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There is music in everything.
Even when the apartment is dimly lit. The dishwasher hums quietly, glass clinking as water jets through them. The wall clock ticks steadily, creating a domestic rhythm. Outside, the cars pass by every so often.
Shane stands barefoot by the sink, scrubbing a stubborn pot. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows as soft water cascade across the pan. He rinses the last of the grime away.
Ilya stands behind him, leaning against the counter, observing his backside without any obvious or dramatic actions.
There's something about the quiet after dinner that always feels fragile. The adrenaline of the day is dwindling, emails sit in their inbox forgotten on purpose, while their phones are face down on the counter.
Shane turns off the faucet and shakes his hands dry. When he turns around, Ilya is already there, close enough that Shane nearly bumps into him.
"You're in the way," Shane says, but there's no heat in his voice.
"I'm exactly where I want to be," Ilya replies.
Shane smiles and tries to get around him, but Ilya doesn't move.
Instead, he reaches down slowly and deliberately, hooking his fingers through Shane's belt loops.
He tugs gently.
Not hard, just enough to make Shane's breath catch slightly as their bodies align, chest to chest. Ilya's hands rests on Shane's hips.
"There's no music," Shane says
Ilya smiles softly. "We don't need it."
Ilya slides one hand from Shane's waist to the small of his back, palm spreading there to anchor him. The other hand stays hooked low, possessive yet gentle.
He begins to sway slightly, a subtle shift of weight, a slow rock from heel to toe.
Shane lets out a soft laugh. "You're ridiculous."
"Yes," Ilya agrees.
The swaying continues anyway.
Shane's hands hover awkwardly for a moment before settling-one at Ilya's shoulder and the other at his side. His palm presses lightly into the warm cotton of Ilya's shirt. He can feel Ilya's steady breathing beneath it.
They move in small, lazy circles in the kitchen.
The dishwasher hum becomes their rhythm, and the ticking clock serves as percussion. Even their breaths fall into sync without any conscious effort.
Shane rests his forehead lightly against Ilya's collarbone.
It's familiar and grounding.
Ilya exhales slowly and lowers his chin to rest against Shane's hair. His hand moves in a slow, absent pattern alone Shane's back-up, down, up again.
"You're very soft right now," Ilya murmurs,
"I just washed dishes."
"That is not what I meant."
Shane chuckles softly against his chest.
The swaying slows down slightly, becoming more deliberate. Their hips brush against each other. The contact is subtle yet constant- a steady reminder of their closeness.
Shane lifts his head slightly to look at Ilya and finds him looking right back.
The room feels smaller and warmer when they hold eye contact like that.
"You're staring again," Shane says softly.
"I'm appreciating," Ilya replies.
"Of course you are."
Ilya's thumb slides under Shane's shirt, just barely. Just enough to touch skin at his lower back. The contact is light and exploratory. Shane inhales quietly.
"Still no music," Shane whispers.
Ilya leans down and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
"That's your fault."
The kiss moves properly to Shane's lips.
It's not heated at first-just a soft meeting of lips that fit easily into a slow rhythm. Shane tilts his head slightly, deepening it by instinct.
The sway continues without interruption.
Ilya hums against his mouth. His hand shifts higher, fingers spreading along Shane's spine. The kiss intensifies-not urgent, but fuller and warmer.
Shane makes a small sound-barely audible- and it vibrates between them.
Ilya responds by tightening his hold on him.
Their mouths part, and their breaths mingle. Pupils dilated, they begin to kiss some more. The kiss becomes slower and unhurried. It mirrors everything else in the room. There's no rush or destination.
Shane slides his hand from Ilya's shoulder up into his hair, fingers threading through his curls. He pulls gently-not demanding, just enough to feel the resistance.
Ilya exhales into his mouth.
The sway shifts again, this time slower, almost still. Their hips align perfectly with each subtle move. The air between them becomes heavier.
The dishwasher clicks off.
The sudden silence amplifies everything.
Breathing.
The soft slide of fabric.
The faint scuff of bare feet against the tile floor.
Shane pulls back slightly, just enough to look at him.
"You're humming," Shane says.
Ilya pauses.
He hadn't realized.
He shrugs. "I told you we don't need music.
Shane smiles softly this time.
He leans in and kisses him again- slower, deeper. The kind of kiss that feels like it could stretch on forever if no one interrupts it.
Ilya shifts them slightly, turning so Shane's back is near the counter. Not trapping him-just adjusting their space. His hand slides from Shane's back to his waist again, fingers splaying wide.
Shane's breath grows heavier.
"Ilya," he murmurs, half warning.
"Da?"
"We're in the kitchen."
"And?"
Shane laughs softly against his mouth.
The laughter melts into another kiss.
It's less playful now, more deliberate.
Shane's hands slide down Ilya's chest, fingers tracing over fabric as if he were memorizing. Ilya presses closer, one thigh easing between Shane's legs in a slow, unconscious moment.
Their foreheads rest together. Breath mingles. There is something almost reverent about it- the way they move like this without any performance, without needing to prove anything. Just bodies that know each other.
Ilya brushes his nose against Shane's cheek.
"You're smiling," he murmurs.
"I can't help it."
"Good."
They begin to sway again-slower now, almost still. Just the faintest shift of weight.
Shane closes his eyes and lets himself lean into it fully.
The warmth of Ilya's hands.
The faint scent of dish soap and cologne.
"I love this," Shane whispers.
"This?" Ilya inquires.
"This."
Ilya kisses his temple gently.
"We can do this every night."
"Without music?"
"Especially without music."
Shane chuckles softly.
Together they continue to sway, barefoot in their kitchen.
No audience, no urgency.
Ilya doesn't give him much notice.
One moment they are slow dancing and then the next-
"Ilya-"
Shane is being lifted in the air.
Shane lets out a surprised laugh as Ilya's hands slide firmly under his thighs, lifting him effortlessly. Shane captured his lips again as Ilya walked down the hall with him.
He doesn't stop kissing him as he walks simultaneously.
Its messy, but perfect.
Their mouths keep missing by half an inch becomes Ilya refuses to break contact. Shane keeps laughing against his lips, his hands tangled in his hair, trying to hold on and kiss him properly.
"This is unsafe," Shane chuckles.
"You are very dramatic."
Ilya bumps into the doorframe as they exit the kitchen.
Shane bursts into laughter. "You walked into the wall."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
Ilya kisses him again to silence him.
Shane's fingers glide down the back of Ilya's neck, his nails grazing lightly, causing Ilya to groan and gasp sharply into Shane's mouth.
"Stop distracting me," Ilya mutters.
"You're the one carrying me," Shane retorts.
"Yes, and you are not helping."
Shane grins and kisses him deeper, just to prove a point.
By the time they reach the bedroom door, both of them are breathing heavily- not just from exertion, but from laughing, kissing and the sheer absurdity of it all.
Ilya nudges the door open with his shoulder and it swings inward.
He pauses just inside, adjusting his hold, and Shane presses his forehead briefly against Ilya's still smiling.
"You are ridiculous," Shane whispers.
"You love it," Ilya replies.
"I do."
Ilya's expression softens at that.
He steps forward and lowers Shane onto the bed-not dropping him carelessly, but slowly enough for Shane's hands to slide from his shoulders down to his chest as he descends.
Ilya doesn't pull away.
He follows Shane down, bracing one hand beside Shane's head while the other moves down to his thigh. Their mouths meet again. The laughter gradually fades into something more intense.
There's still a hint of amusement between them-small smiles pressed into kisses, quiet breaths that break into soft laughter when noses bump or foreheads knock together
It's warm, playful and filled with the joy of two people who have known each other long enough to find happiness in the in-between moments-in stumbling down hallways, in laughter shared against mouths and in simply being carried because they can.
"You're lucky I'm strong," Ilya murmurs.
Shane smiles, brushing his thumb along Ilya's cheek.
"I know."
And then he pulls him back in again, laughing softly against Shane's mouth as the clock continues to tick away.