Chapter Text
What the fuck had just happened?
Ilya felt almost numb, his hand still outstretched and neck stiff with tension as he stared at the space where Shane was standing just a few moments ago. Like if he stared long enough, Shane might snap back into his home, settle back on his lap, and sweetly whisper Ilya’s name in his ear again.
He couldn’t understand how it had all gone wrong, so quickly.
Except it had. And he knew exactly how.
“Blyat!” Ilya muttered, the word scraped raw from his throat. He dragged himself upright and perched on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees. His fingers raked through his hair, and he cursed again as his nails caught on his curls, uncaring as he tugged a few strands out. He welcomed the pain flaring sharp and clean compared to the mess in his chest.
Idiot.
In one fluid motion, he rose from the couch and stalked over to the kitchen.
A drink. He needed a drink.
He needed to drown this before it got any louder.
As he stepped in front of the sink, his gaze fell to the two plates still in the sink, covered with crumbs and a crust that Shane hadn’t finished.
Ilya froze.
His chest throbbed painfully as he looked at the sight, something ugly tightening around his ribs.
He gripped the countertop tightly, fingers whitening as his thoughts couldn’t help but circle around how Shane’s departure was his fault.
All his fault.
Of course it was.
For weeks now, Ilya had known that something was happening. He’d felt it every time Shane’s name lit up his phone, that stupid rush in his chest, the way his pulse jumped excitedly. He’d felt it in the restless pacing, the planning, the way his thoughts kept orbiting Shane.
He’d felt it in the way he started unconsciously scheming by buying ginger ale and prepping tuna melts.
A mantra running on repeat in his mind: Feed him. Fuck him. Pour him his favorite drink.
Make it easy. Make it comfortable.
Don’t ask him to stay until after he’s sated and drunk on endorphins.
Don’t give him a reason to leave.
Because somehow, deep down, Ilya had known. Known that one wrong move, one badly timed word, and Shane would spook, leaving as if he were never there.
And not once did he stop for long enough to let himself think about why.
Why he was doing all of this, why he was scheming to get Shane to be with him for longer, why his chest sometimes ached so badly at the thought of the other man that it made him want to sit in silence and stare at nothing until the feeling disappeared.
Well good fucking job, dolboyob, Ilya thought bitterly. Real fucking impressive. Now you’ll have nothing but time to think “why.”
Ilya turned sharply towards the refrigerator and yanked open the door, hand moving on its own accord to the shelf where he kept his vodka. His hand stopped midair when his eyes finally caught up.
The bottle sat exactly where it always did.
And beside it?
Five cans of ginger ale.
Shane.
Something sharp and vicious, dripping in a rageful self loathing, twisted through his chest at the sight, and suddenly, he knew the “why.”
He loved Shane Hollander.
The realization was a punch to the gut. He almost laughed, bitterness coating his insides.
Of course he did. Of course he was that stupid. Confusing sex for emotions. Pathetically falling for his rival.
And worst of all, he was the biggest fucking idiot for believing there was even a remote possibility that Shane may love him back.
“Fuck this shit,” Ilya growled, fingers closing around the neck of the vodka bottle. He ripped it out then slammed the fridge hard enough to rattle the shelves.
He headed for his bedroom without looking back, already unscrewing the cap, determined to make himself forget the truth.
Knowing him, he’d fail at that too.
He did.