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Ilya can tell from the knock. It’s him.
“Shane?” he asks, rubbing at his eyes as he wanders down the hall toward his front door. The name comes out of his mouth naturally, yet the syllables are foreign to his ears. He’d only ever said it once in here. Out loud.
The familiar pattern sounds again. He smooths his curls, trying to adjust to how dark his apartment got while he worked. When he swings the door open, the past comes rushing in.
He stands taller than Ilya remembers, hands stuffed in an old jacket, his rapid breaths turning into white puffs around his face. For a second, Ilya only stands there, blinking. It’s the same boy from five years ago, eyes wide with wonder and a touch of fear above freckles popping against red cheeks. But his jaw has toned up, his cheekbones more pronounced, and there’s something else in those eyes. Something that had only just started when Ilya said goodbye.
Forced their goodbye with his stupid antics.
“Um, It’s– Hi,” Shane’s voice wavers.
“Shane,” Ilya breathes, leaning on the doorknob for support. This time, it feels and sounds natural.
Shane’s eyes glass over. “Ilya, I…” he sniffs, and the doorknob creaks under Ilya’s death grip. Shane scuffs his boot against the cement of the porch lining the unit.
“This is Boston,” Ilya remarks, unsure of what else to say. Shane’s head shoots back up, thick strands of his shiny, black hair bobbing on his forehead. Ilya now sees a red scratch covering the right side of his cheek, purple blooming beneath. His fingers fail him, reaching forward before he can stop them. Shane watches the hand stretch, stopping short of his cheek. He closes his eyes as it hovers.
“I missed you,” Shane all but whispers.
“I-” Ilya’s fingers trace the top of the wound, right at the dusting of freckles. He winces with Shane, but everything begs him to the touch, the first time he’s felt Shane in so long. But finally, as he feels Shane tilt into it, Ilya pulls his fingers back, biting the inside of his cheek. Shane’s nose and cheeks redden even more. The coldness of Ilya’s withdrawal is worse than that of the chill. But not worse than how cold Shane was that day. That day Ilya had let him in, had tried so hard to open as wide as he could.
Ilya turns when one tear slides to the corner of Shane’s large brown eyes. He remembers the last time he saw Shane, when tears threatened to spill from them both.
“Come in.”
Out of habit, Ilya wanders to his bedroom. He doesn’t stop when he hears Shane struggling out of his boots. He doesn’t turn around when he hears Shane sniffle again. But he does dawdle at the doorway. He waits for the sound of padded socks closing in before stepping into his room.
The lamp on his desk casts a warm glow in his bedroom. Ilya heads to his bed, letting his back fall across the surface. Shane sheds his jacket. Ilya stares at the ceiling. His clean, bland ceiling in his clean, Boston apartment. When had he learned to take care of things? When had he maybe stopped caring to gather things, to make a home, and lived in something sterile enough to always be in a perpetual state of being cleansed?
And now Shane is here in his apartment. Hundreds of miles from where he should be. Not that Ilya still kept tabs on him. Standing there wearing hurt on his face that he doesn’t deserve to wear, not when Ilya can still feel his own pain so raw on his chest. Shane might have a scratched cheek, but the mere smell of him in his room again is tearing a sutures Ilya constantly restitched in his heart.
The bed dips, and so does Ilya’s stomach. Shane doesn’t come into Ilya’s view, he doesn’t smile down at him hungry and a little nervous, always a little nervous until Ilya made him forget any reason to be.
Instead, he rests on the bed right next to Ilya. He sighs as his head settles gently onto Ilya’s outstretched arm.
Ilya sucks in a breath when Shane’s arm curls around his waist. If he closes his eyes, no time has passed. He can’t bother with feeling hungry or not when his stomach is full of butterflies. He can’t be troubled when the world is filled with the sweet scent of Shane who valued his cleanliness no matter his situation.
Ilya tucks his chin when the bed starts to shake. Shane’s head is tucked, but Ilya feels it. Something warm and wet starts to smear on his arm. Shane’s legs curl up, knees knocking Ilya’s thigh.
Ilya looks back at the ceiling, glaring. The world could have given him some kind of warning that his past would come knocking.
But the world was never so kind.
“So,” he tries to sound casual as he curls his arm up, running fingers through Shane’s hair. God, he should be angry. He should be so mad to feel used for his body again, as some kind of comfort for Shane that Shane was never willing to give him. Not fully. Not how he wanted. How he’d barely tried to ask. But the feel of his hand in Shane’s hair felt familiar in a way he couldn’t put words to. Like he needed to touch him, and only him, to experience this. “Been a while, huh?”
Shane grunts, head nodding. His other arm comes up, wrapping around Ilya’s shoulder. The bed feels more like a vast ocean, and Shane clings to him like a life raft. Ilya feels something tug behind his eyes. He closes his eyes, taking another deep breath to loosen the coils.
“Shane,” the boy shudders at his name. “What’s-”
“I’m sorry,” he blubbers. His voice is just as soft and high-pitched as Ilya remembers. “I’m so-” A heavy sob rocks through Shane. Ilya can’t help the way he pulls Shane closer. He’s a little scared, now. He hasn’t felt scared in a long time. Maybe when he had to quit the NHL. When he didn’t know what to do next. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t know what to do next again, right now.
“I’m so sorry it took me so long.”
Ilya blinks hard. He frowns at the ceiling and at the world. He sucks in his bottom lip, but the tears roll down the side of his face. Fuck Shane. Fuck him for saying that, with no context, and letting Ilya’s heart fill in all the reasons he is saying I’m sorry, all the reasons Ilya wants him to be apologizing.
“Don’t be sorry,” he orders. He meant to say how dare you. How dare you come in here and ask from me what you never gave and think you deserve to say I’m sorry. Shane pulls closer, his leg now over Ilya’s, shoulder leaning into his chest. He’s so much bigger now in a way only age can define, firmer, stronger as he refuses to let go. Maybe it’s that Ilya has been slowly losing his strength in more ways than one lately.
Ilya squeezes his eyes shut, remembering the way he could see Shane’s heartbreak when he’d clung to Ilya’s shirt that day. Ilya should have pushed harder, begged him to come back to the couch, to come back to him. Ilya felt crazy in the months that followed, like Shane had been a tether he didn’t know he could be set loose from. He might have been better with Shane, but Shane was better without him.
“Don’t be sorry,” Ilya tries again, but his voice wavers so he clams up.
Shane gives a big snort. The bed dips, and he’s on his elbow, looking. Ilya can imagine those giant brown saucers taking in his expression, and he regrets he can’t look cooler when he cries. But he wills himself to say what he should have five years ago. He turns to face Shane whose arm now lays on his chest with a fistful of his shirt. Again, clinging to Ilya’s shirt.
“Shane, I’m sorry,” he reaches over, stops, and rests his hand over the one gripping the febric so tightly. “I-I’m…. It’s five years. Why are you here? Why are you hurt?” Ilya’s throat catches and he can’t continue. He swallows hard, licking his lips. Shane’s eyes flick down as he licks his own. His mouth keeps opening, threatening to let any of his thoughts out. He goes with the biggest. “It’s five years.”
Shane knocks his fist against Ilya’s chest, the same pattern he’s used on every door that’s ever stood between them. “I know what I want,” he says, but it doesn’t come out strong. Ilya bites his lip. He can’t ask what. He can’t risk it.
“I know what I want.” Shane shifts closer.
Ilya’s heart jumps to his throat. His fingers curl tighter over Shane’s. He doesn’t know if he’s bracing or pleading. As Shane moves closer still, Ilya’s reminded of why he’d moved farther. Farther from this.
But that was five years ago.
And this is now.
A now where Shane is a man, in his bed, lips hovering over his, eyes asking for permission, asking a question Ilya knows they’d both answered long ago and filed away.
So he tilts up. The brush of their lips isn’t electrifying. His heart doesn’t stutter. No, it feels as though it’s beating again. Whatever it did before was simply keeping him alive. Shane’s mouth on his felt like living.
Shane held Ilya, arm curling under his head and other hoisting him over him. It takes Ilya by surprise, the way Shane takes initiative. It suddenly makes him feel foreign.
Ilya hovers above him but doesn’t bend down. Not just yet. At the twinge of nerves at the corner of Shane’s mouth, he suddenly feels sure again. Too at home in a way that will make him hate his stupid heart tomorrow, but for now, he’s desperate to feel a home again. He settles his weight over Shane the way he might collapse to the floor after a long trip abroad.
Shane’s kisses and touches cherish him. He tastes Shane, something so familiar despite years of absence, and his body awakens old systems. Ilya slides a hand beneath the layers, the actions like a routine. Shane eagerly returns the action, beckoning Ilya’s tongue to chase his.
Ilya pet Shane’s cheek while hands ran over his sides, memorizing Ilya’s form as though he may leave him again. Ilya did his best to anchor himself to Shane, trying to convey that he won’t leave so easily.
Not this time.
“Ilya,” Shane practically whimpers. Ilya doesn’t reply, just rolls his hips into Shane, beckoning him closer. Shane thrusts, legs slotting between and urges Ilya to bury him into the bed.
“I’m sorry,” Shane mutters into Ilya’s mouth. “I should have tried harder back then.”
Ilya nips at his bottom lip and can’t help but smile when Shane’s breath hitches. “Stop,” Shane tries to retort, so he bites a bit harder. He’s surprised when his hips buck into Ilya. He strokes his hair.
There’s so much he wants to say. Yes, you should have. Or, no, it was on me. I knew you’d never do it yourself. Or even, why was it always on me? Didn’t you want me when I wasn’t there? Did it take five years to miss me the way I miss you while you are right here under me?
Instead.
“I’m sorry, too. But you’re here now.”
Shane pulls back, eyes wide. Like he’s finally realizing where he is, whose door he came to, who is above him.
A terror like ice leaks down Ilya’s spine at the shock he sees. He’s ready to be thrown off. He’s not sure, despite his earlier convictions, if he’s ready to hold on regardless.
Tear-stained cheeks rise as Shane smiles, rubbing his nose against Ilya’s.
“I’m here now.”
Ilya nods back at him, a little dumbstruck. He pulls him in and kisses him as he wishes he had all those years ago. Holds him in his bed with all the feelings they’d left under the sheets.
For now, they revel in it. Being together. Speaking their feelings in those shitty, layered meanings they always did. Or do. Apologizing instead of using their bodies, at least.
Tomorrow, they’ll deal with it. Why Shane showed up at his door. What they’ve been up to. The pieces they need to glue back together.
But now, it’s the night. It’s the bed. It’s them.