Title: Sweaty, Salty, Sandy
Fandom: Heated Rivalry (TV)
Length: 234 words
Author notes: post-beach and post-hotel room in Florida
Summary: Shane doesn't like mess. Ilya doesn't want to kill the mood just yet.



"There's sand everywhere," Shane says, because he's Shane. He looks genuinely dismayed, but it's making his freckles wrinkle in an adorable way, so Ilya is a little torn.

"Little bit." Ilya hasn't even looked, because why would he when Shane is still in front of him? Hotels have to clean up worse than a bit of sand.

"I'm not--" Shane shifts on the bed. "I'm not trying to avoid anything."

"I know."

"I'm not sorry we talked."

"Shane."

"I just--"

Ilya pulls him closer. Shane is all damp hair and crumpled shirt, his lips starting to curve into a smile again as their faces draw closer together.

Shane's lips part under Ilya's. His mouth still tastes like Ilya, is sweet and soft and maybe this is what they are now or maybe it's some insane fantasy Ilya is living in, but if there's a chance of feeling like this a little longer, he's going to take it.

"I really do have to go."

"I know."

When the door closes behind Shane, Ilya drops his gaze and ugh, Shane was not wrong. There's sand in the sheets, and he's pretty sure it's in his leg hair, and the crack of his ass. Hmm.

He should get up, he should shower. He's sweaty, and salty, and sandy and-- and Shane-y.

Ilya yawns, and there, he's far too tired.

It won't hurt to leave his shower until morning.