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Three half-empty bottles of olive oil were going to Ottawa. Shane had told Ilya once that wasting good food was stupid, which was what his mother had told him when he was seven, and Ilya had been handing it back to him ever since. By day three of packing the Boston penthouse, Shane taped the bottles into a box himself and moved on to labels. Ilya's first attempt at the last open carton had been STUFF. After Shane crossed that out, Ilya replaced it with I KNOW WHAT IS INSIDE, which was useful information for exactly one person involved in the move. Shane crossed that out too and wrote MISC in block capitals. Before Shane could cap the marker, Ilya took it and drew a penis under MISC with a few dots of cartoon come beside the tip.
“Nice.”
“Will be soon,” Ilya replied.
Ilya caught Shane by the front of his shirt for a quick kiss. Shane kissed him back and glanced at the couch. No. Ilya had won the olive-oil argument; he was not getting everything he wanted today. Withholding sex also meant Shane had to go without it, a flaw he understood perfectly well and had chosen to ignore. Last night should have killed the idea. The movers had taken the bed yestercday, so they spent the night at a hotel. Shane had expected dinner and sleep; he had very willingly spent most of the night getting fucked instead. Breakfast he endured unwillingly. It had started with eggs and coffee, and by the time room service stopped arriving, Ilya had three plates spread across the cart. Yet, somewhere between breakfast and getting dressed, they ended up making out in the shower. Shane still couldn't remember who had started that part. He only remembered participating too enthusiastically to blame Ilya. None of that stopped him from keeping the couch off-limits today, especially when Ilya reached for MISC and looked at the couch again.
“Subtle,” Shane said.
“I am only looking at furniture.”
“You've been looking at that piece of furniture all afternoon.”
“Is very good couch. Has memories.”
Shane stopped himself from asking which ones. Ilya would answer. He would probably rank them and not put Shane in the top three just to be a dick. Shane let him take the box and went to the windows while Ilya carried it to the stack beside the private elevator. A few seconds later, Ilya was behind him with both arms around Shane's waist and a hard cock pressed against his ass. The counterargument was doing very well without words.
“Good view,” Shane said as he looked out over Boston.
“Better with you in it, Hollander.” Ilya kissed the side of his neck.
“Smooth.”
Trade wars were an important part of a relationship. Shane pushed back against him once, enough to make Ilya's fingers spread lower over his stomach, and caught both wrists before negotiations collapsed completely. He stepped out of Ilya's hold and looked back at him with considerably more confidence than the state of his dick justified.
A hard burst of knocking at the front door cut through whatever counteroffer Ilya was about to make. The knocking came again before either of them moved toward the door.
“Ilya, open the door. I know you're in there. Frank let me up.”
“Blyat, nu nahui,” Ilya muttered.
Shane didn't know the words, but the tone made the meaning obvious.
“Who the fuck is that?” he whispered as he stepped away from the windows.
“Matt.”
Shane blinked at him. A name did very little to explain why somebody was trying to let himself into Ilya's apartment.
“Who the fuck is that?”
“Shane, is no time to...”
A key scraped into the lock.
“And why the fuck does he have a key?” Shane hissed, his eyes snapping back to the door.
Ilya looked at him and immediately looked away.
“Oh my God, you fucked him, didn't you?”
The lock turned, and Ilya grabbed Shane by the upper arms to steer him toward the bedroom hall before he could say anything else.
“Are you fucking kidding?” Shane twisted to keep the foyer in sight while Ilya kept him moving.
At the bedroom doorway, Ilya broke off toward the entry and Shane kept moving, crossing the room for the walk-in closet. They had spent years pretending to hate each other in public, but Shane wasn't testing the act while neither of them was in any state to be seen and one of Ilya's former hookups was unlocking the apartment. No one was that fucking stupid. The closet door was nearly shut when the front door opened.
“Matt, what the fuck are you doing here?” Ilya called.
Matt answered with a sharp laugh that carried through the stripped apartment. “That excited to see me, huh?”
“Was much bigger before you walked in,” Ilya said.
“Oh, I remember how big it is.”
Matt had barely made it through the door and was already talking about Ilya's dick like it was a fond memory.
[4:43 PM] | Ilya
Shane: what the fuck?
Ilya: what?
Shane: What do you mean WHAT? Who is this guy? Why are you letting him talk about your dick and why the fuck does he have a key to your front door?
“Wow,” Matt said from further inside the penthouse, his voice bouncing off the walls. “So you really are moving, huh?”
“Yes. This is usually what empty apartment means.”
Ilya answered him before he answered Shane. What the fuck?
“Seriously?” The closet door did absolutely nothing to hide the indignation in Matt's voice. “I had to find out from the fucking news that you're leaving the Boston Bears, then ask Frank if you were actually packing. You couldn't tell me yourself?”
“Why are you coming across city to talk to my doorman about me?”
Shane eased the closet door open a fraction. Ilya stood with his back to him, phone still in his hand.
Shane: Ilya who the fuck is this guy? WHY DOES HE KNOW YOUR DOORMAN'S FIRST NAME?
Shane watched as Ilya brought his phone up. Then the typing bubble vanished as he shifted what was left of his hard-on in his pants.
Shane: Get him out or I'm going to. Also stop fucking touching yourself.
Ilya: i am trying to get him out?
Shane: No you're not you're talking to him. Throw him out.
Ilya: he is too heavy to throw maybe i can push?
Shane stared at the screen, clenching his jaw against the sigh that wanted out, and wondered how much pressure it could take before he passed out.
Shane: NOT LITERALLY What the fuck is wrong with you? Make him LEAVE.
The slightest gap he had left in the closet door gave Shane a narrow view across the bedroom toward the hall. Ilya appeared there with his phone held low against his thigh. He glanced toward the closet and Shane pointed at the front door from a room Ilya could not properly see into. Ilya pressed his lips together and that fucking crooked grin flashed across his face.
Shane: ??? DON'T SMILE AT ME WHILE I'M HIDING IN THE CLOSET.
Ilya turned back toward the living room with the grin still on his face. Shane stayed in the closet, where the only out man in the apartment was three rooms away and working on getting into his boyfriend's pants.
“So,” Ilya said. “Why are you here?”
“Seriously?” Matt's voice came from somewhere near the kitchen.
Was he fucking just wandering around to make sure that Ilya was actually leaving? And Ilya was letting him? And still asking him questions instead of pushing him out the door?
“Yes.”
“I called you three times after our last hookup and you didn't answer.”
“And that was not hint?”
Shane was still working out when the fuck that had been when Matt laughed. Again.
“You're still such a dick,” Matt said, laughing.
Footsteps crossed the living room and Matt came into view at the bedroom doorway a few seconds later. Taller than Shane. Broader through the shoulders, enough that he filled most of the frame. That was as much as Shane got before he pulled back from the gap. At least Ilya followed him into the room at a distance Shane approved of.
“I can't believe this conversation is the first one we've had in six months.”
“Was more than six months,” Ilya replied.
Matt planted both hands on his hips. “Thank you for pointing that out, Ilya. That makes it much better.”
“You found me. Good job,” Ilya said. “I am packing. Go home.”
Matt surveyed the stripped bedroom and the bare living room beyond it. “Busy with what? Everything's gone except the couch and your ego.”
Ilya laughed, and Shane was already typing.
Shane: DID YOU SERIOUSLY JUST LAUGH AT HIS JOKE?
Through the narrow gap, Ilya checked his phone while Matt wandered further into the bedroom. Matt stopped where the bed had been, close enough now that Shane stopped moving at all.
“You got rid of that mattress too?”
“Yes,” Ilya replied.
“Good. That thing was fuckin' terrible,” Matt said. “Your pecs look fucking good, by the way.”
“I play hockey,” Ilya said.
“I know what you do, Ilya. I can still tell you you look good. You were hard the second I walked in.”
Shane was uniquely qualified to dispute the timeline.
“Still, it's a shame it's gone,” Matt said. “You looked pretty fucking good on it.”
Shane: WHY ARE YOU LETTING HIM TALK TO YOU LIKE THAT?
Ilya: if i am nice he might listen to me and go.
Shane: Try harder.
Ilya: i am trying shane bedroom has no bed anyway
Shane: THAT IS NOT THE POINT
Ilya: shsne i am trting he is fune i
Shane read the message twice.
The letters were close enough to intended words to suggest failing motor control. Ilya was having a stroke because of course he was. Shane had hidden in a closet for six minutes and Ilya had developed a neurological emergency in the company of his final Boston sex pest. Matt would have to save him. Matt would put him on the floor, check his breathing and perform mouth-to-mouth while Shane remained inside the closet because emerging during the rescue would create questions. Shane put the phone on the floor and dragged both hands through his hair. The phone vibrated against bare wood.
Shit.
Fuck.
Fuck shit fuck.
“What was that?” Matt asked, turning toward the closet.
“Nothing,” Ilya said.
“It came from your closet.”
“Building makes noises.”
“That was something vibrating.” Matt laughed, still looking at the closet. “Did you forget the vibrating cock ring I got you?”
Ilya laughed again, and Shane pinched the inside of his wrist, just in case this was a cruel fucking nightmare. The pinch hurt, which unfortunately confirmed that Matt really had bought the cock ring Ilya had used on Shane two nights ago. Shane would have preferred the nightmare.
“You've also been smiling at your phone a lot,” Matt said, nodding at the phone in Ilya's hand. “What are you hiding, Ilya? This has all been really fucking weird.”
“I am not hiding anything and would not have been weird if you did not invite yourself in.”
“You keep checking it.”
“Is phone. People look at them.”
“Yeah, when somebody keeps texting them. Who is it?”
“That is none of your business.”
“New girl?”
“No.”
“New guy?”
Ilya hesitated for a second too long. “No.”
Ilya had protected the secret and somehow made the existence of one more convincing.
“Wow,” Matt said. “Okay.”
“There is no okay,” Ilya said as he headed back toward the living room.
Matt followed him out of Shane's narrow view. “There definitely is.”
Once they were out of sight, Shane reached down for his phone and switched off vibration before it had another chance to rattle against the wooden floor.
Ilya: you are very dramatic today ❤️
Shane: How the fuck are you having a great time?
Ilya: not great but is little funny
Shane shifted his weight while he read it and felt the first dull pressure in his bladder. He ignored it long enough to type back.
Shane: I hate you.
Ilya: no you dont
Shane locked his phone and listened as their voices moved further away. He needed an outside call Matt could hear, something urgent enough to pull his attention toward the front of the apartment for five seconds. That would get Shane across the hall. If Ilya managed to use it to throw Matt out altogether, even better. His mother was the obvious first choice.
[4:51 PM] | Mom
Shane: I need you to call Ilya.
Mom: Hi sweetheart. 🥰 Is everything okay?
Shane: Yes. Call him and tell him you need him to leave his apartment immediately.
Mom: Why?
Shane: It doesn't matter. Please just do it.
Mom: Is Ilya okay?
Shane: Yes.
Mom: Are you okay?
Shane: I'm fine. But I'd be better if you called Ilya.
Mom: Shane, sweetheart, I understand that part. Why can't you call him?
The truthful answer required explaining why he was hiding in Ilya's closet while the man who had bought Ilya's vibrating cock ring was still in the apartment. Shane was not typing that to his mother.
Shane: Mom please focus.
Mom: Shane, I am focused. You're asking me to make up an emergency to get Ilya out of his own apartment, you won't tell me why, and you two have only just made this official. What have I always told you? Don't commit to something until you know exactly what you're agreeing to.
She had identified the problem with impressive accuracy and no ability to help solve it.
Matt's voice carried back from further inside the apartment. “So this is really it? Ottawa?”
Shane deleted the reply he had started and muted the conversation. By then, the pressure in his bladder had sharpened enough that he counted the distance to the bathroom again. Eleven barefoot steps across the hall. Bare feet kept the noise manageable; Matt looking in the wrong direction would handle the rest. His mother required context and logic. His father respected instructions and didn't ask questions.
[4:54 PM] | Dad
Shane: Please call Ilya and tell him you need him to come over immediately. Hang up.
Dad: Okay.
Less than a minute later, Ilya's phone rang.
“David?” Ilya answered.
His footsteps came closer while he listened, and he reappeared at the bedroom doorway with the phone at his ear.
“You need me come over now?”
Ilya turned around, pulled the phone away from his ear, looked at the screen and then at the closet door.
“David?”
Shane eased the closet door open another inch, caught Ilya's eye and pointed at the bathroom. Ilya frowned, looked where Shane was pointing, and finally seemed to understand something important. He put the phone back against his ear.
“Okay. I come now.”
Shane's phone screen lit up in his hand.
Dad: 👍
David Hollander was currently the greatest father in professional hockey.
“Who's David?” Matt asked from behind Ilya.
“Friend.”
“He sounded Canadian.”
“He is.”
“And old.”
“Yes.”
“Wait. Some old Canadian guy calls telling you to come over right now, and you're moving to Ottawa?”
Ilya gave him nothing.
“No fucking way,” Matt said. “You have a Canadian sugar daddy.”
Matt had missed the correct Hollander by one generation, and somehow that was one of the least horrifying things to happen to Shane all day.
“I do not have sugar daddy.” Ilya stepped into the hall and closed the bedroom door behind him. “If I wanted one I could get one becau...”
“That's exactly what somebody with a Canadian sugar daddy would say.”
Their argument carried away from the bedroom, Ilya more interested in defending his theoretical value on the sugar-daddy market than correcting anything Matt actually believed. With Matt occupied and the bedroom door shut, Shane finally had the five seconds he'd asked David for. He slipped out of the closet and crossed the eleven barefoot steps to the bathroom while Matt was still arguing about his financial independence. Shane eased the door shut behind him and pissed. After, he washed his hands with the tap barely cracked, careful not to knock the soap dispenser against the sink. Hiding in Ilya's bathroom was humiliating enough. Skipping handwashing would make him disgusting. He wasn't a fucking animal. Their voices had moved further into the apartment by the time he eased the tap off. David's emergency had successfully relocated him from Ilya's closet to Ilya's bathroom. Back in the bedroom, Shane settled on the floor against the wall beside the bathroom door and stretched his legs out. For the first time since Matt arrived, he had room for both knees and no immediate risk of pissing himself. That was enough relief to deal with the remaining problem. Normal people understood lunch. If Ilya had food coming, Matt would leave instead of sitting around watching him eat. Shane opened Grubhub convinced this was finally a plan with no obvious weakness. A nearby bagel shop promised delivery in five to seven minutes. He selected one plain bagel and pressed ADD TO CART, only for the app to ask about cream cheese. NO THANKS. The next screen wanted to know whether he wanted it toasted. NOT TOASTED got him as far as a page about add-ons. Shane hit SKIP and reached checkout. The order only needed to arrive at the door, so he typed PLEASE KNOCK LOUDLY into the delivery instructions and submitted it.
[5:11 PM] | Ilya
Shane: I ordered food. Tell him you need to eat lunch and ask him to go.
Ilya: what food?
Shane: That's not fucking important.
Ilya: it is though
Of course it was. Shane was trying to get a man out of the apartment; Ilya wanted menu details.
Shane: Fine. Fuck. A bagel.
Ilya: with cream cheese? 😍
Shane stared at the message.
Shane: Just tell him to go.
Ilya's voice reached him through the closed bedroom door soon after. “I have lunch coming. You should go.”
“When did you order food?” Matt asked.
“Before you came.”
Shane looked up from his phone. That lie had come out clean. Apparently, Ilya could do it when nobody mentioned a vibrating cock ring.
“Great,” Matt said. “What are we having?”
Ilya laughed, which Shane found considerably less impressive than the lie. “Is surprise for me, not you.”
“Fine. I'll just watch you eat. We haven't even talked yet.”
“Okay.”
“I'll order something off Grubhub for myself.”
Shane had assumed lunch would make Matt uncomfortable. Matt had solved that by inviting himself to lunch.
“No,” Ilya said.
“What do you mean, no?”
“You order food, you stay until food comes. You leave now.”
“You don't control Grubhub.”
“I control my apartment.”
At least one of them was learning. The order changed to DRIVER ON THE WAY with three minutes remaining. Matt abandoned his backup order but remained in the apartment, which qualified as progress only if Shane lowered the standard far enough. When the status changed to ARRIVING, the intercom sounded beyond the bedroom.
“Mr. Rozanov?” Frank said. “Grubhub delivery is coming up.”
“Thank you, Frank.” Ilya barely waited for the connection to end before addressing Matt again. “Food is here. I walk you to door.”
“Ilya, I'll go when you answer one question. You owe me at least one.”
Apparently more than six months without speaking and one unauthorised entry still left Ilya owing him something. Shane fundamentally disagreed. The elevator chimed in the private foyer, and a hard knock hit the front door exactly as Shane had requested. If one plain bagel got Matt through that door, Shane would forgive Grubhub every pop-up. The knock got Shane exactly what he had paid for. From the bedroom floor he followed it by sound: the front door, Ilya thanking the driver, the door again. The paper bag made it a few seconds further inside before Matt spoke.
“Plain? Since when do you eat plain bagels?”
“I don't.”
“Then why the fuck did you order one?”
“Here. You eat.”
Shane stared at the closed bedroom door. He had fought through three separate Grubhub screens to get that bagel upstairs so Matt would leave and Ilya had just given it to him.
[5:20 PM] | Ilya
Shane: YOU GAVE HIM THE BAGEL?
Ilya: you ordered plain bagel shane why would you hurt me like this 😢
Of course this was now something Shane had done to Ilya.
Shane: WHY ARE YOU MAKING THIS ABOUT YOU?
Ilya: is my lunch
Paper crinkled on the other side of the closed door before Ilya addressed Matt again.
“Ask question now while you eat my lunch.”
“You really want me gone that badly?” Matt asked.
“Yes.”
The bag crackled again. “Okay. This person, whoever it is. They make you happy, right?”
“Yes. Very happy. I hope I make him very happy too,” Ilya replied immediately.
Ilya had said it to somebody else, in an empty apartment, with no idea Shane was close enough to hear it. Shane put his head back against the wall. Ilya chose now, of all the opportunities he had been given and while Matt was eating Shane's emergency bagel, to say something that made staying furious with him significantly harder. Shane resolved that he could be touched now and vindictive later. Nobody spoke for a few seconds.
“I'm glad, Ilya. You deserve it.”
“Thank you.”
Shane was still deciding how much credit Matt deserved for that when footsteps started coming back toward the bedroom.
“Where are you going?” Ilya asked.
“Bathroom. Then I'll go.”
“Is bathro...”
“Ilya, don't tell me where to piss.”
Oh, fuck.
Shane was across the room before Matt finished the sentence. He dropped onto one knee at the closet and slid the last few feet through the doorway, pulling the door shut as dust lifted around his jeans. The bedroom door opened almost on top of him.
“What, you want to watch me piss now?” Matt asked.
“No. I make sure unwelcome guest finds bathroom.”
Matt laughed. “Fuck you, man. I promise I'm going right after I piss.”
“Good.” The relief in Ilya's answer was almost offensive considering Shane was the one back in the fucking closet.
The bathroom door shut, and Shane eased the closet open enough to find Ilya looking straight at him.
[5:25 PM] | Ilya
Shane: STOP LOOKING AT ME
Ilya: you look so cute poking your head out. like little bunny 🐰
Shane: 🖕
The toilet flushed. Shane waited for the tap, instead, the bathroom door opened.
Shane had washed his hands in near silence while actively hiding from this man. Matt apparently couldn't manage basic hygiene with the entire bathroom to himself. Shane started closing the closet, but Matt was already back in the bedroom. Moving the door now would be more obvious than leaving it alone, so he retreated behind the hanging clothes with the gap still open. The dust from his slide had settled over his jeans and worked its way into the closet with him. An itch started at the back of his nose as Matt and Ilya moved toward the bedroom door.
No.
Fuck.
No.
Shane stopped breathing through his nose and pressed a finger beneath it. The urge eased enough that he almost trusted it.
“Okay, time to go now, yes?” Ilya said.
“Fine, Ilya. You've made it clear you've moved on.”
The itch came back hard enough to water Shane's eyes. Matt was close enough now that the paper bag shifting in his hand carried into the closet, and even swallowing seemed too loud. Shane pinched his nose shut and held his breath until his chest started to hurt.
He sneezed.
The apartment went quiet for a second. Matt's footsteps came back across the bedroom.
“The fuck?”
The closet door slid open before Shane could decide whether blaming the building was still available.
“Shane Hollander?” Matt asked as he stared down at him. “What the fuck?”
Over Matt's shoulder, the look on Ilya's face blamed Shane for all of it. Shane had sneezed; Ilya had given a man a fucking key to his apartment. The obvious difference appeared to have escaped him.
“I was, uh...”
“He was helping me clean,” Ilya cut in. “Was because he lost bet.”
Shane committed immediately. “Yes. Bet.”
Matt looked from Shane to Ilya while Shane pushed himself off the floor, brushing enough dust from his jeans to make the cleaning story marginally less insulting. He stepped out of the closet.
Shane had spent years making sure nobody saw him come out of one. Apparently, all it took was one of Ilya's former hookups and a badly timed sneeze.
“You were here this whole time?” Matt asked.
“It seemed like you had a lot to catch up on.” Shane looked straight at Ilya, who had recovered completely.
Asshole.
Now that Shane could see Matt's face properly, he looked younger than Shane had expected. Thick dark stubble covered most of his jaw, his eyebrows were heavier than Shane's, and his eyes were green. None of it helped Shane identify whatever pattern existed in Ilya's taste. Mostly, Matt made the question more confusing.
“This is really fuckin' weird, man,” Matt said.
“Yeah, you're telling me. Anyway, you w...”
“Hold on.”
Matt bulldozed conversations with everybody, then, not only people he'd fucked.
“You dated Rose Landry, right?”
“Yeah. We're still close. She's...” Shane looked directly at Ilya before finishing. “Beautiful.”
That wiped the grin off Ilya's face.
“Yeah, hot, yeah,” Matt said, though his attention had left Ilya entirely.
Matt looked Shane over again, slower this time. Shane let him, increasingly convinced the lack of boundaries was simply a Matt problem.
“Fuck, you've got nice lats, man,” Matt said, and brushed some dust off Shane's shoulder on his way past.
His hand had barely left before Ilya was between them.
“Okay. Enough now.”
“What?” Matt said as he leaned slightly to look around at Shane.
“You had lunch. You had piss. Now you go.” Ilya put a hand flat against Matt's chest and started walking him backward toward the hall. “Hollander needs to finish cleaning because he is bad at hockey.”
“But I...”
“No more.”
“Hey, Sh...”
“No. Say bye, Shane,” Ilya said over his shoulder.
“Bye,” Shane managed, trying not to laugh.
“Fuckin' seriously?” Matt asked, though he was still giving ground all the way through the bedroom doorway.
“Yes. Very.”
By the time Shane followed them out, Ilya had Matt halfway across the apartment with one hand still directing him toward the foyer.
“Key,” Ilya said.
“Wha...”
“My key.”
Matt dug it out while Ilya waited, and the second it landed in his palm, Ilya opened the front door.
“Good luck with life, Matt.”
“Man, such an ass.”
The door closed on him. Shane stared at it before he realised that getting Matt out of the apartment had been incredibly fucking easy. Two stints in the closet, one fake family emergency, one Grubhub order and an entire plain bagel had been unnecessary. All Ilya had required was another man touching Shane's shoulder. Shane had no plans to start letting strangers put their hands on him for experimental purposes. Still, it was useful information. He had spent the entire visit asking Ilya to take control of the situation. Watching him do it was inconveniently hot. It was also really infuriating.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Shane said while Ilya turned the deadbolt, Matt's key still pinched between two fingers.
Ilya looked over his shoulder. “What?”
“I hid in your closet, then your bathroom, then your closet again, and ordered food I didn't even want or get to eat. He touches my shoulder once and suddenly you remember how doors work.”
“He was looking at you.”
“You laughed at his joke.”
“Was funny.”
Shane kept looking at him.
“Little funny,” Ilya conceded.
“And he had a key.”
That took the smile off him.
“Why did he have a key, Ilya?”
“Was after you left that day.” Ilya rolled the brass key between his fingers.
“That's when. Not why.”
Ilya kept his eyes on the key. “You left. Then apartment was very quiet.”
Shane had a line ready. He'd had it ready since the closet, sharpened through nearly an hour of being furniture in somebody else's apartment. He also remembered the Canada Dry that Ilya had bought and kept checking he was drinking, and the way Ilya had said his name, and getting out of that building fast enough to catch the elevator on the first try.
He dropped the line.
“Matt was around a lot,” Ilya said. “After home games, sometimes I come back and he is there. Was easy. No questions.”
“How long?”
“Few months.”
Shane did the arithmetic before he could stop himself. Six months of silence put the last of it in January, and January was Tampa, and Tampa was the two of them wrecking a hotel room and pretending the All Star break had only been about hockey. Matt had called three times after that and never once got an answer. Ilya hadn't ended it. He had just stopped picking up, in a phone call Matt never received, because Shane had come back.
“Was nice sometimes to come home and somebody is there,” Ilya said. “Not complicated.”
Shane thought about Ilya, on the other side of a door telling a man he hoped he made somebody very happy, and Shane on the floor of a closet, being the somebody, with dust on his jeans and no way to say so. Ilya had spent a winter with a man who was allowed in the room and wasn't the right one. Shane had spent a summer and this afternoon being the right one and not allowed in the room.
Neither of them was going to say that out loud.
That took most of the fun out of being mad about the key. Not all of it. Giving somebody permanent access to your apartment because you were sad and horny was still an insane administrative choice. Shane could work with that.
“You're making this up to me.”
Ilya's attention came straight back to him. “Yes.”
“A lot.”
“Yes.”
Shane crossed the living room and stopped at the windows. Ilya followed, a little more cautiously than he had the first time, which Shane enjoyed enough to let him wait.
“Come here.”
Ilya did. Shane took Ilya's wrists and put his hands back around his waist, exactly where they'd been when Matt knocked. Ilya didn't need another instruction. His arms closed around Shane and his mouth found the side of his neck. Shane pressed back into him, still deciding how expensive this ceasefire was going to be.
“You said something to him. About me.”
Ilya's mouth stilled against his neck. “You were in closet. Is private conversation.”
“I was in your closet because of you.”
“Still private.” Ilya kissed under his jaw. “Was true, though.”
Shane let that sit where it landed.
“Is this what dating you is going to be like?” he asked.
“Yes,” Ilya said against his skin. “I am very good at sex. Many crazy exes.”
“Matt isn't even your ex.”
“Exactly. Imagine real ex.”
Shane laughed, which probably weakened his negotiating position.
Ilya pulled him closer and stopped kissing his neck long enough to huff a speck of closet dust off Shane's shoulder.
“You have more.”
“I wonder why?”
“Very dusty apartment.”
“Interesting. I thought somebody was cleaning it because he lost a bet.”
Ilya laughed against his neck. “He did bad job.”
“Keep going.”
“With cleaning?” Ilya asked.
“With making it up to me.”
“Ah.” Ilya kissed beneath his ear. “This I can do.”
Shane stayed there another few seconds, letting Ilya keep his arms around him, already sure this would be much funnier once he was no longer wearing evidence from the inside of a closet. The couch was still behind them.
“You can start by showing me how good you are on that couch,” Shane said as he turned inside Ilya's hold and ran his hand up underneath Ilya's shirt.
“Trade war is over?” Ilya asked as his grin came back.
“Temporary ceasefire,” Shane said.
“Sounds like surrender.”
Shane pulled him toward the couch. Politics had never been his strong point.