"You know, I met your father once." Okay, in hindsight, Shane could have phrased that better, or led with something gentler. Ilya went still, then jerked away from him--it didn't help that he'd been half-asleep, going heavier and more limp against Shane. Ilya's curls were flattened on one side. His necklace was askew, the cross resting in the hollow above his collarbone. He stared at Shane with a look Shane didn't think he'd ever quite seen. Hunted, hurt, almost angry. "What?" "Sorry," Shane said automatically. His own lassitude vanished, evaporated like morning fog in a summer day's rising heat. He sat up from his slouch. His side and shoulder felt too cold, missing Ilya's warm weight.
I have a migraine but it's #wipwednesday, so here's some #Hollanov #HeatedRivalry fic in which I headcanon all over the place.