Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, Rose Landry, Hayden Pike, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Svetlana Vetrova, Troy Barrett, Luca Haas

Additional Tags:

Model Ilya Rozanov, Artist Ilya Rozanov, Model Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe, Coming Out, Blowjobs, Anal Sex, Cowboy Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Wears Makeup, Ilya Rozanov Wears Makeup, Inspired by Hudson Williams's Peloton Ad, Balenciaga, Good Friend Rose Landry, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry Friendship, Minor Shane Hollander/Rose Landry, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov in Love, Flirting, Longing, Drunk Dialing, Drunk Voicemail, Texting, Runways, Fashion & Couture, Anxious Shane Hollander, POV Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, Model Svetlana Vetrova, Luca Haas Has a Crush, Saint Laurent, Self-Doubt, Crying, Grief/Mourning

Language:

English

Collections:

Hollanov Big Bang 2026

Stats:

Published: 2026-09-27 Words: 99,782 Chapters: 11/11

Poster Boy

Summary

“Do you think I could get into the dressing room hallway?” Ilya asked.
The photographer cocked their head, “Why?”
“I feel that doesn’t matter to you.”
Ilya could feel his stomach sinking. How was he supposed to get to Shane Hollander if he never stayed still? “Do you know when he will be done with everything?” When the photographer gave him a confused and irritated look, he reached for his wallet. “Better yet, do you have his phone number?”

OR

The model AU inspired by all the stunning runway looks and the love that, in every universe, Ilya has for Shane Hollander.

Notes

Well, I can't believe I'm finally done with Poster Boy and can share it with you all! This has been an absolute dream to write and imagine this little AU.
I have so much love for my beta, Ohstars, who has been my beta for forever. Without our voice memos of me talking through the entirety of this fic, it wouldn't exist. Our friendship is everything to me and I couldn't thank you enough for betaing for me again.
And to Leporidaee, an absolute phenomenal artist and dream to work with. Thank you for choosing this fic and bringing it to life. Your art is stunning and I have been waiting (not so patiently) for everybody to see it because it's so beautiful. I know that everybody will be as captivated as me.

Chapter 1: Preface

Ilya Rozanov knew he was destined for great things at a young age. Great, beautiful, creative things. 

He wanted to make things. Things that would make him happy, make other people happy. 

He wanted to be a creator, an actor, an embodiment and symbol of all the things he missed, all the things he lost. 

He wanted to leave behind a legacy, some big, beautiful grand legacy. 

When his mother died, that's when it all locked into place. A muse of sadness washed over him that day– A lullaby of tortured beauty left behind in a heap of twisted limbs on tangled red sheets. 

He was only a child, running to her with his muss of messy golden curls and grabby hands to wake her from her nap. He had an art class, which his father disapproved of, but his mother would still take him to, lying that it was not an art class anymore but hockey practice. 

Ilya only did hockey once a week, so if his father asked, he could prove it. Never twice a week. Wednesdays were reserved for charcoal pencils and thick honey-white paper. 

But this was the end of art. 

The end of Ilya Rozanov as he knew it. 

His mother's glazed-over eyes and lulled over head were the death of the Ilya he wanted to be. 

Now, as a young adult, his art was no longer full of light, but of darkness. He worked with dark strokes and twisted imagery, tangled in his brain like the hair on his mother's head as she was taken from the house.

He acted in horror films, typically playing the monster; he found it to be the easiest for him. He could play the tough guy, the frat boy, the brooding antagonist with ease. 

He could draw and paint the dark images of his mind over and over until the canvas was nothing but a mix of deep reds and blacks and purples. 

He could fashion an illustration, sketches of long black dresses, intertwined with dark hues. Black suits with winks of color. Outfits one could wear anywhere and nowhere. 

He had it all. The fame, the fortune. He was away from Russia, away from the pain and agony of his father, his brother.

Missing was a muse. A tortured artist in need of something or someone to pull him from the depths of his despair. To free him from the dark corners of his mind. 

Then, he met him.

Shane Hollander. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

It started when Shane Hollander was young. When the browns of his eyes started to melt into amber in the sunlight. When the freckles started to make constellations across the highest part of his cheeks. When his lips started to form into a natural pink pout. 

“Oh, you’re so cute!” 

Then Shane got older, filling out his body, the baby fat starting to dwindle into lean lines. Lines that, with time, he would fill with muscle from high school hockey. Watching the way his jawline set into the perfect angle in concentration. The way he would cut his hair, keeping it long, styled, and, after some time, with bangs. He was learning what was in, what was out, what worked with the shape of his face. 

“Oh, aren’t you hot.”

Then Shane started to care. A lot. At the gym, a constant schedule that, if he strayed for a day, would send him into a spiral. But he enjoyed it, the discipline. The way he flexed his arms to show the ripple of muscle he worked for. The way his quads would strain against his skin after leg day. The way he felt strong in his body. 

“Oh, you have the body.”

Then Shane got a job. After odds and ends at restaurants, cafes, and even a grocery store, he took up work at a hockey rink. It was there that he would do anything they needed. Always the yes man. Always ready to help. Leading hockey lessons for young kids. Cleaning, running the Zamboni, checking people into the games. He felt pride in doing good work. Nobody noticed. 

“Oh, what are you doing here when you have the model body?”

His face. 

His hair.

His body. 

It was always that. 

Anywhere Shane went, he was complimented, praised for his beauty as if it illuminated the space around them. He was like a piece of art constantly being admired, but nobody asked about the creation, of the mind behind it. 

His mother picked up on these comments, over and over again, telling him to try modeling, try showing off the hard work. “Maybe,” she had told him, “you’ll make it your job.”

It was the only time somebody acknowledged how much work Shane put into his appearance. The only person who would look at Shane and tell him how great of a job he was doing at the gym, at styling his hair, at working odd jobs, to figure out what he wanted to do with his life. 

His mother.

She was the one who pulled him out of the hockey rink and into the modeling world. 

He didn’t dare breathe his sadness for leaving the hockey rink. The reasons why it was his favorite job. But he quit as soon as his mother got him into a modeling agency, acting as though it was the best thing he could do. Reduced to exactly what everybody noticed his whole life. A photoshoot for GAP is where it started. It broke the internet. 

Shane could hardly believe it.

The start of a career. 

He supposed everybody had been right. 

He modeled after that, clothing brands building into local designers, building into big-name brands like Nordstrom and Nike. Household names posting his image on display in malls, on billboards. Then the big brands came into play. Balenciaga. Louis Vuitton. Prada. Shane hit his peak. Then it was fashion week. Shane read the invitation three times, his mother beaming across the table at him. He had made it. 

A personal invite for LA Fashion Week. 

Then he met him.

Ilya Rozanov. 

Chapter 2: I

Staring in the mirror, Shane ran a hand slowly down his chest, stopping at the top of his boxers and adjusting to ensure the waistband was perfectly visible. CALVIN KLEIN printed in dark black font over and over again hugged around his hips. He was so exposed, vulnerable in a way he rarely was. 

His mother had booked him this shoot, had told him it was a great opportunity to put more of himself out there. 

“Calvin Klein is a big name! It shows off everything you worked for.” 

He knew she meant it in a way for his career. An underwear shoot would put him on another level of modelling. It would be so beneficial. All the words a model wanted to hear. Momager of the year, people called Yuna Hollander. She put Shane on the map, brand deal after brand deal, shoot after shoot. 

This one was no exception. 

He was grateful. So grateful. Shane didn’t mean to sound like a brat. It was just constant exposure of his body. A lot of touching, careless fingers against the skin he scrubbed in the shower to keep smooth and healthy. Hands would always move him this way and that, never a soft caress, but a rough press of fingertips and nails leaving small indents that only he seemed to notice. But it was always this way; Shane knew it would always have to be this way. Rarely any talking, rarely any asking of “hey, move this way.” They didn’t actually care about Shane; rather, they cared about his body as the product it was. It was always touch and exposure and skin and sometimes Shane wondered if they would just crawl into his body themselves and use him that way. 

But the exposure for Calvin Klein was more about his body than any other shoot he had done so far. It was all on display: his shaved chest, his firm torso, his artfully glossed lips. The boxers were instructed to be worn low on the hips, just enough to see a small patch of hair. Shane knew if he didn’t walk out with them low enough, they’d start tugging them down for him. 

When the woman had shaved his chest, he felt like his skin was being peeled from his body. When they ran the powder brush down his torso to accent the lines of his abdomen, he felt like they were taking ownership of the hard work he had spent years achieving. When they put gloss over his lips with the hot oil to plump them, he felt that somehow he was perfect and never enough. 

He would be perfect. The twisted part of his brain, used by the system, loved that he would be seen as angelic. How much did he give away to achieve it? 

If Shane thought too hard about it, he would end up how he did before- crying on the floor of the shower with his knees pressed to his chest. 

He knew the question he should be asking himself was how much of himself he had lost to be seen as perfect. 

As he emerged from the dressing room, he was immediately swept away for makeup and hair, being pulled left and right. A woman with kind green eyes and soft hands layered him with oil, his skin reflecting brightly off the fluorescent lights. A part of Shane really did like it a lot, dare he say maybe even love it; loved being dotted on and complimented for being attractive. It felt good, most days. How could it not? A compliment was a compliment. Praise was praise. Shane preened under it despite his wish for more. 

But Shane didn’t like the way it made him sometimes react like the things he tried so hard not to fall victim to- a little bratty, a little moody, a little off. In his mind, people would perceive that as him being a big baby, being conceded. People wouldn’t want to hire him anymore because he was too bratty to work with.  In reality, maybe he just didn’t want his hair fluffed to the left like that, maybe he didn’t like the dark red blush spread across his cheeks, maybe he didn’t like the burn of the lip plumper. He didn’t mean to come off like a brat; it would just sort of happen. 

It wasn’t like he even said anything. He would just stare ahead, and when asked if he liked it, he would say yes, but it would be clipped. Then he would feel bad as they kept pushing and prying, trying to get him to tell them what he didn’t like. But it was never for his opinion. 

Nobody asked his opinion. Nobody cared. He was a doll. He needed to look the absolute best. That was all. 

Nobody ever asked how he was. Nobody asked if he was nervous. Nobody said, “Hey Shane, was your coffee good this morning?”

He was always reduced. A compliment for a cut. A praise for a piece of your soul. 

“Thank you,” Shane said as she wiped her oily hands on a hand towel, admiring her work. 

She hummed her response, blotting a little blush over his freckles. Shane watched as they disappeared into the soft pink powder.  

“Did you have to drive far to get here? It was raining pretty badly this morning and-”

“No.” 

Shane nodded, lowering his eyes from the mirror and looking down at his well manicured finger nails. 

Shane wouldn’t say he was a big talker. Most days, he preferred the quiet, the peaceful sounds of the world around him. But here in a studio, he wanted to talk to the behind-the-scenes people. He liked hearing what they liked about their jobs. Just because nobody asked him didn’t mean he didn’t like asking them. 

“All done,” the woman patted his shoulder as she walked toward the door. “You can follow me.” 

Shane gave a small “thank you” as he followed her out and down the narrow, brightly lit hallway. 

“Okay, Hollander,” a man started as soon as Shane walked into the photoshoot room, waving a camera around as he spoke. No introduction, no “how are you feeling about your first underwear shoot?”, no “Hey Shane! I’m Matthew, and I’ll be taking photos of you almost naked.”

“You’ll lie on this bed, hands running up and down your body,” the man said, moving to the right corner of the setup. “I’ll have you look back at the camera first, then we’ll twist you a little bit around. Your voiceover will play a few times over the speaker to get you in the mood.” 

Shane just nodded and made his way toward the bed, sitting down on the edge and looking back at the camera. His voice, which sounded too full and too seductive, filled the room over a grainy speaker: “Nothing comes between me and my Calvin’s.”

He felt like he couldn’t hear himself think, his voice over and over again in his head, merging with the voice of his own thoughts. Why would anybody want to listen to themselves the entire time? Maybe he could ask them to turn it off, to maybe turn on Katy Perry or Ariana Grande. He blew out a breath and shifted, feeling the ripple of his muscles as he shifted. He was tense, his skin pulled tight over his chest. 

“You have to lie down. You want to appeal to women everywhere.” He heard the actor cut through his voice, “Think about how you would try to seduce your girlfriend. What would you do?” He snapped his fingers as if this was a brand new idea he never had with a model before. “That’s what we want to see.”

Shane lay back, his eyes staring up at the industrial ceiling as he pressed one hand to his chest, the other at his hip. He dug his thumb into the bone, trying to ground himself. He had no idea what he was doing; he never did, but somehow people kept hiring him. 

Shane hated shoots that made him feel like this. 

Appeal to women everywhere. 

Seduce your girlfriend. 

Shane could feel the sting of tears; he threw an arm over his eyes, pressing his forearm against the bridge of his nose. He could smell the body oil that masked his favorite cologne. 

“There it is!” 

Shane removed his arm and looked over at the camera. He could feel his eyes glossing over. He didn’t want to start crying, didn’t want the tear to slip down his temple. Shane arched his back slightly as he shifted toward the left. His toes curled through his Calvin Klein socks as he stretched. 

“Yes, Shane!” Another camera person said, moving in closer to him. Shane hadn’t even heard them come in. “Ladies love the wet eyes!”

Shane didn’t smile. He didn’t speak. He didn’t blink. 

Shane just turned, shifting his hips upwards, flexing his thighs, his arms. 

Appeal to women everywhere. 

Seduce your girlfriend. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Whoever said materials don’t matter has clearly never experienced loss. Never experienced what it was like to only be left with things. Things that they touched, they wore, they loved. Materials that held memories in and of themselves of that person, of their story now lost forever, gathered in the hearts of those who loved them. 

Ilya placed the music box on his counter. His mother's name is engraved on the front, a small ballerina tucked away inside waiting to be sprung free, to twirl gracefully on its shiny coil. He doesn’t need to open it to hear the soft lullaby that it plays, his mother's favorite tune from The Nutcracker. He rubbed a thumb over the worn clasp with reverence. 

He had just moved to Los Angeles with a one-year apartment lease. He was to work on a new film, something with clowns and murder. Right up his alley. A way to get out of Russia. 

Ilya didn’t think he had this much stuff, and he supposed that he really didn’t. It was all his mother's. All the things he stole and kept hidden away in a unit, away from his father's grubby fingers, who so quickly erased the trace of his mother. Family photos came down, Ilya would grab them, telling his father he threw them away himself. 

“I’m proud of you. There is no time to grieve.”

It was the only time his father ever said it to him.

Now he unpacked it all, his apartment looking like a memorial. He needed furniture, he needed a lamp or two, he needed a rug. 

He needed a space to call home. 

Sitting down on the floor, Ilya opened a takeout container of fried rice with shrimp. He turned on his TV, which resided on the floor across from him. His head swam with thoughts as he took a bite, flipping through the channels. 

He knew that he had upended his entire life too fast with this offer. It seemed good, his first role in something. Ilya had applied and auditioned for role after role, getting nothing. This one was projected to be big. He had to take it.  

Ilya didn’t really have his art to fall back on. His art was always rejected in Russia. If he was honest with himself, he was more surprised that Russia didn’t jail him for some of his art. 

He supposed he did hide his more intimate pieces. His eyes slid over to the final work he did in Russia. A woman stretched across a bed, a sheet draped between her legs, her hands firmly placed on her chest. Thick curls haloed around her, illuminated by the soft window light. Svetlana was a good enough muse, a good friend, and good in bed. Ilya would have her lie and model, and she would savour the attention of Ilya’s graceful eyes. He knew it would be his last painting of her for a while. Ilya had taken his time, spending his final month in Russia moving and painting. 

But he had to get out of Russia. Ilya needed to be free of his father's watchful eyes and hateful tone. For years, he had stuffed the best parts of himself down in a box, locked tight, sealed like a safe in a bank. He only painted Svetlana at the start because she asked, trying to coax out the parts of him she loved in childhood. She loved those parts still, when Ilya showed them, recognizing how they twisted around his grief. 

This role would be good for him. He would get exposure, and if Ilya was good, maybe more roles. More roles leading to new people leading to art proposals being taken seriously– maybe, if he were lucky. Acting came second to art. 

And like a child, he took the first opportunity. He just hoped, as he sat on the cool tile of his new apartment floor, the city twinkling outside his window, that it would be enough. 

As he chewed on a spoonful of rice, Ilya heard it first, the commercials' seductive voice, Calvin Klein. 

Ilya’s eyes slid from the window to the commercial, Shane Hollander’s voice lazily talking about “My Calvin’s,” his body stretched out on white sheets, hand tracing dangerously close to the prominent bulge. 

Of course, Ilya knew Shane Hollander; everybody interested in modeling, acting, and art had heard of Shane Hollander. Anybody on the internet who had ears and eyes heard of Shane Hollander. 

He had a pretty pout and hazy pink freckles splattered across his cheeks, cushions for his soft, sad brown eyes. So sad, looking always beyond the camera, never at. 

The gaze was no different now than Ilya had seen it in other photos. The way Shane Hollander would turn to avoid direct eye contact with the cameras as he stretched his back, his hand swirling, smoothing circles into the dip of his hip. He scrambled for the remote and clicked pause, the commercial freezing in time, the bottom of the screen warning him that he paused Iron Man. 

Ilya frowned into his rice, looking down and pushing around a small piece of carrot. He wanted to admire Shane Hollander every single time he saw him in something. Because Ilya did see him in somethings pretty often, whether it be advertisements, commercials, or small TV roles for shows like Law and Order. 

Because Ilya thought he was hot. 

Because Ilya was nothing if not attracted to sad, pretty boys. 

He set his rice down and reached forward, kicking and grabbing at the cardboard box labeled with thick black marker SKETCHBUKI, KARANDASHNITSY. He reached inside until his fingers wrapped around his sketchbook, and he breathed in relief just at the touch alone. Setting it in his lap, he opened it up to a fresh page with one hand, his other digging around for the pencil pouch that had his colored pencils. 

Looking up at his TV, he began to sketch, to map out the lines of Shane Hollander. His eyes never left the screen; his hand never stopped moving across the page. Not until he felt satisfied did he look down, seeing the abstract shape of Shane Hollander’s face, the lines of his wet eyes, his perfectly shaped nose, his pouting lips. 

It was rich and vivid in the chaos of messy lines for Ilya’s eyes only. 

Now he could have fun, pulling Shane Hollander’s ethereal features to the surface, enchanting the world with their grace on his page. He grabbed his colored pencils, laying out the colors in a particular order, the order he had been using since childhood. He then filled in the page with color, grabbing and setting down the right colors with precision as his eyes flicked between the page and the TV screen. His rice grew cold as minutes and hours ticked by. 

Finally, he held the photo up in front of him, placing it next to Shane Hollander’s face. 

He sucked in a breath. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

“Oh my God, trade shirts with me, please? Shane, this is not my color,” Hayden groaned, handing the bright green Gymshark tank top to Shane. 

Shane looked down at the navy workout top in his hand, then up to the green, and back to the navy. “They told me to wear navy.” 

“You have black gym shorts on, dude,” Hayden said, swapping the shirts out. Shane’s fingers gripped the yellow fabric. It was meshier than the navy top. “Do you plan to commit a fashion sin with navy and black?”

“I don’t mind navy and black.”

Hayden guffawed. “Don’t let them hear you, buddy, they’ll fire you on the spot.”

Shane popped his head out of the hole of the yellow tank top, sliding his arms out. “It’s gym clothes. I don’t think it’s that deep.”

“Tell it to our paycheck. Don’t involve me in your scandal. I can’t have another one.” 

Shane laughed, pulling on his sneakers. Hayden’s scandal wasn’t a real scandal, but rather a very typical rumor mill. He was out and about with Jackie’s sister, buying baby clothes for his very pregnant (again, much to Shane’s shock) wife. The articles said that Hayden was either dating both sisters, or cheating on Jackie with her sister because he didn’t want to have another kid. Hayden and Jackie cleared the air with a statement, much to TMZ’s dismay. 

The photographer came in, taking in Shane and Hayden’s appearance. Shane waited for him to get mad at them for changing clothes, threaten to kick them out, tell them that it wasn’t their shoot, it was Gymsharks. How dare they go off script, they would kick Shane out and put him on a do not hire list and- 

“You guys ready yet?”

Or that. Shane puffed out a breath, running a hand through his hair. 

Hayden stood up and stretched toward the sky. “Born ready.” He slapped a hand on Shane’s back and beamed at him. “First best friend shoot of many, right, pal?”

“Sure.”

Hayden Pike was the first friend Shane made in the modeling world. Nordstrom was photographing all sorts of models for their website and display posters. For Shane, it was just an easy pants shoot. Shane had worn ten different pairs of jeans, five different pairs of dress pants, and three pairs of shorts that day. By the end of it, his legs felt itchy and he was ready to fall face down on his bed in the dark. Yet, as he was putting on the final pair of shorts, a man barged into his room by accident, and covered his eyes dramatically at Shane, frozen in boxers, holding his gym shorts. 

“Sorry! But great legs!” And ran out, slamming the door behind him. 

After that, Hayden introduced himself formally and apologized sincerely at the end of the day. He even invited Shane out for some post-work drinks, which he decided to accept when he realized Hayden wasn’t going to back down, “if not today, maybe we can get brunch tomorrow morning! I love a brunch, my wife has gotten me into them-”

“Okay,” Shane had said with a tight grip on his phone. “Okay, I’ll come with you.” 

As they walked down the hallway toward the staging area, Hayden bumped into his arm. “Damn, don’t be too excited, Hollander. Really, I thought you wanted to take photos with me!” 

“I do!” Shane shot back as they crossed the threshold into the gym setup. 

The shoot commenced, the coordinator coming in and wrapping around Hayden and Shane’s biceps to move them this way and that. They had them spotting each other. Some shots of them facing one another as if competing for who could lift more. Shane could feel sweat beading as he pumped the weights in sync with Hayden. 

“The green is a better color on you, Shane.” The coordinator, Manny, beamed at him. “Great stylistic choice between you two.”

Shane schooled his features. How was him being a green highlighter the better choice? 

“See,” Hayden panted, “when am I wrong?”

He still thinks Hayden, and now Manny, are in fact, wrong. 

Shane huffed a laugh, curling the 50lb weight. “So you’re right one time, big deal.”

Looking up from the corner of the room that Shane had glued his eyes to, he faced Hayden. He noticed the sweat beading on his temples, his neck, his biceps. Shane thought of their placement, a friendly distance away, two guys just spotting one another in the gym. Simple. Natural. Easy. Yet, Shane knew he needed to pry his eyes away before the cameras caught a stare that would turn into a tabloid. 

There was nothing out of the ordinary between Shane and Hayden. Two best friends who genuinely would work out together. This was their routine. But Shane had to be careful, constantly fearful of blurring a line, creating something for Hayden that would ruin him just as it would ruin himself.

Hayden was his only true friend. He couldn’t risk it by a tabloid assuming he wanted more from Hayden. 

Not that he wanted more from Hayden. Truly. Just friends. 

But the media would be so cruel. It’s why Shane rolled with his routine day in and day out as if it were breathing. 

By the end of the shoot, they dropped heavily on the benches and drank healthily from their water bottles. Shane’s biceps ached deliciously, his thighs trembling with the exertion. He didn’t realize how much he would work out in the actual shoot, making him immediately regret not stretching properly beforehand. 

Hayden was rubbing out his calf. “Dude, Jackie is going to kill me if I’m too sore to take the girls roller skating tomorrow. It's another birthday party and she just took them to the last one.”

“Sounds rough.”

“Listen,” he pointed his water bottle toward Shane, “when you have your own kids, you’ll understand that you and your wife will not want to go to every roller skating party on the planet.”

Wife. Kids. Your own.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Shane muttered, pushing himself up off the bench. He stretched a hand out toward Hayden. “Let’s go get the interviews out of the way.” 

Shane’s career was still new, which meant interviews still caused his nerves to spike. Always fearful he would say the wrong thing or make the wrong face. Reveal that he could love his job while constantly feeling beaten down by it. 

When he sat down on the gym bench set in front of a rack of weights, he let the director guide him to the right position for the camera. “Okay, face this way, let me just, perfect.” he held his hands up, hovering them over Shane’s shoulders before stepping away. “Use whatever weight is comfortable,” he goes behind the camera. “Great! Ready?”

Shane nodded, gripping two 40lb weights. He started slowly curling them as another choreographer asked him the first question, “How do you train to maintain your physique?" 

Shane had gotten this question before from other models, agents, friends. “A well-balanced macrobiotic diet. It gives the right amount of energy for every workout.”

The choreographer looked down at his clipboard. “What does a microbiotic diet consist of?”

“Most of the calories come from the whole grains, buckwheat, and brown rice, then a few select vegetables work. Legumes and soy. Then whatever I have left goes into fish or nuts for protein.”

Shane recognized the puzzled look on the choreographer's face. It was an expected response at this point. Shane didn’t get it. It made him insecure. “Okay,” the choreographer said, folding the clipboard under his arm. “Let’s move you to the mat over there.”

Shane set the weights down and moved over to the mat. He lay flat on his back, gripping the 60lb dumbbell put behind him for his grounding weight. He started his core workout, abs flexing and hitching as he held his legs up with his center. 

“Where do you see yourself in five years?”

“Modelling.” Shane said easily, steadying his breath with the exertion. It was a safe answer. It was a true answer. Shane would just do this forever.

“Do you see a partner in that future?” 

Shane’s grip on the weight tightened, his arms shaking. His core flexed, unflexed, flexed, unflexed. He counted to six seconds before he exhaled. “I don’t know,” because he genuinely didn’t.

Shane had been asked, in the past, if he was seeing any girls, if his DMs were full of pretty women offering him all sorts of anything he wanted. They asked him if he was seeing anybody. But nobody ever asked Shane about his future, let alone a partner in that future. 

Were people seeing him too closely? Or was he just that awkward that people wondered if he could have a somebody for the future? 

His schedule didn’t allow him to think beyond the month-to-month of events. Were people noticing? 

Did it really matter? 

Deep down, to Shane, it does. 

“You are one of the most eligible bachelors in this sphere right now,” the choreographer said when Shane didn’t respond, pulling him back to the moment, his abdomen rippling. 

Shane slowly lowered himself, keeping his focus on his body. “I guess.”

This was the attention he hated. An eligible bachelor to a slew of people who didn’t even know him. To a group of people that he may not even want to date half of. More than half of, probably, if he was honest with himself. The female gaze was a powerful thing. And a money maker. 

Yeah, it mattered. Shane sat up, his midsection on fire as he stretched to reach his water bottle. 

“You’re humble.”

“I’m in the business for the fashion and the creative outlet,” Shane admitted, leaning back to prop himself up on his palms. Only one of those parts was true. Shane could express himself freely in whatever he wanted in this profession. He could take more daring shoots, if he wanted, to explore other aspects of himself. 

Not that he did. Fear was a powerful thing, too, after all. He didn’t want to be seen through. But it was nice to have the choice for someday. 

“How is your friendship with Hayden Pike? Was it fun to do a cover with him?”

Shane nodded, stretching his legs out. “Of course. He’s a good friend of mine. Getting to hang out and get paid for it is fun.” He smiled, knowing Hayden would love his answer. 

By the end of the interview, Shane was thoroughly drained. As he took a shower and got dressed in the complimentary black Gymshark sweatpants and hoodie, he waited for Hayden to be done with his interview. He flexed his toes in his sneakers, once, twice, three times, steadying himself. He did fine, he told himself; he said the right things. Nobody will suspect him. 

He was a perfect doll. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

Ilya adjusted the dark black sunglasses over his eyes as he stepped out into the high-ceilinged room, his shiny black shoes echoing off the hardwood floor. Orange lights dripped from the walls in vines, illuminating the room in a soft yellow. 

“Oh yes!” Eric Bennet, the creative director for Saint Laurent, beamed at him. “When I saw this look, I knew it was first appearance worthy. That trench coat!” He snapped his fingers. “Stunning.” 

Ilya blinked at the man. Who the hell was this guy? 

Nodding, he followed in the direction the photographer was gesturing him toward with a quiet, “Right this way, Mr. Rozanov.”

His trenchcoat was a perfect combination of white, black, and a warm camel color of yellow-brown houndstooth. It draped perfectly over his shoulders, the black dress pants securing a black sweater vest over a pure white button down. The espresso colored tie tucked in perfectly. The sunglasses pulled the look together with his curls styled to the left just enough to bring out his facial structure.

Ilya felt powerful for his YSL debut. 

The media was sent into a frenzy when Saint Laurent announced that they were partnering with Hollywood’s newest and hottest actor and bad boy, Ilya Rozanov. Maybe people feared that they would not do him justice while some left comments that made Ilya almost blush. He couldn’t wait to prove all of them wrong. 

“I like it a lot.” Ilya shoved his hands in his pockets. “I like the deep yellow.” 

“It’s a great color for you,” Bennet said as he turned to the YSL innovation director. “Can we put a note on that? Dark yellow, light browns.” 

“Of course,” she said, scribbling something down on her clipboard. 

Ilya turned this way and that, fixing the camera with his hardest stare, pushing his bottom lip out, tilting his head to the right, chin up. Ilya was a pro; he knew he was. He studied enough statues and photos of models, the muse turned in angles to flatter, to gaze, to pull the viewer through the medium and hiss, “Look at me.”

Ilya, the actor he was, channeled it as easily as breathing. 

Bennet was fixed with a grin as he sat down on the stool by the photographer. “He’s a natural,” he said to the photographer, who nodded as she moved to take photos from the left.

The innovation director moved to the right of the room and said, “Lose the coat. Show the vest.”

She took the coat from Ilya, smoothed out his sleeves, and scampered off the stage. Ilya decided he liked her, too. “What’s your name?” Ilya asked, smiling at her. 

Her face tinted a pretty shade of pink against her dark skin. “Elena Rygg.”

“Ilya Rozanov.”

She held his coat over her arm. He planned on buying it on his way out. “My best friend will never believe this. He loves your movie where you played the grungy drummer.”

Ilya laughed, “Underground Fix?”

“Yes!” She snapped her fingers. “He was obsessed. I’m pretty sure his boyfriend was getting jealous.”

Ilya smirked, hearing the camera clicks ramp up. “Is bad movie. Must have bad taste.”

In the film, Ilya had played a moody drummer in a band that, once they got a record deal, would be on too many drugs to function. His character ended up being the reason the band broke up, sleeping with all the other characters’ girlfriends. It was a happy ending for everyone except for him. 

It was one of Ilya’s favorite roles. Not because the movie was necessarily good, it was an average plot with a few holes. But he was in dark eyeshadows and got to wear fake piercings in his nose, on his nipples. He got to be moody and demanding and angry at the world for making him into a drugged-out drummer. It was an expressive outlet for some of Ilya’s inner turmoil, and he had poured it all into his character greedily. 

It had gotten him a nomination for a Critics' Choice Award. He didn’t get the award, but it still felt like the biggest win. 

“Rozanov, you are phenomenal.”

“Yes, I’ve been told before.”

Bennet laughed. “I can’t wait to get you in the navy sweater I saw last week. How would you style it?”

This is why Ilya agreed to YSL when they called a few months ago- Eric Bennet. When he spoke with Ilya on the phone, had asked him, “What would your vision be as a model?”

Ilya had replied honestly. “Whatever makes me money and gets you views.”

“That’s it? Really?” 

“I like having hand in… what I wear, too. If possible.”

“We can make that happen.”

Before today, Benner had sent him three different outfits to choose from. Ilya felt like Bennet may have actually heard him. It made him eager to partner with the company. 

Ilya thought of the navy sweater and tilted his head. He could see the color palette in his mind. “Very dark?”

“Almost black.”

Nodding, Ilya gazed at the wall as he thought aloud, “White, gold belt, brown leather.”

“Of course,” he nodded toward Elena, who wrote down what Ilya was saying with a grin.

“Timeless colors,” Elena said quietly as she wrote. When she looked up from her notes, she winked at Ilya, “What an eye for fashion you have.” 

Ilya smiled and shrugged a shoulder. “Does it have to be on, or can it wrap around shoulders of white shirt? Like douchebag frat boy?”

“You mean coastal?” Elena asked. 

Ilya waved his hand. “Same thing.” 

The whole day, from makeup to photos, had been one of his favorite days since moving from Russia. He was able to not only be in front of the camera, getting to replicate some of his favorite poses, but also talk about color palettes and fabrics against certain fabrics. 

Once changed back into streetclothes, Ilya headed toward the exit, his new favorite coat wrapped in white tissue paper in the brown YSL bag dangling from his fingertips. He heard Bennet’s voice calling for him, an echo down the hallway. Stopping, he turned, hiking his bag up over his shoulder with his free hand. 

“Don’t leave yet, there you are!” He said as he rounded the corner and spotted Ilya. “Sorry, Elena said I had just missed you walking by my office. I was talking with a buddy of mine, Ryan Price, he’s a designer here. Does the sketches and whatnot.” He held out a business card. “He’s looking for another artist. I know you mentioned in your interview that you like creating, and Elena was so excited about your vision for next month.”

Ilya froze, his hand suspended in the air as he reached for the sleek black business card, the gold script floating tauntingly. It felt too good to be true. Here it was, handed to him by one of the biggest names in Saint Laurent himself. He could design outfits, clothing, fashion. He could turn his drawings into reality. 

“Does he need help?” Ilya asked, not wanting to get his hopes up. He was already lucky enough to be in the creative space he carved for himself. He wanted more, but not just more; he wanted this. He wanted to create. He wanted his works of lace and silk draped from the shoulders of pretty boys and girls on a runway. 

Eric Bennet nodded. “He recently got word that one of his artists is going to Prada in three months.”

Ilya plucked the card carefully from his hand. Here was an opportunity, being presented on a gold platter. Ilya wondered what he did to deserve it. “Thank you.”

“I told him I’d give him your card. He’s a great guy.”

Ilya stared down at the name printed in bold: RYAN PRICE, ART DIRECTOR. 

Chapter 3: II

“Not everything is about you!” The clown screamed, a knife sliding out from the white polka-dotted sleeve. “You push and push and push-” the accent thickened, “and you never seem to care what I think is funny as you laugh and laugh and laugh-” The voice gets more and more manic, “Who is laughing now, huh?” It drops to a whisper as the clown gently takes the tip of the knife and presses it into the hollow of the woman’s throat. The shine of the knife reflects off the moonlight that dances across the sharp jawline of the killer. “Who is going to have the last laugh now?” a whisper, low, in the woman’s ear as she cries out. 

Shane hated horror movies. 

“Honey, we don’t need to watch this,” his mother said, casually, despite the murder taking place on the screen. Her legs are propped up on the coffee table in front of her, a bowl of popcorn in her lap. “I’m still trying to figure out why you wanted to watch Last Laugh in the first place,” she laughed gently as she turned to face Shane. 

Shane hugged the pillow closer to his chest as the blood sprayed across the clown's haunted face. Body twitching with the gore, his eyes wanted to squeeze shut, but he forced them to continue watching. “It’s nominated for awards,” he said quietly with a casual shrug as if he watched every movie that was ever nominated for an award. 

Watching movies wasn’t something Shane really did on a regular basis. The strictness of his schedule made it tricky for him to have a solid two hours to do anything for himself. He loved to read in his downtime, easily able to give fifteen minutes here and there. Sometimes, he could watch a show that his mom wanted to watch with him, but really, that was just a way to bond when he was in town. Which was becoming more and more infrequent as most of his time was spent in Montreal in a nice apartment fifteen minutes from his homebase modeling studio.

Shane didn’t mind living alone; it was even preferred at times. Reading, cleaning, cooking in his free time were ways he could remind himself that he was a human being with feelings and a heart and life. Looking out the window and watching the rain roll down the window, his temple leaning against the window from the reading chair in the corner, was not a bad Saturday night if he was off. Sometimes, a peaceful weekend was welcome in the chaos of modeling events exclusively on weekends. 

But after those peaceful moments turned long, and the cleaning was done, the loneliness would settle deep into his chest. He wasn’t married, like Hayden, and he didn’t go out to bars and meet people, like his friend JJ. Shane didn’t even have a cat, too afraid to leave it alone for long periods while on sets and the idea of taking it to a daycare where it wouldn’t be sure if he would come back– he couldn’t. He was just alone, with himself, and his desires that he kept locked in his closet. 

Yuna nodded and spoke, pulling Shane from his thoughts and back to the curly-haired clown on the screen, “The acting is very good,” her attention turned back to the TV, “directing is good, too, though some angles are not as menacing as they could be. Like when he stalks the girl down the hall and-”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Shane said, not really listening as he watched the clown go into the bathroom, stare in the mirror, and spit into the sink. Slowly, he undid the buttons of his costume, revealing a thin white tank top underneath, nipples hardened and strained against the fabric as it fell from his shoulders. 

Shane’s body twitched and he shifted as subtly as possible. 

He didn’t really care about the movie, the acting, or the angles. That was all his mom. She loved photography and filmmaking, angles and lighting. It was part of the reason he got with the best photographers; Yuna sniffed them out and made sure they were the ones on set with Shane. It added to his success. Sometimes he questioned how successful he would be if he didn’t have his mother. 

All he wanted for the past month was to watch this movie, and offering to watch it with his mom felt like a better idea than watching it alone. In part because he hated scary movies and would get the occasional nightmare, even as an adult, because of them. But a part of him felt like he was quietly sharing something with his mom. A way to say, “look, mom, at this thing I want you to see, too.” Not that she knew, not that she could know. 

She worked just as hard on his career as he did. He couldn’t risk a misstep to ruin her career, too. 

“This Ilya Rozanov is making quite the stir in Hollywood.”

Shane hummed, a part of his chest swelling. The clown was wiping off his blood-covered makeup, revealing the sharp jawline, the soft pinkness of his lips. His bright hazel eyes were crazed, satiated even. 

Ilya Rozanov. Hollywood’s newest hot actor, who, because of this movie, was already slated for another big picture and rumored for a modeling partnership with Prada. His face was in every interview, in every article mentioning the movie. Shane couldn’t avoid seeing his face if he tried. 

Not that he was actively seeking any information out. 

Not that he sought out how Ilya Rozanov played exclusively grungy and villainous characters, this one breaking him through. 

Not that he sought out that Ilya Rozanov wore Saint Laurent on red carpets for his premieres because they had signed him for a huge carpet fashion deal. 

No. Shane just happened to find that in all his free time. A click of an article. Their spheres, after all, aligned. 

“They say he’s already quite the ladies' man, too.”

Shane’s head turned in her direction. “They do?” He thought about the articles he had seen. He had only ever been with one girl, a tall Russian beauty named Svetlana. At least, that’s all Shane had seen. Maybe a different girl here or there, but it never looked like anything more than helping her cross the street or making small talk at an event.  

Not that he even really looked. 

Yuna nodded, her eyes never leaving the screen. “I saw an article this morning about it. People are betting on who he’ll bring to the award shows. Svetlana or some woman from the new romcom.” 

Shane looked back at the screen, saying nothing, giving away even less. So he hoped. 

He had nothing to say. What could he say? That he didn’t take any girls to any events because the idea felt like swallowing a hot coal. That he could never be on the cover of a clickbait article about a celebrity romance because his romantic interests would change his entire modeling trajectory. That he was a sex symbol adored by so many women that taking a woman to an event would make him feel married to her, trapped to her– 

Ilya Rozanov was now shirtless on his TV screen, and Shane really, really needed to look away. Needed to stop his eyes from trailing down to the prominent V of Ilya Rozanov’s hips, and was that a splattering of hair trailing down and disappearing– 

“I don’t want to watch anymore.” Shane got up, quickly turning away from his mom, who he could feel looking at him, and he really needed to be alone. “I’m going to bed, I think.”

“Are you feeling okay? It’s only nine.” She paused the movie, concern laced in her kind, warm voice. “The movie only has about forty minutes left.” 

“Yeah, no, I’m fine. It was a, uh,  long drive from Montreal today. Just caught up to me.” 

He could feel her gaze burning into the back of his head as he grabbed his water bottle off the table and turned to walk out of the room. 

“Do you want me to pause it? We can finish it tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Shane lamented, “Goodnight, mom.” He dropped a kiss to the top of her head and darted for the stairs. 

He barely heard her reply, a quiet, “goodnight, Shanebug,” as he took two steps at a time and walked quickly into his room, shutting the door and locking it. 

Sitting down on the edge of his childhood bed, he quickly shimmied out of his sweatpants and pulled out his half-hard cock. Immediately, he reached for his phone, cheeks blazing as he searched Ilya Rozanov and clicked on images. 

Shane scrolled, looking at stills from recent interviews for Last Laugh, at photos of Ilya Rozanov shirtless in the role, shirtless in his Instagram photos. Photos of him dressed in deep blues and light oranges, solo shots for Saint Laurent in sweater vests and long coats, with coworkers, with Svetlana, with other girls, so many girls. Maybe he really was a ladies' man. He scrolled and scrolled as his hand stroked and stroked, faster and faster. His own precum enough to keep his grip slick. 

“Holy hell,” Shane breathed out when he saw it. The brooding hazel eyes staring down the barrel of a camera, staring at Shane, zoomed in so close he could see the texture of his skin, his lips in a hard, full line.

It took no time for him to spill over his fingers as he sucked in a breath, teeth sunk into his bottom lip, holding back a moan shaped around one name. 

“Fuck,” he breathed out, dropping his phone and grabbing a tissue to wipe off his hand. He cleaned himself up quickly, his head swimming. 

Falling back on his bed, Shane stared at the ceiling. Ilya Rozanov. He saw him for the first time in an article for the new horror movie with the new actor. Shane had seen his headshot, the curls that framed his beautiful face. The plush curve of his lips split across a face that should be etched in marble for generations to worship. Little did he know the way it would haunt his dreams, his fantasies. 

Now, Ilya Rozanov was everywhere. Interviews and press tours, photos and commercials. Companies left and right were posting about the movie, using his face as the promotional piece. The Russian actor was taking Hollywood by storm. His personality was lethal, his voice calculated. People adored him, this new cute commodity. A scary Russian, smoldering in sex appeal, who could look cute one moment and the next look like he could rip your head off. 

In a way, Shane felt more drawn to him because of that– the draw. People preyed on him for being somebody that females, and apparently, to Shane, males, could gaze at. And wasn’t that Shane’s own life too? Wasn’t Shane also romanticized and sold to the public day in and day out for his sex appeal? For his appeal to the western gaze? 

Shane loved it. 

Shane hated it. 

He couldn’t get enough. 

He never wanted to hear him ever again. 

Opening up to YouTube, Shane went down a rabbit hole of Ilya Rozanov clips. 

“Is lie, liar told you that.”

“I want, so, I get, is really simple.”

“I do not care for that. Thanks anyway.” 

Everything was so straightforward. So brutally honest with women hanging on his arms, on his every word. 

So many women. Shane hadn’t noticed before how many different women there were. For every three of Svetlana, there was at least one other girl in the mix. They were all so beautiful, models or actresses. All curvy with well-done hair and flawless skin. 

The dictionary definition of feminine. 

“I love art. I draw, I paint, I design,” Ilya Rozanov said with a shrug in an interview on the Last Laugh debut carpet, “Maybe one day I’ll show the world on a pretty model.” And winked into the camera before turning to face another interviewer. 

Shane felt his cheeks pink as he replayed his words over and over. A pretty model. A pretty model. Was Shane a pretty model? Did Ilya Rozanov think so? Did Ilya Rozanov ever jerk off to a male model on his childhood bed? 

Shane switched apps, opening to Ilya Rozanov’s Instagram. There were no photos of art. There were no personal photos, period. Everything was promotional or modeling-based, giving away nothing. His finger hovered over the follow button. Shane only followed companies he worked with. It would be too obvious, too risky. People would notice, would talk. 

He locked his phone and flipped it face down onto his bedside table before he could do something stupid. 

Slowly, he roamed a hand from his throat to his chest, down his stomach, to his now softened cock. He rested a hand there and blew out a breath. He was all hard muscle and sharp edges, the result of years of training. 

He wasn’t soft and sweet. 

He traced a stretch mark that went across his hip, his other hand tracing over the freckles on his cheek. 

His skin wasn’t flawless. 

Shane closed his eyes, turned onto his side, and curled his arms up to his chest. He felt hollow, lonely in a way he hadn’t felt in years. He thought about his friends, about how they showed up to events and promotions with their wives. Also beautiful, feminine, soft. 

He thought about how, when he showed up to events, he had people wanting to hang off his arms, but he showed up alone. He would walk the carpet and flirt with the camera, hands in his pockets, arms to his side.

The press of his palm to his eyes was bruising, a force to hold the tears back. He needed to sleep, to not dream of somebody with golden curls and hazel eyes. To not dream of how his strawberry pink lips would fit against Shane’s own. To not dream about a man who wouldn’t dream about him. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Ilya ran a hand through his hair, staring at his glossy eyes in the mirror. He undid the top button of his white button-down, then the next, watching as his flushed skin exposed lower and lower. He was warm with vodka, eyes still spotted with tiny flecks of camera lights. 

“Your first awards show was very impressive,” Svetlana said smoothly in Russian as she wiped the makeup from her eyes beside him. She looked at his reflection in the mirror, her face shining with pride. “Winning an award for your first film. You are what they call…” She cocked her head to the side, then snapped her fingers, saying in English, “Mr. Big Shot!”

The words echo in his head, ping ponging against the conversation he had with his father the night before. 

“Eh, no, Papa, I looked it up. Write down channel nine, you can watch it there.”

“Watch you what?”

“I am up for award. You said you wanted to watch because I would, you said, making something of myself?”

“Playing Hockey?”

Ilya sighed, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “Acting. I played a killer clown. Was very dark. You said you wouldn’t watch it but would watch it if I won, remember? I might win, so you said you would watch?” 

“I would not watch you in something embarrassing. Award show is also embarrassing if you do not win. What was point then, Ilya?” His father’s voice was rising in anger. “If you are not confident, this whole American maybe, then why? Your emotions stand in the way of your success, just like your mother.” 

The words punched the breath out of Ilya. He couldn’t respond, not when his eyes wanted to fill with tears that he kept shoving down. 

“Where is your mother? She has not been home all morning? She is not with you is she? Waste of time.” 

Ilya said softly, swallowing the thick sadness,“No, Papa, mother is dead.” 

His father was silent. 

“Papa?”

“Yes, I meant Paulina.”

“I will ask Andrei. Did you write down channel nine-”

His father was yelling into the receiver, causing Ilya to flinch and move the receiver away.“Pick up a job that isn’t reserved for weak boys like you! You will not win with a ‘maybe’ mentality. You are not American, you do not try and fail. You are Russian, you succeed!” 

The phone clicked dead. Ilya stared at the contact screen of his father until his eyes burned. 

Ilya shrugged, setting his shirt down on the hotel vanity. He was a Big Shot. People wanted him in their movies, their advertisements, their clothing. There was a level of success that he was falling into that had him starstruck from himself. It was enough for him, and as he grew into the profession, it would always be more than enough for him. Ilya could be anybody he wanted to be with this profession. He would forever have an outlet to all of his feelings. The feelings that his father spent years trying to force out that his mother had watered in him. 

Yet, it would never be enough for his father. His Russian masculinity, that inherited toughness to be the best, was grating against the hyper male professions he should have done that his father had tried to mold him for. His father told him to do hockey because it made him stronger, every bruise and concussion a testament to being a God. His father told him to be good at math because it was practical for a job, his art classes were reserved for women's hobbies when they were not taking care of him. His father told him to never lose his strength when he went to America, yet his father told him he did. 

He tried his entire life to be seen by him, to have his father be proud of him. Even an ocean away. 

He was still failing. 

“Feels like maybe I did not earn it,” he starts, “So many actors with so many roles. This was just my first. I thought maybe,” 

He thought of the way he was on stage, strutting to accept is award. Bold, sexy, loud. He oozed a confidence that he had built his whole life, lined with a defensive edge. It was the best acting that Ilya has done and the one he would never win an award for. Nobody would know, ever, that Ilya walked that stage with the harsh grate of his father’s voice filling his mind, not with pride, but with the jagged roughness that this still wasn’t enough. 

Growing up, vulnerability and softness, uncertainty and confusion, were not allowed to show. He had to be perfect. Mistakes were not learning curves, but moments of weakness that needed to be corrected. So, when Ilya’s name was called, it wasn’t that he was surprised, but disappointed. He won the award because he tore himself apart to be the best at the role. 

Being perfect, winning awards for it, was nothing without the validation from the person who made him this way. 

He would never, and he knew this with great pain, ever get that validation. Not now. Not in this line of work. Not when his creator would forget that Ilya wasn’t still in hockey. 

“Oh, please, you’re allowed to be happy for yourself.” She slid out of her black dress and set it on top of Ilya’s dress shirt. “You earned it. You work hard.”

A raspy voice fills his mind, rich and dark. Annoyed eyes fill his vision, a bright blue that always clashed with his mother’s green. Ilya reaches for the sink, squeezing the waxy porcelain against his sweaty fingertips.

“You cannot keep acting like a stupid little girl, Ilya! You have to earn your spot in life,” his father had told him one night. He was fourteen and had walked home from school. He had stopped and purchased a new set of coloring pencils, flesh tones, because he wanted to try his hand at adding color to his human sketches. “You waste money on stupid pencils.” His father had taken them and locked them in the top drawer of his shiny black desk. “No child of mine will act like a-”

“Ilya,” Svetlana’s hand was wrapped around Ilya’s flexed forearm as his knuckles turned white, his grip threatening to shatter the linoleum. 

With a slow blink, he turned and wrapped his arms around Svetlana, his head finding the crook of her neck. She smelled like a moonlit garden, dark and floral, earthy and feminine. He inhaled deeply, his breath shaking on the exhale. 

“You are allowed to be happy for yourself,” she rubbed a hand up his back, her nails softly trailing against the smooth expanse of warm skin. “You spent your life learning in the dark to be this expressive.” 

“Mhm,” Ilya hummed, his arms tight around her bare waist. “My mother would be proud, I think.” 

“The proudest.”

He doesn’t know how long he held Svetlana, five minutes or five hours. She never made to leave, her bright red nails soothing him back into his own skin. It was only when his dark eyelids created swirls and patterns instead of cruel eyes, when the disgust was drowned out by the A/C, that Ilya stood upright. Wiping a hand over his face, he asked, “My speech was okay?”

Svetlana snorted, “Probably the shortest speech they ever had.”

Ilya put on his best awards voice and drawled what he had said on stage hours before, “Wow, I won, thank you.” 

“It was truly so inspirational!” 

Ilya huffed a laugh as he walked out of the bathroom, unzipping his dress pants and shimmying out of them. “I am sure they have had better. Though, maybe not. No accent usually means boring.” 

“Any better are probably boring thank yous.” She raised an eyebrow as she walked around the bed and crawled in. “You could have said thank you to me, of course.” 

“Now,” Ilya smirked, reaching a hand out to her. “Why would I do that?” 

Svetlana swatted his hand away. “With that attitude, I might have to say you’re soft.” 

“I’m never soft for you.” 

She rolled her eyes as she sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling back the scratchy hotel comforter. 

“My English was okay?” Ilya asked, adjusting his pillow. 

It was part of the reason Ilya said so little. The last thing he wanted to do was accidentally offend anyone at an international awards show. Being Russian, he already came off as cold to many people until he was able to dazzle them. He didn’t want to be in the papers because he called somebody out and was deemed as an international terrorist or something. He still had some moral qualms. 

Besides, nobody wanted to hear about his long road to success, or how his father probably wasn’t watching channel nine, but if he had remembered to write it down, and maybe turned it on forgetting why he wrote it down, he probably was throwing his short vodka glass at the framed hockey photo of Ilya on the mantel and cursing his name. 

“You are worried? Who were you trying to impress with your long-winded speech?”

Ilya said nothing as he crawled under the comforter, kicking it off and leaving just the sheet pulled up to his knees. 

“English was fine,” Svetlana relented when he did not give in to her teasing. 

“Okay,” he said, pulling Svetlana into his lap. She came effortlessly, her legs bracketing his waist. “I did not expect to win anything.”

“But you are Ilya Rozanov, the sexiest man in Hollywood,” she giggled, quoting the person who opened their car door at the awards after party only an hour ago. “As if they needed to make your head any bigger than it already is.” 

“My head is perfectly normal size.” 

Svetlana scoffed, running her fingers through his curls and landing them on his chest. “I know what else is a perfectly normal size.”

“Oh, okay,” Ilya jokingly pushed her away and off his lap. In a mocking tone, he repeated, “normal size.” Crossing his arms, he puffed out his chest. “You have seen bigger? Please let me know who.”

“Oh,” Svetlana laughed, leaning up to face him, their lips inches apart. “You are jealous?”

“Never.”

“Sure,” she smirked. “What are you jealous of this time? Them being bigger? Or me getting to take it?”

Svetlana was the only one who knew Ilya’s secret—his stolen kisses in dark rooms, hidden hallways with male friends, male strangers. 

It had terrified Ilya at first, the way his body reacted at 13 to a male model, Nikolai Turov. He saw him first in a magazine at the convenience store, his torso covered by a ripped jacket, the left nipple exposed. His hair was dark, cut on the shorter side, styled up and back. Ilya had felt his stomach swoop as his grip tightened on the can of soda. The magazine was purchased and shoved into his jacket until he got home and stared at it. It was the unlocking of pure, unfiltered male arousal. 

Then, he learned to embrace it. With embracing came hiding, stuffing down the burning heat that flooded him in the hockey locker rooms, in his art classes, in his school. With embracing came Sasha with stolen kisses and grasping, desperate hands. With embracing came confusion when he would feel the same with a woman as he reached between her legs. 

Until he learned that he could like both. This was a lonely realization. He didn’t know anybody else who was like him. 

He did know that other boys, other men, stuffed down the lust just like he did. It felt less isolating this way. The only difference between them and him was that he liked both. Ilya had at least that going for him when he needed an outlet. 

Until Svetlana had caught him in the dimly lit hallway leading to the bathrooms of a rundown bar. Ilya’s hand had been firmly grasped around the man in front of him. The man, no more than a year older than Ilya, had pressed his thigh into Ilya’s rock-hard cock and moved tormentingly slow against his own aching erection as Ilya gave jerky, teenage thrusts. 

She had not been unkind. Instead, that night, she wrapped him in a hug and said in the softest Russian, “I still love you.”

Ilya now gazed up at Svetlana’s warm eyes and shrugged. “I can be jealous of both. Those who have you instead of me, and those who have you that are not me.” 

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

Ilya shrugged a shoulder. “English is hard when I am, too.” 

Rolling her eyes, she leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “Let’s put that hard jealousy into action then, Mr. Hollywood.” 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Walking up the sidewalk of the studio salon, Shane pushed his sunglasses up onto his head as he approached the door and knocked. He couldn’t believe he was about to be styled by the one and only Rose Landry. 

Rose Landry is the best male stylist in the industry right now. She was known for working hard to ensure all her clients had palettes and hairstyles that matched not only their complexions and outfits, but their personalities. Anybody who worked with her raved about her. 

A part of him had hoped maybe he would work with somebody one day who wanted to work with him like that. Somebody who might humanize him and want to know him. But he was accustomed to the look and grab and apply and move on application of his aesthetic for that given day. 

So, undoubtedly, Shane was starstruck and dumbfounded when Rose Landry had reached out to him for a consultation. It was a DM, not even through his mother, of a photo of him for Nordstrom with the message, “Please let me get my hands on your hair!!!” 

It was bold and straightforward. Shane admired that. 

The two organized a consultation to test out the right shades and complementary colors for Shane. Usually, Shane’s consultations were with a specific look in line. This felt authentic. Shane couldn’t pass it up. Now, as he stood outside the door, he was a little nervous that she would be just like everybody else that he worked with in the industry. It wasn’t that they were all bad; they just moved so fast. 

They didn’t have time to get to know Shane. That was all. 

It helped him feel human in this profession to think that way. 

The door swung open to reveal a beaming Rose Landry. “Shane Hollander!” She stepped aside and swept her hand back. “Please, I cannot wait to get my hands on you. Your skin really is flawless. Wow.”

Shane smiled shyly as he walked in. “Thank you,” he said, feeling warmth spread high across his cheeks. “I’m Shane,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand.

“Shane, so formal. I’m Rose.” She took his hand and shook it. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me. Honestly, I would have reached out to your momager if you hadn’t answered me. I need to see you with a dusty rose blush and this new lip gloss I have.”

Shane just blinked as he followed her to her setup, trying to keep up with her enthusiasm. She sat him down, an array of makeup organized on the table around him and to the right of him. The big, bulbous lights around the mirror bathed Shane in a natural, warm glow.

“Are you excited?” She asked as she sifted through tall glass bottles of tans and browns, her eyes darting back and forth from Shane’s face to the bottles. No time to waste. 

Typical. 

“Yes,” Shane smiled politely. Her enthusiasm rubbed him in a way that felt good, but put him on edge at the same time. “I’ve never done a consultation for fun before.”

 Rose grabbed three foundations and handed them to Shane. “Which is wild. We’re going to have so much fun, you won’t want anybody else touching you.” She looked at Shane in the mirror. “Which reminds me, can I touch you?” It was so casual as she grabbed a bright pink foundation sponge. 

“What?” Shane’s eyes widened as he turned to look up at her. 

She giggled. “Just on your face. Oh! And your hair.”

“Don’t you have to? For this?”

Rose nodded. “I just like to ask first.”

“Oh,” Shane sucked in a breath and nodded. “Uh, thanks, uh, yeah. You can touch me.” 

 She patted his cheek and stared at him in the mirror, their eyes meeting. Her deep brown eyes glowed with excitement and a warmth that settled something in Shane’s chest. “I’m going to put these on your jaw and wait a few minutes. Foundations oxidize, so waiting helps get the true color.” She took one bottle from him and put some on her makeup sponge. “I use the jawline because it’s the most accurate tone to match to. Your hands are actually darker than your face, common misconception.” 

Shane murmured an “interesting,” wanting to acknowledge her, but not sure if he was allowed to move his mouth, his jaw line, to speak. 

“Shane, it’s just on your jaw,” she said, applying some of the second shade right next to the first. “You don’t need to be so stiff.”

“Sorry,” Shane released some of the tension he was holding in his jaw. “I know most makeup artists like when I’m still.”

“That’s the problem,” Rose groaned as she applied the final shade. She set the sponge down and leaned back against the counter, facing Shane. “The industry is so good at just using. I like to talk to the people I work with. Like to see them be expressive. It’s how I learn to make them the best versions of themselves.” She smiled and cocked her head to the left as if in thought. “How do I make you the best version of you if I don’t know you?”

Shane swallowed, nodding. “That’s… awesome. A cool approach.” 

“Unusual, right? You seem surprised.” She tilted his head and hummed thoughtfully as she focused on his jaw. “Okay, foundation bottle two is the winner!” Sliding the other two bottles back in the holder, she grabbed a few different products and moved to stand directly in front of him. “Let’s test some things, huh?” 

As she worked around Shane, tilting him gently this way and that, colors swirling and puffing around his face, they talked. Real conversations, genuine interest in one another. It was the first time Shane ever got more than a single back and forth with one of his makeup artists. It was nice, in a vulnerable way, as she touched the soft skin of his face and laughed at his awful jokes. 

“So you played hockey for a little while, worked at a rink, were too pretty, and became a model. Did I get this right?”

Shane laughed, hearing how absurd it sounded. “It’d sound fake if I heard it.”

“As if mine doesn’t?”

“Oh, being told in cosmetology school that you’d never make it in men's fashion, so you dedicate your whole craft to it, isn't believable.”

Rose laughed, shaking her head. “Still can’t believe I was told that. What professor does that?”

“You’re like…the ultimate level of petty.” Shane smiled up at her as he puckered his lips for the lip gloss she was hovering with.

Giggling to try to make sure her hand didn’t shake, she smeared some across, holding his chin between two fingers. “What can I say, Shane? I’m a determined woman.”

“It’s great.” 

By the end of the session, Shane was not only made aware of his color palettes, but he had also let Rose have all the fun she wanted. He stared at himself in the mirror, his lips a deep red, glossed over. His eyelids fluttered, reflecting the silver glitter spread across the maroon shadow. Rose had given him a high contrast, dramatic look that allowed her to enhance his natural features to the max. 

Shane felt sexy, bold, loud. 

“Wow,” he breathed out, turning his head to see the rich line of contour that highlighted the curve of his nose. “This is incredible.”

Rose grabbed her phone, radiating pride. “I wanted to take you to the max first, see how far I could go with you in this palette. You look beyond sexy.” 

Shane blushed, deepening the umber-red blush that had been swept over his cheeks. “Would I ever need this much makeup?”

Rose shrugged a shoulder as she looked around the room. “It would depend on the location or the brand. Some brands like the minimal, some like the maximum. In your case, you work with a lot of minimalism, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have fun with color and sparkle.”

Shane nodded, feeling relieved that she noticed that he didn’t choose a lot of maximalist looks. Seeing himself in the mirror now, he kind of wished he did– wished that he even could. There was a level of confidence that came with the bold look of eyeshadow and the sharp contours applied to his structure. 

He could never show the world this. He couldn’t give the media any reason to start any rumors. 

How sad, Shane thought for a fleeting second, that his life is reduced to cameras and rumors he has to stop before they start. 

“Can I take a few photos of you? I think by this window here,” she gestured toward the window that was getting the most natural light. “I like to save a few of the early looks, especially. This one is great to save for reference.”

Shane got up and moved toward the window. “You aren’t going to post them, are you?”

“You don’t want me to?”

Shane swallowed thickly and shrugged, sitting on the stool that Rose produced in front of the window, angling him to face her. 

“I don’t have to,” she said as she snapped a few quick photos of him. “I’ll get some with your natural glow.” 

“Next time?”

She fixed Shane with a look and winked. “Of course. Unless you want me to take this off and give you a softer look? I still have the dusty rose blush I told you about.”

“Perfect,” Shane smiled softly. He liked Rose and her willingness to make him feel comfortable. She didn’t make him feel bad for not wanting anything shared; she rolled with it as if his opinion was as natural as breathing. 

He’d let her style him in a softer look, a blush across his cheeks that brought out his freckles, not smothering them. He felt happy in the makeup chair for the first time in maybe his entire career. Shane realized this with sadness, an ache opening in his chest. It wasn’t like he was new to the industry. 

Now that he was working with Rose, he didn’t want to lose her. He would do whatever he needed to do, pay whatever expense, to have Rose with him at every photoshoot, every interview, every event. The world would know Rose Landry and Shane Hollander as the beauty duo of the modelling world. 

“Can you be with me for a Balmain photo shoot in three days?”

Rose’s fingers stilled in his hair as she fluffed it up and out, pushing Shane’s bangs to the side. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Ring. 

Ilya’s hands freeze on the picture frame, his feet bouncing slightly on the mattress he’s standing on. 

Ring. 

He doesn’t look down. Facing his painting, Ilya straightened out the hazy canvas he had done of his mother and himself. It wasn’t perfectly clear that it was them, some lines blurred in the watercolor. But he could see it in the purples he used for his mother's posture, wrapped around the golden brown of young Ilya’s outline. He straightened it out, using the edge of his headboard for reference. 

Ring. 

He missed his mother. Missed when she knew what to say to allow Ilya to feel whole again in a world tearing him apart. Missed the way she could bring him back to reality, even if it hurt, because she was there with him. 

Ring. 

Ilya fell down onto the bed and reached for his phone. 

Ring. 

“What?” Ilya snapped in perfect Russian. 

“You don’t sound happy to hear from me. You are too busy with erotic activities in Hollywood?”

Ilya bit his tongue, breathing heavily out of his nose. “What, Alexei? Is it Papa?”

“No. It is the money you owe me for Papa.”

“I paid you last week!” Ilya snapped in frustration. “You cannot hold money for five minutes before it is in your nose instead of family! Your daughter!” 

“It is not enough, Ilya! Papa requires so much!” 

“How much of it is going to Papa, huh? He calls me for bread, Alexei, bread!” He was yelling now, his face red and heartbeat accelerating. His toes dug into the carpet beside his bed. “Yesterday, he could not tell me when he saw you last!”

“He does not remember, you fucking idiot,” his brother barked. 

Ilya knew this. Of course he knew this. It was his Papa, after all. He knew he was sick, dementia eating away at his memories little by little. A descent in Russia, a continent and oceans away from where Ilya could be to help. He tried to help the best he could from California, money wired over for expenses, groceries, compensation to take care of his- their- father. 

It was his way to show love, just shoving money at the problem and hoping, on a whim, that his brother could be the solution. 

His brother was the farthest from a solution because all he did was seem to worsen the state of his father. But, all Ilya got was the fragments. Maybe it wasn’t bad. But how could it not be? The phone calls that told Ilya to come home at night or ask where his mama was. The calls from Andrei to say that their father was useless. How his father remembered Paulina’s whereabouts one day, then the next would need a direction to the bathroom. It wasn’t bad. It was all bad. 

If Ilya were there, he would know everything. Know the truth of each visit, of each interaction. Maybe his father would remember more because Ilya would talk to him. Even if it resulted in being torn down. It caused Ilya’s chest to ache because why should he care so much when his father’s way of love was in violence, in rage? 

Because I am my mama’s son, he thought bitterly. 

“Money, Ilya, by tomorrow morning. Your niece needs to eat.” 

Alexei knew it would work. 

“Okay.” 

Click. 

Ilya leaned back on the bed, closing his eyes and pressing his palms over them. If he pushed enough, maybe the bed would swallow him whole. Taking a deep breath in, he forced it out from his lungs with the anguish that swirled in them. His brother had a way of working him up to the absolute peak of his anger, a high he had to slowly, calmly come down from. He couldn’t afford to break any more dishes. 

When Ilya left Russia, he knew he was surrendering the care he gave to his father. The dinners he would make, where they would watch hockey, while his father belittled him for quitting. Ilya would take it, nodding with gentle, “da, Papa.” It was a care, a tenderness, that his father didn’t deserve from him. All the gentleness of Ilya came from his mother and seeped through his rage when his father would ask him the same question with eyes of true curiosity, as if it were the first time. 

Ilya was forced to watch the old man aging before his eyes. To hold tight to the understanding that his bitter words were still bitter despite being laced with a new, uncertain icy chillness that would seep deep into Ilya’s spine as they landed. 

Leaving was a necessity for Ilya to stay alive. Even then, knowing this, Ilya couldn’t leave his father to die when he couldn’t remember how to start the oven. It wasn’t to that level of severity when he left, but he knew it would get worse. It was getting worse. The phone calls and Andrei’s aggressive stories about their fathers' incapabilities were woven between asking for more of Ilya’s money. 

It was so much worse. 

What was Ilya to do? Does he go back? He should be over it. Should be free. But he was too young and this was still his father who raised him, damaged and broken, but raised him. He should go home. Really, that’s how he was raised? Family first. Whatever they wanted goes. He wasn’t a bad son by any standard, but maybe he was, deep down, because a good son would go home. 

Can Ilya even go home? Could he put down his pride, his passions, his career? Can he spend every day with his father again and watch his deterioration before his own eyes, deteriorating with his papa himself? 

No, he made his choice. 

His only option now was a visit. Can he visit? Would he want to visit? A visit to see his father, see his brother. Would he be able to watch them interact, just once, and turn his back on him again? Is his father worth his happiness? The guilt that would consume him? The regret? 

 Would his father risk his own happiness for Ilya? 

No, Ilya thought fiercely, that is why you lost everything. 

His mama would have known what to do. Even when his father was horrible and awful to her, tearing the sunlight out of her eyes as they would gaze at Ilya, she would know. She had a way with her words, her voice like the most delicate silk across your neck, your wrists, holding you to her. Her touch would have healed Ilya. Would it have healed his Papa? He knew the answer. Hated the answer. Ilya was a product of a broken marriage and an even more broken system. The answer was obvious. 

Nothing would heal his father, but especially not her. 

Ilya felt the ache spread across his chest as he walked into the bathroom and stared in the mirror. He had his mother’s eyes and his father’s aggressive expression. He was a disaster, damaged and broken like both his mother and his father. Every edge was his father, every gentle softness that led to his pain was his mother. Every yell at Andrei was his father, every tear at 3 am that Ilya couldn’t place the origins of was his mother. A dangerous concoction.

His own stare became too much for him. Sinking to sit on his plush purple bathroom rug, Ilya brought his knees tight to his chest and held them. His fingertips gripped the edges of his kneecaps, nails digging against the fabric of his sweatpants. Ilya pressed his eye socket into the curve of his knee, feeling the pressure against his skull as a calming hand. 

Every phone call with Andrei left Ilya like this. His skin tight against his body despite feeling like an open wound, bleeding with a raw emotion that Ilya felt the ache of for days. 

Ilya sat upright to allow tears to slip down his cheeks, landing in small puddles against his soft blue t-shirt, the fabric turning dark. Wiping his nose against the side of his hand, he leaned his back against the vanity, stretching his legs out. He missed his mother. He missed having somebody hold him when he cried. He missed feeling like his emotions were justified and that he wasn’t too old to have them. 

Ring

The sharp alarm he set for his father’s calls blared out from his bedroom. 

Ring. 

Ilya felt a shiver wrack through his entire body, his knees instinctively coming closer to his chest like armor. 

Ring.

Ilya let it ring, his body too heavy to force from the floor. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Shane didn’t know how it happened. He’s been working with Rose for months now, enjoying her company, her easy conversation. Then their lips were pressed together in slow, soft, gentle movements. 

Rose had kissed Shane. Shane had kissed Rose. 

Then their relationship blossomed both professionally and personally. 

They were still working well together– better even. Shane loved the way she made him feel pretty, like her own personal doll that she wanted to share with the world. Rose always treated him like a human being, like a flower that was constantly being watered and the dirt always checked. 

Rose loved it too, the way Shane’s photos radiated more confidence from her touch. His smile would be so bright up at Rose when she was finished with the pale blush on his cheeks. She’d kiss his nose, his cheek, his lips, and he would blush deeper, a happy hum in his chest. 

In bed, Shane did love the way Rose would wrap her arms around him, tracing small circles on the soft skin of his waist. He knew Rose loved the way his plush lips would sigh when she would press her thumbs into the dimples of his lower back. She’d do it over and over, leaning closer and closer on each shaky exhale. 

Now, Shane found himself three months into a relationship with a beautiful, caring, thrilling woman. She was flawless because even her flaws were parts of her that made her stronger, never weaker. 

He loved her, but he wasn’t in love with her. 

Shane felt too tight in his skin when Rose was wrapped around him, small and clinging. The way her body felt underneath him made him stiffen. The way she would moan his name so soft and sweet and feminine into the dull numbness in the back of his mind, unregistered, unpresent. 

Rose was smart; he knew she felt it too. The way Shane would always be complacent in what she wanted, giving and never taking for himself. In bed, when his thrusts were uneven and unsure, his hands never leaving her hips. 

Shane couldn’t take it anymore. 

What was a man to do? How was a man supposed to break up with a woman people desired because he didn’t- couldn’t- desire her that way? Why would Shane want to give up Rose Landry when she was exactly who the industry wanted him to be with? 

Because when he was with her, he was thinking of corded muscles and sharp jawlines and hard cocks? 

How would he explain that? 

So Shane stayed. He held her hand in public, kissed her cheek at the airports, posted photos with her on social media. This would be his life forever. He could do it, mourn the loss of his own desires. It was easier than the alternative. If he had to be trapped with a woman in this life, at least it was with somebody as lovely as Rose. 

Until even Rose, with her beautiful name fitting her beautiful voice and eyes, withered under Shane’s touch like her likeness in the cold. 

Shane was buried deep in Rose, sweat beading on his forehead as he focused on himself. In and out. It should be easy, natural in his body. Thrusting, sex, it should be instinctual. But Shane couldn’t make eye contact, his eyes shut as he pictured hands on his back, bigger than Rose’s, hard against his ass. 

Reaching, he lightly put some of her hair in his fingers, warm and silky. He wanted curls, thick and mused and- 

Fuck.

He shifted, slowly pulling out and pushing back in slower than what he knew Rose liked. But this wasn’t about him and what he wanted. It was about Rose because he was what she wanted. When he opened his eyes, Rose just gazed up at Shane. Her eyes were… sad.

Shane frowned. “What’s wrong?” He knew it was a stupid question. 

The answer was him. 

He was wrong. 

Rose shook her head. “Shane,” she reached up and pressed her hand to his cheek. “Move deeper, Shane.”

“I am,” Shane groaned, frustrated at his own hips for stuttering and faltering on the movements. It wasn’t a complicated task. Shane thrusted in, pulled out, thrusted in, focused, his eyes staring at the pillow beside Rose’s head as his hips jerked. He tried to go deeper, reach the spot he knew would make her shiver, but it wasn’t right. 

He chanced a look at Rose, her head pressed back and her arms reaching up to wrap around Shane’s shoulders, pulling him down to her. Shane pressed his forehead to hers, looking down at her wide eyes, pupils blown, but not glazed over in a lust fueled haze. 

His focus was anywhere but the task at hand and his dick knew it, softening. He hissed out a breath, his thrusts becoming heavier as he tried to work himself back up, struggling to keep the remaining moments of hardness. 

Hot tears stung his waterline. 

Reaching down, Shane rubbed his thumb across Rose’s clit in the way she taught him how. He needed to be good for her. But all she did was shake her head, a forced moan escaping her lips as she grabbed his hand and pulled it away from the sticky wet heat. With a shift of her hips, Shane slipped out of her. 

He was relieved. It flooded him with shame. 

“Just… lay with me,” Rose said gently, shifting to lie beside Shane, who landed softly next to her. 

She curled into his side, her head resting on his chest, and said softly into the stale night air, “You don’t enjoy this, do you?” 

The immediate reaction lurching from his chest, choked off in his throat, was no. The wet heat of her was suffocating. Her body was too small and too fragile. Her moans were too high. 

Shane wanted to feel used, not in control, in a way that gave him a power he had lost in his life. With Rose, it was casual, normal intimacy, the dynamics stereotypical. It was fine if you were into that. Into the normal. 

Shane wasn’t into… “normal.” 

Tears slowly trickled down his temples, causing his shoulders to shake with the cries he swallowed down. “I do,” he croaked weakly, reaching up to wipe his eyes. He wanted to, needed to, calm the emotions that he had held in for his whole life. 

Rose didn’t say anything else; she just held him, wiping his tears and nodding. 

This woman was one of his best friends. He could tell her. He could reach into the depths of his soul and pull out his secret from the closet he had locked inside himself. Rose would love him all the same. She loved everybody because she loved life. Her interactions gave Shane no reason to believe she would out him, would tell the world, would scream at him. 

Friends told friends secrets.

Their bodies were heated, sticky skin molded against one another. They didn’t quite fit, her body rigid against his. Shane’s arm was at an awkward angle, holding her the way he sees couples hold one another in movies. 

It shouldn’t be this difficult. Shane knew this. If he wanted normal, this wouldn’t be a problem. He would be able to hold a woman and want to be inside of her. Her lips would graze his skin, and he would shiver in pleasure instead of disgust. It only made Shane feel worse when Rose was one of the best women he had the honor of knowing, of being trusted with her most vulnerable, intimate thoughts and areas. 

And he wanted none of it. Not this way. But fuck if he wasn’t trying. 

His fingers reached for hers, pressing their interlocked hands to the top of her chest, fitting into the dip of her collarbone. Tears fell on every blink, small and wet down his temples, landing on the white pillowcase made of silk, “to help our hair,” she had told him. 

Once Shane’s tears slowed, he whispered with the little courage he could muster, “I do. Really, you’re great.” His voice was weak.  “But I…” 

“You don’t have to explain yourself.”

“I do,” 

Rose leaned up, propping her chin on his chest. “I promise, Shane. You don’t have to.” Her voice wrapped around him like a soft blanket. 

He tasted his response on his tongue. Words that he had said in the mirror over and over to himself for years. Shane would make eye contact with himself, watching as they softened into a deep pool of vulnerability that made him cower from himself.

After the shower, his hand wrapped around his skin warmed with blood and arousal, he would stare long after at the sticky result of thoughts that had swirled down the drain with his last remaining strands that maybe, maybe if he tried hard enough, he could like a girl. 

He was always so smart with his secret. He would keep his eyes down in the changing rooms, in the showers, as men would joke and laugh at themselves and their appearance, the girls they slept with, the messages girls sent them. They would bask in the glow of loving women and Shane wanted to bask in the glow of loving men. But how could he when their jokes would turn into his expense? Who would share a dressing room with a man who might have roaming eyes? 

He would say the words, three, to himself and watch as his face would distort into a mocking laugh like he would hear from boys in changing rooms. His mind would respond to him, telling him to stop, to not ruin his image. Only he could know. Nobody else. 

And if he couldn’t like Rose in the way he was expected to, the way the media portrayed him to, was there really a chance? 

The words formed around a lump in his throat, pushing out through sharp teeth and tripping over a heavy tongue. 

“I think I might be gay.”

Rose’s chest rose and fell steadily against Shane’s. She didn’t speak; she didn’t even flinch at his words. 

The silence felt like eternity as Shane stared at the ridges in the ceiling, swirling a pattern into his vision when they darted to the closed brown blinds of her windows. 

Rose then nodded slowly, moving up his body to press a kiss to the top of his cheek. “That’s okay, Shane,” she breathed out, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. 

“It’s not,” Shane immediately croaked.  

“It is,” she replied fiercely, putting a hand gently to his cheek and turning it to face him. “You can be anything you want, Shane. You’re in the perfect industry for that.”

Shane shook his head, his lungs bubbling with emotion. “I’m not. I’m a product… for the female gaze.”

“You are a man with feelings and a heart and a desire for other men.” 

Shane took a shaky breath in, his exhale wet with the fresh sting of tears that brimmed along his waterline. “I wish it felt that way,” he admitted, not only to Rose, but to himself. 

The yellow glow of the room turned sad as Rose held Shane as he cried openly, unable to hold in the gentle sobs that had grown throughout his childhood. She rubbed a hand down his side, tracing over the dips and ridges of his ribcage. 

“I do love you,” Shane whispered. “Just not… not like that.” He winced at his words. “I’m so sorry that’s not-” 

“Don’t apologize, Shane,” she leaned up and propped herself on his chest. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I love you. So much.”

“Still?”

“Especially still.”

As a week went by, Shane realized their relationship was just a glorified, experimentally failed one. Their friendship was strong, their conversations open and filled with laughter and glimmers of light. They didn’t need the forced touch and slide of tongues against skin to be happy with one another. 

Shane told Rose things he never said to anybody else with no regret. Rose would put her chin on her hands and lean into Shane’s words as if they were religion. When he told her that she was the only one who knew about his sexuality, she clung to him and told him how much it meant to her to know him fully. 

It was how he found himself sitting in his kitchen with Rose, eating the lunch she picked up for them on the way over. It started casually as they talked about their upcoming events. But then Rose asked if Shane had a crush, and he had just shrugged and said not really. 

He was a horrible liar. 

“Please, tell me who, Shane baby, I’m begging.”

“It’s nobody, Rose.” Shane poked at his salad. “It’s a stupid crush anyway.”

Rose jumped off Shane’s kitchen island and opened his fridge. “It’s far from stupid, actually. Oh! Guess what yesterday was?”

“What?” Shane turned to see her still looking into his fridge. There wasn’t much to look at. A few different vegetables, cans of ginger ale, and a few premade protein shakes he had meal prepped. 

“The day you told me you had a celebrity crush. After,” she turned around to face him. “I showed you the new photo of Chris Evans and said it was one of my celebrity crushes. I think it’s time you share at least one now.”

Shane snorted. “Funny.” 

“C’mon,” Rose pouted. “I want to know who you think about in bed since it isn’t me,” she said so casually as she shut the fridge. It made Shane’s chest constrict. 

“Rose, you know I’m sorry-”

Shaking her head, Rose shoved her hand over Shane’s mouth playfully. “That isn’t why I said it. Don’t change the topic,” she said as she held up two cans of ginger ale. She cracked one can with her perfectly manicured finger nails. “You can have this once you tell me. Even if you start choking on your salad, I won’t give it back.”

Rolling his eyes, Shane looked down at his salad. He thought of the people in his life: his mother, Hayden, Rose. His mother and Hayden didn’t even know that Shane was gay. Telling them anything about crushes and romance would lead to more trouble, more questions. But for Rose, she knew. He could tell her. Finally, he might be able to have somebody he could share with. 

Rose was looking at him with eager eyes. She wanted Shane to share. Somewhere in their friendship, or maybe it was from the start, Rose cared about Shane for who he was and what he was interested in. He wasn't just a client to her. 

For not the first time, Rose was reminding Shane of what a friendship could be, should be, and what it could be if Shane just opened up. 

Quietly and rushed, Shane said, “Ilya Rozanov.”

Rose cocked her head to the side. “Who? Slower and louder, Shane, you’re killing me.”

His hands came up to cover his mouth, muffling the name as he said it again, “Ilya Rozanov.” 

Rose gasped and set the can quickly in front of Shane. “Oh my gosh!” Her hand flew up to her mouth. “That’s hot, Shane.” 

Shane pressed his lips together, feeling the temperature rise on his face.  

Rose took a bite of her salad and moved her head from side to side. “You know, I can reach out to him. Ask to style him and-”

“Rose, no-”

“And then introduce you two and then-”

“Rose-”

“It’d be so good and oh! We could put him in glitter and-”

“Rose!” 

She laughed and knocked her can into Shane’s in a mock cheer salute. “Okay, okay, sorry, I got excited.”

“Clearly,” Shane shook his head, pushing his salad container away and wrapping his fingers around his can. The condensation was welcoming to his overheated skin. “Nobody can know that’s… that that’s who…you know?” 

Rose nodded, letting her foot nudge him under the table, her toes against the side of his socked heel. “I know,” she said, nudging his barely eaten salad back toward him. “Don’t worry, Shane baby, your secret crush is safe with me.” 

 

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Ilya was only in New York for three days and one thing was for certain: he needed to see the MET. When the campaign for the new Dolce & Gabbana cologne he thought would be all day only took until noon, he politely declined lunch with the overly kind, flirtatious media director and headed straight for the subway. 

It was how he found himself, residual lip stain and a rim of black eyeliner around his eyes and all, stepping into the Greek and Roman Art Collection, lit by the natural light of large windows and ceiling glass. It was breathtaking, a rich collection of marble, amber, and terracotta. Some were hidden behind glass, some were roped off in hopes that people wouldn’t try to press their greedy fingers to the imperfectly perfect mediums. 

Ilya found that he admired the Greek and Roman Art with the most reverence because it felt the most human. The bodies, the face, the stories of wanting to be protected in the midst of war and love and pain all felt so real. 

He noticed Eros flying first. An early sculpture of the Greek God, a wreath upon his mused curls and his cloak draped around his waist. It was a symbol of adolescence, Ilya learned when he read the panel beside it, a “winged youth.” He could see it, etched into the softened lines of his nose, his mouth. The torso was sculpted just enough to notice the chubby baby fat that hugged the middle of a young teenager. The wings protruded in a lighter shade of orange, leaning more toward white, a purity of youth that gets lost. 

Ilya admired the curls that came out below the headpiece. His own adolescence never looked this peaceful, this youthful. He wondered if Eros was a fourteen-year-old boy in this stance, arms outstretched toward a dream, waiting to accept it. A fantasy of love, of sex, probably, knowing Eros. When Ilya himself was fourteen, he had settled on love being something transactional and painful, sex being nothing more than a quick way to get off. It wasn’t pure; it was messy, it was young and stupid. It was seeking validation because he learned that seeking love could result in unhappiness with a six-foot depth. 

He continued through the exhibit, his eyes gazing upon the Head of an Athlete. The smooth marble carved with curls and a nose broken from the elements, or maybe the move. The panel described this head as youthful and victorious. Ilya stares until his eyes blur. Here was what he was supposed to be. An athlete, successful, praised. 

This is how his father saw Ilya. As somebody great, somebody worth being on display for all he did well. But Ilya didn’t do this and he didn’t do well. Sure, he was athletic, but he was not an athlete. He didn’t want to play hockey; he didn’t want to be the athlete on the podium. He wanted to experiment with art; he wanted to make sure the podium and those on it looked their best. His father saw Ilya with the headband of a legend. Ilya saw himself with a crown of leaves against a bed of grass. 

Then Ilya saw the piece he walked into the exhibit to see because it was the one the internet promoted to him. It took his breath away; the bright, pure white marble of Thetis and Achilles. Ilya read the panel, “Thetis contemplating the fate of her infant son Achilles.” Thetis, with her soft tummy and curved breasts, her son, Achilles, placed in her arms, not skin to skin, as she gazes down to determine how to keep him safe. The curve of the eyes tells Ilya that maybe the sculptor wanted it to appear that Achilles was looking up toward his mother with an infantile trust. 

He felt more than heard the presence of somebody coming up to stand beside him. With a sideways glance, Ilya saw a short, middle-aged woman with a bob cut of black hair staring at the life-sized marble. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Ilya nodded, his gaze returning to the curls that framed and fell behind Thetis. Ilya saw his own mother in Thetis, the way she had to hold Ilya, knowing that she needed to keep him safe in a world so dangerous. 

“She was a brave woman, Thetis was.”

“Brave,” Ilya repeated with a breath. His mother was brave too, the bravest woman he knew. Here he was, gazing on a woman as old as time with a likeness to his mother that made his chest ache. 

“She held Achilles by his ankle to dip him into the River Styx for protection. It was an act of true love and courage.” The woman turned her gaze from the painting to look up at Ilya. He wondered if she could see the etch of raw emotion in his face. “Brave,” she repeated back to him. 

“It was,” Ilya attempted to say, but it came out airy, lost in the river he dipped himself into, immersing himself in what was and what could have been in each piece in this room. As if he himself was descended from these early acts of courage, of bravery, of love. 

“It’s part of the reason I love this piece so much,” the woman says, moving her hand in the direction of a marble right foot wearing a sandal. Ilya glanced toward it before looking back at the sculpture before him. “A vulnerable heel. Feet and ankles, legs even, are supposed to be so durable,” the woman continued. “And here, as she holds her son, she has her hands wrapped around his tiny heels. I imagine she knows that she can save the most important parts of him in the river, but she cannot fully let him go, so she chooses the foot to sacrifice.” 

Ilya nodded, his eyes locking onto the placement of Thetis’ hands, one in fact on the baby Achilles’ small feet, the other supporting his backside. Two vulnerable, loving, nurturing placements. His mother held him like that once; he is sure of it. Held him with a tender care that the world would soon replace with scars and calloused fingers. 

His mother fully let him go. 

The thought takes hold of Ilya and he feels the single tear roll down his cheek before he can process that the thought wasn’t true. She didn’t want to let him go, she had no choice. If she didn’t… if she hadn’t… Ilya shakes his head and clears his throat. His mother would have let him go one way or another, maybe, but never intentionally. She wanted to protect him. She gave him art. She gave him love. She gave him time. 

She was a fiercely protective mother, too. 

She sacrificed herself. Thetis sacrificed a heel. 

“Did Thetis,” Ilya cleared his throat once more and turned toward the woman. She was in her mid-forties, maybe, with deep brown eyes framed by crows-feet. Her lips were a light shade of red, held in a comforting uplifted set. Glancing down at her bright red nametag set upon her navy blazer skirt set, Ilya learned her name: Gloria. “Did Thetis know that Achilles could be hurt?”

Did his own mother know how much Ilya would hurt? 

Gloria nodded her head, her bob circling her sharp, softly aged jaw. “It was why she dipped him into the River Styx. She was just as powerful as the Gods around her. Achilles would be a legend, and she wanted to protect him in the way she knew how.”

“That’s beautiful.”

“That’s love,” Gloria hallowed, her hands folded in front of her as her eyes swept over the marble. 

“Yes,” Ilya murmured. He does suppose those two things should be the same. “It is.” 

“Are you a fan of Achilles? I was standing by the door and noticed you lingering on this piece for a few minutes.” 

“I am,” Ilya admitted. “I’m Ilya,” 

She gave him a warm smile as she shook his outstretched hand. “Gloria. Allow me to show you,” she turned and Ilya followed her to a case with a small, curved pendant. 

Ilya stared at the small amber piece against the stark white display case. The panel describes it as Ajax, donning a war helmet, carrying the body of Achilles. Ilya squints, tilting his head to make out the body, the way the legs hang limply. 

“This is the pendant of Ajax carrying the body of Achilles. It is one of my favorites in the whole collection.”

Ilya’s eyes scanned the room. There was so much beauty, so much art. Big sculptures that looked as if they would come to life and wrap icy fingers around your wrist, turning you to marble with them. The pottery that they ate from, drank from, held flowers that Ilya may have never even known to exist. Here, a worn amber pendant was her favorite. 

“This is your favorite?” Ilya asked, an underlying incredulous tone slipping out when he didn’t want it to. 

“Oh, yes,” Gloria nodded and pressed her pink fingernail to the description panel. “There is discourse on who discovered and carried Achilles' body. If it was Ajax, or if it was Odysseus.”

“Interesting,” 

“But I like to think it would be Ajax. He was on the battlefield when Patroclus died.” 

“Why would that matter to Achilles?” 

Gloria smiled a warm smile up at him, her eyes glittering. “He helped, with Meneleous, to get Patroclus’ body back to Achilles once they stripped him of Achilles’ armor.” She shrugged a shoulder. “I feel he would care for Achilles the same.” 

Ilya turned to look at Gloria fully. He remembered hearing about and reading snippets of The Iliad and The Odyssey. Men took pride in their armor, their belongings in war. “Why wear another man's armor?”

Gloria waved a dismissive hand. “All Patroclus wanted to do was protect Achilles, help in the war, so it could end, and Achilles would be happier. They could be happier,” she elaborated. “Taking his armor as a means of protection was the ultimate sacrifice.”

Ilya thought about love, about sacrifice. How much love could one person have that they would risk their entire life to protect them? As he stares at the pendant, he wonders if locked into the small carving is a love that went beyond protection. 

“Would Achilles sacrifice, too?” Ilya wondered. 

“He did,” Gloria said. “He was always too tender, too protective, in his strong masculine presence. When Patroclus died, Achilles held his body for twelve days until his ghost begged him to be buried.”

Ilya wondered if he could love somebody enough to hold their lifeless body for twelve days. The decay would start to eat away at flesh that he would keep pressed to his bare chest, his nose kept buried in silky strands of hair. 

He would, probably, if given the opportunity. 

“Would,” Ilya took in a breath and looked at the pendant once more. “Could Achilles have loved Patroclus that much, too?”

“Historians deem them as one of the earliest cases of homosexuality.”

“Really?”

Gloria looked up at Ilya. Her eyes were liquid amber like the pendant as they darted between Ilya’s eyes. “They had a love worth dying for. People in love dream of that.” 

Ilya didn’t say anything as he thought about love. The love he had. The love he wanted to have. About deep brown eyes and a perfect straight nose out of reach. About smooth brown skin with a mess of curls placed upon his chest. About long golden curls and a maternal touch lost to a current of emotion. 

“When Achilles died, whoever carried his body, Ajax or Odysseus, only had the body. His soul had already left. That had remained protected and true to Achilles.”

Ilya felt his breath hitch as he turned, slowly, to look back toward Thetis and Achilles. His mother had shaped him into the man he has become in the short fourteen years he got to have with her. She told him he could be The Artist. He could love whatever and whoever he wanted. He could be her Ilya in his purest, most unfiltered ways. 

“That’s how much love,” Gloria declared, nodding her head with finality. 

He thinks of his desires and his loves. The ways he wants to fold himself into his sketchbook, into the arms of women, into the firmness of men. The way Achilles must have hidden a life from everybody but the person he loved. 

“His soul went to Patrocolus,” Ilya mumbled. “His love.” 

“I imagine so, yes.”

“Thank you, Gloria. I did not know all this.”

“I love to share, Ilya,” she gave him a pat on his arm as she walked back over to the main doorway. 

As Ilya made his way to leave this collection of the museum with a heavy ache in his heart, his eyes locked onto the grayish white sculpted torso. He stared, tracing the drapery over the left shoulder, the lines of each individual portion of abs, the sharp V of his hips. The panel read “Marble statuette of Apollo?” because it was either him or a young hunter. Ilya knew Apollo, the way he stood for lightness, poetry, healing and harmony. A calming presence in his masculine beauty and grace. 

Ilya admired the care taken into the carving to capture Apollo because it had to be Apollo. It had to be something carved with a care to preserve something so powerful yet so soft. 

Shane Hollander. 

The image of him slumped against the wall in nothing but boxers, his abdomen containing a slight roll as he shifted minutely to the side, all hard lines softening in the movement of comfort. Except, Ilya had seen the twitch in his fingers, the tension held in his thighs barely clothed by the tight white Calvin Kleins. 

Ilya saw it on the billboard in Times Square just the night before. A man who was so polite in interviews, a voice laced with hesitation as if every word had to be thought through in order to be the ideal model. Just as Apollo was known as being the ideal Greek citizen. 

He turned his head to see Gloria gazing at a bronze Roman bust. “Gloria?”

“Mhm,” she turned to look at Ilya. 

“Do you think it is Apollo?”

“Oh,” she walked back over to him. “I do.”

“Why?”

“There’s a strange sort of reverence to it.” She waved her hands around the sculpture. “The most admired become the most cared for muses. The art always reflects that. This,” she said, hovering her hand over the quiver strap, “placed over the chlamys shows that the creator did not want his skin to be rubbed by the strap in movement, maybe battle. A depiction of a young hunter would not have been so gentle.”

Ilya nodded, every breath as he listened to Gloria speak taking the shape of Shane Hollander. When he would think of his art, his own creations would center around the smooth skin and soft freckles with care, wrapping him before applying to him. Human first, muse second. 

That was what this creator did for Apollo. 

“I believe,” Ilya said thickly. “That this is Apollo.”

Gloria smiled up at him, her eyes soft and sparkling. “I am glad you do.” 

Chapter 4: III

Shane sucked in a breath as he fell onto the plush, white sheets of the hotel bed. He looked out of the open blinds of the floor-to-ceiling windows, admiring the tall buildings and palm trees. 

Los Angeles Fashion Week. 

Who knew he had it in him?

When Louis Vuitton reached out to him, he thought it was spam. There was no way they wanted him, right? A young model who had just tried his hand at a few higher-end perfume commercials, really? 

But LV was persistent, reaching out again and again to prove it was real, to prove they wanted Shane Hollander on their runway in Los Angeles. 

Sitting up, he reached for his phone and opened up Instagram. Within the last six months, his mom had been on him about having a more prominent presence on social media: the more exposure, the more views, the more shoots, the more roles. Shane questioned the legitimacy of that, but the number of women and men (much to Shane’s surprise and curiosity) who admired him was growing every day. 

Shane got up and walked over to the window. There were so many cars picking up and dropping people off. He was on a high enough floor that everybody looked like scurrying, dolled-up ants. 

Unlocking his phone, he positioned himself so that his reflection showed in the window just enough. The new small silver hooped earring (“jewelry branding is one hell of a drug,” Rose had told him when he showed her) reflected the sunlight just enough, and his hip bones were exposed just right in his cropped white t-shirt. He snapped a few photos, scrolling through them and picking the best one. 

He posted it on his Instagram with the caption, “Los Angeles Fashion Week 2k16” with a tongue out emoji, to attempt some playfulness. Quickly, he locked his phone and threw it onto the bed before he could begin scrolling, looking for… Taking a deep breath, he ran his hands through his silky hair. Shane knew he needed to keep it together for his career. He was here on business, not to try to meet people who were speculated to make appearances at certain runways and events throughout the week.

A knock on his door pulled him from his thoughts. “Shane!” The sweet voice called out, knocking again. “I know you’re there and I’m starving!” 

Rose Landry. 

Shane had been working with Rose for the last year. In that year, their relationship was short-lived, but their friendship was one that Shane wanted to hold on to forever. She had just always accepted Shane so easily.

When they broke up, Hollywood exploded. The golden boy and Rose Landry breaking up was headline-worthy, much to both of their shocks. People wondered who messed up, who hurt whom, and who was sick of whom. It was hilarious to watch unfold as they still went out to dinners and shopping, hand in hand, as best friends. 

It stressed Shane out, but Rose always reassured him. It was one of the reasons he loved her. He played it safe even when he wasn’t because Rose would always hold him upright. 

Shane smiled as he opened the door. Happiness radiated from her. This wasn’t her first fashion week, but she spent the last two weeks telling Shane it would be her favorite one yet. 

“I expect a room key,” Rose beamed. 

Rose’s hair was pulled up onto the top of her head into a messy bun, her white t-shirt tucked into the front of her bright blue jeans. “I am ready to explore Los Angeles with you, my darling. And eat sushi. Sushi, yes? That one place a few blocks that everybody talks about?” 

Laughing, Shane stepped aside to let her walk into his room. “Let me brush my teeth and we can go. Is your room near mine?”

“Right across the hall,” she beamed as she walked toward his bed, kissing him on the cheek as she passed. “We can get the string cans and put them across the hall to our doors. See how many people trip.”

“We have phones.”

“Not as fun. By the way, sexy picture you posted.” She sat down on the edge of his bed and took her phone from her back pocket. “I was thinking we could get sushi at this cute little place about two blocks over. Then we can come back here. I want to try this new hairspray on you before the evening party. It smells sort of funny, but we can cover it.”

“Whatever you want,” Shane called from the bathroom as he brushed his teeth. 

“See! You would make a great boyfriend! So accommodating,” he heard her voice trail off, then pick back up in a sudden, gasped outburst, “Oh my God, Shane!” 

“What?” Shane came out of the bathroom and saw her wide eyes staring at him. He sat down next to her, pulling one shoe on. “What’s wrong?” He peered over her shoulder, seeing that her phone was open to Instagram. 

Ilya Rozanov stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling window, viewing a different angle of the Los Angeles buildings and palm trees. There was a couch behind him and light blue walls. His reflection was seen in the glass, his dark t-shirt tucked into dark jeans, held together by a thick black belt with a silver buckle. Curls haloed hazily around his window paned blurred face. The caption read, “Fashion Week in LA.”

It was posted ten minutes after Shane’s. 

“Do you think he saw yours?” Rose asked at the same time that Shane asked, “Do you think he saw mine?”

Shane laughed and shook his head, pulling on his other shoe. “No, there’s no way.” Because why would Ilya Ronzanov have seen his post to begin with? 

Rose clicked a few buttons and went to Shane’s own post, scrolling through the likes. “It doesn’t mean anything that he didn’t like yours. He could have still seen it.”

“It’s just a coincidence,” Shane said, but the sting in his voice betrayed his nonchalance. 

Rose put a hand on his back and rubbed gentle circles between his shoulder blades. Shane tried to push away the embarrassment at his juvenile crush. He shrugged her off weakly. He didn’t need support. He was fine. He’d been fine his whole life like this.

“You guys are going to be in the same fashion week. Maybe you’ll meet him.” Rose sounded so hopeful. 

Shane shook his head, standing up and grabbing his hotel keycard, handing her the spare. Rose stood up after him. “Fashion week is so big, the odds are slim.”

“Not zero,” Rose stated as she opened the hotel door, holding it open for him. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Ilya had been existing in Los Angeles for two years. He drifted and floated between states, countries, roles, people. He made a home in his small apartment. His furniture was a mixture of new, thrifted, and his mother's. Yet, the pale blue walls reminded him of the color of his father's displeased eyes.

Girls and guys, on the off chance Ilya was drunk enough to let them in, would treat his front door like a revolving hotel door. They would find themselves in his bed, tangled in his limbs and striped blue and white sheets. Then they’d smoke a cigarette, being gone before morning. 

The bed would smell of stale booze and sex. Ilya hated it. Hated the way the comforting scent of his room would be tainted with cheap colognes or heavily sprayed perfumes. He’d wash his sheets, sometimes twice if he really felt the tingle of regret down his spine. 

The only time he didn’t mind was when Svetlana shared his bed. Her scent was a warm, welcome comfort tangled in his own. Her body was a soothing feeling wrapped around him, one that grounded him enough to remind him that he could have this. He could have something meaningful, something real. 

Just not with her. 

Turning over and wiping the sleep from his eyes, Ilya curled down so his head was resting in Svetlana’s lap. “Good morning,” he mumbled, pressing his head into her bare torso. “What time is it?”

“Early,” she mumbled, threading her fingers through his wild curls. “You have to leave here when?”

With a groan, Ilya rolled so that he looked up at her rich brown eyes, peering down at him as she gently loosened the tangles. “I have guy from Vuitton at…” he pursed his lips. “I do not remember.”

“Ilya,” Svetlana sighed. “You are on their schedule today. Late to the first fashion show would be horrible.”

“I am just watching. I can slip in late.”

 “And not sit in the front row?”

“I think those are reserved.”

“I think I remember you telling me they were putting you there.”

“Is why I said yes.”

Which was true. Ilya had been invited to sit in the front row of YSL’s shoot the following day of the week as part of his partnership to begin designing clothing for them. When Louis Vuitton reached out to him for an audience member, he had panicked. A part of him really, desperately, needed to sit and watch this show live. To see… their models in the flesh. Their rumored and confirmed models. But the rational part of him knew he needed to ask YSL’s permission. 

Tentatively, they said yes, as long as he had no interest in sketching for Louis Vuitton. He said no, he had none. He was devoted to Saint Laurent and everything they did for him. 

He just needed… other models to help with his perspectives. 

Besides, Ilya knew who he would picture for everything he created, regardless of the brand he- they- modeled for. He sniffed and shoved his head into the pillow. 

Svetlana sat up on her elbows. “I still would like to know why you agreed when Saint Laurent was so adamant about having you all to themselves.”

Ilya cocked his head up and smirked. “I told them nobody owns me.”

With a laugh, Svetlana moved his head from his lap. “C’mon, you need to shower before somebody shows up and starts yelling at you to get to the hotel.” 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Shane was in awe of the outfit Louis Vuitton chose for him. The long, dark plaid trench coat with matching pants gave his form the perfect boxy but fitted look. He felt both slim and strong. Across his body were two different Louis Vuitton bags, with a checkered print and covered with the iconic logo. 

Rose adjusted his collar. Her eyes scanned over his face, assessing and warm. “You need a little more blush on your right cheek, and we should be good to go.”

“You’re the expert,” Shane said matter-of-factly. 

Rose was one of the top male stylists in the industry. She could do any hairstyle, any makeup variation, any style of clothing. Rose was able to make any masculine look exactly like the vision the director or designer craved. It was such an art that Shane wondered how she managed to just look at him and understand exactly what needed to be done. Every single time.  

She travelled with him now, going from shoot to shoot, location to location, with him, with no hesitation. Rose worked with other men, but Shane was a non-negotiable. Other people could work on the other men; no other people could work on Shane. 

It was always an empty threat from Rose. Both of them knew he would never work with another stylist again. Not with how much he loved the way her fingers worked through his hair as she styled it this way and that. Not with the way she studied his face as she concentrated on painting it with powders and creams. Not with how he would calm in her presence before every shoot, inhaling her calming scent of smoky vanilla with a hint of dark berries. 

“You might need a little more gel,” Rose muttered. She had one hand on her hip, the other gently pushing his head to the side. Shane had been growing out his hair since he saw the outfit he would wear on the runway. It was Rose’s idea, having told him she needed it all slicked back for this look. 

Shane knew the moment she was satisfied as she stepped back and admired him. “You look amazing. You did a great job.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

She giggled, handing him the final bag that would complete his outfit. “You were born, that counts. Hold it in your right hand to show off the pinky ring.”

“Right,” he took the bag and stood up, smoothing out his trench coat. “You did a great job, Rose. Thank you.” 

She beamed at his compliment. “Your first fashion show! Your first fashion week!” She clapped her hands together. “Okay, let me get some photos first before they whisk you away.” 

“You aren’t coming with me?” Shane always had Rose accompany him to the different events he went to. What if he had a fashion emergency? What if he smudged his makeup? What if he needed to throw a lifeline?

She took a few photos of him. “I will be, but their people will be taking photos backstage. I want some all to myself.”

Shane felt like all he did was blink, and he was backstage, being prepped to walk on his first runway. Rose was last-minute checking him over with a young blonde girl from the coordinating crew. His mahogany colored shoes shone as he looked down at his tapping foot. He took a deep breath. 

“Shane Hollander, take your place.”

“Good luck, baby!” Rose gave him a nudge of encouragement. 

Sucking in a breath, Shane stepped into the blinding lights. 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Ilya crossed his legs and leaned back in his seat. The lighting was hued with hazy pinks and oranges thanks to the sunset coming through the rooftop windows. The stage was bright white, a long runway with a rounded stage at the end, and photographers were placed all around the front. 

Ilya sat next to two people he did not know; one was an actor in a movie he had never heard of, the other a lady whom Ilya swore he shared a drink with at an afterparty maybe a year ago. He didn’t want to bring it up and be wrong, look foolish, and maybe even like he was already drunk at his first runway event. So, he smiled as politely as he could and introduced himself to them both. He wished Sventlana could have been there with him, but only YSL would give Ilya a plus one. 

Attention was on him the final 30 minutes before the show, cameras flashing and people making their way up to shake his hand. Then the questions started, asking him about how he was feeling and if he was more excited for this show or the YSL show. Ilya hated feeling like he was backed into a corner. 

“I am allowed to like more than one brand, yes? You only wear same brand every day your whole life? That is sad.”

Nobody asked him any other questions.  

Then the show began. Ilya watched as men walked down the runway in deep earthy colored coats and cigarette-style pants. They all had stoic faces, ones that gave away no nerves but instead a steady ooze of attractive confidence. 

At last, there he was. 

The blushy, freckled face and slicked back hair. 

Shane Hollander. 

His eyes were bright as he walked, albeit a little too stiffly, down the runway. The deep plaid brought out the hazel in his dark eyes. His lips were the same blush of his cheeks, pouty and full. His jaw was strained, the muscle flexing with each step. Ilya noticed his right hand tremble slightly as he stopped at the end of the runway. As he posed at the end, he did nothing to adjust his pose, just stayed stock still with his arms to his sides, the satchel pressed tight to his body. On his return upstage, his left finger twitched as he went to put his hand in his pocket, but stopped himself and dropped it flat to his side. 

He turned to the left and disappeared from Ilya’s sight. 

No other model mattered anymore. Not after Ilya Rozanov was able to see Shane Hollander in the flesh. 

Only as Ilya leaned back in his chair did he realize the magnetic pull that Shane Hollander had on him. 

Fuck. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

“Shane!” Rose beamed as she wrapped her arms around him. “You did it!”

“Did I look awkward?” Shane breathed out, cheeks pink as everyone took photos or patted him on the back. “I don’t feel like I even breathed.” 

“No,” she said, turning as the doors to the backstage opened and people moved toward them. “You looked sexy and hot and confident and like the Shane Hollander.”

Huffing a laugh, Shane lightly wrapped a hand around her wrist. “Can we get some water?”

“This way,” she turned and started to pull him through the crowd. Yuna appeared at Shane’s side, sending him praise that was in one ear out the other. He needed water. He needed to sit in a quiet place for a minute. He needed to take one of the bags off his body, the straps feeling a little too tight. 

Rose’s steps faltered. “Oh,” she turned Shane’s body to face the doors. They needed to go out the right side of the doors. 

But on the left side stood Ilya Rozanov. His eyes were scanning the room as people were talking to him from the sides, from in front of him. His mouth opened, quick responses Shane couldn’t hear escaping his perfect, plush lips. 

“Oh,” Shane echoed, turning a brighter shade of pink. He felt like a teenage boy with a crush. And he’d been caught. 

“Shane, you have to change for photos and the after party,” his mother said, a coordinator appearing at her side.

“Do I have time to-”

“We really should be going, Mr. Hollander.” The coordinator started walking him toward the opposite side of the room to the doors. “This way first for some photos-”

His eyes went between the door Rose was leading him to, which took him to a few moments of peace, and Ilya Rozanov. “I just need some water-”

“We have water in the photo room.” 

“Shane, sweetie, this way,” Yuna turned him away from Ilya Rozanov and started him across the room.

He heard his name from behind him, some women, some men, one deep voice in particular rang out above others, “Hollander!” 

Rose held Shane’s arm as they walked to his dressing room. “Sorry, that was a good shot,” she said quietly, pressed close to him as a comforting weight shielding him from too many strange bodies brushing at least one side of his body. “I’ll make sure to grab you a water for when they’re done with you.”

Shane shrugged, but couldn’t help feeling frustrated and itchy in his skin. He had it all; he really shouldn’t be pouting. However, he was so tired. He just walked his first runway and wanted a minute of peace. Then, in front of him, his chance to see Ilya Rozanov so close. His chance to walk by and maybe bump into him, talk to him, if he could have gotten lucky. If he thought he could even open his mouth and say anything. So many people. So many cramped bodies.

But none of it mattered because he couldn’t. Shane never had time; his schedule was always too crammed with everything and anything at all times. Apparently, wanting to drink water needed to be worked into his schedule, too.

The doors shut behind him as he was thrust through the crowd by the door to the photo room.

“Over here!”

“Shane Hollander!”

“Tell us about your first walk!”

“Please, Mr. Hollander, to the left for Louis Vuitton official!” 

“Hollander!”

“Shane!” 

“How does it feel to be a Louis Vuitton ambassador!”

Shane forced a few tight smiles, waving his hand occasionally as he faced the cameras. He blinked slowly, eyes wide then hooded as he settled into the role of just existing for the camera. If he looked a little beyond their heads, the lights got a smidge duller. 

He heard their questions and callouts, but they went unanswered, completely drowned out by the replay in his ears of his name being called as he turned his back. 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Ilya watched as Shane was whisked to the other side of the room. “Hollander!” he called out toward the doors that led to the photo lobby. Ilya tensed up when he realized he had called out and not just in his head. 

Turning, he scanned the room until his eyes landed on the coordinator, who had just led them out, walking back through the doors. He walked over, rehearsing the words in his head. 

“Hello,” he said, smoothly, as he reached a hand out to the stunned coordinator. He kept talking to avoid himself from stopping his very impulsive plan. “I’m Ilya Rozanov. I was hoping to speak with Shane Hollander.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rozanov,” he said, shaking his hand. “He’s on a very tight schedule.”

“It would really only be a minute.”

“I’m afraid he wouldn’t like it if his schedule were rearranged.”

Ilya had no idea who Shane was, but from the interviews he watched and the way he studied his face, sketching out the tense and emotional edges, Shane probably would not have minded a distraction. No, not a distraction, something human. 

“Is there a way?” Ilya looked past the coordinator to the doors as they opened, but only a photographer came out. “Nevermind, thank you,” he moved through the swarm of people to the photographer. “Excuse me,” he called, a sigh of relief when the photographer turned and faced him. “Were you by chance with Shane Hollander?”

“No,” the woman said as she continued walking, her eyes never leaving the camera. 

Ilya waited and asked every single photographer until one of them stopped and fixed him with a look. “When?”

“Right now?” Ilya gave them a what-do-you-mean look. “Back there.” He gestured toward the doors. 

“Oh, no, he’s been moved from the room already. Louis Vuitton wanted a post-walk shoot and interview.”

“Oh,” Ilya went to tell the photographer thanks for nothing when they spoke again. 

“I was with him this morning, though.”

“Do you think I could get into the dressing room hallway?”

The photographer cocked their head, “Why?”

“I feel that doesn’t matter to you.”

Ilya could feel his stomach sinking. How was he supposed to get to Shane Hollander if he never stayed still? “Do you know when he will be done with everything?” When the photographer gave him a confused and irritated look, he reached for his wallet. “Better yet, do you have his phone number?”

“His phone number?” When the photographer saw the three fifty-dollar bills in Ilya’s hand, they immediately were on their phone and scrolling through what looked like a digital document.

 “Here it is,” they subtly turned their phone to Ilya, who handed the photographer the large bills. “You didn’t get it from me, though.”

“I do not even know your name,” Ilya said coolly as he punched the number into his phone. “Thank you.” 

Quickly, Ilya made his way out of the stuffy, overly hot space. There was no need to wait at the venue for Shane Hollander anymore, not when he had the phone number. He waited until he was all the way back to his hotel room, leaning against the shut door, staring at the contact. 

Shane Hollander. 

He began typing, clicking send before he could overthink it. 

 

Ilya Rozanov: Shane Hollander. How do you like Greek mythology?

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Back in the artificial comfort of his hotel room, Shane changed into a soft cotton t-shirt and sweatpants. He just wanted to drink some water and stare at the wall. Did he do okay? Would people invite him back? Did his walk look… sexy? Is sexy even the word Shane wanted right now? 

Being invited back would mean a lot to Shane, mainly because it would mean that he did his job well. Would feel validated that he can perform in the way they want him to. The way everybody expected him to be from such a young age. 

His phone pinged. With a groan, he reached over and stared down at the unknown number. The message, directly addressing him, stared back. He took another big gulp of water from the large plastic bottle. He only had about ten minutes before Rose was in here with all of her supplies to get him ready for the after-party. Only had about thirty minutes before he needed to be changed. Only had about an hour until he needed to be walking through the after-party doors. 

Yet, he had to deal with a random number texting his personal number.

Shane never got texts anymore unless they were from close friends or family. He put his phone number on things, too, but mainly it would get bypassed as people would rather talk to his mother. Which made sense and Shane didn’t mind it. His schedule was so jam-packed that he didn’t have time to think, let alone plan anything. 

 

Unknown Number: Shane Hollander. How do you like Greek Mythology?

 

Shane’s brow furrowed. “What the…”

He didn’t know how to answer. Did he even need to answer? He could just ignore it. It was the smartest thing to do. The most rational thing to do when somebody with a random number with an area code from California addresses you by name. He locked his phone, then immediately unlocked it and responded. 

 

Shane Hollander: Who is this?

 

Shane couldn’t even get the cap off his water before he was peering down at the response. He took a sip, choking on it as he read.  

 

Unknown Number: An artist who wants to know if you like Greek Mythology?

Shane paused, clearing his throat. Did he like Greek Mythology? It had been a while since somebody asked him a question like that. Something… personal? Shane wondered whether it was actually personal or if he had just missed having people to talk to about anything and everything. Well, other than his mother and Rose, of course. 

 

Shane Hollander: I guess it’s good. 

Unknown Number: You guess?

Shane Hollander: Yeah.

 

When there was no response, Shane fired off another text. 

 

Shane Hollander: How did you get my number?

Unknown Number: I thought you might want to be part of planning

Unknown Number: If you wanted to do a show for me

 

“A show,” Shane said aloud, his brows coming close together as he read the message again. A show? Like what he just did? Or… what? 

There was a knock on his door, followed by Rose using her copy of his hotel room key to walk in. Quickly, Shane replied before his brain short circuited, locking his phone and throwing it behind him on the bed as Rose barreled in with her bags. 

 

Shane Hollander: I don’t even know who you are.

 

“Okay, in the chair, let me fix you up. Shirt is in the closet, the black and white one with the logo all over it.” Rose wasn’t even looking at him as she unloaded her bags onto the table. All of these bags were different from the ones she had in the morning. Clearly, Rose was going to style him in a whole other direction. It was all about duality after all, or at least, that’s what Rose always told him when she would shapeshift him midway through an event. 

“I thought it was brown,” Shane replied, walking over to the closet, pulling it out, and holding it up. “This one?”

“Same thing,” she waved her hand dismissively as she plugged in her curling iron. “No more Mr. Slick back.”

Shane sat down in the chair and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Rose took some powder and began moving around his face. He watched the clouds of it puff off his cheeks as his knee bounced. He couldn’t stop thinking about the text. Was somebody going to try to hurt him? Was it a trick? No. Yes. Maybe. Shane blew out a breath and met Rose’s eyes in the mirror. 

Rose held the blush brush up an inch from his face. “What happened?” 

“Nothing.”

She glared at him. 

“Really. I’m just tired. It was stressful walking on the runway.”

“Yes, but you did so well,” she said, her eyes darting to the clock. “You’re the hottest model I saw today.” She grabbed lip gloss and moved in front of Shane. “Pucker up, hot stuff.”

Blushing, he puckered his lips and smelled the strawberry gloss spread across his lips. His phone pinged, his eyes darting over. His phone was too far away to tell who it was from.

Rose chuckled, focused on lining his lips. “Expecting a text? Secret hookup tonight?”

Shane couldn’t exactly move, so he just shrugged a shoulder. Once Rose was content, he shook his head. “Just instinct to look.”

Rose started to tell Shane about the text she had received from an ex-boyfriend, asking her to style him for an event. “The audacity! He always told me I wouldn’t make it. Why would he think I’d help him now!”

“Because he’s a terrible person.”

“Understatement,” she said as she handed him a pair of deep mahogany jeans and an LV belt. “Okay, these jeans with that shirt will compliment you so well. Get dressed first, then I’m going to add some curl to your hair. Don’t even look at me like that, it’s going to be so good.”

As Shane got dressed, Rose scrolled through her phone in his makeup chair. “You know what, make sure you have Louis Vuitton underwear on, too.”

“Why would I need that?” Shane asked as he stripped down to his boxers.

“For your secret hookup.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “There is no secret hookup.”

As he reached for his jeans, he stole a glance at his phone. His eyes widened and it took everything in him to keep his jaw shut. 

 

Unknown Number: Ilya Rozanov at your service 

 

“What if you meet someone? They’re going to expect you to be head to toe in Louis Vuitton!” Rose laughed, completely oblivious to the way Shane’s blood slowed and his heart stopped and his brain short-circuited.

Ilya Rozanov.

There was no way.

How would he have gotten Shane’s number?

Rose gasped and jumped up. “Shane!” She jumped onto the bed next to his clothes and held her phone up in his face. “Look!” She shoved the phone closer. It was just a photo of him walking the runway. He looked too nervous. Too stiff. His eyes too downcast. 

But Shane doesn’t think that’s what Rose was showing him. It was the person in the bottom corner of the photo. The rich blonde curls and bright eyes of Ilya Rozanov that stared directly up at Shane. 

“Oh,” Shane breathed out, unable to stop himself. He shook his head.

Well, Shane had at least a clue now how he had got Shane’s number.

“He’s looking right at you!” Rose drops her phone and falls onto her back on the bed. “Did you see him when you walked?” 

Shane shook his head. “I really didn’t see anything but outlines.”

Thinking about the walk again, he thinks of the outline of curls as a halo to the shadow. Did he really remember, or did his mind want to remember?

Rose shook the phone in his face one more time. “He knows you exist!” She threw her arms up and punched the air. 

Shane nodded, not telling her in more ways than one. “Yeah,” he swallowed thickly, “I guess.”

She sat up and stared at Shane with wide eyes, glinting with mischief. “What if he’s there tonight! Oh, Shane, hurry up! We have to make you look downright so sexy that he can’t deny you.”

“Rose-”

“Pants on, Shane, chop chop. We can’t leave him waiting.”

“Let me just,” he grabs his phone and goes into the bathroom. He stares in the mirror, taking in his mostly naked appearance. 

Ilya Rozanov. At Shane’s event.

The odds seemed way too slim. 

Yet, here were the messages. There was a photo. Proof. 

Shane looked down, rubbing his eyes as he stared at the last sent message from Ilya. He read the text once, twice, three times. He thought of the photo Rose showed him. If Ilya Rozanov was there tonight, and he did want to talk with Shane, then maybe he needed to get his head out of his ass and get ready. 

Distractions. Shane was distracted. He didn’t have time to be distracted. Yet, before he could think further, his thumbs moved across the screen. 

 

Shane Hollander: Ilya Rozanov?

“Shit!” Shane hissed, moving his fingers fast across the screen. He couldn’t let Ilya Rozanov think he didn’t know who he was. As if Shane didn’t get off and dream about and think about Ilya Rozanov when he was in the shower or watching a movie he was in or- fuck. He was utterly fucked. 

 

Shane Hollander: Sorry, not like that. I know who you are. 

 

He looked back at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bright and wide. When his phone pinged again, his eyes glued back down to the screen. 

 

Unknown Number: OK

 

Rose knocked on the door. “Shane? You good? We’re in a race against time right now. I still need your hair and eyeshadow.”

Shane flushed the toilet he didn’t use and washed his hands. “Eyeshadow?” He said over the water, staring at himself in the mirror. He needed to get it together, he knew that. 

“Yeah. Need you to be so pretty tonight.”

It only took twenty minutes for Shane to be ready and posed for Rose’s ready phone. His Louis Vuitton t-shirt fit tight across his chest, tucked into his jeans to accent his waist. His hair was curled to frame his face in loose waves. Purple glitter was layered over mahogany eyeshadow, accenting the hazel from his eyes and setting them ablaze.

There was no new text from Ilya Rozanov. 

It was better that way. Shane needed to go to the party with a clear head. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Ilya pushed past the flashing lights, dodged the grabbing hands, head down, smile on. His hands were twisted around his suit jacket, clutching it to his black sheer-covered chest. The air got hotter as it poured from the held-open door, nicotine wafting from the alley a block away. The thump of bass echoed in his chest as he threw himself into the Louis Vuitton after-party. 

The lighting was dark, reds and browns lighting the curtained walls. The dance floor a swirl of moody purples and deep pinks. He scanned the room, finding the bar and pushing through. He needed a drink. He didn’t bring anybody to this after-party. He could have, Svetlana could have been ready. But he had other plans. Other people he hoped to see. 

After all, he wasn’t even supposed to be at this party. He was supposed to be at YSL’s. But he pulled some strings, explained that he felt bad to go to their runway but not their party (which shocked them enough that he probably didn’t need to continue his lie), and that if he didn’t go to Louis Vuitton’s, then maybe his support wouldn’t have felt as sincere. 

It was a cheap shot, but it worked. Ilya smirked to himself as he pushed past a man in a white tank top clinging to his chest, nipple piercings shining through the fabric. He wonders what the piercing would taste like underneath his tongue. If they were attached to Shane Hollander and underneath his tongue. 

“Rasslabsya,” relax, he breathed to himself in a hushed tone as he reached the bar. His hands landed heavily on the smooth marble countertop as he allowed himself a moment to let it hold his weight. He could hear his name echoing off the people whom he pushed past. When the waitress came over, leaning forward into his space, he leaned into hers, ordering a vodka. 

“Ilya Rozanov!” 

“Over here for a photo!”

“Rozanov over here! It’s been forever!”

“Shane Hollander!”

Slowly, Ilya turned toward the door. 

There was Shane Hollander.

Shane Hollander pushed his sunglasses up onto his forehead, his eyelids glimmering deep red as he blinked hazily to adjust to the light. People were surrounding him, and, unlike Ilya, he didn’t push through. He shook outstretched hands, hugged back when he was hugged, and took photos when asked. Shane’s smile was tight, eyes too bright. 

“For you,” the bartender grazed Ilya’s fingers as she handed him his drink. “Lime?”

Ilya pushed himself off the bar, his eyes locked onto the tick in Shane Hollander’s jaw as women wrapped around him, pulling him toward the dance floor. He pushed the sunglasses back onto his face as the women danced on him from both sides. Their fingers ran over the dark fabric that strained against his chest. Their nails tugging down the Louis Vuitton logos spread across his torso. 

He stared as Shane moved rigidly like a man being tortured. His hands grazed over the hips of the women in jerky movements, unsure where to land. Ilya frowned as he began to make his way to the dance floor. People grabbed at him; some he winked at, some blew kisses. His eyes never left Shane Hollander. 

A tall, blonde model wrapped around Ilya’s arm. “Want to dance?” she whispered into his ear, her tongue flicking out against his earlobe. 

Ilya nodded, pulling her toward the dance floor. His drink sloshed around as he swayed against the woman.  Her manicured black nails trailed down his chest, catching on the delicate fabric of his exposed nipple. His bodysuit left nothing to the imagination as she swayed her hips against his, her nails dipping into the line of his abdomen. Ilya watched her as her eyes were hooded, staring down toward his belt. She forced his suit jacket back so his full chest and core were exposed. 

Ilya sipped his drink, one hand on her waist, playing, pulling up and moving down the silk of her party dress. Reaching around, he splayed his hand on her lower back and pulled her closer. She leaned into him, giving Ilya even more leverage to move to the left, closer to Shane Hollander, easily moving her so she didn’t obscure his view. 

The model leaned up, kissing him. Ilya was kissing back, the taste of sangria and cherry lip gloss mixing with the sharp bite of vodka. He groaned, shifting his head to open his eyes. 

There was Shane Hollander. 

Who only had one model pressing against his chest now. But Shane Hollander wasn’t looking at her, wasn’t even touching her. His hands were at his sides, fingers flexing. His eyes were on Ilya. Big, wide, his mouth in a soft, shiny pout. 

Ilya stared back as the girl moved her lips down and sucked on his neck, her fingers twisting around his nipple. Maybe he shouldn’t be doing this here with all the cameras and all the paparazzi. But to look away would be to break the moment. He couldn’t tell if it was her or Shane Hollander that sent the shiver down his spine, his arousal to glow red hot low in his gut. 

He finally had eyes on Shane Hollander. And Shane Hollander finally had eyes on him. 

Shane Hollader broke first, turning and walking toward the small stairwell that led to the bathroom downstairs. 

Ilya gently removed himself from the model with a curt nod and began moving toward the stairwell. The smell of her expensive floral perfume stuck in his nose, the taste of her still on his lips, his tongue, his teeth. The vodka wasn’t enough to wash away the look on Shane Hollander’s face. 

Ilya couldn’t comprehend it. Why did Shane Hollander look so… what was the word? Sad? Confused? Ilya thought of the media he had seen, the way Shane Hollander didn’t give emotions away. He smiled when he had to, turned when someone called for him. He did what everyone expected him to do.

But this look was open, raw. Seemed to be a purer version of Shane Hollander. 

Ilya wanted to find out. 

Rounding down to the bottom step, Ilya collided with the door of the bathroom, which didn’t give. Vodka splashed across his chest, cool against his heated skin through the fabric.  Frowning, Ilya pressed again. He looked at the sign. Not a single stall bathroom. Shane Hollander locked the door. Unless he left. 

Ilya’s eyes swept the short hallway. The only door down here was to the men's bathroom and the utility closet that appeared to need a key to get in. He knocked on the bathroom door. 

The response was immediate and laced with Canadian worry, “I’m so sorry. I just needed-” came through the door as Shane Hollander unlocked it with a click and pulled it open. 

Shane Hollander cut himself off when he looked up at Ilya. The glitter of his eyeshadow was even more intense up close, pulling the gold flecks out of his big brown eyes. It left sparkles across his freckles, across the bridge of his nose, down his cheek. A light dusting of starlight. 

Ilya pushed himself into the bathroom and leaned against the closed door, his fingers twisting the lock. 

Shane Hollander was a few steps in front of Ilya, his hands fisted in his pockets. Ilya’s eyes trailed down his stiff body. He could see the way his fingers flexed against the fabric of his pocket, the way he shifted his weight subtly from one foot to the other. “I’m Shane… Hollander…”

“Yes,” He inhaled and set his vodka down on the vanity counter. “I know.”

Shane nodded, following the movement of the glass. 

“Are you okay?”

A nod.

Ilya stepped into his space, the smell of bergamot, warm and masculine, overriding his actions upstairs. His eyes darted between Shane’s eyes, but Shane’s eyes were darting lower, to Ilya’s lips, to his chest, back up to his eyes. Ilya’s hand hovered over Shane’s waist, but Shane didn’t move. With his left hand, Ilya reached up and put his fingers under Shane’s chin, lifting his eyes to meet his own. 

“You are a really bad liar.”

Shane didn’t say anything, his neck fluttering with a shaky, minty inhale inches from Ilya’s lips. 

“You are hiding in bathroom?”

“A lot of people up there.”

“They love you.”

Shane shrugged a shoulder weakly. “They don’t know me.” 

Ilya nodded, the merest tilt of his head as his gaze swept over the freckles that glimmered underneath the dim bathroom lights. He thought of all the people touching Shane, talking to Shane, taking photos of Shane. They don’t know me.

“Maybe,” he tasted the words on his tongue before he spoke, “some people want to.” His hand finally connected to Shane’s waist, a soft landing, his finger grazing the space right above the dip in his hip. 

Shane’s body shifted, but stayed planted. He nodded, his head falling forward toward Ilya’s. Shane’s own hands collapsed onto Ilya’s waist harder, jerky, gripping and holding firm. 

“Do you want to?”

“What?” 

“Know people?”

“Sure,” Shane leaned further into Ilya, the air mingling between their lips. As if Shane realized where he was, who he was with, he leaned back again to put more space. Yet, his hands remained firm on Ilya’s waist. 

Ilya licked his own lips before pressing forward, his lips locking onto Shane’s. It was gentle, a tentative landing. Shane latched on in return, his lips eager, hungry. 

Ilya pulled Shane into his chest, their belt buckles bumping LV to LV and Ilya wondered what YSL against YSL might sound like. The soft cotton of Shane’s shirt is warm and smooth against the web-like fabric of Ilya’s. Shane’s hand started to move up his side slowly, exploratory, until a harsh rasp of knocks echoed through the bathroom. 

Shane pushed Ilya off and stood up straight. He pulled at his pants, adjusting the obvious bulge that strained against the mahogany zipper. 

“You are in hotel across the street?” Ilya asked casually, looking in the mirror and adjusting his suit jacket over his black mesh. 

Shane nodded, his eyes glued to Ilya’s bulge. 

“What is your room number?”

The knock on the door again. Shane just shook his head, his eyes darting back to Ilya’s face.

Ilya groaned as he adjusted himself, trying to think of anything but Shane’s big brown eyes and splatter of freckles. Impossible when he was being pulled by his magnetic pull so strongly in the pristine designer bathroom. He had half a mind to just tell the person at the door to fuck off and drop to his own knees to see Shane, taste Shane-

Another knock, a little more insistent.

Shane was just staring at Ilya, pupils slightly blown, so Ilya supplied his own room. “1410.”

Shane’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “Your room?”

Ilya nodded once, smoothing a hand down his abdomen. “You are invited.”

Shane just stared. 

“Hello!” A man called. 

Ilya moved toward the bathroom stall. “You will come?” He waited to shut himself into the stall until Shane said something, anything. When he didn’t, Ilya said quietly, “I will be out after you.”

Shane nodded. “Uh, yeah- yeah, okay.” He gave himself one more once over in the mirror and unlocked the bathroom door. 

Ilya waited in the stall until the bathroom was once again empty before he made his escape. 

Shane didn’t say no.

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Shane wanted to. 

1.  

He wanted to probably more than he wanted to do anything in his life. This was something for himself– no cameras, no press, nobody pulling and pushing him into flattering angles. 

He was now alone. In the hallway. Outside the room. 

His lips were still vibrating from the quick kiss in the bathroom. 

Shane had gotten back to his hotel room, put on more cologne, fixed his face in the mirror, and headed for the stairs up. He didn’t bother changing. Not when his clothes still smelled like Rozanov: vodka, citrus, and leather. 

Ilya Rozanov. 

Ilya could probably hear him standing outside the door. His heartbeat was thundering, beating rapidly in his ears, while his breath was hot, panting against the knuckles indented with his teeth. 

Shane couldn’t do this. 

He turned around and walked back towards the stairwell. What was he thinking? He shoved the door open and began to descend back to his own floor. How could he be so foolish? His eyes blurred with shimmery tears. Stupid stupid stupid. 

He was invited. 

He was asked. 

He was kissed. 

It was a choice for Ilya to ask for his room number, then supply his own. It was a deliberate decision. Just like it was a choice for Shane to take it or not. 

And so what if he did take it? Who would need to know? 

Would Ilya tell? Was it all just a setup? The texting, the dance floor, Ilya watching as the woman latched onto his neck. Was following him to the bathroom just the start of… of what? Ruining his career? 

That couldn’t be true. Except that anything was possible, and Shane knew that. 

One of the biggest catches in Hollywood with girls on both arms all the time, and he chose to stare at, to invite Shane Hollander to his room. 

Why? Where were those girls tonight? Where was the blonde whom Shane had to taste the residual lip gloss of? Unless it was Ilya’s lip gloss, but Shane doubted it. Not when he could taste the vodka and nicotine tangled in it, overpowering it. He knew from his late night staring at photos that that flavor was all Ilya. 

On a night like this, where was Svetlana, the woman Ilya always took to events? The woman who would match the color of his tie or the shine of his cufflinks with her own matching jewelry? The woman who Shane would see on his feed and wish he could want when all he wanted was the man she had her arm wrapped around. 

Maybe, and only maybe, if Shane was lucky, Ilya was being genuine. Maybe this was real. 

Shane could be himself. 

Shane could kiss him again.

Turning around from the bottom step, Shane quickly jogged back up the stairwell. He pushed the metal door open, scanning the empty hallway. He took a few deep breaths, calming his nerves as he made his way back to the familiar hotel door. 

1. The faux wooden sheen stared back at him mercifully. His pale, shaky knuckles rasped lightly on the door, barely impacting, the sound like dropping a pin on hardwood. His palms sweated, and he quickly wiped them against his pants. 

The door swung open, and Shane immediately pushed himself inside, falling back against the door, shutting it with a dull thud. 

Ilya hadn’t changed either. His eyes still held the same intensity Shane saw in them from the bathroom. They were wide, glazed over with desire that Shane couldn’t believe was on him. 

With a thick swallow, Shane croaked, “Hi.”

Ilya chuckled. “Hello,” his hands found their way back to Shane’s waist, replacing the phantom feeling that had lingered throughout the night. “Thought you would chicken out.”

“I’m not- not a chicken.” 

“Mhm,” Ilya nodded, tilting his head in, his lips a light brush over Shane’s own. “I see.” Yet he never pushed closer, his lips just the tiniest bit too far from Shane’s own. “Do you want to kiss me again?” The now minty coolness sent shivers down Shane’s spine.

Shane nodded, his eyes locked on the plush fullness of Ilya’s mouth. He closed his eyes as Ilya’s lips landed on his own. Shane kissed back, his head swimming with visions of Ilya’s face on his screens and his own hand on his dick, imagining this moment in fantasies. 

This moment. 

His cock was already hard against Ilya’s thigh as he pulled Ilya closer to him. Ilya reached up, cupping his jaw and pulling him closer to his mouth, his tongue licking its way into Shane’s mouth, grazing over his own. Shane moaned into his mouth, Ilya swallowing it greedily as his thumb pressed into his mouth at the corner. Pulling back, Shane’s lips easily wrapped around the digit, tasting the salty skin on his tongue. 

Ilya’s eyes were locked on Shane’s lips as they sucked, his body swaying into Ilya’s. “So pretty,” he breathed out as his other hand guided Shane’s clothed erection to his own. As he removed his thumb, Shane whimpered and reached down for Ilya’s belt, wanting more, needing more. Fingers fumbling, he undid it and pulled the pants toward the floor as Ilya pulled Shane’s shirt over his head, his hands immediately landing on Shane’s chest, squeezing and kneading. 

Shane moaned, dropping to his knees, his mouth leaving hot, wet spots over the cloth of his tight black bodysuit.

Bodysuit. Fuck. Shane felt precome leak out of him in such a rush that he wondered if he actually finished. The thick length of Ilya strained against the sheer fabric, allowing for Shane to see the ridges and veins.  

Ilya reached down, one hand fisting into Shane’s hair, the other disappearing between his legs to unclip the black fabric. Shane leaned into it, feeling against his lips, his cheek, the motion of Ilya pulling the bodysuit up out of the way, exposing himself, pulling Shane’s head back gently. 

Saliva coated the inside of Shane’s mouth as he took in the uncut hardness of Ilya Rozanov. It was every wet dream come to life. He was on his knees, Ilya’s cock inches from his mouth. His cock twitched, precum continuing to stain the Louis Vuitton underwear. He sends a mental thank you in Rose Landry’s direction. 

Shane’s lips parted, his tongue wetting his bottom lip as he looked up at Ilya through his long lashes. 

Ilya nodded once, guiding Shane’s head forward the littlest bit. Shane wrapped his lips around the head, bobbing his head in a fevered rush until he felt the blunt head nudge against the back of his throat. With a choke, he only pulled back a little bit, allowing his tongue room to swirl around the red-hot erection. 

“Hollander,” Ilya’s hips jerked forward. The sound of spit escaping the corners of Shane’s lips was obscene. “Fuck,” he moaned as his hand gripped harder into Shane’s hair. 

Shane’s own cock throbbed painfully in his boxers. Ilya guided his head with gentle tugs, sending shivers down Shane’s spine. He pressed his tongue into the slit, precum coating his tongue, mixing with the saliva, the need. But with a tug, it ended too quickly, Ilya pulling him off and up from the floor, pressing him back against the door. 

Ilya must have read the concern in his face because he said, “God, Hollander, your mouth.” he smeared some of the wetness on his thumb, pushing it back into Shane’s mouth. “So good, too good.”

Shane nodded, sucking the digit greedily. He hummed and rocked his hips forward into Ilya’s thigh. Ilya kissed the side of his mouth, his tongue flicking against Shane’s lips as he opened them for it. Shane couldn’t speak, couldn’t ask if it was okay. All he could think was Ilya. All he could smell was Ilya. All he could taste was Ilya. 

“Is this first time with a man?”

Shane froze. Was it obvious? Was it bad? Oh, he needed to go. 

Shane fixed his posture, his hand leaving Ilya’s warm body to touch the cold metal of the door handle behind his back. He ruined it. He isn’t sure how, maybe it was his kissing, afterall he was out of practice because he didn’t like kissing Rose Landry, not like he did right now kissing Ilya Rozanov. But maybe he was bad in general and it wasn’t just him being bad with Rose. 

Maybe his mouth wasn’t right on Ilya’s and he lied. Maybe it wasn’t too good. Shane’s spine tightened up because maybe this was the moment of the set up. He would make Shane admit it was his first time and he would expose him and he would- 

Ilya moved his hands down to Shane’s waist, squeezing hard enough to pull Shane from his own mind. Ilya’s eyes were wide as he said, “What? What is happening, Hollander?”

Shane shook his head. He could feel his eyes burning from embarrassment. The metal of the handle heated under his touch, scorching his skin with the need to leave. But he couldn’t. He didn’t want to despite every nerve ending telling him to leave the hotel room. “Was it bad?” His voice was scratchy to his ears. 

“No. No. Far from bad. Was too good. I mean it.” Ilya rubbed circles with his thumbs against Shane’s hipbones.  “But it is? For you, with a man?”

“Yeah,” Shane breathed out, his head falling into Ilya’s shoulder. He felt heavy, light, exhausted, amplified. 

Ilya leaned forward into his head, lifting it to press their foreheads together. His left hand caressed his jaw. “Did you like sucking my cock?”

Shane huffed a laugh. “Just rolls right off the tongue.”

“Mhm.”

Shane nodded, barely a move of his head. “I did,” he breathed out, when Ilya just stared at him, mouth moving toward Ilya’s, desperate to feel the warmth of his lips. 

Ilya began to pull Shane back toward the bed. “I can lie down. Let you do it more.”

“Let me,” Shane’s lips tilted up, easily letting Ilya drag him to the bed as if he was the other end of a magnet. He pushed him gently onto the scratchy hotel comforter. Shane quickly undid his belt, fingers fumbling. 

Ilya reached down, replacing Shane’s hands with his own to undo the belt. “What does Shane Hollander want?”

Shane sucked in a breath. He couldn’t look Ilya in the eyes, the pure molten lava dripping from his blown pupils. “You.”

“Yeah?” Ilya breathed out, pulling his belt from the loops and tossing it to the floor. “Really?”

“I think so.”

“You are not sure?”

“I am,” Shane said immediately, his voice airy. He would have scared himself with how quickly he was sure if he wasn’t so incredibly turned on. “I’ve just never… before.”

“A man?” Ilya asked, pulling the body suit off to leave him completely naked. 

Shane nodded, his lips parted. His eyes scaled up and down Ilya’s body, unable to help himself. His eyes traced each sharp cut and curve of his shoulders, his chest, his hips. The dips and swells in his biceps, his triceps. 

Ilya’s lips curved into a smirk as he leaned into Shane’s space. “You have now,” Ilya said, his teeth grazing along Shane’s jaw as he slid his pants down. “When you sucked my cock by the door.” Ilya winked as he slid down the length of Shane’s body, pulling his pants all the way off and dropping them off the edge of the bed. 

“Thats not,” he sucked in a sharp breath when Ilya mouthed at his clothed erection. “Not the same thing.”

“Oh,” Ilya raised an eyebrow, propping his chin up on Shane’s hip to look up at him. Shane squeezed his eyes shut, his dick twitching, fresh precum wetting the front of the cotton. “Oh,” Ilya’s tone was softer. He caged Shane’s body under his, his lips pressing a soft kiss to Shane’s lips. “You are scared.”

“No.”

“It’s okay. Can be scary.”

“I’m not scared,” Shane protested weakly. 

“You will tell me if too much?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shane breathed out. 

Ilya kissed down Shane’s neck, sucking and grazing his teeth against his flushed skin as he went. Reaching his collarbone, he licked across the protruding bone, his tongue gliding straight down his sternum. He moved his mouth to take in Shane’s right nipple, his other hand kneading at his left pec. Ilya’s mouth was hot and warm, sucking and nibbling, his tongue soothing over the sensitive bud. Shane arched into his mouth, his touch, his erection still clothed and straining miserably, weeping against the fabric.

Ilya moved his mouth off with a satisfied pop and shifted himself down, reaching an arm under Shane’s right thigh to prop his leg over his shoulder. For a split second, Shane thought of how Ilya was going to let him suck his dick. He didn’t think Ilya would want to go down on him. 

He couldn’t let that thought linger. Not when Ilya pulled Shane’s boxers down and off, reaching to pull them off his right foot behind Ilya’s head. His stretch made Shane’s mouth water, his arms and chest rippling as he tossed them to the side (opposite of his pants. Shane would need to go on a scavenger hunt for all of his clothes when he left).

“Fuck,” Shane hissed, his hips bucking against Ilya’s steadying hand as he licked a stripe up the pulsing vein of Shane’s erection. “Holy shit.”

Ilya’s mouth took him all in, his nose pressing to the neatly trimmed hair at the base of his cock, inhaling deeply through his nose, and Shane couldn’t take it. The wet heat mixed with the curls of Ilya’s hair haloing around his fluttering eyelids and swollen pink lips, spread wide and glistening over his cock. 

“I’m, fuck, Ilya,” He reached down and pressed an arm to Ilya’s shoulder. “I won’t- Ilya,” 

Ilya moved up his throbbing cock, sucking and releasing with a wet pop. His fingers wrapped around Shane’s base, pumping lazily up and down, squeezing on the upstroke. Taking Shane back into his mouth, his tongue swirled as he bobbed his head up and down Shane’s cock, now shining with precum and saliva. 

Shane came down Ilya’s throat, his vision whiting out at the edges as his head was thrown back into the pillow. Ilya kept sucking, the overstimulation causing Shane’s heel to dig into Ilya’s upper back. His brain was clouded with pleasure that dulled the embarrassment at how quickly he came. Down Ilya’s throat. 

“Fuck.” 

Ilya slapped Shane’s abdomen as he rolled off of him, shifting up the bed to lie his head on the pillow next to him. 

Shane could feel the flames in his cheeks. “I’m sorry. You didn’t have to.” 

“I don’t mind,” Ilya said, grabbing a tissue and wiping his hand off before returning it to Shane’s skin. His tongue darted across his bottom lip as if savouring Shane’s taste. 

Shane’s eyes trailed down the length of Ilya’s body, landing on his weeping erection, precum dripping and trailing down to the base. He thought of Ilya’s lips on his body, his lips wrapped around his cock lazily, but dutifully. Determined, Shane turned onto his side to face Ilya. Ilya did the same.

Shane shook his head, gently nudging Ilya for him to fall back onto his back. He didn’t say anything as he began kissing Ilya’s chest, trailing downward, tongue tasting his salty skin. Lazy wet kisses across the lines of his abdomen until the tip of Ilya’s cock bumped into his chin on the kiss to Ilya’s hip. 

Ilya hissed above him, one hand hovering around Shane’s head. 

Shane’s lips parted and took Ilya’s cock slowly, sucking him down until his eyes watered. Swirling his tongue, he moved his hand to wrap around the base of him, his fingers trailing in the dark blonde curls. 

“There you go, baby,” Ilya’s hips gave a weak thrust upwards before murmuring a “sorry,” that, if he wouldn’t have been listening so intently to Ilya’s deep groans and gasps, he wouldn’t have heard it. 

Shane bobbed his head, thinking about the feel of Ilya around his own cock, the fluid motions. Was he being fluid too? Was he making Ilya feel as good? Was Ilya as close as quickly as Shane?

Ilya wrapped his fingers around Shane’s jaw, his thumb tracing the outline of his cock in his cheek. With a heavy groan, he pulled Shane’s mouth from him, a line of drool and precum connecting them. Shane heard the whimper escape his lips before he could even think to make the sound. 

Ilya wrapped his other hand around his wet erection, pumping his fist quickly up and down, moans escaping between his breaths as he worked himself to completion. 

Shane’s face was pressed against Ilya’s chest as he watched the tip disappear and reappear until finally, with a broken phrase in assumed Russian, Ilya came onto his abdomen and his fist. 

They both laid there, Shane’s head pressed into Ilya, Ilya’s head pressed into the lumpy hotel pillow. Their breaths were jagged as they came down together. Shane’s tongue darted out to wet his lips as he rolled off Ilya to lay on the pillow beside his. 

Leaning over, Ilya grabbed another tissue, moving it down to collect what was on his abdomen. Shane wondered what Ilya would have tasted like. He wondered if it was too late to find out. If he could stop Ilya from wiping every drop. But he couldn’t. This was such a bad idea. 

Both men stared at the ceiling, their fingers inches apart as their shoulders pressed together warm and slightly sticky with sweat. 

“You won’t… tell anyone, will you?”

Ilya turned his head to stare at the side of Shane’s face. 

“Because nobody can know.”

“No?”

“No.” 

“Okay.”

“I mean it, Ilya, really,”

Ilya scoffed, sitting up and looking down at Shane. “You think I will tell everybody?”

“I don’t know.”

“I will tell everyone.”

Shane sat up immediately. He couldn’t do this, the messing with him that Ilya Rozanov thought was funny? Shane shook his head. When he met Ilya in this hotel room, he knew this would end badly. That Ilya Rozanov was going to be bad news for him. Never meet your heroes, what about your crushes? Nobody ever warns you about that. 

“You can’t,” Shane snapped. “This isn’t funny, Rozanov, don’t… don’t mess with me.” 

Shane looked at Ilya, whose eyes flashed with something almost sad, apologetic maybe?

“I won’t.” Ilya scanned Shane’s face before sighing. “I will not tell.”

“Okay.” 

Ilya sighed. “You are pretty when you are angry.” 

Shane shook his head, putting his legs over the side of the bed. Why did he even do this?  “I should go.” He got up, moving around the room to retrieve all of his clothing. His skin itched as he put on his stained underwear. 

“You could stay,” Ilya said quietly, propped up on his elbows, watching Shane retrieve his clothes and dress. “Shower and-”

“My stylist would know.”

Ilya’s left eyebrow rose. “You room with your stylist?”

“She’s across the hall.” 

Ilya nodded once, his eyes trailing Shane’s body before landing on his face. “This was good. For me.” His eyes locked with Shane’s in a quiet plea. 

Shane sucked in a breath. It was for him, too. So good. Could he say that? Was that allowed? Was any of this actually allowed? Shane looped his belt through each loop. He was allowed to be happy, too. Right? People didn’t have to control… control this. 

“It was good for me, too,” Shane admitted, his chest tightening at how truthful the sentiment was. He felt looser, his limbs warm and pliant, both from the orgasm and the small weight that seemed to lift at the admittance. 

Ilya just nodded. At that, Shane made his way toward the door. Ilya got up, pulling on a pair of sweatpants that were draped over the hotel chair. Shane’s eyes traced where they hung low on the sharp lines of his hips. 

“Would you- We could, again?”

Shane blinked. “What?”

“We could see each other. Again.”

“Oh,”

“You do not want to?”

“I do,” Shane said too quickly, his face heating up at his own need. His mouth didn’t connect to his brain there, so many thoughts that he couldn’t have filtered and predicted Ilya to say that. 

Ilya reached out his hand.

“What are you-?”

“Your phone,” Ilya made wiggly fingers toward him.

“Oh, right, yeah,” Shane reached into his pocket and pulled it out. “I leave tomorrow, I’m not sure when I will be back here, but– wait, I have your number?” 

“All fine, making sure my contact is saved. Do not want you to lose my number.” Ilya said, taking the phone from Shane’s hands and typing into it. Shane hadn’t saved it yet. “Just, whenever, or if I am near you for work.”

“Could you be?”

Ilya smirked, shrugging as he handed the phone back. “Guess we will find out.” 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Once Shane was back into the safety of his hotel room, he went and turned on the water of the shower. 

His skin buzzing with the phantom feelings of Ilya’s hands on his jaw, his hips. Pressing a hand against the cool porcelain of the sink, Shane’s naked cock grazed the edge, reminding him of Ilya’s tongue and– 

 Staring at himself in the mirror, eyes hazy, he breathed out three words: 

“I am fucked.” 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

The door shut behind Shane. Ilya walked toward the bathroom, limbs lighter but feet heavier. 

When he looked up into the mirror, he froze. His lips were still a swollen pink, his eyes wide and vibrantly hazel. Ilya hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his sweats, his thoughts on nothing but Shane Hollander and the way his lips felt around his cock. The way he had mused over Shane in his art, in his fantasies. 

“Ya oblazhalsya.” 

I am fucked. 

Chapter 5: IV

Ilya smudged the charcoal pencil with his thumb, the shading blurring just the way he wanted it to. He leaned his head up and back, squinting at his sketch book. The black sash draped down the suit jacket, blurring down at the edges to resemble the ruching. Or at least, he hoped it did. All Saint Laurent wanted was a few drawings of his visions for a show he could feature in. 

Just a start. A feature. A future in the world he wanted to exist in the most. 

The acting was fun, incredible even. The fame and the carpets, flashing lights and interviews. But the art, the freedom of expression all on his own accord, was the ultimate dream for him. 

Growing up, his father hated anything that made him “weak.” But Ilya knew that weakness wasn’t truly weakness to his fathers standards; it was femininity. The gentle care and compassion he inherited from his mother, his love of art and beauty from her wide eyes. He was his mother’s son and he held her hand as she guided him through a world so vivid when hers was so dull and he didn’t even know. 

When his mother died, so did his art. Sketchbooks were tossed at walls and thrown in the trash, replaced with hockey sticks and slaps to the knuckles. His soothing art classes were replaced by the brutality of hockey lessons. He still thinks about the people in his class, wondering if the people questioned what happened to him, how he suddenly stopped showing up the day he found his mother bent crookedly in bed, her eyes glazed and small. 

His father was ashamed of him now for acting, when he could remember, when he was reminded. Calling to tell him he threw his life away, his body now a wasted talent he worked so hard to strengthen for sport. He asked Ilya why he couldn’t be more like his brother, Andrei. Ilya would want to cry out how he would never want to be like his brother who wasted his life with powders shoved deep into his nose. It would be useless to scream. None of it mattered, his father would always forget. 

Ilya didn’t even tell him about the art and the opportunity. 

Ilya didn’t even tell him about how beautiful California was. 

Ilya didn’t even tell him about how, for the first time since his mother died, he felt free. 

All Ilya did was ask his father to watch one awards show and he didn’t. 

Sighing, he set the sketch book down and got up, going toward his kitchen. As he did, his phone pinged in his pocket. Shane’s response to Ilya's asking when he would be visiting California again. 

Shane: Next week actually. 

 

Ilya hadn’t seen Shane since the night of the Louis Vuitton after party. Yet, he thought about him every single day. The few months since then when his eyes glimmered with tears of pleasure etched into his eyelids. The way his jaw had ticked as he moved through seas of people. The way his lips felt wrapped around him, everywhere, leaving phantom feelings for days, weeks. It had been months and Ilya could still see Shane’s eyes, looking down from where Ilya’s lips were wrapped around his cock, pulling the sweetest sounds that Ilya had ever heard from man. 

Shane was a force. Ilya wanted all of it. 

 

Ilya: What will you be doing? 

Leaning against the counter, he stared down at the phone and waited for a response. All Ilya wanted to do was see Shane again. Touch Shane again. His muse was just out of reach. He had never felt this way before, especially with something as casual as a hookup. If it could be called a hookup with the way it grabbed onto Ilya and wouldn’t let him go. 

Shane was every single company's “it boy.” Companies loved the huskiness of his voice, the sharpness of his features, the easiness to manipulate him into each different mold and he would fit perfectly. Ilya Rozanov took that “it boy” with his trembling voice, his soft lips, and eagerness to please beneath the nerves, and had brought him to his knees. Women swooned over him left and right and yet his inexperienced mouth swallowed Ilya down as if it was the last thing on earth he would do. 

Shane was intoxicating. Addictive. Ilya wanted all of him.

 

Shane: Commercial for Calvin Klein. 

 

Ilya raised an eyebrow. Little did he realize how deep that partnership was with Calvin Klein. Their new slogan about being in love with their boxers was helping business a lot from what he had heard from a few friends of his. Not that Ilya cared about the slogan, or the boxers, or their sales. He wanted them off Shane Hollander if he was in his presence. Fuck, he would buy their stupid underwear if it meant Shane would take them off with his teeth. His dick twitched in interest as he began to type his response. 

Ilya was going to die. Shane Hollander was going to kill him. 

 

Ilya: You will be at hotel then? 

 

Shane: Yes.  

 

Ilya: Alone?

 

Shane: Yes. 

 

Ilya: Do you want to be? 

 

No response. Bubbles appeared and disappeared. Ilya frowned, setting his phone down and turning toward his fridge. He turned back around with a bowl of raspberries in hand and watched as the bubble once again disappeared. He had never texted somebody who spent this much time crafting a response. 

He knew Shane was nervous, had seen it in his eyes and the furrow of his brows when Ilya had opened the door for him. Heard it in the hitches of his breath before Ilya had taken him apart piece by piece, replacing the nerves with pleasure. 

But pleasure only lasted as long as the bubble of time they were together. When Shane left, Ilya saw the shake in his hands, the bounce in his step, not from having a mind-blowing orgasm but from needing to leave. 

Shane had enjoyed it, though. Had perked at Ilya’s comment about next time as they exchanged numbers. It wasn’t hard for Ilya to flirt, to claim what he wanted. Getting and charming people was part of his nature. But as he continued to text Shane, he could feel butterflies in his own stomach at the raw, unfiltered want. He made Shane nervous, but Shane made him nervous, too. 

It was uncharted territory for Ilya. 

 

Ilya: Or do you want some company like last time we saw each other? 

 

Ilya sent it before he could question it too deeply. He just needed to know. The worst Shane could do was say no. And if he did, well, nobody except his kitchen sink would see how upset that would make him. Not that it had any real right to make him upset. It was a hookup. Sex. Nothing else. 

 

Shane: Fuck you 

 

Ilya laughed. Not a no. A smile pulled at his lips as he typed. 

 

Ilya: Promise? 

 

Twisting the cap off his bottle and popping a raspberry in his mouth, he waited for Shane to reply. Is this how fifteen-year-old boys are when they have a crush? When they just want to be in the presence of that person all the time because they love the idea of them and just want to get to like the actual person so they can eventually love that, too? 

It was like when he was a kid and had a celebrity crush all over again. This technically was a celebrity crush. Ilya would doodle and draw and find himself thinking of freckle constellations and a straight nose that framed plush lips. This was before Shane Hollander even knew who Ilya was. He grew up so fast, too fast, that he was ready to hang photos of Shane on his bedroom walls. 

When Ilya was fifteen, he was already beginning to use and manipulate bodies for his own pleasure. Hidden blowjobs in bathroom stalls during dreaded hockey practice or girls wrapped around his waist after school when his father and brother were out. He always chased pleasure and validation, ways to feel and be felt in any way he could. 

Shane Hollander reduced him to giggling like a schoolboy. Ilya was already ruined. He didn’t want any other man’s lips wrapped around his cock. Didn’t want to be hard for another man. Didn’t want to think about any other eyes except those soft, brown orbs with tears across the waterline as he reached for his own hardened flesh and– 

Pulling him from his thoughts was the ring of his phone. Andrei. 

“Fuck,” Ilya groaned, leaning his head back against the cabinet. He throbbed against the seam of his sweatpants, tenting the soft gray fabric and leaving a small drop of precum. 

He stares at his brother's name illuminating his screen as it vibrates against the countertop. He could answer, should answer. But he could also take care of his newfound issue, ignore his brother’s judgmental voice and harsh words. 

His erection was already softening at the thought of answering. Ilya had to answer because any call could be about his father. Any call could also be because he needed more money to snort. Ilya couldn’t risk missing the inevitable phone call because his brother couldn’t care about anything but himself. Ilya had to hope his brother wasn’t purely heartless.  

Sliding his thumb to answer, Ilya snapped, “What, Andrei?” 

“Ilya!” Music is thumping, people are cheering. Ilya wants to go through the phone and punch his brother in the face. “Ilya, where is my money!” 

It was always this. Always money. Ilya pays him every other week like any job would. It was never enough. His brother needed more or needed it early or needed it immediately. Ilya knew none of it was going to his father, not when his father would say he hadn’t seen Andrei, or that Andrei hadn’t seen him. Not that he could-should-trust his fathers head, but it happened more often than not. 

“Two days, Andrei, you are early.” 

“Call it an advance for your sick father.” 

He heard people laughing in the background. “He is your father, too!” Ilya could feel his voice rising. “It has to go to him, Andrei, some of it! You said you would, you-!” 

The ringing of his phone made him freeze up. Had Andrei hung up on him, that asshole, that- no that couldn’t be. The music was still thumping. Slowly, he pulled his phone away and read the contact. 

“Ilya, you fucking-”

“I have to go.” Ilya clicked end and accepted the incoming call. “Papa? Are you okay?” 

“Where are you? I turned on game and you are not on screen. You would be center starter right now. Did you get hurt? You cannot play through some pain?” 

“Papa, I am in America.” 

“The game is Russia! You get on wrong plane like an idiot? Could have taken the train.” 

Ilya had not gotten this kind of call in a few months now. Since he left, his father would call and question where he was, whether it be at a practice, a game, the grocery store, a date (a mortifying call, truly horrifying, Ilya wanted to scrub it from his memory). Everytime it happened, Ilya knew there was no use in explaining the truth, his father would never remember. 

But he had to tell the truth on the one off chance that maybe he would actually reach his father, that he would remember for longer than the week, the day. 

“I do not play any hockey anymore, remember? I moved to America to be an actor.”

“You stopped playing hockey to be a weak, pathetic, soft American actor? Not my son, no. You need to come home. No son of mine would do that.” His fathers tone made Ilya flinch. 

“Papa, where is Paulina?”

“Who cares where Paulina is! She is probably ashamed of you– too ashamed.” Ilya didn’t say anything, allowing his father to work through his gray thoughts before he said, “She is out.” 

“Do you know where?”

Silence. 

“Grocery store? Shopping for clothes? Her sister’s-” Ilya prompted.

“Enough. She is at store. Not important. What is important is that my strong Russian son is weak.”

“I am not, Papa. I am strong in my roles. I was cast to play a boxer in-”

“Play a boxer!” His father’s voice boomed with irritation, with true horror. “You should be the boxer Ilya! Playing a boxer, not being, is weak.”

“It is not weak-” 

“It is weak like your mother.” 

Ilya felt the chill go down his spine. The hair on his arm stood, his eyes widened, his fingers gripped the phone. He was completely frozen. All he could hear was the angry breathing from his father and the rapid beating of his heart trying to explode from his chest. 

“I am sorry, Papa…That I do not play hockey anymore.”

“You never played hockey, you were hockey. Figure it out, Ilya. Come home and be my son.” 

Ilya just nodded, not that his father could see him. He heard the line click dead but he didn’t move the phone from his ear. The sound of his father’s disappointment rang in his ears.

He tried, his whole life, to be what his father wanted while remaining true to himself. Nothing was enough. It would never be enough. Even when his father lost his memory it still wasn’t enough.

He moved his phone to unlock it, looking at the unread messages Shane had sent while Ilya was being reminded of how much he hated the phone calls, the proof that he couldn’t be who every person wanted him to be. 

 

Shane: Yes. 

Shane: I will let you know my room number when I get one. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

Shane: Yes. 

Shane: I will let you know my room number when I get one. 

 

Shane stared at the message he sent Ilya with a boldness he didn’t know he had because he doesn’t feel bold at all. All he feels is his panic. Maybe panic is what made him bold. 

Since he decided to knock on the door of Ilya Rozanov’s room, allowing himself to experience what he thought would only be a fantasy, he couldn’t shut his mind off. All he heard was soft moans from his own lips and deep rumbles from Ilya’s as he pushed into climax. All he saw was Ilya’s eyelids fluttering up at him with his pretty pink lips wrapped around his cock. All he thought about was Ilya seeing him again, lining himself up while looking down at Shane, or maybe Shane could look down on him and- 

Knocking at the door caused Shane to panic further, but for different reasons. “Just a second!” Quickly he adjusted, untucking his soft white button down and stretching it over the adjusted bulge in his dark tan dress pants. “Okay, come in!”

Rose flung open the door, her suitcase of makeup pushing in before she did. Her hair was a frame of bright red waves over her curious eyes. “You know, usually I would have just come in but I thought, maybe he isn’t decent, then I thought, I’ve seen it all. I still waited. You’re welcome.”

“I was decent!” Shane protested, shifting just slightly in his chair. He would get up and get the door for Rose but he was still too stiff to risk it. He needed to think of something, anything else for once since that night. “I just… was finishing a phone call with my mom.”

“I stood outside the door. I didn’t hear talking.” 

“I, uh, she was doing a lot of talking at me.” 

Rose shrugged, beginning to unpack her bag on the table. “Keep secrets, Shane Hollander, I will find them out.”

“I’m not!”

Rose did a once over of Shane’s outfit, her gaze pausing on his waist. Fuck, he was caught. This was it. She was going to ask who, what man, had him this hard because of course she would know it wasn’t her because Shane couldn’t even stay hard inside of her and–

“Why is your shirt untucked? They don’t want it untucked, do they? I thought you told me the belt was a buttery yellow? I brought a brighter blush to bring attention to it.” 

The hand of panic once again grabbed at Shane as he felt his eyes widen against his will. Rose was going to notice. Rose was going to see the dying bulge in his dress pants and think Shane was… was what? Fantasizing about Ilya Rozanov? Would she guess that first? Would she think Shane was disgusting? No, he would explain himself. Explain it was a memory. 

Which was way worse because Rose didn’t even know the memory. 

Shane let out a breath and nodded slowly. He needed to say something- anything- anything at all would be better than sitting in this silence with her gaze going between unpacking her bag and Shane’s now very soft dick. “They did, I just wasn't finished getting dressed yet.” 

Rose raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. Before she could respond, his phone pinged and his eyes immediately darted to it. Quickly, he shoved his phone into his pocket and turned to face the mirror. 

Rose’s eyes widened, her movements of putting foundation onto the back of her hand frozen in time. “Did you just hide a text from me?” 

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Shane.”

“Why would I hide a text from you?”

“Because you’re hiding something from me.”

Rose didn’t say anything else, and neither did Shane. She went to work on his face, applying his foundation first, then giving him some dimension. Shane, from his seat, began to tuck back in his polo shirt, allowing Rose to see the lighter peachy blush against the softness of the belt. 

The silence was awkward, suffocating. Shane couldn’t take the gnawing at his chest to just tell her. It was Rose. She was safe. 

“It’s a small detail, but it brings out your cheeks and freckles. Perfection,” Rose smiled to herself as she dipped the brush into the light powder. Shane watched as the flecks wafted around the black plastic. 

Shane smiled at Rose in the mirror when she was finished applying. “You always make me perfect.”

Rose beamed, running her fingers through Shane’s hair. As she grabbed her comb and styling gel, she tilted his head this way and that. “You know Shane, you seem a little looser today. Hugo Boss made you really comfortable huh?”

Shane tensed. Oh God, was she noting his problem when she came in. Fuck he had to tell her– 

Rose immediately began nodding. “Yep, you definitely were! What’s going on Shane?” 

Shane shook his head. He couldn’t tell Rose. She was his best friend but he couldn’t tell anybody when he could barely tell himself. She knew he was gay– something that had taken everything for Shane to say. Shane to admit. Shane to acknowledge. He wants to tell Rose everything, that he was happy, that to be touched by a man was what he needed to know that he was right all along in his sexuality. Everyone makes him something to be consumed by women and the women love him for it, but he can’t love them back, can never lie to himself again, after feeling the level of lust he did with Ilya Rozanov. 

Could Rose understand that? Understand him? Understand his fear?

“It’s nothing, Rose, I promise.” Because wasn’t that the truth. Sure, he was just telling Ilya he wanted to see him again and had a message burning in his pocket to be read, to be answered. Offering his room number but it was nothing. Thinking about Ilya Rozanov more than his fanboy tendencies but it was nothing. Wanting to acknowledge that he was gay because Ilya Rozanov showed him there was no trying with women ever again but it was nothing. 

Did Ilya feel it too? Was it nothing and everything to him, too? 

Ilya had been with men before. He knew the sensations to be touched by what you craved. Shane hadn’t. He was just stuck on the euphoric high of being seen and accepted. 

Nothing. 

It couldn’t be anything. 

He shouldn’t do it again. 

Yet, when Rose turned to grab the hairdryer from her suitcase, sensing that Shane was done with the conversation and loving him enough not to push, Shane read the message from Ilya. 

 

Lily: Looking forward to coming 

 

Trying to fight the blush, Shane cleared his throat as he put his phone away. He didn’t say anything to Rose over the whir of the hairdryer, or when he was tucking back in his dress shirt. His mind was a jumbled, disoriented mess of thoughts and ideas and failures. So many failures that hadn’t happened yet, but would, according to Shane, if anybody found out. 

Every photo that Rose took felt like it was eating Shane, devouring him. He was different now. Would these photos show a man more comfortable while also being more frightened? 

As Shane was heading out the door to go to the set, Rose’s fingers wrapped gently around his wrist. “You know I love you, right?”

Shane stared down at her fingers. Her nails were a pale orange, the perfect manicure. “Of course. I love you, too.”

Rose nodded once, unwrapping her fingers one by one. “Anything you need, Shane. Always.” 

The tears brimmed along his waterline as he nodded once, mirroring her movement jerkily. 

“It’s okay, my darling boy,” she whispered as she wiped under his eyes carefully. “Don’t cry, hot stuff, I don’t have time to fix you and Hugo here doesn’t like late.”

With a watery laugh, Shane accepted her kiss on the cheek and walked out the door. Across the hall was Hayden’s dressing room, and besides Hayden’s was JJ’s. Shane loved working with Hayden because Hayden could ground him. His energy was bubbly, a little chaotic at times, allowing for Shane to be his reserved self and people would appreciate it rather than berate it. 

Sucking in a collecting breath, Shane went to knock, but Hayden flung open the door. “Bet you didn’t think I’d be on time, Hollander, but look at me now!” Hayden flung his arms out and did a spin in his blue and gray suit set. “Impressive, no?”

“Oh, very. Being on time for your job is revolutionary.”

Hayden raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you could be funny,”

Shane shook his head, a smile curling up. “Yes, you did.”

“Maybe. This was your first time being quick with it,” he said, throwing an arm around Shane’s shoulder and guiding him to JJ’s door. “Hugo Boss must have you feeling ready to go.”

Shane nodded, knocking on JJ’s door. Before Shane could think too far about how it wasn’t Hugo Boss, but Ilya Rozanov, and lead to more southern issues, JJ opened the door, still buttoning his dress shirt. “You guys just got jackets?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s Hugo Boss,” Hayden cocked his head to the side. “You just got a dress shirt?”

JJ shook his head and turned around to walk deeper into his room. “I got a vest and a jacket.”

“They must like you the best,” Shane said. It was probably true. JJ had worked with Hugo Boss for the last campaign they did and people loved him. He would walk the runway in the next few months for them. 

“Well, you know, when I walk the runway and make them so much money, I will believe that even more.”

“It worked the first time,” Shane agreed with a shrug. 

“Shh, Shane!” Hayden mockingly slapped his shoulder. “Do not give him a bigger head. He’s already thinking he’s better than us.”

“Becuase I am,” JJ chirped as he buttoned his vest. Shane had to admit, JJ did look good in the three piece black and brown set. It was classic Hugo Boss. 

“You did it, Shane. Now every girl at the bar after this is going to have to hear about it.” Hayden covered his face with his hands dramatically. 

“Every girl at the bar will already want to hear about it.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “After a drink maybe.”

“Who invited the funny guy?” JJ threw his thumb in the direction of Shane as he grabbed his suit jacket. Shane noticed his stylist was sitting in the corner on her phone, quietly laughing at JJ. 

“He is funny today, isn’t he!” Hayden opened the door for them. 

“Maybe he got a little action finally,” JJ smirked, wiggling his eyebrows as he walked out first. Shane took note that neither Hayden nor JJ said goodbye to their stylists. Shane couldn’t imagine without saying bye to Rose. 

“You know what JJ,” Hayden walked ahead of Shane and turned around to stare at him. “That’s a very good observation.”

“Who is she?” JJ wrapped his arm around Shane’s shoulder.

“It’s really nothing–”

“Code for something! C’mon, Shane, you never kiss and tell. Very unfair. Unless you don’t kiss. But I’ve seen your Calvins, you’re definitely kissing,” JJ squeezed his shoulder. 

“Guys, really, it’s fine,” Shane could hear the waver in his voice as he spoke, the clamminess of his skin through the fabric against JJ’s palm. It was fine. For now. But it wouldn’t be if they asked questions and pried and Shane, the notoriously bad liar, would cave or sweat and be seen or–

“JJ, it’s cool if he doesn’t want to say,” Hayden said as he turned back around to walk forward, moving to walk beside Shane again. He reached around Shane to JJ, poking at his waist which caused JJ to remove his arm. “Maybe he just woke up funnier. Like a freaky Friday thing. Our Shane is stuck in a clown body and freaking out.”

Shane laughed, not at Hayden, but with relief. “Thanks for the confidence,” 

As they walked into the room, Hayden held the door. JJ pushed in first and before Shane could go in, Hayden gave him a pat on the back. “I got you, man. Always.” 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Ilya sat at the big table in the office of Ryan Price, head designer for YSL. Before him was his black folder of summer mockups. This was their third and final briefing and Ilya had arrived with his four sketches for the upcoming runway show. Ryan had told him they would pick two from Ilya to feature, but Ilya wasn’t going to just bring two. 

This was Ilya’s first opportunity to feature on a runway. It was a smaller venue, more for magazines and influencers to learn the upcoming fashions to strut. While Ilya’s name would be featured, he wouldn’t be the feature. It was a start though, a big one. 

With a smile, Ilya took out his favorite. The one that was done with loose burnt yellow and deep tan upon the model of a strong build and deep brown eyes that definitely didn’t need to be captured in a mockup but he really couldn’t help himself. 

“You’ll use see through material here? Chiffon?” Ryan asked, circling the button down Ilya shaded with expert precision. 

Ilya nodded, leaning back in his chair, “And just enough transparency to see line work of abdomen.”

“Bold.” 

“Sexy.” Ilya winked, leaning his chin on his palm. 

“Sure.” Ryan nodded, moving to look at Ilya’s second sketch. “This one is much brighter than the first,” he observed, moving his eyes between each piece of art. 

Ryan’s gaze was soft and assessing, betraying the intimidating presence he exudated. Ilya could see the storm behind his eyes, the hard work and determination underneath muscles and awkwardness. He was kind, spending the last two briefs helping Ilya to be better. Building him up in soft tones and reassuring questions to make sure Ilya wasn’t offended by what he said. His words oozed anxiety that Ilya wanted to soothe. While not totally friends with Ryan, Ilya knew he wanted to be. 

Ilya nodded. “Must have some contrasts right?”

The sketch Ryan was looking at was a day dress in a warm and bright red-orange called vermilion. Ilya discovered the color to capture the brightness of a summer sunrise, perfect for a sleeveless summer dress of a light material.

“These two are my favorite,” Ilya explained, moving his hand between the two as Ryan took a few notes on his notepad. Ilya knew the notes weren’t bad; Ryan had spent two minutes explaining it during their first briefing. 

“They are very well done.” Ryan set his pen down. 

“I like other two, too, but these two capture my range most. I can do daytime casual and uh, you say chic, and sexy nighttime.”

Ryan glanced at the other two sketches and nodded once more to himself. Ilya thought, not for the first time, that Ryan was in exactly the right field for him. His talent was palpable, having photos of his work that left the sketchbook around his office. Bright colors, sequins and rhinestones, dark colors, sashes and faux furs. This was Ilya’s goal, to be surrounded by his own works in his own office, telling another version of himself that he could make it, too. 

Because wasn’t Ryan impressed? 

Why wasn’t he saying anything? 

Ilya shifted, moving his folder a little to the left. “Will they get a feature?”

“Your favorite two are my favorites as well. They’ll fit perfectly in the line, I think. Though, I might say we add a belt to the daydress. Same color, tie in the front a little boldly. If you agree?” 

“Bring in the waist,” Ilya agreed easily, a sigh of relief escaping around his words, “Deepen the pockets for the exaggeration.”

“Now you got it,” Ryan said warmly. He made a few notes on a sticky note and stuck it on top of Ilya’s sketch. Ilya caught it was a note on fabric and a few numbers. “I’ll send them over to our orders department to get some samples. Nice that you already labelled the fabrics you wanted.”

“You said to. In the last brief.”

Ryan huffed a laugh, sliding Ilya’s work into a manilla envelope. “You would be surprised how many designers don’t remember.”

“Isn’t it most important?” Ilya asked with an eyebrow raised.

“Just a little,” Ryan said as he laid out some of his own sketches for the show. His color palette was similar to Ilya’s. “These six are mine. These two are Paris Coaltins,” he said, showing each of the designs. “Then I have a few more coming in from a few others. But yours will be added to the overall portfolio.” 

Ilya beamed with pride. “Thank you. They fit next to yours,” he said, which made Ryan blush. 

The summer show was a collection of different YSL designers, with Ryan having the most pieces in each one. Ryan was the lead coordinator and his goal was to incorporate as many as possible.

The silence stretched between them. Ilya leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. “How do I do what you do?” 

Ryan’s eyes widened. “Do you want my job?”

“Not yours. I want…” Ilya shrugged, waving a hand around as he looked for the words. He didn’t want Ryan to think he wanted to throw him out of a job. Ilya wasn’t that good, yet. But he knew what he had was a talent that could move the company, if they let him. He had enough people in his corner for support. 

“I want to have themed show. For a fashion week.” 

Ryan nodded, his eyes wide in shock. “It is early in the career. It takes time.”

“Time is what I’ve heard, a, uh, what is it, social construct.” Ilya shrugged a shoulder. “I want to go for now.”

Leaning forward with his hands folding into his lap, Ryan licked his lips. “You know, you could coordinate a fashion show to pitch. You come in with a budget, sketches, fabrics, and a list of models you would be able to recruit. You pitch it all and then it gets reviewed for about two weeks.”

“They would let me?” 

“You’d be the youngest to try but…” Ryan waved his hand. “I think you should try if you really want to.”

Ilya smirked. “There is no trying. I would get it.”

Ryan smiled small and chuckled. “That’s why Cliff loves you,” he said quietly. 

“Marlow does love me, is true.”

“Your confidence.”

“Same thing.” Ilya winked.

Ryan blushed, shaking his head as he got up. “He told me you would mention something like that to me. That I should tell you to go for it.” 

Ilya took the hint and stood up, gathering his additional two sketches and his folder. “I am talented enough, yes?”

“Of course,” Ryan said easily, moving toward the door with his folder. “I’ll take these today and get back to you next week.”

“Perfect.” Ilya shook his hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.” Ilya winced at the cringeiness of it. American goodbyes were always so weird. 

About halfway down the hallway, Ilya realized he was being followed, feeling the eyes on his back. Turning, he saw Ryan. 

“I didn’t want to yell for you,” Ryan said, catching up to where Ilya stopped in the hallway. “I just wanted to say, if you need help,” he shrugged as he spoke, thinking about his words. “If you want to run any show designs or themes by me, we can talk about them.” 

Already, Ilya’s mind was swimming with ideas for a show. Light and dark themes, a range that was so bold, vibrant, emotional. The board of directors for YSL would have no choice but to pick him. 

“Are you on the board to choose?”

“I always coordinate a show, too.”

“We can coordinate our own shows together.”

Ryan nodded. 

“You are cool, Ryan Price. Thank you,” Ilya took his hand and shook it once more. “You are scary. But you are nice.”

“I’m scary?” Ryan’s voice was a little higher than Ilya thought he probably wanted it to be.

“Yes, but in good way,” Ilya said as he moved his arms to look like a muscle man. Ryan huffed a laugh and turned around.

“Bye, Ilya Rozanov.” 

As Ilya got to his car, he took out his phone and thumbed to his messages with Shane. A part of him wanted to tell Shane about his briefing, about his feature. 

A confirmed feature! 

Ilya was on cloud nine. He didn’t think it could get any better. 

 

Ilya: You know about Greek Gods? 

 

Shane: A little. Why?

 

Ilya: What about story of Achilles?

 

Watching the three dots appear and disappear, Ilya knew that, if he kept this up, it could get better. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

“Okay, Shane, in the middle of the room. Let’s get the lights on your skin here. Lainey, can we get the kisses, please?” 

Shane’s partnership with Calvin Klein was one of his most popular. Unfortunately for him, it was the one he struggled with the most. 

Standing in the middle of the room in nothing but a pair of white boxers with a black waistband, he watched as the woman, Lainey he supposed, applied bright red lipstick to her lips. Across the room, Rose stood with her arms crossed and watched as the woman came over and pressed her lips against Shane’s skin. He shivered, not with delight, but with irritation. The mark was big and splotchy on his chest. She did it, over and over. 

Around the room, women stood with red lipstick on in nothing but a matching set of Calin Klein’s, all black with perfectly white bands. They were all waiting to stand around him, wrap their fingers, their arms, their legs around his slicked body. He would stand there, expected to bask in the glow of the feel of women pressed against him. The idea: nobody would come between him and his Calvin’s, even when they were wrapped around him in their own. 

It was sexy. 

It was too much. 

The thing with the job was that he loved it. The attention, the fame, the money– who wouldn’t? But Shane loved it when he was clothed, when his face could portray an emotional response with the clothing. A pair of boxers was nothing but sex appeal. 

Looking down, she counted the splattering of lipstick marks. Eight in total. There were four girls getting ready to crowd around him, so he assumed the goal was for people to be jealous of them for kissing all over his chest, marking him like he was a territory for them and them only. 

Little did they know how sterile the whole situation really was. A random woman coming over and pressing her lips to his skin so casually as if she wasn’t so intimately close to his chest, to his heart. It felt wrong from the cold lips of a stranger. 

He did appreciate that Rose was in the room, too, in case he needed any touchups during the shoot. Looking toward her, he was able to ground himself in something familiar. Shane had asked quietly to the director if Rose could have applied the kiss marks. For reasons he didn’t quite understand, they had somebody for that, so Rose couldn’t. 

Shane wanted to be wrapped back in the fluffy white robe, led back to his room, changed, and texting Ilya his room number as he got dressed haphazardly in excitement. 

He was so unbelievably fucked. 

Rose came over and did a few last minute adjustments to Shane’s hair after Lainey stepped away. “You’ll do amazing.” She leaned her forehead towards his to adjust the sweep of his bang. “You good?”

Shane shrugged a shoulder, his breath sucked deep into his lungs. Held it deep in the ache in his chest. With a nod, he released it. “Yeah.”

“You give me the signal, Shane, and I’ll create a scene. Buy you a good twenty minutes.”

Shane laughed as she patted his cheek. “Only twenty?”

“Thirty if you’re lucky.” She winked as she walked away and let Shane be absorbed in the bright white lights. 

As the women came over to him, the director positioned each one of them to wrap around Shane. The women all latched on, their fingers sticky and wrong on his overheated skin. He could feel the sweat beading on his temples and inhaled, his eyes darting up to look at the ceiling, the bright suns wrapped around the room or an industrial sky. 

Their nails grazed across his pectorial, his abdomen, his waist. Touches, so many touches. His skin didn’t want their touch, not even for this. It felt worse than any other shoot, his skin trying to force himself from it. Shane had been touched in a way of lust, of passion. He had lips kissing down the skin that was being used as a prop. He had hands pulling at his hips to try to crawl into his skin, not just to say they got touch him. 

How was he to be touched now when he knew how it should feel? 

Shane blinked hard and stared straight ahead at the camera lens. His brown eyes wide as he tried to remember what it was he was supposed to say for the campaign. All he could think about was needing to remind himself this was work. He liked work now because he had Rose and she showed him what it was like to be supported. 

Ilya showed him what it was like to be touched and enjoy it. How could he separate it? 

“Let’s have a nail tease the waistband, yes!” The director clapped as the woman slid her hand down his side, leaving tiny goosebumps in its path. 

The woman with kind eyes and perfect curls glanced at Shane as her nail dipped into his waistband just the littlest bit, as if it was caught there by accident. “You okay if I go into your shorts like this?” 

Shane blinks, nodding slowly. Her accent was lovely as it wrapped around the last question he expected to be asked. 

“Cool,” she said, turning to press her cheek to his shoulder. “Tell me and I will move it.” 

“I, uh, yeah. Thanks,” Shane stammered. 

Once all the women were positioned, and Rose did a touch up of powder on his face to help hide some of the redness in his cheeks, they were ready to go. 

Shane delivered his line with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. The irony was not lost on him. “Nobody comes between me and my Calvins,” he said, his eyes sweeping over each of the women as if he wanted to devour him, or at least, he hoped it looked like that. “Nobody.”

“Okay, Shane, great, but can you give them a little more,” the director moved his hands around, “a little more sex appeal. Maybe make eye contact with one of the women as you say never.” 

“Sure,” Shane said, trying again, repeating the same line. His eyes met on the shorter, blonde haired girl, but he looked away. 

The director adjusted some lights before he turned back toward Shane. “Let’s try again.” 

His skin was itching as he delivered the line again. And again. And again. 

The woman with her nail in his boxers leaned off of Shane. “Look at me,” she said, smiling softly. “Maybe eye contact with me, I’ll look up at you.” 

Shane nodded once, inhaling deeply. He had to get this right. He had to get out of this room. He had to scrub his skin. 

“Nobody comes between me and my Calvins,” Shane said, his voice low and breathy. Not from the women but his desire to leave, but it was working. The director was smiling as Shane looked up and then did his sweep to look at the women. His eyes landed on the big brown orbs of the woman with the curly brown hair. “Never.”

She winked at him and pursed her lips. 

“Perfect! Good job, Svet! That was a fantastic addition at the end!”

One girl rolled her eyes and another groaned as they disconnected from Shane. He wasn’t sure if it was directed at him, or the model named Svet, but either way, Shane hated it. Some people in the industry were so mean. It’s why he kept his circle so small. 

Rose came over to him as the girls moved to their own individual shots. “I would’ve been here forever if it wasn’t for that woman,” Shane said, pointing toward Svet. 

“You did great, Shane, she just helped bring you out of your head.”

“Whatever,” Shane grumbled, accepting the towel from Rose and wiping the lipstick off his chest. He felt dirty. 

“Your phone was blowing up in my pocket, by the way.”

Shane’s eyes went wide. “I turned it off.”

“You didn’t. It was vibrating against my ass. Who are you famous for?”

“You didn’t look?”

“Should I have?”

“No!”

Rose raised an eyebrow, pulling Shane’s phone out of her pocket.

“I mean, no, it’s fine,” he said, quickly snatching it from her hand and, shit, he didn’t have pockets. He held it in his hand tightly. “Just didn’t know I didn’t turn it off for you. Sorry.”

As they made their way back to the shoot, Rose talking about how nice the cute model was for helping Shane finish up the session, he couldn’t stop thinking about what the messages from Ilya Rozanov could be. Ilya was unpredictable. Shane didn’t really know that first hand, but he saw it in interviews and the way people covered him. One time, he was referred to as a “loose Russian Canon.” Shane had hated it, yet he wanted to learn if it was true. 

He wanted to learn everything about Ilya that he could. That Ilya would allow. Beyond his musky heavy scent and the taste of his sweat. Beyond his moans shifting with what he liked. Beyond the touches and sweet mouth. He wanted to learn his favorite color to make sure he had the shirt that color. He wanted to learn how he took his coffee in the morning to make him a cup with his tea. He wanted to learn what made him happy so that he could do it to see him smile. 

It was his way of seeing him, showing him he could be affectionate and caring without outwardly saying it. Without admitting it. 

Walking into the bathroom of his dressing room to take a much needed shower, he slid his phone out of his pocket and set it on the counter. Turning on the water, Shane slid off his boxers. The steam curled around the mirror, softening the edges of excitement in his eyes as he looked down to read the messages from Ilya.

 

Lily: How is shoot

Lily: I am done with Ryan Price

Lily: Room number? 

Lily: And time? 

 

Okay, Shane thought, this is good. Ilya still wanted to see him again. Shane wondered if he couldn’t stop thinking about it, too. If it was killing him the way it was killing Shane. If Ilya was also thinking about touching him, about fucking him like a promise kept. If Ilya wanted to know Shane’s favorite things, too, or if Shane was just another product, but this time for the male gaze, male enjoyment. 

With a whirlwind of thoughts, Shane responded. 

 

Shane: 2481 

Shane: I’ll let you know when I get there 

Stepping into the water, Shane scrubbed at his skin for an eternity. It wasn’t until his skin stopped crawling and his heart slowed down that he got out of the shower. He had never gotten dressed so quickly, ready to move. What he didn’t expect was Rose to still be waiting for him. 

“Oh, I thought you left already.” 

“I packed up and figured I’d wait for you,” Rose said, locking her phone and setting it down next to her on the small leather couch. “I didn’t think you’d shower that long.”

“Felt sweaty.”

Rose nodded, her eyes trailing down his body and then back up. “You promise me you’re okay?”

Shane nodded, sitting down next to her and putting his left shoe on. “It was fine once I got used to it.”

“Maybe we talk to them about letting you wear a white tank top.”

“Rose–”

“No, really! Shane, it would be so hot.” 

Shane shrugged, pulling his right shoe on. “I guess.”

“The skin is good, but maybe we add some armor.”

It wasn’t that Shane didn’t like the idea because he loved the idea. It was just tricky, adding a layer that the world already saw stripped away. It was going backwards, not forwards. It could hurt his career. Or maybe not. Shane did so many shoots with layers of clothing and it still got views. This wouldn’t–shouldn’t–be any different. 

“Maybe,” Shane said, getting up and grabbing his car keys. “Do you need a ride back to the hotel?”

“No, I drove, too. I have another client in an hour. I’ll stop and get a smoothie on my way over, I think. Pick my flavor?”

“Strawberry.”

“Classic,” Rose laughed, wheeling her back toward the door and following Shane out. “You want to come, too?”

“No, I should get back.”

“Plans tonight?”

Shane thought about it as he pressed the elevator button. Plans that involved opening his door to Ilya Rozanov’s signature smirk and big hands pawing at his waist again. Would Ilya press him against the wall, or would Shane press Ilya? Would Shane want to press Ilya against the wall? He did enjoy the feeling of being pressed with Ilya’s chest.

“Yeah,” Shane breathed out, stepping into the elevator. “Something like that.” 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Shane: I’m back. You can come anytime.

Ilya: I plan us both doing that.

 

Ilya made his way to the hotel with an undercurrent buzz of excitement. Standing and waiting for the elevator, his leg bounced in his dark jeans. Adjusting the beanie on his head, he tugged it a little lower over his unruly curls, still slightly damp from his shower. It would mess with the drying, the beanie, but he didn’t care. He wanted Shane to ruin him. 

He wanted to ruin Shane. 

The elevator pinged and he moved aside to let a couple with a baby stroller push out. He smiled politely, stepping in, clicking the correct floor, and pressing the door close. He didn’t need anybody else in the elevator with him when he was trying not to blow before he even got to Shane. 

Shane Hollander. The name tasted good in his mouth, on his tongue as it pushed against his lips. So sweet, so receptive to Ilya on their first… not date. Hookup? Was it a hookup if you did it more than once? Had Shane thought this same thing? Was it more to Shane? Did Shane also have a hard on waiting for Ilya to get there? 

Ilya dragged a hand over his face as the elevator stopped and a woman stood outside it. Her eyes soft, her hand wrapped around her bag and looking at the arrow on the elevator. Yuna Hollander looked at Ilya with the same eyes as Shane.

“Oh, I’m actually going down,” she said, adjusting her hand on her bag. 

“Oh, I’m going up,” Ilya’s voice trailed as he quickly and subtly clicked the door close button. The woman had the same eyes as Shane Hollander. 

Ilya blew out a breath as the door shut and continued its ascent.

Finally, Ilya pushed every bad thought away as he stood in front of Shane’s door. He pushed aside the anger at this brother. He pushed aside his tornado of thoughts for his father. He even tried to lock back his sadness for his mother. He brought to the forefront his career, his designs chosen for a show. He wanted the underlying heaviness to be replaced with what thrilled him. With Shane Hollander. 

He knocked once.
The door swung open. 

Shane stood in black sweatpants that hugged his thighs and a white t-shirt. He stood to the side, allowing Ilya to quickly be shut into the room.

“You wait by the door?” Ilya asked, toeing his shoes off next to Shane’s.

Shane didn’t say anything as he surged forward, his lips connecting to Ilya’s. Ilya groaned into it, his hands moving quick to wrap around Shane’s waist, steadying him to his own weight. 

Shane kissed hungrily, his tongue slipping in and pressing against Ilya’s, fighting for dominance. Ilya cupped Shane’s jaw, pulling him back a little bit to ease the crush to his nose. A soft whine escaped his lips as they disconnected.

“You didn’t have to stop, baby,” 

Shane’s cheeks deepened in their soft pink tint. Ilya smirked as he traced a finger across his freckles. “Eager?” Ilya asked. 

“Shut up,”

“Is okay. I have been wanting you, too.”

“You do?”

Ilya nodded. “C’mon, let’s not stop,” Ilya said, voice vibrating from deep in his chest. He could feel Shane’s erection pressed against his thigh. Carefully, he stepped forward, pushing Shane back till the back of his knees connected with the bed. 

“How was the briefing?” Shane asked breathily as he fell back onto the bed.

Ilya raised an eyebrow, reaching for his own shirt. “You want to have this conversation right now?”

“I’m curious.”

“You are nervous. For this.”

“No.”

“Yes. You are stalling.”

Taking his shirt off, Ilya watched as Shane reached for the hem of his own shirt, his fingers fiddling with the fold. 

“Let me,” Ilya reached forward, replacing Shane’s hands. He looked into Shane’s eyes, waiting for approval. Shane swallowed thickly and nodded as Ilya pulled the shirt over his head, exposing the soft tan skin and hard lines.

 Ilya leaned forward to press a kiss to his shoulder. He positioned himself between Shane’s legs and reached for his zipper, then Shane’s strings. Quickly, they pushed one another's pants off each other, kicking their feet till they were gone. Ilya’s toed off each of his socks. Shane left his on, which made his chest bubble. 

Ilya pressed his forehead to Shane’s, his lips brushing just over his. “Better than the pictures,” he breathed out before pressing his lips to Shane’s hitched breath. His hands came up to paw at his chest, hard and plush and warm beneath his fingertips. 

Shane was responsive underneath Ilya, pressing upward into his hands as he gripped at Ilya’s back, his waist. The kisses were hungry, edging on desperate as Ilya licked his way into Shane’s mouth. Slowly, he thrust his tongue along Shane’s, eliciting a deep groan as Shane’s cock twitched against Ilya’s stomach.

Ilya pulled away, his finger coming up to break the string of saliva between their swollen lips. 

“Lube?” Ilya asked, his hand coming down to wrap around Shane’s cock, swirling the slick wetness that had dripped down from his tip. “This might be enough,” Ilya teased. “So wet for me.” 

Shane moaned, his hand gripping underneath the pillow and coming out with a travel sized bottle of lube. Ilya took the bottle, fingers grazing Shane’s and sending a straight pulse of electric desire to his own aching cock.

 How smooth of Shane, how eager of his neediness, hiding it for easy access. It made Ilya pool with more pleasure, consuming him fully. 

Moving his hand lazily over Shane’s cock, he moved his other fingers low, trailing a line down his balls, fingernails eliciting a gasp from Shane’s bitten lips. Ilya smirked, cupping them before finally, finally, moving toward his hole. He rubbed at the tight skin there with the pad of his thumb, not daring to push in yet, but hearing the call like a siren. 

“Let’s, here,” Ilya said, letting go of Shane’s cock. Shane’s eyes flew open. “Easy, easy,” Ilya chuckled. “Just want to mess with you.” He moved Shane to his side and positioned himself behind him. He folded Shane’s leg, which went easily, and wrapped a hand around his thigh. His other hand went back to his ass, kneading at the plush orbs. 

Slicking up his index finger, he moved to swirl it around Shane’s tight hole. “You ever touch yourself here?” 

“Jesus, Ilya,” Shane breathed, or rather panted, his head falling forward into his outstretched arm.

Ilya raised an eyebrow, pressing his chest closer to Shane’s back. “You haven’t?” Shane gasped for breath as Ilya continued to slowly rub the lube into the puckered entrance, Ilya supplied, “Is okay if not.” 

“I didn’t say that,” Shane snapped.

“So you have?”

“No.”

“So you have not?”

Ilya was twenty seconds away from grabbing Shane’s hand and guiding him through touching himself. Wanting Shane to feel around his own anatomy before Ilya did, giving Shane the chance to feel for himself what Ilya was dreaming about. He heard Shane’s shaky exhale and paused his finger, moving his hand to caress his ass. 

“I have a thing,” Shane said quietly, moving his leg higher up, pressing further into Ilya’s palm. 

“A thing?” Ilya asked, his thumb swirling against the warm skin of Shane’s thigh, pressing it a little further into the bed to open him a little more. Ilya’s finger returned to his lubed entrance to dip just the tip of his finger into the warm, now sticky skin. Ilya rubbed his finger to moisten the skin inside. 

Shane shoved his face into the mattress. “A… toy.” 

Ilya’s head exploded with fireworks. Shane Hollander with a dildo. Did he get himself off in his bedroom? In his shower? Was it stuck to the shower wall? Ilya could picture it, Shane impaled on a dildo, water pouring from the shower head over his hair, his neck, as he called out Ilya’s name. His cock was screaming. 

Did he use it to porn of two men? Did he picture Ilya while he watched it? Did he watch porn with a big Russian man? The idea, much to Ilya’s surprise, didn’t bother him like he thought it would. If anything, if it were true, Ilya would know that Shane was just as down bad as he was. It made Ilya’s brain short circuit further. 

Was it sleek black and classic? Was it bright pink and neon? Was it Ilya’s favorite shade of purple? Suddenly, Ilya was caught between wanting to press into Shane with his own cock, and pressing a pretty purple dildo into Shane, maybe when his cock was pushing into Shane’s mouth. 

Ilya sucked in a breath, staring at the back of Shane’s head. He needed to stop his over horny brain immediately. All of his fantasies, his feelings for Shane, his desire to have Shane crashing into one because Shane had a fucking sex toy. 

It made Ilya’s chest pound. He was going to choose to ignore that feeling for as long as he could.  

Slowly, he cradled Shane’s jaw and turned his face to look up at Ilya, his thumb brushing along his chin, catching on his bottom lip. 

“What color?” 

Ilya thanks his brain for not asking one of the crazier, hornier questions that had plagued his mind. 

“You know what,” Shane shook his head, moving forward, away from Ilya, his hand dropping from its lazy touches. Shane shoved his face into the mattress again. 

“No, no,” Ilya whined, wrapping his arms around Shane’s waist. “I love it.”  Love it a little too much, he thought to himself. 

“Shut up.”

“C’mon, Shane, please,” Ilya pressed kisses into the back of his neck, his hand now petting down his back toward his ass. “Please, I want to fuck you.”

“Really?”

Ilya nodded, pressing his lips to Shane’s neck, sucking and kissing, nibbling on the pulse point just a little bit. He couldn't resist. Shane’s skin was soft and warm, flawless and smooth. Ilya wanted to crawl into it. 

Fuck. 

Shane turned to look back at Ilya, his face bright red and bottom lip jutting out. His pupils were blown wide. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“You can.”

“I can what?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

Ilya leaned forward to press a kiss to Shane’s lips. Slowly, he moved back to Shane’s ass, pulling apart his cheeks. Shane groaned.

“I think you should ask nicely,” Ilya breathed against his ear as his finger rested against Shane’s entrance.

“Fuck you.”

“More like ‘fuck me, please.’”

Ilya’s finger slowly pressed into Shane, a slow movement into the warm heat. Shane tensed, his fingers gripping the hotel mattress in front of him. Ilya’s hand smoothed down Shane’s back, pressing into the lower dimples. “Relax, Hollander. Easy.”

Shane nodded, a groan slipping past his lips as Ilya pushed in to the knuckle and gave slow, easy thrusts. 

“Feels good,” Shane breathed out.

“Good,” Ilya replied easily, slipping another lubed slick finger by his first one. 

He waited until Shane pushed back onto them, his breaths turning airy at the feeling of pleasure rather than pain before he slowly pushed them in and out. Shane moaned into the mattress, the hot skin of his back beginning to sweat against Ilya’s chest. 

Shane’s breath hitched as Ilya began to slowly scissor Shane open. His body flushed a beautiful shade of red as soft little sounds escaped him. Ilya cooed softly as he reached to pull Shane’s face from the mattress, cradling his jaw and rubbing a thumb over his mouth. “I want to hear you.”  

“Ilya!” Shane gasped loudly when Ilya’s fingers grazed the spongy edge of his prostate. “Oh my God, fuck,” he said as he bent his head down, his lips wrapping around Ilya’s thumb. 

Ilya pressed a kiss in between his shoulder blades as he started to thrust his fingers in earnest, placing a third one beside them. He slowly pulled his hand from Shane’s mouth to grip onto his waist. 

Shane’s head dropped back into the mattress, muffling the intensity of the moan that escaped him. Ilya frowned at the loss of the sound. He wanted to hear everything, but Shane couldn’t keep his head up, overcome with the pleasure that Ilya was giving him. 

He pressed his weight into the back of Shane so he could use his other hand to reach around and wrap around Shane’s cock, slick with precum. Ilya swiped his thumb over the head. 

“Fuck,” Shane jolted, shaking his head into the mattress. Lifting his head up, his voice was airy and desperate as he pleaded, “Mm, Ilya, no, I won’t, I can’t,” he gasped, body shaking with the force of his building orgasm. His hips continued to rock back against Ilya’s fingers, his cock enclosed in Ilya’s warm, slick fingers. 

Ilya dropped his cock and put his thumb to his own mouth. Shane whined at the loss as Ilya moaned while he sucked the salty substance of his precum from his fingers. He tasted sweet, musky in a distinct way that Ilya wanted to devour. To take apart. 

He couldn’t take Shane apart when his face was pressed into the mattress as if he was scared to be heard. Couldn’t take Shane apart when he couldn’t see the tears building up, his swollen lips. Couldn’t take Shane apart without getting to see the rise and fall as of his chest in the throes of pleasure. 

Well, Ilya had a solution for that. 

“You know what,” Ilya said, removing his fingers and watching as Shane clenched around the emptiness. “We can’t.”

Shane’s head snapped up, eyes wide and his jaw opened, but not with pleasure this time. “What?” He blinked, turning to face Ilya with an incredulous look. “Ilya, what the fuck!” 

Ilya’s eyes dragged down to his own cock, as angry and red as Hollander’s. Except Hollander’s was weeping, literally, at the loss. He had been so close. Ilya was ready to say fuck everything and press him back into the matress. But he couldn’t. He needed to see Shane explode around him. 

Ilya leaned forward to press a kiss to his nose. Shane shook his head when Ilya rested his forehead against Shane’s. “We cannot do this here,” Ilya said, getting up. 

“What the fuck do you mean by that?” Shane’s face was pure shock. His hands fisted the comforter, his eyes darting down to his own cock before looking at Ilya’s. Finally, he dragged his eyes to Ilya’s. “You’re leaving?”

Ilya shook his head as he threw Shane his boxers. “Not me. We are leaving.” 

“I’m sorry, what?” Shane’s cock dribbled a little more precum as he got up. His body was red, sweaty, matching the neediness of his cock. “Look at me, Ilya.”

Ilya locked eyes with Shane. His eyes had a clouded haze of lust. “I am. That is why we are leaving.”

“Where are we going?” Shane crossed his arms. 

“My apartment.”

Shane just stared at Ilya, a million things flashing in his eyes. “Ilya, I’m so hard it hurts and you expect me to just leave?” 

“I know, malysh. But, you are holding back.” Ilya shrugged. 

Shane nodded, moving his arms to his sides. “Yeah, well, the walls are thin. I didn’t think you’d care that much,” Shane said, gesturing to Ilya’s still obvious bulge. Shane pulled his underwear on as Ilya continued to grab his clothing. 

Ilya nodded, stepping forward to grab Shane’s waist, pulling him to his chest. Licking the shell of Shane’s ear and feeling him shiver, Ilya whispered, “I need to hear you.” 

“Fuck,” Shane breathed out, his knees buckling the slightest bit before he rights himself. “I can’t leave like this, Rozanov.”

“I can get you off real quick,” Ilya said, wrapping his fingers around Shane’s now clothed cock, feeling the wet patch on the front. “Or you can go on drive with me. Let all that pleasure build up.”

“Oh my God,” Shane shook his head. “You are unbelievable, you know that.”

“Your choice.” 

Shane pursed his lips as he grabbed his pants and pulled them on. “I can’t drive.” 

“I can.” 

Shane’s gaze drifted down to Ilya’s rock hard erection, then back up to his face. “Really?”

“You doubt me.”

“I-” Shane sputtered, taking the outstretched t-shirt from Ilya. “I think I’m going to explode.” 

Ilya smirked. That was the plan. 

Both fully dressed, Shane shifted his erection as he tied his sweatpants. “It’s never going to go away,” he muttered. 

“Is not long drive,” Ilya said, staring at the direction on his phone. Twenty minutes. He could talk with Shane for twenty minutes in the car, learn about him, then press him into his doorway and shove him into his bed. 

He wanted to devour him. Has wanted to forever. And now he was prolonging it like an idiot. 

Fuck his greediness to really hear Shane. 

“Okay,” Shane grabbed his hotel key. “I’m ready.”

“Will I need to pull over to help you out?”

“Oh my God, you’re insufferable.”

“Insufferable?”

“Annoying.”

“That one I know.”

Shane scoffed, but there was no heat to it. “Not surprised. Do you annoy a lot of men with blue balls?” Shane asked. A simple joke. Ilya knew it was. But the look that swam in Shane’s eyes was a question, almost a plea.

Ilya wrapped his arms around Shane’s waist, sliding his phone into Shane’s back pocket, an excuse to paw at his ass. “No,” Ilya said quietly, pressing into Shane’s space. “I do not.” 

“Oh,” Shane breathed out, his lips grazing the side of Ilya’s jaw, down his neck as Shane’s head slumped into his shoulder. 

“Just one. When I want to memorize his face as he comes,” Ilya whispered against his ear as he ran a hand up his back, reveling in the shivers that followed the soft graze along his warm t-shirt. Kissing the side of his head, Ilya patted him on the ass. “Let’s go.”

Roughly five minutes into the car ride, the low hum of the radio, whatever Russian rap song that Ilya left off on as he hyped himself up for the hotel, was drowned out by Shane’s breathing. It was all Ilya could hear, tuned into the need that was still present in Shane’s body. A glance down at the red light showed that Shane was still rock hard in anticipation. 

“You are still so hard, huh?”

“Shut up, Rozanov.” 

“It’s cute.”

“Cute,” Shane scoffed. “Doesn’t feel cute.” 

Ilya smirked, reveling in the way Shane adjusted in his seat. The lower part of the seatbelt was moved up to rest on his abdomen. The tent of his jeans is even more obvious by the placement. It was cute, the way Ilya thought maybe Shane was trying to hide from him. Ilya wanted to rest his hand over him, unzip him slowly and… Ilya bit his lip. He couldn’t. It would be too obvious that Ilya cared more than he should for a man he’s yearned over on screen and kissed a few times. 

He could make him squirm in other ways. 

“Bratty, too.”

Shane shook his head. “You are unbelievable. You’re hard, too.”

“Yes, but I am not panting.”

“I’m not panting,” Shane shot back.

“Okay.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay,” Ilya said with a shrug. 

Shane, with all the surprise of Ilya, reached over and pressed his palm over Ilya’s bulge at the red light. Ilya’s jaw flew open, his eyes wide as he gripped the steering wheel tighter. 

“Shane Hollander, are you making a move?”

“Just proving my point.”

“Which is? You want to suck me while I drive you? Cannot wait five more minutes?”

“Seven,” Shane replied, gesturing with his free hand to the navigation on the car dash screen. “Not that I’m counting.” 

“Yet, your hand is still on my cock.” 

Shane immediately moved his hand away. 

“I can play, too,” Ilya took a hand off the wheel and placed it on Shane’s thigh. Using his pinky, he began to graze against the bulge in Shane’s jeans. 

Shane sucked in a breath. “Shouldn’t you be focused on the road?” 

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

Ilya took a right turn, his hand still on Shane’s crotch. “You always drive two hands?”

“Yes,” Shane said, matter of fact.

Ilya laughed brightly. Here was Shane Hollander. The ladies man, the “it” boy of the industry next to Ilya, driving ten and two like a true rule follower. 

Ilya couldn’t help the sweetness of the thought. 

“Of course you do,” Ilya said, turning into his driveway. “We are here. Can you keep your pants on until we get in the door?”

“Can you?” Shane shot back as Ilya undid his seatbelt. 

“Uh, no. I will take you in the backseat.”

Shane’s jaw dropped and Ilya took the opportunity to lean across the middle console and press his mouth against his, kissing his open mouth filthy, reveling in the moan Shane let out as their tongues clashed. His one hand cupped his jaw while Shane grabbed onto Ilya’s shirt, his shoulder, pulling him closer. When they disconnected, Ilya saw the squirm in Shane’s hips. 

Reaching for his car door handle, he turned to stare at Shane, who was watching with blown pupils. 

“C’mon, poster boy,” Ilya said. “Inside.” 

Walking in the doorway with Shane Hollander may be in the top moments of Ilya’s life. The look on his face as he toed his shoes off into the pile by Ilya’s door, his eyes wide as he scanned the kitchen and living room, connected in Ilya’s cozy apartment. 

Ilya didn’t wait, wasting no time as he backed Shane into the wall by the door, pressing up against him, his knee forcing Shane’s legs apart. “Shall we continue?” 

Shane nodded, leaning forward to press his lips eagerly to Ilya’s. 

Kissing back, he took Shane’s hands and pulled him into his chest. Slowly pulling back, he inclined his head toward the small, narrow hallway. 

They made their way to Ilya’s room, clothing being stripped and dropped with each step. It was when Ilya began tugging at Shane’s pants that Shane shook his head. “Let me,” he breathed heavily, stepping away from Ilya to walk away, grabbing his t-shirt from four steps away. 

“Shane, leave it, does not matter-” He stopped, watching as Shane began to fold his shirt neatly and then reach for Ilya’s folding his and stacking them together. He walked back toward Ilya. 

Ilya stared at their shirts, then up to Shane, his pupils blown wide and full of lust. He could feel the swell in his chest and the smile split across his face. He laughed breathily. 

“C’mon,” Shane said, walking past Ilya and into his room, setting the shirts down onto his dresser. 

Ilya knew, not for the first time, but with the most absolute certainty, that this was not going to end well for him. 

Shane reached for Ilya, pulling him into his chest, his hands pulling at his pants. Ilya easily stepped out of them, Shane following suit as Ilya dragged them down his legs, dropping to his knees with them. 

Looking up at Shane, he sat back on his heels. Slowly, he reached forward and ran his thumbs under the fabric of his underwear tight against his firm thigh. 

“You can be loud here,” Ilya said, tugging them down slowly, agonizing. “I want to hear everything.”

Shane nodded, his chest rising and falling. “Okay.”

Ilya helped Shane to the bed, adjusting him to be on all fours, pillows for comfort, lube and condom fallen into the dip of his knees on the mattress. 

Ilya lubed up his fingers, pressing in two easily from what they had started before they had to relocate. Shane inhaled sharply, pressing his chin to his chest. 

“Comfortable?”

“Yes,” Shane breathed out. “More is fine.”

“Greedy,” Ilya breathed out and pressed a third finger in, working them slowly in and out. His other hand trailed up and down Shane’s spine, feeling each bump and ridge. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the nape of his flushed neck. “Rock back for me, baby.” 

Shane shivered, pressing back into Ilya’s hands. “Fuck,” he sputtered, his legs beginning to tremble against Ilya’s. 

Ilya reached around to wrap a hand around Shane’s erection, hot and leaking onto the sheets. Shane jolted, precum dribbling down Ilya’s fingers. 

“Don’t. Fuck, Ilya. Don’t.” 

Fuck. 

Ilya immediately stopped. He didn’t mean to hurt him, he wasn’t sure how he did it. Maybe it was a mistake making him wait, making him sit in the car with a painful reaction. Ilya shook his head, not that Shane could see as he still faced Ilya’s pillow. “I-”

Shane shook his head, reaching back until he grabbed Ilya’s wrist to keep it firmly between Shane’s very perfect ass. 

“I just don’t want to cum yet,” Shane said jerkily. “Don’t fucking stop.”

Ilya leaned forward onto Shane and cupped his jaw, turning his face to kiss him deeply, filthily, tongues and teeth clashing. Relief flooded his chest. “Let me take care of you, yes?”

Shane nodded, his nose pressing to Ilya’s cheek. “Please.”

And wasn’t that the sweetest thing Ilya has ever had uttered to him? 

Rolling on the condom and adding lube, he lined himself up with Shane’s hole, watching it constrict in pure want around nothing. 

Slowly, so slowly, Ilya began to press into the warm heat of his body. He reached forward quickly, grabbing himself at the base and squeezing. He didn’t want this to end either, not yet. Maybe not ever. Not for Shane’s first time. It had to be perfect. 

As he pressed in further, Shane’s whole body tensed and Ilya stilled, rubbing his hands up and down Shane’s sides. “Relax,” he whispered, feeling the tremble of Shane’s whole body now. “Let me in.”

Shane relaxed in fractions, Ilya pressing in each time until he was fully rested inside Shane, a small moan escaping his own lips at the tightness, the feeling of Shane around his cock, against his thighs, everywhere. It was all consuming, the smell of sweat and his cologne and sex mingling with his own. The whimpers from Shane’s lips that turned into a broken moan once Ilya’s patch of hair tickled against Shane’s ass. 

Shane pressed back and Ilya groaned, grabbing onto Shane’s hips. “Easy.”

“I won’t fucking break,” Shane snapped, rocking back into Ilya. 

“Oh,” Ilya smirked, thrusting slow and deep into Shane. His full front half fell forward into the mattress in a cry as he pressed into that sweet spot. 

“Let me see you.” Ilya pulled out and flipped Shane onto his back. He thrust all the way back into Shane. Hard. 

Shane threw his head back, a sharp moan pouring from his lips. 

Ilya surged forward, pressing his lips to Shane’s neck as he began to thrust into him in earnest. Hard snaps of his hips connecting with the plushness of Shane’s ass. He angled to hit the spot that made Shane shiver, loud and wet, “ah, ah, ah’s” escaping his lips. Reaching up, Ilya pawed at Shane’s chest, pinching and rubbing at Shane’s perky nipples. 

“Fuck, Rozanov,” Shane grabbed Ilya’s hair, pulling his lips to his own. Wet and bitten, he sucked on Ilya’s bottom lip as Ilya continued his tormenting thrusts. 

“I’m gonna-” Shane arched off the mattress. “Fuck, Ilya, please!” Shane cried out, hands pulling his hair hard enough to hurt. Not that Ilya cared, not when Shane’s mouth was open in pleasure. 

Ilya didn’t slow down, leaning back to press their foreheads together. Shane’s head went further into the pillow, eyes rolling back as he called out Ilya’s name, leaving Ilya to watch as Shane’s cock jumped and came across his abdomen, up toward his chest, splashing a few drops onto Ilya. 

With pure need, Ilya dragged his thumb across Shane’s cum and pressed it into his mouth, sucking gently on the warm, salty spend. He continued thrusting, Shane’s body trembling beneath him in the aftermath of his orgasm. 

Shane’s eyes were wide as he stared. “Oh,” he breathed, reaching for Ilya’s hand. “Let me.” 

Ilya nodded, gathering more onto his fingers and pressing it into Shane’s mouth. His tongue tickled against his fingers, sucking and just the softest bite of his teeth as he licked his spend from Ilya’s fingers. 

It was his undoing. 

Ilya’s thrusts slowed and stilled as he came into Shane. Into the condom. The barrier now feeling like the biggest problem in the world when all Ilya wanted to do was pull out and watch himself leak from Shane. To gather it. To taste it. 

What the fuck was Ilya doing? 

Pulling out of Shane’s mouth and body slowly, he flopped down next to him, taking the condom off and tying it, throwing it into the direction of the trashcan and missing. 

Shane didn’t move, his body limp against the mattress. 

“That was hot,” Shane said, his voice loud in the quiet, sex scented air. 

“Da,” Ilya got up, tossed the condom into the trash, and walked to the bathroom. 

As he got the cloth and ran it under warm water, he stared at himself in the mirror. The glow radiated from him like a beacon in the shape of Shane. The way he took his shoes off, folded their shirts, trusted Ilya, moaned for Ilya, wanted and devoured and took all that Ilya had was enough to have him gripping the edge of the sink, the towel now soaked.

Ilya wanted this. Wanted him. More than he wanted his coach’s son, more than he wanted the random hookup three months ago. 

This felt different. 

It terrified him. 

Everybody he cared about, he lost. Except Svetlana. An outlier. 

As he came out of the bathroom, he cleaned Shane up, soothing him with gentle hushes and kisses as his overstimulated body tensed and jumped at the swipe of the cloth over his stretched hole. Ilya pressed a kiss to his hip as he tossed the cloth into the hamper. He made it this time. 

When he laid back down, they both didn’t speak. Their hands brushed one another’s as they stared at the ceiling. Ilya was content to lay there with Shane all night, memorizing his heartbeat as it slowed down. Then, when Ilya thought it was just a little too low, he’d bring it back up. 

But it was Shane who turned to look at him and broke the silence. “I really should go.”

“You could stay,” Ilya said quietly, hopeful. 

Shane shook his head. “I, uh, I have an early flight tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Ilya relented, ignoring the ache in his chest. 

Shane got up and began to get dressed. “I… I’ll be back in a few weeks. For a campaign for Peloton.” 

“Peloton, huh?”

Shane nodded, chuckling as he said, “I’ve never even owned one. They just want me because I look like I would.”

“You workout. You are pretty. Of course they would,” Ilya said, getting up to wrap his arms around him. A moth to a flame. 

“That’s it, though.” Shane shrugged, sagging into Ilya’s body. Ilya supported the weight easily. 

“I’m sure you are funny and nice at shoot, yes?”

“I don’t say much.”

“But you are so vocal.”

Shane shook his head, pulling away from Ilya, but a smile was on his lips. “Fuck you,” Shane said with no real heat. 

Ilya smiled, pressing a kiss to his nose, watching the blush spread across his cheeks. He didn’t want Shane to leave. He wanted to curl into bed, hold him and feel every twitch of his dreams. Kiss the flutter of his sleeping eyelids. 

But he would drive Shane back to the hotel. He would watch him walk through the doors and tell nobody about what they did. Would know that he stayed in the background of Shane’s life. 

And he would just accept it. Accept him. 

Any way he could. 

Chapter 6: V

ILYA ROZANOV SLATED FOR LATEST THRILLER DIRECTED BY JACOB TIERNEY.

Shane stared at the headline; big block words with a bright white background burning into his retinas, into his memory. The photo of Ilya standing with a knife in hand, staring at the victim of his “Last Laugh” film, was staring back with piercing eyes. Another thriller than Shane would greedily, with his own trembling fears that something will hide under his bed or in his closet, watch for the glimpse of a few measly minutes. 

As if he just had a measly crush on the actor. The model. The designer. The man who has been inside of him. The man who has pressed his lips to his and danced his tongue along his own. The man who teases, but is gentle. To think that his life had not only crossed paths, but had genuinely connected with Ilya Rozanov.

A fantasy turned into reality. A teenage level crush he couldn’t stop thinking about transformed into wishing he could stop thinking about the feel of his hands over his body. 

It was falling. 

It was new. 

It was terrifying. 

Shane locked his phone and set it face down on the bed beside his shoulder. Rose was sleeping beside him, both of them tucked into her bed. Their sleepovers always started with Shane planning to sleep on the couch and ending up in Rose’s room, talking and watching TV until they both inevitably fell asleep. 

It was what best friends did. It was nice, Shane thought, to be able to have somebody who just enjoyed being with him. Didn’t want, didn’t expect, anything more than company. Just being there and existing in each other's friendship. 

It was a reprieve from his work. 

The difference of this sleepover was that Shane could not sleep. His mind was alive and screaming. Being in a different bed, a bed he had tried to have sex in, reminding him of Ilya’s bed, of sex with Ilya. How good it was. How good it was supposed to be. How good it was to know now with absolute certainty what Shane preferred in the bedroom. 

He doesn’t know how it happened. How Ilya Rozanov got his number. How the messages turned into togetherness. How they turned into a hook-up, then another. 

Then into whatever they were now. 

Shane was just as confused that he was even having a hook-up, let alone more than once. How he enjoyed being with somebody in a way that left him open and vulnerable. The way the raw desire in Ilya’s eyes had pooled into his own abdomen, dropping him to his knees to gaze up his body into Ilya’s drowning desire.

It was too much.

Yet, it wasn’t enough. 

And this is what was terrifying, Shane thought, that it would never, ever, be enough. 

Maybe if he just laid here and forgot about it. Didn’t text him anymore. Didn’t think about him anymore. Didn’t want desperately to ask him about the art on his walls in his lived-in apartment. 

Shane picked up his phone and read through their messages again from the night, sporadic in time to hide from Rose. 

 

Lily: You are having sleepover with Rose Landry. Very American. 

Shane: I’m Canadian. 

 

Lily: I know

Lily: Rose Landry is not

Lily: Did you have pillow fight in underwear? 

 

Shane: I don’t think people actually do that. 

 

Lily: Do not ruin the fantasy Shane

Lily: Are you tired?

 

Shane: Yes. 

 

Lily: Go to sleep

 

When Shane hadn’t responded, Ilya had responded again. In the moment, it had made Shane’s heart swell. Now, rereading it, it made Shane’s heart want to burst. It was Ilya prolonging the conversation, pulling emotion deep from Shane that he was too scared to name. 

 

Lily: I want to sleep

Lily: But I am distracted by Canadian with bad sleep schedule

 

Shane: Didn’t you text me at 3am the other night that you had not slept yet?

 

Lily: That was other day

Lily: That was before

 

Shane: Before what?

 

Lily: Before you

 

He went to send Ilya a text, like he had that 3am night, to joke that he was still awake. But shifting on the mattress, Rose stirred beside him, pulling him from his own mind and inevitable bad idea. Quickly, he locked his phone and set it down, slightly moving it to be underneath his thigh, as if hiding the proof of his affection. 

“You’re up still?” She slurred, reaching an arm out and hitting Shane in the thigh. “Wh’time is it?” 

“Two thirty,” Shane replied, hushed in the gentleness of the early morning. 

Rose sat up, pushing her hair from her face sleepily. “You never stay up this late.”

Shane shrugged, sitting up and leaning on the headboard beside her. “I slept a little.” 

Rose narrowed her eyes at him, her arm thrown across his lap. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” 

Rose sighed, moving her sleep mussed hair from her face. “Shane,” she started, her tone gentle but considerate as she continued. “You’ve been… brighter recently.” 

“I have?”

“Yes,” she said, sitting up and turning her body to sit criss-crossed on the bed beside him. “You seem happier,” she stretched, yawning and then quickly apologizing. “Now you seem sad. What’s wrong?” 

Shane could taste the words on his tongue. The truth about Ilya. Rose would accept it, absorb it, hold onto it with the care she held for Shane and everything else he had ever told her. That was what they did- they talked. She held his him while he told her he was gay and she lit with a love for him stronger than before. 

Now he could sit beside her, in her bed they once shared, and tell her that he had been with Ilya Rozanov. Could not stop thinking about Ilya Rozanov. Was not sure he ever wanted either of those things to stop in regards to Ilya Rozanov. 

Things didn’t need to change for them if Rose knew that Shane was sneaking around with the Hollywood star. Not at all. 

Right?

“I-” The words perished. The idea of somebody knowing about them, popping the bubble they had been existing in since that text message, scaring the words back down his throat. “I’m sorry, I-” His voice cracked at the edges, tears threatening to drop down his cheeks. 

If Shane thought about the basis of his relationship to Ilya, there was no label. Which was okay, it made whatever this was into a crush. A crush she knew. But now it was more. It was real. It was fragile. It was a crush that had seeped into Shane, literally and figuratively. 

And Shane had no idea if Ilya felt the same. All he knew for certain were his emotions, and the consequences and heartbreak that could follow. 

Because what if Shane took Ilya’s texts as something more than words on a screen? What if he took the touches as more than just sex? What if he took the chance to stay at Ilya’s apartment overnight and decided he never wanted to leave?

What if he couldn’t lock Pandora's box again? 

It would ruin his career. He’s a man designed for the female gaze until they realize that he will never gaze back. The sponsorships will drop off. The clicks will go away. The small acting roles will twist into stereotyping him further than some already had. Now he’d be a token in more ways than one. He was already pressed into a few boxes, could he handle another major one? 

He’d be more vulnerable, more exposed, more of an outcast. 

Rose would feel that, too. As his groomer, she’d be associated with whatever the response was. Good or bad. The industry and the fans around it loved to pick and choose who they accepted, who they forced out of the closet, and who they detested for their authenticity. 

How was it fair to her?

How was it fair to him?  

“Shane,” She reached forward to cup his face in a soft caress. Her palm was warm with sleep, grounding him back to his body. “Shane, what happened?”

He shook his head, blinking hard. He felt it despite his efforts. The warm drop dripped down his cheek like the bead of sweat that ran down his temple when Ilya had reached for him. The recognition of feeling intensified the need to tell her. There was a rightness in the memory of Ilya. He didn’t want it ruined, soiled because he couldn’t voice that it happened, that he wanted it, that it was real. 

For the first time ever, Shane had been selfish. He knew it wasn’t a fair thought. It isn’t selfish to want, to desire. But it was. For him. 

Rose’s eyes trailed to his phone, the way the camera peaked out from under his thigh, clad in green flannel pajama pants. Rose reached for Shane’s hands, pulling him toward her. He went willingly, sitting before her with his hands now dropped into his lap. 

“Is this about who you’ve been texting?”

Shane looked up, eyes widening. He’d done it. He’d given it away. 

“You’ve been more, what’s the word,” she moved her head from side to side. “Attentive… no- secretive, with your phone.”

Shane nodded once.

Rose nodded back, moving closer so her legs pressed against Shane’s own. “Did they hurt you?”

Shane shook his head. 

“The opposite?” She asked softly. 

Shane nodded. 

“Is it…” Rose cocked her head to the side, then shook it just enough, as if looking for the right phrasing. “Does it involve another man?”

Shane bit his lip now and stared just past her shoulder toward her tan curtains. His face grew warm in the darkness of the room. 

The vision of Ilya in the car, driving him back to the hotel, his hand rested on his thigh. Ilya’s thumb had tapped to the beat of the song, something Russian that Shane couldn’t understand, but wished he could have. He asked Shane his favorite color, asked about his favorite foods and fabrics with a gentle tone. Shane had been too stunned to reply immediately at his question, at his desire to know things that were so common yet unbearably intimate. He said red, salmon and rice, and silk when he wanted to say that all of his answers were whatever Ilya’s were. 

That moment, on the ride home, further confirmed to himself why he couldn’t stay the night at Ilya’s apartment that day. 

Shane didn’t meet Rose’s eyes as he nodded, his mind coming back to her room, her presence. 

Rose nodded back, her hands reaching for him and intertwining their fingers. “Do you want to tell me about him?”

Yes, he thought immediately. Words were lodged against the lump in his throat. Shane looked at her. There was something welcoming, endearing in her eyes. Shane nodded a single bob of his head. 

“Okay,” Rose smiled, small and warm. “Tell me anything you want.”

“I-” Shane cleared his throat, squeezing her hands. He could tell her. Nothing had to change. Nothing did before. 

“Uhm, I kissed this guy,” Shane said quietly, staring down at his hands.

Rose blinked, her lips parting. “You kissed a guy?”

“Yes,” Shane shook his head. “And I, uh,” he sucked in a breath. “I liked it. A lot.” 

Rose blinked. Shane felt his chest tighten. 

“When?” She asked. 

“A few weeks ago. Then, uhm, recently. The other day.”

Rose shook her head, smiling. “And you didn’t tell me! Shane, I’m so happy for you!” She beamed, shaking their still held hands. “Who is it?”

Shane’s lips parted, but no sound left. 

This would be it. This would be the end. There would be no going back. Rose would have to accept it, or she would never speak to Shane again. She had teased Shane about it, but when it was real, who knew how she would react. What if she got jealous? What if she didn’t want to work with him anymore? What if she thought he was lying? 

The weight of reality that his brain was twisting into the worst case scenarios made Shane’s eyes water, the tears burning his waterline. 

“Uhm.” Shane looked up at the ceiling. “Ilya Rozanov,” he said, quietly, like a pin drop in the darkness, like a breath being released that he didn’t know he was holding. 

Rose’s jaw fully dropped. Her right hand dropped Shane’s to cover her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said, quiet and muffled by her hand. “You,” she moved her hand back the slightest bit. “You’ve been, for weeks, kissing the Ilya Rozanov?” 

Shane nodded, a single tear rolling down his cheek. 

“Your celebrity crush Ilya Rozanov?”

Shane nodded. “Yes.” 

“Oh,” Rose said, grabbing Shane’s hands again and bringing them to her chest, pulling him toward her. “Shane.” 

“I’m sorry,” Shane rushed out, the tears spilling slow from the corners like the steam building from a boiled kettle. “I know it’s wrong. I know I shouldn’t. I just can’t help it. I liked it so much.” 

“Shane, no,” she said, pulling Shane’s face into her shoulder as he cried softly. Her hands rubbed up and down his spine, full palm sweeps of comfort. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Shane whispered into her neck. “My career will be ruined. Everybody will see me as some–”

“No,” Rose said firmly, leaning back and lifting Shane’s head. “Your career will never be ruined by this. People will not suddenly stop loving you.” 

“Nobody will ever know,” Shane sniffled. 

“That’s not fair. Or realistic.”

“I don’t have a choice.” 

“You do,” Rose said, smoothing Shane’s hair back from his forehead. “Nothing will change for you. For us. Not at all.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Your career may shift. But the shifts might feel good,” Rose said. “Might allow you to be more comfortable. More yourself.” 

“More gay,” Shane muttered, dropping his head into her neck.

Rose lifted his head back up, cupping his face in her palms. “Sure but no.” She wiped the tears from his face. “Shane, people love you. But they also love to use you for whatever they want. That won’t change. You might get more supportive spaces wanting you, too, which is a good thing. They might make it so you can have fun, be more open, more loose.”

Shane shrugged, wiggling so he could rest his head on Rose’s chest. Her heartbeat fluttered in his ears. 

“I mean it, Shane,” she said, combing her fingers through his hair. “I work with Scott Hunter, too, you know.”

Scott Hunter was a model just like Shane. His work was similar to Shane’s, companies and runways, movies and commercials, using Scott Hunter for the female gaze. It worked, females fawning over him constantly. Anywhere he went, women lined up, photos and sharpies outstretched for a chance. 

Then Scott Hunter came out as gay. 

Words rippled from each company within the industry, unsure how to adjust Scott Hunter’s work. Was he to be moved to the male gaze? Keep him with the female gaze? Would women still desire him knowing their chances got even slimmer than before? Shane heard about it from friends, coworkers, designers. They all weren’t sure what to do with Scott Hunter because they weren’t sure what this news would mean for them– their brands and their products. 

As if Scott Hunter being gay changed anything.

In the months following his announcement, they learned that women still flocked. Women still gazed. Women still cared what he wore and where he went. It ended up helping the industry, with companies picking him up or altering his style and opportunities to appeal to everybody. 

Some companies did drop him, wiping him from their social media and brand as if he never worked with them to begin with. Backlash and support for the decision came through, and then it eventually fizzled out. Scott Hunter kept working as steadily as before, this time with a boyfriend beside him at the events. 

Rose had told Shane bits and pieces about the situation after he came out. How Scott would tell her how wanted to be out because the hiding was making him sick, making his boyfriend miserable. Scott didn’t want anything to change, but he knew some of it would. Everybody always had something to say. 

“Maybe you should talk to Scott,” Rose said. 

“He can’t know about me. Or Ilya.”

Rose nodded. “I understand,” she pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “But it would put another person in your corner. One who understands.”

Shane didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to say how he feels. The war in his brain, the crush in his chest, the torment of his mind as he navigates himself in the public eye. 

“Let’s just lay here for a little bit,” Rose said, moving, Shane following, until they were laying side by side. Rose wrapped her arms around Shane, guiding him to press into her side, his head placed on her collarbone. 

“I love you,” Rose murmured. “Just know that this will never change us at all.” 

Shane closed his eyes. “I love you, too,” he replied quietly. The gentle press of her hands on his back, rubbing and soothing, as he tried to find a dream that would let him know that everything would be okay. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

“You think it is enough oil? Ilya asked Cliff Marlow. 

Marlow smirked, putting another spurt on Ilya’s bicep, laughing as Ilya shook his head. “You need to look like a well oiled machine! Or, I guess, like you used a Peloton." 

“I am,” Ilya said with a wink, resulting in Marlow rolling his eyes. 

Ilya had been working with Cliff Marlow since he moved to America. He had needed a groomer and saw that Marlow’s speciality was not only with men, but men with curls. It had been a match made in heaven. 

What made it even better was that Marlow could deal with Ilya’s sarcasm and cockiness, while also dealing with his doubts and depression. He hadn’t meant to tell Marlow about his diagnosis, about his family, about his sexuality. But when Ilya had missed a shoot after only being in the industry for eight months, working with Marlow for six of those, Marlow had already known something was wrong. 

He had shown up at Ilya’s house, knocking until Ilya pulled the door open, wrapped in his comforter – with one sock on and hair sticking in every direction, took one look and said, “I’m your friend, too, you know that right?” 

Marlow packed a small bag that he would take with him for touch ups during the shoot. “You have some time to roam around the halls and do whatever it is you do when you leave me in dressing rooms.”

“I do not always leave you,” Ilya said, shaking his head. 

“You do! Svetlana stays when she’s literally your guest. That’s why she’s my favorite.” 

Ilya blew a raspberry. “This is why Pipa is my favorite.”

Marlow gasped, feigning shock. “No way! I would have never guessed my cute dog would be your favorite.”

Ilya rolled his eyes, disconnecting his phone from the charger and sliding it into Marlow’s bag. “You are cute, too, do not worry your pretty head of hair.”

“Oh trust me, I don’t,” Marlow said, zipping the bag and putting it over his shoulder. “I’m running out to grab a coffee. By the time I’m back, you’ll be ready to go out there. Want a coffee?” 

“No,” Ilya said, walking out the door with Marlow. “American coffee is not good.”

“You’ve never had Starbucks then.”

“Funny,” Ilya deadpanned. 

“Wait,” Marlow paused in the hallway and turned toward Ilya. “Where are you going then?”

“Oh, uh,” Ilya shrugged a shoulder. “Just outside. For some fresh air.”

Marlow shook his head. “It’s raining.”

“Then a walk in the hall then.”

Marlow narrowed his eyes. Ilya narrowed them back.

“You’re up to something,” he said, pursing his lips. 

“Typically, yes,” Ilya responded coolly.

“This have to do with anyone you’ve been texting?” 

“Nope.” 

“Really cause I saw you text-” 

Ilya shook his head, reaching out to playfully cover Marlow’s mouth with his hand. “Ha, ha, so funny, Marley! Don’t you have coffee to get?”  

Marlow rolled his eyes and stared for a beat longer before biting Ilya’s fingers to get him to remove his hand. Relenting, he said, “I’ll get you coffee,” and continued to walk forward, away from Ilya. 

Ilya stayed frozen in the hallway. “Please, do not,” he called out toward Marlow’s back. 

He waited until Marlow was gone from the sight of the glass doors before allowing himself just a moment to freak out. Had Marlow seen Shane’s name? Why did he need to act so fast to cover Marlow’s mouth before he could know!

Did it matter if he did see Shane’s name? Of course, Ilya thought sadly, because it might feel like an outing to Shane, depending on what he saw. 

Frowning, Ilya shook his head. He was leaving to go on a mission– find Shane before the Peloton campaign officially began to film.

Ilya started walking back toward the dressing rooms, listening for Shane. 

“I think it’s enough oil, Rose!” Shane laughed behind the closed door ahead and to the left. 

Ilya smirked, walking toward it like a sailor to a siren's call. Pausing his hand from knocking on the door, he listened to Shane’s breathy laughs and teasing with his stylist. Afterall, he wanted to savor hearing Shane behind the door laughing brightly, freely. It was his idea, after all, being at this campaign, too. 

When Shane had told Ilya he would be doing a Peloton ad, it took till the next morning for him to ask his manager to make contact. “A group shoot,” he had explained. “I don’t want anything solo. Something with somebody big. Ask them if there’s anything in the next few weeks.”

It was a long shot. But it worked. 

Peloton had loved it, explaining to his manager they could do a Hollywood shoot with the biggest stars of right now. Not that Ilya had ever used a Peloton in his life, but of course, they would brand it that it was thanks to Peloton that he had the body to succeed in the profession. 

It would be a chance for Ilya to see Shane at work, at work with him, not separated by bodies and schedules. 

Except, what separated him from Shane now was Rose Landry. He could knock on the door, could act like they were friends. Friends who occasionally had sex, and texted but it was really just flirting, really just foreplay. Ilya shook his head, because no, that wasn’t friendship. That was something more. 

Could they hide something more? Ilya supposed that they were. But could he keep hiding more? To protect Shane, to not see that worry in his eyes again at the prospect of people knowing his identity, Ilya could. He could do his best. 

Friends. It tasted odd on his tongue. Sour and wrong and not enough. 

Ilya knocked on the door. 

He dug his hands into his shorts pockets, worrying with the loose string in the corner of it. What if Shane was upset that Ilya showed up? What if Shane told him to leave? What if Shane didn’t want to do the shoot with him because it was too far? 

When Shane opened the door, his eyes widened, his jaw went slack, then eased into a small smile. Each emotion that crossed his face before landing on that smile had Ilya ready to turn, run, but then he was pulled back. Tethered to the light. 

“Hey,” Shane breathed out. “I didn’t know you were coming today.”

“Is for Hollywood, yes?”

A gasp came from behind the door, which Ilya realized Shane had angled so that whoever, probably, hopefully only Rose, couldn’t see who was in the doorway. 

“I guess so,” Shane laughed breathily. His eyes feasted upon Ilya, taking in his short black athletic shorts and tank top. His body was also oiled just enough from Marlow. His hair was a mess of curls, artificial sweat having wet the edges to make it appear that he had been on the Peloton for hours. 

Ilya leaned into Shane’s space just enough to breathe out for him to hear, “Enjoying the view?” 

Shane’s face flushed making his artificially sweaty skin look like when Ilya had been with him, on him, inside him. He glanced down to Shane’s short white shorts and then back up to his eyes. Definitely enjoying the view. Ilya raised his eyebrows and winked. 

“Fuck you. I-” Shane hissed, shaking his head and adjusting his weight between his tube socked feet. “I should probably finish getting ready,” Shane bit his lip and turned around to glance at Rose. When he turned back around, the look on his face was defeated. “Do you– Are you done getting ready?”

Ilya nodded. 

Shane nodded back. But he didn’t move away from the door. His eyes went back and forth between Ilya’s. He turned around to look into his room, then back at Ilya. Ilya looked away, unable to watch Shane’s internal dilemma unfold in his movements, in the emotional shift in his eyes to something almost like a plea. Like Ilya could read his mind. 

He wished he could. If only to see the crease in Shane’s forehead disappear. 

What the fuck? Ilya sucked in a breath. This was it, he made a mistake. Shane Hollander was going to want nothing to do with him because he was selfish with desire and– 

“You can, uh, you can come in,” Shane said, stepping back just the tiniest bit. 

Ilya shook his head. “You do not have to,” he said quietly. 

He knows with absolute certainty that, up until this moment, Shane had not changed his mind on his feelings of whatever was budding between them. The intensity of that moment that they had had in the hotel, which in Ilya’s mind felt forever away now, is not something that would have changed so easily. For Ilya, he didn’t think it would ever change. 

But, Shane wanted a secret. Shane wanted safety. Shane wanted to remain unchanged in the public eye. 

And Ilya, despite his own emotions and budding feelings that he wanted to scream from the rooftops, understood Shane. 

Ilya knows what it is like to be viewed as something different, something exotic. The word made his skin crawl. The way people, articles, brands would prey on his individuality, mark and sell it as something to be ogled for its uniqueness. Not all of the brands did this, not with the industry being so diverse as a whole. Many people were accepting, would treat him like everybody else, dress him how they would anybody from anywhere. 

But, just like in other parts of the world that Ilya learned too early, the loudness of some overwhelms the quietness of many. 

Ilya did not know if Shane had anybody to know his truths in full.

Svetlana was the one Ilya trusted with every truth he had. Marlow, too, with the details he hadn’t shared that night he found him. Mostly because he also suspected the truth in Ilya’s teasing, in Ilya’s mannerisms. So much time spent together that he would always pick up on something but would never ask, never pry. Ilya leaned into it, relishing in the fact he could be himself openly, without questions, without having to lay his truth out before him and come out. Again. 

So, in his own unique way, he understands Shane. He can find it in himself to hide himself. If that is what it takes to keep this feeling from Shane in his chest around a little bit longer. 

It terrified him. 

The look on Shane’s face terrified him more. His eyes were wide with insecurity, not fully meeting Ilya’s and, when they did, he immediately darted them away. 

“I’m sorry,” Shane said remorsefully, shaking his head once. “Rose knows. I’m so sorry.” 

Ilya frowned. “Knows what exactly?”

Shane frowned back. “That I- That you- Sorry- That we-”

“Okay, okay,” Ilya said quietly, reaching a hand out to hover over Shane’s chest. Not touching, not in the openness of the hallway. It took everything in him to not give into the magnetic pull to press his weight to Shane’s, to ground him back to earth, to relax the tension in his forehead. “You are having panic attack, Hollander. Everything is okay, yes?”

Shane stepped away from the door, allowing Ilya to step in the room. It smelled like synthetic oil, warm and rich with dark vanilla, and the smell of Shane’s amber, musky cologne. It was a heady mix, one that trapped Ilya’s olfactory, rooting him in the doorway as Shane clicked the door shut behind him. 

He needed to snap out of Shane Hollander’s hold. 

Ilya stood, hands held in front of him, and smiled at Rose. “Uh, hi,” he stuck his hand out. “I’m Ilya… Rozanov,” he added his last name helplessly. He didn’t know why he felt the need to say it as if Rose hadn’t heard of him from the media or Shane. 

“Rose Landry,” she replied easily, squeezing his hand once before dropping it. “Big fan. We both are,” she said pointedly at Shane. 

Ilya turned to Shane, smiling real now at the bright blush shading over his freckles. “Oh, really, now?” he teased. 

“Some more than others, of course,” Rose said, causing Ilya to laugh. 

Shane didn’t say anything, his eyes bouncing between Ilya and Rose as if he was dreaming. As if having them both in the same room was something he never thought would happen. Never thought possible. 

Rose knows because Shane told her, had opened up. Ilya knows that that is no small feat. How long has she known? What kind of “big fan”? What about their relationship did Rose know? What even was their relationship? Was he the reason Shane had to come out? Was he not ready to? 

Ilya suddenly felt all too sick with it, with the guilt that he made Shane do something he didn’t want to, with the cheesiness of the “what are we” question going through his mind, with the unease that he might have an attraction more than Shane does. 

He doesn’t even know how this feeling developed. Why he feels it so strongly now. In Shane’s space. With Shane’s best friend. 

How badly Ilya wanted to fully and wholeheartedly understand this feeling, this pull to Shane. A pull to another person in a way he has not felt in years, or maybe even felt ever. Was his pull to Svetlana this soul crushing, this aggressive, this intimate in feeling alone? Touch was nowhere in the room with them right now and yet Ilya felt Shane everywhere. 

He wants to tell Svetlana. 

He wants to tell his mother. 

The thought forms, unbidden and unwanted, in his mind. 

Shane was sliding his sneakers on, his foot nudging into Ilya’s leg. Ilya glanced up. Intentional. Grounding. 

“Are you ready?” Shane asked. “It’s time to go already.” 

Ilya frowned. He thought he had more time. But then again, he never had enough time with Shane. 

“Yes,” Ilya said, wiping the real sweat from his palms onto his tiny black shorts. 

Rose threw her bag over her shoulder. “Let’s go sweat.” 

Walking down the hall, Ilya heard movement from the other few dressing rooms. He turned his head once, catching a glimpse of a door opening. 

“Oh, hey!” Scott Hunter shut the door behind him, his outfit mirroring that of Shane’s and Ilya’s, but in a bright red. “I really wasn’t sure who else to expect when they called me. All they said was Hollywood and see ya then!”

Ilya bit his tongue. Neither had he. 

“Scott Hunter. I think we met last year, yes?” Ilya asked. 

“Yeah!” Scott beamed, not sensing Ilya’s obvious disappointment. Or maybe he was choosing to ignore it. 

He thinks back to his call with his manager. A Hollywood themed shoot. 

Not exclusive. 

Never exclusive. 

It was selfish to think that they would only have Ilya join in Shane’s shoot. After all, he was the one who told his agent he didn’t want it to be alone. He should have anticipated that meant beyond two people. It didn’t mean he had to like it though. 

Shane had gone pale as if he had seen a ghost. Rose ran a hand up Shane’s arm as she turned to Scott Hunter. 

“Who dressed you up today?” 

“I had Jiya do it. I was going to call you, but I saw you were booked today.”

Rose nodded, smiling still. Ilya wondered if Rose ever frowned. 

“She did great. You look amazing. Send any photos to Kip?”

Scott blushed, shaking his head. 

Ilya rolled his eyes. Liar. 

“Okay,” Rose teased, nudging him before returning to Shane’s side. Ilya could sense the protectiveness in the gesture.

Rose nudged Shane, earning a look in return that made Ilya frown slightly. Scott’s eyes met his and Ilya stared before Scott looked away, a blush on his upper cheek lingering. 

“Scott, this is Shane!” Rose waved a hand between them. “Shane, Scott.” 

“Big fan of your work,” Scott said, sticking a hand toward Shane, shoved between him and Ilya. 

Ilya mocked the words back in his head. Big fan. Shane. Well, Shane was a big fan of Ilya, too. Was Shane a big fan of Scott Hunter? If he was, it meant nothing. Except it meant everything, in that moment, to him. 

“Thanks,” Shane shook his hand. “I, uh, your work is great.” 

Scott smiled, dropping his hand and opening the double doors for them. “Let’s do this!” 

Ilya saw that it wasn’t just the three of them, which gave him a little relief. There was Brad Hammersmith, a popular rom-com actor and influencer for different brands of fitness and sports drinks. A model he didn’t recognize but would learn later was Victor St-Simon, exclusively a model for different fashion brands. And his old friend, Ryan Carmichael, who he lived with for six months when he first moved, until he was able to get his own place. 

Ilya smiled as Ryan waved at him from across the room. 

“Ilya Rozanov! How the hell are ya?” 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Shane couldn’t understand it. 

He stood on the treadmill, steadying himself with the bars down the side. They were talking at him, staring at him through the tiny screen, hands moving to put him into focus. 

“Turn to the left!” 

“Turn to the right!” 

“Adjust your facial expression to exertion.”

“Oh, nope, less exertion.” 

Shane sucked in a breath, trying to understand how everyone else made it look so easy. Hell, he had used a treadmill before! It was easy, all he had to do was move on it. 

Scott Hunter had danced around the gym floor, lifting weights with a grace that Shane couldn’t seem to emulate despite having been lifting since he was a teenager. Victor St-Simon had run on the treadmill and looked like he was designed just for running and showing it off. 

And Ilya. 

Fuck. 

He had done everything perfectly. Winking and smirking at the camera, real sweat mingling with the synthetic sweat just right to make him glow. He danced and flailed elegantly around the gym space. The trainer on hand even wanted to work with him! His friend, Ryan, even joined him on the floor and did some workouts with him. They mirrored one another perfectly, weights in hand or even jumping rope at one point. 

But Shane. 

He couldn’t even run on the fucking treadmill. 

Shane wiped his face with the towel, causing one of the directors to groan. 

“Can we fix the sweat back onto his face,” he grumbled. 

Rose came over, spraying his face. “Hey, hey,” she said quietly, spraying some on his shoulders, too. “Relax, okay. Don’t think so hard.” 

“Everyone else gets it,” Shane grumbled, turning his head and looking at the windows across the top of the gym space. It was sunny, basking the gym in an orange hue. 

“You just have to relax.” 

“They don’t like me,” he whispered. 

“They do,” Rose whispered back easily. “I promise.”

“Hey, Hollander!” Ilya called, waving his hand to get Shane’s attention as if he wasn’t somehow tethered to Ilya’s voice. “Can I plan to do something with Hollander?” Ilya asked the director. “I have good idea.”

“Of course!” The director nodded toward Shane. “We’ll work with Scott and Brad, then you and Ilya, be ready.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ilya answered for Shane, waving him over to the corner stacked with a few black mats. “You do yoga, yes?”

“Uhm, yeah, I do.” Shane put his hands on his hips, sucking in a breath as Ilya grabbed two mats. “What are you-”

“We do yoga. Together. You loosen up.”

“I’m fine.” 

“You are bad liar,” Ilya said, shrugging as he gestured to the mat he placed next to his own. 

Shane shook his head as he sat. “This is stupid. People are going to look.”

“At me helping you? Shane, look at everyone,” he splayed his hands out in front of him to gesture toward the room “We are all working together, yes? Nobody cares.”

“Easy for you to say,” Shane muttered, stretching his legs out in front of him. 

“What?”

Shane shook his head. How would Ilya understand? How could he when he was seemingly perfect in front of the camera. Being talked to instead of talked at. Being seen both through the screen and outside of it. Being dazzling and not needing any adjustments. 

All Shane got was being talked at, and being seen one way, with nothing but adjustments needed until he didn’t look like a robot. 

“You just have a composure to you,” Shane sighed, shrugging. He watched as Ilya’s eyes darted between Shane’s eyes. “You always have it together. The camera, the people. They love you,” Shane said quietly. “You’re carefree with it.”

“Sure,” Ilya shrugged back, stretching his legs out to mirror Shane’s. “It is the job.”

“It’s different for you.”

“How?” He inclined his head, really looking at Shane. He felt exposed, like Ilya wanted to put his hand in his chest and twist around, searching. 

“You’re a natural,” Shane said quietly, the ache in his chest lingering. “They like you.”

“They like you, too,” Ilya said. When Shane said nothing, his eyes checking if anyone else was watching, listening, he felt Ilya tap his foot against his leg. “I like you.” 

Shane’s head swiveled back to look at Ilya. His jaw tensed as he shook his head. Tears brimmed at his waterline and he quickly wiped at his eyes. “Don’t,” Shane said quietly. He needed to relax. His frustrations, his confusion, Ilya- it was too much. “Are we doing yoga, or not?” 

“Yes,” Ilya said. “Get into downward dog.”

“Funny,” Shane snorted, moving to get into downward dog.

Ilya beamed, getting into the same position on his own mat. “Now, when you go back to stupid treadmill, think of me behind you, when you are like this.” 

Shane shot him a look, his face turning red. “We are in public. Besides, that makes no sense.”

“Nobody cares about us over here.” 

“You don’t know that,” Shane shot back.

“Hollander,” Ilya said softly. “Relax. You are pretty. And fit. You will do great after this.”

Shane relented, giving Ilya a nod and allowing him to move him through a few yoga stretches. Shane recognized each one Ilya was terribly trying to guide him through. He did all of them, once, for a Men's Health shoot at the cottage he bought in Ontario. He wanted to call Ilya out on it, ask him if he actually sat and watched Shane talk about the one place that gave him peace. 

But he didn’t. Not when he didn’t want the response. 

Damned if Ilya did, damned if Ilya didn’t. 

Both would tear into his chest, differently, but leave a feeling Shane wasn’t sure he was ready to digest.  

“Are you two ready?” The director called over to them.

Ilya nodded, rising to his feet and taking a few breaths. Shane traced the way sweat beaded on his forehead, a drop gliding down his neck, mingling with the synthetic sweat on his shoulder. He wanted to lick it, taste it on his tongue. The thought sent a shiver up his spine. 

Ilya winked, then turned just as quickly to walk back toward the director. “Hollander can finish treadmill. I will drink bad coffee and then lift weights with him.”

“You two can do yoga,” the instructor supplied. “What you were doing over there. That works, too. We have the Peloton yoga line.”

Shane got back onto the treadmill, trying to ignore the way Ilya was investigating the yoga blocks and mats. It was when Rose started spraying his face with oil, he heard Ilya say calmly, with an air of confidence and total adoration–

“You know, I can do whatever Hollander wants. Is his shoot, after all.” 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Ilya moved about the kitchen, grabbing bags of microwave popcorn and popping open the microwave. “You are okay with popcorn, yes?”

Shane nodded, his eyes moving around the space. It wasn’t much, the kitchen island connecting into the living room of his one bedroom apartment. “Did you do all this?”

Ilya put the timer on the microwave and turned around to face Shane. The soft whir flooding his ears. “What do you mean?”

“The art?” His finger brushed over the frame, over Ilya’s cursive script he put on each piece: ILYAROZA

“Most of it,” Ilya responded shyly, turning back toward the fridge, avoiding Shane’s now bright eyed gaze. He grabbed a can of ginger ale and set it in front of Shane. He noticed Shane had a can in his dressing room, and one tucked into his bag, so he made sure to grab a 12-pack on his way back. 

“I didn’t know you were such an artist,” Shane stared at the ginger ale. “Thank you,” he said quietly, popping the tab. 

“I have always been,” Ilya said, pausing to remove the bag of popcorn once the kernel popping no longer sounded. He shook the bag and poured it into a large green bowl, thinking about what he wanted to tell Shane. He settled on everything. “Since I was a kid, I would draw and paint.”

Shane nodded, his eyes falling to the painting above his couch. It was one he did in Russia, depicting the Moscow Kremlin and St. Basil’s Cathedral. He remembered making it, spending days in Moscow with Svetlana, painting and eating chebruki, ponchiki, and baked potatoes smothered in pickled mushrooms. He had painted and painted, colors swirling, becoming patterns on canvas and clothing. Beautiful and bright and sunny. 

It felt like home. 

What it should have been. 

Following Shane’s gaze, Ilya said, “Is St. Basil’s Cathedral. Was one of my mother’s favorite places.” He forced his voice to not waver, to stay calm with Shane’s curious eyes. “My mother loved the colors, the unikalnost, uh,” uniqueness, Ilya shrugged a shoulder. “Was original to Russia,” Ilya ate a few bites of popcorn, chewing thoughtfully, gazing at the painting. 

“Your mother,” Shane said, his fingers twisting the pop tab. “What happened to her?”

“She died,” Ilya said. It came out easy despite the ache it brought into his chest. He had said it a hundred times by now, and yet it never got easier. 

“Oh,” Shane turned to face him instantly. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“How were you to?” His tone was gentle, but grated at the edges with thick emotion. 

“I-” 

“Is fine, Hollander,” Ilya cleared his throat and took another bite of popcorn. “Was long time ago. I was 14.”

Shane’s frown deepened. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to. A lot of people went silent after Ilya told them, as if suddenly they didn’t know how to interact with him. His mother dying when he was 14 changed his trajectory. The silence was like them saying that suddenly everything Ilya did, good or mostly bad, made sense. 

But Ilya realized with a stark clarity that Shane’s silence wasn’t like that. Rather, it was like a warm hand cradling his head as if to say, “I have you. It’s okay. You can share more when you’re ready.”

Ilya sucked in a breath and picked up the bowl of popcorn. He walked toward his couch, Shane’s feet quietly following behind him and plopping down beside him. Ilya set the popcorn on his lap, picked up a piece, and threw it at Shane.

Shane chuckled, picking it up and putting it into his mouth. 

“Open wide,” Ilya winked, readying a piece of popcorn to throw.

Shane laughed, opening his mouth and turning to face Ilya fully on the couch. He moved his head to catch the piece, but it bounced off his nose and into his lap. 

“So close!” Ilya laughed, throwing piece after piece until finally Shane caught a piece, leaving popcorn all over them. Shane threw his hands up in victory. 

Ilya grabbed a missed piece that was landed on Shane’s leg and popped it into his mouth. “I thought you would be a better target. You know, big mouth used to wrapping around my big cock and all.” 

Shane sputtered, coughing and reaching quickly for his ginger ale. He took a long sip then spoke, his tone an octave above normal, “Your way with words is astonishing.”

“Astonishing?”

“Shocking.”

“Ah, da, I get that a lot.”

“Gee, I’m shocked.”

“No, no,” Ilya shook his head. “You are astonished.” 

Shane smiled, something soft, only for the two of them and nodded once. “Yes, Ilya, I am.” 

It was some time later, when the popcorn was gone (which Ilya omitted to mention to Shane how he felt like he was the only one really eating it unless he fed it to Shane himself), with Shane’s head propped on Ilya’s chest, adjusting the string of his sweatpants, that Shane acknowledged the sketchbook and manilla folder on his coffee table. His toe nudged it once, a subtle notice. 

Ilya ran a finger through Shane’s hair. “I am working on big project.”

“Really?”

Ilya nodded, biting his lip. He wanted to tell Shane, but what if he didn’t get picked to host a runway. What if Saint Laurent didn’t agree with Ryan Price’s vision? Ilya would be devastated. He wouldn’t give up, he’d repitch with whatever feedback they gave him. But he would have told Shane, who gazed at his art and his face as if he held the beauty of the sun and he finally got to see it. What would he think if he didn’t get a shot at the show? Would he think Ilya was a failure?

He couldn’t let Shane think of him the way his father did. 

But Shane wasn’t his father. Shane was a good man. Smart, shy, passionate, funny (sometimes). Ilya wanted to be his sun, orbiting him wherever he went. 

He wouldn’t storm on Ilya, raining down heaps of judgement and how Ilya always fell short. Shane wouldn’t view it as rejection or something bad to throw cruelty at. Not his sweet Shane. He would make Ilya feel better about it, soften it. 

Shane nudged Ilya’s hand that had stilled in his hair. Ilya glanced down to Shane’s wide, bright eyes looking up at him. “Your project?” he supplied, adjusting to be more comfortable on Ilya’s lap. It made Ilya’s chest swell with warmth. 

Shane, his pretty Shane who wanted to know about this part of Ilya, had asked, had gestured to the folder with the subtlety of a nosey individual, was nothing like Ilya’s father. 

Is this what it felt like to be… to be what exactly? Looked after? Cared for? 

Dare he finally say loved?

The affability of Shane transcended into the feelings of affection and care he only once knew from his mother. The way she had been gentle with him, curious about him– different from Shane of course, but still with that care.

If Ilya could be so lucky to say maybe even it was love, too. 

Yes, Ilya’s mind supplied quietly, like a dull ache in the back of his head that pumped into his heart, that is love. 

So what is this now? To not only him, but to Shane? 

“Is with Saint Laurent,” Ilya supplied, his hand twirling a piece of Shane’s hair between his fingers. “To host my own runway show. My own theme.” 

“Woah,” Shane went to sit up but Ilya shook his head once, guiding Shane down to rest his head on Ilya’s thigh like a pillow. Shane adjusted to look up at him, his hand coming up to cup Ilya’s cheek. “That’s like… really huge, Ilya.” 

“Yes,” Ilya replied, leaning into the touch, his eyelids fluttering just enough to make Shane press his hand a little closer. “I pitch next week. I have everything ready.”

“What is the theme?”

“Achilles,” Ilya started.

“Oh! You did ask me about him,” Shane sounded almost excited, making Ilya smile. 

“And Patroclus.” 

Shane cocked his head to the side. “Who?”

“Achilles’ lover.” 

“Oh,” Shane breathed out. “That’s… really bold.”

“Da, and powerful.” 

“Yeah,” Shane’s breath had sped up. Ilya easily placed a hand on his chest, causing Shane to arch into it, subtle, but enough. His thumb swept across the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth in his chest. 

“You are okay?” Ilya teased. 

“Just… yeah.”

“No, no, tell me,” Ilya’s hand rubbed Shane’s chest steadily, sweeping back and forth. Ilya could feel his nipples harden against the strain of his black t-shirt. 

“It’s powerful and uh,” Shane cleared his throat. “A great concept.”

“That’s it. No other words?”

“Nope,” Shane reached up toward Ilya and pulled his head down. Ilya helped lift Shane’s head up toward him until their lips connected. 

It was slow, their lips molding into one another. Shane tasted like sweet ginger and salty popcorn. His smooth tongue trailing Ilya’s bottom lip, sucking it between his teeth in a move Ilya did once before to him, hidden in the changing rooms after the Peloton shoot. He had snuck off to Shane, needing to “borrow a phone charger.” 

Ilya moaned softly, his hand trailing down the front of Shane to slide underneath his shirt, pulling it upward, feeling the warmth of his chest against his palms. 

Shane pulled away slowly, his eyes hooded and glossy. His hand gently rested on Ilya’s hard cock through his gray joggers. In one fluid motion, Shane slid off the couch and maneuvered himself between Ilya’s legs. His eyes, melted into the darkest umber, syrupy with lust, looked up at Ilya. 

Ilya nodded once, adjusting to pull his joggers down just enough to let his erection spring free. He hadn’t put underwear on after the shoot. Manifestation was a beautiful thing. 

Shane wrapped his hand around the base of Ilya’s cock, swirling his tongue around the tip before swallowing him down. A soft gag caused Ilya to jerk his hips as Shane forced himself further, his throat opening. 

“Da, Hollander, fuck,” Ilya moaned, his hand carressing Shane’s face. “Just like that, baby.” 

Shane bobbed his head, his tongue swirling on the way down. One hand came up, rolling Ilya’s balls between his fingers. 

Ilya doubled over, his vision spotting as he moaned. “Oh, fuck!” He leaned back, his free hand gripping the edge of the couch. “Okay, okay, sweetheart,” Ilya went to pull Shane’s mouth from him. He was ready to explode. 

Shane whined, and Ilya came undone, coming down Shane’s throat in short spurts. 

Shane swallowed greedily, Ilya’s hand coming down to reach around his throat, feeling the movement as he sucked Ilya completely dry. 

Ilya wiped around the edges of Shane’s mouth, his thumb sucked into his hot mouth as he pulled off of Ilya’s softening cock. 

“Wow, Shane,” Ilya breathed out, his thumb pushing further into the plushness of Shane’s lips, spit and come covered. “So beautiful.” His finger traced along the freckles on his flushed face. 

Shane nodded, leaning into Ilya’s thigh to rest his cheek. It had happened so fast, the neediness that seemed to consume Shane at the mention of Ilya's idea, the queerness of it, the reverence of it that was left unsaid. That didn’t need to be said. 

Ilya hadn’t even gotten to tell Shane that he would pitch it with the idea of Shane being a model for it. 

As he opened his mouth to tell Shane, he wondered if this was the right time. But the choice was taken away when his phone began to ring with his father’s designated ringtone. 

“I’m sorry, malysh, I have to take this,” Ilya said quietly, pulling his thumb from Shane. Baby.

Shane nodded, remaining on the floor and leaning against the couch. He was rock hard through his joggers. For a second, he debated not answering, ignoring the phone call and diving headfirst, literally, into Shane’s lap, mouth open. 

But Ilya knew he couldn’t. His dad had not called him in a week and a half. Had ignored Ilya’s phone call from two days ago. 

“I will be fast,” Ilya pressed a kiss to the top of his head, grabbed his phone from the coffee table, and moved into his bedroom.

Staring at his reflection in the dresser mirror, rosy and sedated. He wanted to commit his face to memory, duplicating the same relaxation after the phone call. He knew that the Ilya that left the room wasn’t the Ilya that Shane would have returned to him. 

“Privet, papa,” Ilya answered with his tone level, switching to Russian so Shane would not overhear. 

“Ilya, can you hear me?” His father asked, his voice sounding panicked. 

“Da, what is wrong?” He could hear his father moving about, things falling and clanking. “What is happening, papa?” 

“I cannot find your mother!” He sounded angry. “She has not been home today. I do not know where she is. She took all of her things,” he was breathing hard. “Are you with her? Are you at practice?” 

“No, that isn’t poss- wait,” Ilya pinched the bridge of his nose. “Where is Andrei?” 

“I don’t know, probably with Alexander or Dmitri,” he said. “That does not answer my question, Ilya.” 

Ilya blew out a breath. He couldn’t be with Dmitiri, he had died of an overdose three years ago. As for Alexander, that was possible, but not in the context his father was most likely thinking. If the three of them were together, it would have been when they were wreaking havoc upon Moscow time and time again. If Ilya was at practice, and they were together, his father’s head was too far back in years. 

“Papa, mama is not with me. Mama is dead,” he said calmly despite the tears burning his eyes. Never any easier. “Remember?” He asked quietly. 

“What do you mean,” his father snapped. “Ilya Gre-”

“Papa, she died long time ago,” Ilya snapped. “Fuck,” he swore under his breath. He tried to reign it back in, but the words still had a sharp edge to them, “Has Andrei been there today?”

“No,” his father snapped back. “Do not get angry with me. You have no right-”

“I’m not angry with you, papa. Let me call you back,” Ilya hung up and immediately dialed Andrei’s number. His father called Ilya back, and he quickly declined it. At the same time, Andrei’s voicemail came through. 

“Andrei, you need to be with papa. You were supposed to be with him today. He is asking about mama. What do I pay you for?” he snapped and hung up, sucking in a breath. 

His father called. Again. And Again. 

Ilya answered. “Papa, I really cannot talk right now, I-”

“You can never talk. You move to the, what, United States and you are too good for your family. Telling me about your mother as if I do not know.”

“You didn’t-”

“Do not act better than me. You are not. Will not be.” His words were laced with venom, no longer panicked, no longer angry. “Too much like your mother,” he muttered bitterly. 

Ilya relented. There was no use in fighting. They were words he heard again and again from his father. “Okay.” 

His father hung up. His phone notifying him in soft little pings before the stretch of silence. 

Ilya looked at himself in the mirror. His face now flushed with upset, his eyes brimming with tears. He ran a hand through his curls, yanking in irritated overstimulation when a finger got caught. 

It wasn’t the first time that his father asked where Ilya’s mother was. It happened more than Ilya wanted it to, more than Ilya could handle. Having to tell his father, time and time again, his mother was dead. Having to have that moment in his mind of his mother, slumped over and dead. Having to relive the pain of the loss, of having to voice to somebody, anybody, that his mother was no longer with him. 

He took a deep breath and walked back to the living room. The idea of leaving Shane any longer only worsened the ache that had now opened wide in his chest. 

He looked at Shane, who had moved to sitting upright on the couch while Ilya was gone. His erection was still plump against his thigh, his fingers wrapped around his ginger ale can. He looked at Ilya as he sat down beside him. 

“Everything okay?” He asked, pressing his leg into Ilya’s. 

“Mhm, yes,” Ilya turned to face Shane, wrapping a hand around his thigh. “Better now.”

“Ilya.” 

“Shane.” 

Shane’s eyes stared into Ilya’s as he asked gently, “You want to talk about it?” 

Ilya wondered how much Shane had heard. Not that he would understand anything, but he could probably make out Ilya’s tone. Upset with his brother, frustrated and sad with his father, only to end in complete defeat. 

He didn’t want to waste any time with Shane being upset. Not when Shane made him feel so happy. 

“No,” Ilya leaned forward, bracketing his arms around Shane. “Not really,” he whispered into Shane’s ear.

Shane swallowed, shifting closer into Ilya’s space. 

Ilya gripped his hips as he slid onto the floor, positioning Shane so that he was now kneeled between his thighs. He released his grip, sliding his fingers and palms down to the top of Shane’s thighs, squeezing the hard muscle and warm skin. 

He wondered if this was the life Achilles lived. If he was on his knees for Patroclus, something vulnerable and powerful, a heady intoxicating miss at once. He skimmed his hands back up to tug at Shane’s waistband. 

Shane nodded, lifting his hips for Ilya to pull his sweats down and to his ankles. Shane chuckled breathily. “Really? All the way?”

Ilya nipped at the inside of Shane’s thigh. “I want to see you.”

Shane shivered, his skin pebbling beneath Ilya’s touch, his lips, his teeth. Ilya sucked and nibbled up and down Shane’s thigh, relishing in the breathy huffs and moans escaping from above him. 

In a moment of weakness, truly, Ilya was just so intoxicated by the idea of Shane, Shane Shane Shane, he licked up Shane’s thigh, biting down into the side. Not hard, but enough to leave teeth marks, enough to make Shane flinch. He sucked and chewed, just enough to have Shane reaching for Ilya’s hair. 

“Fuck,” Shane threw his head back. “Ilya, please,” his cock drooled along his abdomen, a drop glistening and dripping down his length.

Ilya released his thigh with a pop, smoothing his tongue over the teeth shaped marks, dipping into each groove. His own cock twitched. 

Shane glanced down and widened his eyes. “Oh.” 

“Sorry,” Ilya said, though he didn’t mean it. 

“No, don’t, I- Fuck, why is it so hot?”

Ilya smirked, winking as he blew cool air onto Shane’s tip. His hips buckled and Ilya chuckled. “Did you still want to talk?” he teased. 

Shane’s eyes widened. “I- No, I mean yes, but not right now, I need…”

Ilya huffed a laugh from his nose as a smile spread across his face. “Tell me what you need, malchik.” baby boy. 

Shane took a few breaths before saying. “You,” in a hushed tone filled with desire. “I need you.”

“You have me,” Ilya pressed a kiss to the tip of Shane’s cock, then the base of it. 

“I need you,” Shane repeated.

“My mouth, my hand, my cock,” Ilya listed off lazily. “What will it be?”

The brown of Shane’s eyes was consumed by the inky black of his pupils, melting with a burning fire. “Mouth,” he all but whimpered. “Hands,” he added quickly, nodding to himself as he spread his thighs a little further. “Please,” he breathed out. 

Ilya pouted his lips out, pressing them to the tip of Shane’s cock, capturing the weeping, salty liquid onto his bottom lip. “You did ask so nicely,” Ilya whispered, collecting more precum onto his bottom lip. “Why don’t you kiss me first? Taste how good you are.” 

Shane’s lips parted. “Okay,” he breathed out, his fingers lazily grabbing for Ilya. 

Ilya pressed his palms into Shane’s thighs as he kissed him, slowly, lazily. Shane sucked on Ilya’s bottom lip, a soft, throaty noise escaping as Ilya slowly pulled away. 

“How did it taste?” Ilya’s hand wrapped around Shane’s cock as he leaned back, moving to press open mouthed kisses to Shane’s thighs. 

Shane slowly blinked. “Good.”

“That is it? Just good?” 

“Uh, salty. Kinda sweet.”

Ilya winked up at him as he swallowed him down, nuzzling his nose against the groomed thatch of thin, velvety hair. He inhaled deeply and Shane gasped, arching his hips forward. Ilya held him down, sucking and slurping, moving his head up and down Shane’s length. 

“Ilya I-I’m,” Shane moaned loudly, his thighs quivering. “Going to-Fuck!”

Ilya moaned around him, rubbing his thumbs into Shane’s bare hips in small, deep circles. Shane threw his head back, groaning loud and deep as he came, his chest rising and falling rapidly as Ilya milked him through his orgasm. His thumbs pressed deep into the hollows of the dips of his body as he swallowed around him. Shane’s thighs pressed against Ilya’s shoulders tightly, trapping him, trembling.

“Oh my God,” Shane breathed out as Ilya pulled off of him and moved up the length of Shane’s body. With their foreheads pressed together, Shane’s lips pressed to Ilya’s. “That was so good.”

Ilya pecked his lips against Shane’s, over and over. “You are so good.” He moved to sit next to Shane on the couch, pulling him over to straddle his lap.   

Shane’s thighs pressed against Ilya’s sides, his hands sliding up under his shirt to press against the hard lines of his abdomen. Ilya did the same, sliding up underneath Shane’s shirt to caress his chest. Nothing sexual, but soft touches, ones that rooted them together, their hearts speaking through their hands in rapid thumps of feeling.

They didn’t speak. Their hands roamed, carefree and all consuming in one another. Their breaths were warm against one another's faces, close enough to kiss, but opting instead to share the space, share their lungs. 

Ilya’s eyes fluttered, shutting, but still seeing the constellation of small, sepia stars across smooth valleys of skin, tinted with affection, with lust, with the love that Ilya was pouring into Shane with each breath. 

Love. 

Is this what Ilya can finally admit is the ache in his chest that he’s had since meeting Shane?

Is love a feeling of an all consuming haze? Is love the desire to tell everything to that person? Is love the want to breathe the other in, to exhale slowly, savoring the test of them on their tongue, in their lungs. 

Ilya broke the silence first with a soft exhale, a small sound escaping between his lips as he pressed his nose to Shane. “Does it scare you?” 

Shane breathed out slowly against Ilya’s lips and nodded, his nose sliding against Ilya’s, his forehead wrinkling against his. “Terrifies me,” he whispered. 

Ilya reached his hands up to hold Shane’s back, splaying his fingers to be like wings against the hard muscle. He felt the ripple under his fingertips as Shane’s hands came up to grip his shoulders, his nails pressing into the skin lightly. 

“Do you want to stay the night?” Ilya asked quietly. 

“My flight is tomorrow afternoon.”

“I can take you to the airport.” 

“My things are at the hotel.”

“Rose can bring, yes?” Ilya leaned back to face Shane, whose bottom lip was sucked between his teeth. “Or, you go back to hotel in the morning. Use app to take you back if you want.” He recognized the concern in Shane’s face. The ability to be caught early in the morning with a sleepy Shane was appealing to him, but he could see it was not for Shane. 

Shane’s arrival to the hotel in the morning would be met with cameras flashing. The chanting of his name, the twinkle of light blinding his sleepy eyes as he walked through the revolving doors, maybe with Ilya on his mind, maybe with regret, maybe with love.

But it would create a moment in time that was no longer theirs. Public speculation for his overnight outing. Taken and shared publicly. 

All because people most likely knew he had a flight tomorrow morning and would be seen leaving. Seen arriving, only to leave again, would create a tabloid. 

“There is no pressure,” Ilya said quietly. He massaged his thumbs down into Shane’s skin. 

“I’ll stay a little bit longer,” Shane leaned his head on Ilya’s shoulder, inhaling deeply, his weight falling into his chest. 

Ilya wrapped his arms around him fully, his fingers grazing underneath Shane’s t-shirt, his nails tracking light marks across his warm skin. “Today was a good day.”

Shane hummed. 

“You did very good with Peleton.” 

Shane shook his head. 

“You did,” Ilya said, squeezing him.

“I just want to understand,” Shane turned his head to look up at Ilya. Ilya gazed down, the angle awkward, allowing him to take in the soft curve of Shane’s cheek. “You make it look so easy.”

“What do you mean, dorogoy?”

“The camera loves you. You love the camera.” Shane sits up, his hands gripping Ilya’s shoulders. “You demand the room's attention. I can’t do that. I always get told I’m doing it wrong.” 

Ilya frowns, his hand snaking out from underneath Shane’s shirt to smooth the crease of his brow. 

“You say I make it look easy. It is because of my people. They support me. I have always been…” Ilya cocked his head to the side. “There is a word, uh, exotic,” Ilya tensed at the phrase as soon as he said it. “I have people who help me with that.”

Shane shook his head. “How can you be seen like that and still do it?”

“Why do you?”

Shane’s eyes widened as he reeled back the littlest bit. His fingers gripped tighter to Ilya’s skin, his blunt nails creating small crescents. 

Ilya moved his hands to wrap around Shane’s thighs, now loosely wrapped around him like soft drapery. “You have to keep confidence up. Remind them that you are the one in charge, not them.”

“But they are,” Shane argued weekly. 

“You’re the one they want in the ad, in the clothes,” Ilya leaned forward, saying quietly, “You are the beauty. Not them.” 

Shane shivered, nodding once. 

Ilya pressed his lips to Shane’s, melting into him just as he did into Ilya. 

There was a poison in his lips, the sweetness of him as he pressed Ilya into the couch, his fingers cupping his face. It was enough. It was more than enough. Ilya felt the rush through his chest, his brain, his heart. 

Ilya was drowning in Shane’s empire. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

When Shane got out of the car he ordered, he was immediately met with Rose. His mother was coming out the door, her phone to her ear. He heard her say a quick, “Oh, he’s here,” and hung up. 

Cameras were flashing from all directions, his name being called from all around him, slicing like jagged edges into the dark, cool air. 

Shane hadn’t expected them to already be there. 

“Shane Hollander, to the left, please!” 

“Shane Hollander, this way please!”

“Shane!” 

“Mr. Hollander, can you smile for People!” 

Shane ducked his head between Rose and his mother as he walked into the hotel. He inhaled deeply the scent of Ilya Rozanov’s hoodie that hung over his frame. Ilya had pulled it over Shane’s head and told him it was because it had gotten colder into the night. Ilya claimed it was old, one he never wore out, so it would go unnoticed by any prying eyes. 

He hoped that Ilya was right.

But the warm, rich scent of Ilya helped calm his nerves as the hotel doors shut out the calls of his name and dulled the flash of the cameras as his mother and Rose led him to the elevator. 

Shane wished that he didn’t need to come back to the hotel. He’d do anything to be curled in Ilya’s bed, probably naked, his back pressed into Ilya’s chest as Ilya traced idle circles over his curved stomach. He wondered if Ilya snored really loud, if he twitched in his sleep, if he talked. 

But he did the right thing, coming back. They were waiting for him. If he had arrived in the morning, with no potential parties to have been at and no sightings, people would question. It was the hungry eyes of the fans that lurked in every corner. People predicted where Shane would be before he even showed up. To shock them with coming back to the hotel in the early hours, absolutely satiated and in all borrowed clothing, would put him on the front of every gossip magazine that he wanted to avoid. 

It wasn’t fair, Shane thought bitterly, to let strangers control his life, his subconscious. 

“Good night?” His mother asked, pulling him from his thoughts as he pressed the button to go up. “You didn’t say you were going to be late after the shoot. I was surprised to see Rose come back without you.”

“I was just hanging out with some of the guys from the shoot,” Shane lied weakly, leaning against the back of the elevator when they got in. His fingers were shoved into the front pockets of the worn blue hoodie. 

“Who’s hoodie is that?” His mother asked, turning to him. 

Rose immediately jumped in. “I went out to Naimie’s after the shoot and I got some of that blue eyeliner I wanted to try on you! I think it will pop with that silver outfit that Balenciaga wanted for you next month.”

Shane nodded. “Yeah,” he cleared his throat. “Yeah, I think that it’ll make my eyes pop.” 

As they got out of the elevator, Shane made his way to his room rather quickly. “Well, I should really get my stuff packed.”

“I can help you,” Rose offered. 

His mom stared between the two of them, then nodded once. “You two have fun,” she winked as she walked into her hotel room that was right across the hall from Shane’s. 

As Shane keyed into his room, Rose all but pushed him in. 

“Ilya’s hoodie?”

“My mom thinks we’re together again?”

They both stared at each other. Shane’s lip quirked up as Rose laughed. 

Shane shook his head as he sat down on the edge of his bed, laughing incredulously. “Oh my God,” he muffled into his hands. 

“So you and Ilya?”

“It’s… yeah… I don’t know.” 

Rose nodded, sitting down next to him and resting her head on his shoulder. “You seem to really like him.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess I do.” 

I like him a little too much, he wanted to say. 

The thought both exhilarated and terrified him. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Ilya ran his fingers through his hair, leaning against his shut apartment door. He sank down slowly, sitting and stretching his legs out. 

Shane would go back. He would see the photos of him arrive at the hotel. That’s how he would know he made it home safe. Then maybe he would get the text message he asked for: “Let me know when you get back, yes?” Ilya had asked, his breath mingling with Shane’s. 

Shane had pressed his lips to Ilya’s, nodding into the kiss. “Of course,” he had breathed, then pulled away and walked out the door. 

Ilya reached into his pocket and grabbed his phone, unlocking it and scrolling to his messages with Svetlana. He pressed call and leaned his head back. 

“Ilya,” She said immediately. “It is four in the morning–”

“Da, I needed to hear your voice.”

There was rustling over the line. “What happened?” 

“I… was with Shane Hollander.” 

Svetlana’s breath pulling tight into her lungs is the only thing Ilya heard. Silence pulsed, heavy and intense through the receiver. 

“Not for the first time.”

“Oh?”

“It feels… real. Real now. I wanted to,” Ilya sucked in a breath. “I needed to tell you.” 

“Tell me everything.”

So, Ilya did. Told her about his soft lips and careful gaze. About the laugh that made Ilya’s chest swell and his heart try to escape his ribcage. How, tonight, he wondered if this was what love was supposed to feel like. 

“I do not want tragedy. I want this.” 

“Why would it be tragedy?” 

“He is scared.”

“And you are not?”

Ilya gazed out the window at the twinkling skyline. His phone buzzed with messages from Shane. 

 

Shane: At the hotel

Shane: Thanks for the hoodie ;)

“I am terrified.”

Chapter 7: VI

“And this look here,” Ilya said, showing the panel, including Ryan Price, his design. “Will be worn by Hayden Pike,” he was confident in his tone, not having asked him personally, but knowing he would not turn down an opportunity with YSL. 

The design to be worn by Hayden Pike was created with him in mind, images of Hermes playing a role in Ilya’s craft. The white blouse, rushed to the left, would fall into a red belt, which would wrap both up around his arm into a train, and train out from his left behind him. The pants would be a wide legged white of the same color, gold trim dancing around the bottoms, swaying above golden sandals with red crystals. 

“Wow,” Anna Winstay, a fashion designer with YSL for ten years, said as her eyes scanned it. “You would have Hayden Pike?” She sounded surprised.

Ilya knew that each model in mind was not only the most popular, but the most expensive. Confidence was key, he knew that going into it. If he had high ambitions for the models coming, it showed that his show was of that level. And who was YSL to not want the best?

Ilya chuckled. “Of course, he will be good to have alongside Shane Hollander.”

Ryan’s mouth opened on an inhale. 

“Shane Hollander?” James Limbowski, a creative mind behind the scenes, questioned, shock not hidden from his voice. 

“You will have Troy Barrett, Harris Drover, Scott Hunter, Hayden Pike, and Shane Hollander in one show?” Anna asked incredulously. 

“Is problem?” Ilya raised an eyebrow, reaching to grab his final two drawings. 

“Is expensive, which okay,” James said with a tilt of his head. “And most likely impossible. There is no way they all will. And it seems, and correct me if I am wrong here, Rozanov, but the show is based around ensuring they are all a part of it.”

Ilya nodded, thinking through his words. Ilya knew that was true, but he also started the process of asking before– a way to give him a competitive edge to be picked over other designers. 

“I have already spoken with Troy and Harris. Scott has not gotten back to me yet. Hayden will, and Shane will, too.”

“Shane Hollander,” Ryan said, shaking his head. “He’ll be an impossible grab. Between his partners and schedule–”

“He will not,” Ilya cut him off confidently, laying the drawing out before them. 

It was Ilya’s one true masterpiece of design. The model was Shane Hollander, dressed in a sashing of maroon that bled into a midnight blue. A gold belt peaked out from the fabric that draped over one shoulder, the other bare, a pec exposed. The pants were black, with inlaid designs of golden olive branches. 

Then, beside it, Ilya laid out his design for himself, his hair grown out for the design to have the most impact. Golden olive branches pressed into his hair on either side. His outfit a golden chest plate, bleeding into a midnight blue, wide-leg pant. Across his neck, draped down his side, a red sash with a harp brooch to tie it together. 

“Shane will be Patroculus.”

Nobody spoke, three sets of eyes taking in the details on the pages. Ryan’s lips were parted in awe, or maybe shock at Ilya’s talent. Either way, the design made Ilya preen. 

“And I will be Achilles.” 

The air grew thick as the silence spanned. 

Ilya thought the pitch went well, until they realized the star studded crew he wanted. Even then, they kind of came back around to it, he thought. Ilya wanted to go big, that was all! He wanted to show off his fashion on the people who were fashion right now. Who had been making an impact, and would continue to because… well, Ilya just knew they would. 

Generational impacts and whatever he read in a tabloid once about Shane’s reveal of being a partner of the house of Balenciaga. 

Isn’t that what Saint Laurent would want, too? 

“This is impressive,” Ryan Price spoke first. “Stunning visually, with models chosen to wear each one of these incredibly well.”

The other two panel members nodded in agreement.

“Budget wise, this is expensive,” James bit his lip. “Worth it, with a magnitude like this.” 

Anna shrugged a shoulder, her perfectly manicured fingers tracing the edge of his Patroclus design. “I say we do it.” 

“As do I,” Ryan agreed. 

James nodded. 

Ilya lit up, tears welling in his eyes from joy, from excitement. 

He made it. 

Reaching up, he wrapped his fist around his cross, squeezing it once. He sent a silent and tearful thank you to his mother.

“Thank you,” Ilya whispered under his breath, wiping a hand over his face. Clearing his throat, he said thickly, “Wow, uh, thank you.”

“Let us make copies of your designs. You keep the originals in case we need to call you to tweak anything with fabrics or colors. Overall though,” James stood from his chair and gathered each design. “All of these patterns and colors are well thought out. Any issue should truly be minimal.”  

“This will be your best show,” Ilya said, sliding the designs into their folders carefully.

“As long as all these models are here,” Ryan winked. “Don’t want your designs to lose any of their power.” 

“As long as you have Shane Hollander,” James chuckled. “Him alongside you would be a powerhouse on the runway.” 

Ilya beamed, shaking each one of their hands. 

A powerhouse on the runway. 

Ilya wanted the two of them to be a powerhouse. If Ilya could have it his way, he would design all of Shane’s clothing for the rest of his life. Shane would be the prettiest, most well dressed person on the planet. Ilya would draw him hoodies and sweatpants and even socks if he wanted, if he asked. Even if he didn’t, Ilya would because it’s the only way he could give Shane his entire world. 

“Oh, I will do everything to make sure Shane Hollander is on runway with me.” 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Ilya slid the originals into his bag and reached for his phone. He would leave for the airport in two hours. Plenty of time to pack for his long weekend in Canada to shoot his part for the new Tierney movie. 

He couldn’t wait to get there. Have time to see Shane. 

He reached for his phone, pressing Svetlana’s contact and listening to it ring, his face filling the screen. “Please pick up. Please pick up,” he repeated aloud, pacing around his room. Packing could wait. 

Ilya was officially a runway show coordinator, a designer, and a model for one show. The holy trinity of the fashion world and Ilya was holding it in the palm of his hands shaped like the art at the MET. 

“Privet, detka,” Svetlana answered the call sweetly, her face lighting up as she looked at Ilya. “You look happy about something,” she narrowed her eyes. “Tell me everything.”

“I got the show!” Ilya all but shouted, throwing one arm up into the air. He didn’t try, couldn’t try even if he wanted to, to contain his excitement. 

“Ilya!” Svetlana gasped, her eyes widening as she brought the screen closer. “Ilya, I am so proud of you!” 

“And you will be in it.”

“Ya?”

Ilya nodded. “Da, as Thetis, Achille’s mother. Felt most fitting. Design is,” Ilya sat down as he spoke, reaching to pull back out his folder. He switched camera views to show her the design. “I trust nobody else to wear it. Only you.”

The design was placed on an outline of her likeness, dressed in a deep aqua blue. Sleeves draped, ombreing into a sealike green that cascaded and trained behind her. Lace decorated the bodice, accentuating the curvature of breasts. Upon her head was a green crown, vines like seaweed and interlayed with what would be jewels in the cut of seashells. 

“Oh, Ilya…” Svetlana’s eyes roamed across the screen as she took in the details. “This is phenomenal.”

“I spent a lot of time on this,” Ilya admitted. “I am tired. So tired. But in good way.”

Svetlana nodded, leaning back from the camera. Ilya smiled at her. He was excited to share a stage with Svetlana, to showcase her beauty to the whole world. But it went beyond that. There was a reason she was to be Thetis. 

Svetlana was the closest thing to a mother he had. She cared for him like he was the most precious thing to her. And maybe he was, at times, especially when he was contemplating the point of the universe. 

“Ya lyublyu tebya,” she whispered, wiping her eyes. “I will let you know when they contact me about a fitting.”

“Will be soon,” Ilya replied, setting the phone down and sliding his folder back into his bag. “You like it? I wanted to ask, but surprise is more fun.”

Wiping her eyes, Svetlana chuckled. “I love it. I love you.” 

Ilya beamed and nodded once. Between the ache in his chest full of love and sadness, he felt an ache of longing. Not for himself, but for Shane. Suddenly, he was gripped with the need for Shane to meet Svetlana. His two favorite people in one room, talking, sharing stories. Maybe even sharing about Ilya, making each other laugh as they held Ilya between them and made him feel loved, valued, seen.

“You leave for Canada soon, yes?” Svetlana asked, pulling him from his thoughts. 

Ilya nodded, then when he realized he wasn’t in the frame, he called out, “Da.” 

“You are there all weekend?” 

“Will film during most of it,” Ilya replied easily, folding his favorite worn white t-shirt and setting it into his duffel. 

“And when you are not filming?”

Ilya sucked in a breath. “I will be with Shane.”

Svetlana nodded. She didn’t speak, she just stared. Ilya slowly put his face into the camera, causing Svetlana to wiggle her eyebrows. 

Ilya glanced at his door, his cheeks heating with a blush he absolutely refused when Svetlana gasped and said, “Ilya!” and instead started thinking about the way Shane had filled the space of his apartment when he had been there. The way he laid in Ilya’s lap. The way Ilya wanted to bring him into his bed, not only to have sex with him, but to hold him in the night, to have his nightmares fade away in the waves of Shane’s even breaths. 

To know that, in a few hours, he would be getting off the plane, in the dark, wearing sunglasses and a baseball hat to get into Shane Hollander’s car, to go back to his place– it set his body into a feeling of warm static. 

It was Shane’s idea, a simple response to Ilya explaining to him the filming itinerary for when he got there. Shane had asked if he had a hotel, Ilya said he was booking it, and Shane told him he could stay with him. 

Ilya had never wanted anything more in his life. 

He wanted to see how Shane lived. Wanted to see the photos on his walls and the sheets on his bed. The color of his towels and the smell of his lofted apartment. Was it sweet like his bodywash or earthy like his cologne? Was it like his fabric softener? Did he use fabric softener? 

This, Ilya supposed, not for the first time and not for the last, was what love was supposed to make you curious about. 

“I think I am in love,” he whispered, the word tasting right as it dripped from his tongue like warm honey. 

Svetlana didn’t speak as she repositioned the phone atop some pillows so she could face him, her hands folded in her lap. Her fingers flexed once, twice, before moving up to her face, wiping her eyes. 

“Do not cry,” Ilya whispered. “I am okay-”

“I know,” her voice was small, wet. “I am happy for you. For,” she waved her hand around in the air in front of her face. “All of this. The show, the… Shane. You deserve it. So, so much,” she breathed the last word, her hand dropping back into her lap. “Your mother… she would be so proud of you. Who you have become.”

Ilya pursed his lips, looking away from the camera and toward the bathroom attached to his bedroom. The door was open just enough for him to see the nightlight plugged into the sink outlet. Dark bathrooms held dark nightmares. He did not fear much, but he feared a bathroom with pills scattered across the floor and the laboured final breaths of his mother. 

His mother was strong, made weak by man. She never let it show to Ilya, always being strong, always encouraging Ilya to be himself. 

She knew of his passion for the arts, the way his gaze as a twelve year old boy would linger on attractive male servers or peers he would leave hockey practice with. In every word, in every hug, Ilya’s mother told him that everything he wanted and loved and yearned for was right. 

Was this not the most right Ilya felt in his entire life? 

Right and scared at the same time. 

His mother would be proud of him. 

Ilya sniffled, wiping his eyes and turning back to the camera. “I think she would be, yes.” 

Svetlana listened, offering soothing sounds and words of affirmation as Ilya cried, the phone abandoned on the bed as he buried his face in his hands. 

His rightness was swallowed by the reminder that his loss never healed, will never be fully healed. Nobody could replace it, not Svetlana, no matter how hard she, and he, tried to make it heal. It would never heal from his father, never from his brother.

Those were all that he had left. 

Shane would never fill it either, Ilya knew that. Knew that nobody could, no matter how hard it hurt to realize, over and over and over again. 

But Shane’s presence fit snugly next to Svetlana, crowding out his father, his brother, his demons. 

“I need to finish packing,” Ilya muffled into his hands.

“You are allowed to cry,” Svetlana said soothingly, like a warm hug wrapped in a gentle voice. 

“I am,” Ilya sat up straighter and grabbed his phone. His reflection stared back at him, eyes puffy and pink. “I need to stop,” he mumbled, wiping his face. “Cannot be ugly for Shane Hollander.”

“You are a pretty crier. Shane would probably agree.” 

“Not as pretty of crier as him.”

“Ilya Rozanov!” Svetlana shook her head. “Why are you making Shane cry?” When she saw Ilya’s smirk start to spread along his face, Svetlana started to shake her head. “No, Ilya, no do not answer. I understand.” 

“But what if you do not?” Ilya teased. “When he is so close-”

“Ilya, I swear-”

“He full body quivers and his face-”

“Ilya, pozhaluysta-”

“Tears roll down as he comes,” Ilya said firmly, nodding his head in finality. 

“Are you done?”

Ilya cocked his head in thought. Did he want to be done? All he wanted to do was share the beauty of Shane Hollander. But some things were best kept sacred. The beauty of his brown eyes as they glaze over in lust, shining sweetly with tears as he looks up at Ilya. The way his lips form around his name, swollen from his teeth, and Ilya’s, as he fights sobbing moans. The arch of his back as he shakes, coming undone in Ilya’s arms, his tummy swelling and shivering as he comes and clenches around Ilya’s own deep release. 

Yeah, some things he wanted to keep for his eyes only. Nobody else was allowed to know just how beautiful Shane was in those moments. 

It would make them too jealous. 

“Da, I am done.” 

“Did that help you?”

Ilya laughed as he stood up. “Thank you, Svetlana.”

She shook her head. “I will need to know more when I meet Shane. Will need a different image of him.”

“That one is so pretty, but he is all mine. You are not allowed to see–”

Svetlana laughed, cutting him off. “Okay, okay!”

“Besides,” Ilya said, moving to his closet and grabbing the shirts he had set aside to pack. “You will meet him in show.”

“He will be in the show, too?”

“As Patroclus.”

“Does he know?”

Ilya shook his head, his eyes falling on the folder packed away in his bag. The shoot. Shane Hollander. Ilya felt on top of the world, all things considered. He didn’t want this feeling to ever go away, one of success, one of love, mingled into an intoxicating mix. 

“Not yet,” he said. “But he will soon.” 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Shane tapped his fingers against the steering wheel as he pulled into his garage spot at his apartment. The drive from the airport had been easy, talking with Ilya about the weekend weather, about the time of his shoot the following day. Shane told Ilya that he had looked and Ilya’s filming was actually within walking distance of his apartment. His shoot time was early enough in the day that his leaving wouldn’t cause a stir if somebody happened to know Shane lived there and the Ilya Rozanov was leaving it. 

Ilya had nodded along with him, interjecting comments about being excited or, to Shane’s surprise, asking him his favorite way to drink coffee. 

But now, in the garage, getting ready to go up to his pent house apartment, he felt a surge of pressure, tinged with both panic and desire. Ilya would have to see his space, see that he lived a very… boring life in comparison. Shane’s apartment wasn’t filled with art and color and plants like Ilya’s was. It didn’t have the life, the smell, the appearance of an apartment made into a home. 

Ilya’s hand squeezed Shane’s thigh once, pulling him from his thoughts. 

“You ready to go in?” Ilya asked, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair. Shane watched as his curls wrapped around the sunglasses’ temples like little arms. 

Shane nodded, exhaling as he bounced the same thigh. “We’ll go in the elevator there,” he said, getting out of the car and going to grab Ilya’s bag from the trunk. 

“I can carry my bag,” he said, reaching for it. 

“I got it.”

“Shane.”

“You’re my guest!” Shane laughed as he carried the bag over to the elevator.

 Ilya’s arms wrapped around his waist and shifted him off balance, holding him upright. He rubbed his thumb along Shane’s hip, pressing his t-shirt up to press cool finger tips against Shane’s overheated skin. Shane shivered, allowing some of his weight to rest into Ilya’s willing arms. 

“All alone in parking garage,” Ilya said lowly, wiggling his eyebrows. “A lot could happen.”

“Absolutely not,” Shane immediately replied, eyes darting to scan the empty parking garage. 

“You are no fun.” 

“I am practical. Rational.”

Ilya blew a raspberry as they stepped into the empty elevator that arrived. Shane pressed the button, hiking Ilya’s backpack up his shoulder. Ilya leaned against the wall next to Shane, folding his arms and taking him in. Shane could feel his gaze on him like a brand. 

“I got plenty of snacks,” Shane supplied, staring at the little red numbers to indicate they were moving up. “And Coke. I… I grabbed these things called Flaming Hot Cheetos. I saw you, uh, had a few different hot sauces in your fridge.”

Ilya blinked. “You bought me Cheetos?”

“They’re supposed to be very hot.” 

Ilya smiled soft and uncrossed his arms, stepping into Shane’s space. “Mhm, yes,” Ilya wrapped his arms around Shane’s waist, as if he was magnetized and couldn’t be away from him any more. “Not as hot as you, I am sure.” 

Shane rolled his eyes, stepping off the elevator into his apartment. He toed his shoes off by the door, tucked them into the empty space on the mat, and walked toward his table, setting Ilya’s bags down. It was all routine of Shane when he got home, except now Ilya was in his space and Ilya’s bag was in his arms.

 He turned to Ilya, who was placing his shoes behind Shane’s, his eyes taking in the sterile space around him. Shane watched as Ilya’s eyes rested on the shelf below his TV, which only had a few little awards from modelling, a clock from his mother, and a photo of him with his parents from when he worked at the ice rink. 

What did Ilya think when he walked in? Did he wonder if Shane ever actually stayed here? If he had any personality besides the very limited family photos. 

“So many pillows,” Ilya murmured, walking toward Shane. “Is just a couch.”

Shane shrugged a shoulder. “Comfort is key?” He meant it as a statement, but it came out questioning. Shane felt the corners of his mouth dip down. 

Ilya nodded, snaking his arms around Shane’s waist and lifting him up onto his kitchen table. Shane’s legs instantly snaked around his waist, a deep flush creeping up his neck. Shane knew that he would need to clean the dining room table before they ate their breakfast there. 

“Your place smells nice,” Ilya whispered into Shane’s ear, wrapping his lips around his earlobe and sucking gently. 

“Uhm, thank you,” Shane said, craning his neck to the side as Ilya moved lower, placing open mouthed kisses down his neck. 

Shane reveled in the feeling. His eyes fluttered shut as he narrowed into the feeling of Ilya’s body pressing up against his, Ilya’s fingers gripping his waist, Ilya’s mouth, hot and wet, against his skin. 

“What time,” Shane groaned breathily, adjusting to pull Ilya closer, his arms wrapped around him, squeezing the hard muscle of his back. “What time do you need to leave in the morning?”

Ilya hummed against Shane’s collarbone, his nose tickling his pulse. “Six.”

“Ilya!” Shane leaned away from him. “It’s already two in the morning,” he hissed, carding his fingers through his hair. 

Ilya shrugged. 

“We can’t… start anything right now. You have to be up.”

Ilya groaned, nuzzling up into Shane’s hand. “I think you are quick enough.” 

“Ilya,” Shane cupped his face and turned their eyes to face one another. He wanted nothing more than to slide off the table onto his knees, but he couldn’t. Ilya had to be ready for tomorrow and Shane wasn’t going to be the reason he wouldn’t be. 

“Fine,” Ilya groaned. “When I get back tomorrow. First thing.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I can be waiting. C’mon,” Shane moved off the table, grabbing Ilya’s bags and walking down the hall. 

Ilya wrapped around Shane’s waist, spinning him into the room Shane was guiding him to. “My big strong man carrying my bags. So sweet, my pretty boy.”

His cock pulsed against the tight constraints of his boxers as he set Ilya’s bag on the floor by his bed. Ilya playfully disentangled with Shane by pushing him onto the bed.

Shane looked up at Ilya, his pulse quickening rapidly. “We’ll uh,” he groaned when Ilya slotted his hips against Shane’s. “Sleep in here.”

“Together?” Ilya asked, pupils still growing wide. 

“I can sleep on the couch-”

“No,” Ilya said, wrapping his hand around Shane’s thigh. “No, I want to. Sleep with you.”

Shane nodded, staring up at Ilya. “Then we need to get ready for bed,” Shane whispered, his hard cock pushing against Ilya’s like a traitor. 

Eventually, they orbited around one another in their bedtime routines as if they had their entire lives. Shane brushed his teeth, mouthwashing while Ilya brushed his. Their toothbrushes set side by side on the sink as they made their way to Shane’s bed. Both clad in boxers and t-shirts, until Ilya pulled his off. 

“I get hot when sleeping,” Ilya admitted sheepishly, pulling the covers back to lie down beside Shane. 

Shane nodded, laying back on his pillow and turning to face Ilya. Ilya turned to face him. Their breaths mingled, their noses touched, and they stayed in the warm presence of one another. 

“Plus, you like my body,” Ilya breathed out, a joke spoken with reverence. 

“Fuck you.”

Shane listened to Ilya’s breathing even out into sleep. His arms were wrapped around Ilya as if he was a giant teddy bear made for Shane. He nuzzled further into Ilya’s chest, reveling in the heady scent of his leftover cologne from the day and scent of his skin. As he felt himself start to doze, he couldn’t stop thinking of Ilya tomorrow, coming back from the shoot to Shane’s home, to fall into Shane literally and figuratively. 

This is what they mean, Shane knows now, when they say not to talk to strangers. 

They aren’t always just dangerous. 

They could make you fall in love, too. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

When Shane woke up, his body was wrapped around the soft plushness of a pillow that smelled a lot like Ilya Rozanov. Kicking his legs to disentangle from the sheets, Shane opened his eyes to the darkness of his room, the soft glow of the first moments of sunlight winking in between the crease of the curtains. 

Ilya wasn’t there.

Shane thought about how he slept the best he had in years. Strong arms smoothing his hair in his sleep. A soft breath creating a lullaby against his sleepy head as he nuzzled into warm skin.

It was never an option Shane considered for himself. Being… somebody. Wanting to be somebody’s. It wasn’t enough to be in the public eye, to feel scrutinized from every angle for existing differently than what was expected, what was already preconceived from eyes that only saw his public persona. Shane had to be gay, had to have another layer to himself that, if the public knew, would want to dismantle piece by piece just like every other part of him. 

Shane knew he tried to hold it back. Tried to love Rose, tried to love somebody with soft lines of skin and what was expected, wanted, by everybody but him. 

It was Ilya Rozanov who destroyed any notion of Shane ever being able to believe he could be anything but… well, really gay, ever again. 

But it scared him, fuck, did it scare him. To know that he was not what the universe wanted him to be. That the women who stared at him, commented about wanting to have his children, would never stand a chance.

But that fear was not in the way he thought it would present itself. It was distress with sharp teeth that didn’t quite bite the way he thought they would. Shane had already been ruined by the harsh edges of reality around him. This fear was controllable, as long as he kept this part of him contained, hidden from the prying eyes and sharp claws. 

Sitting up, Shane wiped the sleep from his eyes and checked his phone. Ilya had only slept for maybe two hours, why did he not try to sleep this extra hour?

Why did Shane care?

Love.

Shane ran both hands over his face as he grabbed his t-shirt and put it on. He would go about his day and try to be back before Ilya got back. He could pick Ilya up, if he dressed and hid himself just right. 

As he walked out of his bedroom, he heard the crinkle of a bag. He squinted, adjusting to the light of his kitchen being on, Ilya sitting at the table, his hand disappeared in the bag of Flamin Hot Cheetos, his other wrapped around his phone, thumb scrolling. 

Beside him were two cups of to-go coffees from the shop two blocks from Shane’s apartment. Ilya’s was milky and iced, a huge cup. There was a smaller white cup, steam suffocated by the stopper pressed into the drink opening.

“Good morning,” Shane announced himself.

Ilya looked up, popping a few cheetos in his mouth. He smiled as he chewed, nodding his head toward the cup of coffee. “Mhm, mhm, for you,” he said, his hand covering his mouth as he finished swallowing. “Black, earthy medium roast. No cream. No sugar. Like crazy person.” 

Shane’s first thought was one that grabbed at his heart, squeezing it, as if he had reached into his chest and was ready to offer it to Ilya– I just want to be yours. 

“I, uh, thank you,” Shane said, the words tasting sour on his tongue when all he wanted to ask was, please, can you feel this too? 

“I also got you bagel in fridge. Cream cheese, lox, some greens.” Ilya took a sip of his coffee, licking his fingers after, and getting up. Shane wanted to be revolted at the odd combination of flavors, but he couldn’t find it within himself. 

“I was not sure when you would wake up,” Ilya wrapped Shane in a hug, pulling him into his chest. He inhaled, nose pressed in Shane’s bedhead. “I already ate my bagel. I have to leave soon.”

Shane’s arms were wrapped around Ilya’s middle as he hummed his acknowledgement. “Thank you.” 

They stood in the kitchen, arms wrapped around one another. When Ilya tipped Shane’s head for a kiss, he huffed a small laugh at the absurdity of it all. Shane hadn’t even brushed his teeth yet, but here was Ilya wanting a slow, languid kiss. Ilya’s hand cradled his jaw, deepening the kiss that, for Shane, tasted salty and fiery and sweet.

When Ilya pulled away, his eyes were hooded. “I will be back by six, I hope.” 

Shane nodded. “I have a meeting with my manager around noon, then a fitting with Balenciaga. I shouldn’t be far behind you.” 

Ilya cocked his head, his eyes looking beyond Shane’s head. Shane recognized the darting of his eyes and the crinkle between his brows as an expression Ilya made when he tried to process the words, understand the idiom.

Shane squeezed his waist and Ilya looked at him again. “I might not be back by six, but I won’t be much later than six.”

Ilya pursed his lips. “Good. I would be so bored in boring apartment without you.”

“It’s not that boring.”

“No? I will explore it when I am home before you. Find something exciting.”

“Uh huh,” Shane rolled his eyes as he removed himself from Ilya’s arms and walked over to his coffee. The cup was warm against his fingertips. “Like what?”

Ilya moved his head from side to side. “Hidden monster in closet, air hockey table, giant dildo-”

Shane choked on his sip of coffee, shaking his head as he coughed and cleared his throat. “Seriously, Ilya-”

Ilya laughed, grabbing his coffee and phone off the table. “Okay, I must go, gimme kiss.”

“I just did.”

Ilya gasped, putting his free hand over his heart. Turning and walking toward the door, he announced, “Shane Hollander no longer wants to kiss me. Probably wants to kiss giant monster dil-”

“Okay! Okay!” Shane followed him, trying to suppress his laughter, but the smile on his face gave him away. 

Ilya pulled on his shoes, winking at Shane and then pursing his lips. “Mwah, mwah, mwah,” his kissing noises filled the room as he stood upright again. 

“You are insufferable,” Shane wrapped his arms around him and pressed a kiss to his waiting lips. 

“For you, I am everything.” Ilya pressed another kiss to his lips and opened the door. As he was shutting the door, leaving Shane to stare after his retreating form, rooted to the floor with the morning replaying in his head, For you, I am everything replaying in his head, Ilya popped his head back in. “And don’t forget your bagel!” 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Shane had never returned to his apartment and been greeted by anything other than silence and the air freshener he had plugged in by the walkway. 

This time was different. 

Walking in, he was welcomed by the sound of the TV, hockey sticks smacking against Hockey pucks. Ilya groaned once, saying something in Russian, as he stared at the game, back to the door. In his hand was a red and blue plaid dishtowel that Shane knows was tucked in a drawer. 

Shane could smell lemon and garlic wafting from his kitchen, the sound of water reaching a boil. 

“Ya mogu bit' po shaybe luchshe tebya, i ya ne igral neskol'ko let!” I can hit the puck better than you and I have not played in years! Ilya exclaimed, walking back toward the kitchen and shaking his head. 

“Uh, hi,” Shane announced himself, walking toward the kitchen and setting his keys in the designated bowl on his counter. He never left them by the door for safety. 

“Shane!” Ilya smiled as he put pasta into the boiling water. “Dinner is almost ready. I went through fridge. No dildo-”

“Ilya, c’mon-”

“But shrimp. Shrimp makes pasta.”

“It smells good,” Shane said, leaning against the counter and staring at Ilya. “You watch hockey?” 

“Yes. Even when playing bad.”

Shane squinted at the TV, noticing it was the Boston Raiders vs. the New York Admirals. “What team do you root for?”

“Boston.” 

“Why?”

“Because they are the best.”

“Are they?”

“No. Not always. Would be best if I played for them.”

“Do you play hockey?” Shane asked, staring at Ilya’s perfect features and flawless teeth. There was no way he played hockey-

“I did.”

Shane’s eyes widened just a fraction. “Really?” 

“Da,” he said as he stirred the noodles in the water. “Go sit, watch best hockey team lose to bad Admirals. I will bring you pasta.”

“I can help, you know. This is actually my apartment.”

“Nonsense. I do not mind.”

“Ilya-”

Ilya walked over to him and kissed him, slow and sweet, pressing his lower back into the countertop. Shane melted into it. When Ilya pulled away, he wanted to follow his lips. 

“I will kiss you more if you go sit.”

“That’s cheating,” Shane said, rolling his eyes when Ilya smirked at him. 

Within minutes, Shane and Ilya were sitting in his living room, bowls of shrimp garlic pasta in hand, watching the puck get passed between New York and Boston. Shane sat on the couch while Ilya sat on the floor by his legs, stretched out with the table pulled close to his chest while he shoveled pasta into his mouth. 

Shane chewed thoughtfully, watching Ilya’s intense eyes on the game. The way he pivoted quickly from Shane’s mention of him doing something so physical, so… not what he was doing now. Shane wanted to know why Ilya didn’t play anymore, how long he played. When Ilya shook his head at the TV, slurping a piece of pasta into his mouth, Shane watched his hand quickly move a manilla envelope away from the splash zone. 

“What’s that?” Shane asked, lowering his bowl of pasta. 

“I wanted to show you,” Ilya said, napkin over his mouth as he swallowed his bite of pasta. “They are my designs for Saint Laurent fashion show. They approved my runway.”

Shane’s jaw dropped and he quickly set the pasta down on the table. He stared at Ilya, the unfiltered excitement that found its way to his smile, the brightness that came into his eyes at the mention of it. 

“Ilya!” Shane looked at the envelope then went back to Ilya. “I- You should have told me. When you got here.”

“I wanted to surprise you!” Ilya moved his pasta to the corner of the table, making sure the spot on the table was clean before setting the folder in front of him again. “Your design is in here.”

“Mine?”

Ilya nodded proudly. “You are in show. As model.”

Shane just stared at Ilya, blinking as his jaw opened just the slightest bit to speak, but no words came out. He shouldn’t be surprised, afterall, he is one of the industry's biggest models. People wanted him walking their runways, splashed on their covers, fitted in their audience. 

And so did Ilya. 

Shane sucked in a breath, his eyes darting to stare at the folder. He thought of his manager, pulling out the same envelopes to show what was sent over for Shane to look at, to approve, to be fitted for. 

Was this all Ilya wanted him for?

The soft kisses, the warm touches, the words of devotion as he pulled Shane into his body all a ploy to get Shane to be a model for him. For more attention? A prize to be won?

Could Ilya have faked all of this? 

When all was said and all was done, Ilya was an actor. A designer. A go-getter. 

Shane had fallen for all of those parts. But he had fallen for other parts now, he supposed. 

“I-Uh,” Shane stammered. He looked down into his bowl of pasta, the smells that once held being cared for now suffocating with the scent of being used. 

“Shane?” Ilya asked, carefully moving Shane’s bowl of pasta to the table. 

“I didn’t know I’d be in your show.”

“Well, of course,” Ilya said, wrapping his hands around Shane’s. Shane didn’t move to intertwine their fingers. “You are prettiest model I know.”

“Yeah,” Shane said, shaking his head as tears gushed toward his waterline like a damn being broken. “I get that a lot.”

Ilya frowned. “Shane?” He breathed out, his thumb coming up to wipe the stray tear that escaped when he blinked. “I thought… you would be happy.”

Shane swallowed thickly the bile that threatened up his throat. “Why wouldn’t I be,” Shane choked out. “I’m just a model.”

Ilya’s thumbs ran over Shane’s hands as he looked up at him. When Shane looked at him, he could see the confused hurt in Ilya’s eyes, the way he took in Shane’s face trying to decode where he went wrong. 

Another tear ran down Shane’s cheek. “Everybody just wants me to perform for them,” he said with a shrug. 

Understanding slowly dawned on Ilya’s face and he pushed himself quickly onto his knees to fully face Shane, leaning up toward him. “No, no, no, Shane,” Ilya was shaking his head as he spoke, moving to the couch to sit beside Shane, never dropping his hands. “I did not mean- That is not-” He sucked in a breath as he dropped Shane’s hands to wipe his tears. 

Ilya didn’t say anything more, just stared at Shane and wiped his tears. His own eyes were turning shiny the longer Shane didn’t speak. But what was Shane to say? Ilya knew a little bit about how Shane felt about the job, the way he had to work hard to grapple with the day-to-day tasks that made him feel less than human and more like a product. 

And Ilya had done it to him. 

“I am sorry,” Ilya said quietly. “I should have asked you if you wanted to be in it.”

Shane shrugged. “Nobody does. Part of the job.”

Ilya’s jaw tightened. “But I am not them,” he said firmly. With a softer tone, he continued. “I have had… big teenage crush on you. For long time. When I started to put show together, I knew I wanted you in it. Before I knew you.” 

Reaching for his folder, he pulled out the designs and held them out to Shane. “I designed yours in mind for you. Based off… my, uh, admiration.”

Shane looked down at the sketches, turning them over in his hands, staring at the fleshed out body, face, features of each design. Every male design was…

Him. 

Every feature was shaped like his face, his nose, his eyes. Every hair color, design, was Shane’s. One’s he’s had styled in the past. Makeup to resemble features that Rose had done dating back months, years.

Shane wasn’t just the feature of the design labelled in the top corner in Ilya’s script Shane Hollander as Patroclus. He was the feature of the ones labelled for Hayden Pike and Luca Haas. 

“I wanted you to have your friend,” Ilya said, noticing Shane had been looking at Hayden’s a little too long. 

Shane shifted to look at the only male design that didn’t look like him. Because it looked like Ilya. Ilya Rozanov as Achilles. 

Shane held Patroclus and Achilles side by side. 

It was stunning.

The contrast. The elements pulled between each design to tie them together was creative and purposeful and glorious. 

It would be the prettiest thing Shane ever wore. 

The designs showcased Ilya’s talent in indescribable ways. The beauty in each piece, each portrayal of Greek Mythology carefully mapped out and attached to models that would portray that level of charisma needed. 

“These are beautiful, Ilya.” 

His smile in return was small, almost shy. “You like them?”

Shane nodded, trying to focus on the detail in the fabrics, the hugs and drapes around the figure he was trying to ignore being his own. “You’re so talented.”

“Thank you,” he whispered. 

Shane stared at Svetlana Vetrova as Thetis. Ilya had captured her features and beauty with the same grace he captured Shane’s. And Shane knew, with almost absolute certainty, that Ilya loved Svetlana.

It was too much. 

It was too obvious. 

It was too full of love. 

Shane slid the drawings back into the envelope and set them on the table. He bit his lip as he thought about it. He wasn’t being used. He was being loved. The difference, for the first time, felt really laid out in front of Shane in a way that knocked his entire soul off balance. But he couldn’t think about it too hard, not when he still wanted to be with Ilya. Not when he still wanted to love Ilya. 

But how could he be loved in return? 

That couldn’t matter right now. Not when Ilya had bared his soul, his crush and love for Shane on full display of art bleed from his heart and fingertips to create something the whole world would see. Where those designs would be shared with his success, eventually.

Shane had never considered he could be loved by somebody so handsome, so brave, so bold. 

Wrapping his arms around Ilya, he buried his face in his neck. “I want to be in it.”

“Do not feel like you have to, I-”

“I want to be,” Shane said, the affirmation outweighing the fear in his chest. 

He knew he needed to do this. To stand side by side with Ilya in a creation of love that he, too, was too far gone in. Shane knew he needed to figure out how to hide it, how to make it less obvious. But he could figure that out later.

Right now, all that mattered was Ilya. 

Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

“And your first fit?” Ilya asked into the phone, walking out of his apartment and locking it behind him. “I am on way to do mine.”

“I come into town in three days,” Svetlana said, rustling on her end as well. “They called and asked. I assume I will spend a little more time in California with you.”

“Da, why would you not?”

“Well, Shane Hollander.” Svetlana’s tone was a little accusatory as she spoke. “Do not want to be a cockblock, or whatever Americans say.”

“No, no, that is one,” Ilya said, sliding into the back of the car that was to take him to Saint Laurent. He nodded to the driver and gave a polite, small smile. “I will pay your hotel when that happens.”

“Sweet,” she deadpanned. “So thoughtful.”

“Or I go to hotel.”

“I’m just joking,” she said, and Ilya could hear her eyeroll. “When is Shane’s?”

“They are confirming times today. He said he would tell me later.”

Ilya looked out the window, phone still pressed to his ear. He heard Svetlana respond, but he let her soothing voice wash over him. He was buzzing, a low hum in the back of his mind, of happiness. It felt strange, the way Ilya was so excited about something. It wasn’t just that he had… something going on with Shane Hollander. It was everything. 

He was about to be fitted for something that he himself created. He would wear his design proudly, a respected model and actor wearing his own attire. It would open doors for Ilya that he had not even considered. What if he wanted to start his own company? That didn’t feel so far away from his grasp now. Another thing he could succeed in. 

“Ilya?”

“Mhm,”

“Did you hear me?”

Ilya inhaled. “Have you spoken to any of my family?”

Ilya’s jaw tensed as he was reminded of the reality of his life. Everything was great for him here. On this continent. 

Oceans away, his father was on a steady decline. Just in the middle of the night, his father had called him asking when he would be home and if he could pick up some flowers to add to the curb appeal. His tone of voice was weaker, even more confused and angry when Ilya gently said that he would not be able to because he was no longer in Russia. His father had started yelling, and Ilya, for the first time, heard a break of a sob as his father hung up the phone.

“I know he is… not well,” Svetlana said gently. “My father said he missed poker last week. Had no idea they had even played.” 

Ilya felt his back stiffen against the seat. “Andrei is supposed to leave dates for him on calendar.”

“Ilyusha, you know better than to think he is.” 

Ilya nodded, feeling a single tear escape the corner of his eye. He wiped it hastily, refusing to cry. Ilya had cried enough for the loss of his father, not a great man, but the man he knew him as. It broke him long ago, when the diagnosis came, swift and cold, clinical in delivery from the doctor. His father hadn’t even told him himself. 

Ilya had cried enough for the loss of his brother, too. He never had a sibling dynamic like the ones in the shows or his peers at school. All he had was his brothers through hockey, his siblings through the art clubs. They meant more to him than his own brother. His brother, who had the nerve to call Ilya useless, berating him at every opportunity for being the failure of the family. 

Look at him now. 

And look at his brother. 

“I know,” Ilya said quietly. “I have to go now. I am at Saint Laurent.”

“Savour the moment, Ilya. You have earned it.”

“Spasibo, dorogaya.”

As Ilya exited the car and walked toward the doors, he peered down at the notifications he received while talking to Svetlana. 

Andrei: When will I get money for the month?

Andrei: Your niece needs a new pair of shoes for school. 

Andrei: Not hard to send over. You are just lazy American now!!

 

Ilya clicked out of the messages with a deep inhale. He could deal with Andrei later, or maybe never, if he decided to just cut them all off. The idea was tempting, but the strings of his heart still pulled by his mother would never allow it. 

He clicked into the notification from Shane. 

 

Shane: I get my first fit in three days for your show. 

Shane: I am having it done in Canada. 

 

Ilya furrowed his brows and sent a quick response in return. 

Ilya: You are not coming to Saint Laurent here? 

 

“Ilya!” Luca Haas called from the other end of the hallway. “Ilya, hey!” 

“Hello, Luca,” Ilya said, a gentle laugh escaping his lips at his excitement. He had not seen Luca since he first started being a partner with YSL three months ago. 

“First fit went great! I think Ryan is going to talk to you about fixing a sash to wrap around my neck and down into the two sashes.”

“All connected?”

Luca nodded, now walking to the first fit room together. “Yes! I thought it would add a little more flare to Eros. Which, thank you for choosing me for that one. The design is perfect.”

“Thank you,” Ilya said, opening the door to the design and measurement team. Ryan Price sat in the corner, writing something on his iPad. “I like the idea of sash, too.”

“Oh, perfect then,” Ryan said quietly, getting up and showing Ilya the note he made on Luca’s. “I will send it over and you can add it however you think best. I gave a rough outline here, too.”

Ilya nodded, looking at the notes and arrows drawn around the fit and fabrics. “Sounds great.”

Sliding his jacket off, he checked the message from Shane. 

 

Shane: I thought it would be best to do it in Canada. 

Shane: Less obvious, you know? 

 

With furrowed brows, Ilya fired off a quick response. 

 

Ilya: What is?

 

Ilya tucked his phone into his pocket and turned back to Ryan and Luca. “You can send all designs for final edits.”

“Three days turn around to get everything ordered in time after each design you get in.”

“Sounds good.”

“This is awesome,” Luca said, shaking his head. “This will be the first runway I walk.” 

The tailor and alteration specialist began to work around Ilya as he listened to Luca and Ryan go back and forth. Ilya glanced at the design for his Achilles piece, turning every which way they asked to ensure they got all they needed for each piece and part of the costume. It did not take long, but was a tedious process of touching and pulling and adjusting. 

It must be a nightmare for Shane. 

Ilya frowns at the thought that he was the reason Shane had to do it. He wanted to remember to text Shane later, to tell him good luck, to tell him it will be a quick process despite the way it might make his skin feel too tight over his pretty structure. 

It was Luca waving goodbye to him that pulled him from his trance. 

“Bye, Ilya. I’ll be around next week if you want to get lunch?”

“Sure,” Ilya said, giving him a tight smile. “Bye, Luca.”

When Ilya was finished with his fitting, sitting with Ryan to complete last minute comments and alteration ideas with Ryan, he collected his art to go make the final edits. 

As Ilya walked out of Saint Laurent into the bright sunshine of California, he pulled his phone from his pocket to text Shane, only to see his response to Ilya’s question from earlier. One word, enough to make Ilya’s posture stiffen.

 

Shane: Us. 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

When Ilya first heard the date for Shane’s fitting, he thought it would fill him with excitement. He got the show. He got the guy. 

Except he didn’t. And the day filled him with quiet confusion and a simmering emotion bordering between upset and sadness. 

His conversations with Shane since that one word had been distant, boring. 

Us. 

What was the “us”?

Ilya wanted it to be something big, grand, so full of love it was bursting at the seams. Isn’t that what Shane deserved? Isn’t that what he deserved? 

He thinks of Thetis, trying to project Achilles but leaving that one weak spot. Inevitable. 

I am tragedy, I think. 

Ilya had gone early in the morning, well, early for him, to drop off his sketches to Saint Laurent, updated ones from Hayden’s, Luca’s, his, and a few others consultations and first fits. Now, he sprawls on his couch, a lazy drawing of his childhood bedroom taking form on the page in lazy strokes of charcoal propped up on his knees. 

It was an image on his mind a lot these days. Childhood, his mother, his father, his brother. The way things were, never great, but the dysfunctional family that he had grown with, learned from, was a part of, was a product of. Now his childhood was long gone, replaced with the harsh, cold realities of life. His mother was years gone, his father was now calling Ilya as if he would arrive home in five minutes, his brother was useless, no longer answering his calls. 

Ilya felt his breath shake and stutter at the thought of it all. His mother’s death triggered the onslaught to the steady decline of the rest of his life. 

Until art and design. Until acting and modeling. Until California and Saint Laurent. 

Until Shane. 

Ilya still struggled to sleep, to find peace in the day to day. But he had moments, things, people to look forward to each and every day. All of it gave him the purpose he so desperately needed to keep going in the face of loss, deterioration, isolation.

A single tear rolled down his cheek. 

He let it, allowing each and every sense to follow the passage of it until it dipped below his ear, lost now to the soft curls of his freshly washed hair. 

The quiet ping from his phone cuts through the heavy silence. Reaching, Ilya taps the screen with his fingertips and lazily glances at the notification on his screen. One of his splashy paparazzi apps. He kept them mainly to see when they posted about himself, who he was with, what they thought they knew about him. 

His eyes widened at the headline, forcing him to sit up, drawing falling to the floor as he held the notification down, the image swallowing the screen. 

 

SHANE HOLLANDER AND ROSE LANDRY BACK AGAIN… 

The hot, long-lost couple seen hand in hand leaving Saint Laurent in Montreal, hand-in-hand. The model and makeup artist looked cozy, all smiles as…

Ilya stared at the photo of Shane, head ducked, walking beside Rose, who was glowing. Their fingers and wrists were intertwined as they walked toward the car outside of YSL. He zoomed into their hands, their arms, then zoomed back out. He zoomed in on Shane’s face, his guarded expression, baseball cap pulled low over his head, then zoomed back out. He zoomed in on Rose’s face, her open smile, her eyes bright, then zoomed back out. 

It wasn’t anything. Ilya knew that. Afterall, the only reason he even had the app in the first place was for his own morbid curiosity of himself. 

He took a screenshot and opened up to his messages with Shane. Attaching the photo to the message, he sends him a text.

 

Ilya: Rose Landry??? Am I being replaced?????

 

When he saw the response bubbles appear and disappear a few times, he decided to put Shane out of his misery. 

 

Ilya: It is fun to watch people with cameras think they know stuff

Ilya: How was first fit?

 

Ilya leaned back on the couch, reaching for his abandoned sketchbook and pencil. Stretching his legs out on the table, he set the drawing on his lap and continued to work. The low hum of the fridge filled his mind as he imagined Shane in the middle of YSL seeing what Ilya created for him, bringing that vision slowly, so painfully slowly, to life. 

Smudging the pencil with his thumb to create a shadow in the bedroom doorway, his phone pinged. 

Shane: Yeah. Any heat off of us is good, you know?

 

Ilya could feel his face twist into one of annoyed confusion. There was that word again. And yet it still didn’t make sense. 

Shane: First fit was good. Your design is really great. 

 

Ilya’s expression deepened. He didn’t care about that anymore, didn’t care that Shane liked his design– or rather, he couldn’t care. Not when he was playing Decode the Shane Hollander. 

There was no heat on them. Between them? Yes. Undeniably. But nobody knew except for Rose and Svetlana, two women who, from what Ilya has gathered from both of them, are not going to start talking about them without their knowledge. So for heat to be on them? Where? From who? 

Ilya: Heat on us?

Shane: Yeah. From the show.

 

“Chto za chert?” Ilya breathed out. What the fuck? 

 

Ilya: I do not understand

 

Shane: People thinking that we are together. 

 

Ilya: Who thinks that?

 

The dots appeared, then disappeared. Ilya bit his lip and was going to continue, but froze at Shane’s reply. 

 

Shane: Eventually everybody will know about us from it if we are not careful

 

Ilya blew out a breath and set his phone down on his lap, his hands sliding down his face. What were Shane and Ilya? What was the us? 

Ilya knew his response. 

That he was fully, and hopelessly, in love. 

But what was it for Shane? Was it that same intense feeling of wanting something so badly but fearing what would happen? Was it also the same swoop of his belly dropping when they lock eyes for the first time in weeks? Was it the same fear that he was holding something delicate, and at one moment it would spill between his fingers, and shatter? 

Ilya was grasping for it not to slip. 

But he felt his fingers loosen enough to let it. 

 

Ilya: Us

 

Shane: Yes. 

 

Ilya: Us does not even know what us is

 

The truth bared from his chest held in a lousy blue bubble.  

Ilya thinks back to when he was in Canada a measly few days ago. How he and Shane had orbited around one another in their routines, coming back to Shane’s apartment at the end of the night like a couple. Like a real relationship. 

The way they had held one another, ate together, showered together. Ilya had even peed with the door open to continue to hear Shane telling him a story about the dog he saw on his run from the kitchen. 

Ilya knew what the “us” was for them. 

The world did not. 

 

Shane: Paparazzi will get suspicious of everything with the show. 

 

Ilya could tell he was avoiding them, putting everything on everybody else. It wasn’t fair to him. It wasn’t fair to us. 

It was now always about them. About the us. Ilya could feel the thought settling into his chest like a blade.  

This was not Ilya Rozanov. He did not argue with a partner over what they were. There was nothing to argue about. 

But for Shane there was. 

And Ilya knew he was in uncharted waters, and he was drowning, and the lifeguard was not paying attention. 

 

Ilya: Nobody will be suspicious of us when we do not know us

 

Shane: It would be obvious

 

Ilya: Nothing was obvious and nothing needs to be

 

Shane: It’s a precaution

 

Ilya: Is not needed

 

Ilya didn’t know what else to say. His mind had gone numb, a dull ache tingling along the base of his neck. There was nothing he could say to make Shane feel better, for Shane to see the world was not out to get them. 

Not out to get him. 

But Ilya knew it was no use. Shane had already expressed to him his growing concerns in this line of work, how being gay and being for the female gaze could not intermix. 

As if it didn’t for Ilya. For Scott Hunter. 

 

Shane: It’s not a big deal

 

It was the moment that Ilya felt the tension expand too big for his body. 

 

Ilya: It is to me

 

Ilya resisted the urge to throw his phone across the room, instead locking it and putting it down on the coffee table with a weak, but aggressive, toss. 

This is why Ilya never wanted to fall in love. This is why Ilya never wanted to get his hopes too high. This is why Ilya did not want to care about something, or anything, too much. 

Each time he did, he somehow lost it. 

Slipped between his fingers. 

Shattered on the floor. 

He got up, walking to his bathroom and staring at himself in the mirror. Slowly, he sunk down, watching his sad, watery eyes disappear as he pulled his knees to his chest on the purple rug.

From here, he felt like nothing else could touch him. He could just sit with his own thoughts until they all morphed into one giant thought, exploded, and went silent. As he has in the past, after talking with his brother, with his father. 

Now, with Shane. 

Pressing his face into his knees, Ilya slowly allowed himself to cry. A release of warm tears bleeding through his sweatpants to his skin, making him feel sticky. 

He didn’t care. 

Not when all he could see behind his eyelids was the word “us” and all he could hear through the static buzz of thoughts was “Ilya” in his sweet Canadian voice. 

Not when all he could keep thinking was ya lyublyu tebya. 

I love you. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

The hours turn into days turns into a week and then two and then three. 

And Ilya stares at the response from Shane, only sometimes, only before bed, only when he wakes up. 

 

Shane: It is to me, too. 

Ilya wanted to believe it. And he did. It did mean something to Shane, but it was different. His wasn’t just about Ilya, it was also about fear. He said it didn’t matter, it wasn't a “big deal” as if he hadn’t imploded Ilya’s world. Then, he reared back to say it did matter, sending Ilya into a confusion on what the “us” of them was and what the “it” was that mattered and didn’t.

Shaking his head, Ilya approached the counter. “Uh, matcha, strawberry syrup,” he ordered quietly, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. 

“Whole milk okay?” the barista with a single long braid down her back asked, her cheeks tinted with color. 

Ilya nodded, smiling small. He was used to this response when he was in public, the looks and the flushes and the squeaks. 

None of it mattered. 

Not when Ilya was learning that what he really wanted was something with love, with devotion, with emotion that came with attachment and holding. 

After paying and taking his drink from the server, his fingers purposefully brushing Ilya’s as he handed him the cup, he diverted out and down the street. 

He started walking down the busy sidewalk, head low, covered with a baseball cap, eyes covered with big sunglasses. 

His eyes wandered over every couple. The way their hands were held together, arms snaked around waists, around arms. Ilya found his gaze resting longer on the gay couple sitting outside of the restaurant, their feet brushing under the table. The men looked carefree, eyes wide. The man with dark tan skin was listening, nodding with bright eyes as his boyfriend told a story, all hands and facial expressions. 

His stomach twisted in jealousy. 

Forcing himself to keep walking, he felt his gaze land on the mother and son sitting outside of the ice cream shop. The boy with wild, dark brown curls was covered in the baby pink of melted milk and sugar. His mother was smiling, her eyes kind as she wiped him, teasing him as he squirmed out of her grip with squeals.

His stomach twisted in envy. 

He took a sip of his matcha. 

The sweet honey tasted sour. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Ilya was standing in the middle of the Greek and Roman Art Collection in the MET, the light bright as it shined through, curtains draping around the art as if enveloping it, embracing it. 

The ropes were gone from each piece of art, allowing the admirer to get as close as they want, reach, touch. 

Ilya walked over to Thetis and Achilles. Thetis looked softer, his breath exhaling slowly as his fingers ran up the cool marble of her arm that held her child. His other hand wrapped around the baby’s ankle. The marble under his grip was warm, alive. 

A woman came to stand beside him. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Ilya nodded, his gaze returning to the curls that framed and fell behind Thetis. He wondered if they were golden, like his mothers. If somehow, way back when, the sculptor knew that there would be many mothers like her that would sacrifice. 

Why did his have to?

Where was she now? 

When he needed him to guide him through love? 

“She was a brave woman, Thetis was.”

“Brave,” Ilya repeated with a breath. “Da, I think so.” 

“She had to dip him in the river. Needed to protect him,” the woman said, her accent rich. 

Ilya wanted to pull his eyes from the art, but they were locked onto the baby, his hair now a muse of curls as he sat upon Thetis’ lap. 

“It’s part of the reason I love this piece so much,” the woman said. “A vulnerable heel. Feet and ankles, legs even, are supposed to be so durable. Males are supposed to be so durable,” the woman continued. “And here, as she holds her son, cherishing, as if he is the most important thing in the world.”

Ilya nodded, his eyes brimming with tears. 

“Because he is the most important thing in the world.”

Ilya nodded, his eyes locking onto the placement of Thetis’ hands, one in fact on the baby Achilles small feet, the other supporting his backside. Two vulnerable, loving, nurturing placements. His mother held him like that once; he is sure of it. 

Now she is gone. 

And Ilya is alone to face the world. 

“My mother. She was like Thetis.”

The woman now wrapped her hands delicately around Ilya’s bare forearm. “Ona ne khotela otpustit' tebya,” she whispered. She did not want to let you go

Ilya shook his head, tears now falling down his cheeks. He couldn’t turn his head. “She did not have a choice,” he whispered back wetly. 

When Ilya looked down his arm, he saw the soft grip of his mother’s soft pink manicured fingers wrapping around his golden skin. His eyes gazed upon her face, the way he remembered it. Open and sad, a mother’s love wrapped in a married woman’s pain. 

“I see myself, I think, in the art,” Ilya said to her, his voice breaking. “And you, mama.” 

She nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. 

Ilya wrapped his arms around her, crushing her into his chest. “I feel admired, but sacrificed."

“I am sorry, Ilyusha.”

“I have same weakness that brings me pain.” 

They stood there, holding one another, mother and son.

The tears warmly dropped onto the top of her golden curls. When he pulled away, he saw the soft glow around her face, the tears down her cheeks. 

“I am tragedy, I think.”

She let out a broken breath, cupping his cheek and pulling his head down to hers. “You are not your father. You are not me, either.” 

Ilya shook his head. Her finger wiped at his tears. 

“I do not know how to be the hero without the sacrifice of me. Somehow.”

“You do not need to make a sacrifice like I did. You do not need to owe anybody. I… I am sorry.” 

Ilya collapsed to his knees, his mother following. Ilya pressed his face into her chest and cried as she ran her fingers through his curls. She sang the lullaby she would sing him to sleep with, her voice warm and sad, laced with affection and tears. 

When Ilya opened his eyes again, his face was pressed into the tear soaked pillow that was held tight to his chest, his knuckles white. The moonlight streamed through his open blinds, basking the room in a maternal glow. 

He reached for his phone. One missed call from his brother. No missed call from his father. No missed messages from Shane. 

 He let out a broken sob as he shoved his face deeper into the pillow, crying himself to sleep in hopes to see his mother again. 

If only for another moment.

Chapter 8: VII

The news of Ilya Rozanov’s debut runway show title officially was out, and people couldn’t get enough of it. 

The Lyre and The Armour: A show of love and tragedy, designed by Ilya Rozanov. 

The comments were a flood of praise for the young actor and model turned serious designer. Everybody was excited to see the outcome, especially with the caption on Ilya’s official Instagram post: "Experience the love and war of emotions only from Greek Tragedy through the best actors and even better designs ;)” 

The whole world of Hollywood, and admirers of it, flocked to the show’s premise, began to speculate the models in it, and wonder how Ilya Rozanov himself was taking inspiration from the Greeks. 

Outside of that, Shane saw the fashion world all but stop at the face of Saint Laurent getting his own show. It was so young and fresh. The show was going to portray how fashion and real life art goes together. 

In a short interview from Ilya, he had said into the microphone with a wink, “Art imitates life, or whatever phrase is.” 

Shane couldn’t be happier for Ilya and the recognition he so much deserved in this sphere of fashion. Ilya worked hard, and he was hard on himself, wanting everything to be perfect. He cared and poured his heart into everything. 

His work, his art, his Shane. 

Ilya Rozanov’s show was going to transform styles. 

It was why, as Shane stepped out of the black van with Rose and his mother outside of Saint Laurent, there was a flock of fans, photographers, and journalists. Cameras were out, small microphones waving. All this for the first fitting of the final outfit. 

“Shane Hollander, a comment for Vanity Fair please about Lyre and Armour!” 

“Can you sign this, please Shane, over here!” 

The camera clicking flooded his ears, drowning out the instructions of Rose and his mother as a bodyguard tried to help him inside. 

“Turn right, please, one look! Right, Shane Hollander, look right!” 

“Shane, a statement for Fashion Weekly! Why not go to Saint Laurent in California with the designer himself?” 

The camera flashes blinded him, forcing him to pull his sunglasses down over his eyes and drop his gaze. With each blink he saw the artificial sun. 

“A comment for Vogue, how are you feeling working with the Ilya Rozanov?”

“Why did they coin you as Patroclus? Did you have to do anything for this spot?” 

Rose practically pushed him through the doorway, plastering herself to his back as she walked him toward the elevator. With each step, Shane heard the voices get further and further away, muffled behind the closed entryway doors. 

“Oh my gosh,” his mother laughed as she pressed the button to go up. Her laughter was light, as if Shane wasn’t wanting to crawl out from his skin. “I will never get over how many people are excited for this. For you!” She rubbed at Shane’s shoulder.  “Ilya Rozanov really put fashion on another level.”

“No kidding,” Rose agreed.

“Remember when we watched that movie, Shane?” His mother asked.

Shane just stared at her, his mind too fuzzy to respond.

“The one where he was the clown?”

Shane nodded numbly. 

“Did you ever think you’d be here now? Working with him?” She smiled as she spoke, unknowing that each word cut deeper into Shane’s heart. 

“No,” he croaked out, the drowning feeling in his mind being replaced with the phantom feeling of Ilya’s mouth on his own, his hands wrapped around Shane’s thighs. “Not at all.” 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

They got to the dressing room first, allowing Rose to begin putting on the makeup that they wanted to trial run for the show. It was a bold look of deep blues, maroons, and golden shimmers. The colors and a swipe of eyeliner made the chocolatey brown of his eyes pop and melt into the design. It all made Shane feel so powerful– ethereal even, is what Ilya had breathed into Shane’s neck one night while pushed into his body as if Shane himself was molded to him. 

Shane was sat down in the chair, listening distantly to his mother and Rose talk about the details of his whole look, his knee bouncing insecently. All he could think about was walking in and the reporters, the questions, asking if he did anything for his role in the show. 

It made Shane’s chest tight. All he did was exist. Ilya did the rest. 

Shane shifted his gaze to the outfit hanging up against a white curtained closet. It was stunning, a literal piece of art. Shane couldn’t believe that Ilya was trusting him to wear it, wear his design. While this was the first fitting of the final look, Shane knew some things would be tweaked up until the show. Usually, the final tweaks gave him the most stress because nothing was worse than being unsure of what you were walking into, what you were wearing. 

But he wasn’t met with that same level of stress. It was a dull ache held in the gentle palms of care that Ilya was slowly wrapping Shane into. Was slowly wrapping Shane into, he reminded himself bitterly. 

“The gold ties in nice to Ilya’s own design he’s wearing,” Shane mused quietly. 

His mother hummed. Shane could feel her gaze on him. “He incorporated a tie in between the two of you?”

Shane inhaled sharply. 

“They are Achilles and Patroclus,” Rose said, shrugging casually, trying not to give anything away. 

His knee stilled as he pressed his palms into his thighs. The hands started to slip as anxiety creeped in. Afterall, the design was for him. Everybody would see that it was for the two of them, see the connections between their attire. See the emotion etched into each of their faces as they appeared like two lovers who were, well, lovers. In a way. Shane pursed his lips and shrugged. 

“Are you all right, Shane?” His mother asked. “You’ve been quiet since we left to come here.”

“Fine,” Shane replied too quickly. He picked up his phone and opened to his messages with Ilya. The name now read Ilya, not Ilya Rozanov, not Lily. Changed as if he could change what they were into a working together friendship, what had happened in the darkness of their rooms now exposed through the messages clear as day.  

A woman for YSL came in, white robe draped over her arm. Shane quickly tucked his phone back into his pocket. 

“Hello! Let’s have you get changed into this while you get ready,” she said, handing the robe off to Shane. “You have about an hour to get ready before the camera crew comes in.”

“We won’t be done that soon,” Rose said quickly, curling wand in hand and eyes wide. 

“We couldn’t hold them off. Shane is just as much of a face to this show as Ilya Rozanov is,” she said apologetically, giving Shane a small smile. “We’ll give you some private time until we just about can’t anymore.”

Shane didn’t say anything. What was there to say? He was used to this, the way the industry didn’t respect his wishes, his boundaries. He was a doll to play dress up with, move around this way and that. Then, when everything was done, he’d get discarded into the pile until the next person wanted to pick him up and play with him. 

He just thought, naively, that a show with Ilya would be different. And maybe it would have been if Shane wasn’t so scared that an industry that was supposed to be inclusive would sink the still existing sharp teeth into his life. 

Shane’s mother nodded toward the woman, tucking her phone into her purse and reaching for her lipgloss. “I understand. I told Shane we would try to get as long as we could.”

After the woman complimented Shane and his outfit (as if he had anything to do with it) and walked out, Shane quickly changed into the robe and sat back down in the chair silently. His phone was now heavily resting in the pocket of the robe, refusing to be separated from him just in case he heard from Ilya. Pulling it out, he unlocked it, faced once again with the messages. 

His last message, telling Ilya that it mattered, because it did matter, sat delivered. 

Tears stung his waterline. He blinked slow and hard, willing them back into the ducts. 

Shane: Hey

 

Shane deleted the word. Stupid. 

“Shane,” Rose said gently, the curling iron coming up to curl his bangs to frame his face. “Put your phone away, you need to look up.” The look on her face told Shane she saw right through him trying to just “casually” peek at his phone. Her eyes weren’t demanding, they were seeing, understanding, protecting. 

Shane nodded once, staring at his puffy eyes in the mirror. He hadn’t cried since this morning. Why were his eyes still red? Or was he just hyperfocused on his own sadness?

Rose could fix this. She could fix anything. She would make sure no cameras saw anything in his eyes that would lead to a scandal. 

She curled his hair, spraying and adding specs of golden glitter around the temples, creating a soft halo. 

Shane felt his chest squeeze and constrict as she sprayed the liquid sun into his hair, right where Ilya would press his lips and whisper naughty or breathe so quietly, “Your shampoo smells nice.” 

Shane got up quickly, startling Rose slightly as she took a step back. “Sorry, sorry, can I, uh, just go to the bathroom?” 

Rose frowned, her eyes meeting his. He looked away quickly. 

“Can you not mess with your hair?” She pleaded, glancing at his mother who Shane assumed, if he could bear to look at her, was furrowed brows of deep confusion. Rose continued, “We’re just on schedule, we can’t fall behind.” Her words were kind, but stern. She knew Shane hated the reality of timing with these days. He just couldn’t allow himself to forget that it was a work day for her, too. 

“We can’t be late with the fitting when they get here, you have a strict time to be filmed at,” His mother added. 

“I know,” Shane got up, phone tucked into his pocket. “I’ll be quick.”

“Remember, honey,” his mother said lightly, “We were able to talk them out of filming you in the makeup chair as long as possible. I don’t want you to waste time.”

“I know,” 

“So, we cannot fall behind schedule.”

“It’s just the bathroom,” Shane mumbled, his grip on his phone tightening as he locked himself into the fancy bathroom. He took in a shaky inhale. Shaky exhale. 

 

Shane: I almost got a flight to you in California. To do my fitting there.

Shane slowly deleted the message, retyping. 

 

Shane: Do you want to see me? 

 

Another delete. His eyes blurred with tears. He blinked rapidly so he wouldn’t create thin streaks down his softly freckled cheeks before his makeup. Those same cheeks that Ilya had caressed with gentle care despite his teasing. Any tear tracks, Rose could cover, but not before seeing them. His mother would ask why he was hiding away to cry. Why he was crying in the first place. And what would he say?

Shane: I want to see you.

 

Shane deleted this one, quicker, letter by letter being eaten away by the thin black bar, devouring it. 

His eyes swirled in the mirror as he blinked and blinked and blinked. His fingers gripped the edge of the marble counter as he reached his foot over to flush the toilet, creating the illusion of going. Shane turned on the sink, letting his hand lean heavily on the faucet as the water ran, wastefully, down the drain as he watched it go. Shutting it off, he sniffled, pinching his eyelashes as turned and inhaled deeply. 

He stepped out of the bathroom and sat back in the chair before rose. His hair was sticky with hair spray and gold specks, reflecting in the natural light from the floor to ceiling window. 

Shane looked so sadly beautiful. 

Rose finished his hair, moving to grab the makeup she brought for his look. Rich, dark hues of blues and maroons, fading into black with silver sparkles on the edges that turned into gold across his cheeks. He was going for dark and emotional, matching the fashion Ilya had designed for him. He would be the face of the show, all the outlets were saying. The filming today would be used as promotion and publicity when the show was completed. They needed him getting prepared for the biggest runway event in years to be a statement, an extension of Ilya. 

He reached for his phone, dropped his hand. He stared at his reflection, his eyes closing and looking in either direction Rose directed him to be. Shane’s fingers gripped at the white robe that was tight around his body. Suffocating. Tight against his overstimulated skin, pressing into his waist. 

“Can I just,” Shane reached for the tie, undoing it slightly and letting it fall open a little at his chest. He inhaled deeply, his fingers wrapped in the soft, plush fabric of the tie. He rubbed his fingers together, the fabric grinding between his skin. 

“Shane, what is going on?” Rose asked quietly, silver highlighter decorating the air around the applicator. “You’re sweating,” she observed, holding the brush in hand with the highlighter so she could reach and grab the hand-held fan she got him. She quickly turned it on in front of his face. “Hold.”

Shane let the cold air kiss his skin, relief a fleeting feeling as his body was racked with waves of hot nerves. He didn’t want the spotlight. Not when he had a gaping hole in his chest, his mind fuzzy on the edges with what should be’s and what should have been’s. 

All of his private emotions being worn publicly through his body. 

If he could, he would peel out of his skin. 

“Can I just, can I have five minutes?” Shane whispered, his eyes pleading. He knew he just had a break, but he couldn’t do this. “Please, Rose,” his voice cracked and he shook his head, once, then again when she just looked into his soul. 

“Yes,” Rose breathed out, pressing a soft kiss to his temple before going to sit by his mother. 

Shane was grateful as Rose sat down next to his mom, starting a conversation about the makeup and the look, as if she was the one that needed the break to reevaluate what they would be doing. As if they had not spent hours putting it together through Pinterest boards and glittery swatches at 3am.

Shane opened his phone and began typing. 

Shane: Guess what I did?

Shane: I tried those Uncrustables you talked about. I get it now

 

Shane deleted each message. He couldn’t send something like that. Ilya probably didn’t care. He was better off just being honest. 

 

Shane: Have you felt different since we started doing this? 

Shane: Stay

Shane: I’ll walk away, if that’s what you want

Shane: I didn’t mean it

Shane: Do I ever cross your mind? 

Shane: I miss us

Shane: I want us back

Shane: I know that forgiveness won’t be this easy but I can try

 

Each message typed quickly, deleted even quicker. Shane knew, with a deep sadness in his chest, that he could move on and cut ties. If he had to. It would save him so much pain, so much heartache. It would save Ilya from the same, despite it already having started. But Shane leaving behind Ilya for good would leave each tie to him as an exposed, frayed nerve burning straight to his heart. 

The crush of years, having and lost was enough for Shane to know that a part of him wanted to walk away if only to protect himself. Protect himself and his career from heartbreak and failure, the inevitable pain that comes with all of the private and intimate workings of a publicized relationship.

But that all already came in the shape of not having Ilya right now. 

And he hates to admit how badly he wants him back. What if it doesn’t work and Ilya moves on from Shane? What if everything he says to Ilya is nothing Ilya wants to hear. What if Ilya has already moved on because Shane was too unwilling to share Ilya on his arm with the world?

 

Shane: Can I call you? 

 

No. 

 

Shane: What if you call me? I’d answer. 

 

Shane knows he’d do more than answer. He’d maybe crawl, if Ilya asked him to. The thought causes a burning ache low in his chest. 

Shane bit his lip as he cut away the words with each press of his thumb. 

 

Shane: I feel different without you. 

Shane: Rose says I am. Less color in my face. 

Shane: You look great still. Not that I’m looking. Except for when I am. 

Shane: I don’t know how to leave this alone. 

 

Rose walked back over to Shane and wrapped her arms around him, her chin resting on his shoulder and staring at him through the mirror. “They’re on their way up, my sweet friend.”

Shane nodded, quickly shoving his phone back into the pocket of the robe. “Okay,” he breathed out, shaking his head a little from side to side. “I can do this.”

“Are you sure?” She unwrapped from him and grabbed her makeup brush. 

Shane nodded, forcing the sinking feeling that maybe they were better off this way, Shane and Ilya, not together. He should’ve sent something, he thought, anything just for a sign of life, a sign of connection. But Ilya hadn’t responded before. Shane’s words- “It is for me, too”- etched into his memory like a brand of regret. 

“Yeah,” he lied, looking up at his own reflection in the mirror of Patroclus beauty. “Yes.”

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

The camera crew established themselves in Shane’s room. It wasn’t a huge space to begin with, suffocating Shane further both in the space and his thoughts. 

“Ready?” the interviewer asked, holding the camera on Shane. 

Shane nodded with a little reluctance. 

Every question of the interview was targeted, a constant reminder of Ilya. 

Everything led back to Ilya. 

“What was your reaction when Ilya Rozanov asked you to be a part of his show?” 

“How long have you known Ilya Rozanov?” 

“Did you have any input into having Patroclus be a part of the inspiration for your outfit choice?” 

Shane had answered easily, PR voice on full display. 

He wasn’t trying to forget the argument he had with Ilya. He wanted it all to blow over. Couldn’t wait to hold Ilya, to be held by Ilya, when it all blew over. 

Because it had to. Right? 

Was Shane crossing Ilya’s mind just as much as he was crossing Shane’s?

“Shane?” the interviewer asked. “Did you hear the question?”

“Uh, no, sorry,” Shane said, looking down at his hands. 

Shane wondered what it would be like if the interviewer could look into his mind. See that his mind was a photo album of him and Ilya. How, at night, he stared at the ceiling and wondered if Ilya was thinking about him, wishing they were together. 

Would the interviewer, if she knew, have the audacity to ask: When you lay awake at night, do you ever think of Ilya?

His fear was that she would. Interviewers would ask the personal questions. Shane was a product for them. He wasn’t real. 

It was what had them in this mess in the first place. 

Feeling fear. Feeling inhuman. Feeling othered. 

Shane thought of what Rose had told him, when they broke up, that he deserved happiness. He didn’t need to self-sabotage and date her to keep an appearance that tore him down. 

Was this not another form of self-sabotage against himself?

“What?” Shane asked, staring at the interviewer, Rose, and his mother, who were all looking at him expectantly. 

“You know what,” the interviewer said, clapping her hands together once. “I think we have enough.” 

His mother nodded, her eyes boring into Shane’s. 

Shane tore his gaze away, afraid that if she looked too closely, she’d see the way they were beginning to shine with unshed tears. 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

Shane got back to his apartment and immediately dropped down onto his couch. Having to talk about Ilya and the show for the entire day when he had not even talked to Ilya in weeks was insufferable. He felt the sadness seep into his bones, the loneliness of the nighttime, of his apartment, now heavy. 

It makes him want to cry, sometimes, if he thinks about it too hard. 

He glanced toward his kitchen, knowing that he should make dinner. Maybe he could make pasta like Ilya made. 

Shane shook his head. 

They barely even know each other. 

Yet they know each other intimately, lovingly. 

Shane puts his head in his hands. Everything changed for him since he met Ilya Rozanov. 

He’s always been a bad liar. 

Even to himself. 

Standing, he made his way to the kitchen and pulled the meal of prepped salmon and brown rice out of the fridge, popping it into the microwave. As he watched it whirl around, he thought about how hard it was, to be in love, when that love felt new, fragile. Something small yet hardened at the edges with a protective layer. Shane always struggled with how to hold onto the hard things, worrying at it until it either grew a tougher shell or left. 

As he ate, methodical bites, slowly chewing, he scrolled on his phone. Instagram posts of different fashion brands, advertisements for phone cases. Regular. 

He glanced toward his television, the black screen reflecting the empty space. 

It once showed hockey, reflecting back Ilya standing, hands on his hips, shaking his head at the power play. 

The apartment was haunted now.

His phone rang loud into the room, vibrating in his hand, causing him to jump out of his skin. His mother. 

“Hi, mom,” he answered quickly. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, I just wanted to call because I was talking to Joanie, you know how she knows Ilya’s manager,” she said quickly, pots and pans clanking in the background.

“Sure, yeah.”

“She told me that Ilya is in Russia. His father died. I think we need to send something…”

His mother kept talking, but Shane didn’t hear it. 

Ilya. 

Russia. 

His father. 

His mother. 

Shane sucked in a breath. “I have to go-”

“Shane, we can send-”

“Not now, mom, please, I have to go, I love you, I, bye,” Shane hung up, hands shaking as he opened to Ilya’s contact and pressed the little phone.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

“This is Ilya Rozanov… I will never listen to your voicemail.”

“Fuck,” Shane hissed, calling again. 

And again.

Never leaving a voicemail, never wasting the time, wasting the words. 

Ilya was in Russia, alone, dealing with the loss of his dad. Both of his parents were gone. His brother, Shane knew, wasn’t going to be any help.

Shane felt tears sting his eyes as he stared at the three calls that went unanswered. He opened his clock app, seeing that in Russia, it was 1:43am. 

Shane called again. He didn’t care if it woke Ilya up. Ilya liked to stay up late, liked to trace small swirls in Shane’s skin, his mouth pressed warm and open on his shoulder. 

Wiping the tears from his eyes, he called again. One final time. 

“Shane?” 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Ilya was woken up by the sound of his phone buzzing against the nightstand. Incessant, unrelenting pulses that made Ilya groan as he threw his hand out to grab it.

Squinting, his brother's name filled the top of the screen. 

“Chto ty khochesh?” Ilya snapped. What do you want? 

“Otets v bolnitse. On ochen' bolen. On pochti dve nedeli zabyval prinimat' svoi tabletki,” Andrei said into the phone with only the barest hint of care, of concern.  Father is in the hospital. He is very sick. He had forgotten to take his pills for almost two weeks.

Ilya sits up, ending the phone call with a quick comment about getting on a plane, hanging up before his brother could say something ignorant into the phone. 

He packed haphazardly, tossing what he thought he might need into a suitcase. He could handle everything else when he got there. 

He bought a plane ticket for the next flight out. 

He called Svetlana as his rideshare drove him to the airport. The words were jumbled, messy as he said he was on his way to Russia, that Andrei calling to tell him was the sign of death. 

Ilya could feel it in his bones. 

On the flight, Ilya stared out the window at the clouds, the sound of music filling his ears, but going nowhere in his mind. All he could think about was his childhood, his father. 

Ilya squeezed his hands together in his lap as he thought about the roughness his father had toward him. Wanting Ilya to always be better, be more, be tougher. But Ilya always knew he would fall short and each time he got back up, the fall was harder. 

He knew when he saw his father he needed to remember one thing, wishing and hoping that his father would apologize, would say that he loved Ilya, was something he could not keep waiting for. 

It was an apology he would never get. 

And 40,000 feet in the air, on his way to say goodbye to his father, something he never got to do for his mother, Ilya made a semblance of peace with that. 

When he got to Russia, he first went to the small apartment he owned in Moscow for when he would visit. Not that he had visited as of late, busy with his career, busy with making something for himself that had love and warmth and compassion. 

The hospital room was cold, his father lay with his eyes closed. 

Andrei sat in the corner on his phone. 

“Minutka naedine?” Ilya asked harshly. A minute alone?

“Privet i tebe,” his brother snapped, getting up and walking out of the room. Ilya could see the redness around his eyes. Hello to you, too. 

His brother wasn’t scared of his father’s death, he was scared of the after .

Ilya wondered for a fleeting second if his sister-in-law and niece were in the waiting room. If Paulina would be with them, if she cared enough to be here. He had rushed too quickly to even look. 

But the thought faded from his mind as he looked down at his father, pale, fragile, weaker than he had ever seen him, ever known him to be, ever thought he could be. 

“Papa,” he breathed out, his hand coming down to rest over his cool wrist. It reminded him of his mother’s hand in his dream, the way it held him gentle with love. 

Ilya loved his father. Not for who he was. But who he made Ilya to be. 

A good man through learning what he did not want to be. 

A complicated love. A complicated care. A complicated loss. 

Ilya did not know what he wanted to say, had not thought that far. Nobody had prepared him for how to say goodbye. Not when his biggest loss was taken from him unprecedented, no warning to his young teenage mind. 

His bottom lip quivered as he sat down in the chair next to the bed. 

The tears slid slowly down his cheeks. 

“Ya deystvitelno lyublyu tebya,” Ilya said, but his voice was barely above a whisper, thick with sadness. “Dazhe kogda ty delayesh eto tak trudno.” I do love you. Even when you make it so uneasy. 

Ilya shook his head as he continued, the sound of the heart monitor filling his head. 

“Ty dal mne moyu mamu. Ya lyublyu tebya za eto. Ty sdelal yeye slaboy, no eto sdelalo menya silnym.” You gave me my mama. I love you for that. You made her weak, but it made me strong. 

Ilya’s thumb rubbed across his fathers skin as the monitor began to slow. His own breath hitched the tiniest bit as he saw the flutter of his father’s eyelids. They blinked once, bright blue staring back at him. 

“Ty nikogda ne delal eto legko dlya menya. No dedushka ne sdelal eto legko dlya tebya. Ty ne razorval krug. No ya razorvu,” Ilya said, shaking his head as he stared at his father's wedding ring. The ring he would confuse with that of the one he wore for his mother and not the one meant for Paulina. You never made it easy for me. But grandpa did not make it easy for you. You did not break a cycle. But I will. 

His father’s eyes dropped, heavily blinking before closing. Ilya bit down hard on his lip and said one final thing to his father, something he always wanted to tell him. 

“Ya budu samym kreativnym Rozanov, ya ne otstuplyu. Eto sdelayet menya samym silnym Rozanov. Togda, iz ada, ty smozhesh gorditsya mnoy za eto,” Ilya said. I will be the most creative Rozanov, I will not back down. It will make me the strongest Rozanov. Then, from hell, you can be proud of me for that.

Ilya stood, wiping his eyes as he pressed the call nurse button. 

Just as his father’s heart rate dipped too low. 

Ilya did not cry as the nurses scrambled around the room. He did not cry when they pronounced his father dead. 

Andrei let out a strangled sob upon coming back in. One single outburst before walking from the room once more. 

Ilya stared at his father’s lifeless body in the comfort of the hospital bed and machines to keep him alive. He thought of his mother’s bent awkwardly in a drug induced death, the bottle lay beside her body. 

“Do svidaniya,” Ilya muttered, barely above a whisper, as he walked out of the room. Goodbye. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Svetlana left Ilya’s apartment around midnight, kissing him on the forehead as she departed. The dinner to celebrate his father’s life would be the next day. There would be no big funeral with visitors and fanfare, his father did not want that. 

Ilya does not know who would have come to warrant a grandeur event. 

Laying down in bed, Ilya stared out at the flashing lights of Moscow. He wondered if he laid there long enough, an answer of what to do would manifest from the window. 

After his father died, his brother had asked Ilya for money for the dinner, for the burial, for taking their father to the hospital. 

It had created a scene. Ilya yelled, throwing himself at his brother, just as his brother shoved Ilya back. 

Svetlana’s father pulled them apart with a snarl, “Dikie zhivotnye, vy oba. Hvatit.” Wild animals, the both of you. Enough.

Now Ilya lay in bed, allowing the tears to slip from the corners of his squinted eyes, unable to fully close them, suddenly afraid of the dark, the lights of Moscow no longer enough to keep out the monsters. 

His father was dead. 

His mother dead, too. 

Ilya was officially alone. 

The darkness now carried a weight, a longing, an isolation. It was always heavier in Russia. What lurked in the dark now wasn’t just the subtle creaks of the building settling, and the presence made up by the mind that Ilya supplied to be his mother. No. Now the presence manifested itself into something more aggressive, rough on the edges with jagged teeth that would smile before Ilya. 

His father. 

Ilya sat up with a jolt, chest rising and falling rapidly as he wiped his face, looking around the room. He reached and turned the bedside light on.

Whenever Ilya was in Russia, it was a different version of himself. One that carried more fear, more submission to the elders around him. He rarely spoke unless he was spoken to. Art and love and beauty all became foreign, unique to being in America. Here, he could feel it, the version of him that his father had created, the one he had been in for so long. 

He heard once, a few months ago in a song, that you could take the man out of the city, but not the city from the man. 

As Ilya wandered to the kitchen, every light was turned on around him. He filled a cup of water, drank, filled, drank. He stared at the small doodle of flowers that he had hung above the sink. Vibrant flowers with vines framing around them. One his mother kept in the bathroom that he had hidden after her death. 

He heard his phone ring from the bedroom. 

Ilya, with shaky fingers, removed the photo from the wall. 

Silence. 

Then more ringing. 

Ilya set the glass down and walked back toward his room, wrapping the picture frame in one of his old hockey t-shirts he would bring back with him. 

His phone kept ringing. 

He packed the photo into his suitcase. 

Ilya went to the bathroom, washed his hands, splashed cold water over his face. The only sound his jagged breathing and his phone ringing. 

And ringing and ringing and ringing. 

Ilya stormed over to his phone, ready to answer Andrei, ready to scream. He wanted to tell him he was the worst brother, that their mother would be ashamed, that Ilya didn’t care about him and he only cared about his sweet niece who had a father just like their own–

His anger swelled, crested into nothing as he saw the photo of Shane that he had secretly taken of him sipping on Ilya’s sweet coffee, making a face, filled the phone screen. 

The call faded away to his homescreen, a photo of the Los Angeles skyline that he had taken when he first moved there. It was one that he would have sent to his mother if he could have. He had sent it to Svetlana. 

The notification showed that every ring and call had been Shane. 

His phone buzzed again, Shane’s face replacing the sky. 

Ilya laughed at the absurdity of it. Ilya would have Shane be his entire sky if Shane would let him in. 

Without another thought, Ilya swiped to accept the call. 

“Shane?”

“Ilya,” Shane breathed out, reverent, like all he wanted, all he needed, was Ilya to answer. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

“Ilya,” Shane breathed out, tension easing at hearing his voice. 

He tried to picture him, alone in Russia. Was he in his childhood home, surrounded by death? Was he in a hotel, longing to be in a bed he was familiar with? Did he have his own place in Russia that he used for when he visited? 

Shane realized, with a jarring feeling, that he did not know nearly enough about Ilya. He wanted to know everything Ilya was willing to give him.

He felt dizzy, sick with the intensity of the thought. 

“Yes,” Ilya replied, tone rough, sad. 

“I’m… so sorry, Ilya. How are you doing?”

Silence, a few breaths cutting through the receiver. 

“Fine,” Ilya said, then sighed. “Not good. Pretty bad.” 

“Where are you?”

“Russia?”

Shane snorted, shaking his head and rolling his eyes as if Ilya could see his irritation. “I mean, are you alone? To talk?”

“Talk about what?”

“Anything you want,” Shane replied easily. “Anything that will help you.” 

And Shane meant it. He would listen to Ilya talk about the stars in Russia or the birds that woke him up early in the morning that irritated him. Ilya did not grow up like Shane. Home was not love, was not care, was not healing. 

“Ilya?” Shane asked carefully. 

Ilya sniffled. “You are not busy with Rose? Is late in Canada, da?”

Shane tensed and leaned back against his headboard. “I’m doing this to help us.”

“Us!” Ilya laughed cooly. Shane felt his body go rigid. “Us,” he repeated. 

“People are asking me all about you. The show is bringing attention. I just thought-” 

“What about me?” Ilya asked. 

Shane stared down at the blanket he was twisting between his fingers. He bit his lip. He thought he was helping them both, protecting both of their careers. 

“I do not care what people think. I care about how I feel about you,” Ilya said once the silence stretched too far. “I feel… a lot. For you. This ‘us.’” 

“I wanted to protect us,” Shane said weakly.

He realized it in Ilya’s words. He didn’t know what Ilya wanted, didn’t fully know how Ilya felt. Shane was too consumed in his own feelings of love and fear, the lines blurring so harshly to protect it, protect us both, that he wasn’t thinking. 

Yet, Ilya’s questions cut through his thoughts, cut through the lines, like a knife. 

“From ourselves?” 

“I…” Any word on Shane’s tongue died. He squeezed the blanket as he said, “I feel a lot for you, too.” 

There was rustling on the other end. 

“I missed talking to you,” Ilya said quietly. 

“I missed it, too.” 

“Then, what?” Ilya asked. “You, what, break up publicly with Rose?” 

“It’s not that easy.” 

Ilya huffed. “Of course not,” he muttered. 

“Ilya, we can be friends still-”

“That is what this is? Us-friends?” Ilya cut him off. “We do not even know each other-”

“That’s not true-” Shane pleaded, shaking his head. “Ilya we’re trying to, we-” 

“We do not know how to be friends.”

The words dealt the final blow to Shane’s swollen heart. It pulsed, sputtered up into his throat, pushing tears from his eyes, silent and weak, and then fluttered. 

We do not know how to be friends. 

Ilya did not say anything else. When Shane didn’t–couldn’t– either, Ilya’s voice was a strangled whisper as he said, “I have to go,” and hung up, leaving Shane alone in his room, fingers gripped around the blanket, frozen in place. 

He didn’t move for a long time. Not as the tears left sticky trails down his cheeks. Not as his chest rose and fell with garbled sobs that Shane forced out through heavy breaths. Not as he calmed down, heels dug into the mattress. 

It was both of their faults. Shane knew this. He was smart enough that their foundation was established on cracks that neither of them wanted to fix. Not immediately. Not when they had been a fantasy turned reality for both of them. 

They took everything as more than what it was. They had built something real around something artificial, not taking the time to replace the fascination and desire with the passion and the realness of them both. 

But Shane recognized the role he played in it. 

The way he pushed Ilya away, tried to hide a man who wanted to be himself, wanted to be proud and the version he had always wanted to me. 

Hide him away from nobody but himself. His image. His own fears. 

When Ilya had fears of his own that Shane had fed into. 

Shane looked at the dark phone screen. He could call back.

No. 

Ilya needed time, too. 

It was the least Shane could give him, he thought, as he dragged himself to bed, tucking himself in, shoving his head underneath his pillow. 

He just wanted to be Ilya’s. 

But was this it? Was each memory now restricted to a snapshot, a polaroid of the mind? 

Shane knows that that would never be enough. He would never be happier without Ilya, not after he realized how happy he was with Ilya. How Ilya made him feel beautiful in a way the industry never saw. The way Ilya made him laugh, unrestricted, eyes watering for Ilya to just wipe under with his own laughs. The way Ilya looked so handsome when Shane was all over his mouth, lips pink and wet as they wrapped around Shane’s name like it was the only thing he ever wanted to say. 

How did he miss it? 

Ilya was falling, too. Just as hard as Shane.

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

The dinner for Ilya’s father had been quiet, words spoken between Svetlana’s father and another close friend. Lapses of silence filled with the clanging of forks and knives against porcelain plates.

Ilya whispered to Svetlana that he needed to excuse himself. 

Stepping to the back room, Ilya sucked in a breath, adjusting his tie in the mirror. Air. It was all he needed. A step away from the cup of his father’s favorite liqueur and medal from the war. 

His brother followed behind, his eyes boring into the back of Ilya’s head. 

“Ne zdes', Andrei.” Not here, Andrei.

“Gde den'gi?” Where is the money?

Ilya whirled around. “Mogu ya vzyat minutu, chtoby perevesti dukh?” Can I have a minute to breathe?

“Ya uvidel uvedomlenie o propushchennykh zvonkakh ot Sheyna. Pokhozhe, vy mnogo dyshite v Amerike s ego povyazkoy na rtu-” I saw your missed calls notification from Shane. Seems you do plenty of breathing in America with his mouth wrap-

Ilya shoved his brother against the wall. “Zamolchi!”  Shut up! 

His brother laughed, grabbing at Ilya to try to force him off. 

“Ty pozor dlya semi!” You’re a disgrace to the family!

“Togda ne prosi menya pomogat' sem'e!” Then do not ask me to help the family!

His brother shook his head, shoving Ilya into the opposite wall. “Eto ne to, chto delayut russkie semi. Ili vy zabyli?” That is not what Russian families do. Or did you forget?

Forget. As if Ilya could get so lucky.

Svetlana walked in, her eyes boring into Ilya. “Not worth it.”

“Stupid bitch,” Andrei muttered.

Ilya moved and Svetlana wrapped her arms around him. “Not worth it,” she repeated with more edge.

“Here is what will happen,” Ilya said, staring at his brother. “You will get a final payment. You can have my apartment. I will leave a fund for my niece. Nobody will have access to it until she is 18, where she will have access to it. And you will never, ever, contact me again.”

The words were like venom from Ilya’s tongue, his chest rising and falling as his fists shook by his sides. 

Andrei wiped his nose and nodded. “Khorosho,” Fine, he turned and looked at himself in the mirror. With a fix of his hair, he turned toward Ilya and just stared. 

All Ilya saw was his father. 

Then his brother walked back out toward the small family he was building and destroying. 

Ilya turned toward Svetlana. “I am sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” she smoothed out his suit jacket, her hands a grounding feeling as they ran down his arms. “He is an asshole.”

Ilya nodded. “Can we… Let’s just go.” 

The final goodbye he gave was to his niece. Her soft blonde curls framing her small face. Ilya pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “S toboy vsyo budet v poryadke. Ya pozabochus ob etom.” He whispered into her ear as he hugged her. She laughed in return, a child's innocence not yet lost to the harshness of her family. You will be okay. I will make sure of it.

He would do everything in his power to make sure that this little girl was cared for. 

Ilya stood up and wiped his eyes. He gave a final nod toward the cup of liquor and walked out the door, Svetlana’s fingers wrapped around his wrist. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

The room was spinning as Ilya stared at the ceiling of the apartment. It would be the final night he stayed in this bed, in this city. He would leave tomorrow night, leaving everything that Russia gave him, what he had left behind. 

Ilya knew this was his last visit. 

After he had left his father’s service, he and Svetlana went to his mother’s grave. She stayed behind, allowing Ilya to have a moment with his mother.

“Mne prosto nuzhno, chtoby ty byl zdes, so mnoy, chtoby napravlyat menya,” Ilya had said through the brokenness of his voice. He had been on his knees, his hands resting lightly on top of her stone. I just need you to be here, with me, to guide me.

“Ya tak tebya lyublyu, mama. Pozhaluysta, ostavaysya so mnoy. Kuda by ya ni poshla. S kem by ya ni byl. Ne ostavlyay menya snova.” I love you so much, mama. Please stay with me. Wherever I go. Whoever I am with. Do not leave me again.

Then, Ilya and Svetlana went to the local bar. Ilya had ordered a vodka, neat. Then another. Then another with a shot. Then one more for good measure. 

Somewhere in there he thinks he talked to Svetlana. He knows he did, she got him home after all. 

He can barely make out her face, laughing at him. But in a sad way. A way that was loving but knowing. 

What was so funny?

What did she say? 

That was all he remembered. 

Now, he watched at the ceiling’s painted ridges moved and danced, swirled around and around like Ilya’s stomach. He started to count, lost track at three, closed his eyes, opened them again when closing them somehow felt worse. 

Maybe he should throw up. 

He sat up, only to fall back against the pillow again with a dull thud. 

“Fuck,” he breathed out, covering his face with his hands. 

Ilya reached over for his cup of water, knocked it to the floor. 

“Fuck,” he repeated, grabbing his phone and wiping the little water that got on it across his bedsheets. 

He looked at the notifications, the letters swirling, causing him to close his eyes. 

Ilya thought that maybe he saw Shane’s name. 

Or maybe he just wanted to see a notification from Shane. 

Forcing himself to look at the screen, he looked at each notification carefully, studying it like art, focusing on each letter oh so carefully. 

No notification from Shane. Not even a mention. 

Ilya leaned his head back, then rushed it forward when the dull ache rushed toward him. 

Shane Hollander. 

He should have known better, really, than to fall in love with a cute boy with freckles and doe like eyes. One that wrapped around him so sweetly, smiled at him like he hung the sun, while Ilya felt like Shane had hung the moon to keep his nightmares at bay in the warm white light. 

Now he was sad, drunk, and missing somebody, for the first time, that was not his mother. 

What was he supposed to do now? 

A tear splashed onto his phone, then another. Ilya hadn’t even felt them spring up and free, but they wouldn’t stop. He pressed his palms to eyes and allowed himself to cry. Heavy sobs wracked through his body.

The vodka made every reason to cry tangle, and each tear, each sob, pulled at the strings of loss and his father’s final breath and Shane’s voice, so sad on the phone. 

He was crying about so much that he no longer knew what he was crying for. 

Yet, in the haze of his sadness, he thought of how he could still call Shane, could still talk to him, could be honest, open with him. 

He could tell him that he loved him. 

Has loved a version of him for a long time. 

Morphing from a love of his image to a love of him. 

He opened his phone and scrolled for Shane’s photo, smiling drunkenly at the way his bottom lip jutted out at his disgust over Ilya’s caramel iced coffee with caramel drizzle. 

His free-will took over as he pressed the call button.

And with each ring, he waited, staring out the window at the moon, high above the sky, shining into his room. 

“Hi, this is Shane Hollander, please leave your name and phone number and I will get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks.” 

Ilya stayed frozen as the beep came through. He could speak. Or he could call until Shane answered. 

But what if Shane never answered?

The decision was made for him. 

He opened his mouth, and his heart spilled out. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Shane came out of the bathroom, wiping sleep from his eyes, and fell back onto his bed. He stared at the ceiling for a while, replaying the phone call with Ilya in his head. 

All the things he said. 

But mainly all the things he hadn’t said. 

It was when he reached for his phone to turn his morning alarm off that he saw it. 

One missed call from Ilya Rozanov. With a voicemail. 

His name in the notification sent a shiver up Shane’s spine. His finger trembled just barely on the side of noticing as he tapped the notification, held the phone up to his ear, and listened. 

Listened to each and every word that poured from Ilya Rozanov like a faucet, slurred, hurried, and emotional. 

And when it ended, Shane wiped the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. He played it again. 

He knew what he needed to do. 

He checked his calendar, saw he had a fitting in two days and called his mom. He would tell her that he needed to be in California, the fitting could be there. He’d be on the first plane out that he could find and make in time. He got up, putting on a pair of sweatpants as he waited for her to answer. 

When she answered, he bypassed pleasantries, rushing to speak before she could steamroll over his courage. 

“I need to move my next fitting to the YSL in California.”

 

Chapter 9: VIII

Shane’s flight landed in California in the middle of the night. It was late, and the time stretched between landing and his fitting got smaller and smaller. Yet, the only thing he cared about was getting to Ilya. The exhaustion was settled deep in his bones as he walked toward the exit of the airport, attempting to hold in a yawn as he ducked his head. 

He arrived alone, getting to his rideshare without any major stops and sharing the address with the quiet driver. With his hood pulled up over his head, Shane leaned back in the seats. The driver didn’t talk much, which Shane appreciated at 1:45 am. He was exhausted, sleep pulling at his eyelids that refused to shut until he was able to talk to Ilya. 

Besides, his fitting wasn’t until later in the day, giving Shane some semblance of hope he’d get some sleep before he had to be there, ready and presentable. 

Rose had offered to fly with him, but Shane had dismissed it, telling her he needed to be alone before the fitting. She was skeptical, but didn’t ask many questions. Just silently hummed her understanding. 

Really, it was all just dependent on how everything played out with Ilya. And Rose didn’t need to be there to know, to see Shane fall apart as he tried to put Ilya and himself back together. 

The voicemail Ilya had drunkenly left had been gut-wrenching for Shane to hear. The emotion in Ilya’s voice had seeped through each word, each gentle cry at his confessions, each hiccup in his liquored voice. 

Shane leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. All he could see was Ilya, drunk and pressed against a wall, crying, out of reach. He opened his eyes back up, staring at the streetlights that streaked by. The driver muttered something about a bad driver in front of them. Shane hummed his acknowledgment of the comment, inviting no further conversation. 

There was a level of guilt that settled low in Shane’s chest, pressing toward his heart as he steadied his breathing to the rumble of the car's engine. Lately, he’d been living as a star, dancing his way across screens, hiding the cringes from the touches and instead smiling, living the day dream everyone expected him to. 

Shane was at the movies, on the big screens. He was at the shows, on the runway. 

Even his friends were on the runways, too, making their own waves in Hollywood. 

It was all the “The Dream,” as they say.  

The same dream that was taking Ilya from him. 

But Ilya saw all of that and chose to go further into Shane’s orbit, his heart and soul. Into his touches, his head, his heart. 

It went against everything Shane ever knew. Ever felt. 

Shane couldn’t stand to be touched, hating the way people felt privy to his body. But Ilya would wrap his fingers around Shane’s pulse point as if his skin was sacred, and suddenly Shane would lean into the touch, the warmth a caress instead of a brand. 

His mind would go blissfully quiet when Ilya was beside him. It never mattered if Ilya was cursing at the TV or swaying his hips and shimmying his shoulders to the song in a commercial– Shane was the happiest he had ever been in those small moments. 

Shane pressed his lips together as he rolled his head back against the car seat. Their love was devotional in the touches, the movements, the words themselves. They didn’t have to say they loved each other, their love was bigger. And yet, it was slipping between Shane’s fingers and he was desperate to reform it. 

This is what Shane wants. Not for the runway, not for the lights, not for the cameras. 

This is what Shane wants for him. 

This is what Shane would get, hopefully, if Ilya let him in. 

Shane would get to Ilya’s and knock on the door. He would wake up Ilya and grab him and kiss him. He would wrap his arms around Ilya and say I love you, too, and I won’t let go. Not again. Not ever. 

As he got to the building, Shane made his way in, noting that the security was not sound enough for Ilya to stay in such a place. The lobby was quiet, a couple sitting at the coffee bar lounge tables and another girl laying across the couch, phone on her chest in what Shane assumed was a late night hidden phone call. He knows the feeling all too well, hiding away to call somebody you love and didn’t want listening ears. Shane had a thought to wake her up, tell her to keep talking to that person. 

“Get it together,” he breathed out when he was all but ready to project his entire relationship onto a stranger. 

He glanced toward the elevator, which needed a special key pass. Shane gripped his bag tighter as he looked to the stairwell that needed the same thing. He cursed under his breath. Why had he not thought about this? Of course he wouldn’t be able to just walk in. Shane felt like an idiot. He was going to end up asleep on the other couch, nose tucked into the hoodie that belonged to the love of his life who was locked behind a stupid fucking door. 

Suddenly, the door to the stairwell opened and Shane made his way over quickly, holding the door for the woman and her grocery bags. She wore bright pink scrubs, her hair still pulled back in a nursing cap. 

“Do you need help?” Shane asked. 

“Uh, yeah actually, can you grab this tote?” She asked, pointing to the bright pink shopping bag by the door. There was a small flicker of recognition on her face, but Shane quickly turned away. 

“Thank you,” she said softly as they made their way up the stairs. “I prefer the stairs even after I get out of my weird overnight shift coverages,” she chuckled as she got her key out. 

Shane smiled politely, setting the woman’s bags outside of her apartment door, and politely excused himself as fast as possible before she could ask him in, ask him his name, ask him his apartment number. 

Taking two steps at a time up the three flights to Ilya’s floor, he reached the top and froze, staring down the long hallway. He could turn back now. As he approached the door, he hiked his bag up over his shoulder, feeling the weight against his back as a grounding presence. There was no turning back. He needed to be bold for them, for their us. 

This is crazy, Shane thought as he stared at the door. Slowly he leaned his forehead against it with a dull thunk, the cool wind of the air conditioned hallway giving away nothing. He knocked on the door, pulling his head away slowly and blinking under the hazy nightlights. 

Inside his mind, he was taking in the details. He was there in the middle of the night. That wasn’t even the craziest part to him. The fact that he was taking this voicemail, obviously drunken at that, as something more than just a phone call, was the craziest part. 

No answer at the door. 

Shane knocked again, a little harder. Tears began to sting his eyes at the thought of leaving. If he left, he left Ilya. He wouldn’t just fail Ilya’s confession– he would fail himself. He thinks of his thoughts in the car, how leaving would deprive himself of finally opening up. Of telling Ilya how he has felt for weeks, months, years. That Ilya was more than just entertainment in dark places. He was quiet. He was life. He was safe. 

No footsteps toward the door. 

Shane called Ilya. Listening to the one ring until his infamous voicemail about never calling back mocked him. He could leave a voicemail, telling Ilya he was outside. But why would he? Ilya didn’t pick up. Most likely didn’t want to pick up. 

Shane’s stomach drops at the thought that Ilya may not have meant what he said. 

No locks unclicked on the door. 

Shane felt the tears roll down his cheeks as he sat down against the outside of Ilya’s apartment door. There was no doormat, Shane observed, and wished he hadn’t. Images of a doormat sitting outside of Ilya’s apartment, one with a sarcastic comment, filled his blurry vision. He could get that for Ilya as a way to say he loved him without saying it outright. That was their normal. 

Shane was tired. He was alone. He was sad. He didn’t have a hotel to go to, confident that Ilya would let him in. The distance from Ilya’s place to Shane’s own place in California was too far. Shane had been so hopeful that he could talk to Ilya, hold Ilya, confess back to Ilya. 

He pulled his hood up over his head and let the tears quietly fall. Shane reached up and wiped them with the rough edge of Ilya’s hoodie sleeve, now smelling of Shane’s cologne. It wasn’t as gentle as Ilya’s thumb when it would press against his cheek, capturing each tear as if they were delicate pieces of glass.

Shane closed his eyes and steadied his breaths. He could feel the chill up his spine as he rubbed his hands together, pulling at his fingers and twisting them together. 

He doesn’t know how long he sat there, dozing off with his head resting against his bag as a pillow, knees curled up into his chest. 

All Shane could think about was what Ilya had said in the voicemail. How he said he wanted Shane forever. 

And Shane bought it. 

So, he would lie here and wait for him. Because what choice did Shane have?

Shane reached into his bag and grabbed his headphones. Plugging them into his ears, skin dewey, he adjusted to be as comfortable as he could be on the cold, hard floor. Reaching for his phone, he closed his eyes and played the voicemail a final time. Ilya’s words rooted him to the spot outside of Ilya’s door. 

“Shane, hello? Oh! Shane voicemail, English is hard right now, but I will try, for you, I will always try…” 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Ilya’s head throbbed as Svetlana pulled up to his apartment to drop him off. He had slept at her house, on the floor beside the couch because her couch was too small, but his apartment and bed had been too far away. 

He had been too drunk to get himself home. Too drunk to even care to try to get himself home. 

His father was gone. Andrei was every bit as gone. He didn’t have Shane. 

He wanted to walk away from it all. But he couldn’t.

So, he did the only logical thing his brain could process in that moment– get drunk on good vodka with Svetlana. But, just as every time they did that, it ended with Svetlana helping his drunken state, and Ilya waking up worse than he was when he started drinking. 

When Ilya had woken that morning, Svetlana had been rubbing his back. By his head on the bedside table was a cup of ice water and two pills. “You cried in your sleep… you asked for Shane,” she had said quietly.

Ilya didn’t respond, just nodded his head as he curled further into himself with a soft groan. 

Svetlana hadn’t said anything else either. Not until Ilya sat up, thanked her for the medicine, and asked her for a ride back so he could shower with his own soap. 

He didn’t ask about what else he said, both during the drinking and during his sleep (news to him that he talked in his sleep!). Ilya knew that everything in his life was a mess. Usually, he could turn it off when he drank and be the fun, outgoing one. But Ilya knew that everything was too much, too heavy. He didn’t ask. Svetlana didn’t supply. 

Now, Svetlana dropped him off to his empty apartment where he would go right back to bed, after his much needed shower, and be alone. 

“You could stay, actually. If you would like?” he asked Svetlana. The idea of being alone was suddenly crushing against his chest. 

“I would if I could, Ilyusha.” She pressed a warm hand to his cheek. “I have to go to work.” 

Ilya nodded and got out of the car. “I am going to go scrub my skin off. I smell like the inside of vodka bottle.”

Svetlana laughed, soft and airy. “Sleep after, da?”

Ilya nodded. 

“And try not to dream too sad.”

“Ah, yes,” Ilya rolled his eyes as he shut the car door. “Because I control my brain. Obviously.”

Ilya made his way up to his floor, each tick of the elevator ride up made his body feel heavier and heavier. His mind was numb from liquor, heavy from holding too much. He thought about loss, a concept not new to him. But this loss was different. The loss of his father was the loss of a focus. He cared for his father, even from a distance, with a love that only came from a son to a parent. It wasn’t like the loss of his mother. It was heavier in a guilty sense, as if he could have tried hard enough to fix their relationship. 

As if his father would have been willing to hear Ilya. 

The loss of his brother was a new feeling of goodbye. Andrei lived, but not to Ilya. A protection of his own peace, Svetlana had told him, that was the goodbye he gave his brother. 

Ilya was left with friends to be his family. 

Svetlana. Ryan. Shane, if Ilya could get so lucky. 

He slumped against the thin railing, palms sweaty as he gripped them. All he could smell was vodka and sweat. Sparing a glance at his reflection in the ceiling, he balked and looked away. 

Forcing himself from the elevator as he got to his floor, his feet were heavy as he looked down the hall at his apartment. 

At the blob outside of it. 

He squinted and walked a little faster, each step thumping against his skull. 

As Ilya got closer, he recognized the curl of a body, arms wrapped around a familiar black duffel bag. The hoodie that Ilya had forgotten about and had given away when it had been too cold for him to leave in a t-shirt. 

Shane. 

Ilya breathed out as he got closer, dropping to his knees. He could hear the quiet exhales of breath that indicated sleep, not quite a snore. He reached out, pressing a hand gently to Shane’s shoulder. 

Shane stirred against him, turning slightly and blinking his eyes open against the soft glow of the hallway. “Uh,” Shane’s eyes fell on Ilya and widened as he moved faster, but full of sleep, to sit up straighter. “Ilya!” he squeaked, voice sleepy. 

“Shane, I-”

Shane grabbed Ilya and pulled him close, his lips crashing against Ilya’s. 

Ilya immediately pulled back. He hadn’t brushed his teeth, and he isn’t confident he didn’t throw up the night before, and he isn’t confident he didn’t smoke multiple cigarettes and-

“I love you, too,” Shane declared, his hand fisting into Ilya’s jacket. “I love you, too,” he said again, softer, reverent. 

“I,” Ilya paused, his eyes searching Shane's. “Oh my God.”

Shane blinked, his eyes searching Ilya’s. 

Ilya’s mind felt like it was working through a thick honey. Shane. Here. On his doorstep. Telling Ilya he loved him. But not just loved him, loved him too. 

Ilya could see the tears beginning to swim in Shane’s eyes and he frowned. 

“What are you-”

“I love you, too,” Shane cut him off. 

“Yes, I heard you, and I-”

“You aren’t saying it back,” Shane said unsteadily. “You called me, Ilya. You said you loved me! You said you-”

“Hollander, Shane, baby,” Ilya reached for Shane, going to pull him into his neck but stopped himself when he remembered his state. 

He had so many questions, the first being when did he call Shane? But his body was sweating vodka the longer he sat in the hall with his jacket on and he smelled atrocious and-

Shane shook his head as tears began to fall from his cheeks. “You didn’t mean it,” he whispered, voice cracking. 

“I meant it,” Ilya said. “I do not remember saying it but I-”

Shane’s lip quivered and he looked away. 

Ilya lightly grasped his fingers to cup Shane’s jaw and turned him to face him. “But I do love you. I do mean that.”

Shane exhaled. 

“Ya lyublyu tebya. Ya lyublyu tebya tak sil'no, chto mne bol'no lyubit' tebya tak sil'no,” Ilya said quietly, his thumb stroking Shane’s cheek. I love you. I love you so much that it pains me to love you this much.  

“I don’t… I…” Shane shook his head, looking down at Ilya’s forearm that was holding him. 

“I love you more than I know how to, uh, how to,” Ilya cleared his throat. “More than my English can tell you.”

Shane bit his lip, blinking his wide, wet eyes at Ilya. 

“But I cannot hold you. Kiss you. Not now,” Ilya said, letting his thumb continue to catch the tears from Shane’s eyes. “I smell like vodka, and cigarettes… Maybe puke.”

Shane nodded. 

“And you slept all night on floor?”

Shane shrugged his shoulders, the hoodie drowning the movement. “I got here around one a.m.” 

“I shower,” Ilya said, moving to get up and reaching a hand down to Shane to help him up. “You nap in my bed.”

“I want us to talk.” Shane grabbed his bag from the floor as he dropped Ilya’s hand. 

Ilya nodded. “We will. I have lots of questions.”

Unlocking his door, he moved inside and held the door for Shane. “Welcome back,” Ilya said, trying to lighten the mood. 

Shane just nodded, taking his shoes off and putting them on the shoe rack. 

Ilya bit his lip. “I, uh, bought shoe rack. I thought would be good… place for you to put your shoes.”

“You bought it for me?”

“Us, I guess,” Ilya said, shrugging a shoulder as if saying the word us didn’t dig a claw deeper into his chest. 

Shane nodded and looked at Ilya. His face was earnest, open with a raw emotion that made Ilya want to crawl into Shane and ease every single expression. Every single feeling. 

“The hoodie,” Shane started to speak, but looked down at his fingers fisting the too long fabric. 

“Mhm?” Ilya cocked his head to the side, setting his keys on the counter and shrugging off his jacket. 

“It doesn’t, I guess,” Shane looked up at the ceiling. “It smelled like you. Before. Now it doesn’t.”

Ilya walked over to Shane and pressed both his hands to his waist, his thumb pushing to rub against the skin beneath the hoodie, the skin beneath the shirt underneath. “I will give you new one, yes?” 

“Please, shower,” Shane said quietly. “I really want to talk.”

Ilya walked to his bedroom and gestured to the bed as he walked into the bathroom. “Take catnap. I will join you when I’m clean.”

Shane reached into his bag and grabbed a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. He changed slowly, folding the clothes he wore in the hallway and putting them into a plastic bag before putting them back into his duffel bag. 

“I have my fitting later tonight, by the way,” Shane said.

“We’ll make it,” Ilya replied easily, tossing his shirt and pants into his laundry basket. “It is still very early. Birds still doing morning chirps and whatever.”

Shane huffed a laugh as he pulled Ilya’s blankets back and crawled into his bed. Ilya watched as he subtly pulled Ilya’s pillow closer to him, a small smile forming on his lips. 

Ilya closed the bathroom door, leaving it cracked, not wanting to completely close Shane out. Staring at himself in the mirror, seeing the sliver of Shane curled up in his bed in his reflection, cracked something open in his chest, warm and full and terrifying. 

He had called Shane. Drunk. 

Shane showed up. Immediately. His love and sadness louder than a stereo as he looked at Ilya, spoke to Ilya. 

He could only come up with one reason for it all. 

Shampoo, conditioner for his curls that Svetlana insisted on, body wash that smelled like pine and leather. Quick application, quick rinse. Another scrub down of body wash. Turning off the water quickly, Ilya wrapped a towel around his waist, water still dripping down his legs, as he stepped out of the shower. 

Shane was curled up, eyes barely open to stare at Ilya in the now open doorway.

“You’re still soaking wet,” Shane said quietly as Ilya came to sit on his side of the bed.

Ilya shrugged. “I did not want to not see you.”

Shane huffed, reaching a hand out to press his pinky finger to Ilya’s. “You smell good now.”

“Oh, I smelled that bad before?”

Shane opened his eyes fully to give Ilya a look. “You’re kidding? How many cigarettes did you smoke last night?”

“I do not know. Just one, maybe.”

“Then you slept in an ashtray.”

“I thought I smelled like vodka,” Ilya supplied.

“That too.”

Shane sat up, the blanket pooling around his waist as he turned to face Ilya. “You really don’t remember calling me?” He asked, rubbing at his eyes with his fists. It made Ilya want to nibble on his fingers, tell him over and over he was sorry and that he loved him and…

Instead, Ilya shook his head. “I’m sorry, I-” he cut himself off as Shane grabbed his phone. 

“Do you want to listen to it alone, or with me?” 

Ilya opened his mouth, closed it, then asked quietly. “You want me to hear it?”

With a single shrug, Shane unlocked his phone. “You said the words. I think it matters you know what they are.”

Ilya pressed a kiss to Shane’s temple. His drunken night was not kind to him, was a cruel mistress to not only himself, but to Shane. He owed him this, even if it hurt when the words settled into Ilya’s mind. “With you, moya lyubov'.” my love. 

Shane set the phone down on his knee and pressed play. 

 

“Shane, hello? Oh! Shane voicemail, English is hard right now, but I will try, for you, I will always try,” Ilya’s drunken voice floated through the speaker. 

 

Ilya sucked in a breath and laced his fingers with Shane’s hand. Shane didn’t pull away, but his jaw tightened a fraction. Ilya grit his teeth as his voice trailed on. 

 

“I did not have fun in Russia. Death will do that. I miss you… I hate not knowing how you are. What boring thing you want to say about the weather. I feel, uh, alone…” Ilya’s voice shook. “Maybe not now. No, cause I am with Svetlana. She told me I could not be alone. Russia makes hard to be alone. I guess I am happy for friend. Maybe happy is not word to use,” Ilya laughed deprecatively. “She is not you. You do not know how much you have of,” Ilya hiccuped before continuing. “Have of me. I did not either. Not till Russia and all I wanted was you. To come back to you.” 

 

Ilya turned to look out his window, the sun coming up above the tall buildings. The light now trying to subdue what happened in the night. 

 

“My father passing is a feeling I do not know, is not normal feeling. Weird, I think is word.” Ilya was sniffling now, cutting through the silence that lingered around his words. “And my brother, he does not care about me. Money, yes, but not me,” Ilya’s voice trailed off as the line went silent for a moment. “I do not know who cares about me. Svetlana. You. I do not know why,” Ilya said, the silence after the words carrying. 

“I would leave right now if you picked up phone. We could talk. I would tell you how in love with you I am. I am in love with Shane Hollander. I will shout from roof,” Then, Ilya’s voice loud and booming and slurred yelled out, “I am in love with Shane Hollander!” A couple deep breaths pressed into the phone before he continued, “Your pretty eyes and starry freckles. I have drawn you a long time. My inspiration is your face. Now I know you and– and now it is your everything.” Ilya hiccuped one again, then groaned. 

“I do not know how to have good things, I think. I just want to somehow get back to you. Wrap into your body and say ya lyub-” the voicemail cut off.  

 

The tears weeped from Ilya’s eyes as he sat with the words that he ached to remember. The ache was to be alive, thought, and well, and sober enough now to tell Shane all of these things when he will remember, when Shane will be able to hold the words to his chest with happiness. 

Somewhere on a rooftop, drunk and in love, Ilya had poured his heart out over the edge. And Shane, his sweet Shane, stood there with a bucket to collect each drop. 

“Ilya,” Shane breathed out, moving into Ilya’s lap, wrapping his legs around his waist to sit fully in his lap. Gently, he cupped Ilya’s face and wiped the tears that had fallen as the voicemail played. “Ilya,” Shane said, squeezing his legs against Ilya’s side. 

Ilya shook his head, trying to look away but Shane held him both gentle and firm. 

“I listened a few times-”

“I am sorry,” Ilya said.

“No, no, Ilya, no,” Shane pressed his forehead against Ilya’s. “I came here. I changed my fitting to here. To see you because you called, because-”

“I should have told you first when I was not drunk.”

“We can’t change that now,” Shane said delicately. “Say it now.”

“I love you,” Ilya said, voice shaking and cracking at the edges. 

Shane shook his head. “Say it slow, in Russian.”

“Ya lyublyu tebya.” I love you.

Shane shivered and replied slowly, feeling each syllable out on his tongue as he attempted, “Ya ly-ub-lyu te-bya.” 

Ilya’s smile was small as he nudged his nose against Shane’s. “Close,” he whispered. 

Shane scratched his blunt finger nails up and down Ilya’s bare back as he pressed his face into Shane’s neck. He deeply inhaled Shane’s heady scent of warm vanilla and deep citrus, rich like a pomegranate. 

“I’m really sorry about your dad. And your brother.”

Ilya shrugged, inhaling with a shuddery breath. He didn’t speak as he felt each scratch pulling him back to his skin. 

The thing with Ilya is that he did not know how to love freely. Love was an exchange, a trade of joy for protection. An exchange of words and actions for money, for materials. A give and take of peace until it is stolen, weaponized. 

Ilya’s soul was jealous of the love people had that he rejected for the ultimate protection. 

To feel Shane hold him now, offering peace, offering a safe space to drown into and be pulled out of was making Ilya speechless. 

Because Ilya was drowning last night when he called Shane and Shane came, grabbing his hand, finding Ilya and pulling him to shore. 

He did not just love Shane. 

Shane loved him back. 

Loving freely could be learned with Shane Hollander. 

Pressing a hand to Ilya’s lower, bare back, Shane said quietly, “Do you want to put clothes on? Your towel is cold.” 

“Not particularly,” Ilya leaned back into Shane’s hand, pushing himself up toward Shane. He ran his hands up under Shane’s thigh to create a warm barrier from the towel. “Could get comfortable here.” 

“Really?” 

“Well, you could,” Ilya said, giving Shane’s thighs a firm squeeze.

“Mhm,” Shane hummed, rolling his eyes as he leaned back and cupped Ilya’s jaw in his right palm. “We do have some time still before we have to go.”

“You want me to go with you to fitting?”

“Obviously. It’s the last one.”

Ilya nodded, turning to press a kiss to Shane’s hand. “Okay, so we have time, pants off.”

“Wow,” Shane said, shaking his head but moving off Ilya’s lap and shimmying out of his sweatpants. “Demanding.”

“You are listening,” Ilya raised an eyebrow as he leaned back. 

“Towel off,” Shane said, smirking when Ilya grabbed for the towel. “You’re listening, too.”

Ilya nodded, dropping the towel on the floor and spreading his thighs. His cock grew heavy as he watched Shane strip. “I have bossy, pretty model demanding me to nakedness. What am I to do?”

Shane laughed, crawling back into Ilya’s lap and wrapping his arms around his neck. “And I have a big sap of a Russian demanding me. What is a poor, lonely model to do,” he said, pouting out his bottom lip. 

Ilya leaned forward, sucking Shane’s bottom lip between his teeth and bit once, reveling in Shane’s shiver. “Let me make you less lonely then, da?”

Shane nodded. “Please.” 

Ilya reached into his bedside drawer and pulled out an almost empty bottle of lube. He handed it to Shane and smirked as he traced two fingers across Shane’s lips. “Why don’t you open yourself up for me, pretty boy?”

Shane sucked greedily as he hummed his assent. Without taking his eyes off Ilya's, he drizzled lube all over his fingers, spilling some between their bodies. 

“Sorry,” Shane mumbled around Ilya’s fingers as he reached behind him.

Ilya chuckled warmly as he slipped his fingers from Shane’s mouth. “I hope to make bigger mess, dorogoy.” sweetheart. 

Ilya fell forward into Shane’s neck as he leaned back, moaning softly as his fingers started to disappear, his arm moving in slow drags. Ilya sucked in the warm skin at the hollow of his neck, teeth grazing as he moved his mouth down to Shane’s chest. 

Shane whimpered, his head falling forward into Ilya’s hair. “Ilya,” he breathed out, his hips rocking forward, his cock nudging against Ilya’s as he fucked himself open on his own fingers. 

Ilya reached back, wrapping his fingers around Shane’s wrist to pause his movements. Slowly, he pulled Shane’s fingers out and slipped two of his own inside easily. 

“Warm,” Ilya breathed out, pressing a kiss to the side of Shane’s face. “Almost ready for me.” 

“I am ready,” Shane complained as he clenched around Ilya’s fingers. “Please, Ilya, fuck,” he gasped, moaning on the exhale as Ilya nudged and slipped a third finger past Shane’s rim. 

Ilya pressed a kiss to Shane’s lip, swallowing the sweet, needy noises greedily. He pumped his fingers slowly, his other hand moving to wrap around Shane’s hip, slowing the rock of his body. 

“Ilya,” Shane whined, shaking his head into the crook of Ilya’s neck. “I’m going to die.”

“Death on my fingers? Worse ways to go I’m sure,” Ilya teased, crooking his fingers. 

“Fuck,” Shane cried, dropping his hips and sitting upright. “Ilya, please, please fuck me.” 

“Oh, you ask so sweetly, of course I will.” Ilya grabbed the lube and lathered his own hard cock as Shane huffed in annoyance. “What, sweet boy?”

“I asked nicely before.” 

“No. That was bratty.” 

“Fuck you,” Shane choked as he rose his hips to hover over Ilya’s cock. 

“We can stop.”

“Don’t you dare,” Shane growled as he sank down on Ilya, crying out as he took him all at once. Ilya stared into his chocolate eyes that were now submerged in tears threatening to spill over the waterline. “Easy, baby,” Ilya rubbed circles into his hips as Shane began to ride him slowly, grinding down into his lap.

Ilya stared up at Shane as if he was seeing God. The way his eyes twinkled and tears slipped from the corners of his eyes as he rode Ilya. Shane’s hand was splayed on Ilya’s chest, the other gripping the headboard. His thighs rippled, tiger stripes stretching and radiating from Shane’s glistening skin. 

Ilya blinked, his cock engulfed in the warm, tight heat of Shane. Shane Shane Shane. 

“Fuck,” Ilya threw his head back, eyes squeezing shut as he sucked in a breath. “So good, Shane,” he said as he thrusted up into him, meeting Shane halfway, pulling him down by his neck to kiss him, swallowing the cries that escaped. 

“Gonna come for me, Hollander?” Ilya hissed against his lips, his orgasm tightening his abdomen.

Shane nodded, breathing heavily against Ilya’s lips as he gasped, “Ilya!” and spilled onto Ilya’s abdomen, his chest, splashing some even onto himself. 

Ilya moaned, coming into Shane, well, into the condom, but it was enough to still short-circuit Ilya’s brain. 

Shane collapsed onto Ilya’s chest, sandwiching his cum between them as he inhaled deeply. 

“You have killed me, Hollander. I am dead,” Ilya said, running his hands down Shane’s sweaty back. 

Shane made a noise of assent, burying his face into Ilya’s chest. 

Ilya isn’t sure how long they laid there, his fingers tracing swirls across the swell of Shane’s ass, up his back, across his shoulders. It was until Ilya’s cock went soft and he slipped it from Shane, earning a whimper, but no movement for him to get up. 

“Okay, time to clean up.”

“I can’t move.”

“Yes, you can.”

Shane shook his head, sitting up and rolling off of Ilya with a groan. 

Ilya reached a hand out, slapping it into Shane’s abdomen and making a mock noise of disgust. “What a mess.”

Shane’s face heated as he turned to face Ilya. “You made me a mess.”

“Is true,” Ilya agreed easily. “You are so wet for me. Between that and your cum, which was so much cum, must have been so good for you while you–”

“Okay, okay, I’ll get up,” Shane groaned, cutting Ilya off and sitting upright. “I see what you’re doing. It worked. I’m up.” 

Ilya smirked and sprang onto Shane, shoving his face into his side. “Now, I am not.” 

“Oh my God,” Shane laughed, lightly shoving at Ilya with no real force to get him off.

“I nap here.”

“Can we clean up first?”

“Then nap?” Ilya asked, turning to look up at Shane’ His eyes were sparkling with what Ilya could only take as joy. 

“Fine,” Shane rolled his eyes. “Since you’re so tired. I did all the work.”

Ilya’s eyes widened. “Oh my gosh, who replaced Shane Hollander? Where is all this, uh, sass coming from.”

“I’ve been hanging out with a Russian pain in the ass these days.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “Whatever.” 

After they took a shower, with wandering hands and a plethora of exchanged kisses, they found themselves in a freshly made bed, tangled in each other’s limbs. Shane wore Ilya’s t-shirt and pair of black boxers, but Ilya opted for just his purple boxers. 

Shane nuzzled into Ilya’s chest, pressing a kiss over the necklace that hung between his pecs. “Where is your necklace from?”

“My mother,” Ilya said quietly, pressing his chin to the top of Shane’s head, his one hand coming up to comb through his still damp hair gently. 

Shane nodded, pressing another kiss to Ilya’s chest, this time over his heart. 

Ilya blinked back tears as Shane’s eyes fluttered shut and his breathing began to even out. He isn’t sure how he got so lucky to achieve everything he wanted in life. The show, the move from Russia, the crush turning into somebody he can actually be with. 

His life was far from perfect, and there were many things he missed. Like his mother, and some of Russia’s specific snacks. There were things in life he wanted, like his father’s approval before he passed and a brother that wanted to truly be his brother. But there were also things in life he wanted for himself, like happiness and calm, sprinkled in success. 

And in this moment, holding Shane Hollander’s muscled, sleeping frame, Ilya felt that whatever happens next, he’s achieved enough to power through it all. Because they endured enough, and he didn’t need to sabotage it further. 

Ilya hoped that Shane knew that he didn’t either. It wouldn’t be easy for them both, still. There were so many secrets, sure some between them, but to the world. But to Ilya, none of that mattered now. He had Shane again, in his arms, in his life, and in his heart. 

He was in love. For the first time in a long time, Ilya felt like it was a love he not only earned, but deserved. A love that was unconditional, like that he only ever knew from his mother. 

Shane Hollander. 

Ilya fell asleep with Shane, Shane Shane Shane, swirling through his dreams.

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Shane arrives first to the fitting, making his way to the hotel room feeling better than he had for any other fitting. Being able to talk to Ilya, be with Ilya, admit to loving Ilya was enough to ease a lot of his own nerves. 

Rose had the hotel door propped open and all her things laid out on the table. She was sitting in the makeup chair, phone in hand. When Shane pushed the door open quietly, he announced himself, “Should I unprop the door?”

“Shane!” Rose jumped up, tossing her phone to the plush beige couch. “Hollander! Where have you been? I have called you, texted you-”

“I’m not late,” Shane said sheepishly. His phone had been on the mode of do not disturb that included everybody, a rare occurrence for Rose and his mom to experience. 

“Your do not disturb showed up for me,” She said quieter now, eyebrows raised. “But I still have your location.”

Oh.

“You were at Il-”

“Sh! Rose!” Shane shook his head, pointedly looking toward the door then back to Rose. “Okay, fine, yes. I was with him.” 

Rose gestured to the makeup chair. “Camera crew comes in ten minutes. Sit. Spill.”

So, Shane told his best friend everything he could in ten minutes. He told her about the voicemail he got, which is why he had to leave so quickly. He told her how he waited outside until Ilya showed up, reeking like vodka and looking downright sad. He told her how they said they loved each other, they were going to figure things out.

“And, uhm,” Shane ran his palms up and down his thighs as he spoke to the floor. “He’s going to come to the fitting today.”

Rose didn’t speak, but Shane heard the intake of breath. “The Ilya Rozanov is coming to your fitting. Who loves you?”

“Uhm… yeah.” 

“Oh, Shanebug!” Rose pulled Shane into a hug right as there was a knock on the door and the sweet voice of the photographers announcing it was the crew. “Shane, I love you so much. I love this for you.” She put her forehead against his. “You deserve to be the star of your own story, too. Remember that.”

Shane nodded once as she stood upright and made her way to the door. 

“I love you, too,” he said back, fisting at the unshed tears of his eyes before standing up and plastering on his million dollar smile. 

“Shane Hollander! Shall we get started,” the photographer asked, shaking his hand as the rest of her crew set up the lights and adjusted their camera settings to the room.

It was about fifteen minutes into Shane’s makeup and hair, talking about how Rose took great care of him and making sure he had everything he needed, when finally, finally, Ilya knocked on the door and said, “May I come see my model?” 

The woman asking Shane questions froze, turning to the door as the cameraman opened it up, camera focused on Ilya. 

Shane smiled softly and gave a little wave. Rose’s makeup brush was frozen, pressed into the deep purple of the palette. 

“Ilya Rozanov!” The woman got up and walked right over to him. “Oh my gosh, we, wow, we were not expecting you.”

“No, no, I got call from Ryan Price,” Ilya said, shrugging his shoulder as he sat down on the couch. “Said that Shane Hollander was here for fitting. I am not far. So, decided to stop by.”

Shane hid the shiver that ran up his spine with the way Ilya said his name. 

“Perfect!” The woman clapped, moving the equipment from Shane to Ilya, who was leaning forward on the couch to make eye contact with Shane through the mirror. 

“Da, idealnyy,” Ilya said quietly. Yes, perfect. 

Shane sat for a while, interjecting himself sometimes into the conversation that now took place mainly between Ilya and the crew. They were much more interested in him, his design choices, and his muse. 

“Well, muse was easy, see–”

“Sorry!” Shane’s mom opens the door, hotel key card slipping from her fingers as she maneuvers his bag in behind her and shuts the door. “Traffic and Ubers and–” she stands back upright, smoothing her hair and sliding her keycard into her purse. She sees everybody focused on the couch and immediately her eyes go wide. “Ilya Rozanov?” 

“Mrs. Hollander, hello.”

“You’re here, too?” 

“You didn’t know he was coming?” The interviewer asked. 

“No,” Yuna said, looking at Shane. “Did you?”

“No,” Shane lied. 

His mother narrowed her eyes at him in confusion and Shane knew instantly that it wasn’t believable. She said hello to Rose and sat down in the chair beside the couch. “So, Ilya, what brings you to Shane’s fitting?” 

“I heard he was in the area. I wanted to see how the look came out.” 

“You hadn’t seen it before?” 

“Mom,” Shane started.

“No,” Ilya said coolly. He glanced at Shane before turning back to Yuna. “I have been, ah, busy with all the different things to show. I had tried to stop at others. Some I made, some I did not,” Ilya said, turning his head from side to side. “I made this one.”

Shane stood up, makeup done and turned toward the white bag that contained his outfit. Reaching for the zipper, he paused and turned to Ilya. “Do you want to unveil it?” When Ilya turned his head to the side, but stood up anyway, Shane clarified. “Unzip it?”

“Yes.” Ilya smiled soft, slowly unzipping and exposing the deep purples and rich maroons and blues of the piece. “Oh, wow,” Ilya breathed out as he took the bag all the way off. “It is… wow.” 

Shane nodded. “It’s almost too pretty to wear.”

“Nonsense, is perfect for you.”

The two men stared at each other, Shane’s fingers wrapping gently around the hem of the top. 

Yuna cleared her throat. “Shane,” she said a little too pointedly, causing Shane to shift away from Ilya. “Let’s get you dressed, we’re a little behind schedule.”

“That is my fault,” Ilya began to apologize at the same time the media company quickly said, “No, it’s okay, we can stay as long as necessary!” 

The crew and cameras step out of the room to allow Shane a moment to get dressed before they come back in for the big reveal.

Yuna turned toward Ilya. “You’re going to stay in the room, too?”

“Mom, it’s fine,” Shane said, sliding into the pants. 

Ilya tried and failed not to stare too intensely at Shane, causing Shane to blush and look toward Rose, who was eyes wide. 

“You look hot, Shane Hollander,” she said, smacking his abs as he rolled his eyes at her. “You do!”

“I only have my pants on.”

“That’s fine,” Rose and Ilya said at the same time, causing both of their eyes to meet and widen.  

Shane froze, looking at his mom who was staring daggers into the side of Ilya’s head. 

“Anyway,” Rose said quickly, sliding the top onto Shane and adjusting it around his chest. “We made sure to give Shane some exposure around his chest. He gets sweaty easily-”

“Rose-”

“When he’s feeling nervous.”

“It looks great,” Ilya couldn’t take his eyes off Shane. Shane could feel each look, could hear each inhale, could sense each thought of lust and love from Ilya. 

“I’ll get the crew to catch the jewelry application, then,” Yuna said, turning on her heel and opening the hotel door. 

The camera crew stayed until Shane had all the jewelry pieces on, allowing them to get his thoughts, and Ilya’s, on the design as it all came together so cohesively. 

It was only after Shane couldn’t blink without seeing spots and had smiled and smoldered back and forth for what felt like eternity that they finally left the room for good.

Shane sat down in the chair, leaning his head back into Rose’s stomach as she stood behind him. 

“You did it, Shane. Proud of you,” she smiled down at him as he nodded and hummed his reply. 

“That was exhausting,” Shane said. 

“You made it look easy,” Ilya said, nudging Shane’s foot to make him open his eyes. Ilya was holding out a water bottle and a thing of fruit snacks. “Here. I do not think I saw you touch substance.” 

“Where did you get fruit snacks?” 

“I buy them.”

“And you brought them,” Shane said, turning them in his hand to reveal the bold Scooby-Doo logo. “Scooby-Doo? Really?” 

Ilya laughed, sitting back down. “I always bring emergency bag,” he replied, his accent wrapping around the word emergency. “Blue flavor is best.” 

Shane put one into his mouth, chewing slowly as the artificial flavor took over. “Thanks,” he said behind his hand as he swallowed. He held a blue one up and offered it to Ilya. 

“No, no, you eat it.” 

“But it’s your favorite?” 

Ilya nodded. “But I want you to have it.” 

Shane ate the blue gummy snack and wondered if it really tasted that good, or if it was because it was Ilya’s favorite. 

“So, Shane,” Yuna started, scrolling through her calendar as she spoke to him about dates and events that he needed to be at, or choose between. Shane answered when expected, letting her pick between opportunities to make sure he went to the correct one that he knew there was one of even though she didn’t say there was. Rose removed his makeup, allowing Shane to ease into the repetitive swipes of makeup remover.

As she left, saying goodbye to everybody including Ilya, with only minor hesitation, she gave Shane a final warning about taking his week off from everything to make sure that he actually rests to be ready for the event. 

It was a small piece of peace he wanted to have before the biggest runway he had to do. 

Once she was gone, Shane leaned his head back, this time onto Ilya who was behind him and pressed his hands to his shoulders. “Longest day ever,” Ilya murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to Shane’s lips. 

“Can we talk about this?” Rose asked.

“What’s there to talk about-” 

“We are lovers-” Ilya cut him off.

“No, Ilya, that’s… that word is gross.”

“Shane, that was perfect. Take that back,” Rose said, hands on her hips. “Ilya, I am sorry about his moodiness.”

Shane rolled his eyes and wiped his now makeup free face. “Are we done here? I need to be horizontal somewhere.” 

“With anyone in particular?” 

“Rose!” 

“That was good one,” Ilya said, laughing and high fiving Rose.

“You guys cannot be friends.”

“I think we just became friends,” Rose retorted.

Shane walked Rose out to her Uber before making his way back up to the room and shutting the door behind him. He had every intent to grab onto Ilya and–

“I like her.”

“Uh huh,” Shane hummed, wrapping his arms around Ilya and pressing a kiss to his jaw. 

“Cannot believe you went out with her and are not–”

“Ilya,” Shane said, rolling his eyes and looking up at him. “I’m gay.”

“Not so gay you didn’t try to date Rose Landry.”

“Oh my–”

“Makes you super gay.” 

“I’m not kissing you anymore,” Shane said, dropping his arms to his side as Ilya squeezed him close. 

“No, no, take that back.”

“Nope. No more. No more invite to my house either.” 

“To your house?” Ilya asked, hope edged into his voice as he moved Shane away a fraction to make eye contact. “You want to invite me over?” 

“I did–”

“Shane.”

“I do,” Shane relented and nodded. “I’m going there now. It’s nice and uh, private. Nobody except my parents and Rose know about it. I was going to ask you… if you wanted to come?”

Ilya nodded, pressing a kiss to the top of Shane’s head. “I will go to my place to grab stuff first.”

“Just clothes. I have everything else. You can stay the whole week with me.” 

“You do not want me to bring my dildo?” 

“You wouldn’t use a dildo.”

“You do not think so?” 

Shane’s breath hitched. “I… uh…”

“Good thought to keep you warm until I get there, da?” 

“Sure,” Shane laughed, pressing a kiss to Ilya’s lips between chuckles. 

It was only when Shane arrived at his house, tucked away at a private lake in California, that it sank into him that Ilya was going to be at the one true place Shane felt he could put his guard down. 

Years ago, when he started in the industry, he bought this small house, cottage really, to have a place that he could escape from. He loved his home in Canada, but he needed a place to retreat to when he had work in the states. When he found this place, he saw so much potential in making it cozy, a sanctuary. 

Now, it was a home to Shane. 

The closets all were filled with different promotion gifts and clothing that companies (and sometimes fans) would send to Shane. The walls were covered in pictures and drawings that he got from Hayden Pike’s kids. The outdoor furniture set was expansive, allowing a beautiful spot to have a fire right by the water to hear the waves at night. 

Shane set his bags down in his room and took a deep breath. Ilya would see this space and see Shane in his most natural, guard down state. 

He smiled down at the text from Ilya that said he was almost there and walked downstairs to the kitchen. Shane would make a nice dinner, they could have a fire outside, and everything would be perfect. 

Because he would be home with the love of his life. 

Nothing could be more perfect than that. 

Chapter 10: IX

BREAKING NEWS: CREATOR ILYA ROZANOV INTERVIEWED WITH MODEL SHANE HOLLANDER

Reporters were shocked to discover Ilya Rozanov knocked on the door of Shane Hollander’s fitting room during his final fitting for the most talked about runway show: The Lyre and The Armour.  

Rozanov stayed for the duration of the fitting, answering questions and complimenting Hollander left and right. It is worth noting that Rozanov did not attend another fitting from his star-studded lineup of models. The question becomes: Why Shane Hollander? …  

User8124: Why would Ilya Rozanov choose to go to only Shane Hollander’s??? He’s so overrated anyway.

LoverofIlya1410: YES! I always knew there was some fruitiness in Shane Hollander!!! Now Ilya Rozanov???

BigGuy67: I always knew Shane Hollander was gay lol. Probably slept with Ilya Rozanov to get a spot in the show 

SHL1221: The amount of gay comments here because two models were together is crazy. People acting like this hasn’t ever happened before a big show like this smfh

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Ilya walked up to the glass door of the cottage taking in the sunlight that poured through the open plan of the house. The door was unlocked, allowing Ilya to walk into Shane’s home. 

He smiled to himself as he called out for Shane. 

His overnight bag was slung over his shoulder, a box of rocket pops stuck up under his arm loosely. Shane had texted him and told him to just come in and that he didn’t need to bring anything but some clothes. Ilya though refused to come empty handed, and he hadn’t ever seen Shane drink alcohol or eat chips, leaving Ilya with popsicles as the final choice. 

Ilya wasn’t fully accustomed to what exactly to bring to social gatherings, anyway. Typically, from what he gathered, alcohol of some kind was the go to. His go to always being a good Russian vodka as a gift. But not for Shane. Despite it being a cottage, a place on water, which Ilya had associated locations such as this with alcohol, he knew he needed something more Shane’s speed. 

And so Ilya wanted to see Shane’s plump lips wrapped around something– so what? 

He opened the fridge side first, noticing a neat row of Coke cans lined beside a neat row of Canada Dry. Below were containers stacked with food, veggies and chicken, some weird mystery liquid in a glass jar. Ilya moved to the other side, opening the freezer to notice a box of Uncrustables. He beamed as he set the box of Rocket Pops inside. 

Turning around, he moved toward the floor to ceiling glass windows to spot Shane lying in a lounge chair in nothing but the tiniest pink and blue striped swim trucks Ilya had ever seen. Heated pooled low in his abdomen as he took in the appearance. Ilya wanted to run out there, jump on Shane, smother him in kisses, pull his shorts down and–

Opening the freezer and ripping open the box, he grabbed two popsicles. 

Ilya walked, or really bounced,  outside and hovered over Shane until he pushed his sunglasses up. 

“I didn’t hear you come out,” Shane smiled, sitting up and taking the popsicle from Ilya’s outstretched hand. “You brought popsicles?”

“Not just any popsicle,” Ilya said, sitting in the chair beside Shane and opening his own sweet treat. “Bomb pop. The best kind.” 

“That is true,” Shane laughed, unwrapping his and putting the wrapper under his water bottle so it wouldn’t blow away in the gentle breeze. “Did everything go okay this morning with Saint Laurent?” 

Ilya nodded, sucking on the tip of his popsicle. He hummed before responding, not missing the way Shane’s eyes narrowed in on his lips. Perfect. “Just last minute details. Luca is also artist, so he did some art for the show.”

“Really?” Shane perked up, licking a stripe up his popsicle before asking, “Can I see it?”

“Uh, no. Ruins surprise.” Ilya smiled before wrapping his lips around the popsicle once more. He groaned when Shane froze with his own popsicle now inches from his mouth, his tiny shorts tenting ever so slightly. 

“Eat your bomb pop, Hollander,” Ilya breathed out, his own dick hardening. “Is running down your hand.”

“Shit,” Shane groaned, licking the blue that had melted down his hand. “I never finish these fast enough.”

Ilya chuckled, shaking his head as he sucked on his popsicle.

“What?” Shane asked, eyes dark with desire as he continued to eat his. 

“Nothing.”

“No, you’re laughing at me.”

“Yes,” Ilya lamented. “Because you do finish fast.”

“Ha. Ha.” Shane rolled his eyes and released his popsicle with a soft crack as it stayed in his mouth. Around the piece, Shane mumbled, “Popsicles are different.” Shane’s cheeks were turning a beautiful shade of pink. 

Ilya adjusted his shorts with his free hand. “No different than my di-”

“Okay!” Shane cut him off and pointed the treat at his obvious bulge. “You did this on purpose.”

“Brought long treat for you to suck on?” Ilya asked innocently. 

“Yes,” Shane deadpanned. 

“When I am here?” Ilya gave him a wide eyed expression. “You do not need treat when I am the treat.” 

“Shut up, Rozanov,” Shane said, but there was no real heat behind the words, causing Ilya to beam. “You’re such an asshole.”

Pointing his popsicle stick at Shane’s bulge, Ilya said, “I think you like it.” 

Shane leaned back in his seat as he wrapped his lips around the remaining blue section of his popsicle. “You’re impossible.” 

Ilya set his popsicle stick on the small side table next to him and pulled his shirt off, leaning back in his own chair. “This place is nice,” he said, turning to gaze at the water that glittered in the sunlight. 

“Want sunscreen?” Shane asked, setting his bare popsicle stick on his own table and leaning back in his own seat. 

“Russians do not burn.”

“Oh,” Shane raised an eyebrow at him. 

Ilya smiled and closed his eyes against the sun. “I could use some good tan anyway for my outfit for my show.”

Shane hummed thoughtfully beside him. Ilya felt the sunscreen bottle land on his chest and opened his eyes to roll them at Shane. “I told you–”

“Put some on, Ilya.” 

“You will put it on for me?” 

Shane shook his head, staring at Ilya until he groaned. “Fine. Only because you look like kicked kitten,” he relented. Ilya began to apply sunscreen across his chest, reaching up to massage it into his shoulders. 

“Isn’t it usually puppy?” Shane asked, cocking his head to the side adorably. 

“Mhm, yes, but,” Ilya waved his sunscreen-covered hand around. “You are like baby kitten, so…”

Shane rolled his eyes and all Ilya wanted to do was take his sunscreen covered hand and put it over Shane’s chest, Shane’s heart, to make a perfect outline of his fingers in his sun tanned skin. A claim of his love and– 

“Thank you,” Shane said, leaning back in his chair and propping one leg up. “Oh- I wanted to ask you. How did you get the idea for the show?” His gaze stayed on the sparkling body of water as he spoke, his eyes following the small black bird bobbing in the soft ripples. 

Ilya rolled the question around in his mind, following Shane’s gaze. He could tell Shane that he felt he related to tragedy the most, finding inspiration in the pain. He could tell Shane that he just liked mythology, simple as that. He could tell Shane that he himself was just so amazing that he could come up with anything from everything. 

But ultimately he knew that he didn’t want to lie to Shane. The thought of not being honest with him made Ilya’s chest constrict. 

“My mother died when I was young,” Ilya started, keeping his eyes closed. “Since then, I have looked to tragedies to feel… better about the situation. It is nice to have, uh, characters I guess, experience sadness, too.” 

“Oh, Ilya,” Shane reached out and grazed Ilya’s hand with his pinky before intertwining their fingers. “I’m sorry.”

“Do not be. She was brave. Like Thetis.”

Shane nodded, his thumb rubbing across the top of Ilya’s palm. “That’s why you are Achilles?” He asked softly. 

“Yes.”

“And I… wait. That’s why I am Patrochulus,” Shane stated. Ilya recognized there was no hint of it being a question. Rather, it was an understanding that was settling over him and coming out in his tone.

Ilya nodded once, opening his eyes to look at Shane, who was staring at him, sunglasses abandoned to the lounge chair. 

“I have had big dumb crush on cute, shy model,” Ilya smiled soft as he spoke. “And when I make art,” Ilya shrugged. “I cannot stop picturing his pretty brown bottom eyes–”

“Fuck off,” Shane scoffed.

Ilya pushed ahead. “And his silky strands of hair,” Ilya’s tone drifted as he reached out to brush some of Shane’s hair back from his temple. 

Shane leaned into the touch, cheeks tinting pink. “Really?” His voice curled around Ilya, gentle and warm. 

Ilya nodded, pressing a soft kiss to Shane’s lips, reaching up to put his hand over Shane’s bare chest, splaying his fingers over the comforting thump of his heart. 

“You are my muse, Shane Hollander.” 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Shane rolled his hips, erection hard against Ilya’s as he reached his hand down to grip both of them. 

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya groaned, his fingers spreading from deep inside Shane, pulling out a deep moan, back arching up into Ilya’s palm. 

“I’m ready,” Shane begged, arching forward, his forehead pressing against Ilya’s collarbone as he pulled out his fingers. Shane shifted so that his lubed hole aligned with Ilya’s dripping cock. 

“Are you sure, baby?” Ilya smirked, swiping his thumb over Shane’s tip before popping it into his mouth. 

Shane nodded. “You’ve been fingering me so long, I might explode as soon as your tip grazes me.” 

“Hmmm, I’m not sure you are ready though,” Ilya teased. “Still a little tight.” Ilya’s fingers rubbed against Shane’s swollen, stretched rim. 

“Ilya,” Shane begged and he could feel the tears welling in his eyes as he looked up at Ilya. “Please,” he whimpered. 

“You beg so pretty,” Ilya’s knuckles grazed down his cheek while the other reached to grab himself, lining up perfectly with Shane. “Don’t cum until I say so, yes?” 

“Fuck,” Shane gasped as Ilya shoved all the way and held Shane firmly down on his cock. A whine escaped his lips as he grabbed onto Ilya’s slick biceps. 

“Yes?” Ilya repeated, rubbing his thumbs into the V of Shane’s hips.

“Yes, yes,” Shane panted. “Whatever, yes.”

Ilya smirked, helping push Shane up until he slipped all the way out from his warm heat. “Do not be bratty, or we will stop.”

Shane groaned, his cock weeping against his abdomen. “Fine, fine, I’m sorry. Just, please,” Shane begged, reaching down to guide Ilya back to his hole. “Please, can you please fuck me?” 

“Greedy now? You have control now?” 

“No,” Shane whined, tears making his brown eyes shine. “I just want to feel you. Have you fill me.” As he spoke, a tear escaped from the corner of his eye. 

Swiping away the tear with his tongue, Ilya pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of Shane’s mouth. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.” 

Ilya rolled onto his back, hugging Shane close to his chest and adjusting him to hover over his cock in his lap. Pulling Shane down by the neck to lock their lips together, he thrusted upward into him, swallowing his cry as Ilya continued to pound into him relentlessly. 

Shane scratched down Ilya’s sides before coming up to grasp onto his shoulders. Pushing Ilya back into the mattress, he bracketed his knees tightly to his sides and began riding Ilya with vigor. Another tear slid down Shane’s cheek. 

“Fuck,” Ilya threw his head back, eyes never leaving the view he had on Shane’s hips moving up and back and down in a heady rhythm. 

Shane beamed under the gaze, leaking precum steadily as he pressed their mouths together, breathing Ilya in. “Cum in me,” Shane said, leaning into the illusion that Ilya would fill him up, despite the condom barrier between the two of them. 

Ilya moaned, groaning into Shane’s mouth as his hips met Shane’s. He swiped a thumb over Shane’s tip, and he jerked with sensitivity, whining dissolving into a moan as Ilya chuckled. 

“Cum for me first, sweetheart,” Ilya panted, sucking his pre-cum covered thumb into his mouth before moving it into Shane’s, pulling down his bottom lip. 

Shane stilled when he came, head thrown back and his vision spotty as Ilya worked him through it, cum landing on his quivering abs, on Ilya’s stomach, hot, thick spurts. Every orgasm with Ilya was mindblowing. Shane was intoxicated with it, absolutely cockdrunk. 

Ilya thrusted one final time, thighs shaking and stomach tensing as he came, head thrown back, allowing Shane to kiss and lick and suck on the pulse point of his neck, which was hammering against his mouth. 

Shane rolled off Ilya and sprawled on his back, hole clenching around nothing as he stretched his legs out. His body was humming with perfect bliss. 

Ilya turned to face him, pressing his chin on Shane’s pec. “I am in love with you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss over Shane’s heart. 

“I love you, too,” Shane whispered, running his fingers through Ilya’s sweaty curls. “So much…It scares me.”

Ilya hummed, turning Shane’s face to look him in the eyes. “It used to scare me, too.” 

“Not anymore?”

“No,” Ilya whispered, pressing their lips together into a slow kiss. “Not anymore.”

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

“You own a pink boa?” Ilya asked, head popping out from the guest room closet with pink feathers around him. 

“I guess so, yeah,” Shane laughed. “Someone sent it to me. I usually put a lot of PR and stuff in the closets here, so...” 

“Yes, do not want to clutter home with… this, uh, cute shirt,” Ilya said, throwing a hot pink t-shirt at him that was covered in the Champion logo. “You wear this, with uh, this,” Ilya threw him a bright purple hat. 

“You wear the boa, right?” Shane asked, looking at the ridiculous outfit Ilya was constructing for him. 

“Naturally,” Ilya came out of the closet and swished it at Shane, who was putting the pink shirt on. “Until I wrap it around your wrists later with my mouth around your cock.”

“Fuck,” Shane exhaled softly, his head poking out from the neck of the shirt. “Fuck, we could do that now?”

“We just showered.”

“We can shower again,” Shane pleaded.

 “It is photoshoot time.” 

“You hate me.”

“The opposite. You are my pretty model doll.” 

Shane rolled his eyes, putting the purple hat on, the fringe draping down from the brim to curtain his features. He looked down at the tye-dye swim shorts he put on and shook his head. “I look ridiculous.”

“No, no, you are so pretty!” Ilya called out as he ran from the guest room to the living room. Grabbing the polaroid camera, he sat down on the floor criss-crossed. “Okay! I am ready for model Shane Hollander to walk the hallway please!” 

Shane laughed, walking down the hallway at a regular pace and regular steps. Ilya shook his head. “No, no, no!” Ilya lowered the camera. “Model strut for me, poster boy.”

“Oh my God,” Shane said.

“Turn around, go again.”

“Why are we even doing this?” Shane groaned, but still turned around and walked back toward the bedroom. 

“For practice!”

“I don’t need practice,” Shane said. “Ready now?”

“Very ready and very hard!” 

“I hate you!” Shane called out. He stepped out into the hallway, eyes locking onto the camera lens as he strutted down to Ilya. 

Ilya just let himself gaze at Shane for a second, taking in the detail on his open face, eyes wide with joy as he adjusted the too tight fitting pink shirt. He looked happy, loose in a way Ilya had never seen him before with any sort of modeling. Sure, this was all in good fun for them. Alone together at Shane’s house, dressing up in ridiculous clothing just to admire one another. It was carefree and loving. 

For Ilya, it was everything. 

Ilya took the picture and beamed as the picture popped out. “This is going to be so hot,” he said, shaking the polaroid out. 

Shane paused a few steps from Ilya, looking down at the little picture that was forming. “It’s going to be something, Ilya.”

“Is sexy,” he groaned out, shielding it from Shane’s view as he pouted. “You still have to come all the way down to me.” 

It was once Shane sunk down to press a kiss to Ilya’s lips and saw the ridiculousness of the polaroid that started their evening together, their own little runway between them. They wore Shane’s gaudy watches and crazy color combinations of all the different things received through gifts and partnerships that screamed out to anybody but Shane. 

Shane was laughing as he held the boa up around his neck. His eyes twinkled as he threw it around, Ilya yelling out, “Hot stuff! Watch out for the hot stuff!” Shane dissolved into laughter as he sank into Ilya’s lap, bracing his legs around his waist as Ilya sat on the floor, polaroid’s scattered around them. 

“I have not had this much fun in a long time,” Shane admitted, pressing his forehead to Ilya’s, his hands gripping his shoulders.

“Mhm,” Ilya hummed, pressing a kiss to Shane’s lips. “You are my pretty little model. Let me see you with the purple sunglasses. The color of your favorite toy.”

“Fuck you,” Shane laughed as he stood up, grabbing the sunglasses and turning around to face him. Ilya beamed, looking up at him through the small lens. 

Then they both heard it. 

Their heads turned to the side and saw Yuna Hollander standing in the doorway, her eyes locked onto Shane with his bright pink boa and sunglasses halfway to his eyes. Slowly, they slid to Ilya, still sitting on the floor, camera frozen in Shane’s direction, with matching heart sunglasses on, except his were in red. 

“I…” Yuna paused, took a breath, and started again. “I came to ask how you were doing about the articles being posted,” She said slowly, her gaze shifting to the wall above Shane’s head, then landing on Ilya, then turning back to Shane. “I see now why you have been too,” she cleared her throat. “Uhm, busy to answer my texts and calls.” 

“Mom,” Shane breathed out. His eyes were wide as he set the sunglasses back down onto the table of discarded clothing. 

Ilya scrambled to get up, setting the camera down on the same coffee table and looking toward Shane. He felt panic rise in his chest as Shane’s face was pale, eyes brimming with unshed tears. 

Ilya turned back to Yuna, who was staring at Shane with tears in her own eyes. He felt helpless. Utterly helpless and in love and scared and– 

“Hello,” Ilya said slowly, unsure of what else to say but knowing that something, anything, was better than the silence covering them like a weighted blanket. 

“I guess the articles are true,” Yuna said quietly to Ilya as she took in his ridiculous appearance. 

“Articles?” Ilya asked, taking off the sunglasses. When Shane looked at Ilya, he saw a single tear rolling down his cheek. “Articles about what?” He asked as his thumb moved and swiped the tear from Shane’s cheek.

“You two being together.” 

All of the love and giggles and lightness of the day was removed completely as Yuna said those four words. Ilya saw the way Shane tensed out of the corner of his eye, as if a bomb was dropped into the room and Shane had to choose to detonate or run away. 

“I need a minute,” Shane said quickly, his voice barely a breath. Turning, he walked back into the guest room, the door closing with a quiet click behind him. 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

It was Shane’s worst nightmare coming to life. 

He could hear his mother outside of the room pacing, just a few steps in each direction. Her voice was muffled by the door and the ringing in his ears as he pictures the look of shock on her face when she took in the scene before her: both boys looking ridiculous, polaroids splayed around them. 

He isn’t sure how long he sat in the guest room, but enough to reach for his phone and notice it was close to dinner time. He clicked the screen with his thumb, staring down at the notifications that had piled up as he actively neglected his phone since Ilya had gotten there. 

There was a headline article notification that made him sit up straight. It was speculating about Ilya and Shane’s relationship after the fitting and interview. Shane sucked in a breath as he opened Safari, searching both their names and watched as the results flooded the screen. 

The articles were all recent, all on every click-bait outlet. Some with speculating headlines, some just trying to pass as "observations" that the two had been together for the fitting and maybe more, or maybe it was nothing. 

Shane knew, somewhere in his brain that was trying to fight for a spot in his conscious thought, that it truly wasn’t unusual for models to be seen with their clothing designers. Shane had been seen with multiple of his designers over the years, ones he enjoyed working with and ones he hated. But now, now that it was Ilya Rozanov, the normalcy was no longer accepted. Nobody looked at Shane differently before. 

But just as Ilya pulled everybody in under his spell, he did that to Shane, too. And, much to Shane’s upset, the people noticed. 

Shane wiped his eyes, tossing his phone down next to him to drop his face into his palms. He wanted to cry, scream, shout Ilya’s name from a rooftop then cover his mouth and sob into his palm. 

His love turned into a scandal. 

And to make it worse, this is how his mother finds out. Now she knows that Shane was lying to her, that Ilya did mean more. Not only could he not just tell her himself, she caught him red handed with Ilya. 

Ilya, who had literal heart eyes for Shane when she saw him looking ridiculous with his own bright eyes of adoration placed upon Ilya.

All this time he had been lying to her, over and over. The tears swelled in Shane’s eyes as he thought about all the times he would cave under her questions and say that maybe Rose and him would get back together one day. He lied far enough to give nothing away about his maybe, maybe that behind all the camera lights and designer clothing, he was in love and finding happiness not in the something of his career, but in the someone who wanted him in more ways than one.  

There was a gentle knock on the door and Shane looked up, blinking slow, but the door never opened. 

“Yeah,” he said weakly, wiping his eyes again and moving to stand up. 

Ilya’s golden curls stepped poked through the door before slipping inside. “Hi, baby,” Ilya said softly once he shut the door behind him. 

Shane sighed, sitting back down and leaning into Ilya’s stomach when he came to stand in front of Shane. Ilya’s warm hands slid down the back of his shirt, rubbing gently against the curve of his back. 

“I am sorry your mother saw us,” Ilya said quietly, his voice thick. 

Shane shook his head into Ilya’s shirt, moving to push it up to press his forehead against the skin. His crumpled up shirt rested on Shane’s hair. “I’ve been lying to her. About me.”

Ilya didn’t speak. Instead, he pressed a soft kiss to the top of Shane’s head, then pulled his shirt down slightly to cover Shane, shielding him from reality, if only for a moment. Shane inhaled deeply, taking in the musk and cologne that was inherently Ilya. 

“And now the internet knows about us. You only came to see me, for the show.” Shane shook his head, his breath hot against Ilya’s skin, made warmer by the shirt over his head. “That means love, to them.”

“I do love you,” Ilya whispered, his hands pressing Shane closer to him. His breathing picked up slightly, changing the rise and fall against Shane’s forehead. “But they do not know how much. Or how true.”

“They act like they do,” Shane muttered. 

“That is hard part about our job,” Ilya replied, voice calm and unwavering despite Shane’s growing emotions. “Everybody assumes they know us because we give them our bodies, our faces. They do not know our past in full, or our passions, or hobbies. They do not know about closet of fluffy scarves and tight shirts,” Ilya said, eliciting a small, breathy laugh from Shane. “They know Shane Hollander,” Ilya pulled his shirt up and titled Shane’s face to look up at him. “But I am luckiest. I know Shane.”

“I love you.” Shane pressed a kiss to Ilya’s abdomen before sitting up to press his chin into Ilya’s sternum and looked up at him. “I am still so scared.”

“I know, moya lyubov',” Ilya whispered. “But you are so brave.” my love. 

They stood like that for a while, their eyes refusing to break their gaze, even as their hands roamed to press into each other’s skin. 

Shane broke the silence first. “Is my mom still here?” 

Ilya nodded. “She told me about articles,” he admitted. “I did not say anything about us. She did not ask. I would not say without you.”

“She’s waiting for me to tell her. Fuck,” Shane said, leaning back and feeling cold at the loss of Ilya’s hands on his back, his shoulders. “She’s going to be so mad.” He put his head in his hands. 

Ilya crouched in front of him, his hands wrapping around each of Shane’s thighs. “Hey, hey, she will not. She loves you very much.” 

“I know that but I’ve been lying to her. For so long I’ve fucking lied–” 

“You have been protecting yourself.” 

“From her? She’ll hate me.”

“From everybody,” Ilya corrected gently. “She will understand once you talk to her.”

“I can’t talk to her.”

“Yes you can. You are my brave boy,” Ilya said, moving Shane’s hair from his face. 

“Shut up,” Shane all but pouted.

Ilya shook his head, his hand coming up to cradle Shane’s chin in his palm. “I will come with you, if you want?”

Shane perked up, looking at Ilya’s soft eyes. “You will?” 

“Of course.” Ilya nodded, wiping the stray tear from Shane’s cheek. “Of course, sweetheart.”

Shane nodded back, standing up, Ilya rising with him.

Slowly, he walked out of the room and into the living room, standing in the doorway to look at his mom. She was sitting on the couch, phone in hand and eyes darting from left to right as she read the bright screen. She looked up from her phone when she heard him, or maybe felt him with the mother intuition she always seemed to have. Undoubtedly, Shane knew she was probably looking at articles and coming up with how they were going to respond, how they were going to handle brand deals and the show.

Fuck, Ilya’s show. 

What damage would this do to the show? What damage would this do to Ilya’s credibility as a designer, an artist? What damage would this do to Ilya’s reputation of working hard to achieve his own dream? 

Because Ilya’s story of moving from Russia and breaking through the words of his father is one that slowly started to spread from a “close friend” of Ilya. Ilya had never responded to any comments, only furthering what the person had revealed of Ilya’s personal life to be true. That he worked hard, always expecting failure so that when he succeeded, it felt like he made it time and time again. 

“Uh, hey,” Shane forced out, shoving his hands into the pockets of his ridiculous shorts. He stole a quick glance of Ilya standing beside him, hands crossed in front of him. “This is Ilya Rozanov, but you…already know that.”

“Hi,” Ilya said sheepishly from beside him. 

“And we’re, uh,” Shane stumbled, rolling his shoulders and inhaling.

“Lovers,”

Fuck.

“No, no Ilya, that’s…that’s gross,” Shane exhaled, running his hand over Ilya’s arm to show him he wasn’t actually mad, but then dropping his hand when he remembered his mom was staring at them, feeling her eyes on him like daggers. He turned back to her, her eyes wide as she stared back. And soft, so soft that Shane felt his chest tighten. 

“We’re… something like that, I guess,” Shane said quietly. 

“For how long?” Yuna asked.  

“A while.” 

She nodded, placing her hands on her knees as she uncrossed her legs to stand up from her spot on the couch. “Well. This is something.”

“I’m… gay, too. In case it, uh, fuck,” Shane exhaled a shaky breath as Ilya’s hand moved to rest on his shoulder, pressing into his skin, grounding him. “In case it wasn’t obvious.” 

His mother nodded. The soft look in her eyes was sad, glossed over with thick emotions that poured into Shane. 

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way. I… fuck, I tried really hard. I’m sorry,” Shane’s voice broke and Yuna was immediately stepping toward him. 

“No, no, sweetheart,” she calmed quietly, wiping the tears from Shane’s eyes with her thumbs. 

Shane felt Ilya’s hand move down to his lower back. He didn’t move closer, just extended his anchor through this moment, too. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Yuna said, moving her hand down his arm and grabbing his hand. “Nothing at all.” 

“I lied to you. About Rose. About Ilya. About why I wanted to have my fitting in California.” 

“It’s okay, Shane.” She pulled him into a hug, crushing his frame to hers as if he was still her little boy. “I just wish,” her voice broke as she pulled away just enough to look at Shane, holding him by the tops of his arms. “I wish I made you feel like you could have told me.” 

“It’s not– I didn’t want to be,” Shane whispered. “It makes everybody’s jobs so much harder.” 

“Who you are with should never affect any job,” she said fiercely, squeezing his arms before pulling him back into a hug. He sniffled as she held him close. “You are allowed to be who you are. Be with whoever you want as long as they treat you well.” 

Shane nodded, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes. He becomes aware that Ilya’s touch isn’t on his back, hadn’t been for a few moments. Turning to the side, he realized that Ilya had quietly slipped out of the room. The sound of the kitchen cupboard shutting in the background causes Shane to relax into his mother. 

Ilya wasn’t going to leave. 

“He does,” Shane breathed out. “So much.” 

“That is all that matters, then,” she said as she lifted Shane up and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “He looks at you like you hold the sun,” she admitted quietly, once again wiping away some of Shane’s tears.

“Yeah,” Shane said, stepping away to wipe his eyes with his fists. As his eyes refocused, he admitted, “Yeah, he… he loves me.”

“Do you love him?” 

Shane nodded. 

“A lot?”

Shane nodded again. 

“Then I will, too,” his mom said, smiling up at him. “We’ll figure this out. What to say and how to come out-”

“I don’t want to come out. Not right now,” Shane cut her off quickly. “I don’t want to come out because the media is making me– making us. I want to when we’re both ready.” 

She nodded once. “Okay, so we come up with a plan for when you’re both ready. Together.” 

 

◈🌣◈۝◈🌣◈

 

Ilya sat at the kitchen tables, eyes fixed on the boring round placements in various shades of blue speckles that were placed on Shane’s table. Ilya wondered if Shane picked them himself, or if they were a gift, the patterns not symmetrical, drawing the eye to so many different places, so different from Shane’s usual style.

The kitchen was eerily quiet, unable to hear the conversation in the other room. Ilya took a deep breath, holding it deep in his chest, unsure if Shane was okay in there or not. If he wanted Ilya to step out and talk with them, too, try to help in any way he could. But maybe he wanted Ilya to stay in the kitchen, away as he told his mother everything and maybe, if Ilya was so unlucky to lose the love of his life a second time, his mother would validate Shane’s fears and tell him to leave. 

For all Ilya knew, Shane was the one in there planning to leave Ilya because it was going to be too much for him. Shane took the stupid glasses off or whatever the phrase is and would leave Ilya again. And Ilya…

Well, Ilya would walk away if that was what Shane wanted. 

He would do anything Shane wanted, even when it hurt– especially when it hurt. If it saved Shane the pain. 

When Ilya’s mother died, and her body was removed from his house, no longer a home in his mind, he had sat in his kitchen, a cup of Sbiten, a hot honey drink, pressed into the palm of his hands. His mother had just taught him how to make it a week before and Ilya had made it in a haze, his mother’s voice guiding him. He didn’t look away from the task at hand, didn’t blink, for fear of seeing his mother’s limbs splayed across the bed. Her frame, unmoving and unbreathing, laying still underneath Ilya’s small hands as he tugged at her to wake up, to have an afterschool snack with him. 

Now, he sits in Shane’s kitchen, unable to blink as he holds a cup of cold water in his palms, chilling his skin uncomfortably. He doesn’t know if he blinks, if he’ll see his mother, or Shane’s horror stricken face as his mother found them together. The way the love had dissolved from his eyes as if a cup of cold water was tossed over him. 

Footsteps sounded toward him and Ilya’s face jerked up. The muscular frame of Shane’s shadow came into the doorway to announce his entrance. Behind him, his mother followed, slightly shorter than her son. Ilya wondered, despite himself, how much taller he would have been than his own mother.  

“Ilya,” Shane breathed out, his face streaky with tears and warm with stress. 

Ilya nodded, sucking in a breath as he met his eyes. Tears welled into his own gaze, blurring Shane until Shane was on top of him, hugging him and running his fingers through his hair. 

“Don’t cry. I’ll cry again,” he murmured into Ilya’s hair. 

Ilya didn’t say anything, just tucked his face into Shane’s neck and breathed in his warm dewy scent like that of the fresh rain covered earth. 

“I love you. It’s okay, Ilya,” Shane whispered into his temple. 

Shane’s mom was heard moving around the kitchen, tea cups tinkering on against the marble counter top, spoons clattering into cups. Ilya could tell in the movements that she was gentle, trying hard to pay the boys no mind of her own as Shane put on such a public display of affection in front of his mother. It spoke volumes to Ilya just how upset Shane was, to be doing this so openly.

When Ilya pulled away from Shane, their gazes locked. “We’ll figure this out,” Shane said as he pushed some of Ilya’s straw curls from his forehead. 

“You are not going to leave me?”

“What?” Shane asked incredulously. “Of course not, Rozanov. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Ilya nodded once, reaching up to cup the nape of Shane’s neck, his fingers pressing and swirling into the soft hair there. 

Tea cups were placed in front of each one of the boys, the sweet herbal smell steaming toward them both. It was a calming smell, and Ilya wondered how often Shane’s mother had made him tea when he was feeling really nervous. If his mother also stood with him in the kitchen and walked him through the same sort of ritual of tea making. 

Ilya’s mother would always make him kurabie cookies on the side of tea, when they had tea for special dinners and what not. The sweet shortbread would melt in his mouth and cover his fingers with powdered sugar. His mother knew that he loved them, so she would treat him to them outside of Christmas when she could make them with the tea. 

She would always tell him to be gentle with the cookies, their delicate texture easy to be broken up in his fingers. His father would always crush them, too aggressive in his big, meaty fingers as he would eat one, if he ate one at all. But when Ilya ate them, his mother would always stroke Ilya’s hair, whispering quietly to him to be gentle with the things he wanted to enjoy. 

He saw now that his mother was not just talking about cookies, but about people, too. About who he loved and how he should love them. 

To not be like, and to not love, like his father was pressed in between the lines of each word. 

Shane’s thigh pressed up against his under the table as he sat next to Ilya, grounding him into the moment once more. Yuna was now sitting across from them, her own tea cupped in her delicate fingers, wrinkled around the knuckles and lines of her each digit from her loving motherly touches.

It made Ilya feel a little sick to realize, not for the first time but for the most startling time, that his mother’s fingers would never reach the age of Yuna’s. She would never experience the wear and tear of motherhood, how it never ended as the child went off on their own, but still remained in moments like this. When a mother could swoop in and see something she shouldn’t, but still decide to stay. 

All he had was his father. Who, if he would have caught Ilya and Shane… Ilya shudders, looking down into his tea as the thought of his father yelling, scolding, threatening washed over the folds of his brain and– 

“Ilya, honey,” Yuna said softly. Ilya looked up, meeting her eyes that were soft and warm, like Shane’s. “We will figure everything out, okay?”

Ilya nodded once.

“I will come up with a statement to make, just in case after the show something happens and we have to speak.”

“Thank you,” Ilya said, quiet and polite. 

“I’ll make one in particular for you as a designer.”

Ilya nodded. “I appreciate it.”

“Mom, wait until Ilya is ready, too.”

“Well of course,” She replied to Shane easily. “But he needs to also have a statement ready.”

“Don’t feel like you have to say anything,” Shane said, face turned to stare at Ilya. 

“Could I, uh, could it say that Shane is…” Ilya waved his hand around as he looked for the words. If he would make a statement, which he was more than willing to do if it meant he didn’t need to keep Shane hidden close to his chest, he would declare his love in the way he knew how. 

“That Shane is my muse? Use art I have done for show that shows that for the post?”

Shane stared at the side of Ilya’s face as Yuna asked softly, “Wait. Shane is your muse?”

“Yes?”

“For how long?” Yuna’s eyes were wide as she asked.  

Ilya shrugged a shoulder and stole a glance at Shane. “Long time now. Since I moved here. Maybe before, I do not know anymore.” 

“Wow,” Yuna breathed out.

Shane leaned his head on Ilya’s shoulder, as if the weight of the world was now too heavy for him. Ilya titled his chin up, met with a face that, while still nervous, was smiling softly.

“We’ll be okay?” Shane meant it as a statement, but it came out more like a question. 

Ilya smiled and pressed a quick, warm kiss to his lips. “Yes, I think so. We will be okay.” 

Shane nodded, pressing his forehead into Ilya’s shoulder. “I need a minute,” he whispered, before the small exhales of his breath puffed against Ilya’s shoulder in quick successions. Ilya ran his hand up and down Shane’s back. 

“I love you, sweetheart.”

Shane sniffled, looking up at Ilya. “I love you, too.”