Fics like your eyes on my eyes, and the moon above me

God, Shane never wanted to be mad at him. He hadn’t wanted to continue it. He had wanted to play, too, to suspend reality and just let himself believe that this room was his whole world, that he could talk to Rozanov, play with Rozanov, that nothing else mattered. And the champagne in his blood, the looseness it brought to his shoulders, the ease it granted his brain made it so he could merely sniff in the extra moisture in his nose, blink away the wetness in his eyes, and look up at Rozanov like they were normal, like nothing else had been said. “Why would God take a call from you, Rozanov?” he had said, voice small but brave. Rozanov had finally grinned, had let Shane see his beautiful teeth. Shane had wanted to be bit, in that moment, all over. “He knows me,” had been his response. Shane had sniffed again, had looked down at Rozanov’s shoes, how one of them was gently stepping onto Shane’s foot. An anchor. “God’s not gonna take a call from you.” “Hm. Why?” His chest had felt warm. “Because you’re evil.” or, Shane's drunk, and yearning for Ilya Rozanov is inescapable, and probably bad for him

Fics like your eyes on my eyes, and the moon above me

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