined, and he doesn't need much besides the things his parents buy for him.
But it feels good, spending his money on something that might make Ilya smile. Might make the boy feel less lonely, when he looks at it.
Shane thinks that, maybe, he's been lonely, too.
He loves his parents, and he has his church. But knowing Ilya feels like he's found a limb he didn't know he was missing and reattached it to his body.
Ilya taught him what loneliness means, by making him feel the absence of it for the first time in his life.
♱ - ꨄ - ♱
Shane means to give Ilya his gift on Thursday, but the right opportunity just never quite seems to present itself, as the topic of Ilya's birthday doesn't come up.
When Shane watches Ilya close the door to his home behind himself, he wraps his fingers around the small package in his pocket and resolves to give it to Ilya on Sunday.
It's early Friday afternoon when Shane's phone chimes with a text. He looks down at it, and a grin takes over his face. At this point, he kind of thought that Ilya'd forgotten he even had Shane's number.
Unknown: this is ilya
Unknown: do you want to come over
Shane: Right now?
Ilya: yes
Shane doesn't need more than that, so he changes into some casual clothes, grabs the wrapped bracelet and makes his way downstairs.
He decides to take a detour to stop at a small, local bakery and buys a cupcake for Ilya. Pastry bag in hand, present in his pocket, he hypes himself up to knock on the door, suddenly nervous as he realizes this is the first time they will properly hang out. It kind of astonishes Shane, how close he feels to Ilya, despite never even having seen his room. Less than a month of walking home together three times a week, and it feels like Ilya has been woven into the fabric of Shane's being.
He wonders if Ilya feels even half as fond of Shane as he does of him.
After Shane finally gathers up the courage to knock, Ilya quickly answers, a bright grin on his face.
"Shane!"
He waves Shane inside, grabs him by the wrist, and leads him into a room just off the entryway. The room is on the smaller side for a bedroom, most of the space being occupied by the bed that is shoved up against the window looking out of the side of the house. The window has a direct view of the small street that turns the home into a corner house. Next to the bed is a small night stand that holds nothing but a desk lamp and a book with a Cyrillic title that Shane doesn't know. The only other piece of furniture is a large, likely second hand dresser. One of the drawers is missing a handle.
Ilya throws himself onto the bed, scooting up so he is sitting against the headboard, and eagerly pats the space next to him. Shane simply follows the invisible pull that is asking him to listen. The bed is too narrow to avoid pressing his entire side against Ilya, but he doesn't mind. It's still quite cold for June, and Ilya is warm and solid. The contact makes something flutter in Shane's chest.
"Oh, I brought something," Shane remembers the moment he's settled and holds up the pastry bag, pushing it into Ilya's hand. Ilya eagerly opens it and grins from ear to ear once he sees the contents. He rips the bag in his excitement to get the cupcake out, managing to smear frosting onto the paper as well as his arm.
"Cake," Ilya exclaims happily and starts eating it right away. Shane can't even bring himself to scold Ilya for eating in his bed, too endeared by the display, so he simply makes it his mission to carefully pick each crumb off Ilya's legs, the blanket, and the pillow, the moment they fall. Once Ilya is done eating, he watches Shane pick up the last few crumbs and deposit them into the half ripped bag before carefully placing the bag on the night stand.
When Shane turns back to Ilya, he finds amusement dancing in the man's eyes.
"You are so weird," he says, and it makes Shane's heart stutter for a moment.
Shane has been called weird many times in his life. Mostly in school, by kids his age, just one of the many listed reasons of why they didn't like him. It sounds different, when Ilya says it, but it still makes Shane freeze.
Ilya didn't sound annoyed. Ilya didn't sound mocking, either. But. But, but, but.
Weird cult boy.
"Is that bad?" Shane asks, and he regrets it the moment it leaves his lips. He sound so small. He sounds like the eight year old boy who ate lunch alone on a table meant for four students.
Ilya's eyes widen in shock, and he starts shaking his head vehemently, hand shooting out to grab Shane's.
"No. Not bad. Good weird. Perfect weird. Never bad."
Shane lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and smiles at Ilya, heart bursting with relief. "Okay."
Ilya smiles back, squeezes Shane's hand, and then they just sit there for a bit, smiling at each other. Shane can feel the heat creep up the back of his neck the longer the silence lasts, so he clears his throat and digs into his pocket, pulling out the small, wrapped gift.
"I got you a proper present, too," he says, and unceremoniously shoves it into Ilya's chest, avoiding eye contact. Ilya snorts, but takes it and lets go of Shane's hand to tear open the wrapper. He almost regrets having wrapped it.
"Oh," Ilya says, and Shane's curiosity wins over his embarrassment, so he looks up to see Ilya turning the bracelet in his hands, mouth parted and eyes wide.
"Uh, Happy Birthday," Shane squeaks out, because he suddenly realizes he hasn't even said it yet. He's so incredibly bad at this.
"It's," Ilya furrows his brow, holding the metal up to the light, "gold?"
Shane blushes. "Gold plated!" Suddenly, he kind of wishes he'd gotten an actual gold bracelet. "To match your necklace."
Ilya's next breath comes out in a stutter as one of his hands shoots up to grab the cross hanging from his neck. Confused, Shane looks up at Ilya's face, only to be met with striking blue glimmering with un-shed tears. Shane immediately panics, heart hammering away in his chest, and tries to grab the bracelet from Ilya's hand, but he pulls it away before Shane manages.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to- Let me just-"
"It was my mother's."
All the air is sucked out of the room at once, leaving them in a soundless vacuum for seconds that feel like hours to Shane.
"Oh."
Ilya sighs, sinking further back into the cushion, still holding onto the cross.
"She was not like my father. Or my brother. Or my aunt."
Shane tries to lean back carefully, too, to be closer, and tangles his finger into Ilya's, the metal of the bracelet warming between their palms.
"She was beautiful. And she loved me," Ilya's voice breaks on the word loved, and Shane squeezes his hand carefully. When he starts talking again, he's more quiet, pain laced through every word.
"But she was so sad. And my father was so mean to her."
Shane carefully wraps his free arm around Ilya's head, coaxing him to rest it on Shane's shoulder. He does.
"I was twelve when she killed herself. I found her."
Shane's next exhale is a shudder, and he pulls Ilya as close as possible, tangling their legs together in a desperate attempt to absorb all of Ilya's pain.
"My father did not like how much I missed her," Ilya whispers right into the skin of Shane's neck, breath damp. "He did not ever like anything I did. He always said I am too much like my mother."
Shane finally finds his voice. It comes out rough, wet, and shaky, but it comes out nevertheless.
"She must have been perfect, then."
Ilya cries into Shane's neck, and Shane wishes he could take a needle and thread to sow the two of them together so he'd never have to let go.
Silently, he sends a prayer to God, begging Him to entangle his string of fate with that of Ilya Rozanov until nobody would be able to tell that there was ever two of them.
♱ - ꨄ - ♱
Shane is a little worried when he finishes clean up on Sunday evening, and Ilya isn't there yet. He's sure he saw him attending service earlier, sat in the back next to his aunt, but he always seems to leave for a bit in between. Never usually this long, though.
Shane sits down on one of the benches, leg bouncing as he contemplates texting Ilya to ask where he is. It's not like they ever said they'd meet today, though. They never talk about it, Ilya usually just shows up.
Just as Shane resolves to pull out his phone, a shadow falls over him and he looks up, finding Ilya standing next to the bench with a grin. "Slacking off?" he teases, gesturing at the bench.
"No," Shane grumbles as Ilya sits down next to him with a grunt, turning to face Shane. "I'm done cleaning up."
Ilya hums in acknowledgment and leans his elbow onto the back of the bench, so he can put his chin into his hand. Shane immediately catches sight of the gold glinting on Ilya's wrist and lets out a punched out little oh sound. Following Shane's line of sight, Ilya smirks.
"It looks good, yes?"
"Yeah," Shane breathes, something unfamiliar churning in his chest.
"I like it, too," Ilya sits up properly again, wiggling his wrist in front on Shane's face to show off the bracelet. "Feels like a claim."
Shane blinks, moving his gaze from Ilya's wrist to his face. "What?"
Humming, Ilya taps a finger against the side of his neck. "Like collar, but for wrist, no?"
Shane takes in a hissing breath, heat shooting down his spine. "That's not," he stutters, "I didn't mean-"
"I like it."
Ilya scoots closer, face suddenly only centimeters away from Shane's, the sweet look in his eyes freezing Shane in place.
"Is like," Ilya hums, cocking his head to the side a bit, "I belong to you?"
There is static in Shane's brain, a ringing in his ears, and fire in his veins.
And then, there are lips on Shane's own.
They're full, and soft, and moving against his unhurriedly, simply exploring the feeling of melding together. The sensation of it erupts fireworks in Shane's stomach and lights his entire body up in warmth and content.
It's glorious.
It's also wrong.
Heart racing, Shane grabs Ilya's shoulders and pushes him off, breath coming out in panicked little huffs. Ilya is looking back at him in confusion, lips wet and soft-looking and inviting and, oh god, Shane wants-
"Ilya, we can't." Shane sounds as wrecked as he feels.
"We can't or you do not want to?"
Shane's next breath comes out shuddering, but he tries his best to enforce the grip he has on Ilya's shoulders.
"This is a sin, Ilya. It's wrong. We can't," a small sob, "I can't-"
"You did not do anything."
That throws Shane off, and everything stops for a second. He blinks.
"What?"
"I kissed you. You did not do anything."
"But…"
"You are just sitting."
Ilya carefully removes Shane's hands from his shoulder, meeting no resistance. He moves closer again, head angling down, and places a soft kiss on the side of Shane's neck.
"How are you doing a wrong thing if you do not do anything?"
Shane is shaking slightly, trying to come up with another argument, when Ilya licks a hot stripe up Shane's neck. A gasps escapes him, the fire in his veins spreading. Soon, Ilya is kissing and licking all over Shane's neck, using an arm to pull Shane closer.
The wet sounds should disgust Shane, but he can barely string a coherent thought together around the waves of sensation drowning out all rational thought.
Finally, it comes back to him, when he feels a warm hand cup the bulge in his pants. He gasps, trying to squirm back, but only meets the hard wood of the church bench.
"Ilya, stop," he pants out, but Ilya just starts softly massaging into Shane's groin, making him sob with arousal. "Ilya, please. Please. We can't do this," he hiccups, shaking with the effort of not bucking into the pressure.
"We are not doing this. I am. You are oke, Shane. You are being so good," Ilya murmurs into his collarbone, letting his mouth wander and kiss over the newly exposed skin. Shane didn't even notice him pull down the shirt.
For a few seconds, Shane tries to tell himself that Ilya is right. It doesn't count, not really. Shane isn't doing anything at all. His stomach is filling with molten lava and his skin is prickling with pleasure, and maybe it's okay.
Then, Ilya slips off the bench and drops to the floor, scooting between Shane's knees.
"What are you doing?" Shane demands, but it comes out as a whine, turning breathy by the end when Ilya opens the button of Shane's slacks.
"Ilya."
Ilya pulls down the slacks and boxers at once, freeing Shane's straining erection into the dusty air of the church.
"Ilya, what on earth are you doing?" Shane repeats his question, voice a bit stronger this time.
"I will make you feel good," is what Ilya answers, and the way his eyes look big and round as he looks up at Shane almost makes him sob.
"This is too far. Ilya, this is so wrong. You're… I can't let you sin like that," he whispers, horrified at himself for taking solace in the fact that he wasn't the one doing something wrong earlier.
"Oke," Ilya rasps, lifting his hands to grab onto Shane's. "Punish me, then." With that, he pulls them to his neck, wrapping Shane's hand around it from both sides. Shane is breathing heavily, his hands fully engulfing Ilya's neck, thumbs touching his Adam's apple.
"What?" Shane breathes, but the moment the word finishes leaving his mouth, Ilya dives down and swallows Shane's cock down whole. A desperate whine rips out of Shane's throat and he bucks his hips up involuntarily, making Ilya's throat constrict around him. Not giving Shane any chance to gather his bearings, Ilya starts bobbing his head in a relentless rhythm. The wet heat of his mouth descends upon Shane over and over again, pulling and pulling at his self restraint until it falls apart into nothing but wisps.
He tightens his hold on Ilya's neck and keens at the way he can feel his own length slide down Ilya's throat from the outside. He presses his thumbs in more, desperate to feel, to know.
Ilya chokes and moans around Shane's cock, and Shane can feel small, stuttered movement against his leg. With great effort, he rips his gaze from Ilya's neck and lets it fall to the floor, the sight almost making him come on the spot.
Ilya is rutting against his shin, desperately looking for stimulation against his clothed erection. Unthinking, Shane sticks his leg out a bit further to give him a better angle, and Ilya moans loudly, speeding up his thrusts.
Finally, Shane can feel Ilya's throat constrict around his erection again, the other boy's entire body shuddering violently as his rutting against Shane's legs stills. Through his shivers, Ilya tries his best to keep sucking at Shane's cock. Finally, Shane looks to Ilya's face. He is met with big, wet eyes, tears flowing from them freely as they streak down reddened cheeks. His full lips are stretched wide around the base of Shane's cock, cheeks hollowed as he continues to suck it down with effort.
The sight rips through Shane like thunder, tearing him apart as he comes deep into Ilya's throat.
"Oh, Ilya," he whines, and it almost sounds like a prayer.
Ilya swallows around Shane, coughing against the flood but refusing to pull off until Shane removes one hand from his neck to bury it in his hair and pulls him off with force. Come is leaking from the corners of Ilya's mouth and he is breathing hard, his eyes finally falling shut.
"Walk me home?" he asks, voice rough as he forces it out of his abused throat.
"Yeah," Shane whispers in response, "Let's go."
Shane waits until he is back home, in his room, before he breaks down.
He prays, and prays, and begs for forgiveness, cross clutched to his chest like a lifeline.
He doesn't promise God that he won't do it again.
Lying is a sin, too, after all.
♱ - ꨄ - ♱
On Tuesday, Shane is feeling uneasy, each step a chore, like he is about to slip and fall through the floor. Shane assisted in a baptism earlier, and the baptismal bowl is still propped up by the altar, mocking him from afar.
Like it's telling him to wash away his sins.
He still hasn't gotten himself to empty it or store it away by the time Ilya arrives, skulking in with an unsure expression on his face.
"Hey," he greets, hand lifted in a small wave as his eyes flick all over Shane's face. He has much less confidence in being able to pretend nothing happened this time around, it seems.
"Ilya," Shane nods, not making a move. Not towards him, not away, even as Ilya approaches cautiously.
"Shane," he says once he's in front of him, hand lifting like he wants to touch, but he lets it fall back to his side instead. Shane takes a deep breath, heart slamming against his ribcage.
"That can never happen again," Shane starts, and Ilya's eyes immediately turn big, the corners of his mouth tugging down. It slams into Shane like a hammer, exposing his heart to the air. Deep down, Shane already knows that his words are empty, but he says them anyway. "Do you understand how bad that was? This… what we did, it's a sin. We need to repent."
"Oke," Ilya says, and Shane's heart stutters for a moment, the acceptance shooting a bullet of fear into his heart.
But then, Ilya walks past Shane, stopping right in front of the baptismal bowl. He looks back at Shane, gesturing at it in a blasé gesture. "This is to repent?"
"Um," Shane says, eyeing the bowl and then Ilya, unsure of what he is implying. "It's holy water, yeah. For baptism." Ilya just nods, like that's exactly what he meant.
"You can baptism me, yes? Wash off the sin?" He giggles, leaning his head over the bowl and waving Shane over. "And then I can make you come again, yes?"
Shane chokes on his own saliva, stalking over to Ilya and stopping in front of him with a frown on his face. "That's not how that works at all."
Ilya hums, grabs Shane's hand and pushes it into the hair at the back of his head. He leans back over the bowl, facing the water. "Is holy, sounds good enough to me."
Biting his lip, Shane stares down at the back of Ilya's head, his hand slightly shaking in his curls. Taking a deep breath, Shane just says "okay" and presses down, pushing Ilya's face into the water.
This isn't how baptisms work. None of this has any point, and Shane knows that. But he can almost believe it just because Ilya does.
Shane holds Ilya under water for a few seconds before he pulls him back out, hand steadier now. Ilya is gasping for breath the moment he's back up, giggles breaking through in between. "I am sin free now?"
Something small, something controlled, snaps in Shane's chest at the sight of Ilya's face, water dripping down from his hair, his brows, his eyelashes, flowing into the corners of his grin.
"No," he whispers, "not yet," and pushes Ilya back under. Clearly unprepared, Ilya grabs onto the table, hands shaking as he tries to struggle against Shane's hand. Shane keeps him under a few seconds longer than last time.
The power is heady, prickling over Shane's skin like electricity.
He pulls him back up, and Ilya is coughing, his hair and the front of his shirt soaked in holy water. When he meets Shane's gaze, his eyes are glazed over, the blue mottled and dark. There are tears clinging to the corners, threatening to fall. Shane looks down, and an obvious erection is straining Ilya's pants. It takes his breath away a little.
"One more time, okay?" Shane rasps, looking back into Ilya's face, "Just to be sure."
Almost imperceptibly, Ilya nods, and Shane doesn't hesitate to push him back under water. This time, he waits even longer. He keeps a strong grip on the back of Ilya's head, reeling from the control.
Finally, when Ilya's fingers start twitching against the table, Shane pulls him back up roughly. Ilya is coughing in between heaves, shaking and gasping for air, and his hips are stuttering forward, weakly looking for friction. Shane roughly pulls his head to the side and crashes their lips together in something that can barely be described as a kiss. Ilya is still desperately gasping for air against Shane's mouth, as Shane is lapping at his bottom lip, tongue slipping against Ilya's cheek in his uncoordinated movements, gathering holy water and tears onto his tongue. Ilya is holding onto the table with one hand, the other desperately clawed into the front of Shane's shirt as he tries to reciprocate the kiss between his lungs ragged attempts to gather oxygen.
Clearly overwhelmed, Ilya stumbles, falling against Shane with a surprising force, taking them both down onto the carpet with it. Ilya rips his hand from the table to cradle the back of Shane's head against the fall, and brings the baptismal bowl down with them. The dull sound of metal clattering onto the floor rings in Shane's ear as he and Ilya stare at each other, both breathing heavily, completely soaked in holy water.
In any other situation, Shane might have laughed. Or panicked. But in this one, Ilya is looming above him, the light of the one lamp Shane leaves on for cleaning hitting him from behind, shining like a halo around his curls, darkened from being wet. In this one, Ilya's chest is pressing against Shane's with each gasping breath he takes, and his lips are wide open, and pink, and soft.
Shane Hollander is only a man, and Ilya Rozanov looks like an angel.
Using the hand still tangled in Ilya's curls, Shane pulls him down and connects their lips again, kissing him like his life depends on it. He presses his tongue into Ilya's mouth, tasting him, claiming him, and Ilya can do nothing but let him, whining against Shane's lips.
Shaking, whether from the cold air against his wet skin, his need, or fear, Shane shoves his hand in between their groins and makes quick work of their pants, shoving them down just enough to free both of their dicks.
Ilya hisses, leaning back a bit to look down at Shane in confusion and arousal, and Shane just pulls him back down, pressing Ilya's face into his shoulder.
"It's okay," Shane says, voice rough with want, "I'm blessing us. I'm washing away our sins. This is…" he swallows hard, wrapping his hand around both of their erections, eliciting a hiss from Ilya, "this is okay."
Shane starts moving his hand in a steady rhythm, slide just slippery enough, helped along by the water that is still dripping from Ilya's shirt. Ilya is moaning into Shane's skin, bucking into Shane's hold, and writhing on top of him in a beautiful display of lust. Shane can't help it, speeding up, his own moans echoing off the church walls as he feels the heat of Ilya's cock rub against his own.
The sensation has heat trickling down his abdomen, his orgasm slowly building as the movement of his hand becomes uneven, starting to stutter in overwhelm. Ilya shakes harder above him, a long, high moan escaping his lips as his hips still and long strings of come cover Shane's hand and parts of his shirt. He speeds up his hand, Ilya whining in overstimulation, as Shane comes too, pleasure crashing over him, wave after wave, until he is clinging onto Ilya for dear life. His mouth is open in a soundless moan, and both him and Ilya are shaking in the aftershocks of pleasure, lying on the church floor.
As the haze of orgasm abates, guilt slowly starts to bubble up in Shane's chest, constricting his breathing.
What has he done?
"I'm sorry," Shane whispers, feeling himself close to tears as he shakily caresses Ilya's back, hand pressing into the wet fabric. "I'm so sorry," he sobs.
Ilya gathers himself, pushing his upper body off the floor on his elbows to look down at Shane with worry in his eyes. "Hey, no," he whispers, cupping Shane's jaw and softly caressing his cheek with his thumb, "do not say sorry. Is oke. You did not do anything wrong."
Shane hiccups, looking back up at Ilya like he has all the answers as he grabs onto his waist, digging his fingers in to anchor himself.
"I was supposed to help you. Guide you. And all I," another sob, so violent it jolts his entire body, "All I did was pull you into sin."
"No, no," Ilya repeats, voice sweet, "look at you, Shane. If you could see," he whispers, leaning down to press a kiss to Shane's forehead. "You would know. If you could see, you would know."
"Know what?" Shane asks, voice still uneven from his tears.
"That God must have made you so I would have something to worship."
Another kiss, this one to Shane's nose.
"Look at you," Shane's right cheek, "Look at you," and his left. "No heaven can be this beautiful."
His lips, then, connecting with Shane's own again, and there might be something to Ilya's words, Shane thinks.
How could heaven ever compare to this?
♱ - ꨄ - ♱
"You've been getting quite close with the Rozanov boy, right?" Yuna says, voice approving and free of any underlying suspicion. Shane's heart crashes against his ribcage like it might break free and take flight regardless.
"Yeah," he murmurs, pushing a piece of egg into his mouth to buy himself a few seconds of silence. It tastes like ash. "We've been walking home after service together. You know how late clean up duty can get."
"Oh, that's so sweet! Isn't that sweet, David?" Shane's father nods in response, but his eyes never leave Shane's face. There is something in them, Shane thinks, in that face that resembles his own, but he chooses not to examine it.
"I'm just so glad you have a proper friend in the church, now," Yuna continues, oblivious to the fact that each word settles into Shane's gut like lead. "And it's also so good for the Rozanov boy! After everything that happened, he couldn't ask for a better helping hand than yours."
"His name is Ilya," Shane whispers, almost hoping not to be heard. There must me something to it, to the way he says the name. Shane can't fathom the possibility that a word that sacred to him could fall from his lips the same way any other would.
"Of course! Ilya," Yuna responds happily, none the wiser, "what a nice name."
She says it wrong, just a little, and Shane almost corrects her. He opens his mouth to repeat the pronunciation, but then he locks eyes with his father again, and he stops.
"Yeah, it is," Shane says instead, and the conversation is over. Shane finishes his breakfast and gets up from the table to put away his dishes, before going to his room.
David watches him leave.
♱ - ꨄ - ♱
When Ilya shows up after service that day, Shane is still feeling unsettled. The moment they're close enough, Shane's hand shoots out to grab onto Ilya's, fingers intertwining like they've done this a million times. It calms him a little, that warmth, the way Ilya's thumb caresses the skin on the back of his hand softly.
"I will take you home, yes?" Ilya asks, his voice gentle like he can read every single emotion on Shane's face and wants nothing more than to soothe the storm in his heart.
"Yes, please."
When they walk side by side, their hands have long since disconnected, not daring enough to commit such a transgression in the openness of the public. They bump from time to time, though, skin brushing in a secret dance of two hearts that can't quite stay away from each other.
"Do you ever think of leaving?"
Shane's heart stops, alarm sirens blaring in his head and drowning out the idle sounds of nighttime. He stops with a flinch, like the words physically struck him, and turns to Ilya with wide eyes. Ilya stops walking too, gaze fixated on Shane's.
"You said you wanted to stay," Shane says, his voice accusatory. It's not an answer, he knows this, but it's all he can say through the fear drumming a beat in his chest.
"Yes," Ilya hums, words coming out slowly, like he is rolling them around his tongue before letting them out, carefully eroding the edges to soften their blow. "I would not leave without you."
Shane is shaking, but he is barely aware of it, fear eating up every other sensation in his body, locking up his muscles.
"Ilya," he chokes out, desperately pushing out words past his quickly closing throat. "I couldn't- I can't even- my parents, Ilya, I-" Shane is breathing too fast, now, he knows that, but the realization only makes his lungs speed up. "My grandparents, my- my faith, I," Ilya's hand is gripping Shane's elbow, now, the other pressing Shane's own hand against his chest.
"Breathe, солнышко," he whispers, taking deep breaths for Shane to mimic. He tries his best, shaky air filling his lungs a little more evenly with each minute that creeps by them on this dim residential road.
It takes them a few minutes, no more words exchanged between them, but Shane eventually calms down fully. His fear subsides to manageable levels, only for embarrassment to take hold, prompting him to take a step back, out of Ilya's hold.
"I'm sorry," he says, voice strained.
"No," Ilya immediately reassures, and when Shane looks up at him, guilt is swimming in the sea of his eyes. "Is oke. I am who is sorry."
Shane starts to shake his head at that, but Ilya shushes him, grabbing Shane's hand between his own for just a few seconds. "I will never ask this again. I did not want to scare you."
Taking a shaky breath, Shane nods, letting his hand fall out from in between Ilya's.
"Can we go home?"
They don't talk much on the remaining walk to Shane's house, the air between them static and precarious. Ilya's question is playing on a loop through Shane's head with every step, his brain uncaring of the fact that Ilya promised not to ask again. The seed is planted, and the vines are spreading through Shane's mind like a parasite.
At the Hollander's front gate, they bid their quiet goodbyes, and Shane retreats into the deceptive peace of his home, uneven steps carrying him to him room. He closes his door behind himself and falls against it with a relieved sigh that is abruptly cut short.
David Hollander is sitting on his bed.
"Dad?" Shane asks, confused, and hurries to stand up straight, doing his best to morph his face into that of a person who hadn't just suffered a panic attack two streets away. "What are you doing here?"
Shane looks around his room, and his father immediately seems to know what he is looking for. "Your mother is asleep. It's just us. Can you come sit down, please?"
Taking a deep breath, Shane makes his way over and sits down next to his father. David's eyes hold all the patience and love they've held for every moment of Shane's life, gaze filled with the deep understanding that has always colored the man who had raised Shane.
If you asked anyone in their church who Shane took after most, or who he was closer with, the answer would be the same every time: Yuna. Shane's mother had always been heavily involved in his life, pushing him to do his best, supporting him in his studies, and scheduling his life in color-coded blocks of productivity.
Shane is disciplined, because Yuna Hollander had nurtured him to be.
However, deep in Shane's bones, in the pattern of his nerve endings, in the most hidden corners of his DNA, Shane has always been his father's son.
From the earliest memories of Shane's childhood, one truth has always held steady: Nobody knows him better than David Hollander. One look into his eyes was all his father ever needed to understand what Shane was thinking, what he was feeling. Deep down, Shane is aware that his father probably knows him better than even Shane himself does.
"I was a little younger than you when I first met your mother," David says now, gaze fixed on the window that overlooks their front yard. Briefly, Shane wonders if he saw Ilya drop Shane off there.
Shane doesn't answer, and David doesn't expect him to.
"It was love at first sight, maybe. First conversation, at the very least." David chuckles, nostalgia coloring his voice.
"Did I ever tell you that my parents didn't like Yuna at first?"
That surprises Shane, even though it shouldn't — he wouldn't say that his grandparents particularly like his mother, now. Regardless, he lets out a startled sound.
"Everyone here acts like the rules of this church are absolute," David continues, voice heavy, "like they have never changed, and thus will never change, either."
David finally moves his eyes to Shane, and there is a bit of sadness, there, now.
"When my parents were young, they would have had to leave our church, had they wanted to marry someone of a different race."
"Oh," is all Shane can bring himself to answer. David nods.
"That rule had changed by the time I met your mother, but my parents had a hard time letting it go. So," David takes a deep breath, seemingly preparing for something, "even though I knew that the church would welcome Yuna, I offered to leave for her."
Shane feels like all of the air has left his room at once, abandoning him in the cold vacuum of space.
"What?"
A smile, soft and indulgent, graces David's lips.
"I was lucky in many ways, back then. Your mother was very religious, perhaps even more so than me, and immediately refused my offer. Eventually, my parents came around to it too, especially after she officially joined our church. I didn't have to give up anything to be with her, but," David leans forward, his hand finding Shane's and covering it heavily. It's like the warmth of his father's skin is slowly letting the air back into the room.
"I would have. I would always choose Yuna, over anything. If she asked me to leave today, I would. If she had asked me to leave back then, you would have never been born into the church. There were many times, watching you grow up, that I wondered if that would have been better for you. I saw how you kept your distance from other children, how you always seemed to stop yourself from building connections, and it worried me. I know you, Shane, and I know that you think you are failing right now, but," a deep breath, "I have finally stopped worrying."
David picks up Shane's hand, cradling it in both of his, and the bit of sadness has spread, gaze seeped in melancholy.
"I love you, Shane. There is nothing that could ever make me stop loving you," he whispers, intently, like he desperately needs Shane to know. "Nothing."
Shane isn't sure when tears started filling his eyes, but the first one falls now, rolling down his cheek and catching on the corner of his lips.
"And I'm so sorry," David continues, voice steadfast despite the way his eyes, too, are shining with wetness, "that I raised you in a place that made you doubt that. But I need you to know that I will always love you, no matter who you are."
David leans forward, his forehead pressing against Shane's.
"No matter where you are."
They sit there for a while, breathing in each others presence, as silent tears run down Shane's face, until David separates them slowly, telling Shane that they should probably go to sleep now. Shane can only nod, brain a jumble of emotions, as he watches his father get up to leave the room.
Just as he is about to leave, David turns back one more time.
"Your mother will understand, too, one day."
And with that, the door closes, and Shane numbly sinks into his mattress.
He turns the conversation around in his head, over and over, looking for an explanation for his father's words other than the one burning in his chest.
He comes up empty.
♱ - ꨄ - ♱
The rest of the week passes on autopilot for Shane, his body going through the motions as his mind rattles with questions and words and conversations in two different voices.
Do you ever think of leaving? in the voice that makes his heart beat faster, and No matter where you are in the one that has always calmed it down.
When Ilya asks if Shane can walk him home today instead, he just nods and quickly finishes tidying up before leaving the church side by side with Ilya.
They walk down the streets in comfortable silence, but Ilya seems oddly fidgety, like there is something he wants to say. Shane gives him time, never one to push, and just keeps walking him towards his house.
Finally, just as they arrive at the gate, Ilya turns around with a determined frown on his face.
"My aunt is not home," he declares, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Do you want to come in?"
The moment the door closes behind them, Ilya is slotting their lips together with a whine and, idly, Shane wonders if he could ever truly deny him anything.
They are stumbling into Ilya's bedroom and, before they know it, falling into his bed, limbs in a tangle. Shane is gripping Ilya's curls as the man trails kisses and kitten licks all over his jaw, his neck, behind his ear, leaving behind invisible marks.
"Ilya," Shane breathes out, pulling at his shirt, and the message clearly comes across, as Ilya sits up and makes quick work of his shirt, leaving Shane to take off his own.
At the first possible moment, they press together once more, chest to chest, lips devouring one another as Ilya flutters his hands over the sides of Shane's torso in silent worship.
Giving into his urges, Shane bucks up, his groin colliding with Ilya's, and bites down on Ilya's bottom lip at the surge of pleasure the contact shoots through him. Ilya whines, bucking back on instinct as his hands grow more frantic, pressing and groping Shane's skin in desperation.
Shane bites harder, and draws blood. The coppery liquid tastes like honey on Shane's tongue, and he laps it up eagerly, reveling in Ilya's drawn-out moan.
Shaking, Ilya pulls back a little, his eyes swimming with tears.
"Shane, please, I need you," he whispers, hands now slipping over his chest, taking advantage of the sliver of space between them.
"You have me."
Ilya whines, and he leans to the side, fumbling with the drawer of his night stand before pulling out a small bottle filled with clear liquid. Shane squints to read the label and his eyes widen the moment he registers what it is. He's heard about it, locker room talks in gym class, giggling girls gathered over a Japanese comic book in the back of the classroom. His heart gallops through his chest.
"Can I?" Ilya whispers, eyes pleading, and Shane's chest squeezes with the knowledge that there really is no world where he refuses Ilya Rozanov. Especially not when he wants this just as much, if not more.
Regardless, he stalls, shaking hand sinking into Ilya's curls and pulling, eliciting a gasp.
"Your mouth, first," he rasps. "Work for it."
Ilya perks up, expression reminiscent of a pleased dog, and scoots off of Shane's lap to make quick work of the rest of his clothes, fingers slipping off of the button of Shane's pants three times in his haste. Finally, he frees Shane's erection, pulling the pants and underwear all the way off and depositing them on the floor. For a brief moment, Shane thinks to complain, but then Ilya is pulling apart his legs and, in one swift movement, his face is buried between Shane's thighs. He's kissing and sucking on the sensitive skin there, leaving little bite marks and streaks of saliva behind in what is barely more than the uncoordinated excitement of an animal.
Shane can only let out tiny gasps of pleasure as his cock strains with neglect.
Not that that is where he wants Ilya's mouth, anyway.
Shaking, Shane lifts one of his legs and bends it above Ilya's back, planting his foot on top of golden curls. He pushes, hard, and decisively presses Ilya's face between his legs.
"Get it together," Shane grits out, strained. "What are you, a dog?"
As if to prove Shane right, a high whine falls from Ilya's lips before he dives forward and claims Shane's hole in a long, hot lick. The unfamiliar sensation rips a moan from Shane's chest, foot slipping off of Ilya's head as his legs fall apart to make space. His body an offering upon Ilya's altar.
Not losing a single second, Ilya grabs onto Shane's thighs and presses his lips to his rim, licking and biting at the sensitive muscle now like it is his first meal in a month. Shane is holding onto the head of the bed with white knuckles, writhing under Ilya's ministrations with desperate moans.
Then, Ilya presses the tip of his tongue against Shane, forcing his way inside with panting breaths. Shane is keening, hips bucking against the intrusion, unsure of whether to press against it or pull away.
"Oh god," Shane whispers, voice shaky, and Ilya takes it as encouragement to start a shallow thrusting motion with his tongue, making Shane feel like he is burning up with need.
Overwhelmed, Shane presses his thighs together, hard, trapping Ilya's head in between. Whining, Ilya claws at the sides of Shane's legs, babbling a pleading string of Russian against Shane's hole. However, when Shane looks down, he can see Ilya's hips bucking against the mattress in uneven motions.
"Eager puppy," Shane breathes in astonishment, and Ilya whines so loudly that Shane worries the neighbors might hear.
Taking pity, Shane loosens his thighs again, letting his legs fall apart once more. His eyes make contact with teary blue.
"You did so well," Shane whispers, his skin still tingly from pleasure, "why don't you grab that bottle again, hm?"
"Yes," Ilya says, "yes, thank you." He grabs the lube eagerly, fingers shaking as he clumsily rips at the plastic around the cap. He rips it off, throws it somewhere behind the bed, and finally clicks open the bottle.
"Oke, oke," he grunts, pouring generous amounts of the liquid onto his fingers. "I have read about this."
Shane can't help but giggle at that, throwing his head back with it.
"What? Did you google how to-"
He interrupts himself with a strangled moan as a slick finger slides past his rim with barely any resistance.
"Oh," Ilya whispers, voice full of wonder. "I thought there would be… I guess my tongue helped?"
When he can feel the finger slowly pulling back out, Shane brings himself to look down at Ilya, who is now carefully pumping his finger in and out of Shane's hole. They don't make eye contact, though, because Ilya is transfixed. Mouth open in silent awe, he is staring at where his middle finger keeps disappearing into Shane, over and over, each slide easier than the last. Shane is panting with it, but Ilya doesn't shut up for long.
"You are so beautiful," he whispers, crooking his finger a little and sending sparks up Shane's spine. "Can I put one more? Please?"
"Okay," Shane pants, and Ilya doesn't waste any time, carefully pushing in a second finger alongside the first. There is a little more resistance, now, but the overwhelming amount of lube that Ilya is using definitely helps make the glide easier.
Shane takes a deep breath, and adjusts.
"Shane," Ilya whispers, still not looking up from his work, "Shane, so pretty. You take me so pretty."
With that, Shane lets his head fall back again, staring at the ceiling as Ilya keeps pumping into him, babbling praise along the way. His entire skin is tingling with sensation, and Shane wonders how this can be wrong. If it feels so right, if it makes Ilya whisper words that sound like prayer, how can it be wrong?
"One more? Article said you should do three the first time."
Shane smiles, closing his eyes. "Yeah."
He lets the pleasure wash over him as Ilya finishes preparing him, words of worship putting his mind at ease. When Ilya finally crawls up his body, gaze searching and pleading, Shane is pretty sure he's never felt closer to God.
"Hey baby," Shane whispers, and Ilya's answering smile is bright and blinding.
"You are oke?" he asks as he positions his tip to carefully press against Shane's rim.
"Yeah," comes Shane's answer, and he wraps his arms around Ilya's shoulders, pulling him down into a soft kiss. "Take what you need, puppy."
And with a long whine, Ilya does. Slowly, he pushes into Shane, inch by inch, bringing them together in a way that is so far from anything Shane has every experienced that, for a few seconds, he thinks this might be what dying feels like.
And then Ilya brings him back to life.
Eagerly and unrefined, Ilya thrusts into Shane in shallow bursts, lips pressed against his shoulders as he tries his best to be careful. Each slide crackles up Shane's spines like fireworks, raining down into the pool of arousal in his gut, already on the brink of spilling over.
"Shane," Ilya whispers, voice a wreck of lust and emotion, "Shane, Shane, so perfect, feel so good, so tight."
Shane smiles around his own gasps and moans, fingers sliding up into Ilya's curls, not pulling, just petting softly. His other hand settles on the back of Ilya's neck, massaging carefully rather than wrapping around it. What is there to punish, after all?
Ilya's thrusts grow more erratic, and Shane can feel his own orgasm approaching fast. Eagerly, he moves his hip in tandem to Ilya's, meeting his thrusts in the middle as both of their moans grow louder.
"Shane, so close, Shane, I can't," Ilya babbles, hips stuttering in desperation.
"Come for me, baby," Shane whispers in response, and Ilya does, spilling into Shane with a loud moan, fingers tightening around Shane's thighs.
Shane is not far behind, the heat of Ilya's come spreading through him pulling him over the edge, streaks of white hitting his torso in long spurts.
They're both breathing hard as Ilya collapses onto him, face buried into Shane's shoulder, wet pants hitting his skin.
"Thank you," Ilya sobs out, "thank you, thank you, Shane, thank you."
Sighing deeply, Shane pets Ilya's hair in soothing motions, other hand stroking the sweat-slick skin of his back.
"Oh, baby," he whispers, and Ilya shudders at the name.
"I love you."
The three words drop from Ilya's lips like a bomb, sudden and destructive. They land on Shane's ribs, cracking them apart, before they sink into his heart.
I love you tears through the depths of Shane's being, rips down barriers, and brings even the tallest structures to their knees.
The sheets of Ilya's bed should be red, Shane thinks, drenched in the blood of the mangled corpse of everything Shane has taught himself to be for the last nineteen years.
They're a brilliant blue, though, like the dress his mother wears to church every Sunday.
"I'm sorry," Shane whispers, and Ilya stutters out an aborted gasp.
"No, no sorry, is oke," Ilya answers back, voice filled with barely concealed pain, because this sweet, sensitive man doesn't know that Shane isn't talking to him.
Shane grips Ilya's curls a bit tighter and presses his face deeper into his shoulder, needing to be as close as possible.
"I love you, too," he says, and the words should feel like damnation.
They don't.
They just feel warm.
Ilya sobs, arms snaking around Shane's waist and holding on tight.
"Shane," he says, tone now a mix of wonder and devotion.
"I'm sorry," Shane says one more time as he pulls Ilya in for a kiss, his words muffled against soft lips.
It feels fitting, that Shane's last apology to God is lost in the content sighs of his love.
♱ - ꨄ - ♱
The following two weeks pass in the sort of happiness Shane has never known was possible for him. They pass in quiet whispers, in secret kisses, and in sighs of pleasure. They pass in a bliss Shane knows is timed, but, perhaps for the first time in his life, Shane decides to live in the moment, the future be damned.
The future, of course, does not see herself fit to be disregarded, so she chooses to strike anyway.
"Shane, sit down, we have amazing news," Yuna says giddily, breakfast spread out, bolstered with fruit and pastries, an uncommon sight for a regular Thursday morning.
Shane sits down in his spot and picks up a piece of watermelon to bring to his mouth. Just as he is about to swallow, he makes eye contact with his father, and he almost chokes on it.
David Hollander looks sad, his eyes spelling out grief and acceptance in equal measure.
"Um," Shane says, voice timid, "what are the news?"
Yuna stretches her arms across the table, taking one of Shane's hands into her smaller ones in a motherly gesture. Her face is lit up with pride and happiness, and for the first time in his life, his mother's joy makes Shane uneasy.
"Father Matthew talked to us this week and," she stops, like she is building up excitement, unaware of the dread ravaging Shane's heart, "he said that he has decided on your perfect wife."
The ground drops out from under Shane, and his heart falls with it.
Yuna Hollander, however, keeps talking happily. It feels unfathomable to Shane, that his mother can't tell that the world has just ended.
"It's Jessica, isn't that wonderful? It is such an honor for father Matthew to grant you his own granddaughter. You two will make the perfect, godly couple, I just know it," she swoons, stars in her eyes. "And how cute your children will be, oh, I can't wait."
"Mom," Shane rasps, and Yuna stops talking at that, looking at her son expectantly. "Isn't it a bit early? I'm still in school."
His mother furrows her brow, face contorting like he's just said the most ridiculous thing possible. "Your father and I got married while we were still in school. Besides, it's not like the wedding is tomorrow," she tacks on, smile back on her face, "You'll get to properly meet her as your fiancée on Sunday. We'll have lunch with her family to discuss the timeline."
"But-"
"Shane," her voice sounds strained, now, like she is talking to an insolent child, "this is an immense honor."
Shane closes his mouth, and lets his gaze wander back to his father. David is looking at him like he always is, nothing but understanding in his eyes.
"Okay, mom. I can't wait for Sunday."
♱ - ꨄ - ♱
Shane is disciplined.
He makes it through the whole day, displaying nothing but happiness and perfection. He smiles brightly through countless members of the church coming up to him before and after service to congratulate him on his engagement, because somehow, everyone knows. Only once does Shane dare to look at Ilya, and he regrets it immediately.
Ilya's eyes are drenched in heartbreak, pain, and grief. For the short few seconds that Shane holds his gaze, Ilya looks back at him with the air of a man who's lost everything. Then, Shane looks away, heart screaming in pain in his chest, and he doesn't look back again.
It only hurts a little, when Shane finishes cleaning up and Ilya doesn't show up. How quickly the human mind grows used to things, Shane muses, as he walks home alone, a gaping emptiness next to him. What doesn't change, though, is that his parents are asleep by the time he gets home, so Shane goes to his room in silence.
Shane is disciplined.
He's been getting an allowance from his parents since he was ten years old, but his mother raised him better than to crave meaningless belongings over fulfillment in his faith.
Shane is disciplined.
There is a box in the bottom drawer of his closet, filled with money. His allowance, the small rewards he got from helping at church. It might not be riches, but it is a start.
Shane is disciplined.
His clothes are perfectly arranged in his closet, making it easy to choose what to take and what to leave. What will be practical to have, and what he only valued for making him look like the perfect, devoted son of God.
Shane is disciplined.
Despite all the memories it holds for him, he leaves his phone on the night stand, knowing that bringing it could be a mistake. Instead, he writes down his parent's phone numbers on the back of a printed family picture he's had sitting on his night stand since he was a child. He carefully slots it into the folder filled with his important documents, then slides it into his backpack.
Slowly, Shane walks to his night stand, and picks up his bible. He runs his hand over the cover, fingers slipping through the indents of the letters on the front.
He looks to his backpack, and back at the heavy book in his hands.
Then, right next to the short letter he wrote, he sets the bible back onto his nightstand.
There is no space for it anymore.
He zips up his backpack, throws it over his shoulder, and steps out of his room as quietly as possible.
Shane comes face to face with his father, and stops dead in his tracks.
David Hollander is standing in the hallway, eyes flitting between Shane's face and the straps of his backpack, and his lips stretch into a warm smile. He looks relieved, almost.
"Dad," Shane whispers, eyes wide, and he quickly looks down the hall towards his parents' room.
David just shakes his head and takes a few steps, stopping right in front of his son. He leans up, a bit, to press a kiss to Shane's forehead.
The last time he'd done that, David still had to lean down.
"How did you know?" Shane whispers, searching his father's eyes for any sort of judgment and coming up empty.
David's lips quirk, and he lets out a small huff.
"You look the same way Yuna does, when you're in love," he muses, voice low, "It's a look I've seen a lot."
Shane inhales a shaky breath.
Carefully, David takes one of Shane's hands and presses a thick envelope into it, closing Shane's fingers around the paper. Then, he steps back.
"Go," he whispers. Even in the darkness, Shane can see it in his eyes the way he always could. Understanding.
Shane turns and walks down the stairs, carefully avoiding the creaky ones, and finally opens the front door, stepping out, and letting it fall shut behind him. He walks out of the front gate and stops.
Shane looks down at the paper in his hand, and carefully folds the envelope open. Looking back at him isn't a letter, or pictures. David had already told his son everything he needed to.
The envelope is filled with money, and Shane exhales a shaky laugh as he folds it closed again and stuffs it into his backpack.
He looks back at the house he grew up in, the only place he's ever called home, one more time.
Then, he walks away.
♱ - ꨄ - ♱
Shane thanks go- the universe that Ilya's room is on the ground floor as he walks around the side of the house until he is standing in front of his bedroom window. All hesitation gone now, Shane lifts his hand and knocks.
It doesn't take long for the curtains to pull back and reveal a startled Ilya, curls a mess on his head, red-rimmed eyes wide. He immediately fumbles to unlock the window, hands shaking as he pulls it open and inhales the warm night air of mid July.
"Shane," he whispers, voice groggy, "what are you doing here?"
Shane just looks, for a few seconds. There are tear tracks on Ilya's cheeks, wetness still fresh enough to reflect the moonlight. The tip of his nose is red, rubbed raw. His eyes are glistening with tears, bloodshot and red, like he has been crying for hours. His hair is all over the place, curls tangled, standing in different directions like someone has been tugging at them. Ilya is still wearing the same clothes he'd worn at church, shirt creased and rumpled.
He's the most beautiful thing Shane's ever seen.
"Pack your bag," Shane says, pushing at Ilya's shoulder.
"What?"
"You need to be quick, and don't be loud. We're going to be screwed if you wake up your aunt."
Ilya's eyes are jumping back and forth between Shane's own, face wide open in shock. He's not moving.
"Ilya," Shane hisses, lightly patting at his love's cheek to pull him out of his stupor, "we need to be on the train in five hours, and no buses go this early."
"Shane," is all Ilya whispers, voice now filled with awe. Shane heaves a deep sigh.
"Baby," he says, and grabs onto his shoulders. "Pack your things, and pack light. It's a four hour walk to the station."
There is a closer station, of course, but the first train from there leaves at seven. By then, his mother will be awake, and she'll know where to look.
A sob rips out of Ilya's throat and he dives forward, almost throwing himself out of the window as he grabs onto Shane's shoulders, pressing their lips together in a messy kiss.
"I love you," he stutters out into Shane's lips, tears streaming down his face.
Shane just smiles and presses a soft kiss to Ilya's wet cheek indulgently.
"I love you, too," he whispers, "now go and pack your things, okay? You can kiss me again on the train."
For a split second, Ilya stares back at him with shining eyes, face cracked open so hopelessly that all the love and devotion spills out between them in a messy tangle of feelings. Then, he turns away, and grabs the backpack at the foot of his bed.
As he watches Ilya haphazardly gather clothes and items together, Shane thinks that this man would likely follow him to the ends of the earth.
Luckily, that feeling is mutual.
♱ - ꨄ - ♱
The sun is slowly rising over the passing hills in the distance, and Ilya is quietly snoring into Shane's shoulder.
Their fingers are entangled between them, Ilya holding on snugly despite his unconscious state, like even when he is unaware he cannot fathom to let go of Shane.
Shane is looking out of the train window, taking in each minute that he is putting between himself and the life he once thought he wanted, the one he'd worked towards since he was a child. The life his family and church had chosen for him.
Then, Shane looks to his left, at the life he's choosing for himself.
Shane realizes he doesn't need God to entangle his string of fate with that of Ilya Rozanov. Their fingers might be clumsy, and the knots may be ugly, but they're doing a pretty good job of it themselves, regardless.
♱ - ꨄ - ♱
Hey Mom,
When you read this, I'll already be on the train.
I can't tell you where I'm going, and I'm sorry.
I'm sorry for many things.
I'm the most sorry for not being able to be the son you wanted me to be.
I promise I tried. I did nothing but try all my life.
I'm sorry I failed.
But I'm not sorry for loving him.
I think you would too, if you got to know him.
Maybe you will, one day.
I really hope so.
With love,
Shane