Chapter 3
He'd aimed for his own vulnerabilities, which are now, unfortunately, inextricably tied to Shane's.
Shane nods, but he doesn't meet his eyes.
Conversation is stilted after that, the meal ruined by Alexei's casual cruelty.
In all honesty, it's probably for the best.
It will give Shane one more reason to watch Alexei walk away from them with relief.
After the food is finished, Shane takes their plates to the sink.
He begins washing them, alongside the pots and pans he used to make their meal.
"Ah, ah, hey.
Let me do this part.
You made dinner."
Shane looks up, eyes cautious.
Alexei doesn't blame him; he's clearly overcompensating for the earlier jab.
Which he shouldn't be.
He never would have before.
It's all a mess, really.
He's caught between the final moments of being with a man who wants to make him well-balanced meals, and a lonely stretch of time ahead.
He's salvaging precious moments and tainting them with his fear.
"You can dry, da?
You know where your dishes go." He doesn't dare suggest they leave the dishes for later.
Knows they're the only thing Shane's brain will linger on.
Also, he is selfish.
He'd like to forestall the inevitable conversion for a few more minutes.
He's in love, sue him.
Shane steps to the side, grabbing a dish towel from one of his drawers.
Alexei bypasses the dish gloves, grabbing the sponge and pouring a generous amount of dish soap on it before wetting it and using it against the first dish he sees.
He glances over, smiling when he spots Shane's frustrated expression.
"You're an animal," Shane admonishes, watching Alexei scrub the pan like the entire act is being undertaken as a personal affront to his lifestyle.
Alexei smirks, flicking soap suds at him mid-scrub.
Shane jumps back, yelping out a "Hey!" but he's giggling, and he swats at Alexei playfully with the towel.
Alexei hip-checks him as he hands over the freshly-scrubbed pot, and they're smiling, nose-to-nose, ice broken.
Shane takes the pot, kissing his cheek during the hand-off, and Alexei wants to scream.
They work in tandem, Alexei washing, Shane drying and putting away the dishes.
"The mugs are on the middle shelf," he says cheerfully.
"In case you wake up before me and you want coffee.
Which— coffee machine is over there, by the way.
Grounds in the tin next to it.
And the creamer..."
He goes on, opening the fridge to show Alexei something important, something sweet and domestic.
He doesn't hear it over the static in his ears.
He's holding a plate limply, rinsing it beneath the faucet far longer than is necessary.
Shane returns to his side, still talking, still saying very important, loving things, Alexei is sure.
Things about the kitchen, about the house, where he is apparently supposed to be making himself comfortable.
He knows he is interrupting Shane mid-sentence when he says:
"I need to tell you something."
Shane stops talking, a surprised "o" at his lips.
His brow furrows, and he reaches for the plate Alexei's still got trapped beneath a steady stream of water.
"Right, um, yeah.
Me too, I guess.
Would you like to go first?
I also had a— I mean, I guess I should just say it.
I was wondering if you'd—"
"I think we should stop seeing each other."
"—like to come to my cottage this summer."
The plate slips from Shane's hand and shatters on the kitchen floor.
"Blyat!"
Ceramic shrapnel is scattered all around them, covering the linoleum floor in its entirety.
Alexei's eyes do a quick scan of the floor, taking note of areas where the largest pieces have fallen.
He looks back at Shane, whose hands are gripping the bottom hem of his shirt.
He does a quick body scan of him, eyes zeroing in on his feet.
His toes are bleeding, the blood spreading from his skin and congealing in droplets on the floor.
He glances back up to see Shane's chest heaving slightly, his eyes flitting around the room, seemingly unseeing.
"Okay," Alexei tries.
It comes out thick, "Ok-ie," the English heavy on his tongue.
Shane is barefoot, but Alexei has his socks and the guest slippers on.
At quick glance, he can see that his feet are fine.
He levels Shane with a look, forcing eye contact.
"I need you to stay right there and tell me where the broom is." But Shane's not hearing him.
His breaths are starting to sound like heaves, his knuckles white as they twist the fabric of his shirt.
Alexei reaches out to place a steadying hand on his shoulder, ignoring the full-body flinch Shane has in response.
"Shane, your broom."
Shane takes a deep, grounding breath, then another.
He reaches one hand out to grip the edge of the counter, eyes still wild.
"I— closet.
In the hall."
Alexei nods, squeezing his arm to let him know he'll be right back.
He walks through the kitchen, then toes off his shoes so he doesn't track glass into the rest of the house.
He finds the closet on the third try, the first two doors being the bathroom and bedroom.
He digs around in the closet and finds the broom.
Just as he's about to shut the door, his eyes zero in on a first aid kit.
He snatches that up too, then stops by the bathroom again to grab tweezers.
He finds them quickly, second drawer, tucked in next to a spare toothbrush and a box of Korean face masks.
When he returns to the kitchen, Shane is still there, staring down at his bleeding feet like a man defeated.
Alexei puts his shoes back on, then begins sweeping from the outside in. He makes quick work of the task.
He'd spotted a DustBot earlier, knowing the vacuum could do a better job at this than the broom.
Still, he gathers the large pieces in a pile and sweeps the perimeter.
When he gets to Shane, Shane delicately lifts one foot for him to sweep around, then another.
He ends up pulling himself onto the countertop, watching Alexei with a sluggish dispassion.
Alexei pauses in sweeping, leaning the handle against the counter so he can grab a few paper towels.
He wets them, then bends down to wipe Shane's blood from the floor.
"You don't have to—"
"Hush," Alexei clicks his tongue, getting at the last of the blood.
He rises, tossing the bloodied paper towels in the trash, then quickly sweeps up the glass, tossing that too.
He sees Shane shift his weight in his periphery, and he crosses the room with an "ah ah ah." He presses down on Shane's thighs with his palms, keeping him from crawling off the counter.
His hands slide to Shane's hips, and he slips between the parting of his thighs with ease.
"Come here," he ushers, sliding his hands up Shane's sides to grip beneath his arms.
He tugs, gesturing for him to lift his arms, which he does, albeit half-heartedly.