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When Ilya says it, the first thing Shane thinks is, That should be hot.
“Fuck, malysh,” Ilya breathes into the warmth of Shane’s neck, pressing kiss after kiss to the skin there and nipping lightly at his earlobe. One of his hands squeezes Shane’s pec in rhythm with the lazy grind of his hips, building up a delicious friction that makes Shane dizzy with want. It feels so good that he almost forgets, almost lets the moment pass by without another thought.
And then Ilya says it again.
“I want you everywhere,” he murmurs breathlessly. Like a confession.
That should be hot, Shane thinks again, in a vaguely distant way. Why isn’t it…?
Ilya is still moving against him, the occasional low moan spilling from his lips. He’s running his fingers reverently over Shane’s ribs. He’s sucking a bruise into the skin below Shane’s collarbone. He’s hitting all the marks, doing everything that should be making Shane arch up from the bed and cry out for more. But Shane feels as if the tether connecting his mind to his body had suddenly, very quietly, snapped in two, and he’s begun to drift away.
I want you everywhere.
The words seem innocuous enough. Shane wonders numbly why they’ve started to echo through his head like the hollow beat of a drum.
And then—
A memory flickers to life.
Rose, straddling his lap. Her lip gloss smearing against his open mouth. Her hands pushing up underneath his shirt. The delicate lace of her bra, scratchy against his cheek. Her soft moans in the still, suffocating air.
And her voice as she sighed, Shane. Shane. I want you everywhere.
Oh.
Distantly, Shane realizes that his body has gone still under Ilya. Gorgeous, stunning Ilya, who is now sucking at Shane’s nipples and palming him over his underwear. It should feel deliriously good. It always does, with him. Shane is aware of the sensations, of the way he should be reacting, but he feels like he’s been locked outside of his body.
“Shane?” Ilya’s voice cuts through the haze, just slightly. His hand is still moving, though slower. “Is okay?”
Shane stares at the ceiling. He can’t even blink. Why can’t he blink?
Ilya’s hand pulls away. “Shane.”
Shane manages a small hum.
“Malysh, what is wrong?” Worry and confusion flicker in Ilya’s voice. “Did I hurt you?” He cups Shane’s face with one hand, stroking lightly. The touch brings Shane a little closer to his body, just for a moment. He parts his lips. His mouth feels so dry.
“No,” he says. His voice feels very far away, like it’s someone else speaking. “I’m fine.”
“Clearly you are not,” Ilya says without any malice. He shifts his weight off of Shane and kneels beside him on the bed, keeping his hand a gentle presence on Shane’s cheek. “But everything will be okay. Come back to me, yes? You are good here.”
Shane wants to come back. But the jaws of the memory are already clamped tight around him, and everything else feels foggy and not-quite-real in comparison. He can feel it all so acutely. Rose—sweet, careful Rose, who never did anything without hearing a “yes” from Shane—her hands roaming over his body, her thighs bracketing his hips, the warm, wet core of her against him. And Shane forcing the word from his lips. Yes, he’d said. Yes, I want to. Yes, take it off. Yes, let me touch you. Yes, that feels good. Yes, I’ll give you more. Yes, yes, yes. Over and over until it was nothing more than a jumbled repetition of sounds. Meaningless noise.
Shane feels, suddenly, like he might throw up.
“I can’t—” he mumbles. “I’m sorry—”
“No, no sorry.” Ilya’s brow is creased with worry. He strokes Shane’s cheek, his hair. “This is not panic attack. This is different. Yes?”
Shane exhales shakily and gathers the strength to speak. “Um. Yes. I think so,” he manages.
“Okay,” Ilya says. “We will figure it out. Just focus on me, da? Focus on my hands.” He brings his free hand to Shane’s where it rests limply against the sheets. Distantly, Shane registers the feeling of Ilya’s fingers slotting between his own. “Can you squeeze my hand for me, moya lyubov? Just squeeze.”
A moment passes as Shane tries to connect his mind to his body. Everything feels fuzzy and out of reach. But he focuses hard, wanting to follow Ilya’s instruction. And he squeezes.
“Good, malysh, you are doing so good,” Ilya says softly. Even in his current state, Shane feels warm with the praise. He’s doing good. He’s in his body. He’s in the present.
Shane squeezes again, flexing his fingers. Then, slowly, he turns his head, pushing his cheek gently into Ilya’s other hand. As his field of vision turns, the movement seems to click something back into place. He blinks, feeling his awareness return somewhat to the physical world.
Ilya is stroking his hair, thumb against his cheekbone. “Just try to relax and breathe,” he says in that same soft, gentle tone. “Everything is okay. You are safe and okay.”
Shane didn’t realize how much tension he’d been holding in his body until he consciously releases it. It punches an exhale out of him.
“That’s it,” Ilya murmurs. “There you go.”
Shane just breathes for a moment, eyes closed. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “We were—”
“None of this,” Ilya cuts in. “You are more important.”
After a moment, Shane gives a stilted nod. “Okay.”
He opens his eyes and finds Ilya studying his face. Ilya smiles a bit when Shane meets his gaze. “You are back with me?” he murmurs.
“I think so.” Shane feels a rush of embarrassment churn through his gut. “I don’t—I don’t know what happened.”
“You were very still and quiet. I thought maybe I did something to hurt you.”
“You didn’t.”
Ilya seems to relax a bit, considering this. “Can you tell me what happened, in your head?”
Methodically, Shane takes a deep breath and lets it out. Then another. “I can try?” he says shakily. “Um. I don’t know—I don’t think you’ll like it.”
“You are right, I do not like anxiety. Is always very mean to my boyfriend.”
Shane laughs weakly. “No, this… this is different. I…” he swallows. “I was thinking about Rose?”
Ilya is quiet for a moment.
“I’m sorry, it wasn’t—it’s not like, you know, I was thinking about her, it’s—something you said just reminded me of when we—” Shane’s throat closes up on the words. “When we were together,” he finishes weakly.
Ilya’s thumb caresses Shane’s hand thoughtfully. “Is bad memory? With Rose? That is why you went somewhere else in your head?”
“No,” Shane says immediately, a little more forcefully than he intends. “No, it’s not a bad memory. We just… had sex. It was fine,” he continues lamely. “It was totally consensual. I said ‘yes’ to everything we did.”
Ilya considers this, then gently grips Shane’s hands in his own. “Moya lyubov,” he begins, “is true you said ‘yes.’ But this does not mean it has to be good memory.”
Shane swallows. “It’s just,” he begins quietly, “like, if it’s bad, then there’s no one to blame for it except me. I chose to be with her. I chose… all of it.”
“You did not choose to live in world that makes you feel like you have to fuck women.”
Ilya’s blunt reply is so unexpected that it pushes a small, nervous laugh out of Shane. “I… yeah, I guess I didn’t?” he says, and his urge to self-deprecate deflates somewhat. He’d never thought about it like that.
“So,” Ilya continues, “it is not your fault. If it is anyone’s fault, is world’s fault.”
“I can’t just blame the whole world for my…”
“Sex trauma?” Ilya supplies, and Shane’s face heats up.
“It’s not—it’s not like that,” he mumbles.
“What, I said scary word? Trauma?” Ilya says. “Shane. You were gone, not here. I think this is something more than boring memory.”
Shane is quiet. After a moment, he tugs on Ilya’s hand, pulling him closer. Ilya shifts forward, lying down against Shane’s side with one arm wrapped around his body. The pressure against him feels good, a tangible tether to this moment and this reality. The flickers of memory and sensation still teasing at the edges of his mind are quieted by the warm, solid weight of Ilya’s body next to him.
He feels Ilya’s gaze on him for a moment before the other man speaks. “What made you remember?” Ilya asks, pressing a kiss to Shane’s shoulder. “It was something I said, yes? If you tell me, I will make sure to never say it again.”
“It’s dumb,” Shane mumbles. “I hate that I had… that reaction to something so small.”
Ilya frowns. “Is okay, Shane. Did I call you a name? It was ‘baby,’ yes? I will not call you ‘baby.’”
Shane blushes furiously. “No, no, it wasn’t that. I… I like it when you call me that.”
“Oh, you do?” Ilya kisses his collarbone. “You like being my baby, malysh?”
“Fuck off,” Shane replies instinctively, his face red. Then he laughs. He’s so in love. “Okay, maybe. Yeah. I do.”
Ilya grins against his chest. “Good. I like it too.”
Shane smiles and brings one hand up to run through Ilya’s curls. “It wasn’t a name,” he starts, biting back the embarrassment curling in his stomach. “It was… fuck. I hate this. Um, you said… you said ‘I want you everywhere.’” He exhales. “I know, it’s—it’s stupid, right, it’s just that Rose, she said the exact same thing, and it’s, like, distinct enough for my brain to remember that and I guess I just went into the memory and I got stuck for some reason—”
Ilya lifts his head and cups Shane’s face, meeting his gaze. “Shane. You are okay,” he says. “Thank you for telling me. Is not stupid. I will not say it again.”
Shane nods. “Okay.”
Ilya leans forward and presses a soft kiss to his mouth. When he pulls back, Shane chases his lips and kisses him deeper, hungrier. He giggles when Ilya nips playfully at his lip. Giggles. God, the things this man does to him.
“It sucks, you know,” Shane mumbles when he finally pulls away, flushed and happy and present, “because it should have been hot.”
“Oh?” Ilya grins. “Do not worry, I can find many other things to say for you.” He kisses Shane again, deep and lingering. “I can say, ‘I want to feel all of your body against mine.’ Or, ‘I need your hands and your perfect mouth on every inch of my skin.’ Or, ‘I want to be inside you, filling you up, making you mine.’”
“Fuck, Ilya.” Shane grips his bicep and kisses him, hard. “I’m… I’m already yours.”
“Fuck,” Ilya groans. “You fucking are.”
Yes, is all Shane can think as Ilya climbs back on top of him and kisses him breathless, yes, yes, I fucking am. Yes.