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Ilya still had his hand extended toward the empty space where Shane had been standing a second ago.
The click of the door made him react. His hand clenched into a fist.
He just sat there, on the couch, in the same position that just a moment ago felt so comfortable, with Shane moaning on top of him, his weight still haunting his thighs.
Somehow he had managed not to look in the direction where Shane had disappeared.
Where he fled.
Stupid.
The massive screen still displayed the game, with a commentator discussing the latest goal from various replays.
The goalie should have stopped that one. Pathetically easy.
Stupid.
He reached for the remote. It changed the channel instead, then stopped working altogether. Ilya had to get up and cross the room just to turn the damn thing off.
Stupid remote.
He needed a cigarette.
The jacket he'd tossed over one of the living room chairs earlier should have a pack.
Empty.
As the other stupid pack that he had in one of the kitchen drawers.
Stupid.
Ilya closed his eyes and tipped his face toward the ceiling.
The deep breath did nothing to relieve the tightness in his chest.
Then he remembered.
A pack. Back of the bedside drawer.
He turned too quickly and slammed his toe into the stool.
Stupid stool.
Dark sheets tangled across the mattress, half on the bed, half cascading to the floor.
The sight of the stupid bed made his breathing feel heavier.
One second passed. Or maybe three.
A decisive step forward, and all the sheets got stripped.
Back downstairs, past the kitchen, into the laundry room.
Where the fuck did he leave the washing pods?
Cabinets opened and slammed back closed.
There they were, in the last cabinet. Of course.
Ilya threw one inside the machine with way more force than needed. Sheets followed, programming and slamming the machine door.
Back to his bedroom, past the naked bed, to the bedside table.
The pack had to be there. He knows he saw a glimpse of it.
When he opened the drawer earlier.
To find the lube.
To grab a condom.
He aimed for the drawer handle with more force than needed, and it stuck. Ilya had to wiggle it until it opened.
Stupid drawer.
The pack had 3 cigarettes left.
Ilya grabbed them and sighed at the ceiling.
Tension had settled into his neck. Rolling his shoulders did nothing.
Stupid deep breathing wasn't useful either.
Down the stairs again, past the kitchen, avoiding the infamous stool, padding to the terrace.
The first drag felt good. The second and the third, not that much.
He stood still there, on the terrace, looking at the green in his garden, rotating his neck again, rotating his shoulders.
A moment of silence, broken only by the pull of the next drag.
Ilya startled at the sprayers starting their watering job. The half smoked cigarette was killed with unnecessary force.
Stupid.
Turning to slide the glass door open, his eyes landed on the coffee table.
On crumpled napkins.
On two dirty plates.
On a half empty can.
Evidence.
He tried, again, a deep slow breath. It only got half way.
A deafening silence in the house.
A deafening silence in his chest.
Wanting to be annoyed. Failing at the want.
‘Ilya’, his name in Shane's voice, intruded in his head.
He allowed himself a single more second, or four, before crossing the door and swinging it back closed.
He picked the crumpled napkins, the dirty dishes and the half empty can. Everything was thrown in the sink, and he turned away.
Four steps later, an unwelcome burn pricked behind his eyes. He blinked at the ceiling, attempting another deep breath.
‘Shane’ he had said.
It simply slipped out.
Between two kisses.
While holding him close.
A name.
Just a name.
‘Shane’
‘Ilya’
He closed his eyes.
What a stupid thing to say.
Stupid thing to want.
Just…
Stupid.