Chapter Text
Here's the thing: Shane had noticed it, and therefore began thinking about it, the first time he visited Ilya's house. But then so many other things had happened (Ilya talking about girls, for some reason! Ilya saying his name, properly, for the first time ever! Shane being a coward and running away!) that it hadn't felt relevant, to bring up. Or even be worth thinking about, really, because he'd had no clear idea, up until Ilya had agreed to come to the cottage, whether there was any possibility for a real continued future between them. But now they were here, together, and Ilya was using terms like boyfriend in front of Shane's parents (boyfriend! Shane had never had a boyfriend before! He had been a boyfriend before, to Rose, and been terrible at it. Hopefully this would be different than that). All in all, things were seemingly more settled, which was good. It was. It just also meant all the thoughts Shane had been able to push aside as insignificant were now returning in full force. And he didn't even have training to focus on, which meant long stretches of time, like right now, with Ilya splashing away in the lake and Shane seated on the dock, for those thoughts to occupy his brain. The current one, the thing he had noticed at Ilya's and wanted and not wanted, simultaneously, to bring up: Ilya's hand, down his pants.
Not Shane's pants (that was familiar, at least), but his own, his black sweatpants. Ilya had been on the couch, not touching him, not even really looking at him, still focused on the game on the screen in front of them. And yet one of his hands had been lying, innocuously, on his cock. And the sight of that, of Ilya so casually touching himself, even if he wasn't stroking or anything, had given Shane thoughts. Not even just the usual thoughts, the kind he knew so well, like is this a signal that he wants us to be having sex right now? Should I be moving over there to replace that hand with my own? Is he annoyed that I'm not doing anything right now to help?
No, shamefully, the thoughts that were buried underneath those instinctive first concerns were less rational and more just... interested. And not only interested but excited. If Shane was being honest with himself, pretty obscenely excited. Because the reaction his stupid mind had had, seeing Ilya like that, had been traitorously overzealous. He had imagined, unbidden, a scene of Ilya just continuing. Looking over at him, maybe, but not making any effort to make Shane come, not even touching Shane's cock. Just taking it for granted that if he wanted to get off then he would. Maybe Shane's presence would even help him come faster. It was kind of a vain scenario. Do you really think you're so special that Ilya would be worked-up just looking at you? Not even being sexy, just sitting on his couch, fully clothed, watching TV? But something about his being there had made Ilya want to touch himself, right? Or at least, Shane's being in the room, even if he wasn't acting seductive, hadn't been so much of a turn-off to make him uncomfortable putting his hand down his pants.
If Shane analyzed it, which is what he was doing now (while also, at Ilya's request, running a stopwatch on his phone to test how long he could hold his breath underwater), then the alluring part, to Shane, was the presumptuousness. If Ilya wanted to touch his cock then of course he would, even if they were in middle of some mundane task. The absolute confidence of it was sexy. To add to that, if Shane could allow himself to be so egoistic, the idea of his own presence helping things along was even sexier. The notion of usefulness. Ilya wanting to come, even if Shane didn't, and so he would, and Shane could still be there, aiding him in making it happen.
A thought came.
Ilya coming, just from looking at Shane and stroking himself, and then leaning over to kiss him, to say something like good job, or thank you. And Ilya then getting up, satisfied, to go about his day. It made Shane feel warm, to think of. And now Ilya, real-life Ilya, not the imagined version acting out this surely peculiar fantasy—because who the fuck fantasized about not getting off?—was bursting out of the water again, panting hard. Shane pressed the stopwatch. "Fifty-three seconds, Rozanov! And Google says the average is sixty to ninety, so take this as another sign to stop smoking!" He set the thought aside.
And he would've been happy, really, to have set it aside completely. Well, maybe not completely. But it could've been one of those scenarios that stayed in his head and was useful for when they hadn't seen each other in weeks and Shane was driven to using his dildo and trying desperately to replicate the motions that were really awkward to perform on yourself, actually. It could've been something to drive him over the edge, quickly, right when he needed it, in the privacy of his own mind. Ilya using Shane for his own pleasure, no matter what they were doing. Ilya getting what he needed from the interaction and then just stopping, sated. And that would've been fine, because then they wouldn't have had to address it, and Shane could've felt mildly guilty for having such odd desires, but he was used to being strange, strange and aware of it, always. So. Fine. Undiscussed and unacknowledged, and Ilya wouldn't have had to be aware of yet another way his boyfriend (boyfriend!) was different from most people.
But instead, Ilya just has to do it again. And Shane wants to be annoyed. Is annoyed, because now it's a definite thing. Once something has occurred multiple times like this, even if the something in question is Ilya touching himself in the middle of an otherwise normal activity, then it's a pattern, and Shane cannot continue to shoo away its existence, keep it under wraps in his mind as private fantasy. And the annoyance is, frustratingly, overridden by fucking hot it is.
The activity in question is cooking dinner. Specifically, Shane cooking dinner. (Leftover pasta from his parents for Ilya, zucchini pasta for himself—he refused, even mentally, to use the term zoodles; it was too idiotic. Mixed greens for both of them because Shane had suspicions that Ilya wasn't getting enough antioxidants.)
He was in the middle of passing the zucchini through the spiralizer when movement in the living room caught his eye. Ilya was in the living room, lying sprawled on the couch, because Shane had assured him his being in the kitchen would only interfere with Shane's cooking system. And the movement Shane had spotted was Ilya's arm, lazily moving up and down as he worked his cock, gaze fixed on Shane. Fuck. They're going to have to talk about this.