If This Feelin' Flows Both Ways | ShubIsh

X

Ishan has no idea of what just happened.

His brain is stuck in a loop, rewinding to Shubman's words from earlier. The words, "I love you," play on repeat, it's like a haunting melody that he literally  can't seem to escape.

He’s walking down the hallway of the hotel, barefoot and dressed in his night clothes, and with every few steps that he takes, he stops and looks down at his hands because he has no idea what to do or feel, if it's all even real and then he takes a few more steps moving forward.

He doesn’t know where he’s going. Maybe to Hardik's room, but what if Shubman follows him there? Then maybe to Surya’s room. Or maybe to nowhere. His body is on autopilot, but his heart is somewhere else—stuck back in that room with Shubman and the unbearable– softness? That was in his voice. That stupid fucking beautiful voice that never once wavered as it said the words Ishan had wanted to hear for god knows how many months.

Or maybe years. He doesn't even know.

He stops again and leans against the cool wall, closing his eyes. His head still pounds from the hangover, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in his chest. It's like his heart is so overwhelmed that it has decided to self-destruct and rip itself to shreds to escape from everything.

Fucking hell. This was supposed to be simpler. It was supposed to be easier. For this to happen only after Ishan had made peace with the fact that Shubman could never feel the same way was not fair for him at all. He had worked so fucking hard to bury all those stupid feelings beneath late-night jokes and his carefully practiced indifference of a best friend.

But Shubman has always been there, hasn’t he? Always at the edge of everything, with that stupid grin on his pretty face and a laugh so beautiful that it could dismantle all of Ishan’s defenses in mere seconds. The way his shoulder brushed Ishan's while laughing at one of his own lame jokes while Ishan stayed with expression stoic although a smile would it's way up to his own face from Shubman's infectious laugh, the way the feeling of his hand lingered on his own when they passed a bat, the way he always—always— is eager to share everything with Ishan and show off his newest clothes or high scores in games with a huge grin on his face.

Ishan groans and slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor. He doesn't care if it's the damn hallway. He's too occupied with thoughts much more important than worrying about someone looking at him crouching on the floor like a homeless kid. His legs feel like jelly and won't stop shaking, his brain is scrambled and his heart—fuck, he doesn't even want to talk about that, but he knows that it's still in their room, tangled up in Shubman's words, weeping his stupidly soft hair, and his dark eyes that had no right to look so earnest as he uttered those words.

And yet, he cannot bring himself to believe the other man.

That’s the kicker. Ishan can’t let himself believe that the Shubman Gill, the guy who can charm the everyone with millions of people wanting him, could possibly ever love him not as a friend or a brother, but something more.

Shubman can't love him back, right? Not in the way that Ishan loves Shubman.

He sighs, leaning his head back against the wall. There’s a faint buzz of activity down the hallway—someone laughing, the distant ding of the elevator—but it all feels far away. The world is distant, out of focus, like one of those pictures taken by a  smudged camera lens.

All Ishan can see is Shubman, leaning forward, his lips barely parting as he said, “I know for sure that I am.” How had the younger said it so easily if he had been struggling to express his own feelings since months. Was it all just a joke or was Shubman just better than him?