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In Spain, they were anonymous. They weren't famous, they were just two men on a beach in Barcelona. Nobody cared their fingers were laced together while Shane sat under an umbrella and Ilya laid with the sun on his back. Nobody cared when Shane rubbed sunblock on the broad expanse of Ilya's back and nobody cared when Ilya took his chin in one massive hand and kissed him until he was a little breathless.
Nobody cared when they sat on the patio of a beautiful restaurant and ate off each other's plates with their thighs pressed together under the table. Nobody cared when they strolled back to the hotel hand in hand. Nobody gave the hickies littering both of their collarbones a second glance.
Shane cared just a smidge when Ilya came out of the bathroom in skin tight jeans and a shirt that was mostly a suggestion. It was black and shiny and translucent and unbuttoned down to Ilya’s naval. He had some kind of shimmering golden and rainbow shadow on his eyelids, and the light was bouncing off the eye shadow, the gold at the base of his throat, the gold Rolex on his wrist, the gold ring on his ring finger. Shane found himself at a loss for words. He was fairly sure he had swallowed his tongue and all the blood in his body was rushing somewhere towards center.
Especially with the look Ilya was leveling him with from where he leant against the door frame.
“Do you have any idea how hot you look, Hollander?” Ilya's voice was thick, low. Russian.
Shane looked down. Rose had picked his outfit with input via FaceTime from Svetlana. He wasn't sure what Ilya was seeing. Shorts. A linen button down that Rose had insisted he leave unbuttoned more than he was strictly sure he was comfortable with. He was just lounging in the weird armchair while he waited for his husband. Husband.
“Excuse you, it's Hollander-Rozanov, now, sir.”
Ilya crossed the room in 4 giant strides, eyes glinting. He pressed his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned down. Shane breathed in deep, the smell of his hair products and his cologne.
“Sitting here, all casual and fucking hot, looking like you own the fucking world. Looking like no one could touch you.”
Inanely, Shane thought to himself, you could touch me. But he was too busy staring at Ilya's chest to say it out loud.
“You look incredible.”
Shane swallowed.
“I look incredible!?” His voice wavered incredulously. “You look…” he simply waved his hand up and down, unable to express how unbelievably hot his husband looked.
Ilya leaned down further and pressed a slightly damp kiss onto Shane's waiting mouth.
“Ready to go dance?”
Shane scoffed, but allowed himself to be wrenched upwards.
Nobody bothered them on the way to the club, but several people stared. Men, women, people Shane wasn't sure he could identify. At first, he was worried. Felt that telltale itch to hitch his shoulders up and hide. But then he realized what they were staring at. How they were staring. It wasn't anger or hatred or even confusion. It was awe, because a man as beautiful as Ilya Rozanov was walking down the street in the setting sun. Suddenly, Shane understood, and felt a prickle of pride that it was his hand Ilya was holding.
“They're staring at you, my love.” Ilya whispered, kissing Shane's cheek.
“I really don't think they are, Ilya. You look like a fucking painting.” He breathed in deep. “But I bet they're pretty jealous of me.”
Ilya shook his head. “Look closer. They're jealous of both of us.”
Shane tried to subtly assess the next few people who unsubtly stared at them as they walked past. To his absolute and utter surprise, Ilya was right. The eyes were passing over him and his husband with a heat he was not used to getting. He felt himself take a sharp breath.
“You look good enough to eat, Shane. Everyone wants to be with you.”
Shane shook his head.
“No, I know. Only me. Everyone can look. No one else is allowed to touch.”
Shane felt his skin heat.
“I am so lucky.” Ilya whispered into his neck.
“Not luckier than me.” He challenged, pulling Ilya in, possessively, at the waist.
¥¥
Finally, they were in the club. The music was thudding into Shane's pulse, and Ilya pressed into him, a steady, comforting pressure.
Shane directed them to the bar before Ilya could get distracted by the music.
“Un vodka con hielo y un vodka con soda, por favor.” One vodka on the rocks and one vodka soda, please. He asked, leaning forward over the bar and speaking up so the bartender, in black jeans and a tight black tank top, could hear him.
He felt, rather than heard, Ilya's gasp next to him, the way his hand pressed against his lower back under his shirt. The bartender nodded, reaching for the card Shane held outstretched.
“¿Abrir o cerrar?” Open, or closed? The bartender asked, pressing buttons on the screen in front of him.
“Abrir.” Open. Shane confirmed.
The man handed him his card back with a nod and went to make their drinks.
“Вы говорите по-испански?” You know Spanish? Ilya’s voice was practically a growl, a very appealing growl, in Shane's ear.
“Немного. Я тренировалась.” A little. I've been practicing. Shane held his finger and thumb up, nearly pressed together.
“без меня?” Without me?
Shane could feel Ilya's teeth on his earlobe. His face felt hot. The bartender returned with the drinks.
“Я хотел иметь возможность сделать для вас заказ.” I wanted to be able to order for you. He offered, pride and shyness swirling like a hurricane in his chest.
Ilya took his drink, grabbed Shane's hand, and pulled him towards a small table. He used his free arm to pull Shane close to him.
“I am going to eat you alive, моя любовь.”
Shane just smiled around his glass, eyes twinkled.
¥¥
They were just finishing their second round of drinks when the beat to a song Shane knew all too well started to thrum over the speakers. Ilya dropped his glass to the tabletop they had claimed with excitement. He threw his hands in the air, and then grabbed Shane by the arms. Shane had wisely put his drink down the moment he first heard the beat.
“I love this song!!!!” Ilya cried.
“I know,” Shane smiled warmly.
Ilya started to hum along to Tití Me Preguntó, dancing abortedly. With a quiet grin, against every fiber of his deeply anxious being, Shane tugged his husband towards the dance floor. Ilya's eyes widened, clinging to Shane's hips. Shane directed them to somewhere near the edges of the thudding, throbbing bodies.
The flashing lights of the club turned Ilya into moving art, making his eyelids shine and reflecting off his cheekbones. Without thinking too much about it, Shane pulled his husband closer with arms around his shoulders. Ilya clung to his hips, gently moving them in space. Shane pressed their chests together, and Ilya's thigh pressed between his legs.
“I don't really know what I'm doing.” Shane whispered, swallowing around his nerves.
“Yes you do. You know how to move your hips with mine.” Ilya pressed his face into Shane's neck, open mouthed kisses into the sensitive, overheated flesh.
Shane swallowed again. He let Ilya’s hands on his hips press them into each other, and tickled the curls at the base of his husband's neck. He tried to just focus on Ilya. He listened to the music, the beat, and tried to keep time with his hips. Based on the way Ilya's breath was hitching, his eyes bright, it was working.
Shane caught some of the words, and laughed.
“What, моя любовь?”
“This song is about having a lot of girlfriends. It's just a list of his girlfriends in different cities, different VIP sections.”
Ilya threw his head back and laughed, with his whole body. His chest glistened with a thin sheen of sweat, cross sparkling, and Shane felt like he was flying. Ilya leaned back in, pulling Shane impossibly closer.
“Not one of them compared to you, Shane Hollander.”
Shane leaned his head on Ilya's shoulder, aware that they were basically grinding in public, but couldn't even bring himself to think past the flush of his husband in front of him. The thigh pressing gently against him. The music around him. The protective way Ilya clung to his hips.
¥¥
Shane made it two more songs and one more vodka soda before he started to fade. Ilya took his hand, dragging him to the bar to close out their tab. Then, Ilya was dragging him back out the door, into the warm night air. He was warm, loose limbed, in love.
They made it back to the hotel in record time. They got two steps in before Ilya had him pressed against the wall, kissing down his neck and his exposed collarbones.
“Ilya, my love, please.”
“In Spanish, Shane. In Spanish.”
¥¥
They spent the plane ride home working their way through a Spanish language podcast.