cellostrings



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    “Ilya?” Shane said in that same dreamy, loopy voice as that morning. Ilya exhaled in a rush.

    “Shane,” he said, and wanted to sag against the glass with relief. “What happened? Is something wrong?”

    “Not! Any moooooooore.”

    Ilya swallowed. Shane hadn’t gotten any quieter in the past seven hours.

    “Why are you calling me? You need to be resting,” he said, and it sounded softer than he’d meant it to.

    “I forgot to tell you something. Important.

    “You should not be telling me anything, you should be—”

    “My cottage has really good water pressure,” Shane announced.

    Ilya stared out the window while a small plane taxied past.

    “What?”

    ——————

    Shane's cottage has a lot of amenities, and he needs to tell Ilya about all of them.

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    20 Feb 2026

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    “You didn’t like it the last time we tried it,” Shane said.

    Ilya gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Was years ago. Maybe it is an acquired taste, like licorice.”

    “You also don’t like licorice,” Shane pointed out.

    “Yes, but I keep trying it because Luca likes it so much.”

    “And then you make a face and tell him how awful it is.”

    “When have I ever told you your dick is awful?” Ilya said, looking mildly offended. “I am its number one fan.”

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    20 Feb 2026

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    Shane was looking down. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in intense, painful concentration. His lips were moving, silently shaping the words. Good. Night. Forming them slowly, carefully, in the secret space of his own mouth.

    Ilya’s breath hitched. He’d never seen this. Why would he have? Shane had never been sad around him. Never hurt. Never in this kind of quiet, defeated pain. Around Ilya, Shane had been pleasured and angry and frustrated and gloriously competitive. But never this. Never shattered.

    (or, everything is same but Shane has a slight stutter that gets bad when he's sad. Ilya has never heard it because Shane has never been sad around him. Until their night in Vegas.)

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    19 Feb 2026

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    He tried to stop. To turn the wheel. To avoid chaos. But all he could do was brace for impact as he lost control, darkness threatening to take over what was only just the most beautiful mixture of colour. And even as he felt himself losing consciousness, a searing pain in his abdomen, all he could think about - all he could see - was Ilya.

    And then Ilya disappeared. Just like that. Shane tried to bring him back, but he couldn’t even do that for himself.

    He lost everything. Lost himself. His chest felt like it was caving in. His lungs were burning.

    Everything was fading. Just like Ilya had faded.

    Everything went black.

     

    OR Ilya calls Shane by his first name for the first time, and Shane freaks the fuck out, because everything is real now. He leaves, unable to process how he's feeling, and crashes, with only Ilya's face flashing before his eyes.

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    19 Feb 2026

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    “Don’t–” Ilya starts, already reaching, already cupping Shane’s face between both hands, thumbs warm and tender against his cheekbones like they’ve always belonged there.

    Shane’s eyes are big and gorgeous and genuinely curious. “Don’t what?”

    Don’t make me look like a lovesick idiot. Don’t make my heart trip over itself for a way out of my chest and into yours. Don’t say it like that—so fucking sincere—like you don’t know how devastating it is for me.

    “Don’t butcher my language,” he says instead and kisses Shane’s smile hard, like reflex, like gravity, like there was never going to be another option.

    -

    Shane sets out to learn Russian. Ilya discovers he's incapable of keeping his composure.

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    18 Feb 2026