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“Fuck, Hollander, fuck,” Ilya growled into the crook of Shane’s neck, his sharp teeth pressing in on the overheated flesh of his shoulder. Not enough to leave a mark - never enough to leave a mark, no matter how badly Shane wished for some long-lasting proof that Ilya had been there. That this had happened. That they weren’t all a figment of his desperate imagination. But he couldn’t. They couldn’t. They were temporary, fleeting, in a way that didn’t allow for marks or morning breath.
They were only this. They could only ever be this. And they would be this until Ilya decided they weren’t. Shane had long come to accept that he would never be the one to end things. Ilya would call, and Shane would come running - just as long as Ilya kept calling.
They were this. And this was already more than Shane could’ve hoped to have found for himself.
They were this. And this was the frame of Shane’s hotel bed shaking beneath the force of Ilya’s thrusts. This was the feeling of Shane’s eyes rolling back in his head, his spine arching, ugly, embarrassing sobs being punched out of his chest every time Ilya’s cock perfectly brushed against his prostate.
“Quiet,” Ilya said, and the command felt like a blanket, warming him from the inside out. Yes. Yes. He could trust Ilya. He could give himself over to Ilya. Ilya took care of him. Ilya knew his body better than Shane did. Quiet, Ilya had said, silencing Shane like the flip of a switch. “Good boy.”
Yes. Yes. He had made Ilya proud. He was being good. He was making this good for Ilya. Ilya would come back. Ilya would keep calling.
“Hollander,” Ilya grunted. “Come. Now.”
And Shane did. He came apart like a thread unspooling, sparks shooting from the base of his spine and bursting from his fingertips. He was a being, floating through the cosmos while his body was left behind, melted on the mattress for Ilya to use as he saw fit. Mmf. Mmf. Mmf. Ilya buried himself in with one final, expletive-filled groan.
The night had been… intense. Ilya had slipped into Shane’s hotel room, immediately pushing him to his knees. Get me hard, he’d said. Shane had gotten him hard. Then, get naked. Shane had gotten naked. Then, open yourself for me, show me how desperate you are.
Shane had opened himself for Ilya, had shown him exactly how desperate he was. And god, was he desperate. Each quiet, cool command had dragged Shane down into that floaty headspace that had become more and more common during these stolen nights with Ilya. He didn’t even really know what it was, didn’t know why he felt submerged in the warm, comfortable, safe embrace of that surrender. All he knew was that Ilya told him what to do, Shane did it, Ilya was proud, and Shane succumbed to the weightless feeling that came along with Ilya’s approval.
He was still there, still floating somewhere beyond the plane of his physical body, when Ilya pulled out.
Shane shivered at the sudden emptiness, but his smile remained. The end was coming, and it would be cold and lonely, but this was so nice. This moment right here, where nothing felt like something he should regret - this was perfect. He smiled, tracing his fingers along the invisible path that Ilya’s had left behind as his eyes fluttered shut.
Distantly, he was aware that Ilya was cleaning him off. That Ilya had manhandled him into the clean spot on the soft duvet. God, Ilya knew him so well. He hummed, still drifting in that beautiful in-between place. Distantly, he was aware of the attached bathroom’s shower turning on.
Distantly, he was aware that Ilya would be leaving soon. Which… that was alright. That’s how they did this. It was just that Shane didn’t usually feel so untethered. Normally, he could wade through the fog, right back to his body, and put himself back together. This time, though, well, he’d flown so far away. It would take so long to return to himself on his own, but he needed to. He needed to. Fuck. He needed to.
“Was good,” Ilya said, getting dressed in front of him.
No, no, bring me back to shore, reel me back in, Shane wanted to scream. But he didn’t, because he couldn’t ask for more, because what if more was finally too much?
He just needed time. Some peace and quiet, a few long moments alone to rebuild the Shane Hollander that Ilya had hollowed out. It would be okay. He didn’t need to ask for more. He didn’t need to worry about being too much.
“Next time is in… two months, da?” Ilya asked. Shane thought he nodded. Was vaguely aware of his head bobbing. “Good. In Boston this time. I will have you in my penthouse,” he said, beaming. “You will not have to be so quiet.”
Ilya loomed over him, leaning down to take Shane’s mouth in a bruising, possessive kiss.
“There is fresh towel for you,” he said. “I will see you in two months.”
“Goodbye, Roz,” Shane registered himself speaking, but didn’t remember deciding to. The words just came out of him, and Ilya smiled.
“Goodbye, Hollzy.”
And then Ilya was gone, and Shane was alone with nothing but the generic art on the walls to keep him company.
Move, he told himself. Then, more sternly, like an order, move.
Shane didn’t, though. He willed himself to, pleaded with his limbs to just fucking move, but they didn’t. Traitors. He lay there in bed, even though he was dirty, even though he needed a shower, even though he needed to rid himself of any evidence that tonight had happened. God. Just fucking move.
He felt… useless. You’re fucking useless, he thought. The duvet had been so soft a few minutes ago, hadn’t it? He swore it had. Now it felt scratchy and synthetic. Like he could feel each plastic-y thread it was made up of, grating against his skin uncomfortably. The sheen of sweat his body had been covered in was starting to feel sticky and cold.
Just fucking move, he told himself. And then, because that didn’t work, he imagined Ilya there. Yes. Yes. Ilya would bring him back to earth, would pull the string he’d been attached to until Shane was back in Earth's gravity.
Up, Hollander. There is fresh towel.
Finally, Shane moved.
He went through the motions of his shower on autopilot, quickly wrapping himself up in the fluffy towel before stumbling back towards the bed. What was wrong with him? Was he drunk? He’d only had a ginger ale; he couldn’t be drunk. But his body was not his own, uncoordinated and clumsy. He swayed on his feet before sitting on the end of the mattress.
Alone. He was alone. He was always alone after these things, but this time it felt uniquely wrong. Like he shouldn’t be. Like his solitude was being frowned upon by the universe.
He was alone because Ilya had left because Ilya always had to leave. The shame he was usually able to stave off for at least a few hours hit him like a ton of bricks, icy cold embarrassment washing down his spine. He felt vulnerable and exposed all of a sudden, like that generic art on the walls was staring at him, like the vague, nondescript landscape somehow knew he had been fucked. Somehow knew that he hated himself for the way nobody but Ilya could satisfy him. He felt horrible. Ilya had left. Maybe Shane hadn’t been good enough? No, he would’ve left anyway. He always left.
But maybe he would’ve stayed a little longer if Shane had been better? Maybe if he’d been better, used more of those tricks he’d been trying to learn, he wouldn’t have left so soon. Maybe he would’ve wanted to stay like Shane wanted him to stay. Would’ve wanted to hold him like Shane wanted to ask him to do. Maybe Shane wouldn’t be trapped in this cavernous space between worlds, feeling like he was free-falling, searching for the path out of this emptiness.
God. What if he was stuck like this forever? He couldn’t survive like this, couldn’t handle another minute in this limbo of detachment. He needed out. Out of whatever this was. Sliding to the floor at the foot of the bed, Shane’s body shook with the panic of being stuck like… this for forever.
Foolishly, he felt tears stinging his eyes. Ridiculous. He just needed to — well, he wasn’t sure. He just needed to…
Call an ambulance? Tell them that Ilya had finally broken him for good?
Maybe he could call Ilya, maybe just hearing his voice would help, maybe —
“-not open the door I will ask manager and you will be embarrassed.”
Ilya! Yes! Ilya’s voice was there, like Shane wanted it to be. Ilya was real, Ilya was tangible, Ilya was — knocking on Shane’s door?
Move, he thought, staring at his weak, wobbly limbs. Miraculously, he did. He would be embarrassed about it later, realizing that he had literally crawled to Rozanov’s voice. But that didn’t matter. Not while his head was full of cotton and cruel, scathing reminders of his loneliness, his impossible situation.
“Left my—“ Ilya cut himself off, taking in the sight of Shane on the floor in front of him, a towel around his waist, knees red from having crawled (crawled?!) to the door. “What is wrong?”
Ilya fell to the floor with Shane, his voice was filled with concern, and the sincerity of it felt like a balm on Shane’s open wounds.
“I - I need - I don’t…” He didn’t know. He didn’t know what was wrong. Or what would help. Or what had happened. Or what they were doing stealing a few hours every few months when those hours would completely reprogram everything Shane thought he knew about himself. He couldn’t keep doing this. He couldn’t do this again. He would die. He would die if they did this again. But oh god, that would mean losing Ilya. He couldn’t lose Ilya. He would die. He would die if he lost Ilya, which wasn’t right, because Ilya could almost certainly survive losing him. “I—“
He was lost for words, shuddering beneath this horrible, icy panic.
“Is okay,” Ilya said, gathering him up in his arms. He didn’t give Shane a chance to protest, but even if he had, Shane wouldn’t have. He went willingly, probably too willingly, and he’d probably be embarrassed about that in the morning, too. “Is okay, Hollander. You are safe. You are safe.”
Letting out a dry sob, Shane allowed Ilya to take on all of his weight, allowed Ilya to cradle him against his chest. One of Ilya’s massive arms was wrapped around his chest, pinning Shane to him and Shane let himself feel the security, the certainty of Ilya’s existence. He wrapped both of his hands around Ilya’s bicep, memorizing the feeling of the muscles beneath them. Ilya was there. Ilya was real. Ilya had come back. In spite of himself, Shane let his head fall to the side, resting against Ilya’s collarbone as he fought to gain control over himself. He shivered as Ilya ran a hand through his hair, long, thick fingers combing through the silky strands. At some point, Shane had made a mess of it, tugging at it in an attempt to return to himself. And here Ilya was, making it right again. He made everything right in a way that scared Shane. Terrified him. But those long, seemingly endless moments of crushing loneliness had terrified him even more.
Ilya continued combing through his hair, his fingers tickling patterns on Shane’s shoulder where he held him. He murmured things in Russian that Shane had no hope of understanding. It was soft, precious in a way that felt fragile, like something Shane would break if he dared to touch. They didn’t do this. This wasn’t them. But god, god, it felt so good. This. This was what he’d needed. He felt that string attached to his chest tighten, dragging him back to reality, dragging him back from that horrifying, desolate place. He was so close to surfacing, so close to the feeling in his fingertips coming back.
He let Ilya hold him, let Ilya kiss his head, stroke his cheek, whisper sweet nothings that soothed the last, lingering horror within Shane.
Thank you, thank you, Shane thought, before finally managing to spit it out. “Thank you,” he exhaled, the shivers subsiding. And then, because the embarrassment was settling in - “I’m sorry.”
His body was exhausted, but it was his own again. Finally. Finally. He flexed his fingers against Ilya’s bicep, wiggled his toes.
“Is okay,” Ilya said, seeming hesitant even as he released Shane. “You are okay?”
“I don’t… I don’t know. I don’t know what happened. I just…” Fell, dropped, collapsed, crashed to the ground with a swoop in his stomach. “I don’t know.”
“No,” Ilya said. “I do not know either. You are hurt?”
“No, no. I just… I don’t know,” Shane repeated, because he really did not know. His voice felt hollow, flat even to his own ears. “I don’t know. It was… I just… freaked out.”
“Freaked out,” Ilya repeated. “Okay. I helped?”
“Yeah… I… um. I think so?”
“I stay, then.” Ilya proclaimed, standing up gently, so as not to jostle Shane too much.
“What?” Shane hissed. They didn’t do that. They didn’t do any of this. They didn’t spend the night or hold each other tenderly. This was too much. This was dangerous, terrifying—
Ilya’s big hands came to rest on Shane’s shoulders, stroking up and down a few times, and suddenly everything felt a lot less scary.
“I will stay. Is fine. My team does not expect me. We will sleep for a while. I need to sleep somewhere, no?”
“Sure,” Shane agreed, surprising himself. “I mean… you’ll have to leave early—”
“Yes, yes, I will make very early alarm,” he said, feigning impatience. “But am very tired now. Please. We sleep.”
Shane nodded, allowed himself to be guided back into the bed and helped under the covers. And then, even though they didn’t do this, he allowed himself to be gathered up in Ilya’s arms, the warmth and comfort of his strong, heavy muscles pulling him under like a weighted blanket. It felt right in a way that would haunt him for weeks to come.
Once Shane was asleep, Ilya moved just enough to grab his phone, feeding a few searches into Google. Cold after sex, freaking out after sex, panic attack after sex.
Sifting through the results, he stumbled upon something that stood out to him. Sub drop was the term in English. And while he wouldn’t exactly consider himself ‘A Dom’ - wasn’t that like the weird rich guy from that 50 Shades movie that Svetlana had made him watch once? - he supposed Shane was pretty submissive. He didn’t know what all went into someone being ‘A Sub’ or ‘A Dom’, but he knew that he could ask Shane to jump and Shane wouldn’t even waste his time asking how high? The thrill of the control had brought Ilya right to the brink on more than one occasion, but this… sub drop. It had been his fault. It was Ilya’s fault that Shane had been shivering on the floor of a hotel room.
He frowned at his phone, guilt and frustration filling his chest. He didn’t mean to do that to Shane. He had just… left. Because he always left.
Not because he wanted to. He hadn’t wanted to leave for a few months, now. He left because he had to. Because that’s what they did. Because staying would only make the leaving that much worse.
But he wouldn’t leave again. Next time, Ilya would stay. He would hold Shane until they both fell asleep, put him back together after having been given the privilege of shattering him so beautifully.
Next time, he would stay. Tonight, he would stay.