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There’s something else troubling Shane now, Ilya knows. He can wait; with Shane’s weight on his front, his face so close to his own, and the sun setting, he can wait forever. “You think she’d like me? If she’d met me?”
The weight is still on his front, their faces are still close, the sun is still setting. There’s a new weight now; Mama’s cross, suddenly so heavy that he thinks he’s having trouble breathing, although that cannot be true. He doesn’t need to think about it, and he knows what he should say, knows the answer that would keep that hopeful glimmer present in Shane’s big, blinking eyes. But he also knows that Shane would see right through him. And they promised not to lie, not here.
So, Ilya does. “I don’t know,” he whispers, barely whispers, and the admission burns his throat. He doesn’t know what it is, after that; the pre-existing knot constricting his throat, the ray of light that catches the edge of his crucifix and causes it to glow, like an agreement, or, most likely, the way Shane’s eyes widen just a fraction, before he conceals the shock and schools his features into something more neutral.
or, Shane is curious, and Ilya tries to reconcile with his faith
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Bookmark Notes:
Ilya’s throat is dry, and that’s why he swallows. He thinks of his own nails – up, down on Shane’s shoulderblade. “If you want to play Jehovah’s Witness survey person and sinner, you have to give me some time to recover.”
The laugh that follows is enough to ease the burning of the cross, the unbearable weight of it against his sternum, only marginally – it’s easy, and breathy, and so natural that Ilya thinks his eyes might start burning for an entirely different reason now. “Who would I be?”
“Sinner,” Ilya hums.
“I’d be the sinner.”
“That is what I said.”
“Sorry, I’ll rephrase – why would I be the sinner?”
“Because first you ride the soul out of my dick and now you want to interview me,” Ilya tips his head back, groaning through it all, and he knows Shane’s propped his chin up on his chest so he can watch the whole performance. Knows he’s beaming up at him, because the room’s gone warmer, even though all Ilya can see now is Shane’s headboard, upside down. “Please,” he sighs, tips his head back down, half-lidded eyes taking in the twinkle in Shane’s own, the playfulness there, “he needs quiet time, now.”
“You can’t be conceited enough to refer to yourself in third person.”
“Him, Shane,” Ilya grabs Shane’s hand and places it square on his crotch, smiling at the little wrinkle of Shane’s nose, although he makes no move to remove his hand. “Your friend needs to rest in peace.”
“I told you that’s not what that means and to stop saying it,” Shane takes his hand off, and Ilya just replaces it with his own, missing the comforting weight. And he doesn’t stop scratching Shane’s back, even as the horrible tyrant props his chin back on his chest, ignoring Ilya’s eyes pointedly falling shut, eyelashes fluttering against slightly sunburnt cheekbones. “Come on. Are you?”
Ilya hums, feigning sleep, but he knows exactly what he’s being asked, “Am I what?”
“Religious,” Shane sighs, the soft gush of air fanning over Ilya’s sweaty neck, and it’s like a miracle in itself. He feels careful fingertips brushing over his tender undereyes, the slight sting imperceptible compared to the overwhelming pleasure, “You’re not going outside again unless I lather you in sunscreen first. Does it hurt?”
“Yes. Keep touching it,” Ilya tells him. He was going for sarcastic, but Shane does just that, and Ilya can’t help but smile, feeling it take over his face before he can help it. “I never burn. Is your horrible cottage sun.”
“Yeah, I import my own sun.”
“You have your own water,” Ilya shrugs, and it gets Shane to stop stroking his sunburnt face, rest his flat palm over his chest, next to his propped chin. Thumb touching his crucifix, and there’s the sting again. “Shane Hollander is too special to drink everyone else’s water. To share everyone else’s sun.”