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There are red marks around his wrists. Shane rubs them with his fingers and shakes his head.
“I can still play,” he says. “I can still play tomorrow. He didn’t even—It’s fine.”
He takes one step back, like that’s all he’d come for. Like he hadn’t called Ilya fifteen times and then rushed to his hotel room door in broad daylight, still in the same clothes that—fuck. Ilya doesn’t think Shane even knows about the stain on his pants.
Shane looks like he’s about ready to float off, straight through the ceiling and disappear. Ilya puts both hands on Shane’s shoulders. He drops them so that Shane can feel their weight.
“That’s not what I mean. Hollander.”
Shane swallows. Gently, Ilya guides his jaw up to look at him. He asks again. “What did he do?”
“I think… he gave me something. He made me swallow it.”
His eyes fly off to the corner and he clenches his jaw. Ilya knows that look. It’s what Shane does right before he gives in and bucks into Ilya’s grasp. Desire’s gotten too close, and he’s looking for an exit, or a dam.
“He touched you. And you liked it.”
Shane turns rigid and Ilya responds by smoothing his hands out, warming him. He’s not cold but shivering nonetheless. His brows stitch together. He lowers his head.
“I didn’t just like it.”
“It’s good you came to me,” Ilya says. “Sorry I didn’t pick up.”
When Shane looks up, his eyes are lined with red. They’re settled on Ilya now. He wets his lip and whispers, “I can’t still feel it, whatever he gave me.”
“You should go to the hospital. A doctor—”
“No.”
“Have you told—”
“No.”
“Fuck.”
“You’re the only one who can give me what I need. We both know that.”
Ilya takes a deep breath. It’s a lot to ask for, but he’s kidding himself if he thinks he won’t do it. Not when Shane has him pinned beneath the most desperate face he’s ever made, and says he needs him. Ilya’s never been someone’s lifeline. He wishes he hadn’t let the phone ring. He wishes he could kiss Shane with care instead of what he’s about to do.
“Was he rough?”
“Yeah.”
“Close your eyes.”
With his eyes closed, Shane lets out, “Do you think he knew? That I’m like this? Does everyone know?”
Instead of answering, Ilya shoves Shane into the wall, hard. The back of his head connects against the flimsy drywall with a loud thud. Shakes the thoughts loose, hopefully. Shane grunts in surprise, but he keeps his eyes shut. He sighs unevenly. Sweat already lines his brow. Beneath that flimsy facade is an ocean of heat and abandon. Now that Ilya is there to catch him, Shane finally lets go.
He cranes his head all the way back, exposing his neck. There’s evidence of—him, of someone else. No bruises, thankfully, but stricken, abused skin. Ilya grabs the pale expanse and squeezes. Shane chokes. He claws at Ilya’s face, won’t stop until Ilya traps his wrist against the wall near his head.
“I don’t need to tie you up, do I?”
Shane sputters and shakes his head. The hand is released. It falls limply to his side. The muscles in his neck relax too.
Ilya keeps squeezing.
Like that, Ilya kisses him; open-mouthed devour, canines cutting lip. Shane can’t kiss back, he can’t breathe actually, but it’s almost like he’s trying anyway, with the way he undulates against him.
When Ilya releases his neck, Shane heaves, and Ilya licks into his mouth to gulp down every new breath. There’s none left of the air from before. Ilya’s cleaned it out.
Shane still has his eyes closed, and Ilya fights the urge to say something about it. He’s become a statue; unmoving, waiting. Lips scorching red, brow liquid dripping.
“Okay, what next,” says Ilya, before he can get too in his head about it.
Shane raises one uncertain hand to his chest. “He liked making me feel good. Here.”
Ilya reaches for him and slips his hands underneath Shane’s shirt. They’ve done a bit of this before. Ilya knows he’s sensitive. Shane’s nipples are already hard, areolas bitten and ruined. Ilya licks up with the flat of his tongue, but it’s not something he can soothe and erase. If Ilya had the power to erase he would have used it up a long time ago. No, he can only rewrite. Overwhelm the previous memory. He pushes the shirt up to Shane’s chin and Shane’s jaw falls open ready. He stuffs the shirt hem onto his tongue. Shane bites down on it like it’s a gag.
Ilya takes Shane’s left nipple into his mouth. There’s no more easing in; he sucks down hard, mouth hollow, like he’s trying to burn down a cigarette in one go. Shane moans and doesn’t stop. There’s hardly a breath between each sound. Ilya catches the nipple with his teeth and pulls, and it’s a good thing the shirt is in Shane’s mouth. With his free hand, he pinches the other nipple and rolls it between his fingers.
The whole point is to never stop. To wind the tape back again and hit record, and never give Shane the chance to play back anything else from this day. By the end, Shane sounds delirious, whines high in his throat and shaking, his cock so fully tented it looks ridiculous. When Ilya finally releases the nipple with a pop, Shane sobs, and his hands twitch by his sides where he’s kept them.
The shirt in Shane’s mouth is drenched through. His head falls forward in relief and he finally lets it go. The wet mess unrolls, sliding back over his stomach.
Ilya reaches for Shane’s cock. He drags his hand over it through the fabric. The sound Shane makes is nearly indistinguishable from pain, a gasped cry cut into a clenched-teeth moan. He strokes it a couple more times to hear the sweet sound again, but he can’t linger here.
He yanks down Shane’s pants, exposing him to the air in one movement. It’s a mess down there, in the front and back. He grabs one raw-red buttock and squeezes. Then takes Shane again by the neck and shoves him face first into the bed.
“Oh god,” Shane gasps. “That’s what he—”
Ilya pushes him further into the bed, smothering him silent. Some things are better left unsaid. Pearly-white drips onto the sheets. Honest cock twitches. He waits until Shane begins to stiffen, then shudder, and then, before the first thrash, pulls him back up for air.
The words that had been about to fall from Shane’s mouth are gone, obliterated by the need for oxygen. The words in his head won’t survive this either. Come on, Shane. Breathe. You don’t need to think about it.
“Think about me. Only me,” Ilya says harshly.
“Trying,” Shane gasps. “I’m trying, but—I think he knew who I—”
Ilya pushes him back down.
They’re here for a while. Shane can’t last though. He was already spent when he arrived at the door, and everything now is eked out extra. Whatever drug is in his system is doing a lot of the work. His cock weeps diligently. When Ilya takes it into his mouth, finally, he swallows it down in one motion. No in-betweens he’s decided. This will only work all or nothing. Shane has a searing grip on his shoulder, and digs his fingers deep without meaning to.
“Rozanov, if you—oh fuck, mm, fuck fuck fuck I can’t—”
Ilya presses his teeth in, and Shane silences with a choked off sob. He swirls his tongue against the salty tip and then abruptly pulls off. One hand squeezes the base. It’d be easier with a cock ring, but Ilya has nothing. Nothing but himself and his hands. Shane’s cock twitches helplessly. Shane himself lets out a liquid whine.
“Beg me,” commands Ilya.
Even frantic, Shane speaks as if he’s deliberating, drawing out words of a recited speech. “Want you, Rozanov. Fuck me please.” He looks back at Ilya. “Put your cock in me.”
He stays watching, waiting for Ilya to move. Maybe Ilya’s the one who can’t keep up.
Zero to a hundred. Ilya pushes himself in from the get go. His heart sinks at how easily he slides in. Shane had been prepped. Not for him, but for—
Shane’s groan stutters out weakly. His arms are together behind him, a pretend game of being tied up. Ilya closes his eyes and really leans into it.
“He did not get this far.”
Shane shakes his head, but from the expression on his face, Ilya can tell they’d gotten close to it.
Ilya’s not possessive by any means. Shane’s not even his, not until after a game, in between long weeks, and only for a little while. But his next thrust jostles Shane up, and the one after that lifts his hips right off the bed. Ilya rolls him up until the angle is that sweet downward spike. A blood-hot madness drives him, and he loses himself to the feeling, because it’s the only thing that will let him fuck Shane the way he needs to be fucked. No frills debasement. He’s scraping Shane clean of any feeling.
He's done this before for others. Some people just like a mean fuck. And he’s never had a problem delivering. Ilya is good at this.
But the thought’s there now. Shane isn’t even his. And he almost—
He lets go of Shane’s cock. Barely a thrust and a half later, Shane comes with a harsh shout. He fucks him through it, no easing, until Shane can’t stay in his imaginary bonds anymore. He’s scrabbling at Ilya with both hands, electric-shock gasps, crying out at the overstimulation.
Finally, Ilya slows. He pulls out of Shane and lets the thumping heat fade from his body.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
Shane unfolds loose-limbed, stilling more and more with each breath. He can’t see Ilya right now; his eyes are shut again, like he’s trying to stay in the moment. That’s good. Ilya’s chest tightens. He rubs his dick to the view of Shane sprawled, and shoots all over his own hand.
The sharp inhale he takes is the precursor to something else. A hot ugly thing that he never lets past his throat. Shane’s already drifting off. He looks fucked out, but better than before. More himself. That’s good. Ilya stumbles into the bathroom. He keeps the light off. He sinks to the floor and holds his head between his knees.
“Rozanov?” Shane calls, syllables slurred with drowsiness. “Rozanov?”
Ilya presses his palms into his eyes. Takes a shuddering breath. He can’t say nothing for too long. “Do not worry, I am here. Taking a shit.”
“You really saved me. Thank you.”
When Ilya doesn’t respond, he says, quieter. “Rozanov? You okay?”
“Yes I saved you. So I can beat your ass tomorrow.”
“Mm, yeah, sure.” There’s a smile in Shane’s voice. The one that creeps into his face sometimes without him knowing. “Keep dreaming.”
But it’s Shane, not Ilya, who dreams.