From Jane: we dnt evn kss

Gibberish. The last text message was gibberish. Ilya thought Shane was drunk except Shane hardly drank and it had only been fifteen minutes and— Ilya’s heart sank and his stomach twisted when he scrolled up and saw the previous texts derail towards incomprehensible. Shane had texted mostly normal, but then the texts weren’t normal, and all at once, Ilya knew.

“Fuck.” Ilya had been too busy trying to be nonchalant, trying to stay detached, trying not to fall apart, and he’d missed it. Shane had gone spacey, floaty, gorgeous and Ilya had been too far in his head to clock it. Shane had been quiet and shivering after. He’d stumbled getting out of bed while Ilya stayed in bed like a fucking asshole but he’d heard Shane bump into the furniture, heard him struggle to get the door open, he’d heard the waver and tremble in Shane’s voice but ignored the aching, clawing need in his chest to go check because he was a goddamn coward.

And now, “Fuck.” Ilya threw his clothes back on and ran. Swallowed back the nausea of failure and sprinted. Yanked the door open and took the stairs because it was faster than the elevator and he jumped the steps three at a time, four at a time, pounded down the landings and raced to get to Shane’s room, to Shane’s side, to Shane.

“Sorry sorry sorry.” Ilya muttered as he ran, the words spilling out behind choppy breaths. “Sorry sorry sorry, I’m coming. I’m coming, hold on.”

There was a responsibility, weight, and expectation of duty when someone like Shane offered submission and trust to someone like Ilya and he’d missed it, failed at it, ignored it, and now Shane was typing gibberish without even noticing because he was hurting and dropping and it was all Ilya’s fault.

His fault.

Inside the hotel room, Shane undid the buttons of his shirt. Rather, tried to undo the buttons of his shirt. Tried and failed to force his numb fingers to work enough to poke the tiny buttons through the tiny holes.

He didn’t remember it being this difficult to get dressed. He didn’t even remember getting dressed. It had been a long day, a long night, he was shaking cold and spinning dizzy and there were so many goddamn buttons. The floor was too close and too far away at the same time, his head hurt but he only recognized it distantly through a sick feeling fog gathering at the edge of vision and he thought–

He thought—

“Hollander,” he rasps, knocking hard against the door, “Hollander. Let me in.”