Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, Rose Landry, Hayden Pike, Svetlana Vetrova, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Enemies to Lovers, except Ilya has never hated Shane, Ilya Rozanov is Whipped, Top Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Possessive Ilya Rozanov, Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Prince Shane Hollander, Prince Ilya Rozanov, Bickering, Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Ilya Rozanov is a Little Shit, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov is Good With Children, Soft Shane Hollander, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Good Boy Shane Hollander, Oblivious Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Is Bad at Feelings, Ilya Rozanov is Bad at Feelings, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Dirty Talk, Porn with Feelings, Fluff, Anxious Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Walks Ilya Rozanov Like A Dog, Shane Hollander Has a Praise Kink, Praise Kink, Courtship, Hand Jobs, Come Eating, thigh fucking, Minor Injuries, Mention of impreg, But not until the end

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-27 Completed: 2026-03-13 Words: 107,199 Chapters: 8/8

my heart is a compass, and the needle points to you

Summary

‘I look forward to getting to know you more, husband-to-be.’ Ilya smirks, tongue wrapping around the last word with relish, a hand coming to trace the freckles dusted across his cheeks with a surprisingly delicate touch.

Shane smacks his hand away with a snort, tampering down the blush threatening to make itself known to instead snap out a frosty retort. ‘In your dreams.’

Except all Ilya, the Prince of Rozan, has to offer is a dark smile and wandering eyes. Shane can feel them burning through his clothes, his shoulders resisting the urge to curl inwards and shield himself from Ilya’s gaze.

‘Oh, but you already are. Am I not in yours, sweet prince?’

or: Shane, Crown Prince of Hollaith hates Prince Ilya of Rozan with a passion. So the idea of marrying him is his worst nightmare - right?

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

back with a royal hollanov au because I am HUNGRY and my writing is driven by greed.

enjoy!

‘I’d rather be trampled to death by Taiyo than marry him.’

‘Now Shane, don’t be so ridiculous.’ His mother drawls from across the dining table, candles flickering as a servant moves forward to refill her empty cup. Between them sits a hunk of honeyed ham, skin crispy, and garnished with a sprig of rosemary. Thick slices of it sit on Shane’s plate, now entirely forgotten as he glares at the tapestry hanging behind his mother’s head. It bore his kingdom’s emblem, Hollaith’s emblem, the one stitched into the majority of his clothing in some way or another. A golden flower, with a sun sitting at the top of its stem, its rays the petals, set against a dark blue background and a white border. It was beautiful, Shane had always admired it, he had always thought of all the emblems he’s learnt in his princely studies that theirs was the prettiest. The most noble. It also served as a constant reminder of who he was, his position as crown prince, and all the suffocation that comes with it. Including suffocation such as this.

‘I’m not being ridiculous, you’re being ridiculous!’ He snaps back dramatically, eyes flitting to his mother’s, her brown eyes warm in the candle’s glow. They sharpen, however, at Shane’s tone.

‘Shane-,’ the name is said as a warning, a warning that would usually kill any further retort stone dead, but this conversation was anything but usual. His normal obedience to his mother disintegrating like sand slipping through his fingers, in its place something uglier curling with teeth. And Shane lets it bite.

‘No! I will not. You cannot make me. The whole idea is ludicrous, impossible, absolute stupidity. There is no way in hells name-,’ Shane ignores his mother repeating his name louder to carry on reeling off all the reasons why this was a horrible, horrible idea - something apparently only he seemed to realise. His cheeks flushed with frustration, hands waving in the air to enunciate his point, eyes flitting about the room in disbelief at the suggestion that had just tumbled out of his mother’s mouth without a care - as if Shane was meant to be happy about it. Shane could not be further from it.

‘-That I am marrying that man, even the notion of it makes me want to vomit. He, and his whole pack of beastly men are fools who only think with the steel of their swords instead of their brains. Why must I subject myself to his company? To him as my husband? I would rather bathe in stinging nettles, I would rather a falcon gouge out my eyes and use them to line its nest, anything is more tolerable than marrying him-,’

A hand slams down on the table, hard enough to make the cutlery jerk in fright, the wine in Shane’s own goblet trembling with nervous ripples, the sound making Shane jump in his seat, any further complaint cowering back down his throat.

‘That is enough!’ The Queen Mother bellows, and Shane’s eyes snap to hers to see the fury swirling in them. He swallows harshly, mouth closing, eyes widening as he realises he may have gone a touch too far in his passionate monologue of hatred. Which should tell you how much Shane despises the idea, he does not enjoy speaking in riddles. He normally finds it confusing and frustrating when people don’t say clearly what they mean, it’s why court politics gave him a headache. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

His mother’s mouth is tight and unforgiving, eyebrows pinched as she straightens, hands coming down to lie clasped in her lap, her chin jutting out as she speaks.

‘There will be no more of this foolish talk of your ire for the man. I never said it was carved in stone. But a marriage between our kingdoms would be beneficial, which I know you are aware of. Must I remind you? Regardless of your distaste for the match, the envoy is already on its way.’

Shane opens his mouth weakly to protest but snaps it shut at the slight shake of his fathers head, who sits beside his mother. His mother continues, words icy. Sitting across from him like this, it reminds Shane of just how terrifying his mother can be. Queen Yuna of Hollaith. Better known as the summer storm. Her name reflects why she is one of the best rulers in Hollaith’s history. It’s why so many follow her, it’s why other kingdoms have allied themselves with her, and it’s why armies have fled at the sight of his mother at the helm wielding her sword as a challenge. Usually seeing his mother so emboldened, so majestically powerful in everything she does would have Shane beaming with pride because he is rarely at the other end of it. And facing it now in the low light of the dining hall, has Shane shrinking under her disapproving glare.

‘And you will hold your tongue for propriety’s sake in his presence, in anyone’s presence for that matter. You must not forget yourself. This is not just about you Shane, it is about our people, the future of our kingdom, its stability and its ability to thrive. It is part of your duty.’ She continues harshly, a finger coming to tap at the smooth dark wood to emphasise her point.

The mention of duty has Shane’s heart sinking into his ribs in shame, his eyes casting downwards to look at the table, at his shiny silver plate that shimmers in the candlelight.

‘I thought we raised you better than this.’ The remark is said quietly, but the disappointment in it cuts Shane like a knife through to the bone. He sucks in a breath, his chest tight and fingers curling into his trousers. He blinks rapidly to keep the tears at bay. He clenches his jaw to try and not cry, body aching with the tension of trying not to topple like a house of cards. He hates being such a crybaby, it was something he always hoped he’d grow out of.

At his silence, his mother speaks softly, frowning at her son curling into himself like a wilting leaf. ‘Shane.’

He refuses to look up, eyes fixed on his reflection looking back at him on his plate. He does not see the good heir of Hollaith staring back at him, he only sees a failure.

His mother reaches an arm across the table, hand resting at the edge of his plate. She repeats his name once more, and Shane finally looks up hesitatingly, holding his breath.

Yuna tuts sadly at the glossy look in her son’s eyes, the pinch at his mouth. She looks to her husband and he frowns back, eyes watching Shane as he threatens to crack open like a goose egg under the pressure of a firm hand.

‘Shane, we will never force you to marry anyone you don’t wish to, you understand that don’t you?’ His father asks gently, and Shane’s gaze flits to him and swallows at the softness there.

His father gently clasps his mother’s hand, and Shane can see Yuna squeeze it, looking down at the grip in comfort before gazing back at Shane. Shane nods jerkily, fingers trembling against his thighs as his father continues.

‘All we ask is that you try. You claim to hate the boy, yet you hardly know him, only stories. All we are asking is you give it a chance, get to know him. Who knows, perhaps you will get on.’ His father finishes with a laugh in an attempt to lighten the mood, and Yuna smiles.

Shane neither laughs or smiles in return, but the weight on his chest lightens a fraction. He blinks again, clearing his throat and fidgeting in his seat.

‘I know.’ Shane whispers hoarsely, throat thick with unspoken emotion that is too frail to be said aloud. Emotion that would be unfitting for a prince with such heavy responsibilities.

‘They know that it is not a fixed arrangement, I have made that clear. The marriage would only go ahead with your consent Shane.’ His mother stresses, tilting her head to catch his skittish gaze. Like trying to corner a mouse.

‘We love you. We want you to be happy, but we also want you to try. For our people, at least.’ Yuna says gently. Shane nods, eyes looking down to his lap, at his fingers twisting into the material of his trousers, scrunching the material repeatedly in comfort.

Shane knew everything he did, everything he does is for their people. That is what he lives for, that is his duty. Shane knows that. And he accepted it as soon as he was young enough to understand, he embraced it because that was the only way, the only option available. Because he truly cared for his people, but he also wanted to make his parents proud. His kingdom proud. But the crown was a heavy burden to bear, his shoulders trembling under the weight of it at times, yet he made sure to never falter, to never stumble. To do so was to show weakness, an inability to do what he must, to fulfill the duty that defines his very existence. Shane accepted a long time ago that the kingdom’s happiness came first, his own second - trailing behind like a limping dog at the back of the pack, mostly forgotten. For there was no use for it, his own happiness meant nothing in the overall scheme and endless churning over of life. And he knew that, he knows that. Yet sometimes, he wished that maybe just once, his happiness would be enough to matter.

‘Shane?’ His mother prompts. Shane snaps his head up, his mind clearing momentarily to respond with a neutral but dutiful, ‘Yes I understand. I’m sorry.’

‘Do not apologise for feeling something, Shane. Just-learn to temper it, yes?’ His mother admonishes gently. And Shane could feel the nettles wrapping his heart in a vice.

He nods again, before shifting his focus back to his forgotten dinner, fork playing with the carrot rolling around his plate. Yes, temper it. Like the blacksmiths temper blades of metal, molding its shape, containing it within its bounds to make something strong. And Shane will temper the unnecessary emotion that coils like a viper, he will control it, bind it into something more useful. For that is the very crux of his existence. To be useful and to serve others. For Shane belonged to everyone, but himself.

So he follows duty like a dog follows its master, like a future king follows the needs of its people and the needs of the realm.

Shane threw another log into the fireplace, watching flames pop and crackle, heat hungrily licking at the wood to create a stronger blaze. The fire was not as big as when it started, it had lessened into a smaller, more fragile heat, yet warming all the same. It was enough for Shane to wiggle his feet in front of it and hum in delight at the coldness in his toes abating. It was late, too late his mother would say. A prince must be well rested.

But Shane could not sleep, nor did he want to. His mind was too full, thoughts spilling out past his ears to whisper in lilting voices. Shane wanted to bat them away with a hand, like one does to a fly in the summer heat. Yet he does not, because earlier that evening, the fly had burrowed into his brain like a tic and stayed there, sucking on his blood to remain plump and bloated, keeping his eyelids open and mind in constant motion. He sits back in his chair, ankles crossed, finger picking at his lip distractedly, eyebrows furrowed, lost in thought.

His mother wanted him to marry. No, she wanted him to marry the second Prince of Rozan. Or at least entertain the notion of it. When she first dropped it in mid conversation at dinner, a piece of ham halfway to Shane’s lips, he thought she had been joking. He was never very good at understanding people’s attempts at humour anyway, so he was just hoping it was another one of those times. He quickly learnt that his mother was in fact, being serious. Shane scowled at the face beginning to take shape at the forefront of his mind.

Prince Ilya of Rozan.

Or as Shane calls him in the privacy of his own mind away from prying ears, a complete fucking ass.

Stupid blonde curls, stupid smirk, stupid blue eyes. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The man was a walking disgrace of anything princely. And Shane hated him. Even the thought of the man made his mouth twisting in displeasure, fingers digging into the smooth wood of the armchair beneath his fingers. His father was wrong when he said he barely knew the boy. Although Shane will admit it has been a little over five years since he saw him last, on his sixteenth name day. But five years did nothing to curb the hatred, the raging disapproval Shane felt at the mere mention of his name. Shane of course did not know everything about Prince Ilya the ass, but he knew enough. And that was all he needed to understand Shane did not like him, nor would he ever.

As he grew older, Shane had learnt of the stories surrounding the wicked prince, his debaucherous ways, his taste for trouble, mischief, and sex with whoever tumbled into his bed. Not only that but Prince Ilya was known and feared for his prowess in the battlefields of course, the sugary icing on top of the cake. He wielded a sword as well as he did a smirk and his cock. He was reckless in every possible way. The man’s array of nicknames and epithets reflected that perfectly. His complete utter regard for his duties. Duties, that for Shane were drilled into him from the very beginning, duties he followed doggedly. Of course, Ilya was not the heir to the throne of Rozan like Shane was to Hollaith, but that did not mean he could behave however he liked. That he could do whatever he liked. There was still propriety, there was still royal etiquette which should be followed.

Yet Shane would never admit that some of his hatred sparks from jealousy. Jealousy at the freedom Ilya so obviously has, bearing no crippling fear of disappointing all those closest to him, no pressure to live for the eyes constantly watching him. Jealousy that Ilya clearly was doing a potentially better (albeit nefarious) job at having fun.

Fun. The word was foreign to Shane. He knew what it meant, obviously. Yet the words fun and prince never seemed to mix well in Shane’s head, like oil and water. Never bound to be linked by the same chain. There were some positives of being a crown prince of course, Shane was not naive to the privileges bestowed upon him by chance of birth. He had it a lot better than most. On the outside it was wonderful, acknowledged, and Shane did truly appreciate his position of privilege. Yet on the inside, he always felt unbalanced, dragging around a load that he couldn’t quite see nor take off. Like he was missing something, and that thought alone had anxiety looming like a phantom in the night. Because Shane had to be perfect. A perfect prince, a perfect son, a perfect heir. There was no room for anything else, especially not fun. Because fun meant being careless, tipping the already precarious scales to send everything sliding into a heap of failure and disgrace.

And fun was also something that Shane feared would show him just how much his life has been lacking, that his perceived notion of living was not enough. And the fear of that realisation would boulder everything Shane knew to pieces to leave him surrounded by ruins. So he left fun well alone. Better to follow the rules. There was safety in rules, order, it’s why they existed.

Not that Ilya would know anything about that, Shane is sure the man believes that rules existed to be bent. And Ilya Prince of Rozan wields a hammer, bending them to his will, or better yet, smashing them to pieces.

His mother had clarified further after his outburst that the Rozan envoy would arrive in a few days - which had Shane realising that his parents had kept the whole thing from him intentionally, considering the journey from the capital of Rozan to Hollaith took over 3 weeks of travel. The betrayal stung more than it should.

She had also told Shane that he had a month to decide whether he wished to go ahead with the arranged marriage. A luxury Shane knows not every prince and princess is afforded when it comes to marrying. He was twenty one, and he knew that many others were already married by his age, some with children - which was mortifying. Shane still felt like a child at times himself. But he could at least appreciate his parents’ respect for his wishes in some capacity, even if he has to put up with a fool to realise it.

So he had a month. He had to deal with Prince Ilya of Rozan for a month. Shane could do that, couldn’t he? How hard could it be? Especially if it’ll only involve stuffy moments of official courtship so they get to know each other - his mothers words, even though there was nothing about Ilya that Shane wished to know. He expected a few family dinners, stilted conversations in front of chaperones. That was easy enough - he wouldn’t be left alone with him at least. That was a bonus, a silver lining amongst the rumbling thunderclouds floating above his head. Shane wouldn’t trust himself not to throttle the golden haired man if they were alone once Ilya (as Shane knew he would) opens his mouth to say something stupid, cock smirky teasing, riling Shane up in the worst way possible. Ilya had a talent for doing that, and they’ve barely spoken. Not since Ilya was here last when they were both boys. Shane would admire Ilya’s ability to annoy the everliving crap out of him if it wasn’t so irritating.

His mother had said he was to give the match a chance. And Shane for all purposes begrudgingly would, he could open his mind enough to put up with the hellhound that is Prince Ilya of Rozan. He would make a show of making an effort, to prove to his mother he was trying. But he would never open his heart. Not that marriages, especially royal ones, were always defined by love - not like his parents, who were childhood sweethearts. Shane should count himself lucky that this is the first time his parents have broached marriage to him, and at least he has a choice - sort of.

He just had to get through a month of Ilya’s presence and send him on his way again. And Shane already couldn’t wait to see the back of that idiot man’s head. He’d be the polite and courteous crown prince he is known to be, and he would grit his teeth and bear it until he didn’t have to.

For Shane had no intention of agreeing to the match, he had no intention of marrying Prince Ilya of Rozan. The idea was preposterous. Shane shook his head with a huff of laughter.

It was the stuff madness was made from. And it shall never be borne.

In the next few days as the Rozan envoy drew nearer, Shane was filled in on the specific events that had led to the proposal of marriage in the first place between their two kingdoms.

Shane always knew that Rozan had always been an aggressive counterpart to Hollaith’s more diplomatic one. Rozan was a kingdom built on blood, steel, and the cold jagged rocks of the mountains that encase it. It was a place eternally cold, summer never being able to fully form there in all its beauty. It’s why they never lost against an attack on their own soil. Their mountains were too steep, their forests too wild, the winter climate too severe in nature for a stranger to their lands to survive. Many had tried, and all had failed. Rozan’s expertise was aggression, war, and the mines that hid under the earth’s surface. Shane had read in his pupillage as a boy that the first King of Rozan had built their fortress amongst the rocks of the mountain, making it virtually impenetrable, invisible to the naked, untrained eye. They were a rich kingdom for their gold deposits and mastery of steel, but they also contained some of the poorest villages across the continent. Sharing was not in their nature, especially their wealth. They were known instead for their greed.

Rozan’s politics unsurprisingly (if you could even call it that) was hostility to all. As rulers, they were unpredictable, unwilling to bend to any wind that shakes the trees of their dark forests. They refused to take part in any alliances with neighbouring kingdoms, not that they’d ever be invited to any. Which is why this arranged marriage between the two countries was unexpected, confusing. Rozan usually married within their own high families, sometimes with an occasional outsider entering the fold - even then, they went further north, beyond the mountains for their wives and husbands. Never South. It was said that the first King of Rozan had married a woman that had been born from the rocks of the mountains. Every full moon she grew as tall as the sky, skin transforming into rock, and she would stride across the night with a hammer, creating the mountainous valleys that run deep in Rozan’s land with a swing of her wrist. At the time the story had fascinated him, boyish eyes wide with wonder, gasping in delight at the idea of a she-giant breaking the sky with her figure. It was because of her, that the royal bloodline of Rozan was forged with metal and stone, a force to be reckoned with.

So why do they now want to ally themselves with Hollaith? Well, Shane was aware that out of all the southern kingdoms, Hollaith is the most dangerous. It was the only kingdom that is evenly matched (Shane would argue moreso) with Rozan in terms of strength, power, and military grit. Hollaith was richer however, their fields and crops were bountiful, their soil overflowing with important minerals, their tapestry rich with the innovative use of textiles, their food full of spices crushed by the hands of travelling merchants. It was also the leader of the Southern alliance. A pact drawn up by his mother only two years into her reign - Queen Yuna had solidified ties with the neighbouring kingdoms to create a united front with Hollaith at the helm. They traded, gave aid in famine or disease, mixed cultures, textiles, food, but they also created a staunch defense against aggression. Namely Rozan and its war mongering compatriots.

But his mother had told Shane about the skirmishes at their borders as of late. That scouts and border patrols had noted bands of Rozan soldiers lurking, blindly trying to poke holes in the strength of their borderlines in hopes of making it stick. It did not. But it did raise the question of Rozan’s intentions. And Yuna had no time for such foolery. It was later, in a moment alone with his father that David had let slip that Yuna was preparing for war, and that this marriage was the last peaceful resort before the Queen of Hollaith would make a more definitively violent statement that ensured that Rozan should and would remain firmly behind their own lines. And Shane realised that perhaps this question of marriage was a lot more complicated than a simple I’d rather die than marry you. So Shane decided to swallow any further complaints about it out loud.

The idea that he could not blase his way through the month filled Shane with joy - not. If Shane had it his way, he would say that what Rozan needs isn’t a marriage but a thorough kick up the ass with a sword. It would also mean he wouldn’t have to entertain the notion of marrying Prince Ilya of Rozan. But he wasn’t in charge, so he would do as he promised, he would try.

It is the third day since the dinner with his parents when Shane was told the disastrous news of his engagement, and the castle is bustling with servants running back and forth with trays of food, piles of linen, amongst other things in preparation for the envoy’s arrival. His mother is in the throne room shouting orders, his father is organising the Queen’s guard, and Shane? Well Shane is getting out of the damn palace walls whilst he still can. Everyone’s so busy that nobody notices Shane slipping out to the stables and saddling up his horse, Taiyo, quietly leading her out the back gate before he quickly mounts and gallops off into the forest.

As he squeezes his thighs against Taiyo’s flank to go faster, hips rising in the seat in tandem with her strides, he can’t help the laugh that bubbles out, the sound getting lost in the breeze whipping through his hair, bellowing out his loose shirt sleeves, slipping underneath his brown leather tunic. It’s wonderful. It’s why Shane loved to ride, the freedom he felt as he flew through the air, the adrenaline coursing through his veins as the world around him blurred, trees whipping past him like ribbons, the feeling that he does not have to do anything or be anything but a man going somewhere with his horse. He was no longer a prince just for a short time, and Shane loved it.

He weaves his way through the forest trails, across the wildflower meadow, Taiyo’s hooves splashing through the stream that runs its way through the trees, out to the lake on the far side. A hidden spot that Shane had found as a boy out on a ride after an argument with his tutor about the political implications of executions.

The scene was a typically beautiful one for the kingdom of Hollaith - known for its rolling hills, glistening lakes and streams, its meadows with buzzing bees, its bright forests filled with deer and the like. Fertile ground, where farming and people thrived.

But this one, this particular scene was just for Shane. It was his secret place, unknown to everyone, not even Sir Pike (his most trusted friend) knew where it was or where Shane gallops off to so regularly. And Shane would never tell. He’s never seen anyone else here, and doesn’t expect to. This land was protected by the crown, and too far from the town and surrounding villages that no one would think to come here anyway. One had to pass through tangled terrain to get here too, although it wasn’t a problem for Shane, who has been riding since he learnt to walk.

The place in question broke through the trees as Shane slowed Taiyo to a gentle walk, hand coming to pat at the side of her mane, whispering a ‘Good girl,’ as they break through the treeline and out into the sun. A lake faces them, blue and crystal, the surface rippling as birds skim the water. Reeds and wildflowers are clustered in the corners where the water meets the sloping pebbled bank. Beyond it he can see the rolling hills of Hollaith further south. The grass is long and unkempt, almost reaching Shane’s knees as he slides off the saddle with a sigh, boots landing amongst a bundle of daffodils. There are berry bushes and thick trees circling the area, a few fairy circles of mushrooms that Shane is careful to step around as he leads Taiyo by the reign to the willow tree.

The willow tree hangs over the edge of the lake, its strings of delicate leaves dancing across the water’s surface. Shane can hear birds tweeting in the forest behind him. He lets Taiyo go, watching her wander down to munch on a thick thatch of grass on as he slumps down to sit by the waters edge, half sheltered by the willow, half lying in a patch of sun. He leans back on his hands, legs parted and sighs, tilting his head back with his eyes closed to feel the ghost of the willow tree’s leaves against his face as they sway in the gentle breeze of spring.

Finally, peace and quiet. For the first time in the last few days, Shane was not being talked at by his loving parents, or the council, or his tutor on the importance of Rozan’s arrival, how crucial it was that he behaves and puts his best foot forward. As if Shane wasn’t always on his best behaviour anyway, a model prince on which all others are formed. Always reminded to put duty first above all else. He tilts his head to look out across the lake. If only his duty involved living by the lake forever with no one to bother him. That would be nice. A part of him is sometimes tempted to disappear, the thought only ever arising when he’s had a particularly bad day, or week, or month. But he’s good at being a prince, amazing at it even. He likes it, most of the time. He’d enjoy it more if it didn’t feel like being crushed under a boulder.

He hears Taiyo whinny and turns to look with a smile, watching her walk closer with a huff, settling down on the grass near him. He lies back, face in the sun and closes his eyes. He knows his mother will probably admonish him if he lets his face tan too much, especially when the rest of his body won’t be the same colour. The sun always darkens his freckles too. But it’s only the beginning of spring, the sun won’t be too harsh in its rays, and the warmth is nice against his skin, making him sink into the bed of grass beneath him. He hears Taiyo shift next to him and he hums in contentment, mind emptying of all the thoughts that have been whirring in his mind like a spinning top teetering too near the edge of the table.

Marriage. The idea alone was terrifying. The idea of it being with a pompous prince he can’t stand is even more terrifying. The idea of letting everyone down was the most terrifying. And Shane hated it, he hated that he was in this situation in the first place, when just last week his biggest concern was beating Lady Rose at chess. That was when the worst of his problems was not being humiliated at the game once again by his friend, who always cackled at his despair and competitive nature. Now it was different. And it would never be the same again. Shane’s fingers twist into the blades of grass beneath him at the thought.

He stays at the lake for a few more hours. He shares an apple with Taiyo, and chews on a hunk of bread he stole from the kitchens. But as the sun moves round in the sky, Shane knows he has to go back, even though the envoy is expected in the evening, so he has time. It’s only mid afternoon but his mother will want him back soon so she can make sure he’s preened like a peacock. Shane rolls his eyes at the thought. Maybe he should blacken his teeth with bark to make him look unappealing. Ilya wouldn’t want to marry an ugly prince would he? Unless his mother killed him first. The latter being more likely.

With a huff he gets up, not before leaning forward across the bank to hover his hand above the surface of the silky water. The world here is peaceful, and it is gentle, it asks for nothing but quiet happiness. And it is just beyond Shane’s reach.

He stands, looking out at the scene in front of him before turning to ready himself to return home. He’s fumbling with his drink skin tacked to the side of his saddle when he slumps his forehead against Taiyo’s side with a heavy sigh.

‘How did we get here huh?’ He asks Taiyo softly, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before pulling back, patting Taiyo affectionately as she twists her head to look at him.

He blinks back unexpected tears and swallows around the rock in his throat before hiking himself back into his saddle, throwing a last longing look over his shoulder to the willow tree by the lake before he nudges Taiyo towards home, except every step they take feels like Shane is walking into his own funeral, instead of the beginning of a new life.

It turns out the Rozan envoy had arrived early. That became awfully apparent as Shane led Taiyo into the stables and noticed horses he didn’t recognise, large beasts with black leather bridles and burgundy embroiderment. Unfamiliar colours against Hollaith’s colours of blue, gold, and white. He was about to brush Taiyo down, the stable boys knowing that he liked to do it himself, when Hayden, Sir Pike, came skidding round the corner, face flushed and eyes panicked.

‘There you are! Where the hell have you been?’ He shouts, rushing forward to stand at the entrance of Taiyo’s stall, bending over with his hands on his knees as he wheezes, out of breath.

Shane continues to brush Taiyo’s caramel coat, levelling Hayden with a disinterested glance. ‘I was out on a ride.’ He replies simply.

Hayden’s head jerks up and he rolls his eyes, ‘Yes I gathered that.’ His breath levelling out after he had seemingly been running around the palace looking for the prince.

‘The Rozan envoy has arrived early. You need to get changed, now.’ Hayden jerks his thumb out towards the palace, hands on his hips expectantly. Shane stops and frowns.

‘Who cares if they’re early, we aren’t meeting them until later anyway. What’s the rush? I’m sure they can occupy themselves.’ He retorts dryly but Hayden huffs in frustration, rounding Taiyo to tug Shane by the arm, trying and failing to drag him out of the stall.

‘No. Your mother, the Queen,’ Hayden emphasises, ‘wants you to meet them, now. And when I say now, I mean an hour ago but you weren’t here. So we have to make you look presentable and no longer smelling like horse.’

He manages to get Shane out of the stall with an uncharacteristically hard shove which has Shane stumbling over himself.

‘Hey!’ He cries outraged, mouth open to fling another icy retort but Hayden cuts him off, hands coming to clutch at his shoulders with soft eyes.

‘Shane, I know you don’t want this. Trust me, I’m not thrilled at the idea of having the royal family of Rozan and their men sleeping in our beds either.’ Hayden’s brow creases at the idea, his hatred for the kingdom and their aggressiveness never a secret between them, ‘But this is the hand we’ve been dealt. We’ve already kept them waiting long enough, so you need to get washed, changed and meet them. The sooner you meet the bastard, the faster this can be over with.’

Shane’s mouth snaps shut, glaring at the palace walls, annoyed that Hayden had a point. At a gentle shake of his shoulders he turns to see Hayden giving him a sad smile. ‘Okay?’ He prompts and Shane returns the smile painfully with a nod, exhaling harshly through his nose. It was nice to know he at least had Hayden on his side.

‘Yes, okay, fine.’ Hayden claps his shoulder and turns them, walking Shane through the palace gates and up to his room where a bath already waits.

It’s when one of the servants is fixing the sash across his chest, Shane staring at his reflection in the mirror with despondent eyes, that his mother appears in the doorway to his chambers. She looks beautiful as always, hair loose by her shoulders, a white gown with golden suns embroidered into the hem, a dark blue sash cutting across the silk. Her eyes catch his and she smiles, he tries to smile back in the mirror but even he can see how pathetic it looks.

He looks like he’s being marched to his execution in all his finery, not meeting a prince that could end up being his husband. One could accuse Shane of being dramatic, but then Shane would argue they wouldn’t understand. Because it was about so much more than marriage. It was duty, the board against which Shane scrubs his cracked and bleeding knuckles against in hopes some of it would be absorbed into his bones.

‘You look handsome.’ Yuna says, hands clasping at her chest as she admires him, coming closer. Shane’s fingers pick at the cuff of his sleeve self consciously, averting his gaze.

He didn’t feel handsome. He felt like a whingy child undeserving of the crown balanced on his head.

‘Turn around,’ His mother encouraged softly, and Shane twists dutifully to face her with hesitant eyes. His hands come down to hang uselessly at his sides, unsure of what to do with them - forever the awkward youth he has struggled to leave behind.

His fingers itch to fiddle, but he restrains himself. Good princes do not fiddle or fidget. They stand tall and they stand strong. Yet Shane feels anything but.

Yuna takes his hands in hers, kissing his knuckles and smiles encouragingly, head tilting as she admires her son.

Shane wears his kingdom’s colours: a deep blue shirt with gold buttons, two golden suns stitched into the top of the shoulders, embroidered gold petals and swirls encircling the cuffs. He wears black trousers, and a silk white sash stretched across his chest, bordered with thick lines of gold, a thinner line of blue on the inside, their country’s emblem stitched to the top of it, above his heart.

His crown rests against his upper forehead, a simple gold band, thin flower stems twisting amongst each other to join at the front to bloom into a sun, surrounded by the leaves of its rays. He could feel the heaviness of it above his eyebrows, whenever he wore it he was always worried if he scrunched his eyebrows too much it would slide right off. So he always tried to not be too expressive when he had to put on. Except blinking at his mother, he had the sudden urge to cry, and he so desperately wanted to hide in her arms like he used to do when he was a boy.

Yuna raises a hand to fix a piece of stray hair, curling Shane’s black strands behind his ear - Shane having grown out his hair in recent years so it curls at the nape of his neck, thick enough that he has to push it back out of his face when he goes riding. The strands at the front curl inwards slightly in a soft imitation of a heart, perfectly framing his crown.

‘You look every inch a Prince,’ Yuna whispers, hand coming to cradle his cheek and Shane immediately leans into it with closed eyes and a heavy sigh.

Yuna draws him closer into her arms and Shane almost collapses into them. He rests his head into the crook of her neck, smelling the faint scent of her perfume. His mother is warm, and her arms safe, cocooning him for a moment against everything else that is about to happen, the future looming at the door that he can no longer keep closed.

He sniffles quietly, but the tears don't fall, he makes sure of it. Yuna tuts softly at the sound, hand stroking his hair gently before she leans back to cradle his face, thumb swiping under his bottom lashes where tears are gathering like stars.

‘Shane. We love you, you know that? You make us so proud everyday.’ She whispers with a smile, kissing his forehead, just below his crown. ‘I know this isn’t what you expected nor particularly wanted, but I’m glad you are trying, thank you.’

She watches him carefully and sees his brown eyes glimmer in the sunlight catching in the window. The rays dance across the freckles dusted across his cheeks. Her son looks so grown up. Even after all these years, to her he will always be her boy. Sometimes when he laughs, which is rare these days, she thinks with an ache, she can see the child who would crash into walls trying to chase butterflies in the garden, or who would run around the throne room with a wooden sword, challenging everyone to a duel. Or the boy who once knocked over a row of tall candlestick holders like dominoes in front of a foreign ambassador because he was fleeing from a bee. Shane was so young still, yet he was older. He was a man now. Though sometimes Yuna wished she could keep him under her wing forever, hold him close, and never let him go. Because Shane was her son, and he was precious, more precious than the crown on her head, or anything in the world. And she hated to see him unhappy, and she hated the fact that over the years the sparkle in his eye had slowly dulled and she couldn’t stop it because it was the same for her too when she was being molded into the next kingdom’s ruler. She wished things were different, but they were not. And eventually, she would have to let the boy go to become a man, to let him be his own person, to be the great King she knew he would be.

Yuna blinks back tears, clearing her throat.

‘I love you too.’ Shane whispers back, unaware of his mother’s grief of slowly losing her son to the demands of time and duty, his hands coming to cradle the ones holding him. He smiles back more genuinely now, yet it still hangs fragile against his lips.

Yuna steps back, fingers straightening his crown, his sash, brushing invisible dust off his shoulders to distract herself and to bring them back to the present, and the people waiting for them.

‘Right, well they are waiting. Your father is entertaining them, god knows how many awful jokes he’s already told.’ Shane barks out a laugh, and Yuna smiles at the sound, hand clucking under his chin.

‘Let us save them from further embarrassment at your father’s attempt at humour. Shall we?’ She extends a hand and Shane takes it with a mocking bow to make his mother laugh. She dramatically courtesies back, and Shane kisses her knuckles, and then links their arms to tuck her hand against his ribs, clutching at it to keep himself anchored, to keep his legs moving forward. They leave the room, making their way to the throne room, servants bowing as they pass, their image the pinnacle of royalty.

The large doors to the throne room open as they approach, and Shane sucks in a breath, heart thundering in his ears. This was officially happening. He was going to meet the Rozan envoy. He was going to come face to face with the man who made his blood boil, the man he was expected to smile prettily at and endure his insufferable company. A man he may have to marry.

He let out a shaky breath as their arrival was announced, all eyes snapping to him. He could see his father out of the corner of his eye breathe out a visible sigh of relief at their appearance, but all of Shane’s focus was on the group in the centre of the room.

Their black clothing was a stark contrast to the bright throne room, the sunlight shimmering through the large stained glass windows making the darkness of their cloaks look like an endless void. The group were all men - unsurprising. He recognised the King of Rozan, an older gentleman with a harsh face, frown lines dug deep into his skin like valleys, a garish silver crown on his bald head. Shane’s eyes flit to the man beside him, the crown prince, he thought, a grumpy looking man with dark hair and a beard. Alexei, his memory serves to remind him. His eyes move across the group, jumping from face to face looking for one in particular but frowns when he finds no blonde curls amongst them, no teasing blue eyes like he remembers. Where was he? They wouldn’t have come all the way without him, would they?

His mother glides them forward to the centre of the room, Shane lost in thought, mind racing, thoughts tangling amongst each other like thorns. Without realising, Shane’s grip on his mothers hand tightens.

She nudges his side subtly and he releases it with a quiet clearing of his throat. She smiles blindingly to the harsh faces watching them.

‘Gentleman, thank you for waiting. I appreciate your patience.’ She moves away from Shane slightly and he almost wants to scrabble for her hand again, pull her back into his side, suddenly feeling unmoored and terribly exposed without her stuck to him like glue. Instead he straightens, clasping his hands at the small of his back, jutting his chin out to meet the cutting gaze of the King of Rozan almost in challenge.

Shane will not fold. He is the Crown Prince of Hollaith. He was his mother’s son. His swordsmanship rivals even Yuna’s, he had won tournaments and could outride anybody in his sleep. He knew four languages, and had an in-depth knowledge of all royal matters across history. He was a force to be reckoned with, and he would not cower under a fat man’s arrogant gaze, King of Rozan or not. Especially one wearing such a hideous crown.

‘May I formally introduce my son, Shane, Crown Prince and heir to Hollaith.’ His mother’s voice rings out proudly like a gong, echoing in the large room with its tall ceilings, bouncing against the domed roof above him, painted the colour of the night sky. On cue, he bows politely, eyes never leaving the men in front, crown glinting in the sunlight.

‘It’s a pleasure.’ Shane said with a charming smile, eyes flitting amongst the men, searching again for the one man he is here to see, yet still coming up short. Where the hell was he? If Shane has to be carted out like a show pony, then he could sure as hell do the same.

His mother continues to talk, and he hears Rozan’s King grunt back, but Shane isn’t listening. He frowns slightly, annoyance beginning to simmer under his skin at the Prince of Rozan’s absence. It was typical really, everyone else here and he is not. Bet he’s tangling with some man or woman amongst the sheets, Shane mused bitterly to himself. Or just generally being a bawdy nuisance somewhere.

Shane wouldn’t be surprised. Yet he was still annoyed, and a little disappointed. He expected to meet him, not that he actually wanted to. But this was the whole point of the meeting, how was he meant to get to know a man who wasn’t here? He has a month to decide whether he wants to marry the damn idiot, how is he expected to do that if he can’t even speak to him? Maybe this was deliberate. Maybe Rozan had planned it, so Shane had no real excuse to say no. The thought had Shane’s frown deepening. His mother’s voice cut through the storm of thoughts beginning to crackle like thunder in his ears.

‘And your son?’ She asked pointedly with a raised brow, eyes also scanning the group of dark haired men. A throat cleared from the far side of the room and Shane’s eyes snapped to follow it.

A figure emerges from the shadows below the large stained glass window letting the afternoon sun in, long legs walking forward to stand in front of it.

Haloed by sunlight, broad figure framed by the vivid colours of the stained glass behind him, stood Ilya, Prince of Rozan. His blonde curls looked golden in the sun spilling around him, the angles of his cheekbones and jaw sharp in its shadow. He looked like an angel. Yet the smile gracing his full mouth was anything but, it was the epitome of devilish temptation. He wore black trousers, a burgundy shirt similar to Shane’s but the top silver buttons had been left undone to give Shane a glimpse of his chest, a gold cross necklace lying in the centre of it. His kingdom’s colours of black, burgundy, and silver. Shane’s eyes flit away from the sight of the bare skin with a flush. A black jacket stretches across his shoulders, the cuffs lined with silver fabric. He wears no crown, instead his blonde curls sit wild across his forehead. Nor does he wear his kingdom’s emblem anywhere - a wolf’s face surrounded by jagged mountains. He mirrors Shane with his hands at the small of his back, rocking on his heels as a smile curls at the corner of his lips as he catches Shane blatantly staring, but Shane in that moment, doesn’t care. He is entitled to stare, with this man being his potential husband and all. Affirming the quality of goods, Shane reasons. As one would do before agreeing to buy a bunch of apples from a food stall - one must check for any with blemished skin. Not that Ilya had any of that, he was startlingly perfect.

‘My second son, Ilya, Prince of Rozan.’ A gruff voice sounds, accent thick but Shane doesn’t turn to it, he stands transfixed on the man in front of him, eyes wide as he takes him in.

Ilya was no longer the boy he remembers, he didn’t expect him to be the same gangly youth who was still growing into his body of course, but the sight of Ilya as a man in his prime had Shane swallowing hard. The muscles of his thighs strained against the fabric of his trousers, his large hands veiny, one adorned with a silver signet ring. The deep burgundy of his shirt made his blue eyes shine. Eyes that were fixed on Shane with alarming precision. Shane resisted the urge to look away, rolling his shoulders back slightly in defiance, refusing to drop his gaze.

He was beautiful. Annoyingly beautiful. Shane would rather he had grown to be ugly, it would make things a lot easier, but he wasn’t, Ilya never was.

At his introduction, Ilya’s smile spread into a toothy one, walking forward to stand in front of his mother, offering a deep bow, eyes momentarily flitting from Shane to the Queen.

‘It is a pleasure, my Queen, to make your acquaintance at last. Hollaith is as beautiful as I imagined it to be.’ The words rolled off his tongue like honey, a slight accent curling around them to make them somehow sound more reverent. Ilya straightened and Yuna smiles, clearly already charmed by Ilya’s manners - manners that were rare to come by when it came to the kingdom of Rozan. But Ilya was a man who was used to charming mothers, especially those that kept their virginal children close to their bosom in fears of them being corrupted, which was a challenge Ilya thrived on in the ballrooms and court chambers on home soil. He always wanted what he couldn’t have - what he seemingly didn’t deserve.

Ilya turned his gaze back to Shane who was still watching him cautiously, a frown forming on his face. Ilya smirks playfully. He shifts slightly closer to Shane and the crown prince tracks his movements with suspicion, shoulders tense at the smile on the man’s face. His muscles lock in shock as Ilya reaches to gently cradle one of Shane’s hands in his, Ilya’s hold warm and sending a tingle down his arm. Shane gapes in disbelief as Ilya brings it to his lips to kiss his knuckles, bowing, eyes fixed on his as he draws back slightly, knuckles centimetres from his lips.

‘It is also a delight to meet you my prince, you are just as beautiful as I remember. The years have seen you blossom like a flower in spring.’ The words are said softly against his skin, but everyone in the room hears it, including Yuna who grins, pleased. Shane’s heart stops momentarily, feeling light headed. Ilya straightens with a smile, gaze flitting across Shane’s face, down to his lips to pause for a moment, before meeting his eyes again, blue orbs swirling with something that has Shane reeling. What the fuck?

Shane realises he hasn’t said anything when Ilya quirks an eyebrow with a smirk, still holding his hand, and he sees his mother turn to stare at him expectedly. He can feel himself go bright red, flustered.

‘Yes-thank you,’ Shane stutters out, clearing his throat and gaze flitting anywhere but Ilya, ‘and you.’

Shane internally cringes at the lame response, the words a far cry from what a prince should respond with, especially at a meeting as important as this with at least six pairs of eyes on them, but Ilya seems to be delighted, smile widening to show his teeth. Shane realises Ilya is still holding his hand and he snatches it back to cradle it against his chest like he’s been burnt. Ilya’s hand hovers in the air for a moment before he returns it to rest behind his back slowly.

He can hear his mother begin to speak, repeating what she had told Shane in the previous days about the month deadline, the courtship expectations, but his blood is roaring in his ears. He can feel Ilya staring at him and he begins to squirm a little under the close attention, eyes looking anywhere but him. He traces the stitches on the tapestry behind his father’s head with interest, how the sunbeams hit it and makes the blue colour ripple like water. He knows he shouldn’t be so rude in looking like he isn’t listening but Ilya’s eyes, his very presence so close to him, is off putting. The kiss he left on his knuckles burning like a brand on his skin. He flexes the hand distractedly, wishing the sensation away.

This was unexpected. He was under the impression that Ilya wouldn’t be such a…gentleman at their first official meeting. Ilya was behaving like a prince ought to, something Shane had not expected at all if the rumours were to be true. One look at him told them they were true. Trouble practically radiated off the man, his smirk teeming with mischief, the lines of his body promising—no. Shane’s brow scrunches for a moment to bat the thought away. A part of him was hoping that Ilya would behave so poorly in the first five minutes that his mother would call the arrangement immediately with a simple wave of her hand. But it was apparent Ilya had charmed her, or at least impressed her enough for her to confirm the plan of the arrangement in the coming month. He had also managed to momentarily stun Shane.

His mother’s voice drifted back into focus, Shane’s head snapping back to look at her. ‘You have arrived just in time for the spring festival, so you will both have the pleasure of a courtship amongst the festivities.’ Yuna announced, looking between Ilya and Shane with a small smirk.

In all the haste of Rozan’s arrival, Shane had completely forgotten about the festival. Shane then realises with a start that his mother had planned this. She had deliberately invited the Rozan envoy to arrive in time for the month-long spring festival that occurred every year, so that the end of it would mark Shane’s decision on whether he and Ilya would marry. And she did so when she knew the spring festival was Shane’s favourite of all their kingdom’s celebrations. He suppressed the temptation to glare at his mother so openly in front of foreign eyes.

As the name suggests, the festival welcomed the appearance of spring, and the new beginnings it brings. It symbolises the glass of time turning over to start afresh, soil being upturned ready for planting, to sow the seeds of the future - literally and figuratively. The festival was also to bless the coming year, promising a bountiful one. Dancing troupes from neighbouring kingdoms travelled to the palace to perform, there were races of all kinds - eggs on spoons, and Shane’s favourite, a horse race through a set trail across the hills. Not that Shane could compete anymore, his mother banning him from it the one time he fell off and broke his leg after Taiyo was spooked by a grass snake, which had sent him flying into a tree. After that, Yuna had said it was an activity too dangerous for the heir to the throne to participate in. But he still loved to watch, he’d set himself up on the Far Eastern hill, away from the crowds with only Hayden in accompaniment to watch the competitors gallop across the fields, whooping in joy. They also had other competitions, like the biggest vegetable grown by local farmers - his father judged that one every year with glee. The month was filled with laughter, feasts, and joy. It brought people to the capital from all over, with villages hosting their own celebrations.

The palace and capital were already decorated with blue and gold banners in preparation, string webbing the roofs of houses, fluttering with brightly coloured ribbon. Shane especially loved the flowers, they would be everywhere. And Yuna would announce the beginning of the festival tomorrow, where she would plant the first seed of the season outside the city gates. This year it will be a tulip seed. Shane looked forward to the festival every year. But now, it was tarnished with the shadow of the stupid marriage agreement. Fantastic.

Shane can’t help the unhappy pout twisting his plump lips as he looks away unhappily, arms folding across his chest. But it was the spring festival, he wanted to whine childishly. He didn’t want to ferry a stupid man around when he could be enjoying the festivities. Instead he just glared at the wall.

‘That sounds wonderful. I love festivals.’ He can hear Ilya say cheerfully, and Shane can’t help but roll his eyes. Of course he does, Shane thinks moodily. Does he also want to take my horse whilst he’s ruining everything else that brings me joy?

A muffled laugh has Shane swivelling his head to look at its source with a frown. Ilya watches him with an amused quirk of his mouth, eyes squinting in suppressed silent laughter at the scowl on Shane’s face. Shane realises that maybe his eye roll was not as subtle as he thought it was, but instead of being embarrassed, Shane raises his eyebrows in question at the man across from him. The move only seems to entertain Ilya even more, mouth creasing wider, his eyebrows raising to return the challenge. Shane could not care less in participating in a staring contest with an idiot. He didn’t even know what Ilya was smiling at, what could there be possibly to smile at?

Shane snorts quietly, uncaring who sees, before turning to look at the thrones at the end of the room.

Yuna claps her hands twice, the harsh sound cutting across the room. ‘We will leave you both to introduce yourselves properly. Come,’ she motions to the Rozan party, ‘There is wine and food in the dining hall ready for you. You must all be tired after your journey.’ The mention of wine has the envoy moving towards the door with ease.

Shane balks at the suggestion of being left alone with Ilya, eyes widening and mouth opening in protest as his mother turns to leave.

‘But mother-,’ He starts, voice embarrassingly high pitched in panic as the room begins to empty. Yuna turns to him with a calculated smile and narrow eyes.

‘It is important to introduce yourself to your betrothed properly away from prying eyes. Do not worry I won’t leave you unchaperoned for long,’ She turns to Ilya with a smile, ‘besides I trust that Prince Ilya will remain his respectable self.’

Shane would laugh at the words Ilya and respectable being uttered in the same sentence if he wasn’t so busy having an internal crisis.

Ilya grins back good naturedly, hand coming to rest against his heart in a vow, ‘Of course, your Grace. I wouldn’t even dream of it.’ Yuna nods, before looking at Shane with raised eyebrows before following the group out of the throne room, the heavy walnut doors closing with a loud thud.

Shane stares after her helplessly, fingers curling into his crossed arms, heartbeat in his ears as he is left alone with the Prince of Rozan. The one thing he did not want to happen. What happened to propriety? His mother had reminded him countless times of royal conduct, and leaving two people that were (for now) promised in marriage alone together was unheard of. It was an event that the gossipmongers of court would have a feast on with wet lips and rumbling tummies. And yet here they stood, alone. Together. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Shane swallows around the butterflies in his throat. He feels sick with nerves. He didn’t plan for this - to be alone with Ilya. Speaking of the devil, Shane’s eyes finally turn to land on the man, who is already watching him with that stupid smirk and a glint in his eyes that has Shane’s hackles rising. He doesn’t know what he looks so happy for.

Shane glares openly, sniffing as he juts his chin out, gaze moving to stare past Ilya’s shoulder. He refuses to speak first. Maybe if he doesn’t break the silence, neither will Ilya and they can both stand there not talking long enough for them to be let out of the room.

But then Ilya lets out a full belly laugh, the sound of it echoing in the empty room making Shane jump slightly, looking at him in surprise.

Ilya’s shoulders shake as it tapers off, hands still behind his back, but the cheeky smile never leaves. His eyes glimmer with amusement, making them sparkle.

‘Well, this conversation is riveting.’ Ilya teases, his voice deep and lilting.

Shane can’t help the sharp laugh that tumbles from his lips, eyes rolling as he watches Ilya rock back and forth on his heels with poorly suppressed glee.

‘You are more than welcome to start the conversation, although I cannot promise I will respond to it.’ He snaps but Ilya’s smile only widens. A hand comes to press at his chest in feign hurt, Ilya pouting for a moment before the smirk returns.

‘So cruel, my Prince. You do not wish to speak with me?’ The way Ilya refers to him as ‘my Prince’ makes Shane’s stomach twist with something that scares him.

‘Not particularly no. I doubt you have anything interesting to say anyway.’ He replies airily, gaze flitting away in feigned disinterest as he watches Ilya carefully out of the corner of his eye. Ilya tuts softly, before he stalks nearer to stand in front of Shane so he can no longer avoid his gaze, leaning forward slightly.

Shane freezes as Ilya draws closer, breath stuttering at the proximity but his glare remains fixed, his eyes narrowing. This close, he can see the mole that rests just under Ilya’s lashline.

‘Are you calling me boring, Shane?’ He says his name painstakingly slowly, sharp teeth glinting like a wolf’s. Shane pushes at his chest, making Ilya return to a respectable distance. Ilya’s chest is warm, Shane’s fingers splayed across the broad width of it, Shane can’t help but look at how his hand looks resting there before he removes it after a moment.

‘You can refer to me as your grace, or any other suitable name befitting my station. Only family and friends use my birth name.’ Shane says haughtily, spine straightening.

‘We are friends are we not?’ Ilya questions, unperturbed by the coldness in Shane’s voice. In fact it seems to entertain him further.

Shane’s gaze hardens. ‘No we most certainly are not.’

‘That will soon change.’ Ilya retorts smartly, hand coming to straighten the sash at Shane’s shoulder and Shane has to restrain himself from batting the hand away like a feral cat.

‘I highly doubt that.’ Shane snaps. Ilya’s grin remains stitched to his face before he pretends to frown, finger coming to tap at his chin conspiratorially, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

‘We have a month don’t we? I think that is plenty of time to become friends,’ Ilya turns to grin at Shane with a wiggle of his eyebrows, ‘perhaps more.’

‘Or maybe I’ll tell my mother I refuse the marriage now and save us both the trouble.’ He challenges, ignoring the blush spreading across his cheeks at Ilya’s dirty insinuation. Ilya hums thoughtfully as if contemplating Shane’s suggestion seriously before he steps closer quickly before Shane can move backwards, nose a few centimetres from his.

‘But you won’t, will you? Besides, where is the fun in that, hmm? I am great company, do not worry.’ Ilya murmurs softly, heat swirling in his eyes as his accent thickens towards the end of his sentence. He watches like a predator eyeing its dinner as Shane splutters intelligently, eyes catching the freckles dusted across Shane’s cheekbones as the sun shines on them like a beacon.

Shane hates that Ilya is right, that they both know he won’t march up to his mother and tell her to call the whole thing off before the month’s courtship has even officially begun. Because Shane said he would try, and Ilya seems to know that duty holds a heavier weight in Shane’s heart than his evident dislike for his presence. And Shane hates that Ilya knows that by just one glance. Ilya’s arrogance has Shane’s blood boiling, the pure entitlement bleeding from his pores - a man who is used to getting what he wants. He’s treating this whole arrangement like a game, when it is anything but. It certainly isn’t to Shane, and the fact that Ilya seems to find it amusing has his teeth set on edge. They could not be more polar opposites, beyond incompatible. Who ever thought they would make a good match?

‘You-you-shut up.’ Shane finishes smartly, and Ilya leans back with a smirk, eyes flitting down to his lips in interest before they skirt back to the doe eyes staring at him with hatred.

‘I look forward to getting to know you more, husband-to-be.’ Ilya smirks, tongue wrapping around the last word with relish, a hand coming to trace the freckles dusted across his cheeks with a surprisingly delicate touch.

Shane smacks his hand away with a snort, tampering down the blush threatening to make itself known to instead snap out a frosty retort. ‘In your dreams.’

Except all Ilya, the Prince of Rozan, has to offer is a dark smile and wandering eyes. Shane can feel them burning through his clothes, his shoulders resisting the urge to curl inwards and shield himself from Ilya’s gaze.

‘Oh, but you already are. Am I not in yours, sweet prince?’

The question is practically a purr, and Shane can feel it sink unwillingly into his bones with foreign heat. The nickname the lover’s delight couldn’t be more aptly placed, Shane thinks. Yet Ilya’s sharp toothy smile also makes Shane remember the other epithet the man is often given, one whispered behind trembling fingers and chanted as fists beat against naked chests. The winter hath teeth.

And Shane could practically feel the indent of them on the back of his neck.

With Shane stunned into silence and not waiting for his reply, Ilya steps back and turns to walk out of the throne room. But not before he looks back over his shoulder knowingly, cheekbones and jaw sharp, brows arched in a challenge, to say, ‘Until tomorrow, your grace. I will count down the minutes. But until then, I will dream of you.’

He leaves Shane standing in the throne room, staring after him in shock, hands limp by his sides, mind scrambling with what just happened and trying to suppress the match that is set alight by Ilya’s words.

Chapter End Notes

I too want to roll around with whimsy in nature to avoid my princely responsibilities.

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

Shane’s back straightened, eyes narrowing and mouth dropping into a thin line in an attempt to look stern. ‘Do that again, and I will beat your ass. Or stick a fork in your eye, whichever comes first.’ Shane tries to speak the threat harshly as he jabs a finger at Ilya’s chest, poking hard at the firm muscle to enunciate his words, head crowding closer into the small space between them.

Something swirls in Ilya’s eyes that has Shane swallowing nervously, the tip of his finger coming to rest against Ilya’s chest to try and ground himself against the heated gaze prickling along his neck, sending a shock of heat to pool at the base of his cock.

‘I hope your ass comes first. Will give me a nice view as you kill me.’ Ilya whispers with a teasing, accented lilt.

Chapter Notes

Shane: threatening violence
Ilya: I have never been more turned on

Shane didn’t sleep well that night. He spent the entire time tossing and turning, nerves fizzing in confusion. And as more hours passed with his eyes wide open, he became more and more irritated, huffing in annoyance as he smacked his pillow to rid it of lumps to end up throwing it across his room. And he blamed it all on Ilya. The bastard.

He was everything Shane expected yet also not at all. And the idea of it unmoored him, he felt like he was floating out to sea without anyone to tug him back to shore. He did not like things not going to plan. And he could tell immediately that this whole stupid courtship was not going to go to plan. Or at least, the plan that Shane had thought of in his head. He expected the first meeting to be in a room full of people with stilted conversation, Ilya would say something outrageous so his mother would get an idea of what man she is trying to set Shane up with, and then they’d all leave and have dinner together, but with Shane on the opposite end of the table to Ilya, so that way they wouldn’t have to speak.

Instead, Ilya had been charming, annoyingly handsome, and Shane had been left alone with him, unchaperoned. And Ilya had not been the arse that Shane had wanted him to be. He was a little shit, of course, but he was almost flirting, playful, trying to coax Shane into a silly duel of words to entertain him. And Ilya had laughed at him, as if anything Shane said was funny. None of it certainly was. Shane thought his dislike of him being displayed so clearly to his face would put Ilya off. That Ilya would realise it would be too much effort, too much hassle when he could just return to his devilish ways elsewhere because Shane was not going to rise to it, that he was not going to make it easy. Yet if anything, it only served to encourage him, amuse him, sharp teeth glinting in glee. Ridiculous. The man was a riddle Shane had no interest in solving.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to see the man again that evening after their meeting in the throne room, Yuna telling him that they were saving the welcome feast until tomorrow. The Rozan envoy and the Prince currently tormenting Shane’s thoughts were tired from their journey and retired early, eating in their rooms - thank god. Shane had sat there sullenly at dinner with his parents, as his mother had raved about Ilya, the match, how he seemed like such a nice boy. That had made Shane snort, earning him a cutting look. Besides, Ilya was no boy, he was a man in every inch of the word. That much was clear.

As the sun began to peek over the line of the horizon, Shane flung himself out of bed, hands snatching at his riding boots. He changed quickly, growling in frustration as his shirt became tangled around his head in his haste. He sneaks into the larder, stuffing food into a satchel and some sugar cubes for Taiyo before striding to the stables. He ignores all looks from servants, who by now were used to the image of the Prince of Hollaith rising early for a ride, the early morning sun coating his skin in a warm glow. Except usually he did not don such a heavy frown.

Taiyo is, as always, pleased to see him, whinnying softly. Shane wastes no time in tacking her up, fingers adjusting the buckle of the saddle with deft and quick fingers. Slinging himself onto the saddle, he nudges Taiyo into a gentle trot and then into a gallop as they cross through the arched gate. The frustration burning him from the inside out at how confused Ilya has left him feeling, bleeds out with every tap of Taiyo’s hooves across the cobbles, the sound softening when they reach the trail into the forest. It is a route Shane could follow blind, sometimes he even dreams of it, and as the green of the trees blur into a watercolour spread at the sides of his vision, Shane finally gains some sense of temporary peace amongst the storm brewing between his brows.

He lifts himself higher in the saddle, leaning forward over Taiyo’s blonde mane, the wind whipping through his black hair as they weave amongst the tree trunks, jumping over bushes. He doesn’t immediately go to the lake, he feels too strung out. Arriving there as he feels now would tarnish it, the place too fragile to hold such an emotion as anger - which begins to feel more tangled and complicated the more Shane thinks about it. So he doesn’t.

He has Taiyo take him over the rolling grassy mounds to the Far Eastern hill, stopping there to take a breath. Shane sits tall in his saddle, looking out across the planes, he can see the palace in the distance, his flag raised high, whipping in the wind. The sun has emerged more fully now in the sky and the world is beginning to wake with its appearance. His parents would be waking before long, and the servants would be knocking at his door soon to ready him for breakfast but they would not find him there. They could do without him for a few hours, Shane thinks as he nudges Taiyo onwards. His parents will be busy discussing politics with Rozan. And Ilya, well Shane doesn’t care what Ilya will be doing. As long as he’s far away from Shane, he could do whatever he wanted. And with that, Shane lets Taiyo take him to the lake.

Shane eats his breakfast amongst the chirping birds, feeding Taiyo an occasional sugar cube, legs splayed out on the grass, as his fingers pick at the daisies surrounding him. He makes a daisy chain, something he learnt from Rose when they were children. She once dressed him in daisy bracelets and necklaces, and a crown of daisies, playing about in the palace gardens when they were young, Shane stock still as Rose placed the crown delicately in his hair. She had declared him the prince of the meadow, and they had giggled amongst the tall trees and rose bushes.

His fingers carefully weave the daisies together to make a crown, before placing it on his head. He looks at his reflection in the water and huffs out a laugh. He looks ridiculous. But he keeps it on for a little while longer, looking out across the bank. He feels calmer now, less on edge. The ride has leeched the tension from his bones, as well as leaving them aching softly with exertion. A smooth catharsis that has him feeling more confident, more sure of himself.

And with that thought he rises, plucking the daisy chain off his head to playfully place it on Taiyo instead, nudging it around her ears. Her ears twitch, shaking her head at the fluttering feeling of the petals brushing her face. Shane laughs before taking it off, dropping it on the ground before swinging up into the saddle and heading back to the palace.

Shane had missed breakfast and lunch. Not that it mattered to him, but he knew his parents, particularly his mother, would be unimpressed. He could practically hear her complaints ringing in his ear, something he expects to hear later when she hears he’s back. He’s not going to seek out that particular dressing down, that’s for sure. Although he is a little sad he missed out on his mother initiating the beginning of the spring festival, something he never skips out on. His absence at the event is another black mark that he’s sure his parents will bring up later.

He takes his time brushing Taiyo down, restocking the hay, putting away the tack on the hooks by the stall. His fingers run across the gold Hollaith emblem stitched into the smooth brown leather of his saddle. He strolls across the courtyard, dodging behind a smooth marble pillar as he sees his mother walking along the arched open hallway lining the courtyard with the King of Rozan, hands gesturing, eyes furrowed in conversation. He also turns tail when Hayden spots him coming up the grand stairs, ignoring the shout of his name to take the servant's passage to his chambers. He doesn’t want to particularly talk to anyone right now, because all they’ll be doing is nagging. And Shane is truly trying his best given the circumstances, especially considering he never wanted them to occur in the first place. So he will go for a long ride and they can all put up with it.

Shuffling past busy maids and serving boys with an embarrassed smile, he nudges open the door to his rooms, closing it with a soft click, his back to the room.

‘There you are. It’s rude to keep your esteemed guest waiting, you know.’

Shane spins around at the annoyingly familiar voice, reeling as his back hits the door in shock, mouth agape and eyes wide as his gaze drops to the man who had robbed him of his sleep, and slowly his sanity.

Ilya lazes in the chair by the fireplace, thick thighs spread wide, fingers tapping on the armrest, and as always, with a stupid smirk on his face. He raises his eyebrows as Shane stands there gawking at him.

‘Well?’ He probes, hands splaying upwards as they rest on the arms of the chair as if giving permission for Shane to talk. The rudeness of it has Shane snapping out of his stupor.

‘What the hell are you doing in my chambers? Get out.’ A finger comes to point at the door to emphasise the scowl on his face.

Ilya tilts his head, eyes roving over Shane’s figure against the door, humming appreciatively, ‘I think the little prince is avoiding me.’

Shane rolls his eyes, snorting in utter disdain. ‘To avoid you means that I care about your presence, which I do not.’ He then cuts Ilya with a glare, ‘And I am not little, if anything we are the same height you ass.’

‘You look nice.’ Ilya replies simply, ignoring Shane’s barb to slowly rise from the chair as if perfectly comfortable breaking into someone’s chambers and making himself at home in them. His gaze burns as it finally flicks up to Shane’s face after doing a thorough tour of Shane’s body. Shane can feel a flush making itself known across his cheeks at the sheer lack of shame.

He was also aware he most certainly did not look nice, having come from the stables. He’s pretty sure he smells of horse dung and has straw in his hair, his riding breeches smeared with grass stains.

‘Fuck off, you ass. Answer my question. What are you doing in my chambers? How did you even know where they were? What if someone had seen you?’ Shane snaps, arms folding in front of his chest, looking at Ilya expectantly. The idea of a servant or, god help him, someone from court seeing Ilya steal into Shane’s chambers has his heart thudding with panic. He would never live it down. Especially with the way Ilya is dressed. Wearing a plain linen burgundy shirt with the collar loosened to reveal more chest than needs be, black trousers and boots. He looks like he’s dressed for an afternoon relaxing by the fire, not for public viewing or interacting with the prince he could very well be marrying. Yet Ilya seems so effortlessly handsome in the ordinary get up. So relaxed, yet the way he carries himself so clearly marks him as a man of royalty. And the realisation of that is far more annoying than Shane would like to admit.

The scandal being found together in Shane’s bedchambers alone and clearly in a state of undress would make their marriage a done deal, before Shane even got a chance to kill it stone dead. And the thought has Shane panicking.

‘My, my, what would people say to hear such filth,’ Ilya licks his lips hungrily with a smirk, drawing nearer, ‘from the honeyed lips of the kingdom’s darling?’

Shane rolls his eyes, mouth twisting, head stubbornly jerking to the side to glare at the wall. Yet Ilya is unperturbed.

‘What is it they call you? Hollaith’s morning flower? The spring that is yet to bloom? The sun’s morning dew? The golden sword? There are so many.’ Ilya counts them off his fingers, accent curling around the words like molasses as he slowly creeps closer. The way he moves is like a predator, and Shane hates that it has him on edge, like he is the prey, Shane’s shoulders fidgeting slightly against the hard wood at his back. Like he is unconsciously trying to back away yet finding himself trapped.

‘But there is another I like more.’ Ilya teases quietly, now right in front of him. Ilya seems to loom like a mountain, blocking out the glow of the fireplace behind them. And Shane realises bitterly that Ilya is in fact taller than him.

Ilya leans closer with a croon, finger coming to tilt Shane’s chin, forcing his gaze to meet his. They are so close that Ilya’s hot breath fans across his face like the delicate brush of a butterfly’s wing. This close, Shane can see that Ilya’s eyes are not only an icy blue, but they are rimmed by a deeper shade of blue, the colour a stark contrast to the whites that surround them.

Being so close to the man unsettles something in his chest, making it hard to swallow. Yet Shane’s glare does not waver, determined not to give in to the urge to cower, to do something that he would later regret - even if he doesn’t quite know what that would be.

‘Do you want to guess?’ Ilya whispers, no longer smiling but gazing at Shane with an intensity that seems to burn across the exposed skin of his chest, his neck, his face. Shane becomes acutely aware that he has nowhere to escape, Ilya surrounding him, fencing him in against the door. Shane should shove Ilya out of his way, maybe punch him for breaking courtship etiquette by being so close to him. But he can’t seem to move, standing frozen as he watches Ilya move with careful eyes, body tense, heart in his stomach, skin prickling like gently brushing it against a bush of thorns.

Ilya’s hands come up to rest by Shane’s ears against the door, thick wrists caging him in. A pleasant waft of mint drifts up Shane’s nose, and he realises it’s coming from Ilya. It’s nice, and Shane would maybe enjoy it more if it wasn’t coming from the man he despises.

At Shane’s lack of reply, Ilya’s lips quirk in amusement, tutting softly at the prince for not rising to the bait. He leans closer, making Shane inhale sharply, holding his breath, eyes widening as Ilya’s lips loom closer. Ilya’s mouth brushes Shane’s ear as he whispers.

‘Tiger without teeth.’

The whisper rips Shane out of whatever trance Ilya had sinked him into. He shoves at Ilya’s chest hard, moving away from the door with a heaving breath, nostrils flaring in anger like a bull preparing itself to charge. Ilya retreats back a few steps with a delighted laugh that rumbles out from his chest, hands coming up in front of him in a mock sign of innocence.

‘Fuck off.’ Shane grits out, eyebrows drawn together in a scowl, fists clenching at his sides.

‘Will you show me them? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’ Ilya sings, hands linked behind his back, the posture the epitome of a well-behaved prince though he is anything but. As he speaks, he begins to slowly circle Shane, his timber voice following like a ghost across Shane’s skin.

Shane swallows, his nails digging into his palms, trying to resist the urge to get his hands around Ilya’s neck and wring it like a dish towel. The man was infuriating. And Shane would readily enact violence if his mother hadn’t drilled into him the significance of what the Rozan’s visit could mean for the kingdom. Because this wasn’t about him. Being a prince meant not living for yourself, but for your people. And if that meant having to put up with a man who wouldn’t know royal etiquette even if it hit him in the face, then Shane would have to grit his teeth and bear it. But that didn’t mean Shane would make it easy, nor accept such disrespect in either words or invasion of his personal space.

‘It’s a shame your nicknames are not as palateable isn’t it? Being the lover’s delight isn’t exactly a compliment.’ He snarks out, eyes stubbornly facing forward, head refusing to turn to follow Ilya’s prowling, sensing him pause momentarily behind him. He can feel the blue eyes leave a burning trail across the back of his neck, sense the warmth of Ilya’s chest at his back.

He hears Ilya hum thoughtfully, before he rounds to stand in front of Shane again with a quizzical frown, pretending to think.

‘I would disagree. I hear no complaints. I am a good lover. All must know this, including you, my prince. Do not worry, I will not leave you,’ Ilya’s gaze notably darkens, a smirk promising nothing but trouble, ‘unsatisfied.’

‘I wouldn’t really call you a delight, if anything you are a horror.’ Shane retorts, trying to ignore Ilya’s suggestion of doing such things to him. As if Shane would ever allow that to happen. He swallowed around the thought harshly, willing the redness of his cheeks away, his thighs unconsciously shifting to get rid of the warmth unwillingly pooling in his gut. Stop it, Shane thinks to himself.

Ilya barks out a delighted laugh at Shane’s obvious attempt to divert conversation. He crowds closer then, but Shane refuses to budge, even though his heel itches to lift off the ground and stumble backwards at the proximity.

‘Only to you it seems.’ Ilya whispers with a smile, eyes glinting as they drop down to Shane’s lips.

‘I’m the only one with any sense apparently. If anything the nickname should be a warning to stay as far away from you as possible.’ Shane says stubbornly into the small space between them, willing his eyes to not drop to Ilya’s own lips, the plump curve of his Cupid’s bow. He watches as Ilya’s eyes lift to his, goading.

‘And why is that, morning flower?’ He asks quietly, the pet name rolling off his tongue mockingly.

Shane’s eyes darken in the obvious challenge, mouth and muscles tight as the words spill past his lips. ‘It means to be touched by many, yet loved by so few.’

As soon as the sentence leaves his mouth to settle between them like a sharp nick of the heart, Shane knows he has gone too far, his eyes widening in shock at what he just said. Their bickering had suddenly crossed an invisible line that they both had, until now, respected. That for all Shane despises Ilya for, the insults never truly became personal for him. Shane didn’t like Ilya because of his blatant disregard for his duties, and how his arrogant behaviour affected others. He was the antivenom of princely propriety. But Shane had never intended to suggest that Ilya was unloveable, or undeserving of love, because that wasn’t true. It wasn’t true for anyone. Yet Shane was so pent up with so many emotions, Ilya’s proximity certainly not helping, that they’d formed into something ugly, and now something he couldn’t take back.

Shane’s lips part to say something, eyes flitting between Ilya’s in panic. Shane witnesses as the teasing warmth in Ilya’s eyes be sapped up by coldness, the openness of his expression shuttering closed. He moves his head back to a respectable distance, his mouth twisting for a second in what Shane can see is sadness, but also lingering disappointment, before it settles into an firm line. Any sign of emotion quickly wiped clean.

‘I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said, it was-,’ Shane stutters out weakly, ‘That was uncalled for. I apologise. I didn’t mean to insinuate-.’ He cuts himself off before he digs himself into a further hole. His eyes are downcast, fingers anxiously fiddling with the side of his trousers, daring to glance up at the man across him, who remains silent.

Because Shane didn’t mean it, truly he didn’t. And he needed Ilya to know that in the moment, so he glances up to catch Ilya’s eyes, spine straightening to emphasise with his gaze and posture that he meant every word of his apology. Ilya watches him, stance wide, face blank of emotion, almost looking bored. The distance between them now is cold, instead of the fire that previously crackled with Shane’s hatred and Ilya’s mischief.

Shane blinks, doe eyes imploring and Ilya fails to suppress an amused huff which only serves to confuse Shane, the space between his eyebrows creasing at the reaction. Ilya raises an eyebrow carelessly, taps his foot against the floor once, head tilting in thought, eyes intense.

‘Careful, kotenok, you almost sound like you care.’ He rumbles quietly, watching Shane intensely.

Shane splutters at the nickname. As part of his princely studies, he is obliged to learn the many languages of the kingdom surrounding him, including Rozan’s. Except Ilya’s mother tongue was notoriously one of the hardest languages to learn, and whilst Shane was a talented linguist, he still could not converse in it confidently. Trying to read it gave him a pounding headache, but he could understand the language when spoken well enough to roughly follow conversation.

And Ilya had just called him a kitten.

‘I am not-,’ Shane clears his throat so he doesn’t sound so high pitched, ‘I am not a kitten.’ Hands coming to rest on his hips, the previous slight seemingly forgotten as the air resettles pleasantly between them to the previous verbal sparring.

‘But you are. You look like one, especially when you are angry.’ Ilya responds easily, ‘They were incorrect, calling you a tiger. More like angry kitten.’ Ilya raises a hand to imitate a claw, playfully hissing at Shane with a cheeky smile.

Shane immediately bites.

‘I do not look like a—,’ Shane closes his eyes and squeezes the bridge of his nose, exhaling shakily to try and remain calm. He opens his eyes to cut off Ilya’s kitten imitation with a frosty glare.

‘Call me that again and I’ll claw your face off like the kitten you think I am.’ He glowers, mouth a thin line, jaw ticking.

‘kotenok has claws.’ He drawls, stepping closer with a grin. ‘I look forward to seeing them, I enjoy it a little rough.’ He punctuates the last sentence with a lick of his lips, tongue tracing his teeth.

Shane rolls his eyes, muttering ‘Of course you do,’ eyes flitting past Ilya’s shoulder for a moment, not catching Ilya’s eyes flashing curiously, lips curling in amusement at the quietly spoken retort. Shane suddenly straightens, jutting out his chin as he looks back to Ilya.

‘I don’t know what you are still doing here. I told you to get out.’ He raises an eyebrow in question.

‘You weren’t at breakfast, and I missed your beautiful face glaring at me. I wanted to check you had not been sucked into the fireplace.’ Ilya shrugs his shoulders easily. Notably, still not moving towards the door, in fact he all but seemed far too comfortable lingering in Shane’s chambers - as if he had a right to be in them.

Shane huffed, eyes rolling automatically, ‘Yes, well if only.’ Ilya’s smirk deepens at the sassy retort.

‘But regardless,’ Shane continued, ‘As you can see I’m perfectly well. Now,’ Shane turns to motion at the door with an aggressive wave of a hand, ‘piss off.’

Ilya still does not move although his smirk is suddenly overtaken by a serious expression. The depth of it has Shane’s brain skittering to a halt for a moment, not having seen Ilya look so—well. For once he doesn’t look like he’s hatching a mischievous plan and thriving in provoking Shane’s ire.

‘Have you eaten?’

Shane blinks, all thoughts of how he’s going to drag Ilya out of his rooms without causing a ruckus, abandoning him at the random question.

‘What?’ An intelligent response.

‘You missed breakfast, and I will assume lunch,’ Ilya’s eyes flit down to his riding clothes pointedly, ‘does this mean you have not eaten all day?’ His brows crease in concern, mouth twisting at the idea of Shane walking around with an empty belly.

Shane doesn’t quite know what to say at the concern etching lines into Ilya’s face, it being wholly unexpected. And perhaps not completely unwelcome if the warmth blooming in his chest was anything to go by, but Shane stamps that out like putting out a fire. He clears his throat instead.

‘I—yes I’ve eaten.’ Shane responds slowly, a little confused, arms crossing, hip cocking out to the side. He initially wanted to shoot back a sarcastic comment but decided to answer the question plainly. From the look in Ilya’s eye, he doesn’t think that would go down well. Not that Shane cared about how Ilya feels or thinks or whatever. He doesn’t. Besides it was a simple question, and maybe the sooner he answered it, the sooner Ilya would leave. Because the look on Ilya’s face was threatening to send him spiralling in confusion.

Ilya came closer to stand with their toes touching. Shane looks down at their feet for a moment, before he jerks his head up to see Ilya staring at him with squinted eyes.

‘What did you have?’ Clearly not believing him.

Shane splutters in disbelief, mouth opening and closing at the insinuation that he lied. As if Shane cared enough to do that in the first place. Ilya raising an unimpressed eyebrow has Shane remembering his words.

‘I—food! What is this, a court investigation into my diet? Are you going to put me on trial for eating an apple, is that it? Did I need to ask for permission first?’ Shane says sarcastically, trying to wave off Ilya’s unnerving concern for his wellbeing with a careless flick of his tongue.

Ilya leans closer, frown deepening, face suddenly very close to Shane’s. ‘You’ve only had an apple?’ Clearly ignoring all other parts of Shane’s retort to hyper fixate on, in Shane’s opinion, the least important part.

Shane huffs in frustration at Ilya’s inability to let it go, unintentionally stomping his foot on the ground like a grumpy rabbit.

‘Amongst other things, yes.’ He snaps, before shooting him a look, ‘Why do you even care? Are you going to tell me your superior diet only consists of meat, wine and women?’

Ilya seems a little happier with Shane’s confirmation of eating more than a piece of fruit all day, nodding to himself but still looking doubtful. His concerned frown soon turns into a troublesome grin.

‘Amongst other things, yes,’ Ilya says smoothly, eyes trailing off to the side as if lost in thought before turning to Shane with a glint in his eyes, ‘And men.’ Ilya finishes with a wink.

Shane’s face rivals the temperature of the sun.

He clears his throat in an attempt to distract himself, eyes skittering off to the side, ‘Gluttony is the root of all evil, you know.’ He responds solemnly, repeating his tutor’s droll words.

Ilya hums, before tucking a finger underneath Shane’s chin to draw his gaze back to him with a wicked smile.

‘Perhaps you should taste the feeling of excess, sweet prince, it must be awfully hard depriving yourself of such pleasures.’ He purrs, eyes dropping to Shane’s lips, the flush of his freckled cheeks, the natural shine of his deer-like doe eyes.

Shane scowls like hell hath fury, a hand moving at lightning speed to grab at the fingers under his chin, twisting them painfully to hear a grunt of pain escape Ilya’s lips as he threatens to bend his fingers back. ‘I am perfectly fine with my plate of temperance and self control, thank you. Perhaps you should try it sometime, could be awfully enlightening for you.’ Shane hisses out.

‘Well where’s the fun in that?’ Ilya croons breathlessly, making Shane yank his fingers backwards further, twisting his wrist painfully. Ilya breathes out a delighted laugh, pupils dilating at Shane’s uncharacteristically violent touch, reeling closer as Shane threatens to pop the bones out of their joints. The sun’s morning dew indeed, Ilya thinks. He licks his lips at the steam practically pouring from Shane’s ears. If looks could kill, Ilya would be tumbling down to the earth’s core in a heartbeat. And Ilya loved it.

‘You like it rough huh? That’s good, so do I. Glad we are on the same page about that.’ He says, accent thickening and voice tight at the feeling of Shane threatening to break his fingers, an entertained smirk still plastered on his face - only the tight edges of it signalling that he is in fact in a bit of pain.

Shane growls out in frustration, releasing Ilya’s fingers roughly and finally shoving him towards the door, Ilya cackling as he lets himself be bulldozed across the room by an angry kitten, flicking his hand to regain feeling after almost having the life squeezed out of it.

‘Fine, fine. I get the message, I shall leave you.’ He says around a laugh that is pure joy and rid of all things malicious, leaning back into Shane’s hold deliberately to feel him struggle. Shane harumphs, stopping his forceful eviction to give one final push to Ilya’s back, ignoring the hard muscles rippling underneath his fingers.

‘Good. Now fuck off back to wherever you came from. Your face is the stuff of nightmares.’ He snaps, chest heaving with the exertion of trying to move an enormous man across the polished wood floor of his bedroom. He turns to begin removing his boots, shaking out a pebble in one before setting them down on the floor, his back turned to Ilya.

Shane is straightening his boots when the sound of Ilya suddenly moaning obnoxiously loudly resonates in the now silent room - so loudly that it leaves little to the imagination of an eavesdropper of what could be going on inside.

‘I love it when you talk dirty.’ Ilya knocks his head back to collapse against the wall to the side of the door, one hand on the handle and another clutching at his chest dramatically, expression scrunched up like one does at the crest of an orgasm.

A scandalised gasp escapes Shane before it soon dissolves into a growl as he seizes his riding boot to spin on his heel, flinging it at the foul mouthed prince just as Ilya slips out of the room with a cackle, the boot hitting the door with a heavy thud as it slips shut with a gentle click.

Shane was not usually a violent person. Yes, he was a talented swordsman, and he could hold himself well in a fight. But he didn’t necessarily like fighting. So threatening to break Ilya’s fingers earlier was certainly out of character, a far cry from his usual prim and proper self. But Ilya just had a way of niggling at the little bit of Shane he keeps repressed with an iron boot stamping on its head. Shane has learnt that Prince Ilya of Rozan has an immense capability of getting under his skin in every way possible, leaving Shane hot, bothered, angry, and a teeny tiny bit horny. Not that Shane would ever acknowledge that last part. His dislike for the man currently outweighing any possibility of thinking of Ilya in a different light. Just about.

So trying to pull Ilya’s fingers from its sockets was perhaps a little zealous, a little unprincely, a little too violent. But then Ilya managed to make Shane feel a little too much - and they only met yesterday. Shane grimaces as he descends the central staircase to the dining hall. This is going to be a long month. He’ll at least try to not break too many of Ilya’s fingers in the duration of it. Unless the man asks for it, and knowing Ilya, he most certainly will. Shane can’t promise anything.

He can hear raucous laughter from behind the closed doors as he nears, and Shane finds himself slowing down. He’s not even late, yet it seems they are all sitting down already, or at least drinking. Shane grimaces even harder at the thought of coming into a room where most of the occupants are already half drunk. The occupants being Rozan - his mother was never a big drinker, a trait Shane has inherited. Although if they are drinking maybe that will mean they won’t notice when he comes in.

Another booming laugh snaps him out of his thoughts as he realises he’s stopped in the grand hallway. He notices the guards at the door looking at him questionably, and he gives them a shy smile, clearing his throat, shuffling his feet forward.

He wonders if Ilya has gotten changed - not that Shane cares about what he is wearing. At all. He just hopes he looks more presentable than earlier, the memory of them in his bedchambers has Shane blushing slightly.

The gall of the man. Completely outrageous. Breaking into his chambers and goading Shane like a man pokes a bear with a stick - or as Ilya apparently likes to call him, a kitten.

Ass, Shane mutters quietly to himself, the doors looming like a spectre of the night. If only Shane could think of a nickname Ilya would hate - but Shane knows that any one that he would utter would only have Ilya smiling in glee. The thought of the man has Shane rolling his eyes. Ilya has remained unbothered against all of Shane’s insults and worded jabs. If only Shane could say the same.

Ilya’s filthy insinuations come to mind immediately and he wills his legs to continue forward at the images they provoke. The things Ilya had promised, of not leaving Shane unsatisfied in the way of pleasure. The dark serious glint in his eye, the lick of his lips that made Shane realise that Ilya meant every word - that it was not only a ploy to embarrass him. Ilya was clearly experienced, not only from seeing him in the flesh, but also the things he has heard about him. Tales of sexual prowess, as much a feral beast in the sheets as well on the battlefield. Shane half wonders if Ilya is good with his tongue in other matters other than his sultry, teasing remarks.

He shakes his head away aggressively at the idea. There is no point in wondering about things he will never discover, because this marriage won’t be happening.

Besides, Shane is sure Ilya wouldn’t be interested in someone as inexperienced as him, he’d probably want to marry someone who at least knew what they were doing. Someone who had been properly kissed. Purity was a rule not unfamiliar to royalty, but Shane knew that most did not follow it. Everyone it seems, except Shane. Not that he hadn’t ever wanted to, or not received offers of secret dalliances. He had, but the offers he received felt dirty, in a bad way. They weren’t offering because they actually had an interest in him, or a curiosity about who he was, but because he was the stiff Prince of Hollaith, the golden heir who never broke the rules. He was something to break, to touch and then whisper about after. So Shane would rather not do anything at all with anyone. It was better that way - which is something he recites to himself every time he begins to feel awfully lonely, or like he’s missing out on something. Especially when everyone seems to rave about it. Even Rose’s gentle encouragements to maybe just have a fling didn’t work, because Shane had never met anyone he could trust, or remotely interested in enough to deal with the stress and panic sex would inevitably bring, as Shane realises that he would be engaging in behaviour unbefitting of an unmarried prince. Call him a stick in the mud - whatever. He’d rather his dignity (which in turn also means his virginity). It’s just that Ilya being the way he is, in all its sinful deposition, has Shane wondering - which is a dangerous thing to be wandering about. Surely Ilya can’t be that good. Not that Shane would ever find out.

Someone clearing their throat has Shane jumping almost a foot in the air, mind leaping out of the Ilya cesspit it had sunk into. The guard to his left stares at him expectantly and Shane realises he’s stood in front of the closed door to the dining hall not doing anything like an idiot.

‘Do you want me to open it, your grace?’ The knight asks slowly, the question trailing in the silent corridor.

‘No, no! I can—sorry I was just—I’ll open it.’ Shane yanks open the door with fumbling fingers and a mortified blush flaring across his cheeks, half stumbling into the dining hall to slam it shut behind him.

At the sound, everyone in the room looks up as Shane stands by the door like a fool, hands fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves.

‘There you are.’ He turns to his mother, who is cutting him a cool look from the head of the table, goblet in hand. It’s the gaze of feigned neutrality, but he can see the annoyance from here. But before she can say another word, thankfully his father rushes to speak.

‘Sit down, Shane, we were about to start. You’re just in time!’ It’s said with a forced chuckle and Shane in turn plasters a smile in return. That was evidently code for, sit your tardy arse down before I do it for you.

He walks quickly to the empty chair left for him next to his father, a chair conveniently opposite Ilya. Ilya, who is currently looking at him with bright eyes and a wide smile, chin resting in the crook of his palm, watching Shane shuffle into the chair and drag it in with a resounding scrape against the stone.

‘So good of you to join us, Shane.’ Shane spares him a scowl at the mention of his name, resisting the urge to kick him under the table as he makes himself comfortable. Ilya sits to the left of his father, who is seated appropriately next to Yuna, Ilya’s brother to his right.

Shane doesn’t deign him with a response, intent on ignoring him for the entire meal, even if Ilya is openly staring at him. It’s when they are halfway through their second course, with Yuna talking seriously with the King of Rozan and David chipping in with a lighthearted comment, that Shane feels it. It, being Ilya’s foot nudging against his. Shane pauses for a split second with his fork halfway to his mouth, before resuming, pointedly looking at his plate, as he shuffles his feet back an inch.

He feels Ilya’s foot tap at the side of his foot again a moment later, and Shane’s jaw clenches in annoyance, pausing mid chew. His eyes flit upwards to glare but Ilya is chewing happily on a succulent slice of chicken breast, tongue licking at the drop of sauce at the corner of his mouth, avoiding his gaze and pretending to be listening to the conversation next to him. Shane focuses on cutting into a potato, foot moving to the side and out of Ilya’s range.

Shane had just stuffed half of it in his mouth when he feels the foot again, weight more insistent, Ilya’s leather covered toe nudging into the side of his boot. Shane punctuates his next chew by shoving Ilya’s foot away with his own, but in his haste his knee jerks against the table, sending the cutlery rattling and all heads turning to him in question.

‘Everything okay, Shane?’ His mother drawls, eyebrows raised.

Shane swallows quickly, nodding furiously, blinking innocently at his mother. ‘Yes, sorry, cramp.’ Yuna nods with a lingering frown before looking away.

Shane turns to glare at Ilya, who now is leant back in his chair, goblet raised to his lips, sipping at his wine. Their eyes meet across the silver rim, Ilya’s brow raised mockingly, face obscured by the cup but Shane just knows he’s smirking. Shane opens his mouth to say something but quickly shuts it, realising he can’t say anything without the people around them hearing. Which Shane realises, is the whole point of Ilya’s little game.

Fine. If that’s how it’s going to be. Shane straightens in his chair, cutting at his chicken breast aggressively, dramatically chewing and drinking from his cup as he ignores Ilya’s existence. The man clearly wants a reaction, so Shane is deliberately not going to give him one. Shane hopes he chokes on his chicken. Ilya nudges his foot again but Shane doesn’t react, letting Ilya’s boot simply rest against his.

Shane turns his head to pretend to engage in his parents’ conversation about crop yield as he feels the toe of Ilya’s boot press down on top of his insistently. Shane grits his teeth in a fake smile as his father talks about cattle. It’s only when they’re eating dessert that Ilya becomes more bold. His foot still continues to nudge against his, but it’s when Shane has a forkful of vanilla sponge with cream and strawberries to his lips that he feels the foot move higher, toe rubbing against his calf teasingly before it nudges against his knee. That has Shane freezing, eyes flitting up to Ilya’s in disbelief. Ilya catches his eyes but only for a second, turning to speak to his father.

‘I love the dessert David, we don’t have this sort of thing in Rozan. It’s so,’ Ilya turns to Shane then, eyes dancing with mischief, ‘sweet’. Shane glares openly then, flinging his boot out in opposition to hit Ilya’s shoe as he shovels the cake into his mouth, teeth clenching round the metal of his fork with a clank. Shane wanted to stab Ilya in the eye with it. And maybe his foot. Or maybe both. Because Ilya is ruining dessert, and the sponge cake is one of Shane’s favourites. And Ilya is single-handedly (or footedly) ruining the experience of Shane’s sweet tooth being satisfied with the delicate sponge and all its trimmings with his bastarding, wandering foot. So Shane kicks him again under the table for good measure, making sure to not bang his leg again. He feels his toe connect with Ilya’s shin, but all Ilya does is huff out a laugh, eyes creasing in delight at Shane’s look of disdain.

Shane finishes his dessert without further interruption, and he finally breathes a sigh of relief. He clutches at his goblet of his ginger infused ale and brings it to his lips, washing down the thick cream stuck in his throat with the liquid. He’s mid-gulp when he suddenly feels a foot pressing against his cock, making him choke, the drink catching in his throat as he hunches over in violent coughs, spitting out the rest of the drink.

‘Shane!’ His mother cries, David slapping his back as Shane splutters, throat scratchy, eyes watering. He bangs a fist against his chest in an attempt to clear it, taking the offered cup of water thrust into his hands by his father with trembling fingers, gulping it down around heaving breaths.

‘I’m fine,’ Shane gasps out, blinking away the wetness of his eyes, neck flushed. He clears his throat a few times before he realises that Ilya’s foot is still pressed against his crotch. He looks down incredulously, and then looks up with wide eyes to see Ilya simply sitting back in his chair almost lazily, licking the dregs of cream off his fork, sucking it into his mouth and letting Shane see how his tongue swirls around the prongs, before he slowly slides it out of his mouth with dark eyes and a smirk teasing at the corners of his lips. Shane sucks in a gasp at the borderline erotic display, stunned into silence as his hands lie limp against the smooth wood of the table. Shane can feel the tomato shade of his throat crawling up his face.

‘Are you alright, my prince?’ Ilya asks, eyebrows drawing together in faux concern, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table, fork hanging from his fingers.

‘Did you swallow too fast?’ David asks, hand still rubbing circles on Shane’s back, head craning to look at Shane in concern. Shane fumbles with his cutlery, pushing them to line up with his plate distractedly, ‘Yes, yes I did. Thank you.’ He clears his throat pointedly as his hand moves down under the table to try and shove Ilya’s foot away from between his thighs. The pressure is unbelievably good, just pushing the line prickled with pain which shockingly, has Shane suppressing a startled moan. His cock twitches and he feels mortification burn through his veins at the idea of becoming aroused with his parents sitting less than a metre away, conversing like their son isn’t having his cock fondled by the edge of Ilya’s boot. The very fact should have Shane curling into himself in shame, spit out vitriol at Ilya regardless of their audience, but Shane can’t quite get the words out. What’s worse, is that Shane can feel heat curling at the base of his spine at the idea of getting caught. Prince Ilya of Rozan was the bane of Shane’s existence - should be, but right now he has his foot pressed against Shane’s cock like it deserves to be there, and Shane is only half heartedly trying to push it away. Shane looks at Ilya half helplessly to see the man watching him in amusement, pleased at finally having elicited a reaction from the stoic, obedient Crown Prince. The little shit.

‘I’m alright. All better.’ Shane says through a gritted smile as his parents look on with concern, Ilya’s foot apparently a lot stronger than it looks against Shane’s frantic shoves, refusing to budge. Instead it presses harder, toe making small circles just above where Shane’s cock rests, which embarrassingly, has his cock hardening as it responds to the friction in interest. Shane’s knuckles whiten around the hard leather boot as he looks down momentarily, feeling the sharp edge of Ilya’s heel dig into his half-hard cock. Shane chokes on a breath, face bright red, squeezing his eyes shut.

‘Are you sure you are alright? You look a little red,’ At Ilya’s drawl, Shane’s head shoots up to look at Ilya half desperately, eyes wide and glassy. Ilya leans further forward with furrowed brows, as if he isn’t pressing his boot further into Shane’s cock, rotating his ankle in sharp circles just to see the blushing prince squirm.

‘Are you sick?’ Yuna asks worriedly, leaning across the table to press the back of her cool palm against Shane’s flushed forehead - a flushness not from sickness but a crippling mortification that what Ilya is doing under the cover of the table in front of their parents, is, against Shane’s will, turning him on.

His mother suddenly being in increasing proximity to the foot in his crotch has Shane panicking, overwhelmed at the conflicting thoughts of embarrassment and pleasure - all fixed towards the man he is meant to hate. Shane’s mind goes into overdrive, the idea of anyone realising what Ilya is doing to him at this very moment and the affect it is having on him has him flying up from his chair, pushing it back so hard it tips over, his hands coming up to tug at his trousers, trying to loosen them to shield the rigid shape of his cock.

‘I’m not feeling well, I think I’m going to retire now, good night.’ The words come out in one breath, half an unintelligible string of muttering as Shane spins on his heel and tries not to run out the room. He waves his hand placatingly at his parents' concerned calls, almost falling over as he yanks the door open to escape.

He’s halfway down the corridor when he hears an irritatingly familiar voice at his back.

‘You walk too fast. Slow down.’

Shane whips around at lightening speed, a seething glare etched on his face as he spits ‘Fuck off.’ Ilya all but grins.

Shane continues striding away from him, quickening his pace when he feels Ilya’s nearing footsteps catching up to him. Shane turns a corner, stomping up the stairs with fists clenched as he reaches the landing, feeling Ilya’s presence at his back.

‘Now, now, I promised your mother I would escort you back to your rooms. I’d hate for something to happen to our dear Prince, especially when you are so unwell.’ A crooning voice sounds behind him, almost in his ear.

And Shane snaps.

He turns, grabbing Ilya by the collar and hauling him into a hidden alcove ahead of them, set back from the corridor entirely from view. Shane uses Ilya’s shock as leverage against the heavily built man, making him stumble after Shane, as he drags him into the dark opening, throwing him against the wall and pressing a forearm against Ilya’s neck. Ilya’s eyes wide, pupils bleeding into the blue, and lips parted in half awe, half shock as Shane comes nose to nose, snarling.

‘What the fuck was that! Are you insane?’ Shane’s eyes are narrowed, and he looks like a dragon about to breathe fire, body slightly trembling from the adrenaline running through his body.

Ilya mouths something silently to himself, but Shane doesn’t catch it, looking at him expectantly in rage. ‘Well?’ He prompts, voice thin, knocking Ilya back further into the wall.

‘You were hard weren’t you?’

Shane blinks. The arm pinning Ilya to the wall loosens a fraction as Shane’s mind tries to comprehend what the hell just came out of Ilya’s mouth.

‘What? No I wasn’t—you—Fuck off!’ He snaps, trying to hold onto the anger that is frantically leaving him to be left with an edge of nerves at Ilya being correct. Ilya hums a pleased sound, smiling as he nudges his nose against Shane’s. This close, Shane gets a waft of peppermint and he tries to retreat slightly to put some distance back between them.

‘Hmm, I think you were. I will have to check, just to make sure.’ Shane feels Ilya’s fingers tease against his thighs, ghosting upwards. The touch feels like a burn, and Shane jumps back with a start.

‘Don’t touch me.’ Shane’s chest heaves, watching Ilya for a moment before having to divert his gaze, the dark glint in the blue eyes watching him too much to handle.

‘You shouldn’t—that was wildly inappropriate. What were you thinking?’ Shane says flatly, arms crossing as his gaze flits back to Ilya’s. Ilya simply leans back, mirroring Shane’s crossed arms, eyes roving over Shane’s figure with interest.

‘I was thinking about sucking your dick.’

Shane’s jaw drops open, eyes bulging, arms limply falling to his sides. ‘You—excuse me?’

‘Want to see what you look like when you cum, I think you would look very pretty,’ Ilya explains with an easy one shouldered shrug, as if talking about what Shane would look like in the throes of orgasm was something you’d talk about over breakfast. All Shane can respond with is a choking sound, mind stumbling to a stop.

‘Big brown eyes, maybe make you cry—,’ Ilya continues, head tilting back against the wall, seemingly lost in thought as he imagines Shane underneath him. And Shane realises that Ilya has no intention of stopping his filthy tirade of thinking about Shane naked, especially when anybody could walk past and hear him, especially when they are in such close quarters together. It was the epitome of unprincely behaviour. They were practically begging for scandal.

Shane seizes forward, hand slapping against Ilya’s mouth to cut him off with frantic eyes, chests pressed against each other, Shane craning his head to see if anyone was lurking beyond the alcove. ‘Shut up! What the fuck—you don’t just say those things! You—shut up!’ Shane whispers, voice high in panic.

Ilya’s eyes only narrow mischievously, and Shane jerks back as he feels a tongue trace his palm. ‘Ew, that’s gross!’ Hand dropping and rubbing it against his trousers.

‘You taste like cake. Very yummy.’ Ilya replies, licking his lips with a smirk, bending forward at the hip teasingly. Shane huffs in frustration. The man was a loon. An incredibly horny loon, who was doing a tremendous job at making Shane feel like a horny loon too. And Shane wasn’t crazy, he was the opposite. He was calm and collected. Incredibly so.

Shane’s back straightened, eyes narrowing and mouth dropping into a thin line in an attempt to look stern. ‘Do that again, and I will beat your ass. Or stick a fork in your eye, whichever comes first.’ Shane tries to speak the threat harshly as he jabs a finger at Ilya’s chest, poking hard at the firm muscle to enunciate his words, head crowding closer into the small space between them.

Something swirls in Ilya’s eyes that has Shane swallowing nervously, the tip of his finger coming to rest against Ilya’s chest to try and ground himself against the heated gaze prickling along his neck, sending a shock of heat to pool at the base of his cock.

‘I hope your ass comes first. Will give me a nice view as you kill me.’ Ilya whispers with a teasing, accented lilt. His breath feels like soft petals against Shane’s skin, a contrast to the filthiness of his words. Shane stills, eyes flitting between Ilya’s as they simply watch each other. It feels like moments before a swordfight, when you measure your opponent up as they enter the ring; the size of them, how they move, the roll of their shoulders. And Shane can sense Ilya doing the same. The air crackles with a whisper of a challenge, a challenge Shane can’t quite name but has his heart beginning to pound in his ears, skin prickling like an exposed nerve.

And now, in the dark alcove, Shane has a terrible feeling that this isn’t going to be a fight he is going to win, and the worst part is that deep down, a thought begins to take shape - the realisation that he doesn’t want to either.

The moment of clarity is enough to have Shane stumbling back, breath catching in panic. He feels like his sense of control is unravelling like a kitten playing with a ball of yarn. And the feeling fills him with dread. Shane swallows harshly, tracking Ilya’s every move as he backs away but Ilya remains leaning against the wall, eyes never leaving his.

Something has begun, a match has been lit that cannot be extinguished. So Shane flees, but not without hearing Ilya call out after him with a deep, quiet rumble that is less of a statement, but a promise, missing the way Ilya’s darken with unbridled desire at his retreating back.

‘Until tomorrow, sweet prince.’

Ilya’s words ring in his ears like a continuous chiming of bells and they follow him into his dreams. Dreams of blue eyes and golden curls, a face appearing above him and trailing fingers across his abdomen to reach further down. Shane awakes with a gasp at the feeling, glistening in sweat, sheets twisted around his legs. His head falls into his hands with a groan, squeezing his eyes closed so hard, spots cluster his vision when he opens them again.

It was clear to Shane that Ilya wasn’t truly interested in him. Ilya only sees him as a conquest, something to break and jab at, like his many others pinned to his chest like a medal. Maybe he truly is like everyone else, uninterested in anything about Shane other than sex. Shane knew he was perhaps not the most interesting, some would say boring - which a distant princess had actually told him once to his face years ago when Shane had asked about whether she had seen the recent developments on sundials. He had to pretend it hadn’t stung as much as it had, or that it had sunk into his memory like a stone, his self esteem going with it. So what else could Ilya really be interested in, besides seeing him as a sexual conquest everyone else has failed to win? The thought filled his mouth with bitterness, heart twisting in what was almost disappointment. For Ilya was no different from anyone else, but the man was in for a rude awakening if he thought he would ever win Shane in the way he wanted.

He’s in the middle of splashing cold water on his face at the marble basin in his chambers, when Hayden walks through the door.

‘Oh good, you’re up.’ Shane wipes his face with the towel.

‘Yes,’ Shane starts slowly, ‘what do you want?’ Confused as to why Hayden stands in the middle of the room expectantly. Hayden huffs, rolling of his eyes.

‘What do you mean what do I want? You’re due down in the gardens in an hour, you need to get dressed.’ Hayden beckons a servant in, a young girl bringing in one of his best tunics and trousers, laying them out on the bed.

‘What? What for?’ Shane asks dumbly, eyes watching as another servant enters with a haircomb and his boots, setting them down by the mirror, hands folding in front of them as they stand, waiting. ‘What’s going on?’

Hayden drags Shane by the arm through to the next room where a bath has been drawn already, steam curling into the air, the scent of lavender filling his nose.

‘Your walk with Ilya in the gardens? Your mother told you about this days ago, how do you expect this courtship to happen if you don’t actually court?’ Hayden ends his little speech with a grumble, nudging Shane towards the bath with arms out in front like waiting for him to bolt.

‘Now bathe, get dressed, and look presentable, or your mother will have my ass.’ Hayden finishes before leaving the room, closing the door behind him. Shane stares after him, thoughts tumbling over themselves at Hayden’s words.

Walk with Ilya in the gardens. Courting. Today.

Shane strips off, sinking under the hot water with a gasp as he remembers stupidly that the whole point of Ilya’s visit is for them to spend time together. To decide on whether they were going to get married. Right. This is going to be hell, if it wasn’t already.

The palace gardens sprawled in every direction, tumbling down the hill that the palace rests on at its crest. It was one of Shane’s favourite places, besides the lake of course. There were endless arrays of trees and bushes full of flowers and berries, a maze in the top left corner, and a large fountain at its centre. The garden was easy to get lost in for hours just by simply wandering it, rubbing soft leaves between fingertips, brushing fingers through the endless heads of flowers that bob in the spring breeze. It was beautiful.

But now Shane is here with Ilya. Fantastic. They met at the entrance to the gardens, Hayden lurking behind them as chaperone. Shane is fitted in a sky blue, silky tunic with gold embroidery - simple yet elegant. Ilya wears all black with burgundy trimming, a hint of chest peeking out as always, golden necklace glinting in the sunlight. Ilya was already waiting when Shane arrived, and at the sight of him Ilya had bowed deeply, taking Shane’s hand to kiss his knuckles, eyes and mouth teasing as he mumbles out, ‘My Prince.’

Shane had quickly snatched his hand away and stomped past him with a poorly repressed huff, not looking back to see if Ilya was following. He was. Shane stops by a peony bush to wait for him to catch up, jaw ticking and foot tapping against the ground impatiently.

‘Someone is in a rush. Do you not wish to spend time with me, sweet prince?’ Ilya drawls, strolling casually up to his side, body heat warming Shane through his clothes.

‘You walk incredibly slowly, that isn’t my fault.’ Shane snaps moodily, refusing to look at him, instead looking out at how the clouds lazily cross the sky. Ilya hums, shoulder nudging his, black figure looming like a shadow beside him.

‘If we are to court properly, we have to talk. And that means not running away from me,’ Ilya leans closer to whisper, hot breath on the shell of his ear sending a silent shiver coursing down his spine, ‘Unless you want me to chase you?’

Shane jerks his head to look at him, now impossibly close. Shane’s eyes trail across Ilya’s face, noticing the long lashes that frame his eyes like golden threads, the mole on his cheek, the way those blue eyes always seem to be watching him. Ilya seems to stop breathing as he awaits Shane's answer.

Shane scoffs quietly, eyes unconsciously dropping to Ilya’s lips before flitting upwards to meet his gaze to see the surprise there. ‘As if you’d be able to catch me.’ The challenge is softly spoken, but the heat behind Shane’s words are undeniable and Ilya tips his body to lean in closer until they both hear a very loud clearing of a throat, which has Shane’s head snapping to the side to look at the bushes on his other side, cheeks burning as he remembers they are being watched, and are in public.

Ilya moves away swiftly, ignoring Hayden’s unimpressed glare, hands resting against the small of his back in feigned nonchalance. Shane tries to mirror it but struggles, attempting to reign himself back into the rigidness that usually defines him - which is now unravelling at a rate of knots with Ilya’s very presence - again.

Shane begins to walk slowly and Ilya matches his pace and for a while they walk silently. Ilya floats out a hand to coast his palm above the rows of flowers that line their path, petals like soft kisses against his fingertips. Ilya seems content with the silence, humming occasionally to himself, admiring the garden and its splendour as they move deeper.

The same cannot be said for Shane. His fingers tangle in front of him, unconsciously digging into the skin around his nails to make them bleed, mind racing. He felt incredibly untethered. Ilya made him feel like he was spinning in circles and Shane felt incredibly dizzy, yet awfully giddy at having his full attention. Shane frowned at a bushel of berries in the distance, this was ridiculous. Shane did not get giddy, especially not when it concerned a certain man who sucks at the teat of all things unprincely for breakfast. The very opposite of everything Shane believed in. Why does he care about what Ilya thinks of him? He most certainly doesn’t. Shane blames it on the excitement of spring or just the fact that he’s been feeling a bit more down recently, the pressure of the crown a heavier weight than usual. That was all. There was nothing else to it. Nothing at all. Nothing, Shane tells himself firmly.

The thought has him straightening, fresh air filling his lungs with vigour, a new purpose breezing through him with a renewed sense of mind. They were to court, which as the royal handbook on all things princely stated, meant to ask questions about the other person. And Shane could do that. They had a section on courtship as part of his studies as a teen.

Shane clears his throat pointedly. ‘So,’ He begins, staring straight ahead and ignoring Ilya’s curious turn of his head, ‘do you enjoy spring?’

Ilya huffs out a surprised laugh, head tilting to the sky as he bites his lip. Shane frowns at the movement, watching him. What was funny about his question?

‘What?’

Ilya shakes his head fondly, refusing to look at Shane as he clears his throat to speak. ‘Yes, I enjoy spring, but we do not really have such distinct seasons in Rozan. We have spring, but not like this. You would not recognise it.’

Ilya looks off into the distance, admiring how the bees flit about the blooming lavender.

Shane nods in understanding, a silent ‘ah’ forming on his lips. ‘Because it’s cold there? I read that your winters can sometimes stretch across years.’ Mind sinking safely into facts, his learnings, instead of the unpredictability of emotion and whatever Ilya has him feeling, has Shane relaxing. No longer on edge, body no longer strung like an arrow ready to take flight.

He slides his gaze curiously to the side to watch Ilya’s face as it remains its neutral expression, like an annoying blank slate, an air of indifference as they slowly turn a corner.

‘Yes.’ Ilya replies simply. Shane nods, watching a bird fly across their heads.

‘Do you?’ Shane jerks his eyes back to Ilya’s at the question.

‘Do I what?’

Ilya smiles, but not teasingly like Shane is so used to, one would say it is almost fond. ‘Like spring.’

Shane’s face visibly brightens, not being able to help the smile that spreads across his face. ‘Yes, very much so. Spring is my favourite season, I love the spring festival too. I like flowers.’

Ilya nods, tucking the information away into the folds of his mind. Shane half wonders if he should say more, but he doesn’t really know what, though Ilya seems content with his answer. So Shane’s brain ticks onto the next topic of courting conversation.

‘What’s your favourite food?’

Ilya’s next laugh comes from his belly, tipping forward as it rumbles out. Shane pouts, brows drawing together at the reaction. He opens his mouth to deliver a cold remark about Ilya’s rudeness when the man finally responds.

‘I like sweet things.’

‘What kind of sweet things?’ Shane asks, sneaking a glance sideways. His curiosity peaking at the idea of them having something in common. Shane has such a severe sweet tooth that his mother resorted to saying his teeth would begin to fall out if he had too much cake as a child - the threat certainly curbing his urges for a time.

Ilya finally turns to look at him, a lightness in his eyes that is so unfamiliar that it has Shane’s widening in surprise.

Ilya’s gaze pointedly tracks a map across Shane’s body as he answers, ‘I can’t really say,’ his eyes move up to meet his, ‘but I know it when I see it.’

Shane feels his cheeks erupt, quickly flitting his gaze away as his fingers twiddle with his shirt sleeves nervously. ‘That’s—that’s nice, I suppose.’ He replies lamely, unsure of what to say.

He hears Ilya hum softly, words carried by the gentle breeze that ruffles their hair, ‘Yes, it is.’

They are silent for a little longer, Shane willing the blush on his face to die down when Ilya nudges his shoulder into his.

‘And you? What is your favourite food?’

Shane looks up at the touch and Ilya’s genuinely curious gaze. A smile curls at his lips as he looks down at Shane, waiting.

‘Cake.’ Shane says quietly with a shy smile, looking down at their feet as they walk softly across the grass lined with daisies. He doesn’t know why he suddenly feels all shy and hesitant. Perhaps it’s because Ilya isn’t being an ass for once - a rare sight and experience. Or maybe it’s the pure fondness and curiosity Ilya looks at him with, as if he genuinely wants to know more about him, instead of teasing him until his dying breath.

‘What kind?’ Ilya asks, their shoulders bumping together lightly with every step. The touch would usually have Shane shying away, feeling it to be crossing the line of what is appropriate. But instead he finds himself at ease, leaning into it slightly, his guard lowering at Ilya’s question.

‘Vanilla, with strawberries and fresh cream.’ He answers wistfully, mouth watering at the thought of it. Shane tries to forget that the last time they had it was when he found himself with Ilya’s foot playing with his cock underneath the table. He clears his throat to wrest the memory away.

They slowly round to the centre of the gardens, a large area filled with patches of green and flowers, and in the middle a grand fountain. It was made of cream stone, flowers and suns chiselled into the round side, a woman tipping her cup into the fountain as the centre piece, water flowing from it continuously into the pool below.

The sound of trickling water was soft and sweet to the ears, as were the birds that sang from the branches above their heads. They walk closer to the fountain, Shane leaning down to let his fingers dance across the water’s surface, perching on the edge of the fountain’s rim. He could feel the warm sun across his cheekbones.

‘Do you enjoy living in Rozan?’ Shane ticks off the next question in his mental list, reciting from tutored memory as he brushes his fingertips into the cool water gently, watching the blue water swirl between his fingers. Ilya chuckles quietly to himself and doesn’t respond, making Shane look up with a frown, having quite enough of Ilya’s apparent amusement of Shane’s attempts of conversation.

‘What’s so funny?’

Ilya stands watching Shane play with the water as his freckles shine in the light, face turning up to his, the sun catching in his soft brown eyes. Ilya quirks an eyebrow playfully. ‘You sound like you are reciting from a list. Did you study for today?’

Shane’s lips part in scandalised shock at the rudeness, looking away quickly to fight the blush threatening to appear at the fact that Ilya was correct, eyes fixed on the little gold fish swimming in the fountain’s pool.

‘No. It’s called making conversation, something you apparently haven’t heard of.’ He retorts sassily, flicking the water with a finger to send it away from him with a splash, twisting in his seated position at the fountain’s edge to level Ilya with an unimpressed look.

‘Oh I have, just never anything as boring as this.’ Ilya drawls, and Shane tries not to flinch at the word boring. Yet Ilya catches it, the subtle way Shane’s shoulders curl slightly, observing with a light frown.

‘Why don’t you ask something you really want to know? Instead of,’ Ilya waves a hand in the air dismissively, ‘questions your tutor told you to ask.’

Shane watches him for a moment longer, mouth twisting. Was there anything he wanted to know, genuinely? There were certainly some questions that came to mind. Why are you so interested in watching me squirm? Are you actually interested in me or just pretending? Why are you seemingly unperturbed by my hatred of you? Why did you agree to this match in the first place when you barely know me?

Yet Shane knows he can’t ask them, they were unbecoming of a Prince to be so open with his emotions. So Shane went for the best next thing.

‘Do you like to ride?’ He asks simply, gazing curiously. The sun catches in Ilya’s curls to make them look golden, light shimmering between the strands like a halo, his lashes long, his blue eyes bright like the water of the fountain that Shane had just been coasting his fingers through. The man was a figure poets would wax lyrical about, something from a dream standing above him. A dream, much like the one Shane had had last night. Shane flits his eyes past Ilya’s shoulder at the thought, before quickly returning his gaze.

‘Yes, I’m very good.’ Ilya replies easily, before finishing with an arrogant smirk, ‘in fact probably better than anyone in the surrounding kingdoms. Hollaith included.’

Shane’s eyes narrow, hackles slowly rising at the insinuation of Ilya being better than him. ‘Oh really?’

Ilya’s smirk widens at the clear challenge in Shane’s voice. ‘Really.’

Shane stands, boots crunching in the gravel beneath his feet. ‘I highly doubt it, you’ve not raced everyone in the surrounding kingdoms to know that.’ He reasons.

Ilya grins, eyes dancing with mirth. ‘And you have?’

‘Not all, but enough to know my skills outweigh the majority.’ Shane’s voice strengthens with resolution, arms folding over his chest, cocking his hip out.

Ilya practically sings with delight. ‘Oh really? And am I in that majority?’ Parroting back Shane’s earlier question, body at ease as he continues to poke at Shane with his teasing words like a stick.

Shane lets his eyes carry themselves down Ilya’s broad figure. Ilya has thighs for horse riding, his hands large to carry the reigns, the strength in the sinewy muscles of his shoulders. Shane is sure Ilya is an excellent rider, but Shane knows he’s better.

‘Yes of course.’ He says it with a shrug, mirroring Ilya’s relaxed pose even though the tension between them is slowly rising to meet in a crescendo.

‘How would you know, you’ve never raced against me.’ Ilya points out.

Shane scoffs, ‘I don’t have to,’ gaze coasting off to the side to watch as a swallow swoops down from the branches to land on the grass.

Ilya tuts softly with a shake of his head, eyes sharpening, ‘Is that a challenge, my prince?’ Shane’s head snaps back at the question, jaw ticking as he considers the man in front of him. Ilya is smirking at him, goading, a gentle breeze fluttering the curls resting against his forehead.

‘A challenge by definition suggests that I’d struggle to win, which would not be the case.’ Shane shoots back, his heart picking up at the easy banter forming between them. It feels easy, even a little fun, which is a word Shane rarely ever uses, even if there is an edge to the teasing. A sharpness that lurks at the edges, which Shane pointedly ignores.

Ilya throws his head back in a laugh, clearly delighted by Shane’s response. His broad shoulders shake with the brevity of it, and Shane distantly thinks Ilya looks even more handsome like this - laughing, than he does constantly smirking or stoned faced. Ilya’s gaze locks on Shane’s, teeth glinting in a wide smile, thoroughly entertained.

‘My, my,’ Ilya seems to approve of Shane’s silver tongue - something the Crown Prince rarely shares so openly, especially around someone as unknown as Ilya, who Shane is meant to be treating with respect and importantly, keeping at arms length.

‘Then think of it as proving yourself right then, we will race to confirm what we both believe to be true.’ Ilya lets the provocation settle between them, eyes openly eagerly waiting for Shane to agree, body tensing as if ready to release like a wound up coil.

Shane straightens his back, jutting out his chin in defiance of the challenge. Shane could feel the competitiveness that marks him so deeply rising like a phoenix from the ashes. Ilya had no idea what he was in for, Shane could and would outride him in his sleep.

‘Fine, you’re on.’

‘Perfect,’ Ilya purrs, ‘And what do I get when I win?’

Shane rolls his eyes with a scoff. ‘When you lose, I will grant you the mercy of not laughing in your face.’

‘I enjoy watching you laugh, so that would not be the mercy you think it is, sweet prince.’ Ilya says it with softness, like sinking your head into a goose feathered pillow. Shane’s mind stumbles momentarily before righting itself, his competitive streak winning out over the urge to over analyse the depth of Ilya’s words.

Shane clears his throat to avoid acknowledging how his breath hitches. ‘Fine, when I win, you have to—,’ Shane’s thoughts race to think of a suitable idea, trying to think of something that Ilya would hate. Ilya waits with bated breath.

Shane meets Ilya’s gaze with a smirk. ‘You have to act like a prince. A proper one. No bawdy comments, no wandering feet,’ Shane grits out pointedly as Ilya smiles knowingly, ‘You must behave like the prince you are, for at least a day.’

Ilya watches Shane like a hawk as he delivers his stipulations of victory, eyes roving over his face as Shane awaits his response. ‘And if I win?’

Shane flicks the question away like a fly buzzing around a cake left out in the sun. ‘Irrelevant, that won’t be happening.’

Ilya steps closer so they are toe to toe and Shane freezes. ‘But on the off chance that I do,’ Ilya begins quietly, ‘you must behave like the prince you crave to be. In all its naughty and rule-breaking glory.’ The last sentence is said as a sultry whisper, Ilya crowding in close so their mouths are only an inch apart.

Shane can hear Hayden crunching closer, a disgruntled, obnoxiously loud clearing of his throat reaching them but Shane ignores it, eyes fixed on Ilya’s to see the heat swirling there. He feels something beginning to crack inside of him, quiet and gentle but a crack all the same. The draft it lets in has Shane suppressing a shudder, spine tingling. Shane licks his lips distractedly, Ilya’s gaze zeroing in on the motion.

The idea of Ilya winning was preposterous, but his victory request was strange, and oddly intriguing. What would the rule-breaking even entail? Not going to his language lessons? Refusing to wear his crown at ceremonial dinners? That’s not exactly stuff he’s been craving to do. Ilya was an idiot. An idiot who was clearly going to lose.

Shane’s eyes harden, the challenge uttered between them cemented as his lips part in response.

‘Deal.’

Ilya’s smile lingers but something darker takes over. ‘Deal.’

And Ilya sticks his hand out between them, fingertips brushing the soft material of Shane’s tunic, the touch burning. Shane grasps the hand in his, Ilya’s palm warm and his long fingers curling around Shane’s. A thumb brushes the side of Shane’s hand as Shane squeezes Ilya’s hand as they shake on it. Shane can feel the coarseness of Ilya’s fingertips, probably from handling a sword, or reigns. They feel strong and capable of destruction that Ilya is known for, but the way he holds Shane hand in his at that moment feels gentle, almost reverent.

‘Hope you won’t cry too much when you lose.’ Shane tries to say breezily but it comes out as a fragile whisper. Ilya’s lips twist darkly in amusement, eyes flashing.

‘I’ll try not to.’ He whispers back, hand refusing to let go of Shane’s for a moment, squeezing it hard before slowly releasing it.

Challenge accepted.

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

‘Flower crowns are for children.’ Shane tries to reason, hands coming up to trace the petals with a delicate touch before going to remove it when Ilya’s next words stop him.

‘Not all, they are also for pretty Crown Princes. Like you.’ Ilya leans across the gap between them to nudge the ring of daisies and lavender more firmly in Shane’s hair with the back of his knuckle, as if daring Shane to remove it. Shane does not. He only blushes shyly, clearing his throat to look down at the grass between them, his stomach doing a silly little flip at the softly spoken words.

Chapter Notes

They plan the race to be later that afternoon, after lunch. Shane makes Hayden promise not to tell his parents, which Hayden begrudgingly agrees to but not before giving Shane a ten minute lecture on how irresponsible and improper this whole bet was. Shane simply rolled his eyes with a fond smile, Hayden’s hatred for the Prince of Rozan outshining anything else.

But Ilya had questioned Shane’s ability to do something Shane knows he’s good at, and enemy or not, Shane will never back down from a challenge. Especially one he knows he’s going to win. Shane eats a quick lunch but not before being cornered by his mother with half a piece of bread hanging out of his mouth, demanding to know how the walk in the palace gardens went.

Shane muffled out a ‘Was fine,’ before running off, Yuna watching him leave with a huff, a knowing look in her eyes. Shane has managed to evade all conversation with his parents as to how it was going with Ilya, and he was glad of it. He doesn’t think he could keep a straight face, not after how Ilya has been behaving. The memory of Ilya’s foot pressed against his cock springs to mind. So Shane was hoping to keep it that way even though he knew it couldn’t last much longer.

He changed into his riding gear, brown breeches and a dark brown leather tunic embroidered with golden leaves over a white shirt with bellowy sleeves, providing easy movement. He takes the servant's passage down to the stables to avoid detection, and slings Taiyo’s saddle off the hook to start tacking up. The weather was good and amiable, the sky was clear with minimal breeze. It will be a good ride, which will make Shane’s victory taste that much sweeter. He’s bent over untangling Taiyo’s reins, arse up and facing the stable door when he hears it.

‘Well, well, what a welcome sight.’

Shane twists his head to look over his shoulder with a knowing scowl. Ilya is leaning a shoulder against the stable door, ankles crossed, hand resting in the front pocket of his black riding breeches, eyebrows wiggling. Shane quickly rises, ignoring the gaze burning on his ass, untangling the reins and walking round to the front of Taiyo to nudge the bridle up her nose and over her ears, pointedly ignoring Ilya’s little quip.

‘I thought I smelled failure,’ Shane says with a monotone, kissing Taiyo’s nose as he rounds her side to check the buckle of her saddle. ‘Turns out it is just you.’ He gives Ilya a pointed look, but the man only grins from his position at the door.

Shane pats Taiyo’s flank, smoothing his hand over the caramel coat affectionately.

‘Your horse is beautiful.’ Shane’s head snaps to the side at the voice, Ilya moving away from the door to stand in the stable properly, eyes appreciatively admiring his horse.

‘Thank you, she’s called Taiyo.’ Shane replies softly, hand trailing across her side as he reaches for the reins.

‘Taiyo? What does that mean?’ Ilya says distractedly as he reaches a hand out to let Taiyo sniff before gently stroking the white strip running up her nose.

Shane leans his weight against Taiyo to watch as Ilya seems transfixed by the gentle horse. ‘It means the sun in my grandmother’s language, she was from far east of here, across the ocean.’ Ilya hums, nodding gently as he scratches at an ear.

Taiyo, the traitor, seems to enjoy the attention.

‘Why the sun? As a name.’ Ilya looks up curiously, hand pausing its petting.

Shane looks away to stare at the stable wall, mind suddenly filled with fond memories of his late grandmother, her wrinkled hands, the way she always smelt like green tea, her soft caress of his hair.

‘It’s what she used to call me. I used to follow her around when I was a child so much she nicknamed me her little taiyo. She said I was the sun that followed her round throughout the day, and when I grew tired she knew it was time for bed, that the sun had gone behind the horizon. After she died, my father bought me a horse.’ Shane flicks his eyes back to Taiyo’s flickering ears with a sad smile.

‘And her colour reminded me of the sun, so I called her Taiyo. Also to remember my grandma.’ Shane finished with a heavy heart, emotion climbing up his throat as he watches Ilya carefully out of the corner of his eye, tensing himself for a stupid remark at Shane giving an animal such a sentimental name.

‘That is very thoughtful, I’m sure your grandmother would’ve loved her.’ Ilya says gently, giving Taiyo a last pat, eyes sliding to Shane’s.

Shane nods once, blinking back unsuspecting tears, swallowing harshly, avoiding Ilya’s lingering gaze. ‘Yes, she would have.’ Shane pretends to fumble with the saddle for a few more moments as silence lingers before he clears his throat loudly, turning to face Ilya finally.

‘And where is your horse?’

Ilya steps back with a jerk of his head, turning to look beyond the stable entrance. ‘Anya is already tacked up, she’s outside.’

Shane’s mouth twitches, ‘You’ve named your horse too?’

Ilya looks at him with an amused smile, as if the question was silly. ‘Why of course, she is mine.’ Ilya shrugs simply before turning on his heel to walk outside to the sun beckoning them with its rays.

Shane rolls his eyes with a huff, trying to fight the smile threatening to spread across his face. He clicks his tongue, not bothering to hold the reins dangling beneath Taiyo as he follows after Ilya, feeling Taiyo walk quietly beside him.

He walks out to the back paddock with the water troughs, and the arched gate leading into the forest to find Ilya walking up to a large horse pawing at the ground excitedly at the sight of her rider. The horse was beautiful, but not the horse Shane expected Ilya to have. He was expecting to see a horse like the other ones ridden by the envoy of Rozan - midnight black and gleaming coats. Ilya’s horse was a darker coat, yes, but it wasn’t a pure, sleek black like the others.

It was almost a dark grey, mottled with silver that shone in the sunlight like a ripple of moonlight. There were even darker brown patches dotted about her legs. The coat was, for a lack of a better term, scruffy in colour. Yet the horse looked regal, like something out of a fairytale.

Ilya crooned as he neared the creature, muttering softly under his breath in his mother tongue as he skirted a hand across the horse’s side, patting her flank. It almost made Shane laugh at the image of Ilya being so affectionate with his horse - it was entirely the opposite of what he envisioned. Especially when this was the same man that had fondled his cock with his boot under the table just last night.

Shane doesn’t know why, but he imagined a big brooding thing, unfriendly and hostile. But this horse, Anya, seemed playful, sweet in nature, and clearly as smitten with her owner as he was with her. It had something warm unfurling in Shane’s chest at the sight of it, that he for once let bloom under his ribs. Ilya was an ass, but at least he wasn’t an ass to everyone.

‘Your horse certainly likes you.’ Shane says softly, half teasing, eyebrow raising playfully. Ilya turns to gaze at him, and then looks down almost shyly, stroking the soft coat beneath his fingers.

‘Yes,’ Ilya says quietly, ‘she loves me like I love her.’

Shane’s eyes widen a fraction at Ilya’s utterance, breath catching in his throat at the sheer adoration practically oozing from Ilya as he rounds Anya to pull her reins over her ears, large face turning to him with a delighted snort.

Then Ilya continues, as if talking to himself and not Shane, who stands there watching him. ‘I found her as a young foal tied to a tree, abandoned. I trained her, fed her, groomed her. She only deserves to know love.’ He traces the back of his hand down Anya’s muzzle, before he seems to remember himself, clearing his throat pointedly before his eyes flit to Shane’s. Shane can see Ilya try to shroud the emotion the confession has brought to his face by levelling it out to look at Shane blankly, before plastering a hollow smirk on his face. Ilya does it so easily, and Shane almost believes it if he hadn't been in such close quarters with Ilya’s face the past two days. Shane had begun to learn a lot about Ilya’s micro expressions after having his face so close to his in those fleeting moments hidden from the wandering eye of the court, and his mother.

‘So, where are we racing?’ Ilya pivots the conversation easily with a swipe of his boot against the sandy ground of the paddock.

Shane shuffles his feet, looking down at them for a moment, the air frigid with emotion that doesn’t necessarily want to be kept here. Shane rolls his shoulders back determinedly, glancing up to fix Ilya with a challenging gaze.

‘Up to the Eastern Hill. Usual rules apply of no foul play of course.’ Shane jerks his head in the direction beyond the treeline.

‘And where exactly is the Eastern Hill?’ Ilya questions, with an unimpressed quirk of a brow, strong arms crossing against his chest. Shane only smirks.

‘Just follow me and you’ll find out, won’t you?’ He hears Ilya snort in disbelief as he turns to hike a foot up into the stirrup, lifting himself into the saddle with ease. Ilya watches him darkly, tracing the lines of his legs and his ass as the trousers tighten around the curves as Shane settles himself into the saddle.

Ilya quickly follows, nudging Anya to stand alongside him, levelling him with a playful smirk. ‘Oh really? That hardly seems fair as I don’t know where I’m going. I didn’t take you for a cheater, your grace’ Ilya draws out the title to slip like honey from his lips and Shane rolls his eyes.

‘It’s not my fault you don’t have a thorough grasp of the landscapes surrounding your own kingdom. That’s one of the first lessons of being a prince, not that you’d know. Besides,’ Shane levels Ilya with a smirk, eyes dancing in mischief as he leans across his saddle to Ilya to whisper, ‘tough shit.’

But half of it gets lost in the wind as Shane suddenly kicks Taiyo’s flank, flying off with a devilish laugh, leaving Ilya gaping at his retreating figure, dust kicking off Taiyo’s hooves as they gallop through the arched gate towards the forest waiting for them.

Ilya’s shock soon turns to a grin, kicking Anya into motion with a fluid move, and galloping after him with a disbelieving shake of his head. He catches up quickly, pulling up beside Shane as their horses gallop in tandem, the wind rushing through their hair, burning their cheeks slightly, aching from the grin on their faces.

‘Cheater!’ Ilya yells above the thunder of hooves against the forest floor and Shane only deigns him a quick glance, before shockingly, sticking out his tongue, and digging his heels into Taiyo’s side to nudge her faster, pulling ahead.

Shane rises in his saddle, his weight falling to his heels, his thighs burning as he practically rides the wind, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he can’t help but grin. Shane had never ridden like this with anyone before, no one had ever been able to keep up. And usually Shane enjoyed the solitude and peace a ride brings, but this new feeling was also nice, a childlike giddiness that he hasn’t felt in a long time, or hadn’t dared to with his responsibilities. If only their entire courtship consisted of races through the forest, round the meadows and up the hills - maybe then Shane would be able to deal with it a bit better, or perhaps dare he even think, enjoy it. Maybe it was because Ilya was too far away to annoy him with his talk, Shane thought with a laugh.

They cut a shape through the trees to trample over the wildflower meadow, winding through a trail that has them striding through a stream. Shane could hear the heavy thud of Anya’s hooves behind him and suddenly Ilya was there, slowly moving ahead of him. Ilya threw a smirk back before leaning forward, water splashing as he pulls ahead. Shane practically growls in frustration.

It’s when they break through the meadow to the hills that Shane matches pace, and they ride side by side, the sound of them could easily be mistaken for thunder at how hard they ride the ground beneath them. Shane can see the Eastern Hill in sight and his lips spread into a toothy smile, shooting Ilya a challenging look but Ilya is already looking at him, seemingly distracted.

So Shane seizes the opportunity, leaning forward to mutter something in Taiyo’s ear before Taiyo snorts loudly, head jerking forward and legs blurring as she takes Shane faster, leaving Ilya behind as he ascends the hill to the finishing line. He also unintentionally gives Ilya a resounding view of his ass.

Shane reaches the top and skids Taiyo to a halt, rounding on himself as he whoops, arms flung into the air as Ilya comes up behind him. Shane sits tall, chest heaving and sweat glistening at his brow but the exhaustion doesn’t register, only the light feeling of victory and the exhilaration riding always brings. He can’t help the grin that is etched on his face, watching as Ilya slows to a halt a few paces from him. Shane sits with his back to the view of Hollaith’s tumbling hills and flower fields, the late afternoon sun lining him with gold, windswept hair framing his face handsomely, strong shoulders pulled taut by his tunic. Ilya stares at the smiling prince in awe, Shane completely unaware, as always, of the effect he leaves on everyone around him with his presence.

‘So,’ Shane says, leaning forward in his saddle to brush his fingers through Taiyo’s mane, completely unaware of Ilya’s heart stuttering in his chest at the sight of him, ‘at least that’s settled.’ Shane straightens with a triumphant smirk, ‘I am clearly a better rider than you will ever be.’

Ilya doesn’t speak, simply watches him, hands limp that hold the reins. Shane arches a brow in question. ‘What? Losing got your tongue?’ He asks cheekily. Ilya blinks one, twice, before nudging Anya forward to stand next to him, looking at him in amusement.

‘More like cheating. I didn’t know the good Crown Prince of Hollaith would play so dirty.’

‘I wasn’t playing dirty, you were just shit.’ Shane replies haughtily, looking out across the landscape before them. Ilya throws his head back in a deep laugh and the sound has Shane unintentionally smiling, eyes stubbornly fixed on the hills beyond.

‘If I was shit, I wouldn’t have been able to keep up. Admit it.’ Ilya teases, jerking his reins to nudge Anya into Taiyo’s side.

Shane feels Taiyo move sideways before returning to their original position, and Shane huffs out, pretending to think just to annoy him. ‘I can admit you weren’t as awful as a rider that I thought you’d be, how’s that?’

Shane glances at Ilya questioningly, blinking his doe eyes in feigned innocence. Ilya’s eyes darken a touch at the movement, mouth twisting into a resigned smirk. ‘You are sparing with your compliments, it’s a shame you aren’t the same with your insults.’

Shane breaks out into laughter, before returning Ilya’s smirk with a playful raise of his eyebrows. ‘That’s because you inspire more contempt than appreciation. I’m not one to lie.’

‘Are you not?’ Ilya shoots back, question probing at something deeper that lingers under the surface, testing. Shane dismisses it with a simple shrug of his shoulders, looking away. Nature seems to beckon him with a crooked finger, and Shane yearns to nudge Taiyo forward, instead of turning around back to the palace.

‘I prefer this. It is a shame we have to go back.’ Shane sighs, mostly to himself, almost forgetting Ilya can hear him until the man speaks, jerking him out of his thoughts.

‘Then don’t. We have time before dinner.’ Shane frowns wistfully at the suggestion, turning to Ilya suspiciously, watching for an ulterior motive to make itself known around his words, but nothing comes. Instead only a deep earnest, Ilya motioning to the hills ahead of them, like not going back to the palace was the easiest decision in the world, and not something Shane wrestles with daily. It almost made Shane jealous at how simple Ilya made it seem.

‘Let us enjoy nature as it is intended - without an annoying, grumbling chaperone who has the head of an egg.’ Shane huffs out a laugh, shooting Ilya an unimpressed look.

‘Firstly, the annoying, grumbling chaperone is called Hayden, he is a dear friend - and he does not have an egg head.’ Shane ignores Ilya rolling his eyes, ‘and second,’ Shane hesitates - is he really going to say yes? If he had an inch of sanity he’d say no. If any of his previous experience with Ilya in the past two days dictates, being alone only serves to send Shane spiralling in confusion, his hatred not so much a chiselled rock but more a soft, squishy patch of moss. But maybe it was the thrill of victory that had Shane wavering on his resolve to avoid the man at all costs, or maybe it was the way Ilya just seemed different here, far from the palace and prying eyes. He seemed more at ease, more open, his eyes curious as they skate over the horizon in the distance. He seemed less like the man the gossip mills and Shane had thought they knew, and more like a stranger with every passing moment. It had Shane reeling with the thought that maybe he didn’t truly know Ilya at all. And Shane for once, was intrigued. And the intrigue didn’t feel as terrifying as it normally did.

‘And second…okay.’ Shane pretended he was breathing normally, and not holding his breath as he waited for Ilya’s response. Ilya turns to him and Shane snaps his gaze immediately to his, eyes wide and biting his lip in anticipation.

Ilya only smiles warmly, eyes roving across Shane’s flushed cheeks from the wind, his freckles, his lips, to finally meet his gaze. ‘Then what are we waiting for, let’s go.’

Ilya doesn’t stall for Shane’s reply, already nudging Anya forward in a slow walk as they descend the hill. It’s when he realises Shane isn’t following that he twists in his saddle, hand settling on the back of it with his eyebrows raised in question.

Shane sits twisting his reins in his hands, mouth twisting into a pout, frowning slightly in thought.

‘What?’ Ilya asks with amusement.

Finally, Shane looks up, hesitating before seemingly making up his mind, spine straightening and eyes resolute as they look up at Ilya. ‘I know somewhere we could go, it isn’t far. I’ll—,’ he swallows, taking a leap, feeling half crazy at what he is about to do but also not caring - perhaps being away from the palace has melted something in his brain. ‘I’ll show you, but you—you can’t tell anyone.’

He frowns at Ilya then, looking for any sign of deception, teasing or mischief that might have Shane regretting his words. Ilya only nudges Anya to face him, squinting up at him, a hand pressed against his heart in promise. ‘Lead the way, my prince.’

So Shane decides to trust Ilya, just this once, and as he nudges Taiyo forward, walking side by side with Ilya silently, he hopes he won’t regret it.

As the lake emerges like a fairytale in front of them, Shane watches Ilya nervously, slowly coming to a halt, fingers fiddling with the reins. He doesn’t know why he’s nervous at Ilya not liking his secret spot. If anything, Shane should be more nervous about showing him in the first place - especially as this is a part of nature that up until now, has only been Shane’s. But for some reason, this just felt right. And Shane for once, didn’t linger on why that was.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Ilya turns to him, ‘this is yours?’

Shane’s shoulders curl shyly at the question but secretly pleased with Ilya’s wording, his acknowledgment that this place belongs to Shane, that Ilya is only a guest in this specific part of nature. It’s silly, but Shane can’t help the satisfaction swirling underneath his skin.

‘Yes.’ Shane replies simply, looking out at the landscape in front of them. ‘Come on,’ he beckons Ilya to follow and he takes them a little further in, amongst the long grass before sliding down from his perch on top of Taiyo. Shane sighs as he looks out across the lake, the tension in his thighs from riding unfurling just at the sight of it.

‘You can leave Anya there.’ Shane throws over his shoulder as he lets Taiyo wander off to munch on some bushes, walking slowly to the willow tree, hand coming out to tickle his palm across the top of the long grass encroaching past his knees.

Shane hears Ilya murmur something affectionately to Anya in his mother tongue before he hears his feet falling behind him, grass crunching under his boot. Shane swings his arms at his sides, descending down to the lake’s edge with ambling feet, sensing Ilya follow close behind. Shane walks to the willow, fingers tugging on a low bracelet of leaves playfully before collapsing on the ground, legs splayed and leaning back on his hands to look out across the water.

Ilya crashes down beside him with a deep sigh and a groan, lying down and propping his head up on his hand.

‘How did you find this place?’ Ilya asks softly after a moment of silence, watching a butterfly flutter past his line of vision, blue wings shimmering in the sunlight like the water stretching out in front of them.

Shane hums, eyes fluttering closed as a breeze caresses his face. ‘When I was a child. I got into an argument with my tutor about something and rode off in a strop. I called him a pompous arse.’ Shane huffs out a laugh at the memory, the way his tutor’s face turned crimson with rage before Shane had stormed out of the room. ‘I found this place by accident.’

The truth rolls off Shane’s tongue before he can stop it, not even thinking about tempering it like he often would when asked a question that involves Shane not acting like the prince he should be.

‘Are there places like this in Rozan?’ Shane twists his head curiously to watch Ilya looking out to the water.

Ilya barks out a laugh, and Shane almost flinches at the coldness of it, offering a glimpse of the Prince of Rozan that Shane had heard stories about. Ilya shakes his head, rumbling out a gruff ‘No.’

‘None at all?’ Shane finds it hard to believe Rozan lacks any tranquil beauty at all.

Ilya’s face hardens, sitting up and drawing his knees up, leaning his forearms on them, eyes faraway. ‘No. At least not to me.’

Shane’s chest tightens with sadness at the thought of Ilya not having a lake equivalent to call his own in Rozan, a place to retreat to.

‘That must be hard. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have this.’ Shane’s head turns to admire the hills peeking out behind the trees that line the lake in the far distance.

He sees Ilya shrug silently, but the tension in his shoulders is unmistakable. Shane swallows, fingers curling into the grass beneath his hands. He feels like he’s stumbling into unknown territory, and like a coward, Shane backs away.

Shane comes off his hands to sit up, fingers pulling up blades of grass to twiddle them between the pads of his thumb and forefinger.

They sit like that in silence for a little longer, nothing but the sounds of nature surrounding them, the wind sending goosebumps across the skin of their arms.

Eventually Ilya twists to face Shane, gaze heavy.

‘So,’ he drawls, ‘Do you come here often?’

Shane looks down to twist the blades of grass in his hands as he tries to shrug carelessly, trying not to give too much away at just how burdened he really feels most of the time, why he finds himself coming to the lake more and more. Admitting it aloud feels like revealing a weakness, because it’s men with reputations like Ilya who will feast on it with sharp teeth. Even if the man sitting with him is becoming further from that supposed truth with every passing turn of the sun and wax of the moon.

‘Sometimes.’ Shane says with a twist of his mouth, failing to remain poker faced. He can hear rustling as Ilya moves and as Shane stares down at the ground he can see Ilya’s long legs come into view. He looks up, Ilya now sitting facing him, leaning back on his hands like Shane was moments before, outstretched legs either side of Shane’s crossed knees. The look on Ilya’s face is unimpressed and unbelieving.

‘You are very bad liar.’

Shane’s retort is automatic, lips moving before he thinks. ‘Am not.’ Ilya exhales harshly through his nose with a laugh, smirking.

Shane huffs, dropping the grass he’s playing with in front of him. ‘Fine, yes I do. Happy?’ He looks up, bracing himself for ridicule, for Ilya to make fun of him for being pathetic, but Ilya only looks curious.

‘Why?’ The question was simple, yet the answer was anything but. And it was never something Shane had been asked before, it wasn’t a question that crossed people’s minds, happy just to see Shane ride off without a word. So Shane had never really spoken about why, except short, vague statements to Rose when she asks where he runs off to so often. But Ilya looks so relaxed as he sits with the lake to his back, his gaze open and uncritical like Shane expected it to be. And it’s unnerving, the effect it has on Shane, the effect Ilya has on Shane at this very moment, unravelling him, splitting him open for all the darkness in him to come spilling it out. He felt like an egg cracked against the side of a bowl.

‘It’s just that sometimes—,’ Shane shrugs, sneaking a look at Ilya to see if he manages to stall long enough he’ll give up on trying to get an answer out of him. ‘You know…’

Shane trails off unhelpfully, gesturing vaguely with his hands, but Ilya only raises an eyebrow in question, seemingly unimpressed with Shane’s efforts. ‘No, I don’t know. I do not understand quiet Shane mumblings.’ Ilya drawls playfully, tilting his head to one side.

‘I shouldn’t complain, it is unbecoming.’ Shane tries, muttering the sentence from memory, can’t help but to pull a face as he says it. A knock on the side of his knee has him flitting his gaze to Ilya’s, his boot tapping him to regain his attention.

‘Who told you that?’ Ilya asks, frowning. Shane can’t help the roll of his eyes at the memory emerging, ‘My tutor. I complained once that I couldn’t read tiny script for such long hours at a time. And he told me Princes shouldn’t complain - it was unbecoming.’

The word twists with bitterness, making Shane’s lips curl in distaste at the thought of his old, miserable tutor. He taught Shane from the ages of eleven to fifteen until Yuna caught him berating him harshly for writing with his left hand - that was the last Shane ever saw of him. The harsh memory of him, however, remains.

‘That’s bullshit.’ Ilya spits, Shane’s head shoots up at the anger in Ilya’s voice, the unpleasant twisting of his plush mouth. Shane can’t fight the smile that twitches at his lips at the sight of it. It’s almost comforting to see someone else agree, it makes him feel less unreasonable with how draining he sometimes finds it all.

Ilya’s eyes watch him carefully, before arguing softly ‘You cannot always be perfect. You are allowed to make mistakes.’

But wasn’t a prince all about being perfect? The idea of making a mistake fills Shane with dread, like scrabbling at a rope snaking off a cliff.

‘But a Prince is all about perfection, leading by example. How can you expect people to follow you if you are careless?’ Shane asks quietly, looking at Ilya with wide curious eyes.

‘Being human is not the same as being careless.’ And Ilya says it with such finality that Shane feels like there is no choice to listen. Foolishly, Shane never thought that Ilya would have such an outlook - he always imagined him unbothered by the more philosophical nature of human life. But Ilya’s reputation precedes him, which Shane is beginning to realise sourly, has made him into a caricature. A caricature that Shane had grown to hate, but with Ilya sitting across from him like this, in a place that until now, only Shane had frequented, he has a growing feeling there is more to the harsh brushstrokes that paint the Prince of Rozan.

‘You are a good Prince, you don’t need to worry.’ Ilya says with a hint of a smile, sensing Shane’s inner turmoil and mistaking it for something else. Shane blushes automatically at the praise falling so easily off Ilya’s tongue like he genuinely means it. The compliment isn’t the most eloquent, but it’s so simple, so straightforward that Shane has no reason to doubt its meaning for once. It has something fuzzy lining the edges of his insides that feels soft to touch.

‘Well you’re a Prince too.’ Shane shoots back, attempting to shift the attention away from himself. But there is no light of understanding in Ilya’s eyes, only a sudden hardness soon shifting in the blue eyes that trace his face.

‘I am second son, I do not count.’ Ilya says it flatly, Shane can see the light string of tension pulling at the corners of his mouth, the only sign of anything different in Ilya’s otherwise relaxed pose.

Shane frowns, confused at the wording and the logic. ‘Of course you count, what do you mean? You are still a Prince.’

Ilya looks off to the side to avoid his gaze, mouth thinning out into a hard line. ‘Not like you. It is different. Different rules.’

And Shane for once is inclined to agree on the latter. It’s clear to everyone that Ilya lives by a different set of Princely guidelines compared to others, especially to Shane. It’s one of the reasons Shane dislikes him so - Ilya’s flagrant disregard for his duty, and his choice instead to act like life is a circus and the crown is a frisbee to throw. The rumours that follow him around are like flies to a turd, rumours that are now beginning to curl at the edges like paper left out in the rain. But Shane doesn’t like the flippancy with how Ilya describes himself, as if he doesn’t matter. Whilst Shane doesn’t agree with Ilya’s activities and excesses, the idea of Ilya, or anyone, not having value was a foreign concept, Shane being brought up feeding on a near constant dish of love and support from his parents.

Shane wants to ask what Ilya means, and his lips part to breathe life to the questions forming on the tip of his tongue but the sharp line of Ilya’s clenched jaw has him pausing, the interrogation receding like the tide. The sun sets a wonderful glow on Ilya, his cheekbones more pronounced, his curls smooth and shimmering. The white cotton of his shirt stands out against his pale skin, his golden hair, his blue eyes. The sun favours him it seems, painting him to be something mystical and otherworldly instead of a man Shane is supposed to hate. So Shane quickly tries to move on.

‘Which reminds me, I won our bet. Which means,’ Shane grins with poorly contained glee, ‘You have to act like a well behaved prince.’

‘I’m always well behaved.’ Ilya shoots back playfully, smirking and Shane rolls his eyes.

‘Perhaps in your eyes.’

Ilya hums before coming off his hands to mirror Shane’s cross legged position.

‘You seem to think you know an awful lot about me, my Prince. Have you been watching me?’ Ilya looks pleased, a playful smirk gracing his face. Shane huffs, blowing the stray blades of grass stuck to his palm into Ilya’s face to hear him yell out as some go into his mouth.

‘I don’t have to, I hear enough against my will as it is.’ Shane watches with satisfaction as Ilya picks out grass from between his lips, glaring at him as he does.

‘So what is your first order of business, morning dew?’ Ilya teases. Shane smiles playfully, ignoring the childish nickname, tapping his chin in thought.

‘We are in the early days of the spring festival, and considering you clearly know nothing about Hollaith’s geographical proportions,’ Shane raises a brow, ‘a good prince must immerse himself with its people, to remain sincere, genuine, and to lack boastfulness.’ Shane rattles the explanation like a prayer, another line from his teachings as a teen and Ilya laughs softly at the serious utterance.

‘So that is what we will do. Tomorrow.’ Shane decides, slapping his hands against his knees in finality.

‘You think me unable to converse with people? You think I am so arrogant?’ Ilya questions and Shane shrugs.

‘I highly doubt you do it enough, or with people that count.’ Shane retorts sassily to watch Ilya’s eyes brighten in amusement.

‘Well then. Tomorrow.’ Ilya agrees easily, and Shane nods in response, pleased. Maybe he could’ve planned something more elaborate, but Shane didn’t really have time to think about what else he could do. Besides, Shane loves going into town at the spring festival, and with Ilya here he doubts he’ll be able to do it as often as he usually does. So if he can wind up there under the purpose of making Ilya act like a good prince, then he will. Call Shane selfish, but with a life of guaranteed selflessness ahead, Shane realises that maybe he needs to seize opportunities for himself whilst he can, before he falls deeper into the hole he will not be able to crawl out of, the hole that he was born to fall into.

With the agreement in place, Shane’s hands drift to the daisies lining his sides. He plucks them with deft fingers and begins to weave them together by second nature, twisting in his seat slightly to snag a few bunches of baby’s breath to add them to the chain. He begins to hum softly under his breath, eyes focused, a calmness rolling over him at the repetitive motions.

‘You never answered my question.’ Shane says distractedly, weaving another daisy into the chain. He senses Ilya turn to him, his legs shifting but Shane is too busy looking down at his work.

‘What question?’ Shane can feel his eyes on him, the gaze heavy but he is too busy focusing on the flowers between his fingers.

‘Do you like living in Rozan?’ He replies easily, mind thinking of whether the baby's breath would look better in the chain next or another daisy. Ilya says nothing, and Shane looks up, wondering if he hadn’t heard him. But Ilya did, it seems, as he looks at him, his eyes searching Shane’s warily, yet he finds nothing but innocent curiosity, a prodding finger into the tiger’s cage thinking it’s a bunny.

‘It is not a question of like.’ Ilya’s eyes drift down to the emerging flower crown cradled in Shane’s hands. ‘It is home.’

The words hang heavy and unpleasant. Ilya says ‘home’ as if it is tinged with bitterness instead of the warmth Shane knows home to be. Like a word tugged out of him like a rotting tooth with pliers. Inexplicably, it makes Shane feel sad, filling his stomach with it to make him feel bloated with it - even if the sadness is not his to have.

‘What are you making?’ Ilya pivots the conversation to leave the previous one lingering, waiting to be brushed along like the willow leaves against the grass.

Shane holds up the simple flower crown silently for a moment in answer, before resuming, almost having worked his way round to join the two threads. ‘What is it?’ Ilya asks again, watching as Shane finishes it, humming a pleased sound, fingers brushing the soft petals with a delicate touch.

‘A flower crown.’ Shane says simply, upturned palms cradling it as he shows Ilya, who looks at it in awe. It makes Shane’s cheeks redden slightly. He didn’t think it was that impressive, in fact he’s sure the children in town made much more elaborate ones and even sold them. Shane’s was simple, a little wonky, but a flower crown nonetheless. Ilya admired it as if it was made of gold. He holds a hand out to trace the bundles of baby’s breath woven around the daisies, touch slightly hesitant, as if he’s afraid it will disintegrate under his touch at one wrong move. It has Shane wondering.

Shane holds it out to Ilya in offering, and Ilya pauses his fingers petting a daisy petal to look up at him sharply. Shane fidgets slightly, diverting his gaze. ‘You can—take it.’ Shane nudges the ring of flowers against Ilya’s outstretched fingertips once more, head nodding to it.

Ilya watches him carefully, hesitant. ‘I can just make another one.’ Shane reasons, with a shrug, gesturing with his eyes at the flowers that surround them. And then Ilya takes it, gently, fervently, as if afraid it will break. Shane passes it over so easily, so gracefully, like it isn’t a big deal. And he would have had no way of knowing it was the first time someone had given Ilya something so beautiful, so delicate, so pure in nature and intent, with no malice or expectation of anything in return. It was the first time someone had given Ilya something because they had wanted to, because they wanted him to have it, and nothing else. The innocence of it had Ilya stumbling, waiting for the catch, for the part of the deal but nothing came. Instead it was only Shane in all his kindness. And Ilya looks down at the flower crown in his hands and intends to keep it forever, until his dying breath. Not that Shane would ever know that. But the fact that Shane had given it to him, had Ilya thinking for a fleeting moment that perhaps he was deserving more than his share of disregard and disdain, that he could be worth something more than what he has been given, and named as. And it felt a little silly, a little fragile, that all hope stems from the young man in front of him, with freckles like constellations and a smile that signals new birth. But Ilya couldn’t help it, and he didn’t want to. So he took it, the crown of daisies and baby’s breath, and held it in his hands like a steady pool of water, praying not to spill a drop.

Ilya doesn’t manage to mutter a thanks, with it being all caught up in his throat, swallowing down the emotion catching him off guard, but Shane doesn’t seem to notice, fingers already tangling amongst the flowers to make another. Ilya watches as Shane stands up, almost tilting into the grass as one of his legs has clearly fallen asleep, the wide sleeves of his white shirt bellowing in the breeze, to pluck lavender like a faerie from a fairytale, like the ones from the stories Ilya’s mother used to tell him before bed.

Shane settles down across from him again, and begins to make another flower crown with ease, lips unknowingly pursing into a pout of concentration. Ilya watches him silently, still holding the flower crown unmoving. He didn’t want to put it down, Ilya had a fear that if he moved even a little, the world in front of him would slip away like sand to only be a dream.

Shane eventually finishes making the new flower crown with a pleased hum, the pretty purples of the lavender creating a contrast against the green and white.

‘That one is yours.’ Shane looked up from admiring it to see Ilya’s eyes watching him intently. The intensity of it has Shane’s shoulders threatening to curl inwards, fingers fiddling with the petal of a daisy.

Shane can only reply lamely, ‘Oh—yes I suppose so.’

‘Put it on.’

The command has Shane’s fingers itching to follow it, when normally he’d snap at Ilya’s audacity in telling him what to do. He tries to laugh it off, but one look at Ilya has him realising the request is deadly serious. Shane feels silly and he can’t help but overthink the idea of wearing it. It didn’t feel like something a grown man would do, especially not the heir to the throne.

‘I will wear mine too. Put mine on first, I do not want to break it.’ Ilya suggests, sensing Shane’s unease, holding out his crown in front of them. Shane hesitates but at Ilya’s playful raised eyebrow and wiggle of his hands, Shane takes it with a roll of his eyes, placing his own on the floor. Shane leans forward, rising slightly as he places the crown of daisies and baby breath atop Ilya’s blonde curls. It brings their faces closer, and Shane feels Ilya looking up at him through his lashes as he pretends to fix how it sits in Ilya’s hair in an effort to not look down. He sits back, and he has to fight the urge to not stare at just how beautiful Ilya is. The flower crown simply enhances it, a contrast to the sharp contours of his face, the way his eyes track across Shane’s figure. He doesn’t look as terrifying with flowers in his hair, even though Shane’s heart does pick up a little at the sight.

‘My turn.’ Ilya says softly, hands coming to cradle the crown at Shane’s knees delicately, before he raises it to sit it on Shane’s head too. Shane can’t help but hold his breath as Ilya draws nearer to do it, eyes catching on the moles dotted along his thick throat, and spies more leading down under his shirt. Shane remembers reading about moles once in a book as a boy, a myth that they are marks of lives previously lived and symbolise the ones to come, that they are full of meaning. An angel’s kiss, Shane remembers. Ilya leans back, dragging Shane from his thoughts and endlessly staring at Ilya’s chest with a blink.

‘Pretty.’ Ilya says simply, leaning back to admire him. Shane blushes, looking off to the side, fingers twisting in the grass, butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

‘Whatever.’ Shane tries to bite back, but it comes out weak. He can’t tell if Ilya is teasing.

‘That is not how you say thank you. I give you compliment, you say thank you.’ Ilya says, returning to lean back on his hands, raising an eyebrow in question. Shane resists the childish urge to stick his tongue out.

‘You’re wearing one too.’ He points out.

‘Yes but I don’t look pretty.’ Ilya says with a thoughtful hum, watching in delight as the blush across Shane’s cheeks make his freckles shine brighter as Shane tries to make it seem as if the praise doesn’t sink into his bones to sing a gentle song.

‘Flower crowns are for children.’ Shane tries to reason, hands coming up to trace the petals with a delicate touch before going to remove it when Ilya’s next words stop him.

‘Not all, they are also for pretty Crown Princes. Like you.’ Ilya leans across the gap between them to nudge the ring of daisies and lavender more firmly in Shane’s hair with the back of his knuckle, as if daring Shane to remove it. Shane does not. He only blushes shyly, clearing his throat to look down at the grass between them, his stomach doing a silly little flip at the softly spoken words.

‘How did you learn to make them?’ Ilya asks, head nodding softly to the flowers in Shane’s hair, careful not to move too much to dislodge his own.

Shane takes solace in the simple question, instead of the war of emotion going on inside of him. ‘My friend Rose taught me.’ Ilya immediately frowns at the answer.

‘Your friend Rose? This is Lady Rose?’ He demands, and Shane matches Ilya’s frown, confused at the sharpness in his voice.

‘Yes? We’ve been friends since we were little.’ Shane explains slowly, not sure where the tension in Ilya’s shoulders have come from.

‘Friends?’ Ilya emphasises, watching Shane for any sign that he was lying. Shane crosses his arms over his chest in annoyance - the air between them now familiar with its tinge of irritation.

‘Yes? Do you have a problem with Lady Rose?’ He snaps, frown deepening into a scowl. Ilya’s mouth twists before settling into a stoney face, as if he wasn’t moments away from having a tantrum about something ridiculous.

‘No.’ Shane watches him for a moment longer, eyes incredulously following how Ilya looks off to the trees, face blank but the tension radiating from his figure precedes him. What was his problem? But Shane doesn’t have it in him to ask, because that would mean arguing - which isn’t something Shane shies away from usually with Ilya, but he doesn’t like doing that here. In a place as peaceful and beautiful as this.

Ilya moves suddenly to sit right next to Shane, splaying his legs out, thigh touching Shane’s knee, shoulders almost brushing. The proximity has Shane’s breath stuttering in his chest, watching Ilya move with wide eyes. Ilya glances at him quickly from the corner of his eye before clearing his throat quietly, fixing his attention on the lake in front of them, how the grass rolls downwards to meet it, the wisps of the willow trailing in the water to create soft ripples.

The men sit with the flowers in their hair by the side of the weeping willow a little longer, gazing out across the lake together as their horses munch on the grass somewhere off in the distance. And for once, the air is not fraught with tension that prickles like thorns of a rose. Instead it is sweet and soft, unmoving and undemanding, like the petal of a flower. And the crack that Shane felt earlier deepens.

Eventually they both rise silently and half mournfully to return to their horses, readying themselves for the journey back, flowers still tickling the tops of their ears.

At the feeling of it, Shane’s hands fly up to it to mutter, ‘Oh, I forgot I was still wearing it.’ He says mostly to himself, plucking it off his head. He doesn’t really want to unweave it or leave it on the grass. It’s pretty, and the thought has Shane thinking of Ilya’s compliment earlier, which has his stomach swooping annoyingly with the memory.

‘Keep it. It is nice.’ Ilya suggests, glancing up at him from over Anya’s saddle, the daisies on his head still lying delicately across his curls.

Shane looks around him uselessly with a frown, ‘I have nothing to put it in, it will get crushed otherwise.’

Ilya rounds the side of Taiyo to appear beside him, hand outstretched. ‘Give. I will keep it for you.’

Shane huffs amusedly at Ilya’s serious expression. ‘It’s only flowers, it’s not like it’s anything valuable. I can just make another.’ His hands rise to remove the crown from his head, not realising a few daisy petals fall into his hair, a sprig of lavender caught in the dark strands.

Ilya frowns, eyes tightening into a guarded expression, not missing the flowers left behind in Shane’s hair. He doesn’t say anything.

‘Fine, then let me have it.’ He says gruffly, snapping his hand in a grabby motion until Shane puts the ring of flowers into his palm with a roll of eyes and a quiet mutter of, ‘No manners.’

Ilya disappears around Anya, and Shane hikes himself up into his saddle, taking the reins in his hand. He’s busy arranging himself that he doesn’t see Ilya take out a silky square of cloth with burgundy thread embroidered around the edges, lying both of their flower crowns in it carefully before folding the cloth gently around them, patting it softly and tucking in the corners. With delicate hands, he places it in the small leather bag that rests at the side of his saddle, looking up at Shane to check the Prince was still distracted. His fingers trace the leather of the bag absentmindedly, before he swings himself up, clucking Anya forward before turning to shoot Shane a grin.

‘Race you back to the palace.’ And just as Shane did earlier that afternoon, he digs his heels into Anya’s flank to go flying, cackling into the wind at Shane’s outraged cry behind him.

For the first time in the past week, Shane was buzzing with excitement. He had risen early, humming to himself as he dressed, fingers tapping against the window sill in anticipation of the rising sun. As they discussed yesterday, Shane was taking Ilya into town for the beginning of the spring festival. Chaperoned of course, Shane thought with a roll of his eyes, and also with guards. But still they were going, and Shane loved going to town for the spring festival.

The food, the colours, the smell of spices, the dancing, the music, the flowers. Everything. Spring by its nature breathed life into the earth around them, and that much was true for the capital. And Shane couldn’t wait. Even if it meant bringing annoying Ilya along. He hoped he didn’t say anything stupid in front of the townspeople, Shane’s people. Usually he wouldn’t trust him, but after taking him to the lake, a new light is beginning to break around Ilya’s figure. Not so much whole hearted trust per se, but certainly something different.

Shane didn’t really want to dwell on that too much. So he didn’t. Breakfast was quick and he was already waiting by the palace gates, pacing impatiently as Taiyo looked on unimpressed.

Ilya appears on time, but to Shane it feels like ages. The man simply huffs in amusement as Shane quite literally pushes him to Anya in an effort to make him move faster.

‘You are very impatient.’ Ilya drawls, hooking a foot into the stirrup before pulling himself up to sit in the saddle, Shane sitting ready to go already, clearly jittery.

‘Yes, well you walk very slowly, riding even more so. We’ve already established that.’ Shane huffs out, clicking Taiyo forward as Ilya dutifully follows with a poorly hidden smile.

Town is unsurprisingly busy, many people having gathered upon hearing the Crown Prince would be appearing. They all bunch in the market square, lined by stalls selling fragrant spices, a suckling pig roasting over a fire, hard boiled sweets in paper bags, bunches of dried flowers and herbs in jars. The smell was delightful, and the square was decorated with banners and fluttering ribbons, wreaths of flowers trailing around posts and under windows. Ilya admires it all with a mouth parted in awe, eyes scrambling to take it all in.

He also notices how people seem so excited to see Shane, who bashfully slides down from his horse to cheers, giving a shy little wave at the hoard of attention on him. He looks right at home, being fawned over. People talk at him in stacked excited voices, a child comes forward to give him a flower and Shane crouches down to take it with a gentle smile and kind words that Ilya can’t hear. It’s a purple flower and Shane lets the child stick it behind his ear, before taking the outstretched hands in his as a thanks, bowing to everyone. Talking softly, nodding softly as a wrinkled man waves his hands about animatedly, speaking rapidly about expected crop counts.

And Ilya hesitates. It feels wrong to be here, out of place, undeserving. Especially with Shane shining so brightly, so vibrant. The People’s Prince . Ilya feels like his presence will cast a dark shadow. The name Prince of Rozan casts one dark enough without him actually being there. He slowly slides from his saddle to fiddle with the reins momentarily before slowly making his way to near Shane, but deliberately hanging back, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Unsure.

Shane notices him, head twisting back to look at him questioningly, Ilya responding with a tight smile.

‘Who is that?’ The man he was speaking to asks loudly, and all eyes turn to Ilya. Shane notices a light shade of red stretch across Ilya’s cheeks in amazement, realising the man was embarrassed at the attention. And notably, nervous. They were two things Shane had never thought to associate with the man, but there they were, standing right in front of him.

Shane beckons him with a small nudge of his head and Ilya draws forward, swallowing hard, a tiny, polite and restrained smile across his lips.

‘This is Prince Ilya of Rozan. He is here to see the spring festival.’ Shane announces loudly and Ilya internally cringes at some of the gasps and frowns thrown his way. He expects it, but it doesn’t make it any less hard to experience.

But a sharp look from Shane has the crowd’s simmering discontent silencing. ‘He is Hollaith’s guest. And mine.’ Shane says with conviction, chest puffing out as he leaves no room for argument, eyes flashing with an authority Ilya has only heard about. He doesn’t know what Shane was so worried about, he was the spitting image of a Prince, standing before his people with his wrists crossed at his back.

‘He is here to learn about the spring festival. I hope you will welcome him like I have.’ Shane finishes with a blinding smile, a contrast to his earlier stern words and the people respond to it easily with clapping and cheers. Ilya can’t help but linger on the end of Shane’s sentence.

Like I have.

Ilya can’t help the warmth that curls in his gut, a terrible thing that feels dangerously like hope, even if Shane is only saying it for the sake of the crowd.

But he has no time to linger on it like his heart wants to, because he and Shane are quickly shepherded to the stalls lining the square, so many pieces of food shoved into his mouth and hands that Ilya struggles to chew fast enough. Flavours burst on his tongue, and his eyes widen in delight at the delightful explosion lingering on his tastebuds.

It’s not like anything he’s ever experienced - the endless warmth of the people’s smiles, their giving hands, the ribbons fluttering above his head. And Shane in the middle of it all. The sun around which everything orbits. Shane does it so well that it has a breath catching in Ilya’s chest, and it also has something forlorn sinking to the bottom of his heart. Shane looks at him then, sunlight catching in his hair to make it look dark brown, a hesitant smile stretching across his face as he watches a woman press a cupful of dried herbs under Ilya’s nose for him to smell.

Ilya’s eyes never leave his as he leans down to inhale the fragrance before turning to the woman with a pleased hum and smile, easily bantering with her to make the woman laugh.

Shane doesn’t see the troublesome Prince of Rozan standing away from him making a gaggle of older ladies laugh and blush with his cheeky wink, both parties clearly loving the attention. Shane just sees a Prince, a man at ease in conversation, charming and kind. Where was this in the reputation that follows Ilya around like a loyal dog? Why was there no nickname to reflect this part of him, Shane wondered.

Ilya catches Shane staring and he quickly looks away, looking down to admire the woven work of a basket thrust in his arms by a seller.

They are both eventually wrangled by a group of children who demand to perform a dance for them, one dragging Ilya by the hand as he laughs good naturedly, sitting down as he’s told. Shane follows, watching Ilya out of the corner of his eye as the man grins with glee at the bossy children directing them. He looks like he’s enjoying it too, the smile wasn’t just to seem polite. Interesting, Shane thinks.

The dance is all over the place, but it’s graceful nonetheless. There is a group of musicians dutifully playing a tune, and people begin to clap in time with the beat which Ilya immediately joins in on. The children spin in circles, joining hands, moving in and out of lines with each other. Slowly other people begin to join in with a laugh and the square begins to fill with dancing and joyful clapping in time to the beat of feet against the ground. And then Ilya rises out of his seat and Shane looks up in confusion, thinking Ilya is leaving but then realises with a start what he is doing.

Ilya turns to a little girl standing at the edges, clutching her mothers skirts as she looks on wistfully. She is smaller than the group of children dancing, wearing a simple pink dress with daisies tucked into the dark plaits of her hair. She looks up to see Ilya staring down at her with a grin and her lips part on a gasp softly, shuffling backwards at the sight of the handsome man looming above her. And then Ilya bows dramatically, hand coming out in front to ask, ‘May I have this dance, my lady?’

Shane blinks, heart doing a funny little flip, chest tight as the girl shyly clutches onto her mother’s skirts, blinking up at him through her lashes with a shy smile. Ilya waits patiently, and the girl looks up at her mother in reassurance who only nods encouragingly.

Shane watches with bated breath as the girl puts her hands in Ilya’s, Ilya placing a gentle kiss on it like he would do in a ballroom, before leading her into the dance. Shane watching with his lips parted in surprise at the softness exuding from the man Shane had thought was incapable of anything but hardness.

They join the line of dancers and Ilya bows again as the music makes another round to the chorus, and the girl courtesies shyly in response, her happy smile almost bigger than her face. Shane joins in with the clapping, and looks on as Ilya joins hands with the girl to skip round in the dance, weaving between rows. Shane can’t help the smile that pulls at his lips at the image, the fondness blooming in the centre of his chest.

Ilya then picks the girl up as she giggles, spinning her around with an obnoxious shout, hitching her on his hip as they join hands in a playful rendition of a waltz, Ilya bouncing them around the thundering beat of drums. Shane tracks them through the crowds, the wideness of Ilya’s smile, the laughter crinkling the edges of his eyes, the pure delight on his face as he dances. Ilya looks younger, more unfamiliar yet still as devastatingly handsome. Shane wishes distantly that Ilya would smile more. He looked nice when he smiled, it sent warmth trickling into Shane’s veins at the sight of it, and for once, he let it.

Ilya was clearly very good with children. The image made another unwillingly form, one of Ilya with his own children - he’d be a good father, Shane thinks distantly. One that would let his son or daughters get away with murder. And Shane, with mortification, realised that he liked the idea of Ilya being good with children. Like a lot, if the heat curling below his navel was anything to go by. Shane cleared his throat, fidgeting in his seat to try and dispel it but it stubbornly remained as Ilya deftly danced through the centre to spin the girl again with a delighted cry. He should not be turned on watching Ilya play with children, it was weird. And horrendously misplaced. But Shane’s mind went back to Ilya at dinner, his foot nudging at his cock, the dark promises he had whispered to him in the alcove, in his chambers. They had all settled inside Shane like a heavy weight on top of one another, a weight Shane had been trying to ignore but it was growing taller now. More unavoidable. And Shane felt the careful grip of control slowly pulling from his white knuckled grip. Did Ilya actually mean any of it? He looks at Shane like he means it. But Shane could also be wrong. Ilya’s true motivations were unclear, their time at the lake confusing Shane even more. Did Ilya actually want to marry him? Or was it a game? Shane’s head hurt at the idea of trying to figure that out.

He’s pulled out of his anxious thoughts by the arrival of a pair of muscular legs appearing in front of him. Shane looks up in surprise to see Ilya staring down at him, breathing heavily from the dancing, teeth glinting in a wide smile, eyes looking down at him with intent. Shane is immediately on edge.

‘What?’ He asks suspiciously, not trusting the look in Ilya’s eyes one bit. Ilya’s grin only widens.

Ilya holds out a hand expectedly, and Shane blinks down at it. Ilya sighs dramatically before grabbing Shane’s wrist, yanking him on his feet as Shane stifles a yelp, before dragging him into the dancing fray. Shane tries to protest, heels digging into the dirt beneath him but when people notice him joining, the cheers get louder. So Shane, painfully flustered, lets Ilya drag him into the dancing circle.

Shane tries to tell Ilya in a panic he doesn’t dance over the shouts and applause, but Ilya only shrugs his shoulders, palms upturned to the sky as if to say I don’t understand. The music starts up again, more emboldened than before now the Crown Prince has joined, and then Ilya draws forward to link arms with him, turning them in a tight circle, before Shane is carried off to the next person and he can’t help but laugh, clapping in time to the drums, the pounding feet.

Ilya catches him again, palms touching and raised in the air, and Shane looks up to find him looking down at him intently. Shane smiles softly, and Ilya returns it, before a mischievous glint appears in his eyes. Shane frowns lightly at the sight of it but doesn’t get a chance to dwell on it as Ilya seizes his hands to spin him in a circle, the motion of it making Shane dizzy, a giddy laugh spilling from his lips as the world blurs besides Ilya, large hands gripping his tightly. Shane almost collapses into Ilya’s chest when the spinning ceases and Ilya’s hands automatically come to enclose his waist, steadying him. Shane’s breath hitches at the burning touch, the large span of Ilya’s hands on him, feeling it scald him through to the bone. But then he is dragged away from him, and Shane throws a lingering glance over his shoulder as Ilya is too danced away from him, eyes dark and watching.

Shane becomes lost in it, previous anxiety of making a fool of himself forgotten, jumping in time to the fiddle, dancing a turn with children and a woman who looks at him with stars in her eyes. The song is meeting its end, volume rising, and Shane feels himself being spun towards the centre of the square, cheeks hurting from how hard he is smiling. It’s when the song reaches its final note that Shane turns to the final pair of arms outstretched to meet his, that he realises it is Ilya. Ilya pulls Shane to him, one hand on the curve of his waist, another clutching Shane’s hand. And then the song ends, and they remain standing in the centre of the square surrounded by people, staring into each other's eyes, unmoving. Shane’s eyes unconsciously drop to Ilya’s lips in shock at the overwhelming feeling of how nice it is to be held by him, and Ilya’s eyes drop to do the same. Shane can feel himself lean in slightly before the applause has him reeling back with a quiet gasp, cheeks burning. Ilya hears it even over the roar of the crowd, eyes darkening, hands not dropping from Shane’s waist until Shane moves away properly, looking anywhere but him. Shane plasters a tight smile on his face and joins in to clap, before looking at Ilya hesitantly for a moment and then turning to walk back to where the guards stand.

Ilya follows after a brief pause, eyes dropping to the way Shane’s ass shifts with each step, the thickness of his thighs straining against his trousers. As they return to the outskirts of the market square, the enthusiastic crowds encroach further, giddy with pride that their Prince had danced with them. It’s overwhelming even for Ilya and he can see Shane swallow harshly at the surge of people approaching, fingers fiddling nervously, the corners of his eyes tightening. Shane thanks them, a seemingly breezy smile on his face but Ilya can see right through it. He brushes a hand against Shane’s back to settle above his ass and he feels Shane tense at the movement. And then Ilya leans down to speak quietly against the shell of his ear, breath hot and fanning against the sensitive skin of his neck, sending a shiver down Shane’s spine.

‘Come with me.’

Shane turns in confusion, doe eyes blinking up at him in confusion and Ilya suppresses a groan at the arousal that surges down into his cock. And then Ilya grabs Shane’s hand, tugging him backwards, causing Shane to almost stumble over his feet in his haste to catch up with Ilya’s quick strides.

They move fast, faster than it takes for the guards to notice they’ve disappeared, the crowds calling after them in confusion.

‘What are you—where are we going?’ Shane calls out, head twisting to look back at where they came, Ilya still hurriedly moving between streets determinedly. Shane tries to tug his wrist out of Ilya’s insanely strong grip, but it only makes Ilya tighten it further.

Shane huffs out in frustration. ‘Ilya! What are you doing?’ Shane tries again, annoyance growing, digging his heels into the cobbled street to make Ilya’s pace lag.

He is certainly not expecting Ilya to turn around with an annoyed growl, seizing Shane into his arms and somehow throwing him over his shoulder, as if Shane isn’t a fully grown man with muscle, and not a feather.

‘Excuse me—what the fuck are you doing, put me down!’ Shane yells in outrage, trying to wiggle out of his iron grip, and beating a fist against Ilya’s back.

Ilya’s answer is slapping his ass hard. The feel of Ilya’s palm crashing down against his cheek has Shane gasping softly, which Ilya immediately takes note of with interest. The pain throbs, but so does the pleasure it brings.

‘If you will not walk like a good little prince, then you will be carried.’ Ilya responds simply, turning a corner swiftly to a tight, deserted street compacted by overhanging roofs.

Shane splutters at the term little. Mind reeling and body burning at the ease at which Ilya manhandles him, and Shane has half a mind to question the utter strength of the man because he doesn’t even seem to be breaking a sweat as he carries Shane like a sack of potatoes. Shane should hate it, but a part of him annoyingly, secretly loves it.

‘This is highly inappropriate, the whole point of today is for you to act like a prince and—put me down this instant!’ Shane yells, trying to twist and reach an arm back to slap Ilya’s face, he manages to land a weak hit by his ear before Ilya seizes his wrist and flings it back, before smacking Shane’s ass again. Shane growls, wiggling further but stilling as he senses Ilya’s hand settling on the curve of his behind after he’s smacked it.

Shane cranes his neck up to try and look back. ‘What are you doing?’ He says loudly, voice high.

‘Carrying you, obviously.’ Ilya retorts sassily, heavy steps thudding against the cobblestones.

‘No, I mean your hand,’ Shane supplies helplessly, face warm. ‘It’s on my—my—,’

‘Ass?’ Ilya supplies helpfully, squeezing it lightly for good measure just to hear Shane’s scandalised gasp, smirking at the sound.

‘Get your hand off of my ass before I chew it off, you animal.’ Shane tries again to bat a hand back but it’s only really half-hearted. Shane carries enough muscle and height to know that if he truly wanted to get out of this predicament brought about by Ilya’s manhandling, he could. But a little part of him didn’t want to, and currently that teeny tiny part was ruling in favour of everything else. And Ilya seemed to know that. Besides, Shane was tired from dancing.

‘But it is a nice resting place for my hand, so firm and soft. Like pillow.’ Ilya imagines resting his head on it, sleeping with his head perched against a cheek, amongst other things as his mind is drawn to more filthy images he’d like to do to Shane’s plush ass.

‘You—fuck off!’ Shane spits, eyebrows drawn together in disbelief and anger. Ilya turns another corner before spotting a dark alcove between two houses on a corner, and grins. He walks into it, setting them far enough in to be hidden from view before sliding Shane down his front to land on his own two feet. Shane’s hair is rumpled, as is his shirt, and his face is scrunched in a scowl. Ilya thinks he has never looked more like an angry kitten.

Shane shoves at his chest, mouth opening to spit a string of vitriol, but Ilya cuts him off, hands emerging from his pocket to pull out an iced bun wrapped in a napkin. Shane blinks down at it, before looking up at Ilya in confusion.

Ilya unwraps with deft fingers, before putting it up to Shane’s lips expectedly.

Shane’s eyes cross looking at it, before he flits his gaze up to Ilya in confusion. ‘Why do you have that, where did you even get it?’ Shane doesn’t remember anyone selling sweet buns in the market, nor Ilya acquiring one. Ilya shrugs, nudging it closer to bump against Shane’s lips, a smear of icing sticking to them. Shane automatically licks his lips, the sweetness of the sugary icing making him hum in delight. Ilya follows the motion like a hawk.

‘Doesn’t matter. Eat it now.’ Ilya orders, and Shane bats his hand away. Ilya frowns unhappily.

‘Don’t tell me what to do. First you throw me over your shoulder and now you are trying to stuff an iced bun down my throat. Do you have any sense of propriety?’ Shane questions, arms crossing.

Ilya rolls his eyes, trying again to get Shane to take a bite of the bun but Shane swerves it with narrowed eyes. Ilya relents.

‘No I do not. Nor do I care. You wanted to leave, I could tell, so we left. Now we are somewhere nice and quiet, like the lake. And you have not eaten much today, so eat. Unless you want me to feed you myself?’ Ilya finishes with a playful smirk, and Shane balks at Ilya’s thorough explanation.

‘How did you—,’ Shane begins, eyes widening in surprise before they narrow, ‘well you should have asked first before carrying me off like a heathen.’ Shane snaps, chin jutting out defiantly and looking off to the side, ignoring how his heart skips a little at Ilya being so forthright about anticipating his needs that he didn’t think he was being that obvious about.

‘Fine, I shall ask you next time. Now say ah.’ Ilya sings the last word as he lifts the bun to Shane’s lips again to see him scowl. Eventually Shane relents with a roll of his eyes, taking the bun from Ilya’s hands to bite into it, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk. He can’t help but moan as the sweetness of the icing and the softness of the dough hits his tongue, and Ilya’s jaw clicks with tension at the sound.

‘Is it good?’ The question comes out strained. Shane nods his head distractedly, now he’s taken a bite he can’t seem to stop. He’s about to take a third bite when he locks eyes with Ilya’s and pauses at the darkness swirling in them. Oh, Shane thinks, I’m being rude.

‘Have some.’ Shane nudges the bun to Ilya’s lips tentatively, and Ilya’s eyes never leave his as he leans down to take a bite and Shane swallows hard. Ilya chews thoughtfully, humming in delight at the flavour.

They stand in the alcove, almost chest to chest, toe to toe, passing the sweet bun back and forth. The silence is nice. And it also has Shane thinking, curiosity wandering to the man in front of him.

‘So, what do your duties entail as Prince of Rozan?’ Ilya looks up at the question, sucking icing off his finger which Shane tries to not look at.

‘My duties?’ Ilya repeats with an amused raise of his eyebrows. Shane hums and nods, ‘Yes, you know—your role as Prince. What do you spend your time doing?’

Shane never really thought about it until now. But Ilya couldn’t possibly just spend all his days doing whatever debaucherous things he is known for. He may not be the heir, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have responsibilities. And Ilya must have some, surely.

‘Ah yes, those.’ Ilya says with a hum, tongue curling around his forefinger as he stares at Shane. Shane ignores his ears going red to look at Ilya expectantly. Ilya finally relents after sucking off all the sticky icing from his fingers.

‘I command the Kings Guard, broker trade deals, I get sent as envoy sometimes for treaties. People say I’m charming,’ Ilya grins cheekily at Shane’s sigh, ‘I also monitor food supplies, grain stores, things like that. Boring things.’

And yet they were all duties Shane expected his brother, Crown Prince Alexei to be doing. Shane frowns. ‘And what does your brother do?’

Ilya lets out a cold, harsh laugh, eyes darkening as his mouth twists, looking off to the side. ‘Alexei does what he does best. Nothing but being a nuisance. A lazy one.’ Ilya speaks the words with a drawl, tone uncaring but the bitterness seeped through the words regardless. Ilya’s jaw twitches with tension.

Shane has a strange urge to reach out in comfort but he swallows around it, sending it tumbling back down to where it rose from. Instead all that comes out is a quiet, ‘I see.’

Ilya’s gaze snaps to Shane’s, as if remembering where he is. His eyes flit across Shane’s face, as if looking for something, before they narrow down to Shane’s lips darkly.

Ilya leans closer, pressing up against Shane as a hand lifts between them. Shane holds his breath as Ilya’s fingers drift to his lips, tracing them softly. His thumb drags across the bottom one, and Shane almost feels light headed with the presence of Ilya being so close, touching him so delicately.

‘You have something there.’ Ilya mutters quietly, watching how the plushness of Shane’s mouth is pillowed beneath the touch of his thumb.

He pulls his thumb away to show a lick of icing that had clearly been on the corner of Shane’s mouth. Shane’s eyes quickly flit down to it before shooting back up to stare at Ilya with wide eyes and parted lips, watching as Ilya sucks the digit into his mouth with a wet sound, watching Shane darkly.

A gasp gets stuck in Shane’s throat at the display, thighs rubbing together unconsciously as a lick of arousal lingers around the base of his spine at the sight.

Ilya hums around his thumb, hollowing his cheeks as he sucks off the icing, desire swirling in his blue eyes, as he lets it fall from his lips to whisper. ‘Sweet.’

Shane swallows harshly, eyes like a deer blinking wetly. Ilya drops his hand to his side but doesn’t move back, still crowding Shane close in the tight space. Neither say anything but the air crackles with something hot and tilting precariously towards desire. Ilya shifts his face closer a touch so their lips hover centimetres away to hear Shane gasp softly. Ilya is so close that if Shane just nudged forward slightly, his lips would be on his. And Shane’s eyes flit down to them with the thought before snapping back up to look up at Ilya through his lashes.

Ilya watches him carefully, and Shane thinks he might actually kiss him. And he thinks distantly that he might not mind if he did, even if it was unbecoming. Shane was suddenly overtaken with curiosity at how Ilya’s lips would feel underneath his own, would they feel as soft as they look? What would they feel like kissing him? Ilya would be a good kisser, Shane thinks, a yearning to experience it overtaking his sense of mind incredibly quickly to shove all other thoughts out the window. He desperately needed Ilya to touch him, like a fingertip tapping against glass to make it crack. He wanted Ilya to show him everything he had been missing out in his diligence to duty, at the things Ilya had teased at.

Shane licks his lips automatically and Ilya zeroes in on the motion before he blinks, exhaling sharply through his nose, shaking his head slightly as he shuffles backwards so his back hits the wall. And the moment is broken. Shane flushes immediately, moving back to put extra space between them and looking out to the street in an attempt to curb his embarrassment at seeming so needy all of a sudden. Especially when Ilya had no intention of kissing him. Shane felt embarrassment curling in his stomach like spoiled milk, and Shane reminds himself that Ilya is perhaps only taking part in this whole courtship fad to marriage because he, like Shane, has been told he has to. He has no desire for Shane even if he has teased at the suggestion of it. Perhaps this was all a game to him.

God, what was he doing? Shane thinks, blinking back overwhelmed tears that have no place in rolling down his cheeks.

‘We should—we should go back.’ Shane’s voice is hoarse and he clears it aggressively before striding off, not looking to see if Ilya is following as he stalks back to the square.

Shane spends dinner avoiding Ilya’s gaze, eyes fixed on his plate. He expects Ilya’s foot to make an appearance again but it doesn’t. Shane is thankful but there is a niggling part of him that is a little disappointed. Which is ridiculous. Obviously.

Ilya is similarly quiet at dinner, which in itself is unusual, playing with his food and only answering in grunts. Shane isn’t sure what’s happened between them. Shane would rather be arguing, bickering like they have been doing previously instead of this stilted silence between them that had stretched from their ride back to the palace.

He sees Prince Alexei turn to mutter something lowly in Ilya’s ear out of the corner of his eye as they eat dessert, watching as Ilya’s fist tightens around the fork until his knuckles turn white, his jaw clicking. Shane frowns, focusing back on his blackberry tart, his appetite sorely lacking.

After dinner, Shane decides to go to the library. He has been skimping out on his studies recently, what with Ilya’s arrival, and right now Shane needs any distraction he can get. Maybe pouring over the scripts of his ancestors will help divert his attention from whatever happened in town today, whatever is slowly changing between him and Ilya to focus on more productive activities.

Shane enters the library as quiet as a mouse, slipping through the door like a shadow. He inhales the sweet smell of books and ink, and feels himself relax a little. It’s a large room with high arched ceilings, filled to the brim with books and scripture written from hands of the past. Shelves are everywhere, some built into the walls, winding stairs up to balconies above Shane’s head with ladders attached to shelves to help a weary searcher for the book they desire. The shelves make the library into a maze of sorts, with hidden nooks and crannies that Shane likes to hide in. There is a large oak table in the middle of the room, cast with a candle glow, parchment and pots of ink littered about it. Usually Shane would do his studying there, but the space feels too exposed. And the turmoil inside of him has Shane seeking out a smaller space.

So when he picks out a book on the legends of Hollaith, he meanders further between the shelves, fingers grazing the spines of the books he passes. He hums softly under his breath, the tension in his shoulders unfurling as he walks deeper into the room, directing his feet to his favourite spot. It was by the large windows in the corner and gave him spectacular views of the lights of the town glowing like fireflies, and the rolling hills and meadows of Hollaith’s further landscape. It had a cosy armchair that Shane liked to sink to with a book on his knees and as he turns a corner, he could practically feel the soft leather beneath his fingers.

He stops short however when he realises someone is already there, sitting in his favourite spot. The chair’s back angled away from Shane but he would recognise the blonde curls peeking out over the top of it in his sleep. It wasn’t just someone, it was Ilya. Ilya had found his secret spot - well not exactly secret, but still. Shane wanted to huff at the coincidence that Ilya now unknowingly has been to two Shane’s favourite spots in Hollaith.

He frowns as he approaches quietly, rounding the side of the chair to stand by the side of it. Ilya holds a glass in a limp grip, a clear liquid but the smell meets Shane’s nostrils, strong enough for him to recognise it was Rozan’s famous hard liquor. His nose wrinkles.

Ilya doesn’t notice Shane standing above him, eyes faraway, his face blank as he stares out the window. He looks hollow, Shane thinks. Tired, but in a way of the soul. So different from the prince from that morning, from the day before by the lake. Ilya looks like a stranger. Shane clears his throat to get his attention and he expects Ilya to jump in surprise. Instead his eyes slide lazily to Shane staring down at him, before they flit back to looking out the window. Shane’s frown deepens at the lack of response. It’s like Ilya didn’t really see him.

Shane edges round the chair to stand off to Ilya’s side, hands clutching his book to his chest. ‘Are you drinking?’ He asks, immediately cringing at how loud his voice sounds in the silence of the library.

Ilya answers by taking another sip, tipping the glass to his lips and Shane watches as he swallows, thick neck exposed to his eyes, still not looking at Shane.

Shane shifts his weight, feeling nervous. Which is silly, but a coldness clings to Ilya and some of it slips down Shane’s spine unpleasantly. He’s never seen Ilya like this, and he doesn’t like it. He’d rather say something stupid or cheeky. Anything but this. Shane, for once, wanted Ilya to talk to him, when usually he wanted him to do anything but.

Shane stands there for a moment longer watching him, until he looks off to the side, feet about to move and take him elsewhere when Ilya finally speaks, but his voice is scratchy from disuse, gruff and low.

‘What are you reading?’

Shane’s head snaps to Ilya, watching as Ilya’s eyes finally move from staring soullessly out the window to finally, look at Shane like he knows he’s there. Ilya’s eyes flit down to the leather bound book Shane clutches at like a lifeline and Shane looks down at it, not replying immediately.

‘It’s about the legends of Hollaith.’

Ilya hums, eyes fixed on the way Shane’s fingers curl around the large span of it. ‘Is it good?’ Ilya’s voice is rough and empty of all feeling. He speaks slowly as if every word is painful with the effort it takes.

Shane nods, distractedly, fingers tracing the shapes of the leather swirls under his hands. ‘It’s one of my favourites.’ He admits bashfully, feeling a little childish in admitting that he enjoys reading about the myths and fairytales of his kingdom. Ilya hums, eyes finally lifting to Shane’s.

The blue eyes that are usually full of such mischief, are startlingly empty. Shane finds it incredibly unsettling, and he wonders if it was his fault somehow, but he doesn’t know how it could be. Their almost kiss surely would not have created such a reaction.

‘Are you—are you alright?’ Shane hedges quietly, fidgeting his feet. Ilya doesn’t react immediately, watching Shane for a moment before a cruel smile curls at the corner of his mouth, gaze shifting to the window as he knocks back the rest of his drink in a single swallow.

‘Yes, I am fine.’ The answer is curt and Shane almost flinches at the harshness of it. He doesn’t know why he cares so much about Ilya’s wellbeing. But the air between them is strange, heavy yet also bereft of something he can’t quite put his finger on. Shane goes to leave, deciding to leave Ilya to his dark musings but Ilya stops him.

‘Where are you going?’ Ilya doesn’t turn from his intense look out the window as he says it and Shane pauses, body previously twisting to leave, halting. Shane blinks, grip tightening on his book.

‘Well, I thought that you would want to be,’ Shane waves a hand aimlessly, ‘alone.’

Ilya’s lips twitch upwards before his gaze moves to him, eyes dark and calculating as they rove down Shane’s body.

‘You wanted to read your book, no?’

Shane shrugs, feeling small under Ilya’s gaze. ‘Yes but,’ you’re here he wanted to say but doesn’t, instead letting it trail off between them. Ilya raises an arched brow.

‘Then read it. Sit down.’ He gestures to the seat beside him with a lazy tilt of his head, setting the glass down on the small table next to him. Shane hesitates, inhaling deeply as he contemplates Ilya’s borderline command, feet itching to follow it but holding himself back.

He’s not sure if he can read next to Ilya brooding in the corner. It’s incredibly off putting. But another questioning look from Ilya has Shane slowly moving across him to sit down in the chair, spine ramrod straight, knees together, resting the heavy book in his lap. Ilya drums his fingers against the arm of the chair in boredom, lips twitching in amusement at Shane’s inability to relax.

‘You’re not reading.’

Shane shoots him a glare, the comment breaking the strange tension simmering between them which has Shane finally getting comfortable in the chair, flipping open the book, fingers tracing the first page.

‘Shut up.’ Ilya’s mouth can’t help but curl into a small smile as the snappy huff from the prince beside him. If Shane stretched his legs out, his toes would brush Ilya’s calf. He keeps them tucked into the chair.

Shane flips the pages aimlessly, before settling on a legend about the flower that when touched, sunlight would spill from the mouths of those that feel its petals between their fingers. Shane’s probably read it over fifty times, but there’s comfort in the familiarity. He settles back in his chair, kicking off his shoes to rest his socked feet on the edge of the chair, book balancing on his knees. Ilya watches him out of the corner of his eye with interest.

Shane tries to ignore Ilya’s blatant observation of him, having to read the first word five times before he can fully understand what he’s reading.

‘What?’ Shane mutters in question, eyes never leaving the page. Ilya shrugs in the corner of his vision.

‘I’m not doing anything.’ Ilya replies, still watching Shane.

‘Yes you are, you’re staring at me. Go back to brooding out the window.’ Shane huffs, turning the page with a flick of his finger. He jumps in surprise at the laugh that erupts from Ilya’s chest, his head kicking back to lean against the leather behind his head.

‘Well that’s not very nice.’ Ilya says with a teasing smile, head lolling to the side to fix Shane with a twinkle in his eye, a cutting contrast to the lifelessness that lurked there previously.

Shane rolls his eyes, muttering to himself as he tries to return to his reading, Ilya continuing to watch him with soft eyes - something that goes unnoticed by the man it is directed at.

‘Tell me what you are reading.’ Ilya asks softly, and Shane looks up to see a lingering sense of longing in his eyes. Shane’s fingers fiddle with a corner of the page as he answers.

‘It’s about a flower that has magical powers, it kept the sun between its petals.’ It sounds awfully lame and childish when he says it out loud and he resists the urge to bite his lip in embarrassment. He expects a teasing remark but Ilya’s eyes only drop to the page Shane is on in interest.

‘Read it to me.’ Shane’s chest warms at the request, drawing the book to clutch it to his chest.

‘You want me to read to you?’ He asks slowly, and Ilya simply nods. ‘Yes, I want to know the story.’

Shane clears his throat, half tempted to say no. Reading a story to him felt a little too intimate. But then there wasn’t any harm in it, was there? It was only a story, and it was just Shane reading it aloud. He could even pretend Ilya wasn’t there if he had to. And Ilya looked sad when he arrived, so Shane thought that maybe reading him the story of the sun flower would help in some way. And he likes helping people, Shane reasons to himself. Even though a dark part of his brain answers that Ilya wasn’t just anyone, but Shane shoves that to the recesses of his mind that he can’t reach.

So instead he clears his throat again, more pointedly now, and takes a deep breath as he goes back to the beginning. As he reads, he occasionally looks up to see if Ilya is looking at him, only to find Ilya with his head leaned back against the chair, his eyes closed. The tension that previously marked harsh lines into his face has smoothed out to almost look at peace. So Shane continues, sometimes stumbling over the words when Ilya shifts in his seat.

It’s when he finishes the story that Ilya slowly opens his eyes, blinking lazily before turning to Shane. ‘That was a good story, I see why you like it.’

Shane’s mouth opens and closes intelligently, unsure what to say. Instead he just nods, quietly closing the book with gentle hands, averting his gaze.

‘Most would call it boring.’ Shane tries to argue even though he himself doesn’t agree.

‘It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. The things you like are never boring.’ Ilya says, gaze flitting to the window again.

The things you like are never boring. Ilya says it like it is a fact, when Shane had always been inclined to believe the opposite. Because Shane liked familiarity, he liked re-reading the same stories over and over again because it was nice to know exactly what was going to happen. There was comfort in the cyclical nature of things. And it seems Ilya didn’t think that made him as boring as Shane always thought it did.

Something warm blooms in the crack running through Shane’s heart.

Shane tries to shift to a new conversation in an attempt to ignore it. ‘How come you’re in here?’

Ilya glances at him quickly before returning his gaze to the window. ‘I wanted peace and quiet.’ He replies simply but his shoulders are too tense for that to be the truth. And Shane sees right through it.

‘Is that why you were drinking?’ Shane asks pointedly, clearly unimpressed. Ilya’s lips twitch upwards at the disapproval practically oozing out at the question.

‘Does the little Prince not approve?’

Shane harumphs. ‘No I do not believe in the excesses of alcohol. It makes the mind and senses lazy.’ Ilya’s mouth twists suddenly, looking down at his lap, the mood shifting quickly and tilting downwards.

‘A lazy mind for a lazy prince then, hmm?’ Ilya mutters, half to himself but Shane hears it anyway and he frowns. He straightens in his seat immediately, not liking Ilya’s harsh words to himself.

‘You’re not lazy.’ Shane says with conviction, confused as to how that adjective came into Ilya’s head. The man hums noncommittally, clearing not believing him, head thunking back against the armchair, eyes drifting to the ceiling.

Shane can see Ilya going somewhere faraway again, his eyes glazing over.

‘I don’t know that side of you.’ He tries again, wanting to pull Ilya back from whatever pit he is sinking back into. Ilya turns his head to look at him, eyes searching and heavy. Shane meets them with a face he hopes communicates his seriousness.

‘My father and brother would disagree with you.’ He says with a hollow smile, eyes flitting between Shane’s. Shane frowns at the mention of his family, wondering what had happened between their return from town to now. Is that what Alexei had muttered to him at dinner?

And perhaps the Shane from a few days ago would have initially agreed that Ilya is lazy. But his opinions are changing, being remoulded under a craftsman’s hands at the spinning wheel, especially after Ilya told Shane the breadth of his duties - duties that really, are for the Crown Prince to handle. Ilya liked indulging himself, but he was not lazy. Shane could see it in his eyes, the determination and hunger to have something he wanted, to prove something, the hardness of his gaze when he decided to do something. He had seen it when they raced, or when they spoke by the lake, the way he danced with the girl, how he so easily immersed himself in the arms of the townspeople. He had seen it in swordfights as a youth, and he felt it every time Ilya looked at him.

Ilya was not lazy. The concept was foreign to Shane. Shane watches Ilya carefully as he returns his gaze to the ceiling.

‘Then I would say they don’t really know you.’ Shane says quietly. Ilya’s eyes snap to his like lightning, gaze widening a fraction as if surprised at Shane’s insistence, at his confidence in him, and also at the outright rebuttal of another King’s words. But also at the suggestion that Shane knows him in a way no one else does.

Shane meets his gaze confidently, before he rises slowly, leaving the book on his now empty seat before turning to face the man staring up at him in wonder.

‘Goodnight Ilya.’ Shane mutters softly, the words a gentle caress against Ilya’s skin that has his eyelashes fluttering. Ilya watches him leave, head turning to follow as he is swallowed up amongst the bookshelves.

‘Goodnight Shane.’ He whispers to the empty space, eyes still caught on the place he saw Shane last before he disappeared from view, half wishing he’d reappear to read him another story.

Chapter End Notes

i swear they’re going to kiss soon okay i promise

Chapter 4

Chapter Summary

‘And do you? Want to be led astray?’ Ilya murmurs it, crowding in close. Shane can’t help but look down at his lips as he speaks, blinking up at him.

‘Perhaps, I haven’t decided.’ Ilya’s eyes swirl with the challenge, a smirk ghosting his lips, knowing Shane needs, no is asking for a push.

‘I can be quite persuasive. But I only lead those willing.’ Ilya says it like a promise, and Shane’s breath catches in his tight chest, lips parted. The question in his words is undoubtable.

‘And if I’m willing?’ Shane mutters, mind whirling at the intention behind Ilya’s eyes, eyelids fluttering, body tense with the idea of it. Ilya’s eyes darken into a molten heat, tongue licking over his canines in hunger.

‘Then I will make sure you do not regret it.’

Chapter Notes

nottt sure if I’m 100% happy with this chapter but honestly who cares lol, enjoy!

The following week is marked by more official courtship outings, tense dinners with the King of Rozan and his group of black clothed demons, and studying. He and Ilya do not race each other again, nor visit the lake together. In fact Shane has not had time to go back there once since - too busy being pulled everywhere by a different pair of hands each day. Ilya seems distracted, although his teasing quips remain ever present. But there are times when the Prince of Rozan looks off into the distance, mind faraway and his eyes take on a frightening lifeless quality. Like staring into a void. Shane notices it has been happening more often since Ilya’s mention of his family’s disparaging remarks about him.

The idea of them being like that with Ilya makes Shane angry, something ugly rising in his chest with teeth that shocks him. Shane reasons it’s because he deems it unfair, especially when Ilya is the one clearly putting his life on the line to marry a Prince he doesn’t know for the sake of their country. Even though, deep down he knows it is something else he doesn’t have the courage to acknowledge.

Besides that, Shane learns new things about Ilya that he hadn’t before. Like he enjoys shaved ice sweetened with syrup, a dessert in Rozan that he used to have as a child. He learns that Ilya loves dogs but doesn’t have one of his own. He also learns that the gold crucifix he wears around his neck was a gift from his mother, but Ilya soon changes the subject after that to avoid Shane’s questions of what happened to her. Shane learns that Ilya can be very unexpressive at times, almost frowning, looking half angry, and at first it had Shane worrying he had done something wrong. He soon learns though that that was just Ilya’s normal face, especially when he turned to Shane with a smile twitching at his lips automatically, his eyes lightening. He learns Ilya can whistle incredibly well, being able to imitate the birds beneath their heads as they walk through the gardens. Shane wonders if he can sing too, but doesn’t have the confidence to ask. And with every day, and every new thing learned, Ilya drifts further away from the man Shane had come to despise.

Another thing Ilya has been doing recently is turning up at each meeting since their day in town with a flower. The first time he did it, Shane had looked on bewildered as Ilya had presented a dark pink tulip from behind his back, putting it out in front of him and waiting for Shane to take it.

‘What’s this?’ Shane had asked, eyes flitting to Ilya’s in confusion. The blonde haired man had only raised his eyebrows playfully.

‘It’s a flower, obviously. Or do they not teach you these things in your princely studies?’

Shane had scowled at the jibe, ‘I know what it is, you ass. Why do you have it?’

Ilya had pushed it towards Shane again more insistently, watching Shane intently. ‘It’s for you.’ Shane's lips parted at the words, staring at Ilya in disbelief long enough to see the dusting of pink emerge across Ilya’s cheeks, clearing his throat before pointedly looking off to the side.

‘Well take it then. Unless you do not want it.’ Ilya had said it harshly as if his heart wasn’t beating like a rapid drum against his chest, stomach twisting in nerves at Shane rejecting his gift with a scoff. Ilya had a thought that maybe it was stupid, and was beginning to pull his hand away to throw the flower on the floor in embarrassment when Shane seized forward with a cry.

‘No!’ Ilya had looked up, startled, and Shane felt himself go red, remembering himself as he forced his voice back to a normal volume, ‘no, I—yes I want it.’ Shane’s fingers came to grip the stem of the tulip tightly, the tips of his fingers brushing Ilya’s as his came to rest just above. Shane’s heart skips as he looks down at the flower, Ilya releasing his grip to allow Shane to take it.

‘It’s—it’s lovely.’ Shane had said softly, looking down at the deep colour of the petal flowers, fingertips ghosting over them delicately before looking up at Ilya with his big brown eyes. ‘Thank you, it’s beautiful.’

Ilya had momentarily forgotten how to breathe as Shane looked up at him from under his lashes, bashful and shy but undoubtedly pleased at Ilya giving him a flower. He had an urge to do something very silly and something Shane would probably tell him was unprincely, so instead Ilya nodded curtly before motioning for them to continue onwards, trying not to look too pleased and puff his chest out like a preening peacock.

From then on, Ilya had made sure to turn up with a different flower each time to their meetings, not only to see how Shane’s eyes lit up at the sight of it, fingers eagerly now reaching for it with a shyly whispered thank you, but also because he liked Shane having nice things, beautiful things. And Shane liked flowers, so it made perfect, polite sense, Ilya had reasoned to himself as he had scoured the palace gardens for a new flower in the early mornings. It made sense to give Shane things he liked, because they were courting. Even though Ilya would happily give Shane an entire flower meadow if he had enough hands to carry it, whether they were courting or not. But he didn’t need to admit that out loud. It’s when he’s walking out of the palace gardens with a bunch of lavender and baby’s breath that he crosses paths with Hollaith’s King Consort, Shane’s father, that he balks. He tries to avoid him but it’s too late, both having seen each other for long enough that now they had to acknowledge it to be polite. Ilya tries to hide the flowers behind his back, suddenly embarrassed at being caught picking flowers, which wasn’t illegal by any means, but it felt odd to have someone else see. For someone else to potentially know the lengths Ilya is going to give Shane a flower felt too intimate, too, as what his father would say, unmanly. So he was glad it wasn’t his father or brother - that would have been the end of him. Neither believed in courting, or wooing your intended, but Ilya was not his father or his brother. Out of anyone, he liked to think he was more like his mother, his heart twisting with sadness at the thought.

But Ilya quickly learned David was nothing like his father. When Ilya had expected taunting and a disapproving glare, he had only received a gentle smile and an awkward wave. Ilya had raised a hand in response, a little bewildered that the King Consort wasn’t immediately interrogating him for wandering the palace gardens, and clearly having picked flowers from it. David had only made small talk about the weather, pointedly pretending not to notice the flowers Ilya was half hiding by his side before walking past Ilya with a muttered goodbye, Ilya staring after him in disbelief.

Ilya at least learnt where Shane gets his awkwardness and penchant for running away from. He also admired David’s ability to just let Ilya be without the usual needling he’s used to as a Prince. It was refreshing, startling, and had a weak curl of jealousy in his gut at the fact that Shane had him as a father, and not Ilya. He half wondered as he quickly walked back to his chambers, flowers in hand, what he would have been like if he had David as a father, and not his own.

And so the flower giving continued, and Shane never wanted it to end. Although he now had so many vases of flowers around his room that it began to resemble the beginnings of a flower shop. Hayden had picked one of the many up one time to cry, ‘Where are these all appearing from? There were only two vases here a couple days ago, now there are four!’

Shane had snatched it back and plonked it back on his dressing table with a thud, deliberately ignoring all of Hayden’s questions - and in turn, his own.

Spending more time with Ilya though also means his presence seemingly bleeds into other parts of Shane’s life, even when the man isn’t physically present. Shane learnt that the hard way. Literally.

He’s been dreaming of Ilya a lot, and they always end the same way - Shane waking with his hard cock leaking a pool of precum onto his mattress, hips grinding against the sheets half-asleep, waking on a muffled gasp. And in Shane’s sleep-addled brain, he can’t help but cling on to the dream with desperate fingers, hand wrapping around his cock to finish, gasping Ilya’s name into the pillow. It’s mortifying and it keeps happening. It’s like Shane’s brain has a mind of its own (literally) when he’s sleeping, and it is entirely unhelpful. Sometimes he dreams of Ilya above him, sweat glistening on the curve of his chest as he smirks down at him, thrusting into him as he pins Shane down by his wrists. Or he’s face down with a hand at the back of his neck as Ilya fucks him like an animal, Shane choking on gasp after gasp as Ilya has his way with him. Other times, Ilya is simply tracing his hands down Shane’s naked body, worshipping him, leaving a wet trail of kisses as he moves down his body, teasing, looking up at Shane with a playful smirk as his tongue drags across—so yes, Shane has been dreaming of Ilya a lot. It’s incredibly inconvenient. Especially when he has to face the man in real life and is forced to pretend he hadn’t orgasmed to the idea of Ilya railing him into the headboard. Or that he can feel the hands of dream-Ilya on his hips. And the strangest thing is, Shane has a terrible feeling Ilya knows, which is impossible, Shane reasons. But Ilya just looks at him like he knows, a telltale of a smirk as Shane feels his ears burn red when he greets him, a lingering gaze trailing down his legs. The idea has Shane spiralling more so than usual, so he tries not to think about it all, otherwise he knows he will combust and have to be picked up off the floor in pieces.

Another week passes, and Shane’s having afternoon tea with his parents out on the terrace when they finally bring up the dreaded question.

‘So,’ Yuna begins, watching Shane carefully over the edge of her teacup, ‘How is it going with Prince Ilya?’

The question has Shane swallowing his fruit tea too fast and it scalds the back of his throat. He knew they were going to ask eventually, this whole afternoon lunch thing was practically primed for it. But that didn’t mean that Shane wanted to talk about. Especially not with his parents, and especially because his answer is not as clear cut as it has been previously. Shane felt like he was walking through a meadow full of tangled weeds and thorns, scratching at his ankles as he attempts to wade his way through to the answer.

‘Fine.’ The word is tightly wound, practically bursting at the seams with meaning, and Shane can’t help the frown that scrunches his eyebrows as he rolls a crumb of shortbread between his fingers, the butteriness leaving a shine against the pad of his thumb.

‘Shane, you can tell us.’ David tries softly with an encouraging smile, and Shane swallows harshly. Things would be a lot easier if his parents weren’t so loving and patient. Yuna lowers her cup back to her saucer, mouth twisting in concern. ‘Is it not going well? Has he been rude to you?’

‘No!’ Shane hurries to say, the sudden rise in volume has his parents taken aback. Shane flushes in embarrassment at his outburst, trying to relax back into his chair. ‘No–yes—I mean,’ Shane sighs in frustration.

Yuna reaches out a hand to cover his and Shane smiles at her in reassurance. ‘He hasn’t been rude, actually he’s been–,’ Shane hesitates, unsure what word to use. An ass but not the kind of ass Shane expected? That actually mother, he has managed to uproot every thought I have of him and in turn, of myself? He couldn’t really say that to his parents. That he was a man more than the names that follow him around like whispers? A man who is simultaneously making Shane want to pull his hair out but also stare at him all day like a stupid boy with a crush? There’s no one word that can describe that, nor does he want his parents to really know the true extent of how things have been going.

So he settles for, ‘Nice.’

His parents blink at him before looking at each other. ‘He’s been nice?’ His mother repeat in surprise.

Shane nods, fingers fiddling with his fork on the table, averting his gaze. ‘Yes, he’s surprised me actually. I expected him to be a lot worse.’ And that’s all Shane can manage to say. He chances a glance upwards to find both of his parents staring at him.

‘What?’ He asks, put out by the intensity of their gazes. His father only smiles, shrugging and waving his hands placatingly.

‘Nothing, we just,’ His dad lets it trail off, looking to Yuna for help which she readily gives. ‘We’re just glad it is going well.’ His parents share a loaded look and Shane watches them suspiciously. What the hell was that?

‘Yes, well that doesn’t mean I’m going to say yes to the marriage. There’s still time.’ Shane says haughtily, arms crossing. He doesn’t know why he’s pushing back on his parents well wishes, but he is. He is also stubborn - he blames his mother for that. His mother smiles knowingly, and his dad laughs. Shane scowls at the reaction.

‘I’m serious!’ He insists, and David begins eating a shortbread biscuit cut in the shape of a flower to hide his smile.

‘Well I’m glad. The same can’t be said for his family, however.’ His mother drawls, taking an unimpressed sip of her tea. Shane’s head shoots up at the comment.

‘What does that mean? What about his family?’ Shane says it so quickly it all comes out in one breath, concern piquing at the insinuation, anxiety racing like Taiyo across the fields.

‘It’s nothing Shane, your mother just wishes the King and his heir were as agreeable as your fiancé.’ David placates with steady hands.

Shane leans forward in his seat. ‘Are they causing problems? What kind of problems?’ But then he catches the other thing his father said and cuts him a glare, ‘He is not my fiancé!’

David only smiles, failing to suppress a laugh at Shane’s outrage. Yuna taps the table with a single finger to regain his attention with a level look. ‘No, they just have ideas on what they want out of the marriage. Ideas that will not be happening, which they’ve been informed on. They like to forget they are the ones we are doing a favour.’

Shane’s eyebrows crease further, mind whirring and Yuna can see the cogs turning behind his warm brown eyes. She brushes the back of her hand down his cheek comfortingly, catching her son’s concerned gaze.

‘Shane it’s nothing to worry about, okay? You just focus on,’ she can’t help but smile, ‘getting to know Prince Ilya, alright?’ Shane huffs with a roll of his eyes and shoves a shortbread in his mouth.

‘Which reminds me,’ Yuna clears her throat pointedly, hands folding in her lap. ‘To mark the spring festival’s continuation, we will be holding a ball to celebrate, and also in honour of Rozan’s visit.’

Shane immediately stops chewing, trying to speak with his mouth full of biscuit, ‘A ball?’

Yuna tuts, ‘Don’t speak with your mouth full Shane.’ Shane swallows so quickly he almost chokes. ‘A ball?’ He repeats, voice high.

Shane doesn’t like balls, never has. It’s a shame his mother doesn’t share the same sentiment, and he knows if she has anything to do with the planning - which she most certainly has - it’ll be an affair attended by hundreds, and it will be the most beautiful ball of the season. And Shane will have to go.

‘Yes,’ She replies easily, cutting a strawberry tart in half, ‘With Rozan’s presence here and the benefits we hope to make from the marriage on both sides, we need to make a statement of our support of the match. And we are in the middle of the spring festival, so it is a perfect opportunity.’

‘But we usually have the ball at the end of the festival.’ Shane says weakly, knowing he’s fighting a battle already lost. Yuna levels him with an unimpressed raise of a regal eyebrow.

‘Shane, now stop it. This is a good thing, besides you’ll have lots of fun.’ Shane very much doubts that. The idea of being squashed into the hall, being forced to talk to people he doesn’t know, making idle conversation over loud music, and being generally stared at, isn’t Shane’s idea of fun - quite the opposite.

‘And it’s a masquerade.’ Yuna says with glee, clapping her hands once in excitement. David smiles over the top of his teacup.

Shane stills from wallowing in his sorrows, snapping his head to his mother. ‘A masquerade?’ Shane feels like a parrot this afternoon.

‘Your fathers idea, actually.’ Yuna says proudly, grabbing David’s hand as she turns to Shane, babbling away. ‘I’ve already had an idea for your costume, it will be wonderful. Everyone wearing masks, who knows who will be going as what - that’s the fun!’

Shane sits there silently, stewing away in his mind. A masquerade? He’s never been to one of those before. Although if no one knows who he is, then maybe he could get away with not talking to anyone, fall back amongst the crowd and lose himself amongst the masses. Except he knows that his mother will not have chosen something for him for it to go unnoticed and unacknowledged. She never does anything in half measures, especially when it comes to her son. Shane’s stomach twists with nerves, undecided whether to be excited or terrified at the idea of it. He wonders what Ilya will be wearing, and if Shane will be able to spot him. Not that that was important, it wasn’t. Not at all.

‘When—when is the ball?’ Shane asks, fingers playing with the edges of the tablecloth.

‘In two days time, oh it will be fantastic—,’ Yuna rambles on but Shane is no longer listening.

Two days. God help him.

It’s the day of the ball when Shane sees Ilya again, though he hears him first. It’s the day before the ball, and there are people everywhere, Yuna is everywhere. Yet even amongst the festivities and the courtship, Shane still has princely duties to attend to - one being his language lessons. He was a talented linguist, but it was still good to sharpen up on the skills by pouring over untranslated scripture, and if more of them were in the language of Rozan than in previous lessons, no one had to know about that. Shane had spent the better half of his afternoon trying to get his tongue around the hard and soft consonants, and he was getting a little better, although it still gave him a headache. He tells himself that the only reason he’s trying so hard now is because it’s important for the heir to know the language of one of their neighbours, not because of Ilya. Absolutely not.

Shane had begun walking along the open corridors lining the centre courtyard, arms full of scrolls when he heard the clash of metal. It wasn’t unusual to hear the clang of swords there, the courtyard being used for training sometimes, usually one to one, usually with Shane standing in it. It didn’t usually entail anyone else doing it, especially not with the day so busy and the Rozan envoy present.

So the sound had Shane’s head whipping to follow it, stopping in his tracks as his jaw drops open against his will. Ilya stands in the centre of the courtyard, swinging a sword in his hands, shirtless, sweat glistening along the ridges of his chest, curls sticking to his forehead as he smirks at his opponent - a poor trainee holding a shield as target practice. The sight of Ilya half naked has Shane swallowing hard, blinking a few times to make sure what he was seeing was in fact, real.

And yet a topless Ilya remains. And it seems Shane isn’t the only one that stands there gawking, the servants running past with piles of linen and buckets, almost tripping over themselves to stare. Shane quickly shuts his mouth in embarrassment, trying to look away but spectacularly failing. The image was hard to pretend not to notice, Ilya’s form - naked or not - demanded attention, much like his eyes, or his sharp smile. Or his laughter, like the way he was at the lake.

‘Shane?’ The prince jerks at the sound of his name, almost dropping the scrolls bundled in his arms to look at Hayden’s unimpressed look. He realises he’s stood by the archway, gawping at the topless man wielding a sword like it’s a feather. Shane clears his throat loudly, the tips of his ears a fierce red as he avoids Hayden’s look to continue walking. Although the feat is incredibly difficult when that means walking right past the man haunting his dreams, without his shirt on, who currently looks like something out of a picture book of legend. It was unfair, it was inappropriate to be in such a state of undress in public when anyone could see him. Not just Shane. It was almost like Ilya was gloating about his physique, all hard edges and smooth, freckled skin. And Shane was not staring, not at all, his eyes were firmly focused ahead of him, chewing on the inside of his mouth to keep focus as the clashing of sword against a shield became louder.

Shane had almost made it past, Hayden by his side huffing at the sight, mumbling a ‘What an ass,’ which Shane does not respond to, when Ilya notices him.

‘Your grace! Care to join me?’ Shane freezes at the shout, as does everyone else in the immediate vicinity. Shane doesn’t want to look, he tells himself, but Ilya is calling him and it is rude to ignore it, especially when everyone can see. Slowly, he turns on his heels, fixing his eyes pointedly on Ilya’s face, but he can’t help but drop his gaze to the muscled chest, the gold crucifix resting between his pecs, his eyes drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

When he looks up again, Ilya is already smirking, walking closer and swinging his sword playfully, like a child does with a stick. Shane realises that Ilya has a boyish look about him like this, bouncing with glee, sharp pointy thing in his hand. His eyes are electric blue, shoulders relaxed.

Shane sticks out his chin, gaze hard to try to make a point of not being impressed by his half naked appearance. ‘I don’t particularly find the idea of hitting a sword against a stationary target intriguing enough for me to join, but thank you.’

Ilya simply grins, now standing in front of Shane, chest heaving slightly from his exercise and Shane is forced to look at him up close now. The way his blue eyes are lighter in the afternoon sun, the slight rosiness to his cheeks, his very naked chest radiating heat to match the redness beginning to rise to Shane’s face at the proximity.

‘I agree, in fact I’ve been hoping to find a sparring partner worthy of my time.’ Ilya says nonchalantly, eyes skirting over Shane and the scrolls in his hands in interest.

Shane fidgets with the bundle in his arms, limbs slightly aching from keeping his arms up for so long. He doesn’t know why he has so many, Hayden is laden with them too.

‘Really? That’s nice.’ Shane answers simply with a raised brow. Ilya nods agreeably, pointedly ignoring Hayden staring daggers at him by Shane’s side.

‘Yes, it is. Except he is carrying all these boring scrolls.’

Shane rolls his eyes, mouth opening to bite back at the carrot dangled in front of him. ‘These are educational scrolls on the-,’

Ilya cuts him off immediately, ‘-on the art of being very good crown prince, yes I know.’ Shane splutters in response.

Ilya fixes him with wide blinking eyes, a feigned innocent pout on his face. ‘Let your donkey carry your scrolls, so you can spar, yes?’

Shane can feel Hayden drawing closer at being called a donkey, eyes narrowing. Shane cuts in before Hayden snaps back, ‘Well the donkey is currently inadequately dressed to take my reading back to the archives.’ Shane finishes with an icy smirk and Ilya’s pout widens into a grin, muscles flexing beneath his skin at the comment.

The man cocks his head, watching Shane appraisingly, and Shane would think he was sizing him up like one does before a fight, but he knows Ilya has already traced the shape of him so many times already. Ilya is just staring because he wants to, and because they both know nothing that Shane does would stop him.

‘I think you prefer me inadequately dressed, I enjoy when you look at me.’

Shane’s gaze hardens into a glare, hearing Hayden choke besides him. Shane turns sharply to dump his scrolls into Hayden’s arms, the other man stumbling and struggling to peek over the top of them but Shane doesn’t notice. He’s determined to wipe that stupid smirk off Ilya's face, and maybe smush his face in the dirt at the audacity of saying such a thing in front of other people.

‘You know what, fine. But I’ll be keeping my shirt on.’ Shane barges past him, deliberately knocking Ilya’s shoulder hard as he steps into the courtyard. One of the trainers goes scrambling to retrieve his sword.

Ilya practically skips back over. ‘Aw why not? It will be nice treat.’ He sings, Shane removing his leather tunic to only be in his loose white shirt, ignoring Ilya’s cheeky wolf whistle. Ilya watches the way the material falls softly against the muscular curves of his shoulders, the slight spring breeze sending the material clinging to the curve of his waist as Shane turns to unsheath his sword in one grand swoop.

‘Your nice treat will be me not embarrassing you so much that you can still show your face in the palace.’ Shane punctuates his sentence by pointing the sword in Ilya’s direction, stance strong, before swinging it in his hands to warm up his wrist. Ilya licks his lips at the sight, smile darkening and eyes lighting up in interest.

‘I think you like my face too much to never see it again.’

Shane turns suddenly, darting forward to raise his sword towards him and Ilya swiftly sidesteps as if he’s taking a stroll in the gardens. They both smile menacingly at each other, Shane coming to a stop a few paces away opposite, turning his sword in the light of the afternoon sun.

‘Was that you trying to hit me?’ Ilya tuts teasingly, dragging the tip of his sword along the ground, ‘We haven’t even officially started. It seems you also like to cheat in swordplay as well as riding, no?’

Shane only smirks, ignoring the jab to glance up at Ilya with a satisfied look. ‘Not quite. I was simply testing your reflexes, they aren’t very good it seems.’

And that’s when Ilya feels warmth above his eyebrow. The nick Shane had left now collecting droplets of ruby blood at the cut and Ilya raises a hand to feel it in surprise. His eyebrows raise playfully as his fingers come back red, rubbing it between his fingertips, lips parted on an amused huff, eyes darting to lie heavy on the man across him.

‘If you wanted to mark me as yours, all you had to do was ask.’

Shane huffs amusedly, rolling his eyes, ignoring the zing of heat travelling down his spine at the idea of Ilya being his. ‘Who says I want you as mine?’

Ilya’s grin sharpens to that of a wolf’s eyeing up its dinner. ‘It does not have to be said, I already know it to be true.’ Ilya wanted to continue, to tell Shane that he too was his, but that would be too much, too fast, too public. And he was never good at tempering his emotions down, not when it came to something he wanted. And Ilya knew what he wanted, he knew it from the first time he laid eyes on the man in front of him who carries his sword like it weighs nothing and is beginning to blush so prettily at Ilya’s bold words.

‘Shut up and put up your sword.’ Shane snaps, ignoring Ilya’s words to level him with the point of his sword, settling himself into position. Ilya follows with a smirk and they begin to circle each other, watching the others every move. Servants pause in their hurrying to stare, some even setting up in clusters around the courtyard to watch. It wasn’t everyday you say the good Crown Prince, Hollaith’s beloved morning flower, demonstrating fealty to his other name - the golden sword. Especially against a man so equally matched, so equally feared. Shane’s prowess in the battlefield was always outshined by his devotion to duty. Not today.

Neither of them move at first, simply levelling each other with a playful smile and an expectant raise of a brow. And then Ilya shifts forward, quick as a cat, to gently tap at Shane’s sword as if teasing, both twisting to swap positions on opposite sides of their circle.

‘Is it true your sword is called sweet morning?’ Ilya asks, as Shane’s eyes never leave his, narrowed and calculating - so far from the sweet Prince he has come to know over the past week. Shane swings then, and Ilya blocks it easily. Both Princes simply playing with each other.

Shane never ceases his watchful gaze, ‘Yes,’ tilting his sword to have the afternoon light glimmer on the engraving at the base of it - a sun.

‘Why?’ Ilya jumps forward and Shane blocks it, swinging to the side and twisting to face him again. Shane huffs out a laugh as he fakes a left.

‘Because those who fall on it will cease to feel again the sweet breath of morning against their eyelids.’

Ilya grins as their swords clash together, ‘How poetic.’

‘Thank you,’ Shane says with a drawl, before levelling Ilya with his eyes teeming with challenge, and then the fight begins. They duck and fake manoeuvres, metal clashes together loudly, scraping off the side of each other’s blade like teeth trying to bite.

Dust kicks up around their feet as they dodge each other, and a glimmer of sweat breaks out against both men, both equally matched and with each swing of the sword to meet the other, the tension crackles with electricity. Shane can feel it buzzing against his skin, not being able to help the smile that breaks out with every blocked hit, every swing of an arm, as he loses himself in the rhythm of finally playing against someone capable of not letting him win immediately.

It’s when their swords meet in the middle in a cross, chests almost pressed together as they gaze at each other, heaving breaths that Shane speaks again. ‘Tell me, what is the name of yours? I can’t remember.’ Ilya’s eyes darken, smirk sharpening at the edges of his mouth at Shane’s poor attempt to rile him up.

‘Oh I think you know its name, sweet prince.’ Ilya’s teeth look sharp in the sunlight, as he uses the position to draw Shane closer, but Shane strengthens his stance so only his shoulders tilt slightly. ‘Hunger.’

Shane barks out a laugh, kicking back to untangle their swords as they circle each other slowly. ‘Why am I not surprised?’ Shane twists suddenly to barge his shoulder against Ilya’s to send him stumbling slightly, jabbing the heel of the sword handle into his ribs as he passes. Ilya grunts softly at the impact, before spinning to face him, utterly delighted.

‘Tell me,’ Shane begins with a cheeky smile, ‘Are you ever satisfied?’ He punctuates his question by crouching low and swinging his sword up for it to be blocked at Ilya’s ribs, before moving past him as swift as the wind that dances across Ilya’s naked chest.

Ilya licks his lips, ‘Never.’

And they dance, swords clashing, Shane’s shirt beginning to stick to his back with perspiration, Ilya’s chest slick with it. Both smiling, both bodies humming with energy, with challenge. And people stop to watch as the two men spar their way around the court, and Ilya’s chest, for the first time since he learnt to wield a sword, feels inexplicably light. It’s when their swords meet again in a level cross that Ilya uses the hold to draw Shane closer and it sends the man almost flying into him, feet skidding against the ground as his eyes widen slightly in shock as Ilya’s lips come to rest inches from his.

‘Tell me,’ Ilya repeats Shane’s previous words back to him, ‘Do you feel the hunger too?’ He speaks it softly, but the darkness lurking behind the words are undoubtable, and Ilya begs for Shane to admit it. To speak of the hunger both of them feel begging to be let out, and Ilya wants to see the prince, for once, crack like he’s seen him threaten to. Perhaps it’s cruel to taunt him so openly, but Ilya was a greedy man and that moment in the alcove in town had allowed him to see a glimpse beneath the armour. He almost wished he had kissed Shane then, but whilst Ilya was greedy, he was also patient. He hadn’t waited this long for it to be a hasty thing, no, he wanted it to last.

Shane blinks at the question, lips parting in shock and Ilya’s heart races in his chest at the idea of Shane answering it truly, but then Shane’s eyes sharpen in mischief - an unusual sight.

And then a leg was hooked behind Ilya’s, Shane pulling behind Ilya’s knee with a sharp tug that sends Ilya crashing to the floor, back breaking the fall with a grunt, sword flying out of his hand to land in the sand. Ilya looks up in shock, pupils dilating as Shane stands above him with the sun at his back, grinning with raised eyebrows.

‘Seems you need to focus more on distractions.’ And the taunt is so unlike the Prince Ilya has come to know, that it has his lips parting in awe, a startled laugh bursting from his chest.

Ilya’s eyes flash and he swiftly rises into a crouch, picking up his sword to look up at him, teeth bared in a smile. Shane clearly had no idea what kind of distraction he was.

‘Indeed.’ And they were at it again, and Ilya thought fleetingly that with every clash of their swords, at every pull of Shane’s lips that twitched into an adrenaline infused smile, he could happily spar with him forever. He wouldn’t need anything else. All thoughts of his father, his brother, the pressures of his kingdom were swept away with each step of their feet as they dodged each other and thrust forward.

Shane looked beautiful like this, in the throes of a challenge, his brows furrowed in concentration, the flush from their sparring across his cheeks and freckles, the muscles beneath his shirt moving with every block, with every attack. He was every inch the Prince people spoke of, and it had Ilya’s heart soaring like a bird flying from its nest. It was unsettling, to think how easy Shane had him feeling things, especially with such ease. It also had Ilya’s blood burning hotter, arousal curling around his cock. Looking at Shane was addicting.

Being both so evenly matched meant their fight carried on longer than most, both panting under the watchful gaze of the gathered audience on the fringes of the courtyard. The afternoon sun bounces off the silver of their swords as they again meet in the middle, weapons raised high. The position has them again, crashing into each other, heaving chests pressed against each other, legs almost tangled from where they stand. Their noses almost touch, sweat making their skin look wet in the sun. A trickle of it makes a steady path down the side of Shane’s temple and Ilya has an urge to lick it up like it’s water.

‘Do you give in?’ Shane pants out, biceps flexing as they both push against each other, metal vibrating with their efforts. Ilya grins wider, nudging closer so the tips of their noses brush.

‘For a kiss, I will.’ And Ilya mutters it softly, unheard to the eager audience surrounding them, but Shane does. His eyes flit between his in trepidation, as if he doesn’t quite believe him, but wants to. Yet the rejection from town still lingers and Shane thinks for a moment that Ilya is once again teasing him, not truly meaning it. But there is a buzzing beneath Shane’s skin, and perhaps it is the adrenaline from the fight that has Shane almost wanting to say yes. To test Ilya, to see if he really means anything he has said or done in the weeks of getting to know each other.

To see if he felt the way about Shane that Shane thinks he does. But metal slides against metal momentarily to draw Shane back and he refocuses his gaze to try and appear unbothered. Because Shane shouldn’t care about what Ilya feels about him, he shouldn’t. And yet a small part of him does, a need to know. Because knowing would make the idea of deciding on marriage so much easier - which was the sole reason for this in the first place, something Shane kept forgetting. That if Shane said no, Ilya would disappear back to Rozan and it could lead to war, or a military intervention of some kind if Rozan continued to misbehave. It was easy to forget that, when the man in front of him sent the world falling about his ears to only leave him standing there.

But instead of voicing any of this, Shane simply says, ‘That easy huh?’

Ilya’s eyes flash with something dark, pulling at the edges of his eyes and Shane blinks in surprise.

‘Oh you have no idea.’

Ilya’s words only serve to provoke the hot compressed air between them and Shane can feel panic fluttering in his throat suddenly, feeling too exposed with so many eyes watching them, self awareness bleeding into his body like an open wound. Ilya watches him carefully as Shane finally draws back, slowly - like trying to back away from a predator. Ilya draws back too and their swords slide against each other to drop to the floor.

Ilya stands there watching him, trying to catch his breath but struggling because looking at Shane has that ability failing. The sun catches in his dark hair, and Ilya has to swallow harshly. Shane finally speaks, breaking the tense silence as they stare each other down.

‘You fought well.’ Shane nods towards him, trying to scramble back to the good sportsmanship he remembers for the sake of ignoring the tension simmering between them, cresting dangerously.

‘You are worthy opponent.’ Ilya replies and Shane looks at the ground for a moment before catching his gaze again with a strained smile.

‘You too.’ But Ilya doesn’t smile back, a heat in his eyes that has Shane wanting to run but also roll over. That thought alone has Shane’s gaze turning skittish, clearing his throat to look elsewhere.

‘Well,’ Shane begins, ‘I should be going.’ And he picks up his sword to perch it on the armoury rack not far from them, trying to ignore the burning sensation of Ilya’s gaze following him.

‘I will see you later then.’

Shane spins around fast, heart stumbling. Later?

‘What?’ He says quickly, and Ilya’s lips twitch in a smile, bare chest wonderfully shiny with sweat in the light, the moles dotted on his skin like constellations, blood crusting at the small cut above his eyebrow, the mark Shane had left.

‘The ball.’ Ilya watches in delight as Shane’s eyes widen and his mouth forms into an ‘oh’ as the realisation sends a shadow over his eyes.

‘Oh right,’ Shane shifts his weight, ‘yes of course. The ball.’

The ball. That horrendous thing his mother had planned, with Shane dressed up like something ridiculous and having to converse with people he doesn’t know whilst tugging at the collar to let some air in. And Ilya would be there. Shane had almost forgotten about that particular fact.

At least Shane would know one other person he doesn’t exactly mind conversing with, if Ilya didn’t ignore him.

Ilya nods once, ‘Yes, the ball.’ He swings the sword in his hand absentmindedly as he watches amusedly as Shane tries to keep his gaze on his face. The man was not as subtle as he clearly thought he was.

‘What will you be wearing?’ Ilya asks, taking a casual step closer, fingers grazing the smooth edge of his sword to try and seem nonchalant.

‘What I’ll be wearing?’ Shane parrots back with a frown, not understanding the question. Ilya smirks playfully.

‘Yes, so I can spot you. It is a masquerade, is it not?’ Ilya leans closer to see Shane’s fingers twitch against the material of his trousers out of the corner of his eye.

‘The whole point of a masquerade is to not know who anyone is, isn’t it?’ Shane asks innocently, doe eyes wide and it sends Ilya’s heart flipping. Ilya hums in agreement, nodding easily.

‘Yes, but I want to know how to find you.’ Shane doesn’t notice the possessive catch of Ilya’s words, the way his blue eyes watch him carefully, muscles twitching with the restraint of not reaching out to touch him.

‘Why would you want to do that?’ Shane asks with a suspicious glance.

‘Perhaps I want to dance with you.’ Ilya replies smoothly, and Shane huffs out a laugh, rolling his eyes.

‘I don’t dance.’

‘I am a good teacher.’ Ilya purrs, and Shane fidgets, trying to scoff and ignoring the heat of Ilya’s presence that is sending a shiver down his spine.

‘So?’ Ilya prompts at Shane’s silence and the man blinks back at him.

‘What?’

Ilya huffs out a laugh, a fond smile breaking. ‘What will you be wearing?’ He repeats gently. Shane shrugs, playing with his fingers.

‘I don’t know, whatever my mother has picked out. Hopefully not anything too outrageous.’ Shane replies, eyebrows furrowing lightly as he thinks as to what Yuna could possibly be thinking of putting him in. He really hopes it isn’t anything too flashy, that would be mortifying.

Ilya watches him intently. ‘So a surprise then.’

Shane laughs properly then, looking at Ilya. ‘Yes, I suppose.’ A beat passes. ‘What about you?’

Ilya rocks back on his heels. ‘Me?’ Shane rolls his eyes at the deliberate attempt to ignore his question.

‘Yes, you, what will you be wearing?’ Shane crosses his arms as he waits for Ilya to answer and the blonde haired man flashes a toothy grin, coming so close that when he speaks, his breath fans across Shane’s face like a gentle caress.

‘Oh, something outrageous.’ Ilya doesn’t wait for his reply, brushing past him deliberately to feel Shane’s shoulder knock gently against his, the curls of his hair tickling the shell of Shane’s ear. Shane blinks as the words settle, a flush spreading from his chest up to his neck, and he wants to blame it on the exercise, but the intimate curl of Ilya’s words has Shane’s body reacting with unresolved heat.

‘I feel ridiculous.’

Rose slaps his arm lightly, ‘Stop it, you look lovely.’

Shane levels her with an unimpressed glare, arms spreading to enunciate his point with a flat voice. ‘Rose, look at me. I look like I’ve sneezed out a flower bush.’

Rose bites her lip to not laugh. Shane stomps his foot, whining. ‘Don’t laugh!’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’ She laughs, fixing a stray strand of Shane’s hair to curl against his forehead. ‘But I mean it, you do look lovely - ravishing in fact, like the nymph you are meant to be.’ She steps back to admire the scowling prince who stands there like he’s being held there at knifepoint. Which maybe he is, considering his presence at the ball is technically mandatory seeing it is being organised by his mother.

‘This is stupid.’ Rose rolls her eyes at Shane’s complaint as she turns to find his mask.

‘No it isn’t. Stop whining.’

‘I’m not whining, I’m stating a fact.’

‘Stop being a smartarse.’ Rose says with her back still turned, delicately picking up Shane’s mask and petting at the flowers stuck to it.

‘I’m not going, I’ve decided. You can tell my mother I’m ill.’ She turns to roll her eyes, Shane frowning at the floor, scuffing his boot against the tile in a strop.

‘Shane,’ Rose tries placatingly but the prince cuts her off, anxious rambling tumbling out of his mouth.

‘I don’t even know why it has to be a masquerade in the first place. What’s the point? Why can’t we all just do something normal, like a tea party, or just not a ball at all. I look stupid, everyone is going to laugh.’

Rose reaches him and sets his mask down by the long mirror Shane stands with his back to, resting her hands on his arms. ‘Shane,’ she begins again soothingly, rubbing her hands up and down to try and calm him down. Shane looks up at her begrudgingly with an upset pout.

‘What is this really about?’

‘I don’t like masquerades, that’s all.’ Shane shrugs, gaze avoiding hers.

‘Shane,’ Rose drawls knowingly and he huffs, trying to wiggle his way out her grip but she tightens her hands on his arms. He looks up at the ceiling, squeezing his eyes shut, nose scrunching. Rose’s eyes soften in concern at the struggle on Shane’s face.

‘I just—I don’t know. I feel weird, and wearing this,’ Shane flicks a finger against the shiny slip of fabric curling from his shoulder to his wrist in a spiral, the purple and silver colour of it shimmering in the evening candlelight, ‘doesn’t help.’

Rose frowns, squeezing Shane’s shoulders to make him look at her, which he does, hesitantly. ‘Why do you feel weird?’ And at Shane’s fidgeting, something clicks into place.

‘Is it because of I-,’ Shane hastens to cut her off.

‘No!’ But the blush marking the tip of his ears tells her otherwise, she quirks an eyebrow playfully, her smirk knowing.

‘How do you know what I was going to say?’

Shane stares down at the floor, fingers playing with the bellowy sleeves of his tunic, the gentle sigh of the fabric against his skin, soft as whipped butter. It was nice, not suffocating like clothes often were, the fabric of light purple and white rippling together like water, how it dipped to reveal a slither of chest, cinching him in at the waist slightly to show off his curves, accentuated with a delicate silver chain. Shane felt delicate, pretty, and as Shane thought of the word he couldn't help but think of Ilya’s deep timbre.

‘I didn’t.’ Shane mumbled, inhaling the sweet scent of flowers. Rose tapped his chin once and he looked up, her gaze sympathetic. ‘I thought you two were getting along?’

Shane exhales sharply. ‘We are, he’s just,’ Shane waves his hand in the air uselessly as Rose looks on questioningly. ‘Annoying.’ Shane finishes lamely.

Rose can’t help but smile, ‘Annoying?’ Shane’s scowl deepens.

‘Yes, that’s what I said.’ At Rose’s silence, he huffs, annoyed. ‘What? He is.’ And Ilya was annoying, the most annoying man on the planet. So much so, he plagued Shane’s thought day and night - which was, annoying. Shane can’t concentrate, and it was all Ilya’s fault.

Ilya was other things of course, but that didn’t need to be said aloud. Especially not to Rose, who was looking at him like she knew exactly what he was thinking but refusing to say.

‘Shane, I love you, but,’ Rose tilts her head to look at him, ‘you are an awful liar.’

Shane slaps her hands off him to twist on his heel to look at himself in the mirror with a frown. He stares at himself, shoulders wiggling in discomfort. Rose appears behind him, eyes soft and hands cradling his elbows.

‘I’m not lying.’ Shane tries to argue but it falls flat, and he catches Rose’s gaze in the mirror nervously. She frowns.

‘Shane, it’s okay to like him, you know? I’d say that would even be encouraged, considering the whole you know, marriage proposal.’ Rose hedges carefully, trying to sound nonchalant, to not push too hard too suddenly, because Shane was skittish by nature. And she knew that right now, they were toeing a fine line, a line that Shane very clearly was dying to acknowledge but was too scared to. And the fear in his eyes made Rose want to hold him and rock him like a mother does a child, to protect him. But to protect him, was to protect Shane from himself, and she couldn’t do that, not this time. Because looking at the shy, anxious prince who is clearly troubled, had Rose realising that this was the closest they had ever come to Shane admitting he wanted more from life than the rules he doggedly lives by.

‘I know that,’ Shane says quietly, words fragile, ‘but I don't—I always said I didn’t like him.’ And Rose wants to roll her eyes fondly at Shane clearly having trouble with his change in feelings, as if it wasn’t allowed.

‘You’re allowed to change your mind.’ She says softly, squeezing his elbows encouragingly. Shane bites his lips anxiously.

‘But,’ Shane mutters softly, ‘I don’t know if he’s just—if he’s just teasing. He could be being nice out of duty. He could still secretly be as big of an ass I think he is.’

Rose’s eyebrows draw together at the statement, at the question of someone pretending to like Shane, especially one so evidently fond of him.

‘A person who gives you flowers is not someone who is pretending to like you.’

‘Ilya doesn’t like me.’ Shane says quickly, fingers curling into the sleeves of his shirt that hang by his wrist. Rose tuts in disagreement.

‘Shane.’ He refuses to look up, swallowing harshly, fidgeting and shoulders tense. ‘Shane,’ more insistently.

Shane dares to glance upwards, eyes wide and nervous, biting on his lip so hard it threatens to draw blood. Rose hooks her chin on his shoulder, looking at him lovingly in the reflection, hands cradling his shoulders.

‘It’s impossible not to like you, he would be a fool otherwise. Besides,’ Rose hesitates, wondering if Shane was ready to hear the truth that seemed so painfully obvious to her but apparently not to anyone else, especially to the man looking at her. Instead she settles for a softer version of it, ‘I think he does. He clearly wants to see you, he asked what you’d be wearing.’

‘He was teasing.’ Shane tries to argue half heartedly but Rose carries on.

‘Because he wants to know what to look for. He clearly likes talking to you as you do him, why else would he seek you out to annoy you. We both know if Ilya Prince of Rozan doesn’t want to talk to someone, he won’t.’ Shane sucks in a breath at that, because it was true. Ilya was known to simply cut someone off rudely and point blank tell them to go away if he wasn’t interested in conversing. His social skills always caused quite a stir.

‘And yet he talks to you. A lot. And you are both here to get to know each other,’ Rose says, watching Shane carefully as he begins to look less like a cornered lamb, ‘so it’s not a bad thing to enjoy his company, as he clearly does yours. You don’t have to think about it so hard, okay?’

Shane’s mouth twists, contemplating her words, appearing less afraid of liking Ilya with every persuasive turn of Rose’s speech. Rose tries not to sigh too hard in relief, having talked Shane down from his overthinking ledge that he so often clings to.

‘And anyway,’ Rose says with a grin, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if Ilya really did like you, look at you,’ Shane looks at her curiously as she motions to his reflection.

‘You’re handsome. You are a Prince in demand.’ Shane barks out a modest laugh, slapping her hip from behind as she unhooks her chin to cross her arms, looking at him expectedly.

‘Rose, shut up.’

‘It’s true, I don’t know why you think the idea is so proposterous.’ Shane rolls his eyes, and Rose tries not to feel the sadness creeping into the edges at Shane’s blatant lack of disbelief in how handsome he truly is. How heads turn when he walks into a room, the prince utterly oblivious. So oblivious, Rose thinks that he has no idea how much Ilya clearly likes him. But apparently that’s only something Rose has deigned to notice, and she’ll keep it to herself for now, especially when Shane looks on the verge of a breakdown at the mere suggestion of it. One crisis at a time.

Rose claps her hands, Shane’s attention snapping to hers as she turns to pick up his mask. ‘Right then, our ball awaits.’

Shane takes a moment as she faffs with untangling the ribbon of his mask to look at his reflection. His mother had dressed him as an anthusae nymph - a nymph of flowers. One of the many legends following Hollaith’s birth as a kingdom is that a flower nymph guided the first King of Hollaith to where the capital would soon build its walls. The King had followed her through the wildflower meadows, the rolling hills, across trickling streams, and valleys webbed with trees to rest beneath Shane’s feet. The heart of Hollaith. And with her presence she had blessed the land, in all its fertility and power, gracing the kingdom with her flowers. It was said the breeze still carried her song, her wandering feet lingered still through the long grass, the tips of her fingers brushing the heads of daisies as she passed.

Yuna knew Shane loved the story, had made her and David read it to him before bed countless times as a child. He used to flit about the palace gardens as a boy to try and see if he could spot her, it’s why Rose had first taught him how to make a flower crown. It’s also why Shane loved spring. More than that, he loved stories, especially those of belonging. An idea that felt so far out of reach at times. So here Shane was, standing dressed as a flower nymph. His silk shirt in twisted shades of purple and white. The fabric bunched at the centre of his back and stretched out to mimic wings, his sleeves bellowy, almost like wide petals of a flower. Bright flowers had been embroidered in places, bright yellows, daisies, green leaves fanning around them like careful hands. Rose had even weaved daisies and sprigs of baby’s breath into his hair, stuck in place with pins.

He felt a little silly, like a child, but he couldn’t help but love it. He felt like a Prince from a fairytale, like the stories he so loved to read over and over. He admired the shirt, fingers ghosting over it like he was scared to ruin it with a single touch.

Rose appeared by his side with his mask in her hands and he nodded slightly. She reached around to place it on his face gently, tying the silk ribbon at the back of his head, careful not to dislodge the flowers in his hair. The mask was a very soft, light shade of brown, stretching out to curl into the shape of a wing. It made his soft brown eyes look wider. It was decorated with real flowers, sprigs of lavender lining the edges with petals of sunflowers fanning out, leaves woven between them. The mask appeared to glitter as it caught in the candlelight.

‘You look beautiful.’ Rose whispered, and Shane smiled, this time like he meant it, shyness curling around the edges of it. ‘Thank you, so do you.’ He whispered back.

Rose smiled, winking to hear Shane laugh before fixing her own mask to her face, Shane tying it for her. She turns to him, every inch the brown hare her mask says she is, linking their arms together to make their way to the ball waiting for them.

They had arrived a little late due to Shane’s minor meltdown in his room, the ball already in full swing as they reached the open doors. Shane hesitated at the sight of it, the hall filled with so many people, the loud music, the overlapping chatter. He already wanted to leave, and he hadn’t even made it inside yet. Rose senses his trepidation and taps his arm soothingly, before dragging him along with her as she takes them closer.

Heads turn as they reach the threshold and Shane has to fight to not curl behind Rose’s tall figure, instead straightening his back and pretending to look elsewhere, unbothered. His mother catches his eye and she smiles widely, weaving her way through the crowds quickly as her gold dress sparkles. Shane realises that she is dressed like the sun, gold bands wrapped around her toned arms, a crown of suns in her hair.

When she reaches them, she pets her hands over Shane, ‘You look wonderful, just as I knew you would.’

Shane smiles shyly, ‘Thank you.’ Rose and Yuna talk but Shane is already trying to not to cringe at the cacophony of sensations and sounds rolling over him like a wave threatening to drown him. He finds his eyes jumping over faceless bodies looking for blonde curls but he realises that there are so many people here it is hard to even focus on one person, let alone trying to spot Ilya. Besides, Shane doesn’t even know what he’s wearing.

And then it’s a blur, Shane hooked on his mothers arm as Rose disappears and Yuna carts Shane about to greet people, nodding politely as his mother talks. As he walks, he can feel hands reach out to touch the flowers on his mask, the silk of his shirt and he tries to shift away subtly, hating the feeling of faceless fingers and hands touching him without asking. Like he’s an attraction to look at, to touch, and not like he is a person. Eventually, his mother lets him go and Shane skitters to the edges of the room, back to the wall, finally being able to suck in the breath that had been choking his throat since he arrived. The mask has begun to itch a little at the bridge of his nose but Shane doesn’t dare touch it, tucking his hands behind his back as he tries to discreetly wrinkle his nose to abate the feeling. Shane’s staring aimlessly around the room when he sees him.

Ilya is already staring at him, like always. With the masks, Shane should find it difficult to know if the man looking at him from across the room is Ilya, but he doesn’t. A part of him just knows. And then Ilya shifts forward, and the light catches in his blonde curls, his blue eyes sharp against the dark brown and greens of his mask. He’s wearing a deep burgundy shirt, its texture rough, stretching across his shoulders, dipping low to reveal his chest. His mask is decorated with dark green leaves. Twigs line the edges of it, two smoothed short, twisted branches jutting out to be what Shane assumes, are antlers. The brown and green colours of Ilya’s mask makes his blue eyes shine brighter. Eyes that are fixed on Shane. He notices a woman with almost auburn ringlets by his side, tall and slim, with a mask of a wolf’s. Shane doesn’t recognise her but her eyes are sharp as they land on him for a moment, lips twisting in a knowing smile and Shane reels back, as if the woman knows something he doesn’t. Ilya turns to mutter something to her, Shane watching the interaction closely, and then Ilya is leaving her side, weaving his way through the crowds.

Shane’s so busy craning his neck to not lose track of him that he doesn’t notice a person appear beside him, far too close for comfort.

A throat clears and Shane almost jumps a foot in the air, jerking back.

‘Your Grace,’ the man bows with an easy smile, and Shane forces a smile back, nodding. Shane has no idea who the man is.

‘Hello.’ He says shortly, a little embarrassed at not knowing the man’s name. The man straightens, inching closer to bridge the gap Shane had put between them.

‘Lord Farnley.’ The man says, and Shane nods aggressively, laughing nervously.

‘Yes of course, Lord Farnley. Are you enjoying the party?’ Shane asks politely. Lord Farnley - a man quite a few years older than Shane but tall and lean, brown hair and green eyes. Shane remembers he is on the council, owns a lot of farming country, unmarried, rich. Lord Farnley looks down at him with an unknowable look in his eye, gaze skirting down Shane’s body to send a prickle of discomfort across his skin.

‘Very much, you look beautiful my prince, if you don’t mind my saying.’ The man says it quietly, coming one step closer, a hand coming to trace a bundle of lavender on his mask. Shane cringes backwards into the wall, trying to inch his face away as his eyes flit elsewhere, but no one seems to notice them. The compliment is seemingly innocent, but it sends cold dread coursing through him, mouth drying in anxiety.

‘Thank you.’ Shane responds tightly, heart picking up in alarm. Shane isn’t sure where this is going, or how he is going to get out of it. He couldn’t just walk off, that was rude, but also, he was the Prince, which meant he had to talk to people. Technically he could do whatever he wanted, but Shane wasn’t the sort of person that was led by whims and wants of the moment usually. So Shane stands there, slowly shrinking backwards and prays for the conversation to be over quickly. He just wanted to be left alone.

‘It is a shame about Rozan, I can’t imagine what it must be like having to deal with such horrid company as the Prince.’

Shane’s head snaps to look at the Lord, sharply, frowning at the judgement and clear disgust in his tone. ‘Excuse me?’ Shane’s tone sharp and frosty.

The Lord doesn’t seem to notice, laughing good naturedly as his hand purposefully skims Shane’s arm, resting there. ‘I will tell you in confidence, my Prince, that I wholeheartedly disagreed with the idea. The Rozan scum are animals, undeserving—,’

With every word, Shane was slowly winding tighter and tighter, the man beside him completely unaware of Shane’s scowl deepening until he snaps. ‘Whilst I appreciate your concern,’ Shane mocks, ‘Lord Farnley, it is none of your business. I would suggest learning to hold your tongue in my presence. It is unbecoming of you.’

Lord Farnley’s eyes stutter wide in shock, mouth parting and he reels back slightly at the venom in Shane’s tone as Hollaith’s morning flower shows its thorns. ‘My Prince, I did not mean offense—,’ he tries weakly in a panic but Shane has no patience for wallowing.

‘I do not care what you meant Lord Farnley. Was there anything else you wished to discuss?’ Shane bites out the words around gritted teeth.

Lord Farnley opens his mouth like a goldfish before they are both cut off by a voice to their right, the sound of a deep rumbling timbre that has Shane almost shuddering in relief.

‘I hope I am not interrupting.’ Ilya says it with no kindness or essence of an apology like his words suggest, eyes narrowed in on Lord Farnley’s hand still clutching at Shane’s elbow. Ilya wanted to break every finger that lingered on Shane’s arm.

Lord Farnley’s shock soon turns to annoyance, mouth twisting in displeasure at Ilya’s appearance. ‘Yes actually—,’

‘I was not talking to you.’ Ilya turns lazily, but his voice screams danger, the threat underneath his words clear as day, and the look he sends the Lord with his hand on Shane has the man swallowing, hand slowly falling to his side. Shane watches the interaction with parted lips, at the sight of Ilya suddenly appearing like a mirage in front of him, the tension in his shoulders lessening slightly.

And then Ilya fixes his gaze on his, eyes tracking his body in concern as if looking for injury. Seemingly satisfied with his observations of Shane being otherwise untouched, he reaches a hand out between them.

‘May I have this dance?’ The question is gruff but Shane’s heart can’t help but skip a beat. He hears Lord Farnley splutter at the rudeness of Ilya’s interruption but Shane doesn’t hear it, attention fixed on the man looking at him. Shane reaches out to place his hand in Ilya’s, nodding mutely. And that’s all Ilya needs to whisk Shane away, grip tight as he leads them into the dancing fray, the beginnings of a song emerging. It’s a slow song, an intimate one Shane remembers being forced to learn as a teen.

‘You look pretty.’ Ilya says, eyes catching on the flowers of Shane’s mask, in his hair, as a hand goes to Shane’s waist, the other catching Shane’s in the air, enclosing their palms together. Shane looked like a fairy, unbelonging to this world, Ilya undeserving to have him in his arms. He looked ethereal. And the thought of that man touching him had something ugly twisting in Ilya’s gut, a violent itch begging to be let out.

Shane looks down to Ilya’s chest, his blush hidden by the mask. ‘Thank you.’

‘You look nice too.’ Shane says after a minute, cringing at how the words tumble out awkwardly, even if he does mean them earnestly.

Ilya smiles, looking down at Shane as they begin to move across the floor slowly, Ilya using the opportunity to draw Shane in closer, his large hand a brand at Shane’s waist. ‘Thank you.’

They are surrounded by couples, and Shane is sure people are staring, but he can’t seem to notice them, suddenly entranced by Ilya looking at him, letting himself be guided by Ilya’s firm hand near his hips to the music. Ilya is a good dancer, Shane thinks distantly.

Shane wants to talk but he isn’t sure if it’s allowed during a dance, no one else seems to be, but he can’t help it, the questions filling his head as Ilya stares down at him knowingly.

‘I can hear you thinking.’ Ilya teases as he pulls back to spin Shane in his arms gently, before tugging him back to him, chests pressed together. Shane rolls his eyes, his brown ones made even bigger by the mask’s colours.

‘Shut up.’ He tries to say defiantly but it only comes out as a mutter as they turn. Ilya smiles, leaning closer. They dance a little longer in silence, Shane trying to breathe normally with Ilya being so close, touching him so casually as he leads them in the dance. And then Shane’s lips part, confidence gathering as they move.

‘What are you meant to be?’ Which is something he’d been wondering since he saw Ilya across the room. He couldn’t figure it out. Ilya grins, looking out across the room for a moment before sharpening his gaze back to him.

‘What do you think I am?’ Shane huffs, a pout unintentionally forming on his plump lips as he looks down at Ilya’s collarbone. ‘Well I wouldn’t ask if I had an idea, would I?’

Ilya laughs, tsking softly with a fond shake of his head, fingers tightening in their curl around Shane’s waist. ‘I’m Leshy.’ He says simply, drawing them out to increase the distance between them as they separate, weaving between partners as Ilya holds his hand delicately before drawing him back into his hold. Shane’s eyebrows furrow.

‘Leshy?’ Shane trying to get his tongue around the words the same way Ilya’s accent had. ‘What’s that?’ Looking up at Ilya curiously, his eyes wide and imploring. Ilya swallows, heart picking up.

‘It is a forest spirit,’ Ilya replies, catching Yuna’s watching gaze and half formed smile before he spins them so Shane doesn’t see. ‘It is a story, from home.’

Shane immediately perks up at the words, and Ilya can’t help but smile wider as Shane’s hand on his shoulder tightens unknowingly as his attention latches onto his words. ‘A story? What’s the story?’

Ilya’s hand on his waist moves to fan at the small of Shane's back casually and Shane’s breath hitches at the possessiveness of it. ‘He is a trickster, mischievous, he changes shape to those who see him. He protects our borders, helps Rozan remain strong.’ Shane listens enraptured, lips parting in concentration, and it has Ilya continuing, wanting to keep Shane focused on him, his mouth, his thoughts.

‘He confuses our enemies, travelers who stray too far. But he protects our forests. He has never been seen, only heard by his laughter, or his singing, his whistling. He is part of the trees, the ground beneath our feet. Though he is unknown to us.’ Ilya clears his throat as he loses himself a little, he can't help but hear his mother’s voice in the back of his head repeating those words to him as a boy.

‘Wow,’ Shane breathes, and he blinks up at him so full of innocent eagerness that something dark curls around Ilya’s ribs to take and never give back, to keep forever. Ilya tries to shrug the feeling off.

‘It is only a story, a fairytale. It is for children, babies.’ Ilya looks off to the side, trying to fight the memory of his brother sneering at him when Ilya had begged for his mother to tell him the story over and over again before bed.

‘Stories are for everyone.’ Shane argues softly and Ilya sucks in a breath as he looks up at him curiously. ‘Do you believe it?’

Ilya blinks, ‘Do I believe in the story?’ His knee jerk reaction is to refuse, so used to the ridicule of believing in anything but his own failure, yet Shane doesn’t ask him in judgement, but in simple curiosity. Ilya’s gaze never leaves his.

‘I don’t know. Do you?’ Ilya holds his breath as Shane’s fingers curl into the muscle of his shoulder, thinking for a moment, the silence stretching between them for a few seconds.

‘Well with stories it isn’t always about what we think to be factually true. It’s what the story represents, how it makes us feel, what it tells the mind and the heart. It tells us what is important and what we should remember.’ Shane looks up with a serious frown, clearly having thought this through and knocking down all of Ilya’s walls in a single blow without even realising.

Ilya says nothing, flitting his gaze between Shane’s, framed by lavender. Shane hedges a shy smile, looking up through his lashes and Ilya wants to bite his doughy cheek like an apple. And Ilya has been known to not like eating fruit, which is saying something.

‘And what are you? A flower?’ Ilya asks softly, eyes tracing the silk shimmering across Shane’s chest, the petals embroidered there. Shane laughs a little thing, and it sounds like bells, shaking his head.

‘No, I’m a nymph. I’m from a story too.’ Ilya’s eyebrows raise at the answer.

‘Really?’ He drawls, spinning Shane again but doing it faster this time so Shane almost stumbles back into him, personal space a thing of the past. Ilya can’t help the satisfied smirk as Shane is crushed against him. ‘And what is the story?’

Shane hums, fingers unconsciously drawing shapes into the shirt stretched across Ilya’s shoulder. ‘A flower nymph was said to lead the first King of Hollaith to where our capital stands. She blessed our earth and our people with her flowers and her voice, some say they see her dancing in the meadows.’

Shane’s voice is fond, clearly retelling the story from recited memory. Ilya thinks of Shane as a nymph, skirting his fingers through beds of flowers, shirt falling off his shoulder to look back at Ilya from under his lashes, doe eyes watching him, beckoning him closer. Fuck, Ilya breathes through his nose harshly to try and abate the arousal threatening to thicken his cock. He clears his throat pointedly.

‘Well I think you make a very nice nymph. I would follow you also to make a kingdom.’ Ilya replies, deliberately thickening his accent around the words to watch Shane look away shyly, watching as his ears go red.

‘What do you think your story means? Are you pretty nymph leading men onto dangerous paths?’ Ilya teases softly, intrigued to know what Shane will say, wanting to hear Shane’s voice as they sway to the music. Shane looks up at him, eyes never leaving his own.

‘I think it means that sometimes you need to be led astray, to find something more beautiful and powerful than you ever imagined.’ Shane utters it softly, breath catching as he speaks, heart thundering in his ears as Ilya’s gaze sharpens. Shane ignores the heat beginning to pool under his navel as Ilya’s grip on his hand tightens. He’s not sure where the confidence came from to speak so openly, but Ilya is holding him so securely against him that all noise and overwhelming smells blur out to nothing, everything melting away to only reveal Ilya. And for once, Shane did not feel as afraid. Perhaps it was the masquerade, the fact he was dressed up as something else, his own self so far from him that he feels braver than he ever has done, because the energy between he and Ilya has been mounting since their first meeting in this very hall. And he could feel it now, crackling, a fire steadily burning and its flames licking them both with its heat. For once, Shane is willing to let it consume him just for this moment, amongst the heat of the ballroom, the different smells assaulting his senses.

‘And do you? Want to be led astray?’ Ilya murmurs it, crowding in close. Shane can’t help but look down at his lips as he speaks, blinking up at him.

‘Perhaps, I haven’t decided.’ Ilya’s eyes swirl with the challenge, a smirk ghosting his lips, knowing Shane needs, no is asking for a push.

‘I can be quite persuasive. But I only lead those willing.’ Ilya says it like a promise, and Shane’s breath catches in his tight chest, lips parted. The question in his words is undoubtable.

‘And if I’m willing?’ Shane mutters, mind whirling at the intention behind Ilya’s eyes, eyelids fluttering, body tense with the idea of it. Ilya’s eyes darken into a molten heat, tongue licking over his canines in hunger.

‘Then I will make sure you do not regret it.’ Ilya promises, and Shane can’t help the quiet gasp that slips from his parted lips and Ilya tightens his hold, fingers digging into the silk shirt to the skin of his waist. Shane tilts forward an inch and Ilya follows, but then the music stops to be filled with applause and the moment is broken. Shane retreats quickly, almost stumbling over himself, looking away and trying to prise himself from Ilya’s iron hold, looking up in shock at Ilya's refusal to let him go.

Ilya only looks down at him intensely, before letting him go slowly, hands hovering above Shane’s waist. Shane steps back, putting distance between them to join in with the dancers clapping.

‘I should—,’ Shane tries to say before being bumped into from behind, falling back into Ilya’s arms with a suppressed yelp. Ilya welcomes him eagerly as Shane’s fingers curl into his forearm, gritting his teeth. People push past them, and the world bleeds in to send Shane’s ears ringing.

Ilya looks on in concern as the smaller man blinks rapidly, tension filling his shoulders. ‘Shane?’

Shane flits his gaze up to him, trying and failing to plaster a smile on his face. ‘I’m fine, I just—,’ someone shouts boisterously and he flinches. Ilya’s frown deepens, drawing him in closer on instinct, as if to try and shield him from the noise.

‘I just hate these parties.’ He grits out in one breath, hoping no one hears him but also not being able to help the truth from tumbling out at Ilya’s gaze, held by his safe hands.

Ilya’s face hardens, flitting his gaze around the room before fixing Shane with a determined look. Without a word, Ilya seizes Shane’s hand and leads them out of the crowd with such speed and determination, Shane has no choice but to follow, Ilya having left no room to argue. He can only gaze at Ilya’s broad back as the crowds part on instinct, shouldering his way to guide Shane through it with ease.

Ilya leads them further away, slipping through a doorway hidden behind the thick curtains that Shane had explored once as a youth, and had promptly forgotten existed. He opens his mouth to ask how Ilya knew it was even there but doesn’t get a chance as Ilya comes to a door leading out to a balcony.

He makes Shane go first, shepherding him outside with a hand on the small of his back. The fresh air is a saving grace, and Shane inhales it greedily, releasing a deep sigh that he didn’t know had been building. It’s beautifully quiet. Shane makes it to the edge of the balcony, hands skirting the smooth stone to look out across Hollaith before turning at the sound of the balcony door clicking shut.

Ilya stands watching him, figure eating up the view and Shane’s fingers twist into the shirt tucked into his black trousers. Ilya thinks he looks like a little flower with the backdrop of Hollaith’s dark hills behind him, small and beautiful, waiting to be plucked.

‘Thank you.’ Shane whispers gratefully.

Ilya shrugs, coming closer. ‘No need, it was very loud,’ he reasons and Shane feels less embarrassed about being so overwhelmed, finding himself nodding along.

‘Yes, it was.’

Ilya hums in agreement, now standing so close Shane has to crane his neck to look up at him. A hand comes to tuck a strand of hair behind Shane’s ear and Shane can’t help but suck in a breath, eyes wide and watching Ilya.

‘Better?’ Ilya asks gently, watching Shane carefully for any sign of doubt. Shane shakes his head mutely, and Ilya’s questioning frown lightens. ‘Good.’

The word is gruffly spoken and Shane feels it covering his skin like a blanket. And now they are alone. Shane’s fingers twitch at the realisation.

Ilya continues to pet his hair, finger tracing the flowers on his mask. Shane feels awfully delicate under Ilya’s hands, like he’s about to break, and Ily holds him like he’s made of glass. Not like that man from earlier, who held onto Shane like he was entitled to him, and Ilya feels the jealousy burn through his skin, suppressing the urge to turn and find the man and grind his skull under his boot. Shane was too pretty to leave right now, staring up at him like he is.

‘I wasn’t expecting you to take this courtship seriously, you know.’ Shane says softly, looking up at Ilya hesitantly, fingers twiddling together in front of him.

Ilya tilts his head in question, as if what he said was funny, and Shane continues to ramble anxiously.

‘I just thought—I just thought you’d mess around, be a nuisance. Not that you haven’t been,’ Shane flings him a stern look to see Ilya’s lip twitch, ‘but you—.’ Shane stops himself, biting his lip. He didn’t want to tell Ilya that he surprised him with how nice he had been, because saying that aloud felt pathetic, like Shane was a kicked puppy begging for kindness.

Ilya traces a thumb across the freckles peeking out from under Shane’s mask, swiping it across the plumpness of his cheek as Shane avoids his gaze, silence filling between them.

‘You make me curious.’ Ilya rumbles out eventually, answering Shane’s unspoken question of why, watching intently as Shane’s soft brown eyes blink up at him. The notion of curiosity barely scratched the surface of what Ilya felt about Shane, but it was the simplest way to describe it, the least frightening, so that it wouldn’t send Shane running at just how deep Ilya’s obsession with him runs.

‘Do I make you curious?’ Ilya asks gently, trying to restrain himself as Shane’s soft pink lips part, tongue darting out to wet them, Ilya moving his hand to tilt his chin towards him. And he watches as Shane sucks in an unsteady breath, swallowing harshly.

‘Yes.’ Shane admits and Ilya smirks like a cat finding a vat of cream at its doorstep. That was all Ilya needed.

‘I want to see you.’ Ever since Shane had stepped into the hall, Ilya hadn’t been able to look away, the way his eyes sparkled beneath the mask like they held stars in them, the way he shone amongst the masses. Shane was the North Star, and Ilya had no choice but to follow him to the ends of the Earth. And Ilya’s fingers have been itching to remove his mask, to see him properly, to trace his finger against the blush that blooms so easily. To chase the feeling of having Shane look at him so earnestly with repressed want, practically begging for Ilya to break him.

Ilya’s hands come up slowly, giving Shane an opportunity to push him away, yet he does none. Ilya’s fingers untie the ribbon holding the mask at the back of his head, fingers carding through Shane’s hair gently, brushing the daisies and baby’s breath fixed in his hair as he grasps the ends of the pale purple material. It brings Ilya closer, Shane looking up at him with wide eyes and his breath hitching at the proximity as Ilya’s arms raise by his head. Ilya’s eyes never leave his.

The mask falls away, Ilya’s hands coming to catch it as it slides down Shane’s face, fingertips brushing his cheeks as he pulls it off. He sets it on the side of the balcony, Shane following the motion, eyes fixed on it as he feels Ilya pull back to look at him, so close Shane can smell the peppermint scent he now always associates with him.

‘Will you take off mine?’ Ilya says it quietly, but his voice is gruff, scratchy. It’s a simple request, but Shane understands the other question lingering beneath its depths. Shane looks up under his lashes, missing Ilya sucking in a breath, watching Ilya for a moment, the way the browns and greens of his mask make his blue eyes look lighter, more electrifying. And then he nods silently, hands coming up to smooth across the side of the mask to the back, fingers trembling slightly.

The height difference makes Shane draw closer as he reaches his hands up behind Ilya’s head, their chests touching and he forgets how to breathe, heart thundering in his ears, pointedly avoiding looking at Ilya as he fumbles for the black ribbon tying the mask together. He finds the ends eventually as he sifts his fingers through Ilya’s soft curls, undeniably nervous. He already feels like he’s teetering on a knife’s edge, and all he’s doing is undoing Ilya’s mask. His fingers fumble a little, trying to find the loose end to unravel the bow, and Shane can feel redness creeping up his neck in embarrassment at how he seemingly can’t untie a single knot without making a fool of himself.

Ilya reaches up to help him, a ghost of a smile across his face as their fingers brush, the touch burning and sending a delicious tingle down Shane’s arm. Together, they manage to untie it, mask sliding down Ilya’s nose, and Shane watches with bated breath as the strong arch of Ilya’s eyebrows are revealed, his long blonde lashes, the already healed cut from where Shane had nicked him earlier, the dusting of moles across his cheekbones, the way his eyes sharpen as they look at him, always watching him.

Shane looks down at the mask in his hands, fingers coming up to trace the edges of the thick twig fashioned as an antler on the side of it, feeling the smooth texture of the wood under the pads of his fingertips.

‘It’s beautiful.’ Shane mutters quietly to himself, appreciating the way the leaves shimmer in the moonlight. Ilya hums above him in agreement, and Shane flits his eyes up to find him looking at him.

‘Yes, it is.’ But when Ilya says it, his eyes never stray down to the mask Shane is clutching in his hands. Instead they remain fixed on him, skirting over his face as if committing them to memory. Shane can’t fight the blush emerging across his cheeks.

Shane looks down quickly, fumbling with the mask in an attempt to settle his racing pulse. Ilya’s hands come to cradle his, gently taking the mask from Shane’s lightly trembling fingers to place it with his own.

A finger comes under Shane’s chin to tilt his skittish gaze to meet Ilya’s, and Shane swallows at the intensity swirling in the blue eyes. His lips part unconsciously, eyes flitting down to Ilya’s as he nudges closer.

‘This feels like a bad idea.’ Shane whispers, mouth suddenly feeling incredibly dry, licking his lips.

Ilya’s finger under his chin moves so his hand cups his jaw, eyes lasering in on the way Shane’s pink tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip.

His voice is gruff when he responds, like the words have crawled up from the deep recesses of his throat. ‘What is?’

The heat of Ilya’s body burns through his clothes, and Shane forgets what he was going to say, words getting lost on his tongue as he looks up at Ilya almost helplessly. His fingers come to curl into the sleeves of Ilya’s tunic, desperate to cling onto something as he feels any sense of mind beginning to drift away with how close Ilya is to him, looking at him like that.

‘I can’t—can’t remember.’ Shane mutters absentmindedly, the words spoken into the space between their lips, Shane’s eyes tracing the curve of Ilya’s cupid's bow. Ilya uses the grip on his jaw to draw his gaze upwards, and Shane’s breath hitches at the way Ilya is looking at him. He looks like he wants to eat him, and Shane wants him to, wants him to so badly.

Ilya hums distractedly as he leans in, the vibration of it rumbling from his chest making Shane’s eyes flutter closed, fingers twisting into the material of Ilya’s sleeves tighter in anticipation.

And then Ilya’s lips are finally on his. The first touch is soft yet firm, their mouths slotting together perfectly and Shane can’t help the little moan that slips out at just how right it feels, kissing back immediately. The sound has Ilya’s hand tightening its grip on Shane’s face, pulling back slightly to watch as Shane chases his lips, eyes already hazy from a single kiss.

Ilya’s hold on him has him unable to move, and Shane blinks up at him just to hear Ilya groan under his breath before crashing his lips to his, Ilya’s other hand gripping Shane’s waist to drag him closer, a stark contrast from their first kiss. This one more heady, lined with desperation and a want previously left simmering under the surface, now exposed to the cool evening air and breathed between their lips. Shane’s hands slide up Ilya’s shoulders to curl into the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging on the curls. He gasps as he feels Ilya swipe his tongue across the seam of his lips, and Ilya uses that moment to lick into Shane’s mouth filthily, claiming him with his tongue. The kiss has broken something between them, and Shane can feel it spilling out between them hungrily, having been desperate for release. It was everything Shane had imagined, and more. All the stolen moments in hidden corners, murmured in darkness or in the walls of Shane’s rooms led to this, all the dreams, the burning gazes, the lingering touches, led to this.

Shane can feel the hard stone of the balcony dig into his lower back, but he ignores it for the sake of his blood singing at the feel of Ilya kissing him so thoroughly, moaning breathily into his mouth. Ilya clutches at him desperately, like he’s afraid Shane will disappear if he lets go. Ilya uses his hold to twist them sideways, walking Shane backwards, lips never parting, so he rests against the vine-covered palace wall. Shane follows blindly, pulling Ilya into him with so much force as he collides with the stone at his back, Ilya shoots a hand out to steady himself.

Shane feels frantic, desperate, his hands scrambling at Ilya’s clothes, his hair, to fold him into his skin, whining quietly as he feels Ilya sink his teeth into his swollen bottom lip to tug on it. Shane’s chest heaves, gasping for breath as Ilya begins to trail hot, wet kisses along the sharp line of his jaw to his ear, sucking his earlobe into his mouth before kissing down his neck.

Shane chokes out a ‘F-fuck,’ mind and body overwhelmed with the onslaught of sensations firing across his skin. He can’t help but moan loudly as Ilya sinks his teeth into the sensitive flesh below his ear, sucking the skin between his lips. Shane’s hands scrabble for purchase, clinging at Ilya’s shoulders as his knees threaten to buckle at the hot swipe of Ilya’s tongue against his pulse point.

Shane has never quite felt anything like this, has never been kissed like this - with such hunger, such desperation, such desire to have him. Ilya’s lips feel like a drug, and Shane can’t get enough of it, his head filling with cotton, all ideas of princely propriety flying out the window and off the balcony to the grass below. Perhaps this is what Ilya was talking about that time in his chambers, about excess, about indulgence. And finally, Shane was beginning to understand what all the fuss was about, especially if it always felt like this. He wonders distantly why the hell they hadn’t done this earlier.

Ilya kisses his way up Shane’s throat to his swollen mouth, Shane panting into the hot air between them as Ilya seizes forward, hand cupping the back of his head to pull him in for another deep kiss. Ilya growls into it, and the sound has Shane’s cock twitching. He whines highly in response, struggling to keep up as his ears begin to ring, molten heat trickling down his spine. Shane would feel embarrassed at just how quickly he is slipping, mind drifting off to only be focused on the hands on his skin, the lips on his, the man in front of him, but he’s too blissed out to feel it. Especially when Ilya is seemingly equally affected, if the desperate kisses he presses against Shane’s mouth is anything to go by.

Ilya draws back, the line of spit connecting their lips snapping as he rests his forehead against Shane’s, breathing heavily. His eyes are sharp and heavy as they settle on Shane, and all Shane can do is blink up at him, warm brown eyes glassy with want, hair mussed from Ilya running his hands though it, daisies having slipped out of his hair and dusting the floor beneath their feet, Shane’s lips parted and panting.

‘Fuck look at you,’ He murmurs, tracing his thumb across the pad of Shane’s bottom lip, distracted by how the plushness sinks under the weight of it. He presses the pad of his thumb experimentally down harder in the centre and Shane’s lips open a touch wider on instinct and Ilya nudges the tip of his thumb in further, holding his breath. Shane sucks it into his mouth with a hum, wet tongue curling round the digit absentmindedly, eyes glazing over, his body singing with delight at the weight on his tongue.

Ilya’s jaw tenses as he has to restrain himself from bending Shane over on the balcony right there, instead watching enraptured by the sight of Shane happily sucking on his thumb, slowly blinking up at him like a deer, fingers moving from the broad edges of Ilya’s shoulders to rest against his chest. Ilya can’t help but whisper a hoarse, ‘So pretty,’ at the vision and he feels the vibration of Shane’s whine at the praise around his thumb, Shane sucking more insistently, cheeks beginning to softly hollow. Ilya wonders what Shane would look like with his cock in his mouth - probably otherworldly, and the thought has his half hard cock pulsing with want.

Ilya slowly removes his thumb, chuckling softly as Shane’s eyebrows draw together at the absence, licking his swollen lips to form a soft pout. Ilya ghosts the back of his knuckles down the side of his face, before clutching Shane’s face in his large hands and drawing him forward into another kiss, lips connecting with a wet sound as Shane all but slumps into it. Ilya pushes Shane against the wall as he licks into his mouth to feel Shane hiccup on a moan.

He can’t help but smirk at the gasp that slips from Shane’s mouth as he nudges his thigh between his legs, pressing up against Shane’s hard cock. Shane’s hips jerk on instinct, and Ilya cups a hand against Shane’s throat gently, not squeezing, just resting it there to settle him. And it works, a keen getting stuck in Shane’s throat as his hands scratch at Ilya’s chest desperately.

‘Such pretty noises,’ Ilya drawls softly, murmuring against Shane’s flushed neck, tongue tracing the jut of his collarbones. Ilya’s large hand moves from the grip on his throat to meet the other at his waist, before dragging Shane’s hips against his hard thigh, creating delicious friction against Shane’s aching cock through his trousers. Ilya swallows the choked moan that Shane lets out with a deep kiss. Shane’s head kicks back to lean against the wall behind him, panting hard, eyes hazy as he lets Ilya guide his hips to grind down against his thigh.

‘I—Ilya,’ Shane slurs out helplessly, a whine getting stuck in his throat as his hips jump faster against the hardness between them, completely forgetting the party going on in the hall beyond the doors. His mind empty except the man in front of him, and the pleasure he is helping him chase.

Ilya croons at Shane gasping out his name, mouth coming to trace the shell of his ear before whispering darkly, ‘That’s it kotenok, be a good little prince and ride my thigh, hmm?’

Shane’s eyes threaten to roll back at the words muttered hotly in his ear, dragging his cock against Ilya’s thigh more insistently, Ilya’s hands on his waist guiding him. Shane is sure he’s leaking through his trousers, impossibly wet from precum, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s glad his trousers are black. He’s never felt anything this intense before, and Ilya isn’t even touching him really, not directly on his cock. But the friction is unbelievable, and it’s like all Shane’s horniness from his wet dreams of Ilya, along with years of sexual repression and denial come crashing into him at once, dialling up his senses to a hundred to have him feeling like an exposed nerve. ‘Oh fuck, Ilya, fuck, fuck—,’

The sentence encroaches in volume with each word, Shane looking down with scrunched eyebrows as he watches himself ride Ilya’s thigh like a bitch in heat, fingers curling desperately into the front of Ilya’s shirt. He doesn’t get to finish his garbled sentence, Ilya slapping a large palm against his lips, squishing his face and pressing his head back against the vines, throat exposed.

Ilya crowds in closer, pressing his thigh in harder between Shane’s legs to hear the prince keen needily, face directly above Shane’s, eyes dark and teasing.

‘Better be quiet unless you want the whole kingdom to hear you rutting against my thigh like a little slut hm?’ He says it with a smirk, and Shane can’t help the way his hips twitch in response at the idea of someone seeing the good prince of Hollaith, their heir, being debauched against the wall by none other than Prince Ilya of Rozan. The image was filthy, and it had Shane’s skin prickling with heat, looking up at Ilya with eyes wet with overwhelmed tears.

They are both too far from the party to get caught, the balcony hidden from prying eyes, but that doesn’t stop the liquid heat pooling at the base of Shane’s cock at the thought of being discovered, and Ilya’s pupils blow wide at the realisation that Shane likes it. Even if Ilya has no plans whatsoever on sharing the view below him with anyone.

And Ilya loses it, cursing under his breath before seizing Shane in a deep kiss, dragging Shane’s cock against his thigh more insistently, muttering filthy promises between kisses to hear Shane’s breath hitch, the dark haired man muffling a sob against his lips.

‘Going to come for me like a good boy, yes?’

Shane gasps wetly, praise sending a jolt down his spine, nodding violently as he feels the orgasm hurtling towards him. ‘Y-yes, yes—,’ and Ilya cuts him off again, tongue teasing as he captures his lips in a filthy kiss, Shane’s hips stuttering as he comes in his trousers. The orgasm is stronger than any he has given himself, and stars burst behind his eyelids at the feeling, eyes rolling back, drool collecting at the corner of his lips, as Ilya continues to drag Shane over his thigh like a toy as he finishes. Shane’s hips try to twitch away at the overstimulation, breath caught on a whine as his fingers go to clutch at Ilya’s shoulders for mercy. Ilya comes to a halt, nudging Shane’s head down to rest in the crook of his neck, kissing the side of his temple as he does, the prince panting against his skin, hips still twitching occasionally and shuddering at the intensity of his orgasm.

Shane’s head feels hazy, a little numb at the edges, senses bowled over by how strong his orgasm was. And it was only from riding Ilya’s thigh, he can’t even imagine what it would be like if Ilya ever properly touched him. Shane can feel his shoulders curl inwards slightly in shyness as reality begins to seep in, realising just how needy he had just behaved, how unprincely and on a balcony outdoor too, truly debaucherous, terribly uncouth, and yet as Shane’s mind raced through all the reasons why what he just did was a bad idea, he can’t help but not really care in that moment. Maybe that can be blamed on the gentle way Ilya pets his hair, humming softly, dropping a kiss on the top of his head as he waits for Shane’s breathing to steady out, or maybe it’s because Shane has had his first taste of unrefined pleasure, and now he’s hungry for more, especially with Ilya.

Shane leans back slightly to look up at Ilya hesitantly, feeling a little awkward as he stands there with cum cooling in his trousers. But Ilya, as always, is a natural at dealing with Shane’s awkward panic. He kisses Shane sweetly, softly, and Shane immediately folds, sinking into it with a sigh. It’s when Shane nudges forward to press himself against the taller man, that Ilya groans softly into his mouth, Shane feeling the hard length pressed against his hip.

‘Oh.’ He gasps softly looking down, hands coming up unconsciously to trace a finger down it in almost wonder, and Ilya hisses, grabbing Shane’s wrist tightly. Shane looks up with wide eyes, blinking and Ilya squeezes his eyes shut to try and not combust at the image before opening them again. Shane, entranced, flits his eyes downwards to the thickness pressing against Ilya’s trousers. It’s big, not that Shane can compare it to others he’s seen (he’s seen none, except his own), and he wonders what it would feel like in his hand. His mouth unintentionally fills with saliva, mind still lingering in his post orgasm bliss as he moves on instinct, hand pushing against Ilya’s iron grip to grab it, wanting to feel it, to touch it.

‘Fuck,’ Ilya hisses under his breath, hips jerking at the feeling of Shane wrapping a hand around the length through his trousers, a hand coming to grab at Shane’s jaw to haul his gaze to his.

‘Shane,’ Ilya grits out, trying to hold onto the bare threads of his self control. He’s not sure how he was going to make it back from the balcony without defiling the doe eyed prince whilst he’s looking at him like that. Like he’s

to be ruined, the innocent curiosity in his gaze as he watches Ilya, the inexperienced squeeze at the head of his cock. ‘You don’t have to—,’ but he’s cut off by Shane’s fingers digging into the waistband of his trousers, wiggling them underneath where his shirt is tucked in. He stops the curious fingers in their path, watching with a hard swallow as Shane unknowingly pouts, frowning up at him like a little kitten he’s not letting have its treat.

‘Let me, I want to.’ Shane mumbles out around his pouting lips, fingers flexing to try and get out of Ilya’s grip but failing.

Ilya has to suck in a deep breath to get himself under control. Who knew his weakness would turn out to be a soft brown eyed man with freckles, who mewls like a kitten when he comes. A man very insistent in touching his cock, which is not usually an offer Ilya would turn down. But this was different, Shane was different, and suddenly every other person Ilya has been with barely scratches the surface, a blur in the past Ilya instantly forgets and doesn’t ever want to remember. Ilya was irrevocably and unconditionally fucked, and all he had done really is kiss the man. Kisses that felt like everything life had promised, and Ilya wanted more - forever until he died, in fact he’d be happy to die under Shane’s kisses. That’s how fucked he was.

And as Shane whines unhappily as Ilya refuses to budge, Ilya gives in, slowly letting go to let Shane dip his hand into his trousers. His forehead knocks against Shane’s with a guttural groan as Shane finally wraps a hand around the flesh of his hot, throbbing cock. He’s already so on edge it’s embarrassing. Especially because he realises that Shane is apparently fascinated by the cock in his hands, clearly they didn’t teach him enough about this sort of thing in his princely studies.

Shane fumbles with Ilya’s trousers, tugging them down impatiently and Ilya goes to help, gritting his teeth as the cool air hits his cock, precum glistening on the head. Shane swipes a thumb through it, and Ilya becomes enraptured by Shane’s expressions. Shane’s eyes blow wide like saucers, pupils swallowing up the soft brown, as he finally sees Ilya’s cock in the flesh, unintentionally squeezing round it to make Ilya moan, Shane biting down on his lip hard as he uses the wetness from the tip to ease the slow drag of his wrist down the length. Somewhere in his mind, Shane wonders what it would feel like in his mouth.

Ilya pants hotly into the space between them, and fuck Shane clearly has no idea what he’s doing, the drag slightly too much on the dry side, but Ilya doesn’t care, because it’s Shane touching his cock and it’s Shane licking his lips at the sight of his hand wrapped around it, his breathing beginning to deepen as he watches his hand slide up and down it. It's when Shane twists his wrist on the upslide that Ilya chokes on a moan, dragging Shane into a hard kiss.

Shane clearly likes the sounds Ilya makes because it makes him go faster, repeating the wrist motion and squeezing around the head. He’s a fast learner, and Ilya wouldn’t expect anything less, although it doesn’t make it any less torturous. And Ilya was already dangerously close to the edge to begin with. He feels like a teenager again at just how pent up he feels from being given a dry handjob, but Shane is so eager, such a needy little thing, so responsive to every kiss of Ilya’s mouth, to every kick of his hips as Shane slides his hand up and down his cock.

Ilya can’t help but moan out a ‘Fuck, Shane,’ into his mouth and Shane moans back, jerking Ilya off desperately, wrist twisting, and it’s when his thumb digs into the slit that Ilya cums. He moves backwards to avoid getting any of his release on their clothes but Shane refuses to let go of his cock, milking him through his orgasm with both hands. Ilya’s head falls into Shane’s shoulder as his hips twitch with the motion of Shane’s hand, coming all over his fist.

Shane’s hands eventually slow as Ilya stops cumming, releasing his grip to look down at his cum covered hand in interest. Ilya’s still breathing sharply through the aftershocks as Shane lifts his hand to his face, the air between them so heady with desire that Shane’s mind is still only returning slowly. And looking at Ilya’s cum in the glow of the moonlight and the torches above them has Shane curious. So without thinking, he sucks two cum covered fingers into his mouth, at first hesitantly swiping the tips of them, letting the salty flavour linger on his tongue before he hums in surprise at the taste, sucking his fingers in deeper.

Which is when Ilya nudges his head up, turning to kiss him when he sees Shane with his fingers in his mouth, fingers that are covered in Ilya’s cum, sucking on them like a lollipop you’d have as a child from the market. Ilya’s mouth threatens to drop open on its hinges at the pornographic display, sucking in a breath as Shane hums around them, eyebrows furrowing slightly as he sucks them harder, taking his fingers deeper into his mouth to chase the taste, and Ilya’s spent cock twitches.

Fucking hell, Ilya thinks, he’s going to be the death of me and he doesn’t even know what he’s doing.

Because it was clear that Shane hadn’t realised Ilya was staring at him, that he had been caught with his fingers stuffed in his mouth like a cumslut, chasing the taste of Ilya on his fingers. Shane was instead simply enjoying the taste of Ilya’s release, and his two fingers pop out of his mouth to trace his tongue along the cum covering his thumb, lost in it, eyes faraway. It’s when Shane has his tongue out and wrapped around the curve of the digit that his eyes flit to Ilya’s and freezes, face immediately turning a bright shade of red. Ilya watches him intently, lips parted and eyes glinting ferociously at the display.

Shane hesitates, inhaling sharply. Ilya’s eyes drop down to the thumb Shane’s licking around, with a slight incline of his head. ‘Go on, you aren’t finished.’ He says quietly, the darkness swirling under the words is undeniable and it has heat spilling down Shane’s spine and his cock twitching in response as he does as he’s told. His tongue laps up the rest of the cum on his fingers, sucking them into his mouth as his eyes never leave Ilya’s. He moans softly around his fingers as he swallows the last of it, loving the salty flavour of Ilya that lingers on his tongue like a brand. Shane releases his fingers slowly, suddenly nervous.

He wasn’t even thinking when he had sucked the first two fingers into his mouth, only being driven by the desire to know what Ilya tasted like. He realises he probably looked incredibly desperate. Maybe that wasn’t what people did, Shane thinks distantly, tasting each other's cum, especially not like how Shane just did. The thought has Shane’s eyes flitting away shyly, thighs shifting together anxiously. Suddenly Ilya’s hand is grabbing at his chin and he’s being shoved back against the wall with a growl, claiming his mouth in a filthy kiss, Ilya prying his lips open to taste himself on Shane’s tongue with a groan.

‘Fuck you’re so—,’ Ilya mutters half to himself, pulling back to stare at Shane in awe before diving in for another kiss, Shane being able to do nothing but grip at Ilya’s sleeves and moan as Ilya plunders his mouth. Ilya bites at his lip savagely, growling as he resists the urge to sink his own fingers back into Shane’s mouth, make him choke on them like he wants to.

They stay there pressed against the wall, kissing and scrabbling at each other’s clothes for a few more minutes, until Ilya eventually pulls back mournfully when he feels Shane shiver and not from desire, but from the cold of the evening biting at their fingertips. He leaves one last kiss against Shane’s red, swollen lips before taking his hand.

‘We should go inside.’ He says softly, and he knew the party was over now, considering he couldn’t hear the thunder of the drums or the high notes of the fiddle anymore in the distance. And from the way Shane looks at him, Ilya is glad of it. He’s not sure how he’d be able to get them back into the ball without making it painfully obvious what they’ve been doing. And whilst Ilya loves to see Shane so undone, that doesn’t mean he wants to share that view, especially when he’s only just managed to see it himself for the first time. So he guides Shane inside with a hand at the small of his back, steadying him as he stumbles slightly, his grip possessive, lips at his ear, speaking softly as he moves them.

So they leave the balcony, Shane with half of his mind floating there still, and Ilya’s sanity clinging to the vines on the wall, their masks left forgotten.

Chapter End Notes

writing the kiss scene had me barking like a feral dog being let out of its cage, hence the cum eating—what who said that…

also Leshy is a real figure in Slavic mythology for anyone that is interested!

 

hope we are all ready for Shane’s gay panic in the next chapter 🤓

Chapter 5

Chapter Summary

Yet he does not wish for that part, no. Ilya wishes for the part where his mother turns to him, alive, cheeks warm and eyes forgiving. He wishes for the part where Shane holds his hand, steady and solid. He wishes for the part where the two people he loves most meet, so it stops being simply a make believe memory of being loved by both to finally living in it. He wishes for the buttery feeling the dream had brought to his heart, smooth and silky, slipping through his fingers to pool around him to remain there, instead of disappearing into darkness. Ilya wishes for his mother, he wishes for Shane, and he wishes to be loved. Most of all, he wishes all three could exist at the same time without having to sacrifice one for the other.

Chapter Notes

really struggled with inspo to finish this chapter but we are here! haven’t really checked this for grammar and not sure if I want to go back in and add more detail but that can wait lol. Enjoy!

Shane, predictably, loses his ever loving shit the next morning.

But before he does, he wakes softly, curled into the warmth of his pillow, humming contendedly as he nuzzles further into his sheets, feeling at peace for once as he slowly nudges towards consciousness. He feels so relaxed, when usually he’d wake up either with a jolt or from the dregs of a filthy dream about—.

Shane sits up with a horrified gasp. Ilya.

He sits there silently for a minute in shock, mind whirling like a spinning top, before he breaks. Shane’s hands tug at his bedridden hair as he keels over into his twisted sheets, faceplanting amongst them as he muffles a horrified cry. It was all coming back to him with the harshness of when Taiyo had thrown him off to send him colliding headfirst against a tree. In fact, Shane would rather that be happening right now instead of remembering how he had behaved so—so uncivilised on the balcony.

Shane’s face was hot against the cool mattress, his fingers twisting into the sheets tightly as he curls in on himself with mortification. He had reached completion in his trousers. In front of Ilya. Because of Ilya. He had rutted himself against Ilya’s thigh until he came all over himself, and Ilya watched him. And then another memory hits him, and Shane’s horrified scream is swallowed up by the mattress.

He had eaten Ilya’s cum. He had eaten, nay licked up Ilya’s cum off his fingers like it was frosting. And what was worse, is that Shane enjoyed it. And they had also kissed, but that felt like merely a drop in the ocean besides what they had then gone on to do. On a balcony. Metres away from a party. With each other. And then Ilya had guided him back to his rooms as Shane had acted like a baby deer skating on ice, nudging him to bed with gentle words and soft lips against his face.

Shane wanted to die, he wanted the world to take him then and never give him back. He wanted his mattress to split in two and swallow him between its seams. He could never show his face again, he would have to run away with Taiyo. Forget being a prince, he was now an abomination against anything proper. Especially when Shane had clearly given what Ilya wanted, what he was known for. Would Ilya even care speaking to him, wanting to court him (if that was even the case in the first place), now he had taken his meagre fill of him? He had broken the hard shell of Prince Shane of Hollaith, something no one else had achieved. Would he ride off into the sunset to gloat? To laugh and pin Shane to his chest as a conquest, amongst his many others? For that was why the man was nicknamed the the lover’s delight, was he not? Shane wilted with shame, with sadness at the possibility that he had simply given Ilya the only thing he wanted. A part of him yearned for it not to be true, but Shane didn’t know for sure. Why else would Ilya be so interested in him? He wasn’t exactly known for his riveting conversation. Boring rang out like a church bell in his ears.

And what was worse, if anything could be worse, is that Shane liked kissing Ilya, he liked doing those things with him. He kicked his leg against his pillow to try and shove the thought away. No. This wasn’t happening. Shane slides to lie flat across his bed, face down, hands limp by his side.

This wasn’t happening - it just wasn’t. Everything was a dream, and Shane pinched himself, hard, to wake himself up. But nothing changes, he is still in his room, in the rumpled clothes of last night, flowers stuck in his hair, and with the taste of Ilya at the back of his throat. Shane swallows frantically to get rid of it but it clings to his tastebuds, and he tries to pretend to hate it.

The situation was horrific, it was abysmal, it was all spinning out of Shane’s control and clearly any sense had gone with it. Princes did not behave like that, Shane did not behave like that. And no matter what pleasure Ilya clearly brought him - the memory still has his panicking mind still going a little fuzzy at the edges, thighs unintentionally squeezing together - it could not happen again. It could not. It shouldn’t. It really shouldn’t.

Maybe it could happen a little, just a smidge.

Shane whacks his head against the bed to knock some semblance of order into his clearly, befuddled brain. No. That was a blip, a slip up of the most disastrous kind. Shane did not do that sort of thing, ever. Not that he hadn’t ever wanted to, but that wasn’t the question. This was a question of rules and regulations, propriety, expectations and duty to act accordingly. Not to act like a slut - apparently. To not act and give Ilya what he potentially only wanted. But even the thought alone felt wrong amongst the watercolours shading Ilya differently in the past weeks compared to the picture of him Shane had initially painted. But Shane was afraid, and perhaps he was being irrational, but amongst a world set by rigidity and tight lines for guidance, the idea of not understanding what he was feeling, or how he should go on, how to deal with it was terrifying. And it had Shane receding back behind the line marked in chalk now, the one he and many others had set behind him, retracing it with shaking fingers to erase where Shane had tiptoed over it.

Shane knew he was spiraling, that the walls of his chambers were slowly drawing him in like a coffin, but he couldn’t help it. Ilya always untethered him, but now he had done it to such an extent Shane was spinning out of control trying to clutch at the departing sides for safety to find none. It was only him and his mind facing each other on a rocking horse, the world blurred, and Shane’s stomach turning with the motions. What was happening to him? Where was the good Crown Prince of Hollaith? Clearly he wasn’t on that fucking balcony last night.

And it was all Ilya’s fault. Yes, Shane thought, this was Ilya’s corrupting influence. Stupid man, with his stupid smile, stupid eyes, stupid laugh, stupid cock—Shane groans loudly, shaking his head, suffocating himself against the mattress. This is why he followed rules for this very reason alone. To avoid crises such as these.

And Shane was having a crisis, he was neck deep in a crisis of his own making. Shane needed to get out fast. Who cares about anything else, because Shane was currently feeling like the world was slipping from his fingertips and in turn, any perception of himself - and that alone was terrifying, a cold trickle of dread down his spine. The only solution was to stay away from Ilya, wasn’t it? That made the most sense. Avoid the man who is causing all these frightening feelings to run amuck in Shane’s head like a whistle screeching in his ears until the month is up and say no to the marriage.

Shane couldn’t do it, he couldn’t say yes - could he? No he could not. The idea was scary, too large and too tall for Shane to want to climb over right now. His mother would understand, not that he is ever going to tell her what happened on the balcony. Ever. Shane would rather die. He’ll just have to make up an excuse, he’ll have to lie - which Shane has never been good at, but he’s going to have to if he’s going to make it out of this in one, sane piece.

He has less than two weeks left, surely it can’t be that hard to avoid Ilya. Shane sits cross legged to bury his head in his pillow. Everything would be fine. Everything would be utterly, absolutely, fine—

‘Shane, my darling—’ Rose sang as she barged into his rooms to pause at the sight of Shane shooting up from his own funeral with his pillow to look at her like he’d seen a ghost.

Concern flits across her face as she takes in the man on the bed clearly wearing his clothes from yesterday, hair sticking up in different directions, and face as white as the sheets beneath him. ‘Shane?’ Rose asks slowly, edging nearer with her hands out placatingly, ‘are you okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ but it comes out too quickly, too high pitched and panicky, and Shane snaps his mouth shut so hard his teeth clack together. He tries to pat down his hair, clearing his throat and pointedly looking anywhere but Rose. The strawberry blonde simply folds her arms with a knowing raise of an eyebrow.

‘Really?’

Shane nods, hands plumping the pillow in his lap. ‘Yes. More than anything.’ His retort is weak and paper thin.

‘Is that why you are still in your clothes from the ball?’ And Rose tracked the blush lighting up Shane’s face like a beacon of guilt, knowing that Shane, Prince of Hollaith did not go to bed without changing into his night clothes. His state of chaotic undress was a sure sign that he was hiding something.

Shane still refuses to look at her, twiddling with the ends of the pillow, trying to appear nonchalant as he shrugs a shoulder. ‘I was very tired.’ The excuse folds like a wet paper towel, sounding utterly pathetic and even Shane cringes when he says it.

Rose draws nearer to perch on the end of the bed, looking at him carefully, a hand reaching out to pat at his knee. ‘Shane.’

Shane’s grip in his pillow tightens, Rose watching it happen with a frown. ‘What happened? You disappeared from the ball.’ She hedges gently, and Shane squeezes his eyes shut, breathing heavily.

Rose’s concern grows and her lips part to carry on when Shane’s head shoots up to cry out in a garbled breath, ‘IkissedIlya.’

Rose blinks, back straightening as her brain tries to untangle Shane’s gobbledygook. She thinks she has an idea of what he just said but just to be sure, she asks Shane to repeat it.

Shane hunches his shoulders, looking like a frail little flower about to be blown away with the wind. He takes a deep breath and finally speaks again in a whisper so quiet Rose has to lean in to hear him.

‘I kissed Ilya.’

Rose leans back, eyes wide. Well this was quite a turn of events. She knew that there was certainly something between them, that was obvious, but to think Shane had kissed Ilya suggested that this ran a lot deeper than she initially thought. Especially as it had Shane, clearly, freaking out to the point he looks like he’s been dragged through a bush backwards, and one hyperventilated breath away from combusting into dust particles.

She watches as Shane buries his head in his pillow to avoid looking at her and an amused smile catches on her lips at the sight of Shane apparently thinking the end is nigh all because he snogged the guy he has a crush on. The man he is technically engaged to. Rose doesn’t really see what the problem was, but she’s found since growing up with Shane that he catastrophises things she wouldn’t have thought twice about. It's usually endearing, but now it was a little concerning.

‘And that’s a problem, because…?’

Shane’s head shoots up, scandalised. ‘The problem is that we weren’t meant to kiss at all!’

Rose tilts her head to the side to smile fondly at Shane, who stares back in bewilderment at just how calm she is at the revelation. It would be awfully nice if she matched his level of panic.

‘According to whom?’

Shane splutters, waving his arm around in the air to try and get across his point that is as tenuous as the threads holding himself together. ‘The rules!’

Even to Shane’s ears, it sounded ridiculous. But he was a man clinging onto the cliff’s edge by his fingernails, and the plummet towards self-awareness of feelings was too steep a drop to chance his luck. And he didn’t want to say what he was really afraid of being true, it felt too embarrassing to say aloud. To admit you may not be loveable, or interesting enough to sustain interest beyond a kiss.

Rose can’t help the endeared laugh that spills out, hand petting Shane’s hair as he stares wide eyed at her in disbelief.

‘Rose, you need to be more upset about this.’ He says tightly, choking the pillow in his grip. Rose reigned in her laughter to sigh loudly, nudging up the bed to cradle Shane’s face in her hands.

‘Shane, my darling, there is nothing to be upset about. Who cares about the rules,’ Shane opens his mouth to protest immediately but she races to cut him off, ‘the rules don’t apply here because it doesn’t concern matters of the heart. So you kissed Ilya,’ she raised an eyebrow as Shane flitted his gaze away. ‘The world isn’t going to end, in fact maybe it’s a good thing.’ She nudged Shane to look at her, her eyes encouraging.

Shane loosens his grip on the pillow slightly, eyes wide and unsure. ‘How is it a good thing?’ The question comes out quiet and soft, wavering on the edge.

Rose’s brows crease in sympathy at just how utterly lost Shane looks. ‘Because it helps you decide if you really like him, doesn’t it? If you liked the kiss, then that’s good, makes things easier to decide, hmm?’

‘We did more than just kiss.’ Shane mumbles downwards and Rose yanks his head up to look at him in disbelief, eyes bulging out her head, unsure if she heard him properly. Shane has the face of a mouse caught with a mouthful of cheese, a very bright red blushing mouse.

‘What?’

‘What?’ Shane parrots back, and as Rose yanks his face towards her, eyes sharpening in question he quickly bats her hands away to jump off the bed.

‘Shane.’ Rose drawls but the man ignores her in an attempt to look for a change of clothes.

Rose stands to watch as he drags a comb through his hair, swapping his crumpled tunic for a clean, folded one. ‘Shane we need to talk about this.’

‘No we most certainly do not.’ He replies tightly, yanking on his boots and positively running out the door to leave Rose staring after him in worry, but also in awe of Shane, the Golden Prince, perhaps finally tossing the coin of duty in the air and not caring which side it lands. She prays in the deep recesses of her mind that it comes to be true, as she watches Shane disappear, the door slamming shut.

And Shane does what he does best, he ignores all his complex feelings, shoving them in a tight box and flinging it off a cliff, praying it doesn’t bounce back up to bite him in the ass. Even though, this time, he kind of hopes it does bite him in the ass, or touches him again, or maybe even a kiss—Shane shakes his head aggressively. No.

Shane would rather never have to come face to face with the possibility (that was sharpening with each run of Shane’s knife of doubt over it) that Ilya did not like him at all, not in the same way Shane was beginning to like him. No, he could not. For pride was a fickle thing, but the realisation of not being good enough to fall in love with, to be liked wholeheartedly, was heartbreaking enough to not even consider the other.

Ilya, Prince of Rozan must be avoided at all costs.

Avoiding Ilya is apparently harder than Shane originally thought. Namely because his mother expects him to still be courting the man, Yuna obviously completely unaware of Shane’s inner turmoil and the events that transpired at the ball.

Considering that, Shane manages to evade Ilya for two whole days. Or one and a half. Technically. Which as a whole, is as pathetic as it sounds but it turns out Ilya is very good at being persistent in finding him and Shane isn’t very good at hiding, especially when Ilya seems to know his favourite hiding places. The little shit.

At first it was manageable, Shane telling Hayden to tell Ilya that he was unwell on the first day, that he was tired from his studies and could not have their daily walk in the gardens. He even managed to slip out to go on a ride, and he was creeping back to his room when he got to the top of the back stairs in the servants corridor to find Ilya standing at the other end, staring at him with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Shane had to swallow his yelp of surprise and horror incredibly quickly as his eyes threatened to fall out of their sockets, frozen mid-step.

Shane didn’t even think before spinning on his heel and running away like the coward he was. It wasn’t until he had his back to a wall, chest heaving with exertion and panic thudding loudly against his chest like a drum that he had the decency to be embarrassed at what he just did. He whacked his head back against the stone, the pain a welcome distraction from the mortification curling in his gut of fleeing from Ilya. Why was Ilya even using the servants corridor anyway? It seemed to Shane that the man knew more about the shortcuts and hidden areas of his home than he did. The thought was incredibly unnerving.

Shane takes dinner and the following breakfast in his room, refusing to see his parents when they knock, explaining he was still unwell, terribly infectious, that perhaps the ball gave him something. Shane hoped his illness would make his mother stop hosting the damn things.

It was later in the second day, after dinner (again in his rooms) when Shane sneaks down to the library he knows will be deserted at this time of night. He’s only been hiding away for a day and a half, and dear God, Shane was so astronomically bored. His body was itching to get out - too fearful of going on a ride in case he saw Ilya again. And he also wanted to read, he wasn’t sure what but he had no books in his room, so Shane was prepared to read anything.

He slips into the library silently and as he traces a finger across the spines of the books neatly filed away into the many bookshelves, he decides to maybe do some translation of Hollaith’s ancient mother tongue, noting the differences in the evolution of their language. Light reading, of course. But Shane needs to stimulate his brain in other ways than thinking about Ilya, because that clearly was too dangerous to entertain. So he was going to fry it with translating old scripture - it was an excellent plan.

Shane had pulled out a large, dusty leather bound book and had taken it to one of the smaller desks hidden away in a nook of bookshelves, armed with parchment, ink and quill, and two candles to help light his reading. He was halfway through his third page, leaning over the desk because he was too fidgety to sit when he heard it.

‘Found you.’

Shane yelps, dropping his quill to splatter a large splotch of ink on his parchment, ink on his fingers, the edge of the desk slamming into his lower back as he spins around to find Ilya staring at him. He looks almost bored, posture lazy with his arms crossed and leaning against a bookshelf, if his eyes did not so clearly spell out his storm of displeasure.

Shane gapes at him for a moment, eyes wide in panic, but quickly tries to gather himself, rubbing his hands on his trousers hurriedly to hide how his fingers tremble at the sight of the one man he is trying to avoid, the one man who sends a volcanic eruption of heat and feeling in his bones. So much for the plan of avoiding him at all costs.

Ilya observes him with seemingly cold indifference but his eyes narrow in on every slight motion as Shane tries to act nonchalant at his appearance, but fails.

‘You—I wasn’t hiding.’ Shane argues lamely, nudging away from the desk to mirror Ilya with his arms crossed. He juts out his chin in defiance to try and cover the quiver in his voice but Ilya’s lips only twist unpleasantly, glaring openly. Shane can barely hear anything from how loud his heart beats against his chest, and for a moment he’s worried it might burst forth to land on the floor between them.

‘You ran from me.’ Ilya states simply, unmoving.

‘I most certainly did not.’ Shane most certainly did. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, gaze skittering off above Ilya’s head. Maybe if he doesn’t look at him, he’ll disappear. He blinks a few times like he does when he’s having a bad dream, to try and wish him away, but Ilya remains.

‘Yes you did.’

‘You must have mistaken me for someone else.’ Shane retorts, wanting to whack himself for the childish argument. This exchange was not going the way Shane had hoped it would, he felt like he was regressing with every word.

‘No.’

‘Yes.’ Shane counters loudly and the fingers resting on Ilya’s bicep twitch in annoyance. Shane ignores it, like he does with Ilya’s face, looking down at his hands to frown slightly at the black ink staining the lines of his hands.

‘No. I know what you look like,’ Ilya pushes off the bookshelf to slowly stalk closer, as Shane’s head shoots up at the moment, ‘in fact, I have a very good idea of what you look like, considering I’ve seen what you look like when you come - against my thigh I may add.’

Shane flinches at the inflection, and Ilya watches it with hungry eyes as he looms closer, Shane shuffling backwards until he feels the desk at his back again, cornered.

‘That wasn’t—,’ Shane tries to say weakly but Ilya is now right in front of him, and Shane has the urge to fold like wet linen and hide under the table. Ilya cuts him off immediately, his voice tight and lacking patience.

‘Wasn’t what? Real? You believe what happened to be from one of your storybooks?’ Ilya cuts out, a hard line to his mouth, his eyes, as he stares down at him.

Shane’s mouth dries up at the proximity, lips parting on nothing but a will to speak yet not possessing the words. For Shane didn’t know what to say, he didn't know what was the right thing to utter, because this sort of conversation wasn’t covered in his tutulage. One wasn’t taught the art of having a conversation like this in Shane’s preparation to eventually take the throne. And to rely on the whims of the present, the tangy taste of emotion felt too dangerous, it was something Shane had been trying to avoid. And yet he was failing, for Ilya refused to let him cower.

But Shane had one last shot of trying, and he was nothing if not stubborn, even in the face of denying himself the meaning of true happiness, the possibility that always felt like a touch too far from his fingers, like reaching out for a dream as it slides down the sheet of the bed as you wake. A feeling he has always been too terrified to try and make stay, because he had no reason to.

Shane met Ilya’s eyes dead on to try and charter his gaze towards unfeeling to bite out, ‘What do you want anyway?’

Ilya’s gaze darkened, mouth twisting like eating something sour. He was angry, that much was clear, it was everywhere. In the lines of his body, in his eyes as he observed Shane, in the air between them that slowly began to feel like it was needling at Shane’s skin with its pin pricks of fury.

‘What do I want?’ Ilya grits out, teeth sharp.

Shane resists the urge to swallow at the sight of them, menacing like the warrior Ilya undeniably was beneath his fine tunics and golden hair. He crowds into Shane’s space with the question, and Shane’s fingers grip onto the table so hard he feels the creak of the wood under his fingernails. Shane refused to cringe under the gaze, the impression of Ilya’s body against his. For princes did not cower. So neither did Shane, even if he desperately wanted to.

‘That’s what I said, unless you’re hard of hearing.’ Shane feels wrong when he says it, and his teeth land awkwardly together as it leaves his mouth but he fights to keep his face stoic, like the statues that line the atrium near the council room. Except it is not the smooth marble that he likes to trace his fingers across, it is sharp, malformed, chiselled foolishly into a look of indifference. The emotion that Shane refuses to let bleed out catches on the corners, sharpening them into something ugly, because the idea of Ilya only wanting one thing, a thing Shane had already readily given him, was overriding everything else. The idea that Ilya did not truly want Shane.

Ilya breathes sharply through his nose, the line of his jaw sharp as he clenches it. ‘I have had enough of these games, have you not grown tired of them?’

No sweet Prince, no my grace. Only Ilya and his anger. But Shane didn’t know what exactly he had to be so angry about, why would he care about Shane not wanting to be around him for a day and a half? Shane is sure he has kissed many others, done things with many others and had never seen them again. Why does Ilya care what Shane is doing, why he ran from him? It had nothing to do with him. Shane had convinced himself of this fact this past day and a half.

So Shane’s eyes harden to match Ilya’s stoney gaze, ‘I think the only one playing games here, is you.’

Shane watches as Ilya’s eyebrows furrow slightly as if confused, and it has Shane failing to suppress a scoff, barging his shoulder to round the table to stand across from him, the hard oak a barrier between them. The distance meant Shane could finally catch his breath.

‘And what game am I playing?’ Ilya questions loudly, hands coming to lean against the wood as he tracks Shane’s every slight movement.

Shane crosses his arms, annoyance flaring at Ilya’s blatant avoidance of admitting everything Shane thinks to be true. ‘Everything is a game to you.’

Ilya huffs out a sarcastic laugh, muscles bulging as he leans forward with a storm swirling in his eyes. ‘And what game is it that you think I’m playing?’

‘You see everything as a way to win, no matter who you humiliate.’

Even when Shane says it, he isn’t sure if he believes it, but he has to. He has no other choice, or not a choice he feels brave enough to acknowledge. And it wasn’t just now, but the past had also proved that too, because Shane’s parents forget that they did know each other before they met over two weeks ago. They had known each other since they were sixteen - Shane’s sixteenth name day to be exact. And perhaps it wasn’t wise to hold onto old wounds like he had done so previously when he had been first informed of the marriage proposal, but now it was a cut Shane dug his fingers into to make it bleed again. For there was comfort in the past when the future held so much fear, so much ambiguity that it had Shane running backwards to escape it, even as it threatened to catch him by the ankles.

Something flashes across Ilya’s face, and Shane would almost say it is disappointment before it curls into an ugly sneer - an expression ill suited to the face Shane has come to know.

‘You sound very sure of yourself.’

Shane swallows harshly, if only you knew the half of it. His spine straightens to say, ‘I am yes.’

Ilya smiles meanly and Shane doesn’t like it, hates it, but has no other choice to welcome it because that is what needs to be done.

‘And what evidence do you have to support your claim?’ Ilya talks like he’s presenting a case to the high council, to an audience with the King or Queen, not like he’s talking to Shane, at least the Shane in the last few weeks. But then Shane was doing the exact same thing.

‘Have you forgotten what you did to the young Lord Barrett?’ But the recognition that flicks across Ilya’s gaze tells Shane he clearly hadn’t, but then Shane sees it shed into incredulity, before being overridden by a cruel laugh that almost has Shane flinching back.

‘Lord Barrett? Perhaps, but then he spent so little time upright than he did with his face in the dirt to remember.’

Shane scowls, his voice tight as his anger spikes, stinging him like a wasp in the softness of his belly. ‘No thanks to you of course.’

For it was because of Ilya that happened. It was Shane’s sixteenth name day and to celebrate, there was a tournament that dragged all royal and prestigious families from across the continent to compete, to celebrate, and to drink into excess. And Ilya had been there, a young golden haired boy with a constant frown but already partial to wine if Shane remembered correctly. He was there to take part in the tournament, like so many others.

And that was the year Lord Barrett’s son, Troy had expressed an interest in Shane, and Shane had never had anyone interested in him before, really. And it was his birthday, so it was always nice to have such a gift of someone declaring their interest in courting you, especially so young. It felt like a fairytale, where a shining knight declares their romantic intentions for their chosen prince or princess. So the young Lord Barrett had declared his desire to court Shane before the tournament had begun within earshot of many others, and Shane had accepted eagerly. The idea of someone wanting to get to know him had sent butterflies in his youthful stomach and his shy smile full of glee. They only had to get through the tournament, and Lord Barrett would approach his parents for their permission.

Ilya’s eyes sharpen at the response, beginning to slowly inch his way round the table. Shane watches him wearily as the man begins to speak again.

‘So,’ Ilya drawls, ‘you decide to despise me now because of some boy I beat fair and square?’

‘You humiliated him.’ Shane snaps, stepping away from the table carefully as Ilya reaches him but moves around him so Shane is forced to twist to follow, not wanting to turn his back on the man who is prowling like a lion ready to eat its dinner.

Because Ilya had. For Lord Barrett had had the misfortune of going up against the second Prince of Rozan, whose wrist swung his sword like he’d been wielding it since he was a babe - which wasn’t the most unlikely situation given Rozan’s dedication to their military strength - and a smirk that promised ill to all those that meet him. And Ilya had cut the boy down like he was slicing through butter, something soft and jelly-like instead of a person. He hadn’t physically harmed him frightfully, the rules of the tournament disallowed that sort of thing, no matter how much Ilya may have wanted to, must have been inclined to, given Rozan’s savagery in their swordsmanship. Rozan was the reason those rules had to be put into place in the first place. But he had humiliated him nonetheless, not even giving the boy a chance to fight properly. Ilya as the youth he was had simply played with him, huffing out a mocking laugh as he finally sent the young Barrett crashing to the ground, face first as he simply tripped him up.

Any good knight, or any good opponent would have let their opposition go out honourably, fighting with the sword they were given, the sword the very tournament was based upon. Instead Ilya had seen his weapon as a prop, as a toy, and had humiliated Lord Barrett all because he could. The cruelty should not have been a surprise to Shane at the time, but that did not mean he could not be disappointed, nor hold it against him all those years.

And for the humiliation Barrett had suffered, he’d been forced to withdraw his intention of courtship with a dirt smeared face and watery eyes, retreating with the shame of embarrassment branded on his back. Shane had been heartbroken, not because his feelings for Barrett were particularly potent, but because it had been the first something of anything he had the novelty of almost possessing. And the poor boy had been unnecessarily taunted, jibed at, and then shoved into submission by another who clearly had no intentions of being honourable. Purely for entertainment and because he could.

And that alone had Shane’s heartbreak sharpening, his fingers cut on its jagged edges to bleed out in anger. An anger that waxed into hatred over the years with the knowledge that Ilya had sustained that reputation into adulthood without a care, had even nurtured it like one does a flower sitting on the bedroom window. But to Shane it was a dreadful weed, digging its roots into his mind all this time to torment him, now even more so as he had gotten to know Ilya. It was why it was all so confusing, that the boy Shane had seen and the man he had heard of, was so different to the person Ilya seemingly was. Why behave the way he had as a boy?

And perhaps Shane should release the worn memory that had begun to curl at the edges from overuse and over remembering, but the kiss on the balcony had Shane wondering if this too, was a game to Ilya. Was he wielding his loaded looks and flirty comments like he did his sword all those years ago? Was he to also trip Shane up to send him sprawling head first into embarrassment at the idea that Ilya could ever truly like him?

Shane did not know what to believe, so he decided to not believe in anything. He did not know which choice was worse. Ilya stood before him now, breathing ragged as his chest came centimetres from Shane’s own.

‘The boy humiliated himself, he should never have competed.’ Ilya’s lips twist into a sneer, his eyes cold and unfeeling - like anything could pass through them yet none would stick.

‘You didn’t even give him a chance, you were unnecessarily cruel.’ Shane argues back, taking half a step back but Ilya follows him with a cock of his head.

‘Cruel?’ Ilya rolls the word around in his mouth with disdain, ‘To be cruel is to make him think he could win, give him false hope.’ Shane takes another step back at the venom in Ilya’s voice as he continues. ‘I did him a favour.’

‘It was dishonourable.’ And Ilya’s eyes darken considerably, before chuckling to himself in disbelief, much to Shane’s confusion. The blonde man notes the distance between them with a narrowed gaze as Shane gulps nervously, praying Ilya stays where he is.

‘So that is the reason you ran away in fear like a little bunny, yes?’ Ilya asks, prowling forward to stalk Shane as the dark haired man stumbles away from him round the table. ‘Because of some boy you feel sorry for, because of something that happened five years ago? This is what you punish me for? A grudge?’

Each word is thrown out carelessly, as if Ilya can’t quite believe it, the words filled with disdain as his eyebrows draw together, spitting out the last word like it’s turned foul on his tongue. Shane hurriedly retreats to the other side of the table, chest rising rapidly as he tries to calm his racing heart. Ilya pauses in his tracks, only a metre from Shane now to watch him with a questioning smirk.

Shane sucks in a breath of courage before replying sarcastically, ‘Forgive me for caring for a boy you slighted unjustly.’ Shane doesn’t have it in him to acknowledge that Ilya was right, that he was holding a grudge for no real good reason, but he didn’t need to admit to that out loud. Ilya’s smirk drops immediately.

‘You care for him do you?’

Shane raises his chin. ‘Yes of course.’

Ilya’s hand comes to hover over the table, clenching it once before letting his fingertips brush the varnished wood. ‘Well, isn’t that wonderful,’ he bites out dangerously low. ‘And you still care for him?’ He questions thinly.

Shane balks at the question. ‘What?’

Ilya shrugs, using Shane being distracted at his needling to inch closer. ‘I’m curious as to whether your affections lie elsewhere. That seems to be the only explanation for your little game of hide and seek,’ Ilya says slowly, eyes wicked as he begins to round the table to where Shane is standing with a furrowed brow, his escape momentarily forgotten as he absorbs Ilya’s words.

Shane’s lips part to reply but is quickly cut off.

‘For imagine my surprise when the little Prince avoids me after an evening together, who then accuses me of being unfeeling towards some,’ Ilya’s fingers flick carelessly, ‘nobody from years past in an attempt to explain himself.’ Ilya’s words are said with an element of feigned wonder but Shane can feel the thinness of the veiled emotion, like catching a thread on a door handle and tugging on it until it snaps. Ilya’s eyes belie his fury.

‘But you want to know what I think?’ Ilya’s pitch lowers to something intimate, and that’s when Shane realises just how close he is, standing right in front of him again. The anger in Ilya’s gaze simmers down at the proximity, curling into something knowing that has the hair on the back of Shane’s nape standing up.

Shane can’t help but whisper out a weak, ‘What?’

For in all Shane’s feigned anger, the idea of Ilya naming what Shane has been too anxious and confused to untangle himself, has a little spot of lightness blooming behind his sternum, and his heart latches onto it like a starving dog with a bone.

Ilya’s lips curl into a smirk, pleased. Ilya inches forward as a finger comes to tuck a stray strand behind Shane’s ear just to hear him suck in a breath.

‘I think,’ Ilya says quietly, his nose inches from Shane’s, ‘the sweet Prince wants to be caught, because he is afraid and does not want to have to make the decision himself.’ Ilya nudges a finger against the underside of Shane’s chin to level their gaze.

‘So I will make the decision for him, yes?’

Shane scowls, ignoring the tingling in his fingers and toes at Ilya’s softly spoken words, his question that has the frail little thing inside of him nodding furiously on its hands and knees, to bite out, ‘I am not afraid.’

Ilya smiles, as if expecting it. ‘You’re trembling like a little flower blown about by the wind.’ And Shane is, just a bit, and he didn’t think - hoped - Ilya would notice. Shane blinks in shock, lips parting slightly. Ilya takes that opportunity to lean forward to murmur against the shell of Shane’s ear, hot breath tickling the thin, sensitive flesh.

‘Are you afraid, kotenok?’

The pet name has Shane immediately scowling, hands coming to shove at Ilya’s chest to push him backwards a step.

‘Fuck off you a—,’ But Ilya catches his wrists easily, and yanks Shane towards him as he steps forward to pin Shane against the edge of the table behind them, a hand coming to snare Shane’s jaw in a tight grip as he captures his lips in a furious kiss.

The kiss is almost savage in its desperation, Ilya swallowing down Shane’s yelp of surprise by prying his mouth open to swipe his tongue across his, teeth clashing as Ilya practically snarls into his mouth, a thigh between his legs to keep Shane where he wants him. Ilya releases his wrists to let Shane clutch onto his shoulders, the dark haired man hesitating for a second before sinking into it, like falling onto a goose feathered pillow after a long day. He moans lowly as Ilya’s hand slides to his waist before lowering to his ass to take a handful of it and squeezing hard. Ilya uses the grip to haul Shane in closer, Shane leaning back for balance and Ilya follows, his hands curling into Ilya’s hair to tug on it harshly to hear him groan.

Their hands are frantic as they push and pull at each other, tangling in hair, the thin material of their shirts, their lips swollen from the ferocity of their need to feel each other. The candle’s flame flickers with each panting breath and muffled gasp.

‘You never—you never said what you wanted.’ Shane gasps out, half distracted as Ilya licks a line down his neck, tongue slick against his skin. Shane moans softly as Ilya sinks his teeth into the sensitive skin underneath his jaw before he nudges upwards to mutter into Shane’s ear.

‘You.’ And Ilya turns his head to capture Shane’s lips in a filthy kiss, tongue licking into his mouth like he owns it. Shane opens eagerly for it, his blood on fire with the desire that threatens to burn him from the inside out. And the confirmation has Shane’s bones singing, but something still lingers.

‘Truly?’ He mutters out brokenly between their spit slick lips, and Ilya pulls back to look at him and Shane can’t help but watch him nervously, fingers twisting into Ilya’s hair, wrapping around a blonde curl to tug on it. Ilya’s fingers clutch at his chin gently, eyes possessive as they flit across Shane’s face.

A thumb brushes the freckles dusting across the apple of Shane’s cheek. ‘Yes, I want all of you, truly.’

Shane’s breath hitches on a small, devastating sound and Ilya kisses him gently. And for now it is enough, and Shane seizes Ilya by the neck to drag him in for another kiss, sighing into it in almost relief. Ilya hooks a hand by his ear to draw him back momentarily, thumb pressing into the pad of Shane’s swollen lower lip.

‘And you? What do you want?’ He mutters, the tense line of his shoulders Shane grips on to belies his nerves. Shane swallows harshly, forehead nudging against his, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to look at Ilya through his lashes.

‘You, truly.’ He whispers it like a prayer, a fragile thing said to the sky before battle or like now, in a candlelit library between dust riddled shelves with a heart thundering like a herd of wild horses across the horizon.

And that’s all Shane has to say for Ilya to kiss him again, mouth slotted over his like a claim as his fingers trail down Shane’s side to wrap around his waist so tightly Shane knows there will be bruises come morning. The thought of Ilya imprinting his presence on his skin so boldly has Shane keening into the kiss. Ilya pulls back to suck at his neck, and Shane tips his head to the side to give him more room, panting.

At a particularly hard suck of Ilya’s mouth at his pulse and the sharp drag of his teeth to leave a mark, Shane utters out a broken, ‘Fuck,’ collapsing into Ilya’s hold. Shane’s already hard, cock pressing against his trousers insistently and as he pushes against the hard chest pinning him to the desk he feels Ilya’s own hard length against his thigh. The touch has Ilya groaning before he pulls back, a hand on the back of his neck, squeezing sharply.

Ilya’s face is a hairbreadth away when he utters the command, ‘Get on your knees.’

The demand is quietly spoken, but it’s loud enough to have Shane’s head spinning, the sound sending a shiver down his spine as he instinctively drops to his knees with a loud thud, blinking up at Ilya with parted lips, breathing heavily. His fingers cling to Ilya’s trousers tightly, feeling like a coil wound tight and awaiting permission to unravel.

Ilya inhales sharply at the image of Shane looking up at him with his warm brown eyes and long lashes, licking his lips absently and Ilya thinks he could combust. He wants to do so many things, wants to say so many things. Ilya wants to tuck this image of Shane between his heart and breastbone, wants to tuck Shane away into a room where no one else can find him, just for Ilya to have alone.

Instead he runs a hand through Shane’s soft hair coaxingly to cup the back of his head before nudging it forward slightly. The movement is all Shane needs to fumble with his trousers and Ilya watches as he struggles at first, his franticness causing more hindrance than help. Ilya can’t help the amused huff, hands coming to help, unfastening them enough that Shane can dip his hand in, which he does, fingers wrapping around the heated length tightly to make Ilya curse under his breath.

Shane pulls it out, letting Ilya’s cock go to watch it bob in front of his face, transfixed. Ilya groans when he sees Shane lick his lips hungrily, hand slowly coming to wrap around the thick base to glance up at him shyly, the sweet thing clearly seeking permission. As if Ilya would ever deny him anything, especially when Shane holds his cock in his hand, practically drooling. The sight of Ilya’s heavy, large length in front of Shane’s face is obscene, and it twitches, Shane zeroing in on the movement.

Ilya’s hand at the back of Shane’s head plays gently with the soft strands between his fingers, as he croons softly in encouragement. ‘Go on malysh, it is yours.’

Shane’s eyelashes flutter at the implication that Ilya’s cock belongs to Shane, but the pet name goes untranslated in a mind slowly growing hazy, but the fondness it is uttered with has Shane catching its meaning. The name curls around Ilya’s accent like honey, and it has Shane chasing it as he leans forward to give a shy kitten lick to the head, tongue dragging across the slit to collect the bead of precum there.

Ilya hisses at the contact, fingers twitching in Shane’s hair as he looks down with gritted teeth as Shane gives it another curious lick, flitting his doe eyes up at him before quickly looking at the cock in front of him, the head now glistening with his saliva. Ilya groans at the contact but also at the sight of Shane on his knees, and the sound has the dark haired man gathering his confidence enough to gently suck the cockhead into his mouth.

Ilya mutters a strained curse under his breath, head tilting back to expose the thick line of his throat as Shane hums, pleasantly surprised at the taste of Ilya on his tongue, sucking harder to taste more of it. The warm suction of Shane’s mouth has Ilya’s chest heaving, and also because it was Shane. That alone had molten heat pooling at the base of his cock as Shane moans softly around it to send vibrations skittering up the length, Ilya’s fingers sinking into Shane’s hair tightly as he restrains his hips from fucking forward.

Shane lets Ilya’s cock fall from his mouth to lick a strip from base to tip, the hard length falling across his face as he does, glancing up at Ilya with half lidded eyes and Ilya pants harshly, squeezing his eyes shut to try and not come on the spot.

‘Fucking—fuck Shane.’ Ilya groans out, looking down just in time to see his cockhead lying on Shane’s wet pink tongue before he takes it back into his mouth, eyes fluttering closed as he sucks it in deeper, lips nudging past the sensitive ridge of the head to have Ilya moaning. He skims a thumb across the bridge of Shane’s nose, the soft curve of his freckled cheek adoringly. The feather light touch has Shane looking up, and at the sight of Ilya above him he begins to softly bob his head along the length.

Ilya grunts, exhaling sharply as his hand comes to join the other in Shane’s hair. ‘Fuck look at you, so pretty.’ He breathes out and Shane blinks sluggishly, mind empty and mouth full as he pulls back to tongue at the head, half of Ilya’s cock glistening in his spit as he sinks down again. Shane whines softly at the praise, thighs rubbing together, digging the heel of his palm into his leaking cock in his trousers in desperation.

Shane renews the pace with vigour, closing his eyes contentedly at the heavy weight on his tongue, the feeling of Ilya’s fingers in his hair, kneeling in the small space between Ilya and the desk. In his eagerness to feel Ilya in his mouth, relishing the taste, he slides down further than he has before, the length hitting the back of his throat to make him choke wetly, withdrawing with a gasp and watery eyes.

Drool spills from the corner of his mouth, a line of spit connecting Shane’s lips and Ilya’s cock. Ilya’s thumb pulls at the pad of his bottom lip to watch it snap with dark eyes, and Shane’s hands come up to fist in Ilya’s trousers tightly, blinking up at him with hazy eyes.

‘Is too much? Doing so well, malysh.’ Ilya says it softly, because even if the urge to fuck Shane’s throat is straining Ilya’s iron control, the threads of it slowly being plucked away with each second he spends staring down at him, Ilya would stop everything at the word.

But Shane shakes his head, breathing staccato as a ghost of a pout forms. It makes Ilya smile and his chest tighten painfully. Shane leans forward, mouthing at the head lazily, precum smearing against his lips as Ilya looks down in awe. Ilya thinks Shane looks angelic like this, he wouldn’t mind if Shane wore his crown right now but Ilya knows he doesn’t need it. Shane has never needed to wear the crown for anyone to know he is a Prince, the heir to the throne, it is simply who Shane is without difficulty. Even now, with Ilya’s cock in his mouth, Shane is a Prince, posture delicate and regal as he licks at the ridge beneath the head of his cock to have a moan ripping from Ilya’s throat. And Ilya would happily bend the knee and devote his life to the image.

And then Shane speaks, although his lips are swollen from sucking Ilya’s cock it comes out as more of a breathy lisp. ‘Wan’ it, s’ not—not too much.’ And then he inches back from Ilya’s cock to drop his mouth open, tongue glistening with salvia hanging out, waiting.

And Ilya wants to laugh at how Shane’s competitive streak clearly knows no bounds, but no sane man can resist the invitation of an open mouth awaiting cock, especially when it’s Shane waiting for Ilya’s cock. And Ilya was a weak, weak man when it came to the man below him. He always has been.

So Ilya takes hold of his cock in one hand, the other smoothing the back of Shane’s head so it doesn’t knock against the hard edge of the table as he feeds his cock past the seam of Shane’s swollen lips, the head sliding along his wet tongue. Ilya groans deeply, and he feels like he’s going crazy with how horny he feels right now, how on the cusp he already is, all because of Shane. Ilya pushes in until he hits the back of Shane’s throat softly, and he pulls back slightly at the soft gag but then Shane’s fingers wrap around his thighs to drag him closer and Ilya has to hold the edge of the table in a white knuckled grip, muttering out a strained, ‘Fuck.’

Shane gags again but not as much, breathing deeply through his nose and sucks lightly to feel the hand on his head tighten. He blinks up at Ilya almost pleadingly and Ilya feels the breath being punched out of him at the silent request and Shane’s mouth stuffed full of his cock.

‘I will go slow, yes? You pinch me if it is too much.’ Ilya says and waits for Shane to nod slightly with Ilya’s cock still in his mouth, blinking hard before Ilya begins to slowly move his hips. He doesn’t dare go too far, not to the hilt like he wants to, just deep enough to hear Shane choke gently. With each glide of his hips, Shane’s throat relaxes to let it slip a little further, and drool spills out around the edges of Shane’s mouth to drip down his chin. The wet sounds of Ilya’s cock sliding down his throat are obscene in the otherwise silent library, and if anyone were to wander in at this late hour, they’d know exactly what they were up to.

Shane waits until Ilya’s cock hits the back of his throat to swallow and Ilya’s hips kick in response, sliding just that little further and the roughness of it has Shane moaning around the length in his mouth before it retracts.

‘You want more?’ Ilya grits out, and Shane tries to nod but upon realising he can’t, he tries to take more but is stopped by Ilya’s grip in his hair. The golden haired man tuts mockingly with a playful smile.

‘Easy kotenok, you take what I give you like a good boy.’ The name has Shane’s eyes shuttering and a whine emitting from somewhere low in his throat, his cock which is already leaking through his trousers, twitching painfully. It begs to be touched but he doesn’t dare remove his hands from Ilya’s thighs.

And then Ilya begins to fuck his mouth, a little rougher than before but still restraining himself - Shane’s throat isn’t trained well enough just yet to take his whole length. Spit drips down Ilya’s balls and Shane’s chin as Ilya fucks his cock back into his mouth, using the grip on Shane’s head to set the pace. It's slow at first but then Shane moans softly whilst looking up at Ilya with tears collecting in his eyes and it has Ilya cursing, hips picking up as he watches his shiny cock dip between Shane’s stretched lips taught across the thickness of it.

At the increased pace, the feeling of Ilya’s cock brushing the back of his throat, Ilya’s hand in his hair, Ilya looming above him, the taste of him on his tongue, the feeling of Ilya being everywhere and being so thoroughly used has Shane’s eyes rolling back, thighs rubbing together incessantly to try and salvage some relief on his own neglected cock.

The sight of Shane losing himself on having his throat fucked has Ilya hissing, ‘Fuck look at you, you love it don’t you?’ As he goes a little deeper, the sound of Shane’s throat constricting wetly around it like music to his ears. Shane hollows his cheeks, tongue sliding along the bottom of the shaft and Ilya can feel himself losing his control of his impending orgasm. He’s been holding it off as soon as Shane got on his knees and began licking his cock like a curious little kitten, and his body was burning for release, so much so Ilya thought he was going to go crazy.

His thighs tense, his grip tightens and his hips begin to thrust at a rougher pace, not even retreating fully before fucking himself back into Shane’s eager and waiting mouth. The orgasm mounts like a wave looming high to crash against the shore and as Shane swallows around his cock again, Ilya feels it roll over him with such an intensity his vision whitens at the edges. He quickly pulls out of Shane’s mouth, fisting his cock as he hunches over, knuckles white in their grip on the table to hold himself up as his knees threaten to buckle. But Shane makes a small, unhappy sound and shoots forward, tongue lathing at the head as Ilya groans brokenly and cum spurts out, lashing across Shane’s tongue.

‘Fuck, shit—Shane.’ Ilya watches with his mouth open on a pant as he comes across Shane’s tongue, then as he closes his lips around to suck more of it down, swallowing with a hum and the image alone has Ilya’s orgasm wrenching up a notch to make him feel lightheaded. Ilya’s ears ring as the orgasm finally recedes, Shane lazily tonguing at the slit for more cum which has Ilya hissing, yanking Shane’s head back to try and catch his breath. Shane was clearly trying to kill him.

Shane swallows the last of it, tongue coming out to swipe at the streak lingering across his lips to blink up at Ilya, starry eyed and unfocused. Ilya growls suddenly, the sound ripping through his chest like thunder as he yanks Shane to his feet, the man swaying unsteadily and falling into Ilya as he grabs his face to kiss him, tongue swiping against his lips and curling inside to taste himself on Shane’s tongue. Shane simply lets him, too drunk on the taste of his cum and the memory of Ilya’s cock in his mouth to respond.

Ilya uses Shane’s distracted mind to hike his hands under his knees to lift him on to the table, sending paper and Shane’s quill scattering across the table, parchment rumpled underneath Shane’s ass.

‘Did so good.’ Ilya murmurs against Shane’s lips, hands digging under Shane’s trousers, tugging them down so he can release Shane’s dripping cock. Shane gasps at the cold air suddenly hitting it, but Ilya shushes him quietly, cradling his face in his hands as he deepens the kiss further. Ilya traces kisses along his jaw, Shane clutching at his shoulders desperately as his hips twitch with desperation. Shane feels Ilya smile against his skin before he kisses his chin, his cheeks, his nose, before settling on his mouth to then pull back an inch to speak.

‘Lean back.’ But Ilya is already nudging him down, making Shane lie down on the desk, his thighs splayed open with Ilya standing between them. The sudden distance between them has Shane fidgeting, hand coming up to clutch at the cuff of Ilya’s sleeve and Ilya smiles soothingly, leaning over him and bringing Shane’s knuckles to his lips to leave a soft kiss. He pushes Shane’s shirt up his belly to leave wet kisses, trailing down to lathe at his hipbones to hear Shane gasp softly, nipping at the sensitive skin.

Then Ilya finally gets to his cock, and Shane is tense with anticipation, he’s dizzy with it. So when Ilya licks a wet trail from the base to the tip, Shane chokes on a breath, hips kicking up but being held down by Ilya’s large hands. Ilya sucks him down in one delicious swoop, and Shane keens high in his throat, hands tangling in Ilya’s curls desperately as he tries to buck up into his hot mouth. The onslaught of slick warmth around his aching cock has Shane’s brain tripping like a fuse, garbled sounds ripping from his throat and his thighs clenching around Ilya’s head to keep him there - as if Ilya was ever going to stop, to ever leave Shane’s embrace now he has him.

It doesn’t take long after that, Ilya swallowing around him expertly to have Shane’s back bowing off the table, breaths heavy and all over the place, fumbling as his orgasm crashes into him unexpectedly. Shane gasps out a rendition of ‘Ilya—fuck—Ilya,’ before he spills into Ilya’s waiting mouth with a drawn out moan.

Ilya swallows it, sucking on the tip once more to feel Shane shudder before pulling back, kissing his way up Shane’s belly to his face, claiming his lips in a kiss. Shane whines into it, slumping back into the hard wood beneath him as his slightly trembling fingers cradle the back of his neck. Ilya pulls back, thumb petting above his eyebrow.

‘Okay?’ And Shane nods, blinking slowly as he tries to come back to himself. Ilya pulls him upwards and Shane groans at the movement but lets himself be tugged sitting upright, as Ilya tucks both of their soft cocks away to pull Shane against his chest, head nestled under his chin. Ilya’s strong arms wrap around him and Shane can’t help but sigh as he melts into it. They stay like that for a few moments as Shane tries to catch his breath.

‘You will not run away again.’ Ilya states, not asking but telling and Shane curls inwards, trying to fold himself away into Ilya’s skin. Ilya nudges him backwards, fingers catching his chin to force his gaze to his. Ilya looks deadly serious, his hold on Shane’s jaw tightening.

‘You run, and I will chase you. You will not run away again.’ Shane tries to look down but Ilya yanks his head up, crowding closer. ‘Yes?’

Shane swallows, mouth dry, fingers curling into the shirt at Ilya’s waist as his gaze flits between Ilya’s, nervous. He nods once but then speaks out a hoarse, ‘Yes.’

Ilya observes him for a moment before nodding to himself, muttering ‘Good,’ and tucking Shane back into his chest, dropping a kiss against his hair.

‘Because I’ve not finished courting you, sweet Prince.’ And Ilya murmurs it against the dark strands, inhaling the sweet smell of lavender from Shane’s bath that morning, Shane only catching half of it as his eyelids threaten to slip close to the sound of Ilya’s heartbeat against his ear.

They don’t discuss the argument in the library again, and Shane stops hiding in his rooms. They resume their walks in the palace gardens, and Shane continues to show up at breakfast and dinner to sit across from Ilya to nudge their feet together as he pretends to listen to his mother’s conversation.

Now the barrier has been broken between them, Shane can’t stop wanting to touch Ilya. The Prince of Rozan suffering much the same - although he has always been finding ways to touch Shane far before this. Sometimes it’s a brush of a hand against the small of a back, or fingers that linger as they pass a goblet or plate or a flower. But the eyes are always there, watching each other, as if not wanting to lose track of the other in case they disappear.

Ilya has certainly grown more bold, deliberately walking faster away from their chaperone (usually Hayden) and dragging Shane round corners too quickly for the knight to catch up, pulling Shane into dark corners or deserted corridors, between wild hedges to leave hot and heavy kisses against Shane’s eager mouth, hands curling in his hair to make a mess of it, swallowing each gasp from swollen lips with wandering hands. And usually Shane would be mortified at the blatant rule breaking of official courtship courtesy, but when he’s with Ilya he can’t find it in himself to care. Stealing kisses and hidden touches away from prying eyes, feeling Ilya’s hot breath fan against his face as he leans back to admire him in the throes of their kissing has tingles dancing up and down his spine. It elicits a wonderful pleasure thrumming through his body that has his toes curling and heart and head and lips hungry for more. And who is Ilya to deny him?

And they’ve already broken rules with their tryst in the library and on the balcony, what are a few more? Shane felt like a teenager, living out a life he had always dreamed of, an experience he imagined he could have had if he wasn’t a Prince and heir to the throne, so bound to duty as he is, now running from their chaperones, giggles muffled behind his hand as Ilya drags him to a new unexplored corner of the palace to claim his mouth with his.

Shane yearns to repeat what they did in the library but for now, Ilya restrains himself to instead plunder Shane’s mouth like a man possessed and making Shane grind against his thigh with wet pants. Not that Shane minds, but he misses the heavy weight on his tongue, the feel of Ilya’s hands in his hair as he guides his head to fill his mouth with the heat of his cock. Shane was initially surprised at Ilya’s restraint and at Shane’s questioning, all Ilya had responded with was a teasing quip muttered into his ear to make him shiver, ‘Miss my cock that much malysh?’

Shane was not brave enough to say yes, but he did. Truly.

Shane would be worried if it was not for the obvious heat in Ilya’s eyes every time Shane’s hands drifted to his trousers to feel the thick length straining against the fabric. It’s when Shane had squeezed it and gasped out a, ‘Please,’ that Ilya had finally relented, Shane dropping to his knees in a small cupboard full of linen and sheets with Ilya pressing a hand against the door as Shane took his cock down his throat with a hum. Ilya had not lasted long, spilling on Shane’s tongue with a muffled gasp of his name. Ilya had then crowded him into the corner to make him come on Ilya’s thigh, rutting against it with a whine, coming into Ilya’s fist as a finger pressed against his hole through the thin fabric of his trousers.

But there are other moments that are not confined to the heat of their mouths that have Shane’s heart racing. It’s when their eyes catch at dinner, or whenever they look at each other that provokes a smile twitching at the corner of their mouths. It happens so often, Shane’s finger comes to trace the line of his lips as it stretches into a shape of fondness, so unfamiliar until now.

They are at the lake again, sitting near the willow, having raced against each other again - Ilya having won by a second much to Shane’s chagrin. Ilya lies with his head in Shane’s lap as Shane twiddles a daisy between his thumb and forefinger, tickling it against Ilya’s cheek to see his face twitch, a soft huff of laughter escaping him.

Ilya had brought a picnic, which Shane had been shocked by when Ilya had procured a bag behind his back out of nowhere. It had apples, sandwiches, and a slice of strawberry cake - Shane’s favourite. Ilya had laid it all out carefully on a chequered cloth, hands out splayed in a careless ‘tah dah’ before motioning for Shane to eat. Shane had noted the light blush across Ilya’s cheeks and ears as he had sniffed, looking anywhere but Shane. Shane had tucked the image away to daydream about later when he struggles to fall asleep.

So there they sat with fully bellies and the taste of vanilla cream lingering on Shane’s tongue. Shane weaved daisies into Ilya’s curls, the feel of his fingers carding through them and scratching at his scalp had Ilya’s eyelashes fluttering.

‘What was your mother’s name?’

Shane feels the steady rise and fall of Ilya’s shoulders against his legs, halting for a second at the question, but Shane continues to card his hands through his hair, twiddling a curl between his fingers as he waits. He doesn’t want Ilya to feel like he has to answer, but Shane has never heard him talk about her. He hasn’t heard anyone talk about the late Queen, her passing so many years ago now and in a kingdom so far out of reach that nobody knew she was dead for years. Even her name was never recorded, nobody outside of Rozan had ever met her, the King having squirrelled her away. So she was practically absent from all records besides memory, a memory only Ilya has. And Shane wanted to know, because he knew the necklace Ilya wears everyday belonged to her, and he couldn’t bear to imagine how he would feel it was the other way round. If Shane’s own mother was so carelessly forgotten by everyone around her, and barely known to those beyond her own country’s border. To be only a passing ghost without a name, without a face, left to haunt only those who loved her.

Ilya’s head moves slightly, as if cosying into Shane’s lap further, a hand coming to clasp Shane’s knee as he speaks quietly, tongue curling longingly around the letters.

‘Irina.’

Peace, Shane thinks. He remembers the name in the ancient texts, derived from a goddess across the sea. Ilya utters it hoarsely, as if he hadn’t said it in years, the name scratchy with disuse, tinged with a dusty memory previously kept unvisited, forgotten.

‘What was she like?’ Shane asks gently, looking down at the strong line of Ilya’s nose, the way he looks like a meadow fairie with daisies in his hair, the sharpness of his cheekbones. He imagines a blonde haired woman, with the same eyes as Ilya, perhaps tall and willowy, with an easy smile and warm hands that remain open to embrace you.

Ilya squeezes Shane’s knee before taking a deep breath, lungs inflating with air and emotion. ‘She was beautiful,’ Ilya’s head nudges to look out across the water longingly.

‘She was so funny, so kind. She used to read me stories before bed, she taught me to whistle for the birds.’ Ilya swallows harshly, blinking away at the tears threatening to fall as a memory sharpens, crystallising before his very eyes to become real. Ilya can almost hear her, smell her perfume, feel her arms crushing him to his chest.

’You must tell the birds you come in peace, Ilyusha, that way they will know to stay and sing with you.’

‘But mama,’ Ilya had whined, ‘I am not a bird!’ And Irina smiles at her son pouting up at her, hands clutching hers as he flings his other arm carelessly to the sky. She laughs, swinging their joined arms as they walk amongst the frost.

‘No my love, but you sound like one, come now, sing with me.’

Ilya had not sung since her death, and he never wanted to ever again.

‘She was so sad.’ Ilya finishes quietly, and Shane inhales sharply. Shane’s fingers stop momentarily in Ilya’s hair to simply rest amongst the curls.

For that was how Ilya could best describe it, a sadness that Ilya nor his mother could chase away. A bone deep ache that sinks its claws into the soft underbelly where it hurts most, a phantom pain that pulses lazily in the dark recesses of the mind, of the heart. It had slinked in stealthily and before Ilya knew it, like it had done to his mother, the indents of its teeth had already pierced the sides of his mind. The first time Ilya recognised it for himself, he couldn’t find it in himself to deny its hold, for the sadness was also his mother’s, and it was one of the few things he still had of her. The sadness was not only an illness, but also a memory. Sadness was a mother that had long since held him in her arms, and Ilya yearned to be held once more, so he didn’t fight it when it nestled into the ridges of his mind.

‘What happened to her?’ Shane asked softly, because nobody knew, not really. Ilya lies motionless as his lips part to tell the memory that he had buried but had never forgotten, no matter his father’s efforts to erase her.

‘It was an accident,’ Ilya speaks and the sun warms his cheeks, a gentle breeze tickling the skin above his eyebrows as he looks out to the lake, eyes faraway. ‘She never slept well, the physician gave her sleeping draughts to help but they were strong, she could never have too much. She accidentally drank all of it.’

Shane sucks in a quiet breath, his chest tightening as Ilya continues, tone flat and withdrawn as he wanders back through the past, a hand skimming the spine of a memory that stains his fingers with its dust.

‘I found her.’ And Ilya can remember like it was yesterday, his mother on the bed like she was sleeping although it was well past breakfast, her eyes open and unblinking. Her hair had spooled out around her like threads of gold, shimmering in the winter sun, a long slim arm flung across the bed like how she did when asking Ilya for a cuddle. Except there were no cuddles to be had, only the cold embrace of death.

Ilya’s head shifts from where it lies in Shane’s lap, nose dragging a light path across Shane’s thigh, inhaling heavily, attempting to steady himself.

‘I’m sorry,’ The words sound lame, but Shane doesn’t know what else to say, because words are not enough, and never will be. Ilya squeezes his knee in response.

‘I do not want you to think she was weak.’ Ilya says it quickly, nervous and exposed. Shane traces the shell of his ear, carefully replying, ‘I don’t.’

‘She wasn’t,’ Ilya continues, as if emphasising it not to Shane but to himself, the tone of his voice distant, being carried across the breeze to dance among the ducks sitting on the lake on the far side. ‘My father was so hard on her, she never wanted to be queen.’

Ilya swallows harshly as Shane lets a curl twist around his fingers softly. ‘I look like her.’ Ilya whispers it brokenly and Shane pauses, and thinks of Ilya’s brother and father, how different he looks from them. Like a sun peeking out between harsh cliff faces to bring on the morning. And Shane is grateful Ilya does not look like his family, staring down at the man in his lap, a finger tracing the sharp jut of his cheekbones before retreating to his hair.

Ilya does not think the same. For his father saw his mother in him, and that was a crime enough to warrant a lifetime of punishment and disparagement. Yet Ilya couldn’t help but be thankful that out of him and his brother, his mother’s soul had chosen Ilya to cling onto, both in face and mind. He would happily bear a lifetime of hatred to see his mother when he looks in the mirror, yet it didn’t mean that the wound his father’s cutting gaze leaves bleeds any less. He just wishes that his love for his mother was enough to keep her here, to be a person instead of a memory. Yet Ilya was not enough, he drew up insufficient against everything else, though he could not blame his mother even if he wanted to. He could never hate her for anything, especially for not wanting to be free, to not be bound by the chains that hold him still.

Ilya blinks, shifting to turn on his back to look up at Shane, a large, calloused hand coming to cradle the side of his face, pressing in lightly to squish the doughiness of Shane’s freckled cheek. It slides to the back of Shane’s neck, tickling the hairs at the nape before he tugs him down for a soft kiss. Ilya pulls back to flit his eyes over Shane’s face so close to his before his lips shift into a small smile.

They spend hours more by the lake, Ilya taking off his boots to wade into the cold water calf deep, trousers rolled up to his knees and whining at Shane to join him, which the man eventually does. They take turns splashing each other, Ilya mastering the art of closing his hand in a loose fist and pushing the water at such a speed that it’s practically a jet - a skill the man uses liberally to hear Shane shout in outrage. But with everything the two Princes do, it soon turns into a competition, and it ends with Ilya chasing Shane across the shallows, his shirt now translucent after Shane somehow managed to send a wave so large towards him its left him half soaked, curls sticking to Ilya’s forehead.

‘But I want a hug!’ Ilya shouts playfully, arms outstretched, his grin wide and cackling as Shane stumbles away from him, finger thrown behind him in reprimand, stern voice breaking on a laugh.

‘No, fuck off! Stay away from me you ass!’

Ilya quickens and Shane yells out in panic as he hears Ilya’s splashing become louder, twisting around to look at him with wide eyes. Ilya’s toothy grin glints in the sunlight, teeth and eyes sharp with mischief.

‘But winner gets reward, no? I congratulate you now.’ Ilya is two steps away from him and Shane stumbles in an attempt to run away from him and Ilya pounces. He leaps forward, water running away in fright to fly up around them, wetting them both as Ilya catches Shane by the waist and yanking him into Ilya’s chest.

‘Ilya!’ The name borders on a whine and Shane gasps at the cold wet material of Ilya’s shirt pressing into him, chilling him to the bone and he fails to suppress a shudder, especially when Ilya leans in to fan the shell of his ear with his breath.

‘Caught you.’ And he nips the sensitive skin lightly to hear Shane’s breath hitch, pressing into him from behind, his wet shirt staining Shane’s own. ‘What does the winner want as his prize?’ He growls, squeezing at the softness at Shane’s waist.

Shane leans into the hold, hands coming to clutch the ones at his waist. ‘A kiss.’ He says it quietly but Ilya hears him, spinning him around so quickly Shane stumbles into his chest, fingers gripping the sodden shirt to steady himself before Ilya captures his lips in a hungry kiss to hear him moan, hand gripping his jaw as his tongue licks into his mouth.

It’s later, after Ilya had fed Shane the last piece of strawberry cake and using the excuse to kiss him to ‘clean him up’, licking away the frosting to leave Shane’s lips swollen with kisses, gasping for breath.

Ilya sits upright as Shane lies on his back, looking up at the afternoon sun peeking through the strands of the willow tree. Ilya holds a piece of wood in his hand, a small knife in the other and is dutifully carving away, eyes focused. Shane lets his eyes slip shut, the silence comfortable as a wisp of the willow flies forward to caress his cheek.

‘Do you ever wish you were normal?’ Shane asks eventually, eyes still closed, lashes brushing the freckles of his cheek. He doesn’t know why he’s asking it, he doesn't even know when he opened his mouth to speak and it takes him a second to realise the voice speaking is his own. But the words escape him too late to take them back.

He hears Ilya pause in his ministrations momentarily before Shane hears the sound resume of wood being chipped away methodically. ‘Normal? Like not a Prince?’

Shane’s fingers begin to twiddle the grass beneath him in nervous habit, eyes opening slowly to look upwards, biting at his lip. ‘Yes.’

Ilya hums, not looking up deliberately as he senses the anxiety practically rolling of Shane’s form beside him. ‘Yes, sometimes. Life would be easier, yes? Less—,’ Ilya waves a hand in the air to look at Shane from the corner of his eye.

‘—complicated, less living for an audience, more—,’

‘For yourself.’ Shane finishes on an exhale, body loosening as he feels less like he’s poking a stick blind into a bush looking for the golden berry of understanding.

‘You feel like this often?’ Ilya probes gently, shaking his hand of wood dustings as he swivels the piece of carving in his hand. Shane hesitates for a moment before caving, blades of grass twisting between his fingers.

‘Yes. Sometimes.’ All the time. Shane waits for the admonishment, for the sneer at Shane’s whining but it never comes, instead only rough fingers softly petting his hair. Shane’s eyes snap to Ilya who now looks down at him, eyes creased slightly in concern.

‘It is okay to feel like this. You are still a good Prince, the best.’

Shane’s shoulders shuffle deeper into the bed of grass beneath him, eyes flitting away. ‘I feel ungrateful.’ Undeserving.

Ilya tuts softly in reprimand, hand stilling in his hair to tilt his face back to him. Ilya leans over him, shadows sharpening the lines of his face, darkening his eyes as they look down at him. ‘Stop talking bad about yourself, I will not tolerate it.’

Shane’s lips part in disbelief at Ilya telling him off but then Ilya drops a sweet, lingering kiss on his lips before pulling back.

‘You are allowed to want things Shane, things outside of what you are expected to want. This is not a bad thing, stop feeling guilty.’ Ilya finishes by skirting a light finger down the bridge of his nose to send his eyelashes fluttering. Shane swallows harshly, blinking back tears. Ilya swipes a thumb beneath his lower lashes and Shane blinks back up at him to give him a wobbly smile. Ilya frowns softly and kisses him again, moving his lips to pepper his face in them to hear Shane huff quietly in amusement.

Ilya sits up and fiddles with the piece of wood in his hands before he clears his throat almost shyly, looking down at Shane nervously before he holds it out to him. ‘For you.’

Shane’s eyes widen and he sits up, grass in his hair as his fingers come out to take the proffered gift. It’s a carving of a wolf, edges soft and worn down by Ilya’s careful cut of his knife. ‘Thank you,’ Shane says softly, watching Ilya carefully as he rolls it in his palm, admiring it. ‘It’s beautiful.’

And it was, Shane isn’t one to lie. The wolf was regal, small enough to fit in the palm of Shane’s hand, and Ilya had made it in a span of an hour or so. For Shane. His belly warmed with the thought, squeezing his fingers around it, can’t help the smile that spreads across his lips, bunching his cheeks. He chances a look upwards and Ilya is watching him, fingers tense and curling into his trousers. But when Shane looks up at him with a smile, warm brown eyes soft, Ilya can’t look at him for long, averting his gaze across the lake with a blush and a stilted nod, not being able to help the way his heart soars at Shane liking the gift he made for him, holding it like it was something precious and not something to throw away.

It’s after dinner, which were still relatively quiet affairs - the two not really speaking besides glancing up at each other knowingly every now and then under Yuna’s watchful eye and the King of Rozan’s unseeing ones. The Rozan envoy seemed to have no interest in Ilya or how the courtship was going, as if they weren’t there for that specifically. Which was confusing to Shane, but he doesn’t care to try and understand it, not from what Ilya has let slip about his family. It’s for the best, Shane thinks, for their utter lack of interest.

He’s reading by the fire when the knock comes. He jerks up, book falling against his chest, blinking in surprise. At another more insistent knock, Shane rushes over to his door to crack it open to peek out but he’s overwhelmed by a large force shouldering its way through the gap. Shane stumbles backwards but is caught by large hands, about to cry out when a rough palm slaps over his mouth, pinning him to the door.

Shane blinks up at Ilya who grins down at him cheekily, wearing a dark cloak, its hood obscuring his curls. Shane frowns, going to speak but realises Ilya still has his hand over his mouth and he slaps it away with a huff.

‘What are you doing? Why are you dressed like that?’

Ilya crowds closer to shut him up with a kiss, nipping at Shane’s lips to hear him gasp softly, licking into his mouth with a pleased hum before pulling back to mutter, ‘To kidnap you. I wish to steal the sweet Prince away, will he let me?’

Shane laughs softly, confused, hands coming to clutch at Ilya’s biceps and letting the taller man pin him to the door. ‘Kidnap me? Where?’

Ilya’s hands slide from his waist to take a handful of his ass to hear Shane’s breath hitch deliciously. ‘Somewhere dark and dangerous.’ Ilya grins before pulling back at Shane’s unimpressed look.

‘To town,’ He shrugs easily, ‘special spring festival celebration tonight, yes?’

Which it was, Shane having told Ilya that at the end of the third week of the month, the townspeople gather at the river that runs its course through the capital and spills out into the mountains beyond that shield the palace. And there, they lift lanterns into the sky, making a wish. Most will wish for a bountiful harvest, perhaps fertile ground, others wish for things like love, or to mend a relationship with a person they’ve quarrelled with. It is a time to reset and re-establish your desires for the upcoming year. Shane normally watches it from his window, little glowing blobs drifting up to the sky like tiny suns, or stars. His parents release one each year from the grand balcony, and Shane used to accompany them to watch but in recent years he’s been too busy, too tired from his studies to attend.

Shane had mentioned it to Ilya fleetingly a couple days ago in passing, he just hadn’t expected him to remember. And a little bird flutters in his chest as Ilya looks down at him expectedly, kissing him on the tip of his nose as he awaits his reply.

‘Yes, it’s the lanterns.’

Ilya nods, a hand brushing his cheek and tracing his freckles. ‘Then we go. I have this,’ he pulls out a cloak from underneath his own and holds it up with a grin. Shane takes it automatically as Ilya pushes it into his hands.

‘To disguise you.’ Ilya says conspiratorially. Shane looks down at the cloak, fingers brushing against the thick, soft material before glancing up at Ilya curiously.

‘You’re taking me to see the lanterns?’ He asks, voice open and vulnerable, a little fragile. Ilya shrugs again, like it was the simplest thing in the world even though to Shane it was everything.

‘Of course, you said you wanted to go,’ Ilya frowns suddenly, ‘Right?’

Shane’s eyes widen and he nods rapidly, stammering over his words as his heart threatens to vomit out of his throat and into his hands. ‘Yes, yes I do.’

Ilya nods once, pleased, nudging the cloak in Shane’s hands expectantly. ‘Well then,’ and Shane fumbles to put the cloak on, fiddling with the clasp for so long Ilya takes over to help. Shane is still half in his head, thoughts whirling of Ilya doing something like taking him to see the lanterns all because Shane mentioned it one time so Ilya takes over, nudging his feet into his boots and lacing up a thicker tunic for warmth whilst Shane stands there and allows himself to be moved. It’s comforting, how quickly Ilya steps in.

Ilya shuffles him out the door through the servants passage, a hand smoothing down Shane’s arm to hold his hand, calloused palm warm against Shane’s, holding it tight against his side as he guides them through the palace, unseen.

It’s clear Ilya has mapped their route out beforehand, his steps confident and fingers steady whilst Shane’s tremble and his heart races at the idea of getting caught. It wasn’t a crime to sneak out after dark with the man you’re courting and not yet married to, but it certainly was frowned upon. But the danger of getting caught doing unprincely things has a spark of thrill licking down Shane’s spine, a trail of electricity lingering in its wake.

They make it to the back gate of the palace, Taiyo and Anya waiting obediently and Shane has to bite back a laugh at how even their horses look in on the midnight outing. Ilya nudges him along with impatient hands, one even coming to cheekily cradle Shane’s ass as he lifts himself into saddle, Shane looking down unimpressed to simply be met with Ilya’s easy smirk.

They bypass the gates easily, so easily that Shane has a suspicion that Ilya has already informed the guards of their outing because no one utters a word. By the time they make it to the riverbank, it’s alive with people, music, and the smell of spices lingering in the air from the food stalls that have pitched their tents. Someone walks past with meat speared on a stick and Shane’s mouth waters, eyes trailing after it longingly. It’s when Ilya gently takes the reins from his hands that he realises he’s staring, blinking back to Ilya with flushed cheeks. The golden haired man only smiles easily, muttering a ‘Wait here,’ as he disappears without a word.

So Shane waits with the horses by a tree set back from the riverbank and away from the crowds, cloak hood up and obscuring his face. Ilya returns minutes later, two skewers in his hands and pushing one of them towards Shane. Shane mumbles a ‘thank you’ and tries to tamper down the butterflies swirling up a storm in his stomach at the gesture. It’s when he brings it to his lips that Ilya grabs his wrist with a shake of his head.

‘Ah, ah.’ Shane looks up confused, and Ilya then pushes his own skewer up to Shane’s mouth, the oil from the cooked meat sliding across his bottom lip in a silent command. Shane's eyes never leave Ilya’s as his lips part, Ilya flitting his gaze down to the pink mouth, darkening a fraction to nudge the food between his lips. They stare at each other as Shane bites down, the flavours bursting on his tongue to make him moan appreciatively, Ilya’s jaw clenching at the sound.

‘Good?’ Ilya asks tightly, eyes dropping to Shane’s lips as he licks the grease off. Shane nods, chest warm. ‘Yes, good.’

‘My turn.’ Ilya’s eyes drag themselves from admiring Shane’s lips to his eyes almost mournfully and Shane wordlessly nudges his skewer to Ilya’s lips, himself watching enraptured as Ilya’s tongue wraps around the food, sucking the meat into his mouth. The image has Shane swallowing harshly, blinking hard.

The image of Ilya’s mouth never quite leaves him as Ilya drags him round the market, both inhaling the sweet scent of candles being sold on one stall and then running their fingers over a tapestry woven from the finest silk at another. Ilya’s eyes dance under the torchlights, the light colour of them moving like water as he clasps Shane’s hand in his to guide him through the crowds. His golden curls that peek out from under the hood catch on the light, and when Ilya turns to smile excitedly at him, Shane has to remember to breathe, hand tightening in his. Ilya looks younger, even if his broad figure cuts the image of a man in his silhouette. He looks happy, grin wide and pure and Shane can do nothing but watch.

Shane wonders how long it has been that Ilya has been like this, for the image is so far removed from the Prince Shane, and everyone else, knew.

The night draws on, and Ilya gets his hands on home brewed wine sold by a man that overfills their cups to send the wine splashing as he hands them over. Shane would usually say no to alcohol, but it wasn’t as unpleasant as he thought it would be. The wine is sweet, and has a delicious warmth curling in his belly as he swallows it with a hum. It’s not the same drink that he’s tried at balls or over dinner, and for that he was thankful. He and Ilya stand in a flower framed alcove to sip it, and Ilya licks an escaped dribble of wine up Shane’s chin to capture his lips in a deep kiss stained with wine, Shane sighing into it. He can’t help but giggle as Ilya pulls away, hand clutching at his hood to keep it up, the wine making him giddy and smiley, feet light and heart heavy with feeling.

Ilya’s hand smooths down the side of his face and Shane kisses him again, leaning back to whisper softly into the small space between their mouths. ‘I’m glad you brought me here.’ A beat passes, enough for Shane to bump his nose against Ilya’s.

‘Thank you.’ He finishes, looking at Ilya earnestly. Ilya’s eyes twinkle, wrinkling slightly at the edges with his smile, pecking him softly before tucking a strand of Shane’s raven hair behind his ear.

‘It is nothing.’ He replies easily but Shane shakes his head once, fingers coming to tangle with Ilya’s.

‘It’s not nothing, it is—,’ Shane hesitates for a moment before thinking fuck it, ‘it’s everything.’ And he hopes the word says truly just how everything it really is. Ilya inhales sharply, eyes widening a fraction at the confession before Shane tugs him into another kiss, knocking their chests together as he licks into Ilya’s open mouth. Ilya kisses him back with the same vigour, hands encircling his waist, squeezing at the soft skin there as they lazily swap kisses.

Ilya pulls back, lips swollen and spit slick to smile. ‘The night is not yet over, sweet Prince, come.’ And then he’s tugging Shane out of the alcove and towards one of the many stalls selling lanterns. Shane can’t help the smile that cracks his face wide as Ilya makes him stay put beside a post to buy them one, watching as the man bounces on the ball of his feet as he waits in line. Shane uses that moment to sneak off towards another lantern stall across the square, to meet Ilya back at the post just in time.

Ilya holds a fragile paper lantern in his hands, his eyebrows drawing together as Shane holds his hands behind his back. Shane reveals what he’s hiding to see Ilya’s confused expression.

‘Snap.’ Shane holds out an identical lantern in his hands and Ilya huffs to ask. ‘Is mine not good enough?’

‘Come on.’ Shane laughs before motioning towards the riverbank, where everyone is beginning to gather both on the riverbanks but also in narrow boats, Ilya laughing after him but following. Ilya flips a gold coin to a man standing guard on a line of rowboats, and they get in one, Ilya grabbing the oars and pushing off to glide through the water rippling like a navy ribbon as they break its surface. Shane sits across him, balancing both lanterns on his knees as he cranes his neck up to look at the sky studded with stars. The evening breeze is cool against his cheeks and as Ilya pushes them to the middle of the river, far from the crowds and other boats, Shane pushes his hood back, hair askew. He can’t help but glance at Ilya with a shy smile as the blonde haired Prince does the same.

They stare at each other in silence for a moment, Shane drinking in the sight of Ilya and committing it to memory. Ilya does much the same, before shuffling forward, Shane eagerly meeting him in the middle. Shane holds out a lantern and Ilya takes it with careful hands, watching Shane quietly. Shane fiddles with the lantern in his hands to avoid his gaze for a moment before he clears his throat pointedly, looking up with his wide, warm brown eyes.

‘I thought I’d get one too, so we had one each.’ He begins, watching Ilya carefully. ‘I thought,’ Shane sucks in a breath of courage, eyes tracing Ilya’s figure as he speaks, ‘I thought we could raise one for your mother.’

Shane watches as a tirade of emotions flits across Ilya’s eyes. Disbelief, surprise, sadness, and then something more fond yet heavy with emotion. Shane fights to not fidget in anxiety, terrified that Ilya will think it is an awful idea, offensive, that he’s horrendously overstepped. But raising a lantern in memory of a loved one was a common practice, and something told Shane that Ilya had never been allowed to think of his mother, mourn her, remember her in the way she deserved. And Shane wanted to let him have a moment to feel in a way he has previously been denied. For what was love, if not a feeling you want to revisit constantly, with every breath until you gasp your last.

Ilya blinks, his eyes suddenly glassy and Shane’s eyes widen as Ilya’s fingers curl into his trousers. ‘You bought one for my mother?’ He repeats quietly, voice scratchy and brimming with something terribly frail, like a foal learning to walk without the careful gaze of its mother.

Shane nods once, not daring to speak, biting his lip in worry, wanting to reach out and hold Ilya, to run his hands through his hair. Yet he can sense he needs to wait, just for a moment, and also because he’s sure if he moves too quickly, the boat will rock so suddenly it will send them both flying into water.

‘Is that okay?’ Shane asks, and Ilya looks up at him with such raw emotion, blinking back tears so aggressively that Shane shuffles forward to knock his knees against Ilya’s, mind falling over itself in a panic.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t—if I overstepped, I apologise, I didn’t mean to. I just thought—,’ Shane averts his gaze to look across the river desperately as he tries to explain himself, to make sure Ilya knows there was no malice, only care, only love.

‘I thought after what you said today at the lake, well I just thought that maybe it would be nice to-to remember her. I’m sorry, I should’ve asked, I’m really s—,’ Shane’s rant is quickly cut off by a large hand cradling his face, pulling his gaze from the water to Ilya’s face now hovering close to his.

‘Shane,’ Ilya admonishes softly, forehead tilting forward to nudge against his, speaking in a shuddering breath, ‘thank you.’

The words are so fragile, teetering on the edge of Ilya’s lips and threatening to break. Spoken so quietly that it’s only because Shane is so close that he catches it, and his hand comes to squeeze at the wrist holding his face. Ilya closes his eyes for a moment, opening them again as a tear falls, crystalline in its path down his cheek. Shane sucks in a breath quietly at the display, hands coming to clutch at Ilya’s face gently. And then Ilya leans forward to take Shane’s lips into a kiss, lips slanted over his like they are meant to be there. Ilya can taste the wine on Shane’s tongue, the smokiness of the meat they enjoyed earlier, the saltiness of his tears, and he grips at Shane’s face tighter to have more of it.

Shane collects the tear with his thumb as he pulls back, rubbing at the sharpness of Ilya’s jaw soothingly. ‘It’s okay?’ He asks again, just to make sure.

Ilya nods once, twice. ‘Yes,’ he hesitates, ‘no one has done anything like this for me before.’ Shane can’t help but frown at the revelation before it softens, leaving a quick peck on Ilya’s lips streaked with a salty tear.

‘Well not anymore.’ Shane says defiantly and Ilya can’t help but laugh, pulling back to look at the man who looks more like an angry kitten than anything threatening. But Ilya is not fool enough to underestimate Shane’s ire, his determination to change things. It was just not so usually aimed at Ilya, and Ilya couldn’t help the flicker of warmth in his heart at the sincerity. He clears his throat pointedly, pushing back the emotion wobbling over the rim of the very full glass.

‘But truly, thank you.’ Ilya says, leaning back, a hand coming to rest on Shane’s knee. Shane straightens then, a brighter smile on his lips as he holds out the lantern in his hands expectedly. Ilya looks down at it with raised eyebrows.

‘I have a lantern already.’ Ilya points his gaze down to the one already in his hands but Shane rolls his eyes with a huff.

‘Yes but you bought that one. You can’t fly the one you bought, you fly the one I got you. And then you make a wish and you raise it into the sky.’ Shane says sassily, as if Ilya was an idiot for thinking of floating the lantern he bought himself. Ilya laughs shortly before swapping lanterns, smiling at Shane’s pleased expression, his posture relaxing.

‘When do we…?’ Ilya motions towards the sky, and Shane nods towards the palace.

‘When my parents release theirs.’ Ilya twists to look back at the palace on the hill and turns to look back at him questioningly.

‘You do not join them for that?’ At Shane’s shake of his head, Ilya probes further, ‘why?’

Shane shrugs his shoulders, looking out to the palace with a twist of bitterness. ‘I used to, but now I never have time or I’m too tired, so I just watch them from my window.’

Ilya frowns, watching as Shane gains that faraway look that comes when he is thinking of something particularly fraught with the life he lives that comes with so many stipulations, so many rules. And Ilya knows Shane likes rules, that was clear enough, but he knows from simply looking at the dark haired Prince across from him, that as much as the lines keep him together, it also has him bursting at the seams to break free.

Before Ilya can ask further, a warm glow catches his attention from the corner of his eye. He turns to watch as a glowing orb, a lantern, floats from the distant palace up into the sky. The night sky parts around it, and then the people at the riverbank release their own lanterns, hovering bursts of light chasing after it. Ilya turns to Shane and they look at each other with soft smiles before Shane motions to the lantern in Ilya’s hands.

‘Make a wish.’ Shane murmurs softly, watching as Ilya smiles fondly before his eyes flutter closed. Shane quickly follows, clutching his lantern to his chest, heart rabbiting slightly at the feeling of Ilya sat across him doing the exact same thing, the silence soft and filled with secret longing. He feels like a lovesick teenager, sitting across the Prince of Rozan, the Prince he is meant to hate as they both utter a wish to the lantern in their hands, before they lift it with an upturned palm into the sky sprinkled in dustings of stars and a thin moon.

And so Ilya makes a wish. It is not perhaps the wish he thought he would have made when he first came to Hollaith, or one he thought he would make when he was a boy after burying his mother into the frost ridden ground split open around her pale body, as she sank lower into the roots and soil. But it was a wish all the same. It was a wish he had dreamed of once before, after Shane had taken him to the lake, after they kissed on the balcony.

Ilya did not dream usually, for sleep was a blank thing that left him as soon as he held it. But after that day, Ilya had dreamed for the first time in years. And as he holds the lantern in his hands, hearing the gentle slosh of water against the boat, Shane’s quiet breathing across from him, he remembers the dream and turns it into a wish.

The dream unfolds before him, and he sees his mother. Her golden hair, her gentle hands as she stands amongst the tall pine trees, looking out across the jagged mountains that line their palace. She stands in the hidden garden, her favourite place, and then Ilya’s favourite place. Her back is to him, and Ilya opens his mouth to say her name but she already hears him before the words leave his lips. She turns, and the light lines her face with winter sunlight that is so rare in Rozan, yet not when his mother was alive. The sun favoured his mother, always fighting out from behind the clouds to see her, to bathe her in its glow. For the world knew how precious Irina was, even if her husband and his court did not. Even if she herself did not. But Ilya always did.

She smiles easily, arms open to beckon him and Ilya goes to move, but then her eyes flit to the side of him. Ilya twists to see Shane standing next to him, brown eyes turned to his, smiling. Shane looks so beautiful, and Ilya turns to his mother, fingers tangling with Shane’s as he tugs them forwards.

’Mama, I want you to meet someone.’

And Ilya manages to draw a little closer but then they stop, still too far but close enough for Ilya to see his mother’s warm eyes watch him lovingly. Yet she still remains out of reach but Ilya cannot get closer. His mother looks at Shane then, and her hands clasp in front of her, smile welcoming and expectant. And Ilya can’t wait for his mother to meet Shane properly, to speak to him and understand why he loves him so, for that is what that feeling is inside of him though he dares not to say it out loud, not for now. But his mother will understand even if he does not say it, because she is his mother, and he is her Ilya, her Ilyusha.

Ilya tries to move forward again, but the attempt is stilted and as his lips part to speak again, to ask his mother to come closer, she suddenly grows smaller. Folding into the sky like a piece of paper and the world closes along with her, and Shane is no longer holding his hand, nor is he anywhere. It is Ilya, alone. Like he always has been since the age of twelve, the way he has learnt to be for the sake of survival.

Yet he does not wish for that part, no. Ilya wishes for the part where his mother turns to him, alive, cheeks warm and eyes forgiving. He wishes for the part where Shane holds his hand, steady and solid. He wishes for the part where the two people he loves most meet, so it stops being simply a make believe memory of being loved by both to finally living in it. He wishes for the buttery feeling the dream had brought to his heart, smooth and silky, slipping through his fingers to pool around him to remain there, instead of disappearing into darkness. Ilya wishes for his mother, he wishes for Shane, and he wishes to be loved. Most of all, he wishes all three could exist at the same time without having to sacrifice one for the other.

Ilya lifts the lantern, nudging it into the air with a brush of his fingertips, eyes opening to watch as it drifts away from them, taking his wish with it. He tracks it across the sky as it merges with the many others taking flight and a breath rushes out of him, chasing after it longingly.

He turns then to Shane who also pushes his own to follow, the glow of the lantern illuminating his freckles, the winter chill biting rosiness into his cheeks. Shane looks at him then, eyes wide and curious.

‘What did you wish for?’

Ilya smiles easily, the hand on Shane’s knee moving to trace the shape of his cheek, cradling his jaw to bring him into a fleeting kiss, brushing their noses together before he leans back slightly.

‘Well if I tell you, it won’t come true will it?’ Ilya says playfully just to see Shane laugh, a small thing that bursts out of his lips before he shakes his head fondly, hands clutching at Ilya’s shirt to drag him towards him.

Ilya goes easily, will go anywhere Shane wants to take him, as Shane mutters, ‘You’re such an idiot,’ before kissing him, feeling the boat rock beneath them at the sudden movement and Ilya’s hands grip at Shane’s face, his waist to bring him closer, to lose himself in Shane as the night sky breaks open with gold.

Chapter End Notes

for the sake of the story, let’s pretend the lanterns are biodegradable.

would also like to apologise to my boy Troy Barrett for making him a wuss - I had to pick someone okay.

i also made a twitter or X or whatever (elon musk suck my dick). currently shouting into the abyss so if anyone wants be friends !! (@justabitofcheek if the link doesn’t work)

Chapter 6

Chapter Summary

‘You make me greedy.’ Ilya proclaims quietly, a knee coming up to rest on the bed as he begins to prowl up the bed, the muscles under his shirt rippling like water as he moves. Shane swallows harshly, blinking rapidly, sinking back into the bed in a conflicted desire to run away at the hunger in Ilya’s eyes, the danger that seems to emanate from the man, but a danger Shane can’t help but want.

‘Is your fault, Shane,’ Ilya drawls, now hovering above him, hands by Shane’s ears, ‘But greedy man wants what he earned. And I won you, didn’t I?’ Ilya crowds closer so their noses are touching and Shane swears his heart stutters to a stop.

‘And I’m here to claim my prize.’

Chapter Notes

Ilya is a certified munch. but I didn’t need to tell you that.

Shane for once, was humming. Which is something he hasn’t done since he was a boy.

The tune is aimless, not anything tangible enough to be named a song, but a tune nonetheless. And Shane happily hums it under his breath, walking upbeat as he makes his way to the library for his morning session on the political tensions happening across the Eastern Sea. It was crucial to remain abreast of political developments not bound within the continent, and Shane was devoted to planning for all worst outcomes. It was a special talent of his.

He’s halfway across the atrium near the council room, a finger grazing the smooth thigh of a marble statue when Hayden appears in front of him, expression grave and fingers tight on the sword at his hip. Shane smiles upon seeing his friend, mouth opening to speak but Hayden cuts him off quickly, voice brash and too loud for the tranquility of the inner courtyard.

‘Your presence is required in the throne room.’

Shane startles a little at the formality, eyebrow raising in question. ‘My presence?’ He repeats, hoping to see Hayden break away from the staunchly rigid line of his mouth to roll his eyes or make a joke like he usually does. Neither comes, instead Hayden’s fingers curl even tighter around the sword handle, motioning towards the throne room with his head, body tightly wound with tension.

‘Yes, now.’

Shane frowns, stepping closer to look in the direction where he is called to, his heart picking up pace a little in concern, ‘Is everything—,’

Hayden huffs in frustration before yanking Shane’s wrist. ‘Come on! There’s no time to explain.’ Hayden walks so quickly Shane almost stumbles in trying to keep up, any further attempt to question his friend on what the hell is going on proving impossible as Shane is forced to practically chase after him. As they approach the throne room, they don’t even have to wait before the guards open the door for them, Hayden marching forward without even sparing them a glance - a rare sight. The line of his friend's shoulders is drawn taught, and Shane is not left to wonder why for much longer.

Upon entering Shane realises he must be the last to arrive. His mother sits on her gilded throne with his father by her side, both sporting deliberately blank expressions. But Shane knows his parents too well to know that they are feeling anything but. The tightness at the corner of Yuna’s eyes belie the fury and annoyance simmering away. His father has a grim set to his mouth, less obviously read in his distaste, but received nonetheless.

Members of the small council hover in a cluster in the far corner, some worried, others with a knowing smirk that has Shane’s stomach rolling.

And then there was Ilya.

He stands off from the Rozan envoy, the one including his father and brother who glare openly, teeth gnashed. The tension in the room is so thick Shane can feel it coating the back of his tongue, the hairs on the back of his neck standing to attention, fingers twitching as if to reach for a sword that is absent from his side. It is Ilya, though, that has Shane realising that this assembly must be terrible, more terrible than he thought, even with the expressions of everyone else in the room signalling to that fact.

For Ilya looked a hairbreadth away from war. Shane could see it in the way he was standing, the rage rippled out from his very being like a silent warrior's cry. Yet he did not glare as openly as his brother or father did, in fact to the untrained eye, Ilya almost looked bored. Shane knew better.

For it was in the sharp set of his jaw, the way his eyes stared unblinking, the blue of them ice cold that it almost had Shane shivering. They held a promise that Shane was fearful of coming true, it was a look that he was unused to seeing on his face, especially after last night as they sent the lanterns floating up to the sky. Ilya had his arms crossed, and every few seconds they bulged as Ilya unknowingly flexed his muscles as if preparing to charge. His feet were spread apart, solid and balanced, seemingly relaxed but Shane knew the fighters pose, the one he himself takes before darting forward to slice his blade across his opponents neck. At Shane’s silent entrance, Ilya was the first to notice him, as if his body was tuned to sense Shane even when he was silent and otherwise unseen by everyone else. His eyes snap to his for a moment, and the hard line of his jaw tightens inexplicably, gaze sharpening as they track down Shane’s figure.

Ilya looked handsome, Shane thought, which was something he thought a lot of course, but something about the pure promise of violence in his eyes had something dark and twisted sending a molten heat to collect below Shane’s navel, burning down his spine to leave a lingering touch in its wake. It felt like the ghost of long, calloused fingertips that Shane has come to know so well.

It’s when Ilya drags his gaze from his, that Shane realises who Ilya is directing his quiet rage towards. Shane twists to look at his mother again and notices a person standing at the bottom of the throne’s steps, their back to Shane. Shane begins to walk forward, a frown making itself known between his brows.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ He asks loudly, and all eyes snap to him, Yuna’s eyes wary. And then the mysterious figure turns, and it takes Shane a moment to place them.

Lord Farnley. The fool from the masquerade ball, the man whose fingers almost got gnawed off by Ilya before Shane was whisked away in Ilya’s arms, away from the Lord’s wandering hands and inappropriately scathing words. Shane’s frown deepens into a scowl before he quickly trains it into something more neutral, aware of the eyes on him. Ilya does not do the same, mouth twitching as he observes the tall man who now looks at Shane with a pleased expression.

‘Ah, the Prince has arrived.’ Farnley goes to speak once more but is abruptly cut off by his mother.

‘Shane, Lord Farnley has called for an official audience with the Crown. He has a request.’ Yuna says carefully, and Shane is now only a metre from Farnley, Ilya only a short distance from his right side.

‘A request?’ Shane huffs out an incredulous laugh, ‘And what is this request?’ What could the man possibly have asked that it demands such pomp and drama, such rabid anger that permeates the room like the sage wafted in the room of the dying. It was quite a statement, to call for the attention of the Crown and the council for a simple request. The last time Shane checked, there was nothing of peril to note, nothing bad enough to demand an audience and stand there like a spring chicken ready to cluck its way round the coop it doesn’t own.

‘He brings forth a challenge,’ Yuna says, voice ringing out across the room, ‘for your hand.’

Shane freezes, eyes blinking wide as saucers as his brain struggles to comprehend what his mother just said. ‘My what?’

Ilya finally speaks, although it is gritted out between sharp teeth, uttered with lazy contempt, eyes never leaving Farnley’s figure. ‘For your hand. He wishes to marry you. The Lord has a little crush it seems.’ Ilya drawls, goading. Like a wolf playing with its food, crushing its paw on a mouse’s tail to watch it scramble to try and get away. Except this mouse did not realise it was bound to die betwixt the wolf’s jaws, instead it had sorely underestimated its position in the food chain. Thankfully, Ilya was more than eager to remind him.

And it works, Lord Farnley rolling his shoulders back, spine straightening in disgruntlement, side eyeing Ilya disdainfully before his gaze settles on Shane like slime.

‘I simply wish to make a statement that this engagement is ill advised.’ The man sniffs pointedly, not noticing Queen Yuna’s glare burning a hole into the back of his skull. Shane’s jaw threatens to drop open, instead he grinds his teeth together painfully.

‘Rozan has no place in demanding a presence in Hollaith’s future, nor in requesting your hand in marriage, my Prince, especially that of a second son.’ Lord Farnley’s hands splay open in mock placating, oblivious to the hostility in the room. Even Hayden looks annoyed, which is saying something considering he is also not Ilya’s biggest fan. ‘And so I have taken it upon myself to intercede on behalf of the better people of Hollaith, and for you Prince Shane. I therefore challenge Prince Ilya of Rozan for your hand, to save you from this awful fate.’

With every word, the ringing in Shane’s ears builds to a lion’s throaty roar, blood scorching so hot it burns beneath his skin, his usually warm brown eyes hardening into something impenetrable. Hollaith’s morning flower was withering under its flames to rise from the ashes, phoenix wings splayed out to take flight and pluck the eyes out of the man before him.

‘How kind of you, Lord Farnley,’ Shane grits out sarcastically, hands clasping behind his back, nails digging into his palm savagely to almost draw blood, preventing himself from reaching out to wring the tall man’s slim neck. ‘To be so, concerned about Hollaith’s and my own welfare.’

The sarcasm goes over Lord Farnley’s head like a spring breeze, the man even having the gall to look pleased. Until Shane continues, the ire rolling off his tongue like honey.

‘Yet you forget yourself once again. I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions. I am not a prize to be won, or to be challenged for.’ Shane doesn’t even mention that officially, he has not yet accepted the arranged marriage, even if he has no intention of rejecting the proposal now. But no one needed to know that just yet, Shane wanted to simply bask in Ilya’s undivided attention a little longer before it became public knowledge. Call him greedy, but Shane enjoyed the selfishness Ilya evoked in him. The sensation was foreign and new, and Shane’s thirst to indulge it spoke to years of restraint that Shane did not want to let run its course any longer.

But the fact that this man, this nobody thought Shane was a prize to be won? A damsel in need of saving, a helpless lamb being led to its slaughter instead of the Crown Prince and warrior Shane was known to be? It was an insult worthy of treason. And if Shane could not take his head, he would take his dignity instead.

Shane watches as the satisfaction on Lord Farnley’s face drops, and Ilya’s mouth twists upwards into a cruel smirk, clearly enjoying the view.

‘Your Grace, I meant no offense—,’ Lord Farnley begins to stammer but Shane cuts him off.

‘I do not need anyone to defend my honour, I am perfectly capable of that myself. So you can happily retract your challenge.’

Lord Farnley gapes, face a shade of fabulous red but then his mother speaks, slowly rising from her throne with an unreadable expression.

‘Whilst no one doubts your capabilities, Shane, once a challenge has been posed, it cannot be retracted. It is only a matter as to whether Prince Ilya accepts.’

The first thing that follows after Queen Yuna’s proclamation is Shane’s outraged spluttering. Yet amongst that, the hall drops to a temperature that has chills whispering against the exposed flesh of its inhabitants. Shane would feel it too, if he wasn’t so offended at the ludicrousness of it all. It was outrageous, it was demeaning, and most of all it was stupid. And such stupidity would not be borne, not if Shane had anything to do with it.

‘Mother!’ Shane cries, yet Yuna cuts him a look that demands his silence, the glint in her eye making Shane take a step back. Why was she encouraging this?

Shane’s mouth parts to argue further, the various audiences watching be damned, propriety and obedience be damned, but then a voice echoes across the room. A voice so distinct Shane could walk to it with his eyes closed, has begun to think that he’d follow it anywhere, suffocated in blindness with nothing but a rough timbre to guide him. It should make him feel weak, the visceral reaction the sound evokes. It should make him fearful, yet all it did was create a buzzing warmth that felt like everything Shane loved to feel, a sweet spring blanket, the taste of nectar on his tongue, the rush of adrenaline in his blood, thick with anticipation.

‘I accept.’

All heads whip to its source but Queen Yuna is already looking at Ilya, a devious smile curling wickedly at the corners.

Shane’s ears ring with how fast he turns to look at Ilya, eyes wide and mouth agape.

‘Ilya—,’ But Ilya moves past him with a single finger outstretched, the digit moving slightly by his side as if to placate him, motioning in a hush and Shane stumbles to a stop. All he can do is stare as Ilya comes to a stop just in front of him, his broad back cutting off any view of Lord Farnley, shielding Shane from view.

Yuna looks undoubtedly pleased as she stands on the raised platform ahead of them, hands clasped in front of her. Yet Shane’s gaze never leaves the span of Ilya’s shoulders, the curls at the back of his neck, the way the muscles underneath his black tunic shift with each movement, the fabric tightening across the span of his back as his hands come to clasp at the small of his back.

‘I accept Lord Farnley’s challenge,’ and Shane can hear the smirk, the way Ilya is practically radiating with ill concealed glee as he emphasises the words with a humorous tone. It has Shane’s heart picking up, threatening to gallop off with all his senses, and clearly everyone else’s.

‘Very good. And what trial will you both decide to test this challenge?’ Yuna asks, all eyes on the two men in the middle of the room.

Lord Farnley goes to speak but Ilya quickly cuts him off. ‘Of the sword,’ he turns to give Farnley a questioning look, ‘unless Lord Farnley would prefer something a little less,’ Ilya pauses deliberately so the insinuation slices deep, ‘physically challenging?’

Farnley takes the bait like a little mouse wandering into a trap laden with cheddar. He scoffs, glaring openly. ‘No, a trial of the sword is agreeable.’

Ilya shifts slightly to the side so Shane can see the side of his face as he nods once, a ferocious smile that is all sharp teeth and reeking of danger, ‘Perfect.’ And even Shane’s stomach threatens to roll at the promise lurking there.

Shane almost wants to ask if Lord Farnley is out of his mind. He wants to ask if he so clearly has a death wish to agree to a duel with Ilya, Prince of Rozan - renowned as the winter hath teeth on the battlefield. There were ballads about how Ilya’s teeth have sunk into the sides of great warriors and shaken them in his jaws until they are limp, his canines stained with the blood of his enemies. And Lord Farnley had offered himself up as the next sacrifice.

And Ilya looks thrilled, hungry for it. It reminds Shane that the Ilya in front of him now was so far from the Ilya that sat with him by the lake, who wore a flower crown and traded kisses under the willow. They were both one and the same, yet so far from each other. Ilya was a lover, he was kind, he was gentle, but he was also a warrior. He was a Prince. And the look on his face had Shane inexplicably nervous but it was also achingly familiar, an expression Shane saw that time in the library, before Shane had sunk to his knees. Except instead of promising pleasure, it promised blood. Shane’s fingers twitched at his sides, swallowing harshly. Now was not the time for that particular memory to resurface, especially not in a crowded room.

And all this over Shane. If he wasn’t so on edge, he’d roll his eyes at how insufferable the whole situation is. Men and their egos, Shane thinks dryly.

Shane is dragged from his thoughts at the sudden sound of his mother clapping her hands together, the sound like a crack of a whip. ‘So it is decided, a duel will take place this afternoon for the challenge of Prince Shane’s hand.’

And Shane realises then that the challenge will cement any further question regarding a potential marriage between Hollaith and Rozan. That Ilya will establish himself as the only potential husband for Shane, the arrangement thereafter being set in stone. The thought should be terrifying, yet Shane found himself not minding the idea of it. After so much aggravation at the concept of marrying Ilya, it’s finally settled like a swift, soft breeze in a hot summer by the lake, and Shane lets it swirl around his heart with open arms. It was strange how quickly things changed.

It’s not like Ilya was going to lose anyhow, but even the faint idea of Lord Farnley winning and what that could mean still had Shane repressing a shudder.

Yuna looks between the men triumphantly. ‘Sharpen your swords gentlemen, the trial awaits.’

Shane dodges past servants racing along the corridor as he makes his way to Ilya’s chambers - a place he has not yet visited. He pulls at the collar of his dark blue tunic, fiddling with the edges embroidered with golden swirls and ornamental leaves. His mother had dressed him up for the duel, like a prized cow being led to a farm show. She had ordered the jousting arena that lies besides the gates into town be put up with all the pomp and frill a duel over Shane’s hand deserves. Queen Yuna didn’t care that they only had hours to prepare for it. His mother clearly wanted a spectacle, for she did nothing in half measures, and had sent word out to the town for all to attend who wished. Shane would usually appreciate his mother’s iron will in getting things done, if it wasn’t to do so much with him.

Shane can’t help but roll his eyes, this whole situation was absolutely ridiculous. And dressing him up as if he is some flimsy little thing begging to be fought over was even more so. Shane did not need two men flinging swords around for anything, especially over his hand in marriage. Yet alas, here he was - robed in a fine tunic and hiding behind a pillar waiting for the right moment to slip into the room just metres from him. The duel was to start in an hour, so he didn’t have much time.

Finally, there is an opening and Shane darts forward, slipping into the room like a snake. Ilya’s chamber is large, furnished with dark oak and large arched windows to let the afternoon sun in, splashing on the cool tiles, a warm orange spill of light. Ilya stands in front of the large mirror by the window, eyes locking with Shane’s as he stands with his back to the door, an eyebrow quirking in interest.

He stands in an grey undershirt with the strap of his breast plate across his pecs, clearly about to put his armour on. The material of his tunic hugs the bulge of his biceps, hands pausing in their efforts to fasten the strap on his shoulder.

‘Here to help me with my armour, little Prince? I already have a servant for that.’ He quips easily, watching Shane in the reflection as he rolls his eyes, walking up behind him to stand at his shoulder. Ilya smirks but it slides off his face at the tight look in Shane’s eyes.

Shane blinks and fiddles with the buckle Ilya was in the middle of trying to tighten, batting his hands away to do it for him. Shane can feel Ilya’s eyes tracking him in the mirror and he tries to ignore it until Ilya says his name.

‘Shane?’ He asks carefully and Shane exhales through his nose slowly, looking up at him.

‘I’m fine.’ He huffs out, yanking on the strap one last time to have Ilya’s body jerking with the motion before his gaze skitters away, picking up the next piece of armour that lies beside the mirror.

‘Shane.’ Ilya repeats again, stronger this time as Shane comes to stand in front of him. A hand under his chin has Shane’s gaze being forced to meet Ilya’s, the blonde man already frowning.

‘You are afraid?’ He questions softly, and Shane tuts quietly, eyes drifting downwards to the hint of Ilya’s gold necklace hiding beneath the tunic.

‘No,’ he replies, because he wasn’t, not really. Afraid was too strong a word, but Shane was undeniably worried, Ilya was about to fight someone with a sword. And swords meant danger and injury, even if one of the people holding it was far more skilled than the other. Ilya drags his chin upwards again to shake it slightly, and Shane rolls his eyes once more.

‘I’m not, if anything I’m irritated that you’re even doing this, this whole trial debacle is utterly stupid.’ Shane argues, fitting the armour plate along Ilya’s forearms with quick hands. Ilya huffs out a laugh, watching him with a glint in his eyes as Shane continues to stubbornly stare anywhere but him.

‘You think I’m going to lose?’ Ilya didn’t sound annoyed as he questioned the raven haired Prince, in fact it came out as more of a goading query, as if even the idea was hilarious.

Shane places the next forearm plate on his other arm and yanks it tight before looking at Ilya, unimpressed. ‘Shut up.’

And it’s then that a servant enters but stops short upon seeing Shane. Both Princes turn to look at the young man servant lingering by the entrance, clearly confused at seeing the heir to Hollaith in Ilya’s chambers so close to the beginning of the trial.

‘You Grace—,’ the boy tries but Shane waves his hand placatingly, throwing him a reassuring smile.

‘It’s fine, I can dress the Prince of Rozan, you are dismissed. Thank you.’ Shane turns to resume fixing the forearm in plate before reaching for another plate of armour. The servant hesitates but quickly nods, slipping out of the room as quiet as a mouse. Ilya looks after the retreating figure before turning to watch Shane appreciatively. The freckles across the man’s cheeks are clear in the afternoon sun bleeding into the room through the tall windows, the rays shimmering amongst the dark lashes cast downwards as Shane fixes his gaze on his chest, a ghost of a frown between his brows.

Ilya lifts a finger to trace the speckled pixie dust across the bridge of Shane’s nose, the touch gentle and fervent as Shane looks up, wide eyes blinking. Ilya’s mouth twists slightly as he meets his gaze, the finger moving to trace the apple of Shane’s cheek before it curls round the shell of his ear, holding him by the jaw. Shane’s eyes flit between his, unsure.

‘Shane, malysh, moya lyubov,’ Ilya squeezes the side of Shane’s face, his eyes creasing in severity, ‘you understand I have no choice but to answer to the challenge.’ Ilya doesn’t say it like a question, but Shane nods once anyway, hands coming up to curl into the front of Ilya’s shirt peppered in armour.

‘He disrespected you,’ Ilya continues, voice low and dangerous, ‘twice.’ For Ilya has not forgotten the moment at the ball, and the image of Lord Farnley’s hand wrapping around Shane’s arm burns into Ilya’s mind, a bitterness spreading on his tongue at the memory.

Ilya’s hand tightens on Shane’s jaw, bringing him closer to nudge his nose against the sharp line of it, quietly inhaling the scent of him, nipping at the skin tightly to hear Shane’s sharp inhale. He leans towards Shane’s ear to whisper hotly against the thin shell of it, ‘And for that alone I will have his tongue. Or perhaps his eyes, for daring to look at you again, for daring to think he could have you.’

And the latter comes out as a growl, sending a shiver down Shane’s spine as his knees threaten to buckle, Ilya clamping a hand at his waist and pulling Shane into him.

Shane would tell Ilya off for being dramatic, but the possessiveness in his tone, in his touch, in the way he snarls violent promises into his ear, has Shane repressing a pleased sigh, nuzzling slightly into the side of Ilya’s jaw to rest there. Ilya pets his hair gently, and Ilya’s sharp gaze watches them in the mirror, seeing how perfectly Shane fits under his chin, in his arms, how right it feels with him here. And the idea of someone else having the gall to think they could take that away? Ilya lip curls menacingly, a feral heat alighting his bones, his muscles shifting to take flight, yet the hand on Shane’s head remains gentle, loving, and soothing as it cards through the black strands. He drops a kiss against it, before speaking quietly again.

‘He doubts our union, and the integrity of the Crown. I will not tolerate his insolence.’ Ilya coaxes Shane out from his hiding spot, a finger under his chin as Shane blinks up at him shyly through his lashes. Ilya has to tighten the fraying threads of his self control to not take him there. Ilya’s eyes are sharp, unforgiving, and it has Shane’s heart picking up in anticipation, a delicious lick of fear curling around his spine to dissolve into arousal like sherbet sugar.

‘And I will gladly show him that. For you are mine,’ A finger presses into the centre of Shane’s plush lower lip, swiping at it gently with the statement, and Shane’s heart soars, hands trembling slightly where they twist into Ilya’s shirt, lips parting slightly.

‘Much like I am yours.’

Shane swallows harshly, throat clicking with emotion threatening to push him over so instead he nudges his forehead against Ilya’s, nodding once, exhaling heavily. And with the breath, rushed out all the doubt, the worry and annoyance at the duel that Shane had brought into the room with him. He had come prepared to argue, to bicker like they always did. Instead Ilya had grounded him with such simple, aggressive proclamations that it did more in settling his anxieties than anything else would have done.

Ilya quickly places a kiss at the corner of his mouth and Shane twists his head to chase Ilya’s mouth but the Prince pulls back, a hand sliding to his nape to tug him backwards with a smirk at Shane’s confused expression.

‘I cannot afford any distractions, and your lips are enough of one, you may only kiss me when I win.’ Ilya’s smile is more sharp teeth than soft smiles, and Shane can’t help but roll his eyes.

‘Fine.’ He says grouchily, but then his fingers reach down into the pocket of his trousers, looking for something and Ilya follows it with interest, eyebrow quirking curiously. Shane pulls his hand out to hover it between them, both looking down as he slowly unfurls his fingers to reveal what hides in the centre of his palm.

In it lies the wolf carving Ilya had gifted him that time by the lake. Shane fingers it softly before he looks up at Ilya and holds it out to him, fidgeting slightly as his gaze skitters away nervously. ‘For you.’

Ilya looks down at it before catching Shane’s gaze in a silent question as he stretches his fingers out to take it. Shane clears his throat pointedly, gesturing aimlessly between them, a blush creeping onto his cheeks.

‘It’s a token. It’s for, you know.’ Shane waves his hands uselessly as Ilya turns it in his hands, a thumb tracing the snout of the wolf.

‘No, I don’t know,’ Ilya says softly, glancing at Shane with an unreadable expression, feeling terribly fragile, ‘I have never received one.’

This was not something people did in Rozan. Honour was hardly a thing that people fought for in Ilya’s home country. They fought simply for victory, to beat their feet over the body of their enemies and bathe in their blood all because they could. In Rozan, a challenge like Lord Farnley’s would not have mitigated a trial at all. It would have been a bloodbath in the throne room and they would have carried on with their day, the mosaic floor smeared in the colour of death to be mopped away by the servants before dinner.

So receiving a token was unfamiliar. Ilya had read about the concept as a boy, it was common in the fairytales of knights and princesses. A damsel tucking her handkerchief into the breast of a gallant, honourable knight fighting for her hand. Ilya never considered himself to be one of those. He was the second son of Rozan, an irresponsible and lazy Prince. He was not worthy of such favours, to be looked upon in such a way with shining eyes and rosy lips. Yet, Shane had proven him wrong once again.

‘Oh,’ Shane says gently, mouth parting before he smiles shyly up at Ilya, taking the carving back to fiddle with something he retrieves from his pocket. It’s a small silk drawstring pouch with a long line of string, which Shane deposits the wooden wolf into. Ilya watches him carefully all the while.

‘It’s for good luck mostly,’ Shane says, as he knots the string before reaching up and putting it around Ilya’s neck, tucking it under his tunic to rest alongside his mother’s necklace. ‘People do it to wish someone victory, or to—,’ Shane hesitates for a moment before he speaks again, ‘or to demonstrate affection.’

Shane clears his throat uselessly, fingers fidgeting with the string in a pathetic excuse for a distraction, before he steps back, daring to meet Ilya’s gaze. Ilya smiles playfully, ignoring the heavy thud of his heart against his armour.

‘Is this your way of telling me you like me, Your Grace?’ Ilya asks teasingly, head cocking to the side and trying to hide the way his fingers are slightly trembling by his sides.

Shane huffs in annoyance, crossing his arms and willing the inferno across his face to calm down as he juts his chin out defiantly. ‘Who said anything about that? I’m simply being polite.’

Ilya only has to look at him a few seconds longer before he breaks, Shane scuffing his boot against the floor, mumbling quietly, ‘Okay fine, maybe a little.’

Ilya laughs, stepping forward to kiss him on the cheek adoringly, Shane’s gaze flying up and a hand resting where Ilya’s lips were, eyes wide. Ilya grins, tucking a lock of Shane’s hair behind his ear. ‘That is good, because I like you too. Just a little.’

Shane huffs but can’t fight the smile breaking out across his lips as he smacks Ilya’s arm before turning to retrieve the next bit of armour.

‘Well I’d like to think so considering you’re about to kick someone’s ass for me.’ He retorts cheekily. He’s too busy bent over the pile of armour to notice Ilya moving behind him, yelping in shock as a hand flies down in a resounding smack against his ass.

‘Ilya!’ He swivels on his heel, scandalised, cheeks burning and spluttering useless words as he gawps at the prince with the devilish smile, clearly and shamelessly unapologetic. Ilya shrugs easily, a hand darting round Shane to pinch a cheek just to hear Shane gasp again, ignoring Shane’s half-hearted attempts to wriggle away.

‘What? It is a nice ass.’

The nerves returned as soon as Shane sat down between his parents, looking out across the stretch of sand where the duel was to take place. He had no reason to be nervous, but he was anyway. The mind worked in peculiar ways. Queen Yuna, however, failed to suppress her excitement.

She had stood up to the crowds that had gathered to watch and addressed them to explain the circumstances of the duel, all of which Shane tuned out in an attempt to temper his swirling moods, his eyes darting everywhere to catch sight of Ilya entering the space.

He was undoubtedly on edge. He had left Ilya’s chambers with a lingering gaze, their fingers tangling together one last time before Ilya shooed him away with an indulgent smile and pat to Shane’s behind. It’s not like Ilya was going to lose, but still he could still get hurt. Even though Ilya was a grown man - which Shane obviously knew.

Suddenly a silence settles and all that can be heard is the soft thuds of boots making their way across the sandpit. Shane’s gaze zeroes in on Ilya stalking across the grounds, his face unrecognisable except for the eyes, already watching him, through the slit in the helmet’s visor. Rozan’s family crest is imprinted on the chest piece, Ilya’s tall and broad frame hugging the armour like a second skin. He looks even larger wearing it, and Shane’s thighs can’t help but rub together at the image. Ilya looked so powerful, and he was staring right at him, almost knowingly as his eyes flit over Shane’s seated figure.

Lord Farnley trots in after Ilya, but Shane barely spares him a glance, unable to tear his eyes from Ilya standing there menacingly, sword low.

Yuna remains standing and nods to both opponents. ‘Let the trial begin.’

And then a horn is blown, the sound making Shane flinch in his seat as both men raise their swords to trace circles in the dust. Neither move at first, Ilya twisting the sword in his wrist as if to warm up his muscles, neck cracking to the side. Lord Farnley clutches his own like a lifeline.

The crowd's usual noise that accompanies a duel is absent, all silent as they watch the two men circle each other. Ilya walks almost lazily, shoulders relaxed, as if simply waiting, like he has all the time in the world. Lord Farnley however, clearly does not share the same sentiment if the tense line of his shoulders is anything to go by. Finally, Farnley seizes forward but Ilya taps the sword away with his own as if in scolding, and Shane swears he hears Ilya tutting in disapproval.

For a while, the fight is actually a little boring. Which is rare when it comes to Ilya, but the Prince of Rozan seems to be playing with his food. He swings his sword and moves like he’s bored. Shane is pretty sure Ilya yawns at one point when Farnley tries to swing for him again. After five more minutes of it, Shane scoffs loudly and he watches Ilya’s head twitch an inch in his direction. And that’s when the real fight begins.

Ilya darts forward like a blur, and swords crash together, dust kicking up around them as Ilya quickly overpowers Farnley, forcing the man back with every step that Ilya takes forward. The crowd begins to cheer, finally entertained, and Shane senses his mother settle in her chair with a pleased harumph. Shane on the other hand, can’t help but lean forward in his seat, a light frown emerging as he takes in every move. Eventually Farnley grows tired, and Ilya successfully knocks his helmet off his head, leaving the man stumbling around after it.

Ilya removes his own, curls sticking to his forehead, sweat glistening above his brow as he chucks his helmet to the ground with a shrug, clearly happy to resume, rolling his shoulders back. Shane’s fingers curl into the arm of the chair tightly as Lord Farnley stands there gasping. Everyone knows the rules of the duel mean that it only ends when the other concedes, yet the Lord seems set on not giving in, even when he is so clearly outmatched. Ilya sneers, lips twisting into a nasty smirk. Lord Farnley was making himself fair game for blood.

The duel does not last long after that. It’s clear that Ilya grows bored, and after a few more taps of the sword he trips Farnley up to send the man sprawling onto his front. His mother hides her smile behind her hand as the crowds roar.

But the man stubbornly goes to get up again, but it’s when Farnley has one knee propped up, wobbling in an effort to stand, that Ilya swings his sword in a perfect arc, and the other man has no time to get out of the way.

Everyone watches as Ilya slices his sword across Farnley’s face, right across his left eye, blinding him. It sends the other man flying back, shrieking as a hand clutches at the injured eye, blood streaming down his face, splattering out around him as he collapses into the dust. The blood streams thick down his neck, maroon red and shimmering in the afternoon sun.

Ilya simply flicks the blood from his sword with a careless motion, before crouching down above him, muttering something that no one else can hear. Shane, amongst many other spectators, leans forward to try and catch it but it remains unintelligible. It’s only when Ilya finishes talking, does he flit his eyes up to Shane’s, glinting ferociously, smiling wickedly.

Shane gulps loudly, mouth dry as his heart stutters in his chest. The words that Ilya muttered in his chambers spring to mind as Lord Farnley finally concedes. The promise of unveiled violence that Shane thought he only threatened in passing to prove a point to Shane of his devotion. Yet now, staring down at the man who is clearly going to lose an eye, as Ilya stands over him like a phantom of the night, teeth bared in glee - Ilya’s words ring in Shane’s ears as Yuna proclaims Ilya champion, the clear winner of Shane’s hand. The winner of Shane.

Or perhaps his eyes, for daring to look at you again

And Shane can’t fight the heat of desire pooling in his gut that Ilya made good on his promise. That Ilya had blinded the man who had dared disrespect him. Others would be terrified, yet for Shane, it only made him hungry.

The approval in his eyes must be obvious for Ilya grins, prowling forward and stepping up to where Shane sits, everyone watching as Ilya takes the knee before him. Shane fights the smile threatening to break out, only looking down at Ilya appraisingly as Ilya takes his hand, dropping a tender kiss to his knuckles, smiling against the skin as their eyes lock, the heat swirling between them to crackle like fireworks, threatening to spill out under the afternoon sun, as a man bleeds from his eye to never see again.

Inevitably, there was to be a feast to celebrate Ilya’s victory. Lord Farnley had lost his eye and had gained a nasty scar across his face, having returned to his manor to lick his wounds. Shane’s mother had made it clear his seat on the council dangles dangerously over the precipice. For now, the man is too ashamed to show his face. Shane does not mind, nor does he feel sorry for him - not on the inside, although to everyone else he displayed his practiced expression of sympathy.

The Rozan envoy are drunk as newts, his mother has even indulged herself, giggling at whatever his father has said in her ear. And Shane hasn't been able to stop staring at Ilya the entire night.

He too has had a glass of wine, an unusual sight but the adrenaline of watching Ilya fight had his blood buzzing and his hand itching to reach out and yank Ilya into a secluded corner to show him how thankful he truly was. And as he couldn’t do that, which he could not considering they were not finished with dinner, he found himself reaching for his goblet to avert his attention. It was harder though, considering Ilya also could not stop looking at him, a dark expression etched onto his face that had Shane’s cock twitching in interest. It also didn’t help that after Ilya had knelt before him after the duel, upon leaving the arena he had pulled out Shane’s token and kissed it, eyes never leaving Shane’s, smirking before disappearing without a backwards glance. The little shit was a tease.

The food on his plate suddenly did not seem so appetising when there were other things he could be putting in his mouth, and from the look on Ilya’s face, the Prince of Rozan was thinking the exact same thing.

Shane feels like he’s been holding his breath all evening, body wound tight and when dessert is finally cleared away, a heavy exhale deflates his chest like a pierced balloon. He immediately stands, bowing goodnight to the table before pointedly fixing Ilya with a look that belies no false impressions of Shane’s expectations.

Shane makes it to his chambers, breathing hard, pulse thudding like a drum in his ears. He assumes that Ilya understood that Shane wanted him to follow, although now he’s back in his rooms Shane is hit with the realisation that he has no idea what Ilya expects of him. Would Ilya want to have sex? Shane’s never done that, and they weren’t married. Although Shane had already sucked the man’s cock, so that reasoning wasn’t exactly air tight. But still, sex was different, and Shane wasn’t sure if he was ready for that - horny or not. He could at least try and look sexy when he comes in, isn’t that what people did when they had lovers, or partners, or in Shane’s case, an Ilya?

At first Shane decides to sit on the edge of his bed, hands in his lap but then feels awfully silly, so he sits by the fireplace but then feels even sillier. He’s in the middle of pacing, running his hands through his hair when the door creaks open. He whips around, startled and wide eyed to see Ilya leaning against the door to close it with a soft click. Neither speaks for a moment, Ilya watching him darkly, his gaze teeming with heat as Shane fidgets under its intensity, fingers twiddling together nervously. And then Ilya moves, slowly, carefully as if approaching a deer about to bolt.

Shane watches him draw near with a sharp inhale, unconsciously taking a step back.

‘Congratulations on your win.’ He says softly as Ilya begins to loom in front of him, tilting his head up to catch Ilya’s gaze. Ilya hums noncommittally, large hands coming to hold his waist steady, anchoring him in place.

Ilya rumbles out a gruff, ‘Thank you,’ hands squeezing at the softness of Shane’s waist under the hard muscle. He leans closer, pulling them chest to chest and Shane’s fingers come up to rest against Ilya’s firm pecs. ‘Now give me kiss.’

Ilya’s accent catches on the command roughly, coming out as a grumble, as his eyes drop to Shane’s lips unashamed. Shane can’t help the small smile, his hands running up the sides of Ilya’s neck to curl behind his ears, fingers sinking into the soft curls there to tug him forward. Shane drops a sweet kiss on Ilya’s lips teasingly before pulling back slightly. Ilya growls, fingers digging into his hips hard enough to leave bruises, lips chasing Shane’s but stuttering to a stop as Shane places a finger on the bow of them with a cheeky raise of a brow.

‘Don’t be greedy.’ Shane doesn’t know where the need to tease Ilya has come from. It certainly wasn’t his plan when the man appeared in his rooms, but the adrenaline rush from the duel, the rush of having Ilya in his rooms, alone for the first time all day has something playful emerging. So far, Ilya’s been the one doing all the teasing - why shouldn’t Shane try his hand at it?

Ilya huffs in disbelief, his eyes dancing dangerously close to feral as he nips at the finger against his lips before he sucks it into his mouth. His eyes never leave Shane’s as the darker haired man’s lips part in shock at the unexpected move. Well that was completely unfair. Ilya’s hands move from Shane’s waist to smooth over the curve of his ass before his fingers sink into the fat of them and pulls Shane into him, eliciting a gasp from the shorter man.

‘Greedy?’ Ilya questions darkly, the tone has Shane’s teasing smile quickly being wiped off his face.

Ilya pretends to think for a moment, chin tilted up slightly as he looks to the ceiling before snapping his eyes back to Shane’s, unsmiling. ‘Yes,’ he agrees, ‘I am greedy.’ Ilya begins to walk them back slowly, and Shane has no choice but to follow, clutching tightly onto Ilya’s shoulders to not fall over backwards.

‘I am very greedy. Greediest man in the kingdom. Greedy for wanting to kiss you every second of the day, to touch you,’ Ilya uses his grip on Shane’s ass to knead his cheeks slightly, Shane sucking in a breath at the rough touch. ‘I am so greedy I blind a man for looking at you.’

They make it to the edge of Shane’s bed, and Ilya suddenly hikes Shane up, before sending him sprawling backwards onto the sheets, Shane’s muffled yelp being cut off as he lands to stare at Ilya with wide eyes and a heaving chest. His fingers curl into the sheets in anticipation, teeth sinking into his plush lip as he watches Ilya at the foot of the bed.

‘You make me greedy.’ Ilya proclaims quietly, a knee coming up to rest on the bed as he begins to prowl up the bed, the muscles under his shirt rippling like water as he moves. Shane swallows harshly, blinking rapidly, sinking back into the bed in a conflicted desire to run away at the hunger in Ilya’s eyes, the danger that seems to emanate from the man, but a danger Shane can’t help but want.

‘Is your fault, Shane,’ Ilya drawls, now hovering above him, hands by Shane’s ears, ‘But greedy man wants what he earned. And I won you, didn’t I?’ Ilya crowds closer so their noses are touching and Shane swears his heart stutters to a stop.

‘And I’m here to claim my prize.’

And fuck, Shane has been waiting to kiss Ilya all day, from the moment he saw him in the throne room, to the second he stepped out under the afternoon sun in his armour. Shane’s hands fly to cup Ilya’s neck, dragging the man down on top of him to take his mouth in a searing kiss. Ilya snarls into the kiss, hands snaking under the back of Shane’s shirt as he wedges a thigh between Shane’s legs, pressing it against Shane’s half hard cock to hear him moan into his mouth. Ilya nips at his lips, before soothing it with his tongue, licking into his mouth to feel Shane tug at his hair harshly at the feeling. It’s when Shane is kissed dumb, lips swollen, his fingers curling into the waistband of Ilya’s breeches, that Ilya catches his hand quickly kissing his knuckles and placing his hand above his head.

Shane pulls back, a confused question forming on his lips but Ilya cuts it off with a quick peck, drawing Shane’s other hand to join the one pinned above his head. ‘I want my prize now, yes?’ He murmurs into the small space between their lips.

He presses his hands on Shane’s wrists against the bed one last time in a silent order to stay, before he pushes Shane’s shirt up his chest, rucking it up under his armpits to lathe wet kisses against the warm skin. Shane moans softly at the sensation of Ilya’s mouth on him, Ilya’s curls tickling his belly as he moves down, fingers hooking into Shane’s breeches and tugging them down. It’s when Shane lies there, half naked and cock exposed, knees coming inwards to shield himself shyly as Ilya stares down at the view whilst licking his lips that Ilya tuts loudly, rough hands grasping his knees to pull them apart with a disapproving click of his tongue.

‘No hiding. I want to see my reward.’ Ilya slides his hands to the back of Shane’s knees and pushes them to his chest, Shane gasping at the stretch in his hamstrings, eyelashes fluttering and a blush spreading like wildfire at the feeling of being so exposed, so openly admired, a whine stuttering out of his throat as his head turns to the side, avoiding Ilya’s gaze.

A strong hand at his jaw has him twisting back to face Ilya again. ‘I said no hiding, I want to see you.’ Ilya pulls him into a deep kiss before drawing back to kiss his nose, Shane trying very hard to keep his eyes on him. Ilya hums, pleased.

‘Good boy.’ Shane tries to ignore how the pet name makes his cock twitch, Ilya however, of course, notices it with a smirk.

Shane had thought that when Ilya had nudged him back onto the bed that this was going to end up differently, that he’d at least get to touch Ilya like Shane thought he would have expected him to. Instead it seems that Ilya seems very determined in have Shane do absolutely no work at all, and Shane has to remember to breathe as Ilya sinks between Shane’s legs, bypassing his cock, looking at Shane devilishly under his lashes.

‘What are you—,’ Shane begins to question, hands twitching from their position above his head to prop himself up but Ilya cuts him off with the flat of his tongue licking a strip across his hole.

Shane’s question dissolves into a gasp that tapers into a broken moan, falling back into the bed and hips jerking away in surprise. Ilya quickly catches them, forearm pressed across his stomach to stop him from going anywhere as he chuckles against Shane’s ass cheek, sucking a bruise into it before mumbling against it. ‘I’m claiming my winnings. I haven’t eaten dessert yet.’

Shane almost goes to retort that his ass is not dessert, but Ilya halts any further thinking by letting saliva pool in his mouth to suck at his hole like a man whose diabetic and Shane’s hole is coated in sugar.

Shane’s eyes threaten to roll back at the feeling of Ilya’s spit slick tongue lathing at his entrance, enticing it to open under the pressure of it, his taint wet with Ilya’s saliva. The sensation is strange, foreign but achingly good, especially as Ilya uses a thumb to spread his hole to the side to finally spear his tongue past the rim to have Shane choking on his own saliva, moaning loudly and hands flying down to sink into the curls between his legs.

‘Oh God—,’ Shane cries out, hips kicking upwards as Ilya fucks his tongue into his ass, a finger nudging in alongside it, the slide only slightly burning with just how wet Shane’s hole is with Ilya’s spit. Ilya hums, and the vibrations has Shane mewling, writhing against the sheets desperately, cock leaking a puddle onto his stomach.

Shane never knew anything going near his ass could feel this good, but Ilya has once again proven him wrong - not for the first time. Shane pants, trying to catch his breathe as a second finger joins the first, up to the last knuckle and when Ilya sucks on his rim again, Shane can’t help but slur out, ‘S’so good, fuck—Ilya—,’ he keens high in his throat when the fingers inside of him curl against a place inside of him that has his hips kicking upwards, chasing it but unable to go anywhere against Ilya’s strong grip.

Ilya chuckles, his tongue unrelenting in its torture and fingers pressing incessantly against the sponges tissue of Shane’s prostate just to see his cock drool. Shane’s chest stutters as the molten heat pooling at the base of his cock deepens, electricity shooting up his spine as it curves against the mattress, lips parted and drool collecting at the corner of his mouth. Everything is overwhelming, the feel of the sheets beneath his skin, Ilya’s tongue, Ilya’s fingers, the hand pinning him to the bed, Ilya’s soft curls tickling the inside of his thigh. The molten pleasure Ilya is evoking in Shane’s body feels like an avalanche about to roll over Shane with vengeance. Shane is slowly losing himself in the feeling of it, has forgotten everything else but the feeling of Ilya between his legs, and he can’t help but lean into it, to let go completely, legs splaying open wider, hands tugging in Ilya’s hair to bring him closer.

‘Taste so good, malysh,’ Ilya gruffs out from below and Shane tries to blink blearily down at him but at another hard thrust of Ilya’s fingers, Shane’s head falls back with a moan drawn from an open mouth, his orgasm looming over him, ready to break.

Ilya moans against his hole, entranced by the sight of Shane’s slightly gaping hole twitching around his fingers, wet with his tongue. The sight has him diving back in with a poorly suppressed growl, and the feeling of Ilya’s tongue fucking back into his hole has Shane finally spilling over the edge. He chokes on a moan, babbling as he comes untouched, body curling as heat shoots down his spine like a hot current of electricity.

‘Fuck, Ilya, Ilya—,’ Shane doesn’t try to say anything tangible, only wanting to feel Ilya’s name on his tongue as he rides out his orgasm.

Ilya’s hand tightens against his hip as he watches cum shoot across Shane’s belly, milking his prostate for all its worth with his long fingers. He keeps his fingers thrusting for a few moments longer to see Shane’s spent cock try and drool out more cum, Shane writhing and whining softly in overstimulation as he tries to jerk away on instinct. The little Prince looks good like this, Ilya thinks, stretched out and boneless after having an orgasm wrung from him. An orgasm Ilya gave him, Shane riding his tongue like he deserves to. And it was all for Ilya, and the reminder of that and what Ilya fought for today has him shooting forward, tongue dragging through the pool of cum cooling on Shane’s stomach.

Shane hums questioningly, brain somewhere across the room to look down with a confused slow blink, before a helpless moan tears from his throat at the sight of Ilya licking up his cum like its water.

Shane uses the grip in Ilya’s hair to drag him up, Ilya refusing to budge until he’s licked up every last drop of Shane’s release. When Shane finally does wrangle Ilya up to him, Shane wastes no time in nudging his head up to meet Ilya halfway, desperate for a kiss that Ilya happily gives him, unable to deny him of anything.

Shane can taste the saltiness of himself on Ilya’s tongue as it dips into his mouth, and instead of cringing away like he thought he would, Shane mewls wantonly, legs coming to bracket Ilya’s hips to pull him deeper, hungry to taste both Ilya and himself. The press of Ilya’s hard cock against his hip has Shane remembering with a blush that Ilya had not come yet.

Shane’s hands push Ilya’s shirt up to trace the muscles there, feeling them shift under his fingers as Ilya sits up slightly, a thumb tracing Shane’s lower lip.

Shane isn’t sure what he wants, his thoughts mushy like leaving something sweet under the sun for too long. But he knows he never wants Ilya to stop touching him, always wants Ilya to be touching him more. So when Ilya retreats down Shane’s legs, Shane almost thumps the bed with his fist in petulance, an unhappy expression taking over his face as he opens his mouth to protest, to ask where the hell Ilya thought he was going.

Ilya shucks off his shirt, dropping it somewhere behind him and leans off the bed to search the surface of Shane’s bedside table, Shane watching him silently in open curiosity. Ilya pulls back with a small vial of lavender scented oil that Shane recognises, it’s one of his favourite scents that he likes to dab between his ears and on the inside of his wrists.

With the vial of scented oil between his fingers, Ilya removes his bottoms, flinging them over his shoulder carelessly to join his shirt. Shane reaches up to trace a hand across the hard planes of Ilya’s chest, finger coasting over the smattering of moles across his hard abdomen. Shane had seen Ilya topless before, like that time in the courtyard, but never like this, in the sanctity of his room away from prying eyes. All for Shane to admire. And Ilya was gorgeous, sculpted from something from a dream.

The thought of Ilya being all of Shane’s to enjoy, all for him to look at has Shane pulling a finger into the gold necklace that rests between Ilya’s pecs, gently tugging on it to bring Ilya back down to meet him again, lips soft against Shane’s.

‘What are you doing?’ Shane murmurs between the sweet kisses as Ilya moves back to pepper kisses across his face, the soft skin of his eyelids before pulling back with a dangerous smirk, popping open the cork easily and spilling some oil on his fingers. He wraps his oil slick hand around his hard cock, the touch eliciting a hiss through gritted teeth and Shane’s eyes are drawn to it like a moth to a flame, tongue darting out unconsciously to lick his lips.

Ilya chooses that moment to grab Shane’s ankles, pressing his legs together and slinging them over one broad shoulder. Shane’s fingers clutch at the blankets for purchase as he can’t help but gasp at the sudden movements.

‘I want to fuck your thighs.’ Ilya says easily, casting a teasing look at Shane. ‘You gonna let me, kotenok?’

Ilya watches as Shane’s pupils bleed into the soft brown, a bottomless black that accompanies a shaky nod. Ilya grins before dropping a kiss to the ankles by his ear, never taking his eyes off Shane as he does to hear the delightful hitch in breath the kiss elicits.

Ilya takes a moment to look down as he presses Shane’s thick thighs together tightly, he squeezes Shane’s calves once and Shane immediately gets the message, tensing his thigh muscles. Ilya slides his cock between them and groans, hands tightening in their grip on Shane’s legs at the pressure.

Ilya has always liked Shane’s thighs, his legs, his everything. Shane was an expert horserider and swordsman. His body was built for it and his figure reflected those very things every time he moved or walked into a room. Shane was also built to be worshipped. Starting with his thighs. They were a perfect shape - corded with muscle, smooth skin, and a perfect fit for Ilya’s cock to fit between.

Ilya shifted back slightly before thrusting forward harshly, hips slapping against the back of Shane’s thighs. The movement has Ilya’s cock sliding against Shane’s own spent cock, and the friction of the wet glide has Shane muffling out a whine. Shane looks down, hypnotised as Ilya sets up a slow, thorough pace. The sight of Ilya using his thighs as a surrogate hole, moving against Shane’s cock with every thrust to bring it achingly back to life has his mouth going dry.

Ilya towers above him and the image has Shane swallowing back the saliva pooling in his mouth. It has Shane thinking of whether Ilya would look like this if they ever have sex - Shane hopes so. Would Ilya take him like this? Ilya kicks back his head so Shane can see the thickness of his throat as Ilya swears under his breath, hips kicking up a notch.

‘Fuck, so tight, so pretty,’ Ilya mutters, biceps bulging as he holds Shane’s legs tightly resting on his shoulder, watching as his cock is sucked in between Shane’s slick thighs. Every thrust forward brings Ilya’s slick cock gliding against Shane’s, and the touch has Shane’s cock beginning to dribble out precum, easing the slide with a wet shlick.

‘Feels—,’ Shane begins but is cut off with a moan at a particularly hard thrust that has their cocks sliding against each other once more, mouth dropping in pleasure. Shane’s hands fly to Ilya’s naked hips, nails digging into the flesh for no reason other than wanting to touch him.

Ilya smirks, fucking forward and hips moving in a filthy grind that has Shane keening. ‘Yeah? Feel good?’ He doesn’t need Shane to reply, the precum forming puddles around his hard cock is answer enough, as are his glassy, half lidded eyes, lips open on a continuous string of moans.

‘Hah, yes so good.’ Shane mumbles out incoherently, and Ilya grits his teeth as he fucks harder between Shane’s thighs, the wet slide like heaven. Ilya can feel his orgasm looming, sparks flying across his skin as he pants open mouthed, staring down where Shane’s thighs cradle his cock.

Ilya comes looking at Shane. Which shouldn’t be surprising, but that’s never quite happened to him before. But then Shane has never happened to him before, so it makes sense. It’s at the sight of Shane’s doe eyes looking up at him, dazed, blinking slow around the arousal clouding his vision, the way he bites his lip to try and muffle the needy noises spilling from his lips as a full body shudder wracks his body.

So Ilya comes, cock jerking, hips grinding into the tight space between Shane’s legs and coating Shane’s hard cock in his cum like a claim. Ilya sets Shane’s thighs down to bracket his hips, before using his cum as lubricant, jerking Shane off just to see the man twist into the sheets, a startled moan rattling his chest at the shock of Ilya’s fist around him. It doesn’t take long after that for Shane to reach his second peak.

Eventually, Ilya wipes them down with a rag by the basin Shane keeps in his rooms, before he coaxes Shane into the nook of his arm, cheek against his chest and eyelashes fluttering. Shane traces shapes with a fingertip across Ilya’s chest, much like Ilya’s does to his spine, until the raven haired man’s hand settles above Ilya’s heart.

They lie like that for a while, Ilya softly humming. The vibrations of it has Shane almost purring like a kitten. A thunderstorm cracks the sky open as they lie with each other, rain pelting against the windows, lightning sealing the night in icy streaks.

‘The month is almost up.’ Shane mumbles quietly into the silent room, the only sounds being their steady breaths.

Ilya hums back in agreement, a hand carding through the back of Shane’s hair. ‘Yes.’ He agrees, voice rough from not speaking in a while, ignoring the way his heart squeezes in anxiety, trying to refrain from too much emotion bleeding through in the single word. The idea that Shane could well and truly turn around and declare himself unwilling to marry him still lingered like a tendril squeezing his heart a little too tightly. Even if he was in Ilya’s arms and wasn’t previously rubbing his nose against his skin like a kitten moments earlier.

Ilya has learnt to never be sure when it comes to what people truly think. Minds can always change, eyes can always narrow in disgust. A heart that once loved so well, can always stop beating. His mother had taught him that.

‘Will your father be happy?’ Shane hedges carefully, sensing Ilya tense beneath him at the mention of the man. But one could not forget the political implications of a marriage between the two houses, even with feelings involved. And whilst they’d been avoiding the subject successfully thus far, Shane didn’t see the use in skittering round it now. Especially when Shane was clearly planning on saying yes.

Ilya shifts slightly, the hand in Shane’s hair tightening ever so minutely. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’ His voice is flat, a frown tugging at his eyes as he is reminded of the coarse old man that calls himself his father. Shane sneaks a glance up under his lashes and his brows furrow slightly, sitting up one arm.

‘You don’t think he will be?’ He questions and Ilya frowns at the ceiling, a sharp huff of air leaving his lips. Shane can’t help the way his heart picks up. It’s no secret that Rozan weren’t known for their diplomacy, and considering what his mother had let slip about how it had been going with the envoy and their arrogance, there was an uncertain niggle in the back of Shane’s mind, that up until now he had done an excellent job at ignoring, for Ilya had always suggested otherwise. That this whole thing was a farce. An excuse to delay Hollaith’s defensive readiness - not that Ilya had given Shane any reason to believe it concretely. And he hadn’t thought about it, not really. But the silence that follows Shane’s question has his skin prickling unpleasantly.

Did Ilya know something Shane did not?

‘Ilya?’ Nerves bleeding into his voice, and Shane hates himself for it. But the longer Ilya goes on not answering, the more the black threatens to envelope him and he can feel its teeth nipping at his heels with dread. The rain is loud against the windowpane, like a drum.

The hand that was in Shane’s hair has flopped to Ilya’s side and it clenches into a fist. Ilya closes his eyes briefly before he flits them to trace unknown shapes into the ceiling.

‘I’m sure my father would much prefer war. He does not see the value in marriage, only a keepsake for violence.’ The truth tumbles from his lips in a loose jawed confession, and it rolls bitter off Ilya’s tongue, his face twisting with the taste of it.

Ilya knows his father, and he knows his brother. They were greedy, and violent, and sharp teethed when it comes to the softness of life. They’d tear the legs off a lamb for the sake of possessing the biggest bloody chunk. He doesn’t even know why they came. Probably to gorge themselves on someone else’s hospitality, to spy perhaps? But Ilya had no intention of allowing them to do much else. Because this was about Ilya putting an end to their madness. His family were leeches, as was the Rozan court, and Ilya’s blood had been slowly drained of life from his birth. He was tired.

He’s so busy scowling at the ceiling that he misses the way Shane recoils like he’s been burned, hands withdrawing, face pinched.

‘What does that mean?’ Shane asks tightly, heart thudding violently against his chest.

Ilya drags his gaze finally from above to Shane who now sits a little a way from him. Ilya’s frown deepens at the distance, and at the look on Shane’s face. ‘What?’

Shane’s fist clenches and releases to grip onto his thighs as he kneels on the bed, observing Ilya carefully.

‘What do you mean your father would prefer war? Are you suggesting Rozan has no intention to honour the pact?’ Shane can feel anger beginning to stoke amongst the dying flames, a fire he hadn’t bothered to fan since things between he and Ilya had undeniably changed. But now he wasn’t so sure.

Shane was suddenly struck with a horrible thought - that Ilya does intend to marry him, but it will do nothing to prevent war between their two families. That if anything, the marriage will serve as a distraction for Hollaith. It would create the perfect opportunity for Rozan to attack, wouldn’t it? Was Ilya in on it? Panic surged like acid, crawling up Shane’s throat and filling his mouth with the taste of vomit. And Shane lets the panic take over, for old habits die hard and Shane was nothing but a self flagellating creature of habit. The idea of being taken for a fool, the idea of his kingdom being attacked and Shane practically letting that happen rang louder than all rationality and feeling.

Ilya sits up slowly, reaching out to try and touch Shane’s arm, eyebrows drawn together. ‘Shane—,’ but Shane jerks back to stand, spine rigid. He fights down the tears threatening to spring forwards, channeling his energy into the rawness of anger.

‘Answer my question.’ He bites back, cutting Ilya off. Ilya blinks, wide eyed at Shane’s change in composure, hands coming up in front of him placatingly. Ilya rises off the bed on the opposite side to face him.

‘Of course the plan is to honour the alliance the marriage would bring.’ Ilya replied quickly, but Shane’s eyes only narrow in response.

‘And why should I believe you?’

Ilya gapes before fury and indignation bursts forth, setting his skin alight. ‘Believe me? Are you suggesting I’m lying?’

Shane pinches the bridge of his nose, scrunching his eyes closed in frustration. Ilya can feel his muscles bunching up as his fists clench by his sides, breath quickening.

‘Well?’ Ilya barks out as Shane looks at him, his expression guarded. Ilya can’t help but to laugh in disbelief, a hand raking through his hair in frustration.

‘Is this what you think of me? After everything? After all we have shared with each other? You think I would betray you like this?’ Ilya asks as he paces, and Shane folds his arms, looking to the ground with a resigned expression.

‘No.’ Shane says quietly as Ilya stops to look at him, before groaning, slapping a hand to his forehead, ‘Fuck, I don’t know! Alright? What am I supposed to think?’

Ilya’s hands hang limp by his sides, lips tugging down unhappily as he feels his heart folding in on itself. ‘You are supposed to believe me, Shane.’

He utters it so softly, like a fragile paper wing being blown about in the wind. Shane pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes to stop the tears.

‘I do,’ Shane’s voice cracks miserably as thunder rumbles beneath their feet, a broken breath leaving his lungs as he looks to the side, unable to look at Ilya. ‘But I—,’

Ilya sucks in a quiet breath at the conditional, fighting the urge to collapse as his worst fears come true, and once again he is unable to stop it. For the second time, everything is unravelling and Ilya cannot quite catch the thread to stop it.

Shane dares to look at him, and Ilya can see the insecurity swirling in his soft brown eyes, the anxiety at being wrong, fear stretching like thick caramel. And Ilya can understand it, knows the feeling well, but he hates that it still lingers in Shane regardless of everything they’ve shared, done together. It’s not fair, Ilya thinks. It’s not fair, he wants to cry like he once did as a child. Why must his family name taint everything good and pure Ilya has ever had the grace of touching?

‘But what if I’ve been a fool? What if we’ve both been fools?’ Shane asks brokenly, looking at Ilya helplessly. ‘What if none of this matters? That no matter what we do, war will happen one way or another and we are only kidding ourselves, all of us, that marriage will fix it?’

Ilya wants to yell so what? But the pain in Shane’s eyes has him hesitating. The gap between them feels too big, yawning open wider with every moment that passes without touching each other. Ilya wants to ask why if that is true, why they can’t try anyway, why can’t they marry each other because they want to?

But Ilya is not the heir. Ilya is the second son, he does not understand the pressure that rests on Shane’s shoulders, the weight that bows his back. That makes him bleed with the thick blade of duty, and it pours from Shane now to pool at his feet. He can see the cogs whirring in Shane’s brain, moving too fast for Ilya to catch up.

Why could love not be enough? Why was it never enough?

Suddenly Shane reels back, stumbling around for his trousers, yanking them on with fervour and then going for his boots.

‘Shane, where are you going?’ Ilya asks, panic rising, himself beginning to look for his trousers.

Shane scrunches his face in thought before flinging a hand into the air. ‘I just—I just need—I just need to go. I don’t—,’ He growls in frustration as he gets on his second shoe.

‘I need to think, I’m sorry.’ And with that, Shane flees into the stormy night, ignoring the call of his name. Ilya watches him go and pretends that he doesn’t hear his heart cracking halfway down the middle - not quite in two, but almost.

His hands fall despondent by his sides, looking to the bed, the rumpled sheets, the indent of where they were lying not even five minutes prior. Ilya’s gaze snaps to the door that remains not fully closed.

A stroke of lightning illuminates the room with shards of white light, and it bounces off the figure standing in the room, illuminating the eyes blazing with hardening resolve. And then Ilya is gone.

For Ilya learnt a long time ago that happiness is fleeting, and he was a fool to not try and cling onto it a little while longer. Even if it ended in heartbreak.

Chapter End Notes

just a note that the next chapter will be the LAST official chapter of the au as I’m planning on the 8th chapter to be an epilogue. hopefully inspiration flows better than it did for this chapter. stay tuned sluts.

also I hope it’s clear that the angst that Shane is experiencing at the end of this is purely driven from the stubborn need to consider putting his kingdom first. the crisis point for this is probs tenuous as fuck okay but I cba to write proper angst. i just want to see them fuck xx

on twitter as @justabitofcheek come say hi!

Chapter 7

Chapter Summary

‘Because I love you. I have loved you from the first time I saw you, and for every moment after. It doesn’t matter how many years it’s been, my feelings have only worsened.’ Ilya smiles ruefully and Shane’s breath hitches at the revelation, heart rising into his throat, blinking back tears. His mouth parts to respond but Ilya cuts him off, eyes elsewhere and determined as he continues. For Ilya can’t bear to look at him, to see the terrible possibility that Shane does not quite feel the same, that he does not share the same intensity of feeling that threatens to burn Ilya from the inside out to leave him in a pile of love drunk ashes. For Ilya sometimes still felt like a child on the inside, bumbling around waiting for someone to love him, peeking shyly round the dark corners of his mind at the idea of someone finally maybe doing so. Even after a life of being reminded of one’s own worthlessness, a body and mind being bruised with the unfeeling words and fists of others, a tiny seed of hope had remained. That perhaps someone would see something else, or even if they didn’t, that they could love him regardless.

Chapter Notes

the official last chapter is here! everybody clap and enjoy reading

The rain lashes at Ilya’s face as his heels dig into Anya’s flank, urging her forward as they tear through the forest. The night sky is lightening above him amongst the storm, the hour of early morning soon commencing. The trees creak menacingly above him as they break through the treeline over the hills. The lightning and thunder have tapered off to simply leave the heavens cracked wide open, angels shedding their tears in the form of raindrops that soak Ilya through to the bone.

When Ilya had first set off, he had caught sight of Shane riding further ahead of him, the thin material of his shirt, wholly underdressed for the spring storm, sticking to Shane’s back as he disappeared through the thick trees. And as Ilya bursts through the tree line to the meadow, he sees Shane with his back to him, striding through the long grass, Taiyo seeking shelter under the thick branches to Ilya’s left. Ilya wipes a hand across his face, clearing his vision from the onslaught of rain, Shane’s figure blurring as he moves further away.

Ilya slides down the saddle to land in the grass with a thud, before taking off after him, mud squelching under his boots, the goosebumps along his flesh almost painful from the cold. His toes and fingers are numb, but Ilya doesn’t notice, not when Shane remains so far away. He stumbles across the slight decline of the hill and practically tears through the earth, ripping up roots in his wake. Shane hears his footsteps, whirling around in shock, blinking the rain out of his vision to realise he isn’t hallucinating as the image of Ilya before him remains unwavering.

Even in the rain Shane looks beautiful, hair slick with rain and shirt soaked through. Ilya can see his dark nipples through the sheer material, clinging to the hard muscles of his chest and stomach. He stands with his back to the lake and the weeping willow, the rolling hills framing him as he looks at Ilya with wide eyes, lashes wet.

‘Ilya?’ Shane questions bewildered, ‘What are you doing—,’

‘Do you remember the first time we met. Not at the tournament, before that. At the ball.’ Ilya has to practically shout to be heard over the rain pelting at the ground around them. He finds himself uncaring for the rudeness of his interruption, because he has to say it. He has to say everything he has been holding back, because if he keeps it in for much longer, Ilya fears he’ll collapse into himself from the pressure of it like a dying star. Most of all, he has to try, before it is too late.

Shane blinks, jolting backwards, not expecting for Ilya to talk about a memory from so long ago. But of course he did. For although the memory should have collected dust, it remained sharp and its surface gleaming like polished wood. Shane remembered it like it was yesterday, even though it felt strange to remember, because it resembled versions of themselves that neither really understood at the time, too young to know who they really were. Not that Shane had any better idea now.

It was the ball to commemorate his sixteenth name day, a day before the tournament began, the day before Ilya had humiliated Lord Barrett’s son. The hall had been filled to the brim with people Shane didn’t know, the voices too loud, the air too stuffy, the food too rich, dressed in a tunic that was too scratchy against his skin, the crown too heavy against his forehead. It was when he had finally wrangled himself from his mothers grip, seconds away from screaming that Shane had spotted him. A tall boy standing alone, lurking at the side of the room in a dark corner, simply watching it all with a disinterested gaze. And Shane remembered wondering why the boy wasn’t dancing, or at least talking to others his age like Shane was being forced to do. And then he had seen the emblem of the wolf amongst mountains stitched onto his chest, and Shane had realised it was the elusive second son of the King of Rozan. Shane had seen him training in the yard just that morning and had been in awe of his skill, the way he moved like water, figure simply parting like waves around each attacking jab.

Shane jerks his head in a nod silently, the rain in his hair shaking from the strands with the motion. Ilya’s broad form cuts a shape amongst the trees behind him, curls sticking to his forehead.

‘You came up to me and said I was a great swordsman. That you enjoyed watching me fight, that you looked forward to seeing me in the tournament. Do you remember?’ Ilya’s voice rings out above the rumbling clouds above their heads, the rain lashing at their faces.

‘Yes.’ Shane says quietly, rainwater wetting his lips, filling his mouth, as they part to speak.

Ilya continues, emboldened by the fierce memory of the past coursing through his veins. ‘I thought you were there to make fun of me. To laugh. I thought you were trying to mess with me, but you weren’t.’

And it was the truth, for Shane had meant the compliment earnestly. And also because the boy looked lonely, like Shane was lonely, and standing on the edges of the ballroom Shane had thought the boy might understand that.

Ilya breathes deeply, eyes blazing as rain drops drip down his face, pooling in his collarbone.

‘For once, I was not the failure I was always told that I was. And for once, just for a moment, I was tempted to believe otherwise. All because a boy decided to be kind, because you genuinely believed what you said. I could see it in your eyes. There was no malice. There was no game to be played. There was only kindness and a sincerity I had never experienced. You weren’t talking to me for any other reason other than because you wanted to.’ And Ilya remembers what it felt like, to experience that for the first time since his mother had died. It had been startling, and he remembers how he had stared at Shane, waiting for the other shoe to drop. How his eyes had flitted across Shane’s face looking for it, but had found nothing, just an easy smile and bright brown eyes flecked with gold. A foreign sight for the young Prince of Rozan, who had grown up under the biting cold of a constant winter and the sneer of his father, bereft of his mothers smiles. Ilya remembers the suspicious warmth that had curled around his heart for a moment, and how it had terrified him - for he didn’t know what it was. Yet now he did.

Ilya strides across the grass to come closer and Shane has to tilt his head up slightly to meet Ilya’s eyes, the orbs lightened by the sky of early morning as the rain begins to soften. Shane is inclined to believe Ilya looks like an angel fallen from the heavens.

‘And against it all, I found myself smiling along with you even though I had not done that in years.’

Shane’s pulse hammers at Ilya’s words, at his encroaching presence, as Ilya’s hands come to hover at Shane’s elbows - so close, yet not quite touching.

‘You said I would not be so kind when you beat me.’ Shane muttered, watching as Ilya smiles sadly, the expression framed by lashings of rain, Shane tracking the droplets of rain dropping down Ilya’s neck to hide under his shirt.

But we aren’t fighting against each other. Shane had replied back with a laugh, but Ilya had only shrugged, watching him closely, eyes dancing with poorly suppressed interest.

Doesn’t matter, I am fighting against your house. I forget their name, but it is someone from Hollaith. Ilya had said carelessly with a flick of a hand, and Shane had only smiled teasingly in response.

I feel terrible for the man having to face you then. And Ilya had finally smiled, a small ghost of a thing but a smile nonetheless, and Shane remembers the way Ilya had almost looked surprised at himself for doing it.

‘And yet you were unbothered. And watching you then, the earnestness with how you looked at me, I realised I didn’t care about the honour of my kingdom, my father, or my idiot brother. I only had a violent desire to fight for the honour of you. Because I knew then, as I do now, you were the only one deserving of it, the only one I wanted to fight for. I wanted to be the only one you smiled at, you laughed with.’

Shane’s lips part at the intensity of Ilya’s words, eyes flitting down to gaze at Ilya’s transparent shirt sticking to his chest, slick with rain, completely overwhelmed. His heart was threatening to burst out of his chest and he didn’t know what to do about it. Ilya’s hands slide up Shane’s arms, caressing them lightly, fingers coasting up the cold material of his equally wet shirt, before they gently cradle his face, lifting his gaze up to his.

The rain slashes across Shane’s vision to cut Ilya’s face with its wet droplets as it thunders against the ground, but it doesn’t matter, for Ilya’s eyes spark through the bleakness of the weather. Eyes that are fixed on Shane’s.

‘When I found out that that boy was going to propose with an offer of courtship, I decided to cut him down. Humiliate him, yes.’ Ilya licks his lips as he thinks back to the tournament, how Shane had looked on in horror from the box as the young boy had gone toppling to the ground in an embarrassing heap. He remembers feeling nothing but relief and feigning it with a smirk - a habit he soon adopted in his approach to anything in life. ‘But I don’t regret it.’ Ilya’s eyes harden in resolve as they track Shane’s expression, his wide eyes like a deer, the rain clustering at his lower lashes like stars. And Ilya lets himself give life to the possessive thing that curls inside of him at the thought of Shane, which had nestled deep in his ribs when he first saw him. That he was Ilya’s, and Ilya’s alone. No matter what anyone else said.

‘I don’t regret a thing, because the only person fighting for your hand should be me. I will follow you to the ends of the earth, even if you hate me. I will continue to annoy you, to say things that make you blush like a rose in spring, I will do anything to keep you with me, even if you despise me.’ Ilya hesitates, grip on Shane’s jaw tightening a fraction, before he lets out a shaky breath, trying to steady himself, as his heart surges up in his throat to spill out of his mouth the way it’s been yearning to since he saw Shane in the throne room a month ago.

‘Because I love you. I have loved you from the first time I saw you, and for every moment after. It doesn’t matter how many years it’s been, my feelings have only worsened.’ Ilya smiles ruefully and Shane’s breath hitches at the revelation, heart rising into his throat, blinking back tears. His mouth parts to respond but Ilya cuts him off, eyes elsewhere and determined as he continues. For Ilya can’t bear to look at him, to see the terrible possibility that Shane does not quite feel the same, that he does not share the same intensity of feeling that threatens to burn Ilya from the inside out to leave him in a pile of love drunk ashes. For Ilya sometimes still felt like a child on the inside, bumbling around waiting for someone to love him, peeking shyly round the dark corners of his mind at the idea of someone finally maybe doing so. Even after a life of being reminded of one’s own worthlessness, a body and mind being bruised with the unfeeling words and fists of others, a tiny seed of hope had remained. That perhaps someone would see something else, or even if they didn’t, that they could love him regardless.

So for the first time in his life, Ilya was giving that little sapling more room to grow. Even if it filled him with paralyzing fear.

‘I’m an ass, yes, as you’ve pointed out many times,’ and Shane barks out a wet laugh, shaking hands coming up to clutch at Ilya’s holding the sides of his jaw.

‘But my father—,’ Ilya swallows painfully, eyes shadowing with pain and hatred so pure its startling, ‘my father is not fit to rule. His condition is hidden but it is worsening by day. My brother is unpredictable and greedy, he’s simply biding his time. He has no pure intentions towards me, he hates me as he always has, though I’ve never known what I’ve done to deserve it.’

Ilya’s forehead nudges against Shane’s own, shielding them both from the rain as the sun slowly begins to edge out under the rain laden horizon. Shane presses against Ilya comfortingly, encouraging him to continue with the gentle press of his fingertips against the rabbiting pulse on the inside of Ilya’s wrists.

‘The skirmishes at your borders - that is my brother and his men. It was never to do with me. I knew my brother was planning something, but Alexei would never tell me what.’ Shane’s breath catches at the hidden threat, and he thinks about how his brother sleeps in their palace, under their roof.

‘So why—,’ Shane tries to ask, but Ilya silences him with a gentle finger against his plush lips.

Ilya looks up at him from under his lashes, nervous. ‘The marriage was my idea, I was the one that proposed it to your mother.’ Shane almost lurches back in shock, but Ilya’s hands on his face keeps him from straying too far. His lips part in disbelief, eyes flitting between Ilya’s frantically.

‘What?’ Shane chokes out, the rain softening to a gentle thud against the ground, droplets skirting down the plushness of his bottom lip.

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut as if in pain, before opening them again, levelling Shane with a gaze of such intensity it has Shane’s knees threatening to buckle.

‘I knew I could not have you in any other way. I was and always will be undeserving of you. There was going to be no other circumstances that the second Prince of Rozan would be able to marry you. To even have a chance of it. And it is selfish, I know.’ Ilya frowns, waiting for Shane’s revulsion but nothing comes, instead only eyes widening in disbelief, simmering with a love poorly restrained but also with a guilt that he had caused so much pain in the man holding him.

‘But I had to try, so I wrote to your mother, explaining everything - I did not tell her I was in love with you of course, but I told her about my brother’s intentions, my father’s condition, and suggested the proposal. I’m the one who leads our armies, not Alexei. No one respects him, no one would follow him if he tried to lead a war in my absence, especially if we had forged an alliance through marriage. Alexei may have more political allies than me at court, but I have the loyalty of our men - that is worth its weight in gold, which is something my brother forgets. I know the trade routes better than he does. I know our weaknesses as a country, and he knows that I can and will exploit that if he steps out of turn. It’s why I said that my father and brother only want war because they know no other way. But it’s also why they agreed to the marriage, because they knew I’d destroy them, that I’d help Hollaith destroy them if they didn’t. I knew the marriage would ruin my brother's plans, but—,’ Ilya hesitates, swallowing harshly, gazing at Shane earnestly. He remembers the moment the fear of his brother had become real as he was shut out of meetings, the door slamming in his face. The only reason he found out was when his men reported the activity back to him, their loyalties not lying with the Crown, but with Ilya - who had earned their respect instead of demanding it.

And Ilya remembers riding to Hollaith’s borders under dark to relay the letter to the Queen with his proposal by a trusted messenger, the parchment holding Ilya’s future and possibility of love, but also of peace. Something he knew Queen Yuna would not be able to deny him, for she was more sensible than his ape of a brother. He remembers the correspondence thereafter, the hidden letters delivered by swift hands under cloaks, and importantly, Ilya remembers the shock at the realisation that Yuna seemingly trusted him. Enough that she accepted the agreement, enough that he ended up standing in Hollaith’s throne room, watching the love of his life stride through its doors with a poorly concealed scowl and a silver tongue that had his pulse racing and heart busting with joy.

‘But I had to try. Because everything I did was for you. It has always been for you. It has always been you. And it forever will be. Even if you do hate me. But I will bear your hatred of me if it means I can be near you until my last breath. Because now that I have you, I will not be able to let you go. And I will not. Even in your hatred, I will love you because that is the only thing I know how to do.’ Ilya’s eyes flit between Shane’s, painfully vulnerable as he tears open his heart to a man that could easily kill him stone dead with a single word and a single glance.

‘Ilya—,’ Shane begins, hands squeezing at the wrists that hold him. But Ilya gently shakes his head to cut him off as if expecting his refusal, wanting to stave it off from being spoken aloud for just a moment longer.

‘I will not apologise for it. I am greedy and gluttonous in my love. I won’t—I will not temper it.’ Ilya says fiercely, eyes blazing, the line of his mouth resolute.

Shane swallows harshly, blinking away the rain clustered in his lashes, leaning in close so their noses brush, looking up at Ilya under his lashes as he softly whispers with a small smile.

‘And I never want you to.’

Ilya’s eyes widen, clearly not expecting Shane to agree so easily and Shane’s heart aches at the expression.

Shane uses Ilya shock to tilt his head up to kiss him softly, lips brushing lightly at first before the hands around his face tighten, Ilya pulling him in to send their lips crashing together. Shane moans and falls into it with open arms as Ilya catches him, tongue tracing the seam of his lips to be let in immediately. Shane’s fingers smooth up Ilya’s shoulders to sink into his wet hair, clutching him tighter. The horizon above them bleeds pink and orange, cutting through the grey as it creeps up to the sky, the rain diminishing but still lingering, now only gentle taps against their cheeks as they lose themselves in the kiss.

Shane pulls back, a hand sliding to cup Ilya’s jaw, as he looks up at him with his eyes shining. ‘I always thought that they didn’t give you a choice in the arrangement,’ Shane explains softly, ‘that you only came because you had to. I had no idea that you—,’ Shane's voice breaks and he blinks rapidly but the tears fall anyway, too heavy to be kept at bay for so long. Ilya rubs one away with the pad of his thumb, holding his breath.

‘I didn’t know that it meant so much to you. I’m sorry for being so awful to you. For not believing you when I should have.’ Ilya laughs and Shane can’t help but laugh wetly along with him as their shoulders shake. Shane wants to ask Ilya why he never told him the truth, why he waited until now to tell him. But then Shane realises he was guilty of the same thing. Both had hidden behind the thick veil of fear to shroud their better judgment, and here they were now squinting at each other in the bright light of truth and understanding.

‘No, I’m serious. I thought I hated you for so long that I had convinced myself of it instead of truly believing it. I was worried you didn’t feel the same. And I let my fears dictate my actions, even when deep down I knew better, because I was afraid of being wrong. That you didn’t like me as much as I liked you. You confused me, you were not what I thought you were going to be and that made me fearful of everything. I was unfair to you, and I’m sorry.’ Shane looks up at him with a weak smile, now feeling indescribably silly for thinking otherwise.

‘But I was a fool, I see that now.’

‘We were both fools.’ Ilya argues around a smile, and Shane rolls his eyes playfully. ‘Yes, that too.’ He agrees, before continuing.‘But I was not a fool when I realised I loved you.’

And Shane feels the hitch of Ilya’s breath against his chest from standing so closely together, Shane’s free hand tangling into the hair at the nape of Ilya’s neck to tug him in slightly.

‘I love you. Very much so.’ Shane repeats again, softly and sees Ilya’s eyes flash, creasing at the side with emotion, before Shane pulls him in for another kiss. Love seeps into it, like it does with everything else, with all the other kisses they’ve shared before but had never been able to name the feeling of until now. Or at least been too afraid to.

Ilya pulls back momentarily, before responding in a rushed breath thick with emotion. ‘I love you too,’ before he drags Shane back in, cupping his jaw and squeezing it as their lips slide against each other.

They stand with the lake behind them, the sunrise bleaching them in its quiet morning rays, the rain finally receding to leave them shivering, forcing them closer as they warm each other's mouths with their lips. They pull back eventually, foreheads pressed together, arms locked around each other and breathing softly into the space between them. The air was sweet and fresh from the rain shower, tinged with their love and both inhaled it greedily.

Ilya nudges his forehead against Shane’s to grab his attention and Shane opens his eyes to look at him.

‘So is that a yes, then?’ Ilya asks quietly. Shane hums questioningly, ‘Yes to what?’

Ilya pulls back with an unreadable expression, stepping back and making Shane’s arms drop to his sides. Shane frowns at the distance but then stops short at the sight of Ilya dropping to one knee and taking Shane’s hand in his. The wet grass squelches around the motion, and Shane just knows Ilya’s knee is going to be caked in mud when he gets up.

‘Shane,’ Ilya begins as Shane looks down at him with a slack jaw, the early morning sun threading gold in Ilya’s hair, illuminating the flecks of it in his blue eyes as he looks up at him. ‘Will you marry me?’

Shane gapes like a goldfish for a moment, not expecting Ilya to feel the need to ask him after everything they had just revealed to each other.

Ilya simply quirks an eyebrow, teasing. ‘Do I need to blind someone else to make you say yes?’

Shane can’t help the bark of laughter that escapes him, head kicking back to the sky before levelling Ilya with a wide, infectious grin that makes his cheeks hurt. ‘No, you do not need to disfigure any more people to convince me.’

Ilya grins back. ‘Are you sure? You’re taking an awfully long time to say yes.’

Shane huffs, muttering out an, ‘Idiot,’ before fixing Ilya with a fond look. ‘Yes, obviously.’ And then he shoots forward, sending Ilya tumbling backwards as they crash into the wet grass, mud staining their clothes as Shane captures Ilya’s lips in a kiss.

Shane was pacing. He was well aware of the fact, but he couldn’t stand still. Remaining stationary was out of the question. He and Ilya had returned to the castle in the throes of sunrise, and Shane had wasted no time making his way to the council room where he knew his mother would be, as she always is before breakfast. She was an early riser, like Shane, and worked best at responding to letters as soon as she woke.

So here Shane was, pacing outside his mother’s meeting room with a shirt and trousers caked in mud and grass stains. He should realistically, probably, get changed before seeing his mother. He had shooed Ilya off to do just that as soon as they had stepped foot back in the palace, fingers tangled together. But Shane had things to do, answers to give. And for once, he didn’t give a damn about propriety or wearing clean clothes. Although, the cotton was beginning to itch against his skin, which reminded Shane that wearing clean clothes was also down to a personal preference, but it was too late to change now.

Shane paced the length of the outside entryway four more times before walking up to the door and rapping his knuckles against the wood sharply three times. And at the muffled sound of ‘Come in,’ Shane tries not to hyperventilate as he pushes the door open softly to slip inside, fingers trembling as they twist the door knob to close it. He waits a moment before turning around, inhaling slowly through his nose and steeling himself before slowly spinning on his heel to face the room.

His mother sits at the round table, alone, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose as she looks up at him with a curious smile, eyebrows raising as she takes in the state of him, rumpled mud stained clothes and all. A quill rests in one hand and a pile of letters lie to her side on the table.

‘Good morning Shane.’ She says, flicking her eyes down to the parchment in front of her, ‘did you go for a ride?’

Shane swallows, breathing deeply, his lips still tingling with the feel of Ilya kissing him goodbye before he speaks. ‘I need to discuss something with you.’

Yuna pauses in her writing to look up, attention lasering in on her son who stands there, spine rigid and hands clasped in front of him and eyes resolute. She fails to suppress the smile as she sets down her quill, leaning back in her chair and gathering her hands in her lap.

‘I see. About what?’

Shane walks closer to stand at the other end of the table, fingers reaching out to trace the edge of the wood in comfort, never breaking eye contact from his mother’s searching gaze.

‘I accept the proposal.’ The statement rings loud and true in the silence of the large room, and Yuna’s smile quirks up fondly, almost knowing before she fixes Shane with a look.

‘The proposal? You mean the proposal of marriage?’ She questions, and Shane nods before replying, ‘Yes.’

‘To Ilya?’ Yuna raises a thin eyebrow and Shane suppresses the blush edging its way onto his cheeks as he flicks his gaze to the window before cutting back to his mother. He doesn’t know why it’s embarrassing to tell his mother he wants to get married to the man he was half expecting to marry anyway, and had been courting for the last month. But it was, and it seems Yuna was set on dragging it out as long as possible to watch Shane squirm.

‘Yes.’ Shane clears his throat pointedly, watching as his mother smiles, a finger resting at her temple as she observes him silently.

‘I was under the impression you disliked the boy.’

Shane’s fingers glide across the table distractedly, looking down at the engravings carved into the wood - Hollaith’s emblem. ‘No,’ he mumbles but then scrunches his face up in thought, ‘Well yes, sort of at first. But not anymore.’

He glances up to see his mother still looking at him, a softness at the edges of her eyes that has Shane feeling like a child again.

Shane swallows. ‘I was wrong about him. He’s not what you think.’

Yuna settles back into her chair, eyes flitting across Shane’s face in thought. ‘I think I have an idea.’ She replies softly. Yuna rises quietly, edging her way round the table to stand in front of Shane, taking his hands in hers gently. Shane looks down at their joined hands.

‘You really like him?’

Shane’s gaze shoots up to meet his mothers and he blushes openly which only makes his mother smile at him wider, eyes bright and fond. He nods once, blinking a few times trying not to cry but his mother sees it anyway, tutting softly and pulling Shane into her, tucking his head under her chin even if he has to bend down slightly to fit. She rocks them back and forth like she used to when he was a child, blinking away her own tears. She pulls back slightly, a thumb brushing a tear away that has fallen, cradling his face to look at him imploringly.

‘You’re sure?’ She asks again, because she’s his mother and she wants to make sure. And Shane almost rolls his eyes at the question but can’t help the warmth cocooning his heart at his mother’s caution. He laughs, the sound thick with tears as he nods, tears dripping down his cheeks at the motion.

‘Yes,’ He looks down before continuing softly, ‘I love him.’

A soft sound comes from the back of Yuna’s throat before she hugs Shane to her chest tightly, failing to stop the tears as she clutches him to her, dropping a kiss to his head. ‘I’m so proud of you.’ She whispers into his hair, cradling the back of his head as Shane hugs her tighter.

For her little boy had fallen in love. She knew Shane well enough to know it to be true, but to hear him say it, her terribly shy Shane to say it out loud has Yuna’s heart threatening to burst with happiness. Because finally Shane had found something other than duty to cling onto, to guide him, and she could not be more thankful or more relieved that it was down to the matter of the heart, and not of the realm.

She pulls back, wiping her eyes and doing the same for Shane, taking a deep breath to calm herself down. ‘Well then,’ she begins, clapping her hands once before they come to cradle the sides of Shane’s face with her eyes fixed in concentration.

‘It’s time I had a chat with a certain young man then, isn’t it?’

Shane’s eyes widen at her troublesome grin before they narrow. ‘Mother.’ He drawls but Yuna shushes him, planting a kiss on his forehead before shooing him away, smoothing down her dress.

‘The proposal of marriage will not be accepted until I speak to the Prince of Rozan. It’s royal protocol.’ She turns to fix Shane with a teasing smile. ‘Besides, I need to know his intentions are pure, you are my son after all.’

She watches as Shane’s face bursts aflame, spluttering out an enraged, ‘Mother!’

She cackles in glee before she pushes him towards the door. ‘Send for him, tell him to come straight in, I’ll be waiting for him. Now go. You’re absolutely filthy.’

Shane is flung unceremoniously from the room and stands there silently in the hall for a moment before a giddy grin breaks out on his face, fingers coming to trace its shape before he shakes his head, the buzzing in his skin wrapping his insides in a delicate silk.

A servant goes to fetch Ilya, and Shane races to his rooms to get changed, but not before passing Ilya on the stairs. Both of them pause at the sight of the other, Ilya slowly moving down the steps as his eyes never leave Shane’s, silently moving past him to brush his shoulder against his before continuing down. Shane had looked over his shoulder to watch him leave, butterflies fluttering furiously in his stomach when Ilya had turned his head to look back at him, winking before disappearing round the corner.

Shane bathed himself in record time and dressed himself in a presentable tunic - even though he initially put it on back to front in his haste. Once adequately dressed he flies down the staircase to the council room, skirting to a halt at the closed door. He shamelessly presses his ear against it to try and decipher what the muffled voices are saying but comes up fruitless in his efforts. Suddenly the noise grows louder and Shane only has a moment to jerk his head away from the door when it opens, Ilya standing in the doorway with a teasing quirk of an eyebrow, before his face dissolves into a smile.

Shane holds his breath as he waits, heels almost lifting in anticipation. And then Ilya gives a barely there nod and Shane can’t help the delighted gasp that escapes, uncaring that his mother can probably see them as Shane yanks Ilya into a kiss by the scruff of his collar.

As it turns out, Queen Yuna already had the wedding plans ready to be set in motion at a click of a finger. And at Shane’s questioning glare when he found out, his mother had simply waved a hand and said that she had ‘prepared for every inevitability.’

It turns out that the two Princes falling in love were one of them - the only one, his father had whispered conspiratorially to Shane with a smile. Shane ignored that comment. Ilya however, loved it. And he loved being at the centre of Shane’s parents’ attention even more. Ilya’s own family were wholly uninterested, only happy to contribute whatever they were asked for and just show up on the day to drink. Which was fine for all parties involved, especially Ilya. Yuna’s adept planning meant that the wedding was going to take place much sooner rather than later, which neither Shane nor Ilya had a problem with.

Yuna had planned for the wedding to mark the end of the spring festival, which was perfect. The festival was all about renewal, and this marriage was the very epitome of it, especially for the new relationship being forged between their two countries. And Shane, for once in his life, was excited about a mass gathering that involved more than two people. Not because he cared about who came, but because it meant he could spend the entire day with Ilya unashamed of who was looking at them, no longer being embarrassed about it, with the knowledge that they’d be able to have this for the rest of their lives. So yes, Shane was excited. Not for having to say hello to hundreds of people, but because he’d have Ilya by his side.

Yuna had announced a four day holiday across the kingdom to celebrate the union, which Shane thought was excessive. But Ilya had simply pressed a kiss to his knuckles and said, ‘It is an important day for an important prince, no?’

Yuna had to quickly turn away to hide her smile, palm rubbing at her chest at the sight of her son being so thoroughly and openly loved.

And so the day of the wedding had raced towards them without a moment to pause and before Shane knew it here he was standing, hands jittery with nerves as he waited for the hall to fill up with guests he didn’t really care about except maybe Rose, Hayden, and his parents. And of course, Ilya. The man Shane had not been allowed to see for the past day because of what his mother called, tradition.

Tradition my ass Shane grumbled to himself. He wouldn’t consider himself a needy person usually, but god Ilya had a way of sinking into his bones and making a home there. His absence aches so badly Shane has to rub it away with his fingers at his sternum. But he’d see him soon, Shane acquiesces easily, and soon they’ll be able to see each other all the time, all day, all night, whenever they wanted. And Shane couldn’t wait. The palace was decorated in colours of cream, navy blue and burgundy. Flowers ornamented every corner and the fragrance of them filled Shane’s nostrils as he took another shaky inhale. He was dressed in ceremonial garbs, and he absentmindedly fiddled with the dark blue cuff of his shirt as he waited for his parents. He nudges the wreath of baby’s breath in his hair, feeling the soft petals between his fingers.

The lack of crowns was Ilya’s idea. At first Yuna was unsure, but Ilya had insisted that they wear a wreath of flowers instead, to not only symbolise spring but to also make it less about royalty and more about love. Shane had gone scarlet when Ilya had argued the last looking directly at him, memories of them by the lake with the daisy crowns crystallising in front of him clear as day. Besides, it was a more pleasant weight on his head than his real crown, at least. And it was pretty.

The embroidery on his tunic is silver, instead of Hollaith’s usual gold, a nod to incorporating Rozan’s colours, much like Ilya’s tunic will assumedly have elements of Hollaith’s in his clothing. Not that Shane would know, he thinks with a pout, he hasn’t seen him, because of tradition.

A knock at the door has Shane turning, and he smiles where his parents stand in the doorway. His father smiles back, his eyes already slightly wet and his mother clasps her hands to her chest in awe.

And soon, with his parents at each arm Shane was entering the great hall, the room doused in flowers and silk and candles, the sunlight streaming through the large windows to splash on the mosaic floor at the very end, where Ilya awaits. The hall was filled with people, most of them Shane doesn’t know but it doesn’t matter because then Ilya turns, the light catching in his hair, in the flowers settled amongst the curls, making his eyes an icy blue. They both smile upon seeing each other and Shane has to fight to not make his parents walk faster. Ilya looked handsome, wearing a deep burgundy shirt with gold embroidery, the chain of his gold necklace glinting around his neck. As Shane nears him, he sees Rose out the corner of his eye standing near the front, bouncing up and down minutely with her hands clasped in front of her, standing next to the woman Ilya was with at the ball. The woman’s vibrant curls were pulled back into a high knot on her head, a thick necklace of solid gold around her neck, a hand coming to rest on Rose’s arm to calm her movements. Interesting, Shane thought. He’ll be returning to that later.

He sees Hayden standing off to the side, who nods with a smile. And finally Ilya is in front of him and Shane’s parents are moving off to join his friend as Shane grins at Ilya, their hands joining as Ilya guides him to stand opposite. Shane is sure Ilya’s father and brother are behind them somewhere but decides not to look for them. The ceremony was a blur after that, Shane giddy with nerves and Ilya equally so.

At the wedding feast, Yuna makes it her mission to drag them both looped into the crook of her elbows to introduce them to everyone in the entire kingdom it seems. She even takes Ilya off alone, both talking with their heads together that has Shane’s eyes narrowing in suspicion. But then Yuna throws her head back with a laugh, patting Ilya’s arm, before she moves to introduce him to the general of Hollaith’s army. It’s nice to see Ilya fit in so naturally with Shane’s family, it was comforting to know his parents like him.

Shane had spotted the Rozan envoy across the hall earlier, Ilya frowning at the sight of them automatically before deliberately steering them away. Ilya had made sure they were placed in the back corner away from everyone else, with extra guards observing them.

It’s at the fifth course, Shane sat so close to Ilya their thighs are touching that he notices Ilya isn’t touching his food out of the corner of his eye. Shane turns questioningly but finds Ilya already looking at him. Shane blinks, the intensity of Ilya’s stare almost knocking him sideways.

‘Are you okay?’ He asks quietly, the noise of the banquet hall falling away as he focuses on Ilya.

Ilya’s lips stretch into a small smile, eyes flitting across Shane’s face. He reaches for the hand resting in Shane’s lap, bringing his knuckles to his lips to kiss them. He doesn’t let Shane’s hand go as he moves his hand down to rest at his knee. ‘Yes, more than. I’m happy.’

And Ilya looks at him so fondly that Shane can’t help but blush, looking away as his cheeks bunch up into a shy smile. ‘Me too.’

Shane squeezes Ilya’s hand, looking at him under his lashes. And he was, truly. For once he wasn’t thinking about anything else but Ilya.

Dessert soon arrives, and it’s Shane’s favourite. Their wedding cake is vanilla sponge with cream and strawberries, and Shane’s mouth waters at the thick wedge of it on his plate. He picks up his fork, eager to take a bite when suddenly a fork is pushing his own away.

‘Ah ah ah,’ Ilya scolds gently before plucking a piece of cake on his own fork and lifting it to Shane’s mouth. Shane’s confusion soon morphs into a blush, eyes flitting across Ilya’s face as the man simply smirks easily at him, eyes lasered in on Shane’s mouth.

‘I feed you now. It’s wedding tradition.’ Ilya says, and Shane almost wants to argue that he hadn’t read about this particular tradition anywhere but instead, he parts his lips and lets Ilya feed him. The action has Ilya’s eyes darkening, a satisfied curl to his lips as his fingers tighten around the fork, watching as Shane licks his lips to chase the sweet taste of cream.

Shane is sure people are watching them but he doesn’t care, turning to nudge a piece of his cake on his fork and lifting it to Ilya’s lips. Shane raises an eyebrow at Ilya’s lack of response.

‘Do you not want to adhere to tradition?’ He asks cheekily and Ilya’s eyes sharpen, lip curling mischievously as he leans forward to take the fork into his mouth, sucking on the prongs a little longer than is necessary. Shane swallows harshly, transfixed as
Ilya hums around the fork before pulling back a little but still leaning towards him.

‘Sweet,’ Ilya murmurs, eyes never leaving Shane’s and Shane clears his throat to distract himself from the heat burning in his belly. ‘There is another tradition I also want to follow.’ Ilya says gruffly, and Shane brightens, leaning forward to hear what Ilya has to say.

Ilya smiles as Shane cranes forward, soft eyes eager and ears pricked. Ilya lifts a hand to brush the baby’s breath in his dark hair before fixing Shane with a heated look, leaning forward to whisper. ‘Fucking my husband in our marriage bed.’

Ilya moves back with a satisfied smile as he hears Shane’s breath hitch, the raven haired man staring at him with his lips parted before he collects himself, eyes darting around the room in case anyone heard before fidgeting in his seat, thighs rubbing together distractedly.

‘I’m sure that can be arranged.’ Shane replies, looking down at his plate and fiddling with his fork and Ilya pauses, cup halfway to his lips as he turns to Shane in poorly repressed intrigue, lips parted and eyebrow quirked in interest at how Shane doesn’t shy away from Ilya’s dirty comment, like he had expected him to.

And then Ilya is shooting up from his seat, almost knocking it backwards as he grabs Shane’s hand to pull him up. Shane stumbles as Ilya turns to Yuna and says, ‘We are retiring to our rooms now. I hope you enjoy the rest of the celebrations, good night.’

And then Ilya is walking off at a rapid pace, tugging Shane behind him without waiting for a reply. Shane avoids his mother’s amused gaze as she watches them leave, and his face burns as he hears wolf whistles as Ilya drags him out of the room without a backward glance - it being painfully obvious what they are planning on doing.

And Shane was no stranger to the idea of consummating a marriage, he had read about it as part of his studies - it was included in expectations of an heir. More specifically, Shane had thought about what it would be like with Ilya. They’ve seen each other naked of course, they’ve done things, but they haven’t had sex. And Shane has never had sex, whilst he knows Ilya has, multiple times.

The expectation alone is a little terrifying, although he knows it shouldn’t be because it’s Ilya. And if their past trysts are anything to go by, Ilya will take care of him. Still, Shane can’t help but feel nervous, and also a little giddy at the idea of finally having Ilya in every way possible. He had a handsome husband who loved him, what more could one want?

Husband. The word had a nice ring to it, and Shane wants to say it out loud over and over, imbedding the shape of the words on his tongue forever so he’ll never forget it.

Shane is too busy ruminating in his head about the night to come that when Ilya swings him into his arms, all he can do is yelp in surprise and cling on to his husband’s shoulders.

‘Ilya!’ He cries and Ilya simply holds him closer to his chest as he carries him bridal style along the corridor and up the stairs towards their room. Their chambers are in the west wing - previously unused but Yuna had told them that the wing was to be theirs alone. She had told them that they needed a space of their own and Ilya couldn’t be happier, for it would be a long time before Shane would be expected to take the throne. The idea of moving to Hollaith was daunting of course, but not so terrible. He never truly felt like he belonged in Rozan. Besides, he looks forward to warm summers and bathing in the lake half naked with his husband.

The husband who is currently clutching him as if he’s afraid Ilya will drop him. Impossible. Shane is the most precious cargo Ilya has ever had the honour of carrying.

‘Yes moya lyubov?’ Ilya asks nonchalantly as he approaches the west wing.

Shane can’t fight the redness of his freckled cheeks as he looks up at his husband. ‘I can walk!’

‘All because you can, doesn’t mean you should. Besides I’m here now, you won’t have to walk anywhere.’ Ilya replies easily as he walks down the corridor lined with arched windows as he nears their chambers.

Shane can’t help the smile the on his face, even as he rolls his eyes at Ilya’s theatrics. ‘You can’t carry me everywhere.’ He argues weakly, admiring the sharp cut of Ilya’s jaw above him, the jut of his cheekbones, heart stuttering once more as Ilya glances down at him with a challenging look.

‘Watch me.’

And then Ilya opens the door and slams it closed with a kick of his heel, before striding over to the four poster bed and gently sitting Shane down at the end of it. Shane sits with his knees together, fingers tangling into the sheets by his sides as he smiles shyly up at him, Ilya cupping the side of his face as he leans in for a sweet kiss.

He pulls back slightly to exhale heavily, squeezing Shane’s face. ‘I’ve waited a long time for this, more than you’d know.’ He whispers intimately and Shane nudges forward to sigh softly, his eyes fluttering closed.

They hold each other for a second longer before ruefully, Ilya pulls back. ‘As much as I wish to ravish you as soon as possible, I must give you your gift first.’ Ilya proclaims before walking over to the dressing table at the end of the room and returning with a small velvet box.

Ilya holds it out, eyes flitting away for a moment nervously, clearing his throat. Shane takes it with gentle hands, glancing up at him curiously before he opens it, his breath catching in his throat as he picks up the contents to hold it in his palm. It’s a thick band, a bracelet woven of gold and silver in the design of vines wrapped around each other. It was simple yet beautiful. Shane looks up with glassy eyes, and Ilya shifts his weight from foot to foot as he observes Shane carefully, eyes almost hesitant.

‘It’s beautiful.’ Shane whispers, tracing the details with a fervent finger before looking up at Ilya, blinking back tears. ‘You—you had this made? For me?’

Ilya nods once, hands coming to rest at the small of his back so Shane can’t see the way they tremble. ‘Yes,’ he replies, before clearing his throat purposefully. ‘You should have pretty things. And it is both our colours, silver and gold, together. Like we are.’

Ilya shrugs noncommittally but the line of his shoulders remains tense. As if preparing for rejection. Shane smiles softly, before holding it out to him. ‘Put it on?’

Ilya blinks, before taking it from Shane slowly and carefully sliding it on Shane’s wrist. The fit is perfect, just like Ilya had hoped and Shane looks down at it in awe, tracing it with gentle fingers. The sight has Ilya’s chest lightening, releasing a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding.

And then Shane is standing, tugging Ilya in to kiss him and Ilya goes willingly, hands falling to Shane’s hips. ‘Thank you, it’s wonderful.’ Shane whispers before he steps back, shifting to the side and pushing Ilya down to sit in the space he was just in. Ilya looks up confused, hands sliding to grip the outside of Shane’s strong thighs.

‘Now it’s your turn.’ Shane spins around, walking off to a corner of the room behind a dark wooden room divider, rustling for a moment and returning with a large object hidden under a velvet throw.

Ilya quirks an eyebrow and Shane huffs out a breath, before coming to stand in front of him.

‘What is this?’ Ilya asks, and Shane simply grins, copying Ilya’s earlier shrug. ‘Your gift.’

‘It’s very big.’

Shane rolls his eyes, ‘No shit, now take it my arms hurt.’ They didn’t, but also he wanted Ilya to look at it already, and he knew if he complained Ilya would take it without hesitation. The excitement buzzed under Shane’s skin like a bee, but as did nerves that Ilya wouldn’t like it. But Shane was sure he would, he had thought long and hard about it, had planned it out on paper and spent the couple of days supervising its creation.

Ilya places it in his lap, looking up at Shane curiously before his fingers push the cloth away, the material pooling to the side of his feet as it reveals what’s underneath. Ilya can’t help the gasp he lets out. His head jerks upwards in surprise, eyes wide as Shane watches him with his hands tangled in front of him.

‘Shane—,’ Ilya tries to say but comes up short as his fingers trace the gift in his lap, rendered speechless.

‘Do you like it?’ Shane asks quietly, biting his lip nervously as he rocks on his heels. Ilya stares up at him in awe, hands hovering as if afraid to touch it. He blinks back tears, eyes wet as he nods quickly, looking down. Shane moves to sit beside him, their knees touching.

Shane had gifted him a new breastplate, the metal shining silver and molded expertly by a blacksmith’s hammer. But it was what was at the centre of it that had Ilya pausing, his throat choking up with emotion. It showed a combination of their house emblems. In the centre of the chest lies a stylised gold sun with the side of a wolf’s face tilted upwards in the centre, surrounded by its ornamental rays. The armour is lined with flower indentations. Little silver sprigs of lavender, baby’s breath, lilies, orchids that run up, down and across the armour. Ilya has never seen armour look so beautiful, so regal. And Shane had made it for him. He had given Ilya something beautiful because he deemed Ilya worthy to receive it.

‘I combined our emblems,’ Shane explains even though he doesn’t have to but he talks anyway because he can’t help it. ‘That way you still have a piece of Rozan, even though I know you have mixed feelings about your home.’ Shane hedges carefully as Ilya continues to look down at it, hand finally feeling brave enough to touch it, tracing the indentations with a slightly trembling finger, his throat thick.

‘But I know my mother had discussed the potential of taking over the military side of things with Hollaith,’ Shane rambled on, hand flying in the air uselessly. One of the things Yuna had discussed with their pending marriage was change in responsibilities, mainly with Ilya. For Ilya had expertise that Yuna had undeniably wanted to take advantage of. The man was a beast in the field and made armies piss their pants for a reason, and the nature of the marriage proposal proved to the Queen that Ilya was not like his family. Ilya promised a new age of diplomacy and she wanted him involved in Hollaith’s future, and at Shane’s side, she knew they would be unstoppable.

‘So I thought that this could be something you could have, or wear, you know—,’

Ilya carefully placed the armour on the bed beside him before turning and dragging Shane to him. ‘I love it, I love you. Thank you.’ And then Ilya is kissing him hard, tongue licking into his mouth with desperation.

Ilya’s heart was heavy yet simultaneously light, and he didn’t know what to do besides kiss Shane. He didn’t know how to convey what he was feeling in any other way, blinking away his tears and losing himself in the man across from him.

‘You like it then?’ Shane gasps out, a hand at the back of Ilya’s neck, lips swollen and red. Ilya laughs, pulls back to thumb at his bottom lip. ‘Yes, very much. I’ve never received anything so beautiful, except you of course.’

Shane huffs, shoving Ilya’s shoulder. ‘Suck up.’

‘It’s true.’ Ilya argues indignantly with a smirk, nipping the tip of his nose.

Shane twists to pull off his boots, before shuffling up the bed to rest at the top of it on his elbows, flower crown lopsided and levelling Ilya with a cheeky quirk of an eyebrow. ‘Prove it.’

Ilya rises to his feet slowly, placing the precious armour on the floor before toeing off his boots before he bares his teeth in a dangerous smile. ‘Be careful what you wish for, little Prince.’ Tongue darting out to lick his lips as Ilya slowly crawls up the bed, Shane’s heart racing at the sight. Ilya makes his way to straddle Shane, hands plucking the flower crown off his head and placing it on the bedside table before doing the same to his own.

‘Don’t want to ruin them with what I have planned.’ Ilya answers Shane’s silent question before leaning down to brush his lips against Shane’s, teasing, before whispering. ‘Happy wedding day, husband.’

And then he sinks down, capturing Shane’s lips in a deep kiss that has both moaning, hands curling into hair and rolling their hips together. Both had waited for so long for this moment, to have each other in the most intimate way possible, so they waste no time in yanking their shirts over their heads, and flinging trousers down onto the floor to join them in a crumpled pile. Shane gets his head stuck in the hole of his tunic in his haste and can only laugh as Ilya carefully tugs him free, peppering kisses over his face with a grin.

After that, Ilya takes his time much to Shane’s annoyance, even whining at him doesn’t work. ‘There is no need to rush, we have all the time in the world, malysh.’ Ilya reasons as he sucks a nipple into his mouth, tongue lathing hot circles around the sensitive nub to have Shane arching into his mouth with a whine.

‘But I want you now.’ He complains, and Shane would perhaps be ashamed at how needy he sounds if he was not so focused on getting Ilya’s dick inside him. Ilya muffles a chuckle against Shane’s stomach as he leaves kisses against his warm skin.

‘I know baby, and you have me.’ Shane opens his mouth for a snarky retort, but then Ilya is leaning down and taking his cock in his mouth, and the unexpected hot suction has any further sass choking up short in his throat.

His thighs go to close around Ilya’s head but a strong hand pins them down to the bed, and suddenly slick fingers are circling his entrance, pressing lightly, teasing, and Shane can only moan out Ilya’s name as a digit sinks past his rim, fucking slowly into him.

Shane’s fingers impatiently sink into Ilya’s curls to tug him up. ‘Wan’ a kiss.’ Shane complains blearily, shuddering as one finger soon becomes two, dragging wonderfully against his prostate. Ilya lets Shane drag him up, pulling him into a sloppy kiss that consists more of Shane moaning and panting into his mouth as Ilya thrusts knuckle deep into him, fingering him open. Ilya bites at his bottom lip, pulling at it to release it with a snap, tongue coming to soothe the sting as another finger fucks past Shane’s rim.

Shane clutches at his shoulders, face hiding in the crook of Ilya’s neck as he moans against the skin, the sounds muffled as his knees bracket Ilya’s hips. Ilya drops a kiss against his hair, stilling his fingers to simply press against the spot inside of him that has Shane mewling, Shane’s cock practically drooling against his stomach.

‘Nngh.’ Shane mutters out incoherently, and Ilya smirks, fingers never ceasing inside of him. ‘Feel good baby? This what you need?’ He teases but his sweet Shane doesn’t catch the teasing lilt of the question, all he does is nod honestly, helplessly, against him, clutching at Ilya tighter and panting as his hips kick upwards. So honest, and so willing. And the idea of Shane being so open in his need for Ilya has the curly haired man almost growling like an animal, sinking his teeth into Shane’s throat, sucking a bruise that will linger for days, Shane moaning brokenly at the pain.

‘Want you to come on my fingers, kotenok.’ Ilya whispers darkly against the shell of Shane’s ear and Ilya begins a brutal pace, fucking his fingers into Shane hard and fast, making sure to press into his prostate at every pass, Shane’s ass jiggling slightly with the motion.

Ilya nudges Shane’s face away from its hiding spot, Shane falling back into the pillows with eyes at half mast, eyelashes fluttering and lips parted on an ‘o’, shuddering against the pillows as his cock twitches, a hand clutching at Ilya’s chest as the other twists into the sheets. Ilya swears softly under his breath at the angel below him, gritting his teeth and ignoring the way his cock pulses against Shane’s hip.

Shane’s face scrunches up, fingers scrambling at Ilya’s shoulders as a long drawn out moan rips from his throat. ‘Oh fuck, Ilya!’

Ilya licks a strip up Shane’s bared throat as his fingers milk his prostate, Shane sobbing at the molten heat it evokes low in his belly. ‘Gonna come for me baby?’

Shane nods frantically, trying to look at Ilya through half lidded eyes but failing, and Ilya can’t look away, can’t bear to. And suddenly Shane’s mouth is dropping open in a silent scream, eyes rolling back as he clings to Ilya, eyebrows drawn together as he shoots his release over his abdomen, hole clenching around Ilya’s fingers like a vice.

Ilya leaves kisses over his face, light as butterfly wings, muttering sweet praises as Shane tries to catch his breath. Shane clings to the sides of Ilya’s face, dragging him to his lips, chest quivering as they swap soft kisses. Ilya hums into it and Shane skirts his hand down the curve of Ilya’s chest, the hard plane of his abs, the soft hair that trails down his navel to wrap a hand around his cock, squeezing to make Ilya groan, dropping his head down into Shane’s neck as his hips jerk forwards into the fist. It’s hot and heavy in Shane’s hand and he has an urge to have it in his mouth. He releases it from his grip to push at Ilya’s shoulders, wiggling incessantly until Ilya finally rolls to the side. But hands grab at Shane’s arms as he tries to move downwards.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ He asks roughly, and Shane ignores how his spent cock twitches in interest at the low timbre. Shane tries to move again but at Ilya’s tightening grip he huffs, relenting.

‘Want to—,’ Shane hesitates, blushing and looking away shyly but Ilya tilts his chin back to him, eyes dark. Shane looks at Ilya under his lashes.

‘Want to suck your cock.’ He mumbles and Ilya grins like a Cheshire Cat. He sinks a thumb into Shane’s mouth, and Shane’s tongue latches onto it immediately with glassy eyes.

‘Little prince wants my cock in his mouth?’ Ilya croons as he pinches Shane’s chin tightly and Shane’s shoulders come up to his ears but he nods regardless.

‘Say it.’ Ilya demands and Shane blinks up at him, eyes wide and pupils blown.

‘Y-yes,’ He takes a deep breath to whisper, ‘want your cock in my mouth. Please?’ And he pleads so beautifully, so politely that Ilya has to clench his jaw to not bite at the sweet apple of his cheek, feeling a bead of precum sliding down his shaft at the needy look on Shane’s face.

Ilya doesn’t say anything for a moment and the silence has Shane’s lips twisting into a little pout and Ilya finally relents, releasing his grip on his chin to lie back, pushing a strand of hair behind Shane’s ear lovingly.

‘Go on then, malysh, show me how much you want it.’

Shane moves immediately down Ilya’s legs at the explicit permission, settling himself between Ilya’s legs, looking up shyly before his fingers circle the base, nudging the head to rest against his lips as he looks up at Ilya, whose eyes are already swallowed by his pupils, aflame with desire. Shane darts his tongue out to lick across the slit, collecting a bead of precum and letting it slide down his throat with a pleased hum.

Shane had missed this, the feel of Ilya’s cock on his tongue. It hadn’t even been that long since he had last sunk to his knees for him, but it was a feeling Shane could soon get addicted to. There were so many things he liked about it, the weight on his tongue, looking up at Ilya to see the effect Shane’s having on him, the taste of the man, the ache it leaves in his jaw. The way his brain goes quiet, a little numb and fuzzy at the edges. So yes, Shane had missed it. Even if it wasn’t on the list of previously approved princely behaviours.

He flicks his tongue across the sensitive ridge beneath the head to have Ilya groaning, head falling back against the pillow, a hand behind his head as he looks down. Shane follows the vein along the shaft with his tongue, before he licks his way back up, already panting when he finally sucks the head into his mouth with a soft moan. Shane lathes his tongue around it before taking it deeper, bobbing his head slowly. He doesn’t even realise his eyes have drifted closed until Ilya threads a hand through the hair at the crown of his head, tugging on the hair softly.

Shane’s eyes flutter open as he gives a particularly hard suck, doe eyes flitting up to Ilya who swears when their eyes meet, hand tightening in his hair. Shane blinks slowly as he withdraws slightly, hollowing his cheeks before sinking down further, letting the saliva pool in his mouth and drip from the corner of his mouth as he coats Ilya’s cock with it.

‘Fuck look at you, so pretty aren’t you?’ Ilya mutters, using the grip in Shane’s hair to drag him up so the head of his cock rests on his pink tongue before dragging him down again, setting a pace that Shane easily falls into with a guttural moan that has Ilya hissing.

‘My pretty Shane. Just for me, yes?’ Ilya asks, accent thick and Shane garbles in agreement, eyes wet and choking slightly as Ilya’s cock hits the back of his throat, nodding mutely around the length stuffed in his mouth, lips stretched wide around the thickness of it. Ilya quickens the pace, soft wet sounds being forced from Shane’s throat as Ilya’s jaw clenches above him, the wet slide of Shane’s mouth addicting, as is the sight of him.

‘Only mine to have, isn’t that right?’ He mutters and he doesn’t expect a reply but the moan that is choked out from Shane’s throat as Ilya fucks his mouth is enough to have Ilya ripping him off, yanking him up the bed and turning them so Shane is on his back, gasping for breath as Ilya licks into his mouth with a growl.

Ilya pulls Shane’s knees apart, hooking them around his waist as he towers over him, swallowing every little moan and gasp that falls from swollen lips, a hand gripping his jaw tightly. Ilya nudges forward, his cock brushing against the wet opening of Shane’s hole and Shane’s hips twitch upwards to chase it. Ilya pulls back, kissing the tip of Shane’s nose as the man tries to chase after him with his lips.

‘Want my cock malysh?’ He asks quietly, nose tracing the line of Shane’s jaw. Shane nods, hiccuping lightly as his fingers sink into the tops of Ilya’s shoulders.

‘Yes.’ He breathes softly, like a sigh, hooking his ankles at Ilya’s back, nudging his nose against Ilya’s as he exhales shakily, kissing Ilya sweetly.

Ilya looks down, guiding his cock to rest at the entrance, looking up at Shane, murmuring, ‘Tell me if it is too much, yes?’

Shane nods once, forcing himself to relax as his heart pounds in his ears. And then Ilya slowly forces the head past his rim, popping through as Ilya pushes in another inch, petting Shane’s sides soothingly. Shane gasps softly at the intrusion, the heat of Ilya inside him, head falling back into the pillows, his nose bumping into Ilya’s chin. Ilya looks up, sliding further in, jaw clenching at the tight heat around his cock, kissing Shane’s shoulder as the man beneath him moans lowly.

‘Still okay?’ Ilya asks against the warm skin, and Shane gasps out a desperate ‘yes,’ before Ilya is pushing inside fully, gritting his teeth to try and not come immediately at the feel of Shane clenching so tightly around him. Ilya mutters a curse under his breath, trying to calm his rabbiting pulse when Shane squeezes around him again, heels digging into the small of his back.

‘Y-you can move. Move.’ Shane urges around a heaving breath, and Ilya doesn't need to be told twice, withdrawing to the tip before slamming home in one brutal thrust, hips smacking against Shane’s ass loudly.

‘Oh fuck,’ Shane cries, eyes threatening to roll back at the sensation and Ilya sets up a deep, steady pace that ends with wet smacks, Shane’s ass jiggling with the impact, being slowly rocked up the bed.

‘Fuck, feel so good

,’ Ilya pants, slanting his lips over Shane’s in a desperate kiss, panting into each other’s mouth as Shane moves a hand to tug on Ilya’s hair, the other digging nail marks into Ilya’s back.

Shane whines at a particularly hard thrust, Ilya taking the opportunity to grind filthily for a moment to hear Shane choke, hips twitching away from the overwhelming feeling of being so full. Shane swears that Ilya’s cock is in his throat, carving out a space inside him with every thrust.

Ilya quickens his pace, growing rougher with each smack of his hips and Shane sinks into it, jaw loose and he swears he’s drooling, nails digging into Ilya’s back as he’s fucked up the bed. Ilya groans deeply, leaning back on his knees, hands an iron grip around Shane’s hips, biceps bulging as he fucks into him. Shane’s eyes struggle to stay open, Ilya punching every breath out of him.

The feeling is deliciously addicting, Shane could live here forever. He gets it now, he thinks distantly, why people like sex so much, why people can’t help but want it when they shouldn’t. Especially if it was with Ilya, only with Ilya.

He blinks up at said man above him, and Ilya looks down with narrowed brows, sweat beading at his temples, lips parted as a hand smoothes up Shane’s stomach to squeeze his chest, Shane catching the hand to clutch at it, a constant string of moans dripping from his mouth. And then suddenly the world is tilting, Ilya manhandling him onto his front, Shane moving like a marionette doll with its limbs cut.

Ilya uses the grip on his hips to hike them up, Shane’s chest to the bed and he has no time to adjust, hands scrambling for purchase as Ilya fucks back into him in a single thrust, sending Shane collapsing into the sheets, mouth open on a broken cry as his fingers curl into the rumpled sheets. Ilya keeps his hips up, his grip tight and bruising as he sends Shane’s ass bouncing with the impact, fucking his cock into him with a quick snap of his hips.

‘Fuck, Ilya,’ Shane cries into the sheets, his words muffled. Ilya snakes a hand down his spine to grip at the back of his neck, scruffing him and pinning him to the bed. Shane can feel his eyes roll back at the rough grip, at the even rougher strokes of Ilya’s hips. He knows he’s drooling, can feel the wetness under his cheek as he gets fucked within an inch of his life.

‘Shit, that’s it, good boy.’ Ilya grunts, looking down to where his slick cock fucks in and out of Shane’s hole, the rim almost trying to suck him back in. ‘So greedy for it aren’t you, baby? Made for my cock.’ It tapers off into a growl, and an embarrassingly high keen emitting from the back of Shane’s throat, animalistic in tone as he has no choice but to take every inch of Ilya’s cock.

Ilya shifts slightly and Shane’s spine arches, his cock leaking steadily onto the bed below them as every thrust suddenly nails his prostate head on. Shane’s eyebrows scrunch, his cheek nuzzling into the cool sheet beneath him in comfort as electric heat shoots under his skin, Ilya pulling out broken uh uh uh’s out of him as Shane collapses forward, hips almost trying to run away from the overwhelming molten heat surging down his spine to collect at the base of his untouched cock.

‘Ilya,’ Shane sobs out, head turning to the side and hand flinging back, Ilya catching it easily, kissing it once before pinning it to the small of Shane’s back, hips never ceasing in their rhythm.

‘G-gonna come,’ Shane slurs out, cheek squished against the mattress as he looks up at Ilya under fluttering eyelashes. The sight of drool drying at the corner of his mouth has Ilya almost going feral, moaning frantically.

‘Yeah?’ He pants, hand squeezing the fat of Shane’s ass as it jiggles, ‘Gonna come on my cock like a good little prince?’

Shane whines, voice shaky, lashes wet as he murmurs brokenly around a litany of moans, ‘Yes, yes, gonna come, please Ilya.’

Ilya hushes him soothingly, palm smacking Shane’s ass just to see how it reddens around the shape of his handprint before he reaches around to grasp Shane’s neglected and rosy cock in a tight fist. The touch has Shane choking, hips twitching forward but Ilya drags him back onto his cock as he begins to jerk him off, the copious amounts of precum running down the shaft providing a wet slide. Ilya flicks his wrist to hear Shane muffle a cry against the sheets and then he’s coming, body shuddering and chest hiccuping, tears staining the sheets.

Ilya groans at the feeling of Shane tightening around him and he thrusts once, twice, thrice more before he comes with a groan, slumping against Shane’s back with a heaving chest, kissing Shane’s spine slick with sweat lazily as he fills Shane with his cum. Shane slumps boneless into the bed and Ilya rolls to his side, slowly tucking Shane into his chest, pulling Shane out of the mess he had made beneath them.

Shane’s breaths stutter against the warm skin of Ilya’s chest, Ilya panting and trying to steady his heart as they both come down from their highs.

Ilya's eyes flutter shut but he doesn’t sleep, simply basking in the moment with Shane in his arms, skin against skin, as he traces the knobs of Shane’s spine with a finger. The only sounds in the room being their heavy breathes. Ilya lets the present settle into his bones like a hug. Shane shifts and Ilya opens his eyes to blink down at him, chest suddenly tight at the image of Shane blinking up at him with a tired smile, nuzzling into his chest slightly like a cat before hooking his chin to gaze up at him.

Ilya traces the curve of his freckled cheeks. He wants to ask Shane if this is real, because a part of him still believes it isn’t. Ilya is afraid that he’ll blink and he’ll be back in Rozan, alone and unhappy, only the mountains and the cold unforgiving wind as company. He didn’t think he would ever be able to have this, Shane, happiness, love. When he first arrived he still hadn’t thought that. He had approached it with an air of feigned nonchalance, had told himself it didn’t matter if Shane didn’t love him, didn’t like him. But it was everything, and Ilya was currently holding that everything in his arms. And that everything was looking at him like he was something precious. And Ilya would never have considered himself to be so, if anything he was easily forgettable, roughly handled without complaint even if all he ever wanted was love, and soft hands to hold him.

But now he had it. Ilya hugged Shane tighter to his side, wanting to grind Shane into his bones and keep him forever between his ribs so he couldn't ever leave him. But for now, this was enough.

‘To think we went from me almost breaking your fingers to this.’ Shane mumbles with a teasing smile, voice croaky and soft as a finger traces the moles on Ilya’s neck.

Ilya blinks, before he laughs, chest shaking and making Shane’s head move up and down with the motion. Shane grins, moving up so he lies directly across from Ilya, their noses touching. Shane cups the side of Ilya’s face, fingers wrapping around a curl. Ilya mirrors the touch, leaning into Shane’s hand.

‘Yes. Although I meant what I said back then.’ Ilya rumbles out, smiling teasingly at Shane’s frown.

‘What?’

Ilya waggles his eyebrows. ‘I like it rough.’

Shane rolls his eyes, weakly shoving at him but Ilya draws him back in to plant an obnoxiously loud kiss on his lips, before smacking them all over his face despite Shane’s half hearted protests.

‘I expect nothing less from a slut.’ Shane laughs and Ilya gapes before he nips at Shane’s shoulder. ‘Says the one who whined for my cock like a whore.’ He argues lowly into the side of Shane’s face. He pulls back, expecting to see Shane blushing but instead he only has a playful smile on his face.

Shane shrugs, eyes tracing Ilya’s face deep in thought. He skims a finger up Ilya’s cheekbone. ‘I like this.’ He looks at Ilya and the sincerity in the warm brown eyes has Ilya humming in agreement.

‘Me too.’

‘I hope it stays like this forever.’ Shane murmurs longingly. He wants to stay in this moment, the easy banter, the laughter, the easy love for as long as possible. Call him selfish, but Shane has never had anything for himself before. And now he does, he doesn’t plan on sharing or letting it go. He’s sure that there will be difficulties to come, for the crown is a heavy weight to bear as is the devotion to duty, but he thinks it won’t be as hard now, with Ilya by his side. With that thought, Shane leans in to press a gentle kiss to Ilya’s lips, pulling back to trace his cupid bow, glancing up at him.

‘I love you.’ Shane says and Ilya’s eyes crease with emotion, before thickly whispering back, ‘I love you too.’

They both lean in at the same time, noses nudging against each other as their lips meet in the middle, falling into it with warm hands and naked skin. A nightmare had never tasted so much like a dream borne from love, and Shane wishes to never wake up.

Chapter End Notes

I really breezed past the wedding to get to them knocking booties but are we surprised. also I wrote the love confession scene ages ago, like after I finished chapter three lol.

epilogue will be coming in the next day or two!

big thank you for reading and following along, I hope this official ending was satisfying! (and if it wasn’t suck it idc)

find me on twt!

Chapter 8: epilogue

Chapter Summary

So the summer was warm, and as were their hearts. Every kiss was tinged with sunshine and fleetingly, they wondered what blessing they had received in a previous life to experience one such as this. But that was a question for another time.

Chapter Notes

and we have reached the end! thank you for all following along and reading this, all your comments and kudos means a lot :)

i loveeeeddd writing this, so coming to the end is bittersweet. but enjoy a cute moment for the married royal couple! I’ve kept it relatively short and light with a little hint of smut (as always).

It was a particularly warm summer, and so the season was best spent by the lake.

Shane sighs dreamily, his bare toes wiggling in delight as he lies in the cool shade of the willow, blades of grass tickling the back of his neck as he rests back into his crossed arms behind his head. The heat was not as cloying lazing in the shadow of the tree, but Shane could still feel it settle against his skin like a blanket. He was wearing his thinnest summer shirt, his breeches loose. Even with his eyes closed he could hear Taiyo moving around nearby, munching on the grass under the shadow of a branch.

His peace, however, is quickly disrupted by water splattering on his face and the light seeping through the trees that was glowing against his closed eyelids disappearing. His eyes fly open, frowning, a hand coming to wipe away a drop of water from his cheek.

His husband stands above him, feet either side of his chest with his hands on his hips, curls slicked back, his bare chest glistening with water droplets, and his wedding ring lying in the middle of his chest on a chain next to his mother’s crucifix. The smile that stretches his mouth wide promises trouble.

‘Can I help you?’ Shane drawls, flicking the water off his finger up in Ilya’s general direction.

Suddenly Ilya drops down to a plank, hovering over Shane to drop an obnoxiously loud kiss against his lips, before settling his weight on top of him. Shane groans, hands shoving at his shoulders as he tries to wiggle out from under him.

‘Ilya you’re cold!’ He complains, trying not to laugh as Ilya peppers his face and throat with loud kisses. ‘Get off! You’re going to get me all wet.’

Ilya leans back up from nudging his lips down the collar of his tunic to lick a strip up his cheek, across his freckles to have Shane squawking in disbelief.

‘Fuck off!’ He cries, batting his hands against the man on top of him blindly and half heartedly. Ilya simply grins, bearing down on him even heavier, pinning him to the grass.

‘But you taste so nice, moya lyubov. And you are so warm, too warm in this weather, I have to cool you down.’ Ilya argues, teeth sharp in a teasing smile as he plants another kiss on Shane’s pursed lips.

Shane rolls his eyes, stilling beneath him to look up, thoroughly unimpressed. ‘You’re annoying.’

‘But you love me.’ Ilya retorts, shaking his hair to send water raining down on the man stuck beneath him. Shane groans, scrunching up his face, a hand reaching up to yank on Ilya’s hair, rendering him immobile.

‘Unfortunately yes, but you’re beginning to make me regret it.’ Shane replies cheekily and Ilya lets out a playful growl, hands beginning to tickle his sides lightly as he playfully nips at his cheeks, the tip of his nose, and then further down his neck. Shane can’t help the laugh that escapes him, twisting to get away.

And then Ilya stops, nosing his way up to hover inches from Shane’s lips. ‘Two years of marriage is enough for you? What if I want more?’

Shane smiles, hands curling around Ilya’s neck, lips brushing as they speak. ‘You’re going to have to take it to the council.’

Ilya hums, pretending to think, pulling back slightly to tilt his head. ‘Or I could go straight to the crown, I know someone.’

Shane rolls his eyes, a fond crease to his eyes as they look up. ‘Oh really?’

Ilya nods, face serious. ‘Yes, you may know him. He is very important but has very weak backhand. I beat him in fights all the time, he cries like baby.’

Shane blinks in shock, before laughing incredulously, trying to shove Ilya off him. ‘I beat you last time, you little shit! You literally ate dust because you were too busy staring at my ass!’ He cries outraged around a laugh and Ilya shrugs, smirking good naturedly before pinning Shane’s wrists to the ground and leaning over him, necklace dangling between them.

‘It is very nice ass.’ He admits, rubbing their noses together gently with a grin.

Shane scoffs, ‘Yeah well hope you got a good look because that will be the last time you’ll be seeing it for a while.’

Ilya tilts his head as if in challenge. ‘I don’t think so, I think my husband is too much of a slut for my cock to resist me.’

Shane blushes, trying to huff in annoyance but failing because Ilya was unfortunately correct. ‘Says the one who begged to eat me out last night.’

Which was also correct. Shane had been tired from a day of council meetings and Ilya had returned from training one of Hollaith’s regiments, bursting into the room clearly on an adrenaline rush, announcing that he was going to eat Shane out until he was crying. Shane had already been curled up in bed, eyes heavy and snuggled up under the covers, his head lifting in sleepy amusement at Ilya practically bouncing off the walls, ripping his shirt over his head as he strode towards the bed.

And Shane was always horny - at first he thought it was a little concerning at just how much he wanted Ilya all the time until Ilya revealed that he felt the same way. And Ilya’s loud promise had Shane shifting under the sheets in interest, but he was just so tired. He had welcomed Ilya into bed with a lazy makeout session, sighing against his lips as Ilya’s hands drifted to his ass, groping it and squeezing it like dough. When Shane had told Ilya that he was probably too sleepy to have sex, Ilya had reassured him that all he had to do was ‘lie back, look pretty and let me make you cry.’

Shane was unsure at first, it felt too selfish but he had learnt fast in the first few months of marriage that Ilya very much enjoyed making Shane take whatever he gave him, and got off on the idea of simply being there for Shane to gain pleasure from. He also worshipped Shane’s ass with an almost feral devotion. And Ilya’s obsession with Shane’s body and wringing out as many orgasms as possible from him was undeniably hot.

So Ilya had practically whined in his ear, begging him to just let him eat him out for a little while, nipping at his jaw as Shane had laughed, kissing Ilya and settling on his stomach, hands wrapped around his pillow and cheek smushed against it as he wiggled his ass in invitation. Because Shane was horny, and the idea of lying there whilst Ilya got his fill had an unrestrained heat coursing through him that had his cock hardening.

Ilya had scrambled down the bed and practically buried his face between Shane’s cheeks with a groan, almost suffocating himself before he ate Shane out with spit dripping down his chin, thumb sinking into his rim as Shane came on a broken sleepy whine, hips grinding down into the mattress, heavy lids drooping in lazy pleasure. Ilya had made him come once more like that and then again on his fingers, making good on his promise to make Shane cry, before sliding his cock between Shane’s cheeks, the fat spilling around Ilya’s fingers as he fucked his cock through them. Ilya had come with a groan, smearing his cum across Shane’s hole to lick it off again as the tear tracks on Shane’s cheeks dried. Shane had never slept so well.

Ilya doesn’t rise to the bait, remaining unbothered. ‘You would too if you saw your ass.’

Shane laughs, before pulling Ilya down to him for a deep kiss, Ilya sinking into it and rolling them to their sides, grabbing Shane’s leg to hike it up at his hip. They swap kisses under the shade as Ilya’s hair begins to dry under the summer heat, the curls turning a little frizzy from the humidity.

Eventually Ilya pulls back. ‘Are you going to join me for a swim?’ He murmurs, hands tracing Shane’s sides, the touch featherlight.

Shane hums, thinking. ‘But then I’ll have to get dry.’

Ilya huffs out a laugh, sitting up. ‘Good thing it is warm, no?’

Shane frowns in thought, contemplating the pros and cons of going for a swim and all the complications it could potentially bring if they want to leave in the next few hours. The idea of sitting in a saddle with wet breeches was less than ideal. Ilya’s eyes crease fondly at the sight of the cogs in Shane’s brain turning in rapid motion, before his eyes glint in mischief. He stands suddenly and crouches, sweeping Shane into his arms as his husband makes a surprised noise at the back of his throat.

Shane sinks into the hold on instinct until he realises where Ilya’s heading.

‘Ilya…’ he tries carefully but his husband ignores him, striding towards the water edge unperturbed. Which is when Shane begins to panic, trying to climb up higher in Ilya’s hold, beginning to struggle. ‘Ilya! No! Don’t even think about it—,’

‘You’re too hot, I’m cooling you down.’ Ilya says simply, holding Shane tighter to his chest as the man wiggles like a worm in his arms desperately to avoid his fate.

‘Ilya! I’m not hot, I’m a perfectly stable temperature. I’m still wearing my clothes, Ilya, I swear to god, do not—,’ Shane’s voice rises in pitch the more panicked he becomes as the glistening water looms closer, Ilya splashing into it as it comes to the middle of his calves before coming to a sudden halt just before the lake dips deeper.

Shane thinks for a second Ilya has thankfully come to his senses, and begins to let out a sigh of relief, when Ilya uses his grip to swing Shane in his arms before flinging him into the lake.

Shane yelps as he goes flying through the air, the shock of the cool water making him gasp under water, bubbles escaping his mouth as he shoots upwards. He breaks the surface of the water with a burst, gasping in disbelief, blinking water from his eyes. The sound of delighted laughter has him twisting round with a thunderous glare, aimed at his husband who is now swimming only a metre from him, smiling gleefully. Shane being acutely unaware of how much he looks like an angry wet kitten.

‘You little shit!’ Shane yells, immediately swimming to catch him but Ilya dodges him, ‘come back here you asshole—,’

And then suddenly Shane is bursting into laughter, water filling his mouth as he catches up to Ilya, leaping on his shoulders and dunking him under the water for a second before Ilya pushes back up. Ilya only grins, pushing his slick hair back from his forehead.

‘You are trying to drown your husband?’ He questions before sinking his head half into the water and popping back up to squirt Shane with water from his mouth like a fountain, to hear Shane yell out as he swims away from him in a flurry.

‘Come back here and it won’t be a case of trying!’ Shane shouts, following him. They chase each other around the lake, dunking each other and grabbing at each other's legs, ears, Shane climbing on Ilya’s shoulders, his thighs locking around Ilya’s head in an attempt to make him topple over. Instead, Ilya only widens his stance, hands clamping down on Shane’s thighs as he spins them in circles to hear Shane giggle against his will.

‘We are dancing now? I do not know this move. Or are we cuddling?’ Ilya questions loudly, Shane curling over his head for balance as he laughs, head dizzy with the motion. Eventually they both grow so disorientated that they both tip sideways into the water.

They soon grow tired, both stripping off their heavy clothes and throwing them to the bank and finding their way back into each other's arms. Shane rests his cheek against Ilya’s shoulder as he hooks his legs around Ilya’s waist, kept weightless by the water. Ilya rests his chin on the top of Shane’s head, humming a soft song from childhood as his hands wrap around his husband's waist, swaying them gently as water sloshes softly around them.

‘Ilyusha…’ Shane murmurs aimlessly against his shoulder, and Ilya can’t help the way his heart trips over itself, even though it’s not the first time Shane has called him that. But every time Shane says it, it feels like the first time. He’s not even sure that Shane knows just what kind of effect it has on him.

‘My Shane.’ Ilya murmurs back, kissing the wet hair beneath his lips gently, squeezing Shane to him harder. Shane drops a kiss to his collarbone and they rest there for a while, Shane’s eyes drifting closed.

Moments pass before Shane speaks again.

‘Do you think I will be a good King? When the time comes?’ It’s a quiet question, and Shane doesn’t move from his place in the crook of Ilya’s neck. The reality is a long way off, but it doesn’t mean Shane doesn’t think about it. It just so happens that now he has someone to ask, instead of keeping it locked up inside. It was an anxiety that had lost its strength in the last two years of being married, Ilya’s unwavering support doing miles in alleviating it. It did not mean, however, it could get rid of it entirely, the ghost of its fingerprints were deep enough that not even love could completely erase them.

Ilya replies without missing a beat. ‘Yes, the best in the world.’

Shane pulls back from his hiding place to frown lightly. ‘But you don’t know all the Kings and Queens in the world.’ He reasons pragmatically.

Ilya shrugs easily, dropping a kiss between the scrunched eyebrows placatingly. ‘I don’t need to, I know already.’

Shane draws back further, arms around Ilya’s neck, clearly not ready to let it go. ‘But statistically you wouldn’t know—,’

Ilya rolls his eyes playfully, kissing Shane to shut him up before drawing back. ‘Shane, my love, my light, my husband, my Prince and future King. You will be a good King because I know you. And that is enough. Okay? There is nothing to worry about.’ And he can tell Shane wants to argue but at the look in Ilya’s eyes he simply nods, eyes flitting down and hands coming up to play with the necklace that Ilya’s wedding ring dangles from.

‘And if anyone says otherwise, I’ll kill them.’ Ilya promises, sharp teeth glinting. Shane looks up, wide eyed before slapping his chest in reprimand.

‘Stop it. All because you are in command of Hollaith’s defenses and armies does not mean you can kill whoever you want.’

‘Watch me.’ Ilya challenges, fully meaning every word. Because he would, and he’s done it before, well almost. He remembers the mangled eye in Lord Farnley’s head with a satisfied hum. He’d go to war over someone simply looking at Shane wrong.

Shane raises his eyebrows before laughing, drawing Ilya in for a kiss, fingers hooking under his jaw. Ilya licks into his mouth, hands sliding to his ass. And that’s how Shane ends up sinking down on Ilya’s cock with a gasp, clinging on to him as the water sloshes around them violently, water rippling in waves as Ilya uses the grip on Shane’s ass to move him up and down. Shane moans into Ilya’s mouth, locking his ankles around Ilya’s back as the fullness overrides everything else.

They’re drying off in the sun, naked limbs splayed wide and Shane is talking about Hayden’s newborn, a little girl in addition to their other three.

‘I can’t imagine having a family that big.’ Shane says, eyes to the sky. Ilya hums, arms outstretched wide.

‘I wouldn’t mind.’

Shane’s head turns to look at the side of Ilya’s face, the long lashes resting against his cheeks, the sharp line of his nose as the sun beats down on it.

They hadn’t talked about having children, not properly. There were moments when Ilya had talked about their future, making vague suggestions about how they would eventually have to convert some of the rooms in the west wing to ‘make room’. And Shane being Shane had just nodded and carried on. And Ilya was undeniably great with kids. Which always came as a surprise to people, most of all to Hayden whose children absolutely love Uncle Ilya.

‘I can’t believe I’m being betrayed by my own offspring.’ Hayden had grouched at the sight of his three children clinging to Ilya’s biceps, giggling as he swung them back and forth, their feet dangling in the air. Ilya had spared a glance up at Shane with a smile as he spun the children on his arms around in circles with a playful roar. And if Shane had pinned his husband down as soon as they got back to their rooms and ridden Ilya’s cock extra hard that night, then that was nobody’s business but Shane’s. So yes, whilst seeing how good Ilya is with kids made Shane undeniably horny, it also made something warm and fuzzy curl around his heart, a feeling that felt an awful lot like longing. It was a consideration Shane hadn’t offered too much serious thought to. But it seems Ilya had.

‘How many would you want?’ Shane asks, watching as Ilya hums thoughtfully, an arm coming to cradle the back of his head, eyes still closed.

‘I don’t know, at least two. But it is not entirely up to me.’ Ilya’s eyes snap open, shifting his head to stare at Shane in question.

Shane thinks, turning on his side as his hands twist the grass between them. ‘I think I’d also like at least two. I always wish I had a sibling.’

Ilya sits up on his elbows, watching Shane carefully, acutely aware this is the most they’ve ever spoken about having children in the entire time they’ve been married. And Shane was an interesting creature, Ilya’s learned you can’t spring too much on him all at once otherwise he panics, threatening to retreat into himself like a tortoise hiding in its shell.

‘Yeah?’ Ilya always wished he had another sibling too, notably one that wasn’t such a fucking waste of space, but he digresses. ‘At least?’

Shane shrugs, looking up at Ilya through his lashes as he twiddles a blade of grass between his fingers. ‘Yeah,’ he replies softly, ‘at least. Maybe more, who knows.’

And Ilya will take it, god damn he’d take anything. He tries not to let it show just how happy he is at Shane’s confirmation that he wants children. Ilya was never sure, was too afraid to broach it, but here Shane was, asserting he most certainly wants children, with Ilya.

‘When would you want them?’ He asks casually, trying to keep his tone neutral even though on the inside, Ilya is one word away from combusting with happiness.

Shane sits up, resting on his hands as he tilts his head to the side, looking off into the distance. ‘I don’t know, I haven’t really thought about it. But I wouldn’t mind having one before I take the throne, maybe two. That way I don’t have to think about my responsibilities too much as we raise them.’

Ilya has to take two meditational breaths to not lose his ever loving shit. This was totally fine, he tells himself, everything was totally fine. He was having a completely normal reaction to his husband’s seemingly innocent comment about wanting kids before he becomes King, which could mean now. They could start trying for children now.

‘We’d have to check if I was a carrier first of course,’ Shane continues, oblivious to Ilya’s internal crisis. ‘But the disposition to carry a child as a male is common in my family, and then we’d have to go about activating it as such, plus there’s the biological uncertainties to think about. I’ve read accounts of my male ancestors carrying up to at least six children themselves. I’ll have to ask our physician, and maybe my mother - her uncle was a carrier I think—,’

Shane continues to ramble to the sky as Ilya inches closer, jaw clicking with the restraint to not grab Shane and ravish him against the banks right there. The idea of Shane round with their child short circuiting his brain, all the blood in his frontal lobe shooting down to his cock at the idea of breeding his pretty little husband so well it takes. Ilya is assaulted with the image of little versions of them running around between their legs. He hopes they will inherit Shane’s freckles.

‘But I’m pretty sure I was tested as an infant, although again I’ll have to check with my parents. Though once we know for certain, at least we’ll have the knowledge that it is possible—oh,’ Shane turns at Ilya’s sudden presence right beside him, his cheek bumping into Ilya’s nose as he twists to look at him.

‘Hi.’ Shane says curiously, words folding on a soft laugh, but it tapers off at the dark, hungry look in Ilya’s eyes. Ilya slowly reaches up to cup Shane’s jaw, tugging him closer.

‘Shall we practice then?’ Ilya mutters, and Shane blinks.

‘Practice?’ He parrots back and Ilya nods, lips ghosting over his in a teasing touch.

‘Hmm, yes practice. Practice getting you pregnant.’ Ilya practically growls before seizing forward to snap up Shane’s lips in a hungry kiss, knocking him to the ground.

‘But we don’t know if I’m even a carrier—,’ Shane tries to say between kisses, the words lost in a slur as Ilya plunders his mouth, moaning helplessly at his husband's wandering hands .

‘That’s why we practice, yes? To make perfect, so when we make a baby for real, we will be professionals.’ Ilya reasons and Shane has no choice but to nod along, breath quickening and sinking back as he eagerly lets Ilya practice to his heart's content with the sun beating down on them like a blessing.

So the summer was warm, and as were their hearts. Every kiss was tinged with sunshine and fleetingly, they wondered what blessing they had received in a previous life to experience one such as this. But that was a question for another time.

Chapter End Notes

sooooo i decided to throw in some hints at mpreg… gonna let you all sit with that.

ideal world is i do a one shot of Shane and Ilya finally getting a little royal family of their own, but I wanna write some other things potentially before I do that. plus it would mean going into more detail to explain what being a ‘carrier’ means for a male which requires brain energy. but essentially in this universe, men are able to carry children if they carry a specific gene.

Ilya’s breeding kink will go feral, trust.

anywho!!! hope we all enjoyed the epilogue. find me on twt!