Chapter Text
+1
Shane opens his phone one more time as the elevator begins to move, blinking down at the text in disbelief. No matter how many times he checks, it remains the same, identical to the one he received five years ago.
Lily: Penthouse 1
His own reply is underneath, unread and unanswered: Or you could come to my room.
That was almost an hour ago. Ilya left the dinner early tonight. He didn’t seem to be having much fun, whenever Shane caught a glimpse of him, but then again, it’s not like he’s had much to celebrate this year. The Centaurs are a mess; Shane wasn't even sure Ilya would want to come here.
The last time they were both at the awards was three years ago. Ilya skipped them last year, and Shane was injured the year before that. But three years ago, Ilya did not have a penthouse suite. He’d booked himself into a different hotel altogether.
So it must’ve been intentional. He must’ve booked himself into this particular penthouse on purpose.
Maybe Ilya doesn’t remember which suite he was in that night?
…it’s a pretty memorable room number, though. And it was a memorable night – or at least, Shane thought Ilya remembered. He kinda thought they were on the same page about not wanting to relive that night.
He gets a little more irritated with every floor.
Doesn’t help that Shane is exhausted. The awards ceremony is always a blur of camera flashes and spotlights and small talk and strangers, which are some of his least favorite things in the entire world. He’s at the point of the night when his brain starts turning to white noise, when it becomes difficult to form words, when he feels like he’s been scraped dull by all the eyes on him and all he wants is one of Ilya’s bear hugs. He gives better hugs than anybody Shane’s ever met; he wraps his arms around Shane like a straitjacket and squeezes tight, envelops him in familiar cologne and solid muscle, until Shane feels like he’s not in danger of falling apart anymore.
The elevator door opens with a ding and he steps out. Just a couple doors to choose from in this hallway, and he remembers the way. He gives a cursory knock before swiping the key card Ilya slipped into his pocket earlier.
It’s the same, as far as he can tell. Same suite, same decor, same massive windows with a spectacular view of the city. Same figure standing in front of the windows, in his white shirt – only two buttons open this time, no vodka glass, hands shoved in his pockets, but…
Fuck. Ilya still looks so good in formalwear that it drives Shane out of his mind a little bit.
“Did you do this on purpose?” Shane’s embarrassed by the way the last word cracks and breaks, but he can’t help it.
Ilya strolls toward him, hands still in his pockets, and admits, “Yes.”
“Why?” Shane demands. He takes a jerky step closer and asks, “What are we doing here?”
“I thought, maybe… whatever you want?” Ilya offers.
Shane just blinks at him for a moment.
In the part of his brain that’s not freaking out, the part that is precisely attuned to Ilya Rozanov and his moods, he registers that Ilya seems uncharacteristically anxious: jaw tight, eyes darting around Shane’s face, shoulders up. But he can’t even begin to figure out what that means, not when his heart is rabbiting around in his chest like this.
“What the fuck?” he asks flatly.
Ilya gives him the bitchy little shrug he does when he feels wrong-footed, more visible in his rolled eyes and pursed lips than in his shoulders. “Seems fair, no? Your turn to get whatever you want.”
“What, like payback?” His voice shakes.
“Like… making it up to you.” Shane just keeps staring, and after a long moment, Ilya seems to shrink in on himself. “I just – I wanted to apologize. Better late than never, yes?”
“That’s really not how aftercare works,” Shane blurts out, without thinking, but then he sees the way Ilya flinches and immediately regrets it.
Ilya shakes his head, eyes suspiciously bright, and says, “Sorry. Never mind. We can just –”
“Can you just kiss me already,” Shane interrupts, in a thick, choked-up voice.
Ilya doesn’t wait to be told twice. He lets out a harsh exhale and closes the distance between them with a couple steps, and then he cups both big hands around Shane’s jaw, cradling it like he’s precious, pressing their foreheads together and breathing for a moment before their lips finally meet.
There’s something lush about the way Ilya kisses, the way he uses his mouth to tease and explore and caress, like he’s taking a careful, appreciative bite of something juicy, and it melts Shane now just as thoroughly as it did the first time. But he still feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin, still feels all staticky and jittery inside, and now he has all the adrenaline of that almost-fight fizzling out in his bloodstream, and –
“Fuck,” he snaps, breaking the kiss. He tugs at his bow tie and makes a frustrated sound, trying to pull himself together, and then he gives in and just clings, burying his face in the crook of Ilya’s neck to breathe him in. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
Ilya wraps his arms around Shane, bundles him up like Shane’s been waiting for all fucking night. He kisses Shane’s hair and says miserably, “I’m the one who should be sorry, sweetheart. This was – was stupid idea.”
“No, that’s not –" Shane tightens his grip before Ilya can pull away, hiding in Ilya’s shoulder. “I can’t – sorry. Words are hard.”
Ilya’s hand curls around the nape of Shane’s neck, warm and heavy, holding him where he is. He asks softly, “Long night?”
Shane nods without pulling away, nose brushing the crisp fabric of Ilya’s shirt, which… isn’t so crisp, he realizes. It’s definitely pretty damp.
Ilya doesn’t let go. He murmurs, “Okay. Is okay, take your time.”
They breathe, in and out. Some of the awful tension drains out of Shane with every exhale. Ilya’s holding him tighter than he’d hug anyone else, because Ilya knows it helps; he knows that, paradoxically, it’s easier for Shane to breathe when he’s being squeezed so hard his ribcage can’t fully expand.
“Love you,” Ilya whispers, and mumbles it in Russian a few times for good measure, his voice barely audible with the way his mouth is pressed to Shane’s hair.
Shane straightens up, but doesn’t take a real step away, keeping their bodies pressed close together while he looks at Ilya’s face. Shane’s not good at reading most people, but at this point, he can read Ilya like a book – or, better yet, like the angle of a shot, more instinctive than calculated. It’s not even reading at this point, he just knows. Ilya’s expression has gone very soft, and his lashes are wet, and Shane immediately catches the shadow of guilt that’s still, somehow, lurking in his eyes after all these years.
“I love you so fucking much,” he says fiercely.
Ilya knows how to read him, too. He takes off Shane’s bowtie for him, tucks it in the pocket of his suit jacket, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. Suddenly it’s a lot easier to breathe.
“Better?” he asks.
Shane lets out a shuddery sigh and presses their foreheads together. “Did you really think I’d – what, try to hurt you back?” he asks, the words coming slowly, thick on his tongue. His voice sounds as hollowed-out as he feels.
“No,” Ilya mumbles. “Maybe? I don’t know.”
“I already did that, remember? We’re tied.”
“Tied,” Ilya echoes flatly.
“If we were keeping score. Which we are not, because that would be ridiculous.”
“No, it was – it was not like that. More like… do-over.”
Shane doesn’t know if he’ll be able to find the words for this right now; he wants to show Ilya. That’s always been so much easier for them. He laces their hands together and holds on tight as he leads the way into the bedroom, and Ilya trails behind him obediently. Shane almost laughs, remembering the way he dragged that fucking chair, with his cocky smirk and his hard, flinty eyes. He was already falling, head over heels, but in retrospect, they barely knew each other back then. He still had so much further to fall.
The lights are already as dim as they’ll go, and there’s a bottle of lube on the nightstand. Shane wonders how long Ilya’s been here, waiting for him. Worrying. Punishing himself.
They don’t make a production of undressing; Ilya helps him finish unbuttoning his shirt, but lets Shane fold it himself. He strips, and then he gets under the massive duvet, watching as Shane folds his boxer-briefs and sets them neatly on top of his slacks. Shane slips between the sheets and tugs Ilya on top of him, letting out a sigh of relief at the familiar weight and heat of his body. He runs his hands up Ilya’s bare back, palming the contours of muscles that he’s already mapped by touch a thousand times.
Ilya props himself up just enough to meet Shane’s gaze. His curled knuckles trail along Shane’s jaw, trace his lower lip, and brush a tear from the corner of his eye.
“You’ve changed,” Shane says, and punctuates it with a soft kiss to Ilya’s lower lip.
“In good ways,” Ilya says, nodding slowly. “We both have.”
Ilya pushed; Shane ran. They hurt each other. They came back to each other. And here they are again: same hotel, same people, but everything important has changed.
He leans in for a slower kiss, one that starts sweet and turns sultry, heat simmering slowly with every liquefying swipe of his tongue, until Shane’s boneless beneath him. He kisses his way down the side of Shane’s neck, and Shane tilts his head, gives him better access, as the sensation sends a trail of goosebumps down his spine.
“S’better than an apology,” Shane says. “The – change. More important.”
Ilya smiles at that, eyes sparkling. “Yes. I guess it is. Lesson learned.”
Shane fumbles for the lube that Ilya left on the nightstand and presses it into his hand. No words needed there.
If Ilya tried to push him away, right now – tried to shut him out, the way he did five years ago – Shane would see through it in a heartbeat, and this time he would be confident enough to call him out on it. To speak up.
But Ilya wouldn’t. Ilya won’t.
They both learned their lesson. They learned how to be honest with each other, and how to take care of each other. Shane’s learned, over the course of the last two years, just how much Ilya loves to take care of him, loves to be soft and tender and kind in ways he hides from the rest of the world.
“You… show me,” he murmurs, as Ilya’s tongue flutters against his pulse point and his fingers slip down between his legs. “All the time.”
“Show you?”
Shane frowns, trying to figure out how to say it, running his fingers through Ilya’s curls.
When Shane offers him any sort of power, any sort of submission, Ilya gets this look on his face like he’s been entrusted with something precious. He’s always so careful. Like he’s trying to prove he deserves the trust – never mind the fact that he’s one of the most rock-solid, dependable people Shane’s ever known. Trying to prove it to himself, maybe.
But it’s not just sex. It’s everything. Like when Shane is overstimulated and panicky, and Ilya knows exactly what to do.
He’s distracted by long, skilled fingers, and he bites his lip, tilts his head back, while Ilya kisses the hollow of his throat. He’s so gentle.
Shane would like to claim that he doesn’t understand how Ilya’s managed to fool the world into thinking he’s an asshole for all these years, but unfortunately, he does understand; Ilya’s convincing. Sometimes Ilya even convinces himself.
I was cruel to both of us, Ilya said, last time they talked about this, back when Shane was just beginning to understand how contrary that cruelty was to Ilya’s nature.
Maybe this isn’t about letting Shane get payback. Maybe this do-over is for Ilya, too.
“What do I show you, hm?” Ilya prompts.
“How sweet you are.”
“Lies,” Ilya huffs. “I am never sweet, liar told you this.”
Shane does him the courtesy of trying not to laugh out loud. Then Ilya curls his fingers just right and he moans, arching his back shamelessly.
Shane tugs at Ilya’s hair until Ilya comes up for a kiss again – and this time it’s needier, hungrier, both of them biting at each other’s mouths until their lips feel bruised, until Ilya’s hard against his hip and Shane’s gasping for breath with every twist of his knuckles.
“How much you love me,” Shane says, voice thick.
“That I will not argue.”
Ilya’s eyes are heavy-lidded and dark, and his mouth is a deep, sinful red, and Shane is so pinned by the force of his stare that he barely notices the first blunt stretch – not until that swollen red mouth drops open wide, and his vision fuzzes at the edges with the surge of pleasure, and they’re exchanging a kiss that’s more mingled whines and close, hot gasps than actual kiss.
“You can show me again, though,” Shane tells him dazedly. “If you want.”
Ilya hitches Shane’s knee up a little higher and murmurs, “As many times as you’ll let me, moya lyubov.”
Shane closes his eyes, lets himself get lost in the steady, sure rhythm Ilya sets – lets everything fade away except for Ilya’s body and his skin and his terrifyingly huge heart – until the rest of the world disappears. Until it’s just the two of them.
Ilya kisses him again, and his cheek is wetter than can really be explained by sweat, but Shane doesn’t call him on it; he just whispers praise, and asks for more, and promises that he’s not going anywhere.