Flossydee



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    “Ilyaaaaaaa!”

    It was Shane’s voice, drawn out and full of air in a way Ilya has never heard it before. Ilya looked to Shane and saw how his face was all lit up in a smile, despite the discolouration across his cheeks and nose and his arm wrapped up in a sling.

    Before Ilya could say anything, a voice from the window side of the room spoke up, “Rozanov?”

     

    Or, Yuna finds out.

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    01 Aug 2026

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    Shane: You all seriously want to do this?

    Shane: Like you know this is going to be on the internet forever, right?

     

    Ilya: Sorry everyone.

    Ilya: He still has this weird sense of self-preservation.

    Ilya: We're working on it.

     

    Bood: Come on, Hollander.

    Bood: It'll be fun!

    Bood: We'll all look like idiots together.

     

    Shane: That's not as comforting as you think it is.

     

    Evan: Is there a limit on the number of rainbows and dicks that can be on the shirt?

    Evan: Asking for the person I'm buying for who maybe definitely is named Shane Hollander.

     

    Shane: I hate all of you.

     

    Ilya: See you at the airport!! ✈️👕🏒

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    01 Aug 2026

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    “Don’t go,” Ilya manages to choke out, burying his face under Shane’s chin and squeezing his eyes shut. He inhales sharply, pressing his nose deeper into Shane’s throat to breathe in his scent. Right now, it’s Ilya’s body soap, vanilla and spice, masked under salt and skin. He inhales it like it's his own personal supply of air, what he needs to extinguish the burning in his lungs.

    “Ilya,” Shane says, voice urgent, “you’re shaking, I—your breathing’s too fast—” He tries to pull back, needs to see Ilya’s face, needs to see what’s wrong, but Ilya just shakes his head and clings tighter.

    “Please don’t go, Shane,” Ilya whispers, pleading. I’m sorry, please don’t go, don’t go—  

    OR: ilya and shane accidentally recreate the tuna-melt day, and ilya realizes just how much old wounds hurt.

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    01 Aug 2026