I missed you too [ He whispers back, tilting his head down and kissing Larus again because he can't hear those things and not kiss him. ] I wanted to kiss you right there on the ice in front of everyone. Watching you skate, before you fell--you know how gorgeous you are, right?
[ He doesn't think he's kept it a secret, but since the first moment he saw Larus land a jump at that stupid training center all those years ago, he's been fucking mesmerized by him and the way he interacts with the ice. It's so different from what Shane does, a dance rather than a battle, a poetry between the two of them instead of a war. It never ceases to take his breath away.
But this won't do. Shane is still standing which means that Larus is still standing and he needs to get off his feet. He tilts his head, thinks about the situation and then does it, without much preamble. His arm comes down under Larus' good knee and around his shoulders and he lifts, pulling the man up bridal-style before walking him toward the bathroom ]
Counter or toilet? Which one do you think would hurt less while I fill up the tub?
[ the tension trying to pull him apart eases with those words, gripping him tighter and gently shaking his head against him as if to say only you would think that. because he would, wouldn't he? no one's ever used those exact words to describe the way he skates. skillful, artistic, textbook precision—those are the things people have said about him. not beautiful or gorgeous or kissable.
and he's in the middle of debating whether or not to kiss shane again when they're moving, when he's being lifted. for a moment, the abruptness of it makes him dizzy. then, the protest follows. ]
I can walk. [ but it's hardly an argument, a little dazed by how easily shane had just hefted him into his arms. which has absolutely nothing to do with his head injury and everything to do with the fact he's strong. larus might be leaner, but he isn't light by any means. and then, an echo of an answer, ] Counter. It'll be easier to get down from that.
[ rather than push up, put strain on his thigh when he inevitably has to stand again. it'll be good to put more weight on it too, though only after the heat of the bath and the ice—routine, repetition. these are things he's had to do before, and it isn't unfamiliar to him. what's new is shane being there, hovering and helping, and before he can pull away to begin filling the tub, larus tugs at his shirt from his perch on the counter. draws him back in. ]
Just a little longer, [ he breathes it into his chest, desperate for the contact. to fill that space with all the things he doesn't have words for. ] Please.
Mmmhmm [ Shane agrees with a hum as he keeps Larus tucked against his chest. Because yes, obviously, he walked this far--though if Shane thought he could have sustained carrying him for as long as it took to get them to the room and if he thought it wouldn't draw every single cell phone in the entire hotel from every guest they passed, he might have carried him then as well--but he can do this, now. Larus isn't light--they're about the same height and both of them built on corded muscle, but he is leaner than Shane, and that difference helps, just a bit.
He is impossibly careful as he settles the man against the counter, slipping between his legs once he's got him settled, hands running over him as if double checking for new injuries. As if the fifteen feet he was lifted might have wounded him anew. None found, Shane's mind starts flitting through the steps of the plan: bath, ice, elevation, getting Larus prone again, rest. He has every intent of beginning when--
That tug on his shirt--the quiet one, insistent and heartbreaking--stops him cold. He nods, leaning forward, wrapping wide arms around Larus' shoulder, tucking him close and burying his face against his hair. His hands spread wide, one along the line of his neck, the other against his lower back, trying to cover as much of him as he can in the moment ]
Hey. It's okay-- [ the words are quiet, spilling out in hushed assurance against Larus' hair, against his skin, whispered between them ] I've got you. I'm not going anywhere. I've got you, Sweetheart.
[ endearments don't come naturally to him, and he expects it to feel unwieldy in his mouth, but it slips out soft and gentle like the rest of it, at home in this quiet place ] I promise.
[ the strength it had taken to be so resistant to shane's affections melts beneath the solid warmth of him, anchoring larus so he doesn't float away in a sea of confusion and pain and unspoken promises. it breaks and crests, ringing in his ears as the sweetness of it cuts through the long days, weeks, months spent chasing after one another from afar, and larus doesn't know how he'd managed to stay so unaffected for so long.
and yes, some of it is probably the fact he'd nearly knocked himself out on the ice. and yes, some of it is shane's mere presence on all sides. but none of it cracks him open the way that single, solitary word does.
sweetheart.
i've got you. i promise.
the noise he makes in the back of his throat is unprompted and uncontrolled, a rush of air like he's been punched, and though he tries to swallow around it, tries to stop whatever's careening wildly inside of him, he can't. his arms tighten around him, sliding forward on the counter to press as close to shane as he can manage without climbing inside him, and he hooks his good leg around him. pulling, squeezing, clinging as tightly as he can manage while he breathes him in.
those days they'd had in montreal feel so surreal now, like a hazy dream in the face of reality. that this – the timed hours, the sporadic moments, the casual inconsistencies – is all they will ever have until it kills him. if it's not killing him already. ]
Sorry, [ he whispers after a lengthy stretch of silence filled with his own hitched breathing, muffled somewhere against shane's chest. and he isn't going to cry. he isn't, but it'll be a close thing, his head hurting with how hard he squeezes his eyes shut. ] I'm sorry this is all we have.
[ like they both hadn't made this choice. like it's the only thing they'll ever be able to hold onto. ]
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[ He doesn't think he's kept it a secret, but since the first moment he saw Larus land a jump at that stupid training center all those years ago, he's been fucking mesmerized by him and the way he interacts with the ice. It's so different from what Shane does, a dance rather than a battle, a poetry between the two of them instead of a war. It never ceases to take his breath away.
But this won't do. Shane is still standing which means that Larus is still standing and he needs to get off his feet. He tilts his head, thinks about the situation and then does it, without much preamble. His arm comes down under Larus' good knee and around his shoulders and he lifts, pulling the man up bridal-style before walking him toward the bathroom ]
Counter or toilet? Which one do you think would hurt less while I fill up the tub?
no subject
and he's in the middle of debating whether or not to kiss shane again when they're moving, when he's being lifted. for a moment, the abruptness of it makes him dizzy. then, the protest follows. ]
I can walk. [ but it's hardly an argument, a little dazed by how easily shane had just hefted him into his arms. which has absolutely nothing to do with his head injury and everything to do with the fact he's strong. larus might be leaner, but he isn't light by any means. and then, an echo of an answer, ] Counter. It'll be easier to get down from that.
[ rather than push up, put strain on his thigh when he inevitably has to stand again. it'll be good to put more weight on it too, though only after the heat of the bath and the ice—routine, repetition. these are things he's had to do before, and it isn't unfamiliar to him. what's new is shane being there, hovering and helping, and before he can pull away to begin filling the tub, larus tugs at his shirt from his perch on the counter. draws him back in. ]
Just a little longer, [ he breathes it into his chest, desperate for the contact. to fill that space with all the things he doesn't have words for. ] Please.
no subject
He is impossibly careful as he settles the man against the counter, slipping between his legs once he's got him settled, hands running over him as if double checking for new injuries. As if the fifteen feet he was lifted might have wounded him anew. None found, Shane's mind starts flitting through the steps of the plan: bath, ice, elevation, getting Larus prone again, rest. He has every intent of beginning when--
That tug on his shirt--the quiet one, insistent and heartbreaking--stops him cold. He nods, leaning forward, wrapping wide arms around Larus' shoulder, tucking him close and burying his face against his hair. His hands spread wide, one along the line of his neck, the other against his lower back, trying to cover as much of him as he can in the moment ]
Hey. It's okay-- [ the words are quiet, spilling out in hushed assurance against Larus' hair, against his skin, whispered between them ] I've got you. I'm not going anywhere. I've got you, Sweetheart.
[ endearments don't come naturally to him, and he expects it to feel unwieldy in his mouth, but it slips out soft and gentle like the rest of it, at home in this quiet place ] I promise.
no subject
and yes, some of it is probably the fact he'd nearly knocked himself out on the ice. and yes, some of it is shane's mere presence on all sides. but none of it cracks him open the way that single, solitary word does.
sweetheart.
i've got you. i promise.
the noise he makes in the back of his throat is unprompted and uncontrolled, a rush of air like he's been punched, and though he tries to swallow around it, tries to stop whatever's careening wildly inside of him, he can't. his arms tighten around him, sliding forward on the counter to press as close to shane as he can manage without climbing inside him, and he hooks his good leg around him. pulling, squeezing, clinging as tightly as he can manage while he breathes him in.
those days they'd had in montreal feel so surreal now, like a hazy dream in the face of reality. that this – the timed hours, the sporadic moments, the casual inconsistencies – is all they will ever have until it kills him. if it's not killing him already. ]
Sorry, [ he whispers after a lengthy stretch of silence filled with his own hitched breathing, muffled somewhere against shane's chest. and he isn't going to cry. he isn't, but it'll be a close thing, his head hurting with how hard he squeezes his eyes shut. ] I'm sorry this is all we have.
[ like they both hadn't made this choice. like it's the only thing they'll ever be able to hold onto. ]