Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Cliff Marlow

Additional Tags:

Enemies to Lovers, Top Ilya Rozanov, Dom/sub, Dom Ilya Rozanov, Sub Shane Hollander, First Time, Forced Proximity, There Was Only One Bed, Domestic Fluff, Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, Shane Hollander is a Little Shit, Anal Sex, Praise Kink, COVID-19, Fighting As Foreplay, Model AU, no hockey, Total Power Exchange, Bratty Shane Hollander, Megabrat 5000 shane Hollander, Idiots in Love

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-08 Completed: 2026-02-15 Words: 48,636 Chapters: 25/25

anywhere but here

Summary

in which ilya & shane are in the UK modelling for london fashion week when COVID strikes.

in which ilya & shane are trapped in an airbnb together during the first lockdown.

in which they both slowly go insane.

(it was either this or a love island au)

Notes

this came to me in a dream

no plans just vibe based writing

please do let me know if you rec this on tiktok and I’ll smooch you <3

tw: being sick is mentioned at the end

Chapter 1: must stay home

Shane is brushing his teeth for the third time that afternoon when his phone pings. He frowns, spitting the remainder of the toothpaste into the basin and snatching it up with one hand. He suppresses a sigh.

 

17:24

Cassidy (Famous Faces)

Hello sunshine! Just checking you got your train tickets okay? I know things are a bit weird, but if you mask up on the tube you’ll be fine.

 

Shane did in fact have his train tickets.

 

He’d saved the email containing them, and screenshotted the QR codes in case his phone spontaneously lost all internet access. He’d only been in London for a few days, and the unsettling thrum of anxiety hadn’t bypassed him. People were nervous. People were sick. People were dying.

 

Subconsciously, he runs a hand across his forehead. Skin - nothing remarkable.

 

He doesn’t much fancy the late night photoshoot with the menacing 6’3 Russian model he’s been actively trying to avoid for the last two years, but it’s been burning a hole in his calendar for months now, and he figures he may as well just grit his teeth and get through it. The money is good, and shoots with Rozanov have their own special, sick way of going so viral that he’s booked and busy for the rest of the year.

 

Asshole.

 

As if entirely on cue, there’s an obnoxious slam on the already-rattling door of the AirBnB.

 

“There’s a doorbell right there,” Shane mutters to no one in particular, wiping his face with his own towel from home and stepping out into the living room.

 

The AirBnB Cassidy had booked for him is admittedly perfect, if not a bit dated; it’s open plan, the ceiling striped with old wooden beams, and a fireplace that smells comfortingly of smoke. A big leather sofa is framed by two patchwork armchairs, and the walls are studded with old paintings of flowers, huntsmen, and dogs. It’s so far removed from the usual modernistic penthouses he haunts back in Canada that Shane had started to feel strangely fond of the old cabin - it’s almost as out of place in London as he is.

 

“Hollander,” the man shouts from behind the door, and through frosted glass Shane can see his fist raised as if to punch at the door again. He jerks forward to wrench it open before Rozanov can, swinging it open without ceremony. Ilya Rozanov looks good. His stomach lurches - nausea, he tells himself - as he allows himself half a second to take him in.

 

Models look good. Obviously. It’s part of the job. But Rozanov is wearing an almost offensively tight black vest that crops sharply at his navel, before the tight skin of his stomach gives way to an oversized pair of tracksuit bottoms hanging low across his hips. He certainly doesn’t look as if he’s just gotten off an international flight, with a pair of sunglasses pushed high into deliberately messy blonde curls, and an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. His lips. Shane’s traitorous stomach coils again.

 

“You want ID check?” Rozanov says slowly, gesturing to where Shane is unmistakably blocking the door. “Let me in.”

 

His cheeks flush, and Shane drops his gaze hastily to step aside. The other man doesn’t wait for an invitation, striding past on long legs only to stop short in the living room with a wrinkled nose.

 

“They put us in barn,” Rozanov’s voice is distressed, taking in the rustic decor.

 

“It’s cottage-chic,” Shane snaps back, sidling uncomfortably past him to drop himself into one of the tattered armchairs. “Get over yourself.”

 

“Mm. I cannot.” Rozanov perches delicately on the arm of the burnished leather sofa as if it might bite him in the ass. “Too famous, you see. Cassidy says confidence is sexy, no?”

 

Shane ignores this, and the way his cheeks heat. He watches silently as his co-model drops a stack of papers onto the table; shoot passes, themes, pre-approved and negotiable pose concepts. Planned to the finest detail, just the way he likes it. Cassidy, I love you. He sends a silent prayer of gratitude to their shared agent.

 

“How are you finding London?” He hears himself ask, mostly to fill the silence as they each sort through their respective files.

 

Rozanov pulls a face. “A man outside the station - is…Liverpool Street? - asked if I had fag. I tell him only partly. Then he make face and walk away. London is rude.”

 

Shane doesn’t have time to begin to unpack that, because both their phones alight with a flurry of texts, shattering the quiet.

 

“What the -”

 

Rozanov is faster, spitting the cigarette unceremoniously onto the carpet, which makes Shane flinch.

 

“Where is TV?”

 

“What?”

 

Shane has only just located the offending group chat, the one Cassidy uses to contact them both.

 

Cassidy (Famous Faces)

18:01

Have you seen the news????

18:03

Boys

18:03

Ilya you’re glued to your phone, answer me

18:04

Turn on the TV!!!!

18:05

Oh my god

 

Shane’s skin prickles.

 

Cassidy is usually the picture of composure, her sunshine attitude the very thing Shane accepted her contract for in the first place. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He lurches into action, limbs stiff, to click on the television. He doesn’t really know what or who he’s looking at, but it’s clearly a live broadcast of some kind, delivered with a grave expression.

 

“He needs hairbrush -”

 

“Shut up, Rozanov.” Shane clicks the volume up all the way as a simple instruction rings out:

 

“From this evening I must give the British people a very simple instruction – you must stay at home.”

 

His ears begin to ring. Their phones chime again.

 

Cassidy (Famous Faces)

18:18

I’m so sorry. Try not to kill each other, or at least don’t touch each other’s faces. You need those

 

Shane is dimly aware that Rozanov is laughing, but there’s no humour in it - frustration, maybe. Disbelief.

 

“What - what does that mean? We can’t go home?” Shane’s voice is hoarse.

 

To his credit, Rozanov has turned a colour Shane hasn’t seen before; so pale he’s almost transparent, and his jaw keeps rapidly clenching and unclenching.

 

“It means this is home, Hollander. We are stuck. I will die of boredom. You will murder me with boring.”

 

He’s pacing now, muttering words in Russian Shane doesn’t care to translate. He’s more concerned with the fact he’s going to be sick, right there on the floral rug that now seems to be mocking him.

 

“Oh god,” he manages.

 

Shane’s last thought before he empties his stomach is one that seems to have come up from the depths of hell itself: there’s only one bed.

Chapter 2: bad bugs

Chapter Notes

tw for mention of being sick again

I am so motivated for this fic I could run through a wall

hope you enjoy babes <3

“Get up.”

 

Rozanov’s voice isn’t kind, but it isn’t disgusted either. Shane, on the other hand, is crawling out of his skin. His teeth rattle, his forehead pressed to the cool leather and one hand clutching half a bottle of water to his chest like a newborn child.

 

He’d been sick three times in a row, and might’ve escalated to four had Rozanov not clicked off the TV and set about cleaning up; they’d heard all they needed to know at that point, but Shane still found himself sinking into the floor. Mortification burns in his cheeks, and he stares very hard at his own knees.

 

“Is only for a few days, no doubt. I will take bed, you will -” Shane’s eyes lift just fast enough to see him gesture vaguely around at the living area. “Stay here. We do not have to talk.”

 

A humourless laugh leaves his mouth. “It’s my bed.”

 

“Ah, it has your name on it?”

 

Shane rises unsteadily to his feet, taking a trembling sip of water. “The booking’s in my name. You were only meant to be here for the shoot prep.”

 

Rozanov says nothing, his arms folded as he regards Shane with something akin to satisfaction. His cheeks flush again.

 

“What?”

 

He gives an easy, infuriating shrug. “You got up.”

 

Shane ignores him, spurred into motion as if he hadn’t just been kneeling on the floor praying that this was all one big cosmic joke.

 

First target: the kitchenette. He rifles through the drawers, yanking open each cupboard with more force than necessary, until he finds exactly what he’s looking for. He can feel the other man’s eyes on him, watchful, but mercifully quiet as Shane lifts up a roll of packing tape. He doesn’t dwell on his victory, reaching to drag his suitcase to sit firmly beside the bed, scanning the room to check everything is in order. Which of course it is, because it’s him.

 

Shane stoops low, and begins to tape the carpet.

 

If you’d have asked him a year ago - his career spanning to new heights and propelling him into a lifetime of fame - where he expected to be during a lockdown, Shane probably would have said a fancy hotel somewhere. Maybe a house he’d commissioned. Shane Hollander would not have told you he’d be sectioning an open plan AirBnB’s carpet with bright orange packing tape to avoid contact with a nightmarish Russian model with beautiful cheekbones. Wait - what?

 

He blinks, standing to review his work. Shane has sectioned the room cleanly - the bed, the area around it, and the closet are his. The bathroom is a bit of a no man’s land, but that’s to be expected. Then the couch, fireplace, and kitchenette are his.

 

Rozanov is studying him with a raised eyebrow. “You are having breakdown. I am not wild dog, I won’t start pissing in your shoes and humping your pillows.”

 

Shane flinches. “Just making sure we both know where we can and can’t go.”

 

“No, no, very clear. I will be good boy.” Rozanov turns towards the modest kitchen; just some built in cabinets, a small oven, and a mini fridge. “You, not so much when you starve to death.”

 

“You’ll have to give me stuff,” he splutters, his hands unknowingly balling into fists at his sides.

 

Something flickers across Rozanov’s face, but Shane can’t place it. He watches as his lip curls up in one corner, baiting - always baiting.

 

“Ah, but it is not factored into your little floor plan here. So I am sorry, Hollander, but you must starve. And I will eat all your rabbit food while you watch.” His voice is infuriatingly sing-song, miming a single tear trailing from his eye.

 

Shane bites his cheek so hard he can taste copper. Without a word, he stalks forward, snatching up the tape again. He adds two bright lines connecting where the tile of the kitchenette ends, and the carpet of his half begins, before hurling the roll straight for Rozanov.

 

It hits him square in his stupid, chiselled chest, and for a second Shane can only stare at his own hand. He’d thrown it before his brain could catch up, and from the look on Rozanov’s face, Shane can tell he may as well have just handed him a grenade.

 

A slow, shit-eating smile spreads across the Russian’s face, and he holds the tape in both hands as if it’s some precious artefact.

 

“Hollander, Hollander, Hollander. This is now a negotiation.”

 

“Give it back.”

 

Shane crosses the new pathway he’d just made, into the kitchenette, but Rozanov is quicker. In one graceful movement, he holds the tape high above his head - higher than Shane can reach, but he fumbles for it anyway.

 

“It’s mine,” Shane spits, unsure why he’s chosen packing tape as his hill to die on, but unable to set aside his pride enough to walk away.

 

Rozanov reaches up with his other hand to tear a small piece off, which he promptly slaps onto the tip of Shane’s nose.

 

“So pretty,” he croons as Shane swipes it off. “Pretty like Barbie.”

 

He hears himself make a noise of frustration he’s pretty sure he’s never made before, and quickly swallows it. What are you doing, dude?

 

“Keep it,” Shane hisses, but his skin is vibrating. Furious tears prickle in the corners of his eyes, and he’s self aware enough to know that one more taunt would have him lose his mind completely. He makes to turn away, his thoughts dangerously close to spilling loose like spaghetti, in an attempt to ground himself. His heart is hammering in his chest, and nothing makes sense. He’s normally patient. Even. Stoic. But the man in front of him barrels through every layer of reserve and restraint so easily Shane hardly notices he’s done it in the first place. He hates it.

 

They don’t speak for some time. Shane is intently focused on his breathing, until something solid hits him in the shoulder.

 

Incredulous, he picks up the fresh bottle of water Rozanov has just hurled at him.

 

The Russian is sat back on one of the armchairs, his legs crossed as if he hasn’t got a care in the world. But it’s not that that catches Shane’s attention first - it’s the distinct lack of clothing.

 

Mercifully, Rozanov has the good grace to keep his tracksuit bottoms on, but he’s discarded the vest in a heap on the carpet. His chest is bare, freckled with moles in constellations across tanned skin. One hand traces absently across the sharp V of his abdomen, the other fiddles with the golden crucifix that hangs around his neck. The base of Shane’s spine throbs with a low heat that he dutifully ignores.

 

“Drink,” Rozanov says quietly, his voice almost empty without the teasing tone.

 

Shane is frozen in place. Could he dive out one of the windows? Could Amazon deliver him a tent so he can sleep outside? Does Amazon deliver lobotomies?

 

Rozanov clicks a finger, and the sound snaps something low in his stomach.

 

“Open the bottle, Hollander.”

 

Shane’s fingers are moving of their own accord. The bottle cracks open.

 

The other man taps a finger to his own lips. “Drink.”

 

He fills his mouth with cool water. Swallows. Waits - for something he’s not sure he can name.

 

When the silence stretches over into uncomfortable, Rozanov chuckles softly under his breath.

 

Shane’s embarrassment is immediate: “fuck you.”

 

“Are you meaning thank you?”

 

“For what?” He spits the last word like poison.

 

His grin is crooked. “For the water.”

 

“Last I checked the sink is free game. Don’t need to thank you.”

 

“Ah,” he tsks. “I made some changes while you having panic attack. Check again.”

 

Shane’s eyes drift reluctantly to the mess of orange to their right, and his stomach sinks. Rozanov has taped every cabinet - every tile, even the faucet of the sink - in orange. The kitchen wall has a crude orange smiley face at eye level, and the saucepan on the drying rack has another smaller face with a tape-tongue poking out.

 

He wonders if he’s too tired to care at this stage. Wonders if he’ll even survive looking at that smug face another day.

 

“You are tired.” It’s a statement, not a question. “Go to bed.”

 

“Christ - I’m not five, Rozanov.”

 

“You act like it.”

 

“Fuck you!”

 

Rozanov brushes this off with ease. “Bed. I will put you on naughty step for staying up late.”

 

Shane’s heard enough. His skin itches, and he wants nothing more than to strip off and collapse into what looks to be quite a comfortable bed, but he can’t. Not with him here. So instead he wearily folds himself into the fetal position on top of the covers, trying to block out every scratching, overstimulating sound Rozanov makes just by breathing.

 

“Don’t let the bad bugs bite, Hollander. Will ruin your pretty Barbie face.”

 

Despite himself, Shane’s mouth twitches.

 

“It’s bed bugs, idiot. Think I saw one on that armchair this morning.”

 

Rozanov gasps, but Shane’s exhaustion steals him away before he can continue the joke. He dreams of Barbie, her hands bound with orange tape, and a murmured voice with a Russian accent.

Chapter 3: eggs

Chapter Notes

last pre-written chapter folks!

I will try get chapter 4 up asap, I love these idiots and I hope you do too!

have updated the tags to include power exchange as I feel that’s where this is headed x

Shane Hollander would love to have said he woke up peacefully to the sound of birds singing, or perhaps the sizzle of eggs in a hot pan.

 

But he can’t, because he didn’t.

 

A distinctly explicit moan rings out in the morning quiet, shattering whatever semblance of normality Shane had been setting up for himself internally. His heart stutters - was that?

 

Another moan, a different voice.

 

“You like that, don’t you?”

 

“Fuck me, harder, harder, harder -”

 

Shane bolts upright as the sounds of two men doing - well, he wouldn’t know - echo from behind the bathroom door.

 

“Oh, god, use me -”

 

He stumbles in his panic, crashing into the bedside table and sending the lamp flying.

 

“That’s it, just like that -”

Neither of the voices have a Russian accent, but the third voice that’s currently breathing hard and fast, almost drowned out by the running shower, does. Shane can hear the softest of accented words he doesn’t yet understand, punctuating what sounds like motions Shane himself only allows himself during moments of desperate need, with sighs so shaky he’s certain he’ll never be able to forget them. His traitorous body reacts, straining against his shorts.

 

“No,” Shane hisses, adjusting himself before hammering on the bathroom door with both fists. “Fucking knock it off in there!”

 

There’s a pause, and the moaning cuts out. He can hear his own heartbeat in his throat as the door swings open by several inches.

 

Rozanov is stood with a towel around his waist, hair wet, water beading on the tight muscle of his chest - it collects and drips in rivulets along his abs, pooling on the bathroom floor.

 

“I was showering,” he says simply. “You were sleeping. Boring.”

 

“That was not just showering!”

 

Rozanov tilts his head, considering him with those fucking blue eyes.

 

“Oh,” he says thoughtfully, after a moment. “You are upset.”

 

Shane hears himself laugh, high and brittle, a sound that doesn’t belong to him. “You think?”

 

“You were very asleep,” Rozanov says soothingly, as if explaining something to a particularly stupid child. He reaches back to shut the bathroom door behind him with his heel, deliberately slow, continuing to drip water all over the no man’s land Shane had set up the day previous. “I did not know your ears were so sensitive.”

 

“That was porn,” Shane snaps, almost choking on the word. “You were- you were playing gay porn at full volume, at seven in the morning.”

 

Rozanov’s mouth quirks up in that same smug smile. “It is called ambiance.”

 

“Ilya.”

 

He raises a brow. Shane almost regrets using his first name; it lands differently now, heavier between them in a way that gnaws at his own nerve endings.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Don’t,” Shane says weakly. “Just - don’t do that again.”

 

Rozanov studies him in silence. Water still drips from his hair, dotting the ratty carpet Shane had once quite enjoyed. He smells like soap, steam, and the fresh linen shower gel he’d bought from home. Shane is acutely aware that they’re too close - even if he pressed his eyes shut he could sense the goading energy radiating from his unwelcome guest. He breaks first, and looks away.

 

A few seconds pass before Rozanov nods once. “Fine.”

 

Relief floods Shane so hard it makes his knees wobble.

 

“But,” Rozanov adds, stepping closer. Shane’s chest tightens. “If you wake up while I am showering, you knock.”

 

Shane blinks. “What?”

 

“You knock,” Rozanov repeats calmly. “You do not shout. You do not slam. You knock.”

 

“That’s not - you don’t get to make rules.”

 

Rozanov’s gaze drops, pointedly, to Shane’s shorts. Where his cock is straining against the cotton; something he’s desperately trying to ignore.

 

“Mm,” he hums. “And yet.”

 

Shane flushes so violently he’s convinced he might actually pass out this time.

 

Rozanov reaches for the discarded vest on the floor and pulls it on with infuriating leisure, as if he has all the time in the world.

 

“I will make breakfast,” Rozanov says. “You will wash your face with cold water. You look scrambled.”

 

“I do not look scrambled.”

 

“You do.”

 

“I’m not doing what you tell me just because -”

 

Rozanov pauses in the doorway and looks back at him. Something in his expression makes Shane’s gut twist. He’s not picking out flaws to poke at, or sensitivities to press on like a bruise. He’s assessing.

 

“You can argue,” he says evenly. “Or you can wash your face and come eat. My eggs are famous. Svetlana likes them.”

 

Shane sits there, staring after him, his heart pounding. There was that name he’d heard occasionally, or seen on Rozanov’s phone during their shoot downtime. Svetlana. His girlfriend? Shane wasn’t sure - but he was sure of the way the back of his neck flushed at the mention, and how his shoulders tightened considering the possibility that Rozanov had someone back home at all.

 

He counts to ten. Then, very deliberately, enters the bathroom.

 

As Shane splashes his face with cold water and looks at his reflection, hair sticking up, eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, he has the deeply unsettling thought that settles low in his gut and refuses to move:

 

I am so fucked.

 

When Shane finally emerges, he almost wishes he hadn’t. Rozanov has plugged in his phone to the shared Alexa, and - still half naked, Shane might add - is dancing far too gracefully to STARSTRUKK by 3OH!3. He’s wielding a spatula like a sword, only occasionally reaching to poke at what honestly looks like fifteen eggs crowded into a singular frying pan, spitting oil and yolk onto the countertops. There’s a pile of toast sat on the tape-marked sideboard, and a tablespoon stabbed violently into the tub of grass-fed, organic butter Shane had ordered via Deliveroo before this shitstorm began.

 

Most alarmingly, however, was the now very much lit cigarette hanging from his lips. Rozanov exhales, blowing a cloud of smoke into the extractor fan.

 

Shane stops dead in the doorway, clutching his dressing gown around him as if it’ll protect him from the sight.

 

“Absolutely not,” he finds his voice after a painful minute, pointing at the cigarette like it’s a loaded weapon. “You can’t smoke in here.”

 

Rozanov glances over his shoulder, unbothered, still grinding his hips against the poor unsuspecting sink cupboard. “Why?”

 

“Because? Because it’s an AirBnB, because it’s inside, because…” Shane gestures helplessly at the ceiling, the walls, the everything. “Because it’s illegal? Probably?”

 

Rozanov hums, contemplative, and then takes another slow drag. His lips are quirked around the cigarette, daring without a word.

 

Shane makes a noise somewhere between a whine and a growl. “Rozanov.”

 

“Yes?” the other man says pleasantly, poking at one of the eggs until the yolk splits, oozing orange onto the hot Teflon.

 

“Put it out.”

 

He doesn’t move.

 

Instead, he tilts his head, smoke curling lazily from his mouth. When he faces Shane, his eyes are serious, but lit with something he’s not yet seen before. The blue sparks, like fire from a gas burner. “Say please.”

 

Shane freezes.

 

The word lodges in his throat like a splinter. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, painfully aware he’s gaping.

 

“This is not…I’m not about to -” Shane starts, then stops, cutting himself off.

 

Rozanov’s smile widens. “Not what?”

 

Shane exhales hard through his nose, and his cheeks predictably flare to life, skin burning with a strange combination of embarrassment and…something. “Just put it out, Ilya.”

 

Rozanov takes one last drag, long and deliberate, those fucking blue eyes never leaving Shane’s. Then he stubs the cigarette out in the sink, grinding it down with an exaggerated motion that does nothing but piss him off.

 

“Fine,” his voice is sweet. “You asked so nicely.”

 

“I did not.”

 

“You did,” Rozanov interrupts. “You used my name.”

 

Shane opens his mouth to argue, then realises he absolutely does not want to unpack that particular observation. Instead, he turns his attention to the eggs, because if he looks at Rozanov for one more second he might actually combust. His cock is rock hard - harder than the yolks Rozanov is actively turning into cement - and Shane can’t deal with any of it at this particular moment in time.

 

“You’re going to burn those,” he mutters stubbornly.

 

Rozanov scoffs. “Impossible.”

 

“They’re already burned.”

 

“They are crispy.”

 

“They’re rubber.”

 

Rozanov finally turns fully toward him, spatula still in hand. “You complain a lot for a man who is about to eat my famous eggs.”

 

“Your eggs aren’t famous,” Shane says weakly, already reaching for the flannel he’s packed in his case, feeling far too exposed.

 

“They are in my house.”

 

Shane blinks incredulously. “We’re not in your house. If anything, this is Cassidy’s house. She booked it.”

 

Rozanov taps the spatula against the pan, the sharp sound utterly decisive. “Sit.”

 

The word lands in the air between them, heavy and an absolute he’s not sure he should press against.

 

Shane’s body reacts before his brain does, traitorous and obedient. He pulls out one of the chairs by the shoddy kitchen table and sits.

 

Oh.

Rozanov’s gaze flicks over him, something dark and satisfied sparking briefly before he turns back to the hob. He hums something that sounds like: “good.”

 

Shane’s hands curl around the edge of the table, and the bite of splinters are strangely comforting at this stage. His pulse is loud in his ears, so loud he’s struggling to squash it. It’s just stress. Just the fact that he hasn’t had caffeine or a proper meal in over twenty-four hours.

 

Rozanov plates the eggs with exaggerated care, crashing around the kitchenette to add toast, butter, and - almost insultingly - a small sprig of parsley he must have found somewhere.

 

He sets the plate in front of Shane without ceremony: “Eat.”

 

Shane stares at it stubbornly. “You don’t get to…”

 

Rozanov leans forward, bracing one hand on the counter, invading Shane’s space in a way that makes his breath hitch. His wet curls are slick and dark against his forehead, still dripping down onto the table.

 

“You are shaking,” he says quietly. “You are pale. You hardly sleep. You will eat.”

 

There’s no teasing in his voice now.

 

Shane swallows hard. “Fine.”

 

He picks up the fork, and Rozanov straightens, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed as he watches Shane take a tentative bite.

 

Shane scowls at the plate, at the taste of butter and egg and sourdough. “I hate this.”

 

Rozanov grins - that same stupid fucking smile. “You love this.”

 

“I do not.”

 

“You are already on second bite.”

 

Shane glares at him, but continues eating.

 

Halfway through, he realises Rozanov hasn’t touched his own food. “Aren’t you eating?”

 

“I ate earlier.”

 

“You woke me up with porn and then ate eggs without me?”

 

“Yes. Exactly.”

 

“Wow. Rude.”

 

Rozanov shrugs. “You sleep like dead animal.”

 

Shane huffs, but there’s no real malice in it. His stomach protests each time he pauses eating, and he doesn’t want to ramble for too long - that’s dangerous territory.

 

“Uh…” He pauses, fork hovering mid-air. “Can I have some water?”

 

The words slip out before he can stop them.

 

Rozanov’s head snaps up.

 

Shane’s stomach plummets. Heat floods his face so fast it’s dizzying. The eggs threaten to betray him.

 

“I mean…I didn’t. I was just…”

 

Rozanov doesn’t interrupt. He just watches him, his eyes intent and sharp, taking in every stammered attempt at backpedalling.

 

Shane knows instinctively that he’s been caught. Then, slowly, Rozanov smiles.

 

“Yes,” he murmurs. “You can.”

 

Shane’s breath catches in his throat. He reaches for the bottle on the counter, hands trembling.

 

“Ah,” Rozanov tsks, halting him.

 

Shane freezes, his shaky fingers hovering an inch from the plastic.

 

Rozanov steps closer. “You forgot something.”

 

Shane’s throat works, his brain arguing with itself. “What?”

 

Rozanov tilts his head, waiting, answerless.

 

“…please?” Shane murmurs after a minute, staring intently at the random space just above the other man’s head. His brain and bodily control have left the building. Unfortunately his mouth hasn’t.

 

Rozanov’s smile turns soft at the edges. Still dangerous, but softer. Almost encouraging. “Good boy.”

 

Something in Shane’s chest collapses - instead of dealing with this, he grabs the bottle and takes a long drink, water sloshing messily against the sides. He doesn’t trust himself to look up.

 

“Careful,” Rozanov says mildly, as if he’s just commentating on the weather. “You will choke.”

 

Shane lowers the bottle, his breath unsteady. He sucks in a shaky attempt to fill his lungs. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why?”

 

Rozanov considers him for a moment, then reaches out and nudges Shane’s knee with his own. “Because you like structure,” he says. “And I like control.”

 

“That’s not funny.”

 

“It is very funny.”

 

“We’re trapped here together against our will, you idiot.”

 

“And yet,” Rozanov’s voice is gentle, “you are eating eggs and asking me nicely for water.”

 

Shane finishes his eggs in silence.

Chapter 4: the chase

Chapter Notes

I wrote and edited this at 2am listening to flo rida on a loop so forgive any mistakes gang

They’re watching The Chase in uncomfortable silence when Shane’s phone pings. What’s the opposite of companionable silence?

 

The two of them hadn’t spoken since the egg incident, and Rozanov seemed perfectly content to livestream Joe Wicks on the TV and do his stupid press ups right there on the carpet, before taking another, distinctly porn-free, shower. Shane had busied himself with a book, though he’d had to read each sentence twice for it to make any semblance of connection in his head to the last.

 

“Which of these animals is a marsupial? Is it A) panda, B) koala -”

 

“Koala!” Rozanov hollers at full volume, rising up from his seat as if it might project him through the screen and into the game if he shouts loud enough. The sound startles Shane, enough for him to almost upturn the glass of orange juice - vitamin c - he’d been cradling on the edge of the bed.

 

“Surprised you know what a koala is,” Shane grouches for no real reason at all.

 

Rozanov waves him off with one hand. “They are small and cute. Of course I do.”

 

A moment passes, and then: “what is favourite animal?”

 

Shane ignores him - he isn’t much of an animal person anyway - and reaches for his phone, the brightness of the screen almost jarring in the half light of the evening.

 

19:56

Hayden

Dude, are you dead? You know lockdown doesn’t include text communication, right? No one’s caught COVID through a screen x

 

He winces, guilt threading through his muscles until he’s sitting bolt straight. He’d not replied to any of Hayden’s multiple texts since the lockdown was announced, and he immediately clicks reply before he can be weird about it again.

 

19:58

Sorry man. How are you? Jackie and the kids staying safe?

 

Unsurprisingly, Hayden replies immediately.

 

19:58

Hayden

He lives! All good here. You’re in the AirBnB right?

 

Shane sucks in a breath before replying.

 

20:00

Yeah.

 

20:00

Hayden

That was a weird ‘yeah’. You’re holding out on me - what’s up with it? Rat infested?

 

Despite himself, Shane laughs under his breath.

 

20:01

Something like that.

 

He types, deletes, and types again. Envisions Hayden waiting patiently on the other side of the world. Begins to explain the predicament he’s in, despite the fact Shane can’t really even explain it to himself at this point. He begins typing again, before resolutely deleting a sentence that had clawed its way straight from his frontal lobe.

 

“You do not have to tell Pike I am here.”

 

The phone slips from his fingers at that, dropping with a dull thud onto the carpet. Shane’s head snaps up, catching on where Rozanov was leaning with his head resting on his hand, watching him intently. The back of Shane’s neck prickles. The other man quirks an eyebrow, testing.

 

“Didn’t realise you two knew each other,” Shane says softly, bending to retrieve his phone before setting it carefully back on the bed.

 

He makes a dismissive gesture. “He is recommended friend on Instagram. He is only one who comments on all of your posts. Not difficult to figure out.”

 

It actually isn’t the freak-level of observation that catches Shane’s attention this time: “you look at my Instagram?”

 

Rozanov doesn’t answer immediately, still fiddling with his crucifix, which is somehow worse. The Chase still murmurs in the background, Bradley Walsh asking a question literally no one in this room is listening to.

 

Then, casually, he says: “Sometimes.”

 

Shane blinks. “Sometimes.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“How sometimes?”

 

Rozanov’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying very hard not to smile - Shane has the sudden urge to throw something at him again. “Enough.”

 

“That is not an answer.”

 

“It is.”

 

Shane drags a hand down his face. “That’s…that’s creepy.”

 

Rozanov hums, apparently unconcerned. “You post a lot.”

 

“I do not.”

 

“You do,” his voice is light. “Pictures of coffee. Pictures of skyline. Same angle every time.” He tilts his head. “You smile only with teeth when you are drunk.”

 

Shane’s stomach drops out through the floor, and he shifts so far forward on the bed he’s basically sitting on the carpet.

 

“I - what?”

 

“And you like,” Rozanov continues, ticking it off on his fingers, “comments from Pike. Always heart. You reply faster to him than to anyone else.”

 

The room feels suddenly too small, and Shane can hear the blood rushing in his ears, louder than the TV, even louder than the fucking infuriating Russian man in front of him.

 

“That doesn’t - that doesn’t mean anything,” he says quickly. “He’s just? Hayden’s my friend.”

 

Rozanov’s gaze sharpens. “Mm.”

 

“Don’t do that,” Shane snaps.

 

“Do what?”

 

“That noise. That judging thing.”

 

“I am not judging,” Rozanov says mildly. “I am observing.”

 

“Well, observe this,” Shane says, heat flooding his face, willing his heart rate to stabilise. “Hayden Pike is straight. Married. Has kids. Plural. I am not -” He cuts himself off, his jaw wound tight. “We are not boyfriends.”

 

Rozanov’s brows lift a fraction.

 

“Oh,” he says.

 

“Oh?” Shane repeats weakly. “That’s it? Just oh?”

 

“You are very defensive,” Rozanov abruptly stands, sitting himself down on the ottoman so close their knees could brush. “For man who is not boyfriends.”

 

“I’m defensive because you’re being weird.”

 

Rozanov smiles then, and it splits his face into something like sunshine. “You are gay.”

 

Shane nearly chokes on his own saliva.

 

“I - you can’t just -”

 

“You do not deny it.”

 

Shane opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Nothing comes out. He can feel the heat from Rozanov’s knees burning the air between them.

 

Rozanov watches him with fascination, like Shane’s just done something incredibly interesting with a deck of cards.

 

“You did not tell him,” Rozanov says, nodding at the phone Shane’s white-knuckling with one hand. “You did not tell him about me.”

 

“That’s because it’s none of his business!”

 

“And yet,” Rozanov’s voice is soft, “you worry what he will think.”

 

“You’re reading into this.”

 

“I am very good at reading,” Rozanov replies. “You should see my chess.”

 

“That’s not the same thing.”

 

“It is exactly the same thing.”

 

Shane exhales, and scrubs at his face. “You don’t get to psychoanalyse me just because you scrolled my Instagram.”

 

Rozanov considers that. “I also watch your interviews.”

 

“…what?”

 

“You speak faster when nervous,” Rozanov continues calmly. “You tug sleeves when angry. You cross legs when uncomfortable.”

 

“I -” Shane laughs, a little hysterical. “What, you took notes?”

 

Rozanov shrugs. “I remember things. I have known you many years, Hollander.”

 

“That’s stalking.”

 

“That is interest.”

 

“Those are not the same!”

 

Rozanov leans forward, legs spreading out like he owns the place, his damned eyes never leaving Shane. “They can be.”

 

Shane’s phone buzzes again.

 

20:03

Hayden

Okay now I’m worried. Blink twice if you’re being held hostage.

 

Shane stares at the screen, his thumb hovering.

 

Rozanov cranes his neck, blatantly reading the message. “He worries about you.”

 

“That’s what friends do,” Shane says through his gritted teeth.

 

“Mm,” Rozanov hums again. “You let him.”

 

Shane’s heart starts doing something erratic and frankly rude in his chest. He wonders briefly if he’s about to pass out. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“You let him check on you. You let him tease. You let him see you soft.”

 

“I am not soft.”

 

Rozanov’s gaze drags over him, slow and unapologetic. “You cry at commercials.”

 

“I cried at one commercial!”

 

“It was about dog,” Rozanov says solemnly, as if that explains everything. “Very sad.”

 

Shane groans. “This is insane. You don’t know me.”

 

“I know enough,” Rozanov muses. He shifts forward suddenly, elbows on knees, invading Shane’s space without touching. “You do not like chaos. You like routine. You like being told when to eat.”

 

Shane’s breath stutters.

 

“That’s - that’s not -”

 

“You like being noticed,” Rozanov continues. “And you like when someone pays attention.”

 

“That’s everyone.”

 

“No,” Rozanov says quietly. “Not like you.”

 

Shane swallows hard. “Why do you care?”

 

Rozanov studies him for a long moment. Behind them, The Chase rolls credits.

 

“Because,” he says finally, “you are mine to look at right now.”

 

When it’s apparent Shane isn’t about to grace that with an answer, he continues: “you are stuck with me, I am stuck with you. Lockdown. It would be rude not to pay attention.”

 

“That’s one way to put it.”

 

Rozanov’s mouth curves. “You are spiralling.”

“I am not spiralling.”

 

“You are texting boyfriend who is not boyfriend,” Rozanov chuckles. “You are sweating.”

 

“I am not sweating.”

 

“You are,” Rozanov insists. “Here.” He reaches out, taps two fingers lightly against Shane’s wrist.

 

Shane jerks back like he’s been burned. “Don’t touch me.”

 

Rozanov raises both hands in surrender. “Okay.”

 

“…okay?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Shane blows out a breath and looks back at his phone, typing hurriedly.

 

20:05

Not being held hostage. Just… weird situation.

 

Hayden replies instantly.

 

20:05

Hayden

Define weird.

 

Shane stares at the blinking cursor.

 

Rozanov watches him, head tilted like a man who’s absolutely psychoanalysing him. “Do you want me to leave room?”

 

“No,” Shane says immediately, then winces, wishing he hadn’t said anything at all. “I mean - no, it’s fine.”

 

Rozanov’s eyes don’t leave his. “Then answer him.”

 

Shane frowns. “You’re not my boss.”

 

“No.”

 

“Then stop telling me what to do.”

 

The other man leans closer, his voice dropping just enough to make Shane’s skin prickle - he scrubs at his forearms. “You asked for water earlier.”

 

“That was different,” he grits out.

 

“Mm,” Rozanov murmurs. “Was it?”

 

Shane squeezes his eyes shut and counts to twenty in his head before opening them again, unlocking his phone to respond:

 

20:07

Stuck with a coworker. Long story.

 

Rozanov reads it upside down. “Coworker,” he repeats, amused.

 

“Don’t start.”

 

“I am not starting,” Rozanov croons. “I am enjoying.”

 

Hayden replies.

 

20:07

Hayden

Coworker?? Oh my god. Is he hot?

 

Shane chokes, and Rozanov’s grin turns feral.

 

“He thinks I am hot,” he says delightedly.

 

“He does not!” Shane snaps, absolutely as harsh as intended. “He’s joking!”

 

“Ah,” Rozanov says as he settles back, his blue eyes bright and unmistakably amused. “Jealous.”

 

“I am not jealous!”

 

“You are spiralling,” Rozanov repeats gently.

 

Shane drops his phone onto the bed and buries his face in his hands with a noise of distress. “I hate you.”

 

“No. You are just overwhelmed.”

 

He pauses, then adds, quieter: “Eat dinner later. Answer Pike after. Breathe now.”

 

Shane peeks through his fingers. “You can’t just -”

 

Rozanov meets his eyes, the crucifix dangling between them. “Watch show,” he says. “Text later.”

 

Shane hesitates, then against his own better judgement, he nods.

 

Rozanov smiles in return, satisfied, and turns his attention back to the TV like nothing monumental just happened.

 

Shane sinks back against the pillows, defeated.

Chapter 5: let’s clap

Chapter Notes

shane: I think I’m gonna die in this house
ilya: not before you clap

for those of you who didn’t experience the first british lockdown, clapping at our front doors in gratitude for the NHS was a big thing

okay, I’m off to work now! I may have time to post a chapter tomorrow, but we shall see (let’s be fr I’m probably going to stay up all night tonight writing the next one)

At this point, Shane’s fully convinced they’re both going to die in here.

 

He’s not sure how much more singing, loud music, weird stretching workouts, or random Russian phone calls he can take. The two have just settled down - or rather, Shane has - Rozanov is currently playing Candy Crush at max volume, lounging sideways in the armchair with his feet kicking back and forth, but it’s the most quiet he’s been all day.

 

Until it isn’t.

 

Like he’s been electrocuted, Rozanov jolts upright with a shout. Shane’s body seizes, scanning their small prison for signs of an intruder, or a fire.

 

“What -”

 

“Vstavay,” Rozanov barks. “Up. Get up.”

 

Shane stumbles to his feet, watching in horror as Rozanov begins to empty the kitchen cabinets, clutching an armful of frying pans - he tosses one at Shane, who just about catches it.

 

“Do you want to explain what you’re doing?” Shane hisses as the other man begins herding him towards the front door - without touching - like an insane border collie.

 

Before he can even blink, the door is open, and a rush of cool air floods his senses. Dawning horror sets in as Rozanov brandishes a frying pan, a saucepan, and a wooden spoon.

 

“We must clap,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “For NHS, yes?”

 

As if on cue, doors begin to open along the quiet street, strangers stepping out into the night, backlit from what was probably domestic bliss behind them.

 

“Do - do we?” Shane is bewildered, his cheeks flaring with embarrassment at the thought of being perceived. Of being seen with Rozanov - of the implications that might bring if anyone recognised them.

 

Rozanov makes a disapproving sound in his throat. “Rude boy. Bang your pan.”

 

He thrusts another wooden spoon at him, seemingly produced from nowhere - if Shane thought he was embarrassed previously, that’s nothing compared to what comes next.

 

“Let’s go!” Rozanov hollers, sending a cat on a nearby fence darting for cover. “Thank you NHS!”

 

Shane peers desperately up at him, silently willing him not to draw any further attention to what’s arguably the most famous faces this side of London right now. It doesn’t help - the other houses begin to hesitantly cheer and clap, which only seems to spur him on.

 

It only takes another shout from Rozanov before it snowballs.

 

“THANK YOU NHS!” he yells again, cupping his hands around his mouth.

 

A window across the road slides open, and someone starts clapping back, enthusiastic, slightly drunk judging from the fact it misses Rozanov’s rhythm entirely. Another door opens two houses down, and a woman with a mug raises it in salute. This is escalating rapidly, and there’s fucking nothing he can do to stop it.

 

Shane stands there, the pan limp in his hands, frozen.

 

“Ilya,” he hisses through his clenched teeth. “You don’t have to shout.”

 

Rozanov turns, his expressive eyebrows knit in genuine confusion. “But they are far away.”

 

“That’s the point.”

 

Shane - in a moment of benevolence - demonstrates, bringing the pan and spoon together in a tap so soft it hardly makes a sound.

 

Rozanov watches him curiously for half a second, then reaches over and - without touching him, Shane notes again - demonstrates the correct motion directly in front of Shane’s chest.

 

“Like this,” he says, softer now, almost patiently. He hits the pan again. “You must commit.”

 

“I am committing,” Shane snaps, mortified as a man across the street gives them a cheerful thumbs up.

 

Rozanov’s mouth twitches. “You are apologising to pan.”

 

Before Shane can argue, he leans in close again, to lower his voice: “louder. They will think you are ungrateful.”

 

Shane’s stomach flips traitorously, and he silently swears to get his fucking life together once all this is over. He hates that tone, and even more so that it works.

 

He bangs the pan again, louder this time. A neighbour cheers from down the road.

 

“There,” Rozanov says approvingly, then immediately ruins it by throwing an arm around Shane’s shoulders and pumping the pan overhead like they’ve just won Wimbledon.

 

“That’s my boy!” he yells.

 

Shane makes a noise that might be a whimper - though it could just be his soul leaving his body.

 

Someone laughs nearby, and he’s distinctly aware that a phone has appeared - someone is filming.

 

“Oh my god,” he mutters under his breath. “We’re going to end up on Twitter.”

 

Rozanov squints down the street, assessing the crowd. “Good. Awareness.”

 

“No,” Shane says weakly. “Bad. Awareness is bad.”

 

The clapping swells, crescendos, then slowly starts to taper off as people retreat back into their houses, satisfied with their civic duty. The street goes quiet.

 

Rozanov lowers his pan, breathless and pleased with himself.

 

“That was nice,” he says. “Community.”

 

Shane stares straight ahead, past the Russian, his face burning. “I hate you.”

 

“Mm,” Rozanov hums. “You say this often.”

 

Once inside, Shane practically dives for the bed, collapsing face-down into the pillows. Rozanov sets the pans down with reverence, then checks his phone.

 

“I sent video to my group chat,” he announces.

 

Shane’s head snaps up, alert again. “You what?”

 

“They like when I do good deeds.”

 

“You filmed me,” Shane says faintly, crushing the pillow to his chest.

 

“Yes.”

 

“With the pan.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“In my pyjama shorts.”

 

Rozanov considers this for a moment. “They are festive.”

 

Shane groans and buries his face again.

 

“Your phone,” Rozanov breaks the silence.

 

“What?”

 

“It is buzzing,” he adds helpfully.

 

Shane fumbles for it, dread pooling in his stomach. A notification lights the screen.

 

20:16

Hayden

Nice shorts. Maybe don’t check Twitter for a while x

 

He lets out a strangled sound, yet makes the mistake of opening Twitter anyway, to be confronted with what’s immediately his actual worst nightmare - the video is already everywhere.

 

@user392956

Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov living together was not on my 2020 bingo card

 

@angel95

wait I thought they hated each other lmao

 

@imbored0000

I’ve just opened ao3

 

“Oh my god,” he mutters, seemingly unable to quit scrolling. “Oh my god.”

 

Rozanov peers over his shoulder, utterly uninvited, as always.

 

“Ah,” he says, clearly pleased with himself. “This one is good.”

 

He taps the screen with a blunt finger, scrolling back up.

 

@hockeyfan500

not to be insane but the short one looks like he’s being ordered around 👀

 

Shane nearly drops his phone again.

 

“Oh my god,” He clears his throat shakily. “That’s not what’s happening.”

 

Rozanov hums thoughtfully. “Mm.”

 

That noise again. It hits him like a freight.

 

“They’re wrong,” Shane insists, honestly unsure who he’s trying to convince at this point, heat crawling up his neck. “They don’t know anything.”

 

“They know you did not want to be there,” Rozanov says mildly.

 

“I -” Shane splutters. “That doesn’t mean -”

 

“And yet,” Rozanov continues, scrolling, “you did what I said.”

 

“I didn’t!”

 

“You banged pan. You stood where I put you and stayed.”

 

His voice isn’t teasing now; it’s taken on a sort of calm that makes Shane swallow hard.

 

“I was being polite,” he says feebly.

 

Rozanov’s mouth curves up into a crooked grin. “Of course.”

 

Another tweet pops up.

 

@sports???idk

#hollanov

 

Shane makes another pitiful sound of distress and locks his phone, tossing it onto the bed like it’s radioactive.

 

“I hate this,” he declares, collapsing backwards. “I hate the internet. I hate lockdown. I hate you.”

 

Rozanov doesn’t argue. Instead, he sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that Shane can feel the dip in the mattress. Blessedly, he doesn’t touch him.

 

“You are breathing very fast,” Rozanov muses.

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“You are lying.”

 

Shane presses his lips together.

 

“…I don’t like being watched,” Shane admits eventually, staring at the ceiling, half wishing it would come crashing down and take them both out. “I don’t like people deciding things about me.”

 

Rozanov nods, like this confirms a theory he’s been mulling over. “But you like when I do.”

 

He turns his head sharply, eyes catching on the chiselled angle of Rozanov’s jaw. “I did not say that.”

 

“You did not have to.”

 

When Rozanov speaks again, it’s softer - almost a whisper: “tell me to stop.”

 

Shane opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

 

“Spit it out,” Rozanov prompts.

 

“Don’t push it,” Shane hisses, but there’s no real bite in it.

 

Rozanov smiles, slow and knowing, which does something that must not ever be named to Shane’s cock. “Okay.”

 

He stands, as if the conversation is over.

 

“I will make tea, and you should not read comments when you spiral.”

 

“I am not spiralling.”

 

“You are,” he replies fondly. “But is fine. I am here.”

 

Shane watches him move around the kitchen, unbothered and entirely too comfortable in the cramped space. Against his will, Shane feels his shoulders loosen, and his eyes are just drifting shut when his phone pings again, three times in rapid succession.

 

He groans into the pillow. “If that’s Twitter again I’m throwing my phone out the window.”

 

Rozanov hums from across the room, above the whistling kettle. “You cannot. Window does not open.”

 

“Of course it doesn’t,” Shane mutters resentfully, rolling onto his side and blindly grabbing the phone.

 

A mention from @ilyarozanov.

 

Shane sits bolt upright. “Oh no.”

 

“What?” Rozanov calls innocently.

 

The video is still pinned to the top of someone’s feed, except now beneath it is a reply from a verified account.

 

@ilyarozanov

He did very well. Proud of him.

 

“You did not,” he whispers hoarsely.

 

Rozanov appears in front of him with two mismatched mugs in hand. “I did.”

 

“You replied,” Shane says faintly. “You replied to the internet?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You don’t reply to the internet!”

 

Rozanov shrugs, a casualness to it that makes Shane actually - actually - want to kill him. “They were confused.”

 

Shane scrolls to another account.

 

@ilyarozanov

He needed encouragement. Canadian people are shy.

 

“Oh my god,” Shane breathes. “What is wrong with you?”

 

Another ping.

 

@ilyarozanov

Next week he will clap louder.

 

Shane drops the phone onto the bed like it’s just bitten him.

 

“You can’t say things like that!” he squeaks. “People will think -”

 

“That you listen?” Rozanov offers pleasantly.

 

“That I…” Shane breaks off, slapping a hand over his mouth. “That there’s something happening here.”

 

Rozanov takes a slow sip of tea. “Is there not?”

 

“I -” His voice cracks, so he clears his throat and tries again. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“…why?”

 

Rozanov considers him for a moment, then sets the mug down carefully on the bedside table.

 

“Because,” he says simply, “you look cute when flustered.”

 

Shane stares at him so hard he’s surprised Rozanov doesn’t combust.

 

“You’re enjoying this,” he accuses.

 

The other man smiles. “Very much.”

 

Another ping echoes, one that Shane doesn’t even want to look at, but his phone lights up anyway, betraying him.

 

@ilyarozanov

He is safe. He ate dinner. Stop worrying.

 

Shane slowly turns his head to round on Rozanov again. “You’re reassuring them?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Like - like I’m -”

 

Rozanov tilts his head. “Mine to take care of?”

 

“You cannot just -” He gestures helplessly between them. “You can’t claim me on Twitter - I’m not a small animal!”

 

“I did not claim,” Rozanov sniffs. “I clarified.”

 

Shane lets out a long, defeated groan and flops backward onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

 

“This is my life now,” he mutters. “This is my fucking life now.”

 

Rozanov steps closer, looming at the edge of the bed. “You did not tell me to stop.”

 

“I left my charger in the kitchen,” he says after a long moment of defeated silence, his voice barely audible at this point.

 

Rozanov smiles again, turning on his heel. “I will get.”

 

A minute later, Shane’s phone pings one last time.

 

@ilyarozanov

Also his shorts are festive.

 

Shane screams into the pillow. From across the room, Rozanov laughs.

Chapter 6: smirnoff

Chapter Notes

drunk shane I love you

tw; alcohol use

deliveroo = uk uber eats basically

thank you for all the love so far!! the good news is I’m off today so I want to get at least one more chapter out (maybe two, I’ve already started writing the next) but we will see!

“Which one?”

Rozanov hums under his breath, squinting at the phone screen. Shane can tell from his face that he’s dissatisfied with the options presented to him, but honestly he needs to hurry up and pick, because being this close together is doing something weird to Shane’s head.

 

“Smirnoff,” Rozanov mutters, pointing at the little photograph of the vodka bottle on his screen. “Is Russian. It will do.”

 

“You’re sulking,” Shane jibes, because he is, and it’s funny.

 

The other man gestures disapprovingly at the supermarket options like they’ve personally offended him. “I wanted to buy you good Russian vodka, not paint thinner.”

 

Shane simply shrugs in response, putting some distance between them as Rozanov swiftly places the Deliveroo order and sets his phone down on the countertop.

 

The idea had come about as a form of practicality. Throughout the day, their phones hadn’t stopped - it turns out, having a heated rivalry between two models who then show up staying in a studio cabin together catches people’s attention. Cassidy was so excited by the idea they were getting along for once that she sent the video to some British news outlets, and it’s all Shane has heard since. He needed to forget, just for one evening, that the rumours and edits flying around the internet didn’t exist. And Rozanov chose vodka as a coping mechanism.

 

They’d agreed that, in some respects, getting hammered was better than addressing the elephant that had apparently moved in with them as a third, and despite himself, Shane was excited.

 

“Stop that,” Rozanov mutters.

 

Shane frowns for a moment, confused, before following his gaze to where he’d been nervously bouncing his knees. He rolls his eyes, but resorts to chewing the inside of his lip instead.

 

“And that.” Rozanov points to his mouth.

 

“How did you even -”

 

Whatever protest he was about to come up with was interrupted by the ring of the doorbell. Thankful, bizarrely, for contactless delivery, Shane watches as Rozanov crosses the living room, completely unhurried. The driver has long gone, and he retrieves the brown stickered bag to set it carefully on the table.

 

Glasses clink. The AirBnB distinctly lacks shot glasses - another thing Rozanov seems to have added to his list of gripes about the place - so he’s selected some short tumblers instead. When Shane’s ass remains apparently glued to the edge of the bed, the Russian quirks a brow, pointing impatiently at the so fucking much more than a normal measure he’s just poured out for them both.

 

“You will drink via osmosis? Or absorb vodka from air like stressed out plant? Come here.”

 

Shane eyes the armchair Rozanov has placed his glass in front of, stirring his legs to life as he crosses the forbidden boundary of orange tape, into the other man’s space.

 

“I don’t - I’m not a big drinker,” he hears himself say as he perches on the cushion.

 

“Is okay, it will not bite you -”

 

“I’m trying to say,” Shane interrupts firmly, “that I need you to tell me when enough’s enough. If things get weird, or if I’ve had too much, y’know?”

 

Rozanov grins. “Yes, Hollander. I will cut you off before you start dancing on table and removing clothes.”

 

His cheeks heat, but he resolutely snatches the glass up in one hand, determined - just for once - not to be uptight about something. Without a second thought, Shane tips it back, and drains the glass in one.

 

Two things happen next:

 

• Shane Hollander chokes so violently he gags, tears of horror streaking down his face as the vodka leaves a trail of fire all the way down to his stomach
• Rozanov lurches forward, one hand outstretched for the glass, almost upturning his own in the race to stop-shane-from-doing-that-immediately

 

“Yebat! God - idiot,” Rozanov hisses as Shane sucks in a tremulous breath.

 

He feels like he’s just drowned, been forcibly resurrected, then waterboarded with acid. He rounds on Rozanov, almost betrayed.

 

“How could you?” Shane grinds out, wiping a stray tear from under one eye.

 

“Not all at once,” Rozanov says, his tone gentler this time. “I should have warned you. We’re taking small sips of this, or else you will be dead in morning.”

 

He demonstrates, picking up his own glass and taking a calm sip before refilling Shane’s. “Like so.”

 

Shane can already feel a strange pulse in his temples, and a skittering chill rushing down his arms. His stomach feels warm. Not unpleasant, actually, now he’s recovered from the initial trauma.

 

Shane watches the demonstration with narrowed eyes. “Right. Sip. Got it.”

 

He takes another drink. It’s not a sip, but significantly less dramatic than the first attempt. He coughs only once this time, resisting the urge to flinch at the taste, which is predictably awful.

 

Rozanov watches him intently. “Better.”

 

“Don’t sound so proud,” Shane mutters, half under his breath just to piss him off. “You’re the one who tried to poison me.”

 

“I tried to civilise you,” Rozanov corrects, taking another drink of his own as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “Different.”

 

They sit in silence for a moment, the air thick with something Shane isn’t sure he can name right now. The TV rambles in the background - some show about a ‘super vet’ and sick animals Rozanov had picked out earlier.

 

Shane shifts in his seat, then shifts again.

 

Rozanov doesn’t look at him, his eyes trained intently on a three legged cat going under anaesthesia, but he does speak. “If you vibrate any harder you will lift off. You will float into sky like helicopter made of anxiety.”

 

“I’m fine,” Shane insists, probably a little too high pitched for someone that’s fine.

 

“You are never fine,” Rozanov replies easily. “You are either spiralling, or pretending not to.”

 

Shane laughs despite himself. “Wow. Thanks, Freud.”

 

“Is compliment,” Rozanov says. “Freud was obsessed.”

 

“Gross.”

 

They drink again. Somewhere in between, his glass magically refills, and he finally understands why people do this in the first place. It loosens something behind his ribs, and seems to have unknotted the ball of stress that’s sat in his stomach for the last twenty two years. While Shane’s limbs feel pleasantly heavy, his mouth - unfortunately for tomorrow-Shane - feels even lighter.

 

“This is a bad idea,” he announces abruptly, like he’s delivering a news broadcast.

 

Rozanov glances at him. “Drinking?”

 

“No,” Shane says, waving a hand vaguely between them. “This. Us. Sitting. You looking at me like that.”

 

“I am looking at you normally.”

 

“Liar,” Shane says cheerfully. “You look at me like I’m…I don’t know. A problem that confuses you.”

 

Rozanov considers this for a moment. “You are.”

 

“Rude.”

 

“But interesting.”

 

Shane snorts. “You only think that because I’m trapped with you.”

 

“No,” Rozanov muses a little more quietly this time. “I thought it before.”

 

Shane blinks, suddenly very aware of how close they are. Their knees are angled toward each other, and he could knock them together with one small movement if he wanted to. Which he doesn’t. Doesn’t he?

 

“You’re very intense when you’re sober,” Shane continues. “You know that?”

 

“I have been told.”

 

“And now you’re drunk,” Shane continues, squinting at him. “Which is worse. Or better. I haven’t decided.”

 

Rozanov doesn’t respond, but he does appear to do his best to stifle a smile. Shane frowns at the realisation.

 

The warmth spreads further now, blooming low in Shane’s stomach - his thoughts are fuzzy around the edges, and he studies Rozanov’s face without trying to be subtle about it.

 

“You know,” Shane starts again, slurring just enough to be annoying, “you’re not as scary as everyone thinks.”

 

Rozanov arches a brow. “No?”

 

“No,” Shane shakes his head. “You’re just bossy.”

 

“That is worse,” Rozanov says, pulling an exaggerated face. “I will accept scary.”

 

Shane laughs, then sobers abruptly, his eyes flicking up to meet his without any of the caution he’s so used to hiding behind ordinarily. “You like it when people listen to you.”

 

Rozanov doesn’t deny it. “Yes.”

 

“And you like it when I do,” Shane presses, determined to get whatever point he’s trying to make out between them without it going five miles west.

 

The other man studies him, suddenly disinterested in whatever’s being done to the poor cat on-screen. “I like it when you choose to.”

 

The distinction hangs in the air. Shane grabs at it.

 

“Well,” he says, reckless now. “What if I’m choosing right now?”

 

Rozanov goes completely and utterly still, his glass frozen halfway to the mouth Shane’s been fixated on for the past hour and a half.

 

“I don’t hate you,” Shane mumbles. “I just don’t like how much I notice you.”

 

“Shane,” Rozanov says, using his name as a warning. Shane can see a flicker of, well, something, in the other man’s clenched jaw.

 

Shane ignores it.

 

“I think,” he continues, “that if you told me to -”

 

Shane stops himself, frowning as he searches for basic grasp of the English language.

 

“Actually, can I -”

 

Then the words tumble out before he can cram them back in his chest. “Can-I-kiss-you-please?”

 

Rozanov closes his eyes for half a second. His lips are moving silently, words Shane can’t translate right now even if they weren’t in Russian, and he drags a slow hand down his face. Shane fidgets.

 

When he opens them again, his blue eyes are steady.

 

“No,” he says quietly.

 

Shane’s stomach drops through the floor. In fact, he’s pretty sure it’s shattered, pretty sure he’ll never be able to look at Rozanov again, pretty sure -

 

The Russian lifts a hand, not touching him, but to hold just close enough to stop him from scrambling backwards. “Not like this.”

 

“Oh,” Shane says dumbly.

 

“You are drunk,” Rozanov continues, his voice completely absent of any mocking humour. “And you are asking because you want permission, not because you know what you want.”

 

Shane swallows, and tries something that resembles a nod: “I do know.”

 

“Maybe,” Rozanov allows kindly, clearly trying to perform CPR on what’s left of Shane’s dignity. “But I need to know you would still want it tomorrow. And next week. And without vodka.”

 

Shane blinks, doing his best to process. “So that’s a no.”

 

“It is a not yet,” Rozanov corrects gently.

 

“You’re annoying,” Shane mutters, his face still hot.

 

“Yes.”

 

“And very unfairly attractive.”

 

Rozanov’s mouth twitches. “I know.”

 

Shane slumps back against the arm of the chair with a dramatic sigh. “I can’t believe you just turned me down.”

 

“I am very responsible,” Rozanov says. “You should be grateful.”

 

“I hate responsible people.”

 

“You love them,” Rozanov counters. “You just fight it.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

Rozanov reaches for the bottle to top up Shane’s glass, but only fills it halfway this time.

 

“Slow,” he instructs.

 

Shane eyes it, then looks up at him through his lashes. “Okay.”

 

“Good.” Rozanov’s smile almost hurts to look at.

 

Shane doesn’t remember finishing his drink, but he does remember the moment his limbs give up on cooperating. It happens all at once; his head drifts back, and he’s distinctly aware that gravity is once again real. He blinks at the ceiling, then at Rozanov, who has gone very still again.

 

“I think,” Shane says slowly, “I might be drunk now.”

 

Rozanov exhales through his nose. “Yes.”

 

“Cool,” Shane murmurs. “Just checking.”

 

He makes an attempt to stand, almost as if to prove it to himself. Gravity whoops him upside the head, and he crashes his shins into the table.

 

Rozanov is on him immediately, one hand snaking out to grip Shane’s forearm, keeping the other braced at his shoulder before he can tip sideways and crack his skull open on the sharp wooden corners.

 

“Easy,” he says firmly. “You are not made of rubber.”

 

Shane sways, then leans into the support as the room tilts sideways again.

 

“Oh,” he says, surprised. “That’s nice.”

 

“You need to sleep,” the other man murmurs.

 

“Mm,” Shane agrees, making a stupid - and probably a little offensive - attempt to copy the Russian’s favourite noise. “With you.”

 

The words are out before he can stop them, but he blinks contentedly up at Rozanov, unbothered.

 

“Shane -”

 

“I get it,” Shane interrupts, waving a floppy hand inches from his face. “No kissing. No ‘like this’. But I don’t wanna be alone. And the bed’s right there.” He squints. “And you’re already here.”

 

Rozanov stares at him for a long moment, clearly weighing up about seventeen different thoughts.

 

“No,” he says eventually. “We are not sharing bed tonight.”

 

Shane’s face crumples just a little. “Oh.”

 

Rozanov sighs heavily.

 

He guides Shane the rest of the way to the bed, sitting him down carefully. He immediately tips sideways, collapsing face-first into the pillows with a muffled groan.

 

“Unfair,” he mutters into the duvet. “You’re right there.”

 

“I am right here,” Rozanov agrees kindly.

 

“That’s worse.”

 

Rozanov hesitates. Then he reaches down and tugs one of the spare blankets from the end of the bed, dropping it unceremoniously onto the floor beside the mattress.

 

Shane cracks one eye open. “What’re you doing?”

 

“I am compromising,” the other man says, already lowering himself to sit, before stretching out on the floor with a stiffness that suggests sleeping on the sofa for so many nights in a row was indeed affecting him.

 

Shane watches through bleary eyes. “You’re sleeping…there?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“…because of me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He rolls onto his side, peering down at Rozanov over the edge of the mattress.

 

“Don’t go anywhere,” he says sleepily.

 

“I will not,” Rozanov replies. “I am here to make sure you do not choke in your sleep. I know recovery position.”

 

Shane hums, satisfied, and tugs the blanket closer around himself.

 

“Tomorrow,” he mumbles, already drifting, “I’m gonna remember you saying ‘not yet’.”

 

Rozanov looks up at the ceiling.

 

“Good,” he says quietly.

Chapter 7: hungover

Chapter Notes

literally giggling and kicking my feet writing this, here we gooooooo

tw; throwing up (brief) and alcohol references

I think I’m all done for today, but I’ll start on the next chapter/s asap (hint: they’ll be spicy but not before a big conversation with consent king ilya)

as always, thank you for reading <3

It’s midday when Shane opens his eyes and realises that he wants to walk into oncoming traffic during his daily mental health outing of thirty minutes.

 

His whole body jerks, his head screaming in protest, and he flexes one trembling hand to brace himself upright. Nausea rises in his throat.

 

“Oh my god,” he croaks, immediately regretting the noise - he sounds completely and utterly fucked.

 

The room swims, and his mouth is probably the driest it’s ever been. Shane squeezes his eyes shut again, praying to whatever higher power exists that this - that last night - was just some horrifically vivid dream.

 

Unfortunately for him, his brain is already booting up.

 

‘Can I kiss you please?’ bounces around his throbbing head like the Window’s screensaver, and at this point he truly wonders why he hadn’t died in his sleep. Horror gnaws at him, persistent and unavoidable.

 

Shane glances down at the side of the bed, desperately hoping at least that part was some strange kind of hallucination. Nope, the blanket’s still piled haphazardly on the carpet. Christ - Rozanov slept on the floor.

 

Shane presses the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees stars, trying to ignore the way his stomach lurches in a violent protest.

 

He scrambles for the edge of the bed just in time, retching into a bin he doesn’t remember being there before. Just as he finally slumps back into the sheets, sweaty and miserable, the bathroom door clicks open and Rozanov steps out, wiping toothpaste from his chin.

 

“You are dying,” he observes, flicking lint from his white tank top.

 

Shane lets out a weak, miserable sound. “I deserve it.”

 

“Mm,” Rozanov says, sounding unconvinced. He sets about pouring a glass of water and two paracetamol, setting them on the bedside table - each minute of silence is another knife in Shane’s chest.

 

“Drink, slowly. If you throw up again, you will cry, and I do not want that responsibility.”

 

Shane can only peek through his fingers, swallowing the paracetamol with a prayer before staring very hard at his own lap.

 

“I am going to say some things,” Rozanov starts once apparently satisfied Shane isn’t about to slip into unconsciousness.

 

“Please don’t -”

 

“- and you are going to listen,” Rozanov finishes, entirely unfazed to the point it isn’t clear he had heard his protest at all.

 

Shane winces, but closes his mouth.

 

“I do not want apology. I can hear a thousand ‘sorrys’ buzzing in your brain like hive of bees.” Rozanov leans back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed. His tone is maddeningly even, like he’s discussing what to have for dinner, not the most embarrassing moment of Shane’s adult life. “You are not in trouble.”

 

Shane risks a glance up, and regrets it when he finds the other man’s blue eyes locked onto his own. “Feels debatable.”

 

“You asked me question,” Rozanov continues. “I answered honestly. Then you drank too much vodka and slept like corpse. End of story.”

 

“That is not the end of the story,” Shane mutters defiantly. “I was - I crossed a line.”

 

“You approached a door,” Rozanov corrects. “I did not open it on this occasion.”

 

Shane exhales shakily. “I made it weird.”

 

His mouth twitches. “You are always weird.”

 

“Wow.”

 

“But,” he adds, pushing off the counter and stepping closer, still studying him relentlessly. “Last night was not dangerous weird. It was just Hollander weird.”

 

Shane buries his face in his hands, done with eye contact for the day. “I asked if I could kiss you.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I was drunk.”

“Yes.”

 

“I was slurring.”

 

“Also yes.”

 

Shane peeks through his fingers again. “And?”

 

“And,” Rozanov says patiently, “you asked. You did not grab. You did not push. You listened when I said not yet.”

 

“I slept on floor,” Rozanov continues, like he’s ticking off bullet points. “Not because you make me. Because I chose to, and I could not resist your sad pretty face. You did not trap me.”

 

Shane swallows. His chest feels tight, but not in its usual panic-stricken way.

 

“Oh,” he says quietly.

 

Rozanov watches him for a moment, then reaches out to lift Shane’s chin with two fingers hovering just shy of contact. Shane shivers, the ghost of his fingertips hot beneath his jaw.

 

“Breathe,” Rozanov instructs.

 

Shane does. Of course he does.

 

“Good,” Rozanov murmurs.

 

Shane’s ears burn. “You’re doing it again.”

 

“Doing what?”

 

“Whatever this is,” Shane gestures weakly between them. “The voice.”

 

Rozanov smiles. “You noticed.”

 

“Hard not to,” Shane mutters. “My body’s a traitor. I’ll be having words with it.”

 

“Yes,” Rozanov agrees easily. “It told me that last night.”

 

Shane groans. “Please don’t say it like that.”

 

“I will say it accurately. You want structure. You want someone to take your loud brain and make it quiet. You want someone to hear you talk when you haven’t said word.”

 

Shane’s heart thuds, then twists, and he finds himself blinking rapidly. “That’s very specific.”

 

“Because I am paying attention.”

 

The boiler clicks into life from the kitchenette.

 

Shane clears his throat. “Just to be clear - I - erm. Turning me down wasn’t because you didn’t want to, right?”

 

Rozanov doesn’t hesitate. “Correct.”

 

“So it was because -”

 

“You were drunk,” Rozanov says. “And because I am not interested in crossing lines that cannot be uncrossed sober.”

 

He pauses, then adds: “especially with you.”

 

“…okay,” is all the meek response Shane can manage.

 

Rozanov nods once, like that settles it. Then he straightens, stepping back deliberately, putting space between them again.

 

“Now,” he says briskly, “you will drink water. Then you will shower. Then you will eat something that is not regret.”

 

Shane blinks, thrown off by the abrupt shift in atmosphere. “Bossy.”

“Yes.”

 

“And if I don’t?”

Rozanov tilts his head, his blue eyes sharp with amusement. “Then you will feel worse, and I will say I told you so.”

 

Shane huffs a weak laugh.

 

“Good,” Rozanov says again, the satisfaction evident on his face.

 

As Shane reaches for the water, Rozanov pauses on his way back to whatever it is he’s put in the oven, because Shane’s sense of smell has finally returned to him.

 

“And Shane?”

 

He looks up.

 

“Next time you ask,” Rozanov says quietly, “I will say yes, so make sure you mean it.”

 

Shane begrudgingly admits that the shower is helping. He stands under the - slightly mildewing - shower head with his forehead pressed to the tiles, letting the water beat like a drum against the back of his neck, reducing the waves of nausea to something a bit less consuming. He’s dropped the soap three times, and almost died each time he bent to retrieve it, but he’s alive. He thinks.

 

By the time he steps out, wrapped in a towel and stubbornly avoiding his own reflection, he feels somewhat more human. He still feels like a complete asshole, but a human one, at least.

 

His phone buzzes from the bedside table as he shrugs on a shapeless black hoodie. Shane squints at the screen, bracing himself.

 

13:35

Hayden

Alive?

 

13:36

Unfortunately.

 

Three dots appear immediately.

 

13:36

Hayden

Coward.

 

13:36

Hayden

How bad is it? You drunk text me fifteen times, so I guess Bad Bad?

 

Shane flops onto the edge of the bed, typing with one hand.

 

13:37

I asked him if I could kiss him.

 

There’s a longer pause this time, and he chews his lip.

 

13:38

Hayden

That’s bold. Love that for you. So I’m guessing you got your world rocked 😉

 

Shane groans softly and drops backward onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling, angling to avoid dropping the phone onto his own face.

 

13:39

He said no, Hayden.

 

Another pause.

 

13:42

Hayden

Oh.

13:42

I’m sorry, babe. Tell him I saw his shoot for GQ and his outfit was shit.

 

Shane swallows, course-correcting rapidly.

 

13:42

He said not yet.

 

The typing bubbles appear and disappear a few times.

 

14:43

Hayden

Oh.

14:43

OH.

14:43

Shane.

Shane’s face flushes as he types.

 

14:43

Don’t.

 

14:44

Hayden

I’m just saying, from an outside perspective 🤷🏻‍♂️

 

Shane sighs, scrubbing a tired hand over his face. The smell of food drifts in from the kitchenette, and he’s suddenly aware of just how hungry he is. Rozanov has his back to him, fussing over what has got to be the largest roast chicken Shane has ever seen in his life. He deftly lobs the cooked bird onto a chopping board, before thrusting a hand inside the cavity to pull out a bouquet garni with such force Shane feels violated just watching it.

 

“You showered,” he says once Shane has slunk close enough to be perceived.

 

“Yes,” Shane replies. “I survived.”

 

“I am relieved,” Rozanov says gravely. “I did not want to explain your death to internet.”

 

Shane snorts despite himself and collapses into the nearest armchair.

 

They eat in companionable quiet. Rozanov, as it happens, is fucking amazing at cooking anything but eggs. He’d made some kind of butternut squash risotto, and topped it with the chicken and some parmesan he must’ve snuck into the last Deliveroo order. It’s gentle on Shane’s stomach, and he’s grateful for both the food and the soft, almost disarmingly normal atmosphere that’s settled between them.

 

They work, separately but together at the table, their laptops at either end. Shane responds to some ongoing emails, clawing his focus back with each passing hour. Occasionally Rozanov slides a mug of tea toward him without comment. Occasionally Shane catches himself watching the way Rozanov concentrates, his brow furrowed. He sometimes places the crucifix necklace in his mouth - Shane supposes that it’s a comfort of some kind.

 

He closes his laptop at 6pm on the dot.

 

Rozanov looks up immediately.

 

“Do you want something?”

 

Shane hesitates, then shakes his head. “I just needed a break.”

 

Rozanov studies him for a few seconds, then nods. “Come sit.”

 

It’s not a command - or at least he doesn’t think it is - but Shane goes anyway.

 

They end up on the bed. Shane stifles a catty remark about this being his side, sensing now probably isn’t the time to instigate a fight. He swallows, his back against the headboard.

 

“I’ve been thinking,” Shane starts.

 

“Alert the press. I will call Cassidy.”

 

“Asshole.”

 

Rozanov chuckles - a soft, sweet sound - and mimes zipping his mouth shut.

 

Shane tries again. “I think - I think you’re right. About me. About what I want.”

 

Almost imploringly, he glances up at the other man; now would be a really good time for a sarcastic interruption, but Rozanov’s face is serious. Encouraging.

 

“I’m not…I’m not good at this.” Frustration bubbles in his stomach - he’s losing the words he’s looking for like sand through his fingers.

 

“Is okay. I am patient.”

 

“I…for fuck’s sake. I think I want what you said, earlier. No, I don’t think - I know. I want you.”

 

He can’t believe he’s just said that. But he has, and he draws his knees up like he can hide from his own stuttering truths behind them.

 

Slowly, deliberately, Rozanov reaches out - giving Shane every chance to pull away - and this time, he does touch him. His fingers close around Shane’s chin, firmly yet gently forcing their eyes to meet.

 

“Now,” he says softly, “you are sober.”

 

Shane’s breath catches in his chest. “Yes.”

 

Rozanov leans in without breaking eye contact, and stops, so close Shane can feel his breath.

 

“Last chance,” he murmurs.

 

For once in his life, Shane doesn’t hesitate.

“Please kiss me.”

Chapter 8: green

Chapter Notes

forgive any mistakes I wrote this at ungodly hours this morning, fun fact this is actually based off the very conversation this author had when starting off in the kink world - I remember feeling so safe so I wanted to call back to it so shane gets that feeling too

or: enter consent king ilya

Shane makes a small, involuntary sound as their lips meet; something between a breath and a whine, and it’s about as pathetic as it sounds.

He hadn’t realised kissing could feel like this. From the far-from-exciting fumbles with girls in his teens, Shane had actually started to wonder if something was wrong with him for not enjoying any of it - but this is so, so fucking different. Rozanov’s lips are warm and unhurried, taking his own so gently that he’s sure his brain has malfunctioned ten times over by now.

 

Shane has absolutely no idea what he’s doing, but he kisses back clumsily, wincing each time their teeth clash.

 

“Shane,” Rozanov murmurs against his mouth, amused. “Easy.”

 

Shane’s face flushes violently. “Sorry. I -”

 

Rozanov hums low in his throat - he can feel the vibration in his lips - and tilts his head, deepening the kiss before Shane can finish apologising. His other hand comes up to settle at the back of Shane’s neck, guiding him. Showing him. The realisation hits: like this.

 

Shane’s own hands hover uselessly for a second, before tentatively settling at Rozanov’s waist.

 

“Good,” Rozanov murmurs again, and Shane’s cock throbs in response.

 

He exhales shakily into his mouth, too distracted to be concerned that his heart is thudding so loudly he’s half-convinced it’ll tear its way out of his chest. He tries to match the rhythm and to be less - well, a little less - frantic, and when he does, Rozanov rewards him by kissing him properly, in a way that has him trembling.

 

Shane pulls back first, gasping, painfully aware that he would genuinely never live it down if he comes in his pants just from this.

 

“Jesus,” he blurts, in a voice that sounds wrecked already. “Is it always -”

 

“Yes,” Rozanov says calmly. “You are virgin?”

 

Shane stares at him, too scandalised to even acknowledge the mortifying nature of that particular statement. “You can tell?”

 

Rozanov’s smile turns smug. “You kissed me like you were afraid I would disappear. And I would be able to see your cock from three miles away.”

 

“Oh my god,” Shane grinds out, dropping his forehead against Ilya’s shoulder with a breathy sigh. “Please pretend I’m mysterious.”

 

“Mm, that is lie. But you are adorable,” Rozanov teases softly, running one finger along the back of Shane’s neck until he shivers.

 

“That was a lot,” he says weakly.

 

Rozanov nods. “And we stop here.”

 

“What? No - why are we stopping? I’m fine. I’m more than fine. I’m -”

 

“Shane.”

 

He freezes. “You said - you literally said next time you’d say yes.”

 

The rejection stings, but he still can’t quite convince his fingers to release Rozanov’s top.

 

“I did,” he agrees mildly. “And I am.”

 

“Then -”

 

“I am saying we pause,” he continues, unbothered. “Because you are about to sprint headfirst into something you do not understand yet.”

 

Shane squints at him. “Rude.”

 

“Accurate.”

 

He huffs, but Rozanov is dipping his free hand underneath the line of his hoodie to trace light circles on his spine, which placates him somewhat. “You can’t kiss me like that and then just - just turn into a Russian Human Resources department.”

 

Rozanov’s mouth twitches. “I absolutely can.”

 

Shane glares. “I don’t want careful. I want -” he gestures vaguely with both hands, making a helpless sound. “That, again. But more.”

 

“I know,” Rozanov says, and something about the certainty in his voice makes Shane’s stomach flip. “Which is why we talk first.”

 

“Is this the part where you pull out a clipboard?”

 

“Not today. Clipboard factory is closed,” Rozanov murmurs thoughtfully. “But I do have questions.”

 

Shane sits up straighter despite himself. “Okay?”

 

The other man leans back, taking Shane with him - it’s awkward at first, until Rozanov adjusts to position Shane between his open legs. His heart picks up again - Ilya is hard. Unmistakeably, painfully hard.

 

“You asked for permission before. That was not accident.”

 

Shane opens his mouth and closes it again in an excellent impression of a horny koi fish. “I mean - I ask for permission about everything. I once asked a barista if I was allowed to sit down.”

 

“Yes,” Rozanov says dryly. “But I presume you did not want to fuck that barista.”

 

Shane blinks at the blunt words. “No, just you. Is that - is that bad?”

 

“No,” Rozanov says, almost amused. “It is telling.”

 

Shane’s so red he may as well have a serious case of sunburn.

 

“I don’t - I don’t know what you think you’re reading into this, but I’ve always just been…”

 

“Submissive?” Rozanov offers.

 

“I - what?”

 

Rozanov raises an eyebrow. “You are blushing.”

 

“That doesn’t mean anything!”

 

“It means something,” Rozanov says gently. “But not everything.”

 

Shane runs a hand through his hair, spiralling. “Okay. Look. I don’t know the rules, or the words, or - god, you must think I’m so boring.”

 

“About many things, yes. But not this. Let me be clear on this; I want to fuck you, Shane. I want to take you apart with my hands until you are crying. I want to ruin you. But I also want to not hurt you. I want to do this right.”

 

“What matters,” Rozanov continues, as if he hasn’t just said something so insane that Shane can feel his cock crying with need, “is that you want structure. You want someone to set pace. You want to push and be stopped safely.”

 

Shane peeks at him through his fingers. “Am I being psychoanalysed again?”

 

“You are,” Rozanov says serenely.

 

“And you?” Shane presses, because he needs to know. “You just happen to have a lot of opinions about this?”

 

Rozanov’s gaze sharpens with honesty. “I am experienced.”

 

Jealousy coils like a snake in his stomach. “Like - like how experienced?”

 

“Enough to know,” Rozanov brushes Shane’s top lip with his thumb, “that if I kiss you again without conversation, you will let me decide everything. And you will not question it until it scares you. That is not what I want for us.”

 

Shane swallows hard.

 

The other man’s face softens just a little. “Which is why we do this properly. With words. Boundaries. Consent that is boring and clear and sober.”

 

“God,” Shane mutters. “You’re ruining this so responsibly.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“So,” Shane says, squaring his shoulders in an attempt to look him in the eye again. “Hypothetically. If I wanted…well, whatever this is. With you.”

 

Rozanov waits.

 

“And if I’m saying this fully clothed, fully sober, and mortified,” Shane continues, “what happens next?”

 

A moment passes between them before he gets a response.

 

“Then,” he says quietly, “we talk about what you want, what you don’t, what scares you, and what makes you feel safe.”

 

He pauses, his eyes lingering on Shane’s mouth.

 

“And then,” he adds, “I kiss you again. Maybe do something about your cock, before it falls off.”

 

“Okay,” Shane breathes. “Cool. Great. Love that.”

 

“Good,” Rozanov nods, pleased. “Because if you are going to give me control, I will not take it lightly.”

 

“Okay,” Shane says again, because it seems to be the one of the only words left in his vocabulary. “So, talking. Great.”

 

“First question. What do you think you want?”

 

Shane opens his mouth, then hesitates. “In general, or…”

 

“From me.”

 

“That feels like a trick question.”

 

“It is not,” Rozanov says. “But it is important.”

 

Shane stares at a point just over Rozanov’s shoulder, wondering loosely if sitting here with his heart thundering counts as cardio. “I want you to -” He falters, then blurts: “I want you to tell me what to do.”

 

When Rozanov doesn’t interrupt, he adds quickly: “and I want to be able to argue about it. Like, a little, but not actually win.”

 

“Go on.”

 

“And I want you to stop me when I’m being stupid,” Shane says, warming to it despite himself. “I want you to be mean about it, I think. I like it when you’re mean.”

 

Rozanov hums thoughtfully.

 

“And I want to feel chosen,” Shane finishes quietly. “Not just convenient.”

 

Something unreadable crosses Rozanov’s face.

 

“That,” he says after a moment, “is very clear.”

 

Shane sidles closer, because the other man’s fingers have crept higher, and are currently drawing burning patterns on the side of his ribs. “It is?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Now,” Rozanov continues, “things you do not want.”

 

Shane immediately panics. “Uh. To have to think?”

 

Rozanov smiles faintly. “Define think.”

 

“See, this is already going badly,” Shane groans.

 

“Talk to me.”

 

“I want - I want my brain to be quiet. I don’t want to make decisions,” Shane says thickly. “Like, pretend we’re driving, and I give you the steering wheel and close my eyes.”

 

“I have seen your Jeep - I would kill us both. I will pretend we drive Ferrari -”

 

“And I don’t want -” Shane interrupts, ignoring the jibe. “I don’t want to feel stupid for not knowing stuff.”

 

Rozanov’s thumb presses once into his thigh, reassuring. “You will not.”

 

Shane exhales, relaxing just a fraction.

 

“Next,” Rozanov says, when it’s clear Shane’s finished. “Safewords.”

 

Shane perks up. “Oh! I know this one. Red means stop, yellow means slow down.”

 

“Correct. Good boy.”

 

“Green means?”

 

“Yes, more please,” Rozanov finishes.

 

Shane nods, proud of himself. “Okay. Cool. I’m crushing this.”

 

“You are doing adequately.”

 

“I’ll take it.”

 

Rozanov’s gaze sharpens slightly. “And if you freeze up instead of speaking?”

 

Shane’s smile falters. “I do that.”

 

“I know,” Rozanov says gently. “So I will check in. You will not be punished for needing to pause.”

 

“So,” Shane says faintly after a few seconds tick by, “what does that make us? Like, are we - some people pick out names, right?” He winces, embarrassed again. “Do I call you something?”

 

Rozanov’s mouth curves wickedly. “Only if you want to.”

 

“Do people usually want to?”

 

“Some do. In this sort of dynamic, yes.”

 

Shane thinks for exactly half a second. “I don’t think I’m ready to call you anything yet.”

 

“That is fine.”

 

Shane hesitates, then clears his throat with newfound resolve.

 

“Can I - um…” He fidgets, then forces himself to look up. “Can I ask what you want?”

 

“You may.”

 

“You keep talking about what I want. And I…” He shrugs awkwardly. “I don’t want this to be me just imprinting on the first man who tells me what to do.”

 

Rozanov’s mouth quirks. “That is wise.”

 

“So,” Shane presses, “what are you - erm - into?”

 

There’s a pause that drags out long enough for Shane to genuinely begin to panic, before Rozanov exhales slowly.

 

“I like control,” he says plainly.

 

Shane nods, already braced for that.

 

“But not halfway,” he continues. “Not pretending. I like consent that is explicit, and power that is intentional.”

 

Shane’s brow furrows in earnest confusion. “Intentional how?”

 

“I like when someone pushes me,” Rozanov elaborates without shame. “Challenges me. Brats, as you would say.”

 

“As I would say?” Shane repeats faintly. “I feel like I just learned that word ten minutes ago.”

 

“You would grow into it.”

 

“Oh god.”

 

“I enjoy taking that energy,” Rozanov continues calmly, “and deciding what to do with it. When to indulge it, and when to stop it. Most importantly when to use it.”

 

Shane’s throat goes dry. “That sounds intense.”

 

“Yes,” he agrees quietly, tilting his head to watch Shane carefully. “I am not interested in casual power. I am interested in exchange.”

 

Shane processes this for a second, then mumbles: “like - like all the time?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“But,” Rozanov strokes a fingertip underneath his shoulder blade, “not as leash and orders in grocery store.” His mouth quirks. “Though you would probably ask permission to breathe anyway.”

 

“I would not -” Shane stops to consider. “Okay.”

 

The other man’s expression softens. “For me, control is quiet consistency. Knowing where I stand with someone, and knowing they trust me enough to let me lead without fear.”

 

“So it’s not, like, constant bossing?”

 

“Mm, it can be. Sometimes, if you are not listening. But it is constant awareness.”

 

“I pay attention,” Rozanov speaks again. “I notice patterns. Stress. When someone needs direction, and when they need space. I like being someone a person can lean into - not disappear inside.”

 

“That actually sounds kind of nice.”

 

“Yes,” Rozanov agrees. “That is point. But this does not mean automatic. It is built, slowly. With negotiation, and exit ramps, and honesty.”

 

“And,” Shane adds weakly, “words I don’t know yet.”

 

He grins wolfishly. “You will learn.”

 

“Oh god.”

 

“I enjoy brats,” Rozanov says mildly. “But only when they feel safe enough to push.”

 

Shane laughs under his breath. “You’re saying this like it’s a hobby.”

 

“It is. One I take seriously.”

 

Shane rubs a hand over his face. “Wow. I really did walk into something.”

 

Rozanov leans in just enough to steal his breath.

 

“You approached a door,” he murmurs. “And you knocked.”

 

“And,” Rozanov adds quietly, “I am very interested in what happens if you choose to come inside.”

 

Shane’s resolve lasts approximately one second.

 

He kisses him again.

Chapter 9: taste

Chapter Notes

I will find a way to write blowjob scenes on company time with no issues

hope u like x

It’s different this time - Rozanov doesn’t let Shane crash into it.

 

He stops him with two fingers under his chin, firm enough to still him completely, his strong thumb pressing just enough to make Shane’s breath hitch in his throat.

 

“Slow,” he says quietly. It’s not a request.

 

Shane swallows and nods once, waiting.

 

That seems to be the right answer, because Rozanov leans in and takes his mouth properly without hesitation. He kisses Shane like he has all the time in the world, like this is something he intends to teach at a leisurely pace. His lips move with deliberate pressure, coaxing instead of overwhelming, and Shane melts embarrassingly fast.

 

The sound he makes this time is worse. It’s pitchy, full of need, and far too loud to pass off as accidental.

 

Rozanov pulls back just enough to murmur: “good, stay with me,” before kissing him again.

 

Shane does. He follows the pace set for him, lets Rozanov angle his head, and lets himself be guided without thinking about where his hands should go because they’re already being placed for him. Rozanov settles them at his hips, his thumbs hooking there.

 

“Here,” Rozanov murmurs. “That is fine.”

 

The approval hits Shane straight in the spine, and he can feel the exact moment his cock gives a needy leak of pre-come in his shorts.

 

He exhales shakily into the kiss, his knees dangerously close to giving out entirely. Rozanov responds by shifting him closer, close enough that Shane is painfully aware of the solid heat between them.

 

“Oh,” Shane breathes into his mouth, absolutely wrecked already and too far gone to feel embarrassed about it. “Oh. That’s -”

 

“Yes,” Rozanov says again, his voice a low rumble that fucks right with Shane’s heart rate, before biting gently at his bottom lip.

 

Shane proceeds to make a new sound that is absolutely going to haunt him, and Rozanov immediately stills: “look at me.”

 

Shane does, dazed.

 

“Still good?” he asks calmly.

 

“Yes,” the words are instant. Then, flustered, he adds: “very yes. Green. So green.”

 

The corner of Rozanov’s mouth lifts. “Good boy.”

 

The next kiss is deeper. Rozanov’s hand slides up Shane’s back, his long fingers spreading wide, holding him there while Shane clutches at the front of his tank top, tugging helplessly.

 

Rozanov breaks the kiss, and Shane gives a whine of protest. The other man exhales a quiet laugh against his forehead. “See? This is why I pace you.”

 

“That’s unfair,” Shane pants. “You’re doing it on purpose.”

 

“Yes.”

 

He presses another slow kiss to Shane’s wet mouth, pressing their foreheads together.

 

“This,” he says quietly, “is not me taking control.”

 

Shane blinks, trying to breathe. “It’s not?”

 

“No,” Rozanov says. “This is me showing you what it feels like when I ask for it.”

 

“Oh,” he says faintly. “Okay.”

 

Emboldened by the honesty, Shane wriggles backwards to drop his head slightly and peer up at him beneath his lashes, his chin hovering over where Rozanov is clearly - painfully - hard. He’s sure he should be doing something; while inexperienced, he has some semblance of an idea for how this should work. Or at least he thinks he does, and it starts with his mouth. Maybe.

 

Rozanov inhales sharply at the motion, and at the almost-promised friction.

 

“Careful,” he murmurs, his voice as rough as Shane feels. “You look at me with those puppy dog eyes. Testing my self control.”

 

Shane’s pulse hammers - there’s something about the statement that pleases him a little, the fact he - he - can have any impact on the other man at all. “You have self control?”

 

“Yes,” Rozanov says quietly. “I just do not enjoy using it. But I will break you if I don’t.”

 

The admission hangs between them. Rozanov’s hands flex once at Shane’s hips, his fingers digging in just enough to sharpen his senses, the dull ache blooming in the sensitive skin beneath Rozanov’s fingertips.

 

“I have wanted you,” he continues, unabashed, “for a very long time.”

 

“You - you have? Christ, you might’ve said something about that. Maybe by now I’d know what a brat is.” It’s only half a joke.

 

“Yes.” Rozanov’s jaw tightens, ignoring the self-deprecation. “Years.”

 

“You once put dog biscuits in my salad,” Shane points out, recalling one of their catastrophic shared shoots a few years back. “You tell me at every photoshoot I’m so boring I make you fall asleep on set.”

 

“I know.” Rozanov’s voice is quiet. “And still.”

 

Shane’s voice comes out a lot smaller than he’d have liked in the moment. “That’s not fair.”

 

“No,” the other man agrees. “It is not.”

 

For a moment, neither of them moves. Something in the air crackles, and Shane can feel the restraint in Rozanov simmering just under his skin, the energy shifting into something he can almost taste on his tongue.

 

“What do you want, Shane?”

 

“You,” the word slips out, hollow and unguarded. “All of you.”

 

Rozanov’s control slips just a fraction, and Shane feels it immediately. The other man’s grip tightens on his hips, certain to leave a mark.

 

“Then you do not get to rush,” he murmurs, his voice clipped and strained with effort. “And you do not get to take care of me yet.”

 

Shane lets out a helpless sound of protest. “Ilya -”

 

“Shh.” Rozanov kisses him again, which cuts off any objection to the fact Shane almost certainly would have choked himself to death on Rozanov’s cock if he’d have let him.

 

He pulls away only when Shane is visibly shaking, then leans and flips him like a rag doll onto his back. Shane yelps in surprise, but he doesn’t have long to think about it, because Ilya is tugging roughly at his clothes, throwing them in a trail behind them like they’re deeply offensive to him. The cool air hits his bare skin, raising goosebumps, and he’s barely got time to blink before his tortured cock is free from his shorts and wrapped firmly in Rozanov’s hand.

 

He makes a strangled sound as the other man strokes, without hesitation, and licks a wet stripe up to his tip in agonising slow motion. Shane makes to say something - anything - but finds he can’t.

 

Rozanov takes him in his mouth, and his vision goes white.

 

His hands instinctively fist in his mess of blonde curls, in an intimate form of tug of war - pulling Ilya down to chase the heady pressure building in the base of his cock, and yanking him away as the sensation grows unbearable. He’s aware he’s making sounds, but he can’t hear them; Rozanov tilts, and Shane’s shaft bottoms out at the back of his throat.

 

“Oh - oh god, wait -” Shane babbles incoherently, teetering on the edge of a release he’s too shy to name. “Ilya - I’m gonna -”

 

He feels Rozanov’s mouth curl into a smile at the base of his cock, and their eyes lock. Panicked, he searches the other man’s face for any sign of alarm - instead, he finds only calm encouragement.

 

It’s all he needs. The sound Shane makes next is filthy and broken. It tears his throat raw as he spills prematurely into Ilya’s mouth, shuddering so violently he can feel every muscle in his body jerk. He’s panting, gasping for air, swept up by the last few pulses before the other man pulls off to sit back on his heels, one hand still spread firmly across Shane’s abdomen to hold him there.

 

There’s a stray drop of come on Ilya’s lower lip. Unbothered, he swipes out his tongue to lick it up.

 

Shane stares very hard at the ceiling, his heart hammering.

 

“Eyes on me,” Rozanov’s voice startles him, and he blinks, confused.

 

“Hnngh?” Is all he can manage in response.

 

“We are done,” the other man leans forward to press a kiss to the blooming fingerprints he’d left on Shane’s hips. “When I say we are done.”

 

He whimpers, angling up to meet Ilya’s lips with all the grace of a baby seal.

 

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Shaking.”

 

Shane is. He hadn’t noticed until it’s pointed out, but now he definitely does. His hands are trembling, and a deep flush of red has blossomed along his upper chest.

 

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Is that normal?”

 

“Yes. But only if you want to keep going.”

 

Shane blinks, still dazed. “I thought you just said -”

 

“I said I decide when we are done,” Ilya corrects gently. “Not that you don’t get a say.”

 

The other man reaches to brush a sweat-slick strand of hair that had been glued to Shane’s forehead. “Do you want to touch me?”

 

He swallows, hard. “Yes. I mean - I want to. I just don’t know how.”

 

“That is unavoidable.”

 

“Wow.”

 

“But,” he adds, reaching out to tip Shane’s chin up again, softer this time, “I will tell you exactly what to do. And you can be adorable traffic light and tell me what you are thinking.”

 

Shane exhales, steadying himself, allowing his eyes to drop down to where Ilya’s abdomen is clenched so tight he can see the droplets of sweat beading there. “Okay. And…still green.”

 

“Good.” Rozanov’s eyes darken. “Then listen carefully.”

 

He guides Shane upright with a firm hand at his waist, positioning him without rushing, and he finds himself melting into the touch. It leaves no room for error, and he finds his brain is blessedly quiet - allowing himself to be taken and put where he needs to be.

 

“You will take your time,” Ilya says lightly, manoeuvring Shane down the bed until he’s settled between his long legs. “You will use hands first, and watch my face. Not guess.”

 

Shane nods, placid.

 

“And -” Shane hesitates, cheeks burning as he watches Ilya shrug out of his tracksuit bottoms, freeing his own cock. “If I panic?”

 

(He is, in fact, panicking at the sheer size of it)

 

“You tell me,” he says simply. “And I stop.”

 

Tentatively, Shane reaches out to grip him, taking the hard heat with both hands.

 

“Good boy,” Ilya murmurs. “Like this.”

 

His hands wrap around Shane’s, setting up a steady rhythm that goes straight to his stomach, white-hot need pooling there as if he wasn’t spent already.

 

When Ilya curses under his breath, wincing, Shane freezes.

 

“God - sorry. Am I hurting you?”

 

His despair is palpable, until the other man knots one hand tightly in his hair, forcing his face up to look him in the eye. Pain smarts along his scalp, and his cock twitches with need. Ilya shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, and Shane watches his chest rise and fall in an unsteady rhythm that almost mimics his own.

 

“Open your mouth.”

 

Shane complies. Ilya tsks.

 

“Tongue out.”

 

It’s only when Ilya’s cock is sliding inch by inch towards the back of his throat that Shane understands what’s happening here. His whole body is warm, tingles skittering up and down his spine, and each sigh of pleasure the other man grants him has him floating so impossibly high he doesn’t ever feel like he’ll come back down. It’s trance-like, almost, even as Ilya begins to rock his hips up and into his throat. Shane should be gagging, should be spluttering, but he finds by breathing through his nose nothing but Ilya himself could ever pull him back up again.

 

“Khoroshiy mal'chik,” Ilya murmurs, over and over, until the words break up into singular, gasping syllables. His hips begin to jerk, and Shane gives a whimper of disappointment as the other man tugs upwards firmly enough that his cock springs free of his mouth. Shane’s lips are parted, wanting, and about to form an argument when:

 

“Look at me, baby.”

 

Shane takes a shuddering breath at these words, but Ilya is too far gone to catch the way it’s fucking wrecked him. He’s coming, painting white stripes up his own abdomen, his cock angled strategically away from Shane’s face. He curses quietly again - in Russian - those blue eyes never leaving his own.

 

Ilya exhales hard, but doesn’t release Shane’s hair. Instead, he trails a lazy finger through his own come and offers it out, just inches from Shane’s parted lips.

 

“You want to taste what you do to me?”

 

Shane doesn’t hesitate. Ilya tastes like salt and skin. Ilya tastes like coming alive.

 

The next chain of events happen so fast Shane’s brain doesn’t have time to process them.

 

He makes to inhale, to say something - anything at all - but any semblance of words are cut off by a choked, explosive sob that comes from somewhere deep in his chest. His eyes are burning, and he’s distinctly aware he’s crying, brokenly, stupidly, in a way he can’t ever remember crying before.

 

Ilya is a blur of motion. He launches forwards, the mess on his stomach long forgotten as he cradles Shane’s shivering body to his own so tightly that his nervous system immediately begins to soothe itself.

 

“Moy rebenok,” Ilya whispers against his forehead. “Come here.”

Chapter 10: spaghetti

Chapter Notes

*waving my conductor’s stick* subdrop shane subdrop shane subdrop -

I’m now off work for a week, and my goal is to get this fic finished in that time! I still have a lot to do dw but I may try and up the two chapters a day to three now I have nothing better to do?

either way you’ll be hearing from me more frequently (that’s me saying I actually will write 20 more chapters to avoid ending this fic)

alsoooo I’m currently writing chapter 11 and it’s actually my favourite so far so stay tuned gang <3

Shane doesn’t stop crying when Ilya pulls him close - if anything, it gets worse.

 

“I’m sorry,” he blurts immediately, horrified at the betrayal coming directly from his own body. “I swear I’m not upset. I’m not -” he chokes off again, forcibly attempting to crush down the rising sob that’s currently clawing its way up his throat.

 

“This isn’t because of you, I just -”

 

Ilya hushes him without looking surprised, one hand spreading warm and solid between his shoulder blades that rubs slow and deliberate circles into the shaking muscle there.

 

“Breathe,” he says quietly, his own voice rough around the edges.

 

Shane tries, and hiccups.

 

“Oh god,” he mutters weakly, pressing his face into Ilya’s chest so tightly he’s sure he’ll imprint on his sternum. “I liked it - I really liked it. I’m not crying because I hated it or because you…I’m not broken, am I?”

 

“Never.”

 

Ilya shifts them carefully, guiding him back until he’s sitting between his legs, Shane’s shivering spine resting against his chest. One strong arm wraps around his middle, firm and grounding, Ilya’s palm flat over his stomach like he’s absorbing each uneven breath Shane can suck in.

 

“Stay,” he murmurs, and Shane goes boneless again.

 

“This is so stupid,” he sniffles, scrubbing frustratedly at one wet eye. “I don’t even know why this is happening.”

 

“You do not need to,” Ilya says. “Your body is coming down.”

 

Shane laughs. “From what? I should be able to survive a blowjob.”

 

“It will not be the last,” Ilya says dryly. “Also, you are very new at this.”

 

The other man reaches for the abandoned blanket and pulls it over them both, tucking Shane in with slow care. He presses a brief kiss to Shane’s temple as the warmth gradually returns to his bones, the shivering abating into occasional bouts now.

 

“This is drop,” he continues calmly. “First time. First man. You let go very fast.”

 

Shane whines into the fabric of the blanket, tucked just underneath his chin. “Of course I did.”

 

“You did nothing wrong. You are so beautiful to me.”

 

“I just don’t want you thinking you pushed me,” Shane says thickly, after a moment. “Or that I didn’t want it, because I did. I really did. I still do.”

 

“I know,” Ilya repeats, softer now. “If I thought otherwise, we would not have done it at all.”

 

Shane nods, keeping his face buried in Ilya’s chest. His breathing is less jagged now, but he still feels like a mismatched jigsaw, wrung out and frayed at the edges.

 

“Okay,” he says quietly, inhaling deeply through his nose, taking in as much of Ilya’s skin as he can. “Okay.”

 

Ilya doesn’t move. His hand stays firm at Shane’s stomach, and he’s glad for it.

 

Shane clears his throat after a few minutes.

 

“Can I…” He stops, frowning, to try that again. “Are you alright?”

 

He lifts his head just enough to look at him, aware he looks like shit, red-eyed and still breathless.

 

“I mean it. I don’t want this to be a thing where I just get to lose my mind and you’re meant to be fine because you’re the one who knows what they’re doing.”

 

Ilya studies him for a second, intently, like he’s trying to see right through him. Then he nods once.

 

“I am fine,” he says simply. “More than fine. I am exactly where I want to be.”

 

“Good. Because I think if you’d said anything else I might’ve started crying again.”

 

“That is acceptable,” Ilya murmurs, swiping a careful thumb underneath Shane’s eye. “You are not required to be dignified right now.”

 

Shane rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling now.

 

“You will feel strange for a while,” Ilya continues. “Tired and empty. Possibly emotional about very stupid things.”

 

“Like sad dog commercials?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Fantastic.”

 

Shane hesitates, then inches closer without asking, his forehead knocking lightly against Ilya’s collarbone. “Do you think - I don’t want to presume, but is this…is this going to happen again?”

 

“No, Shane. Now I have sucked your cock I will make you sleep in garden.”

 

“You’re such an asshole.”

 

Ilya reaches to pinch his cheeks, annoying for the sake of it. “You will be beating me off with big stick. I want you over and over again.”

 

They settle again, quieter now.

 

“I think I need about ten minutes and a glass of water, and then I’m going to need to pretend this never happened so I can be normal again,” Shane muses, fiddling with Ilya’s crucifix.

 

Ilya’s hand pauses briefly at his stomach.

 

“We will not pretend,” he says. “But you may have the water.”

 

They don’t stay in bed - they can’t, really.

 

“I think,” Shane says tiredly, “if I lie here any longer I might actually fuse with you.”

 

Ilya hums, the sound low and approving. “I will keep you under skin. But yes, we should get up. You will feel better.”

 

He helps Shane sit up slowly with firm hands, waiting until Shane nods that he’s steady before letting go. The AirBnB feels brighter than it should for late afternoon, and Shane blinks stubbornly against it, swinging his legs off the bed.

 

Ilya presses a glass of water into his hands before he can take a step. Shane drains half of it immediately, then grimaces.

 

“Wow,” he says. “I needed that.”

 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “Now you are done being weird, one of my rules is that you must stay hydrated.”

 

They shuffle into the kitchen together, and Shane heads straight for the cupboard.

 

“I’m not even sure I can eat,” he says, reaching up anyway. “But I feel like we should.”

 

He opens the cupboard, and is immediately assaulted by an avalanche of pasta.

 

What legitimately looks like a kilo of dried spaghetti skitters across the counter and clatters to the floor. An open bag of fusilli lands directly against Shane’s chest and slides down to his feet, spilling across the tiles of the kitchenette.

 

There’s a long, stunned silence as Shane stares at the cupboard, then drops his gaze to the floor.

 

“Ilya,” he says carefully, turning to where the other man is setting out two mugs behind him, “why do we have so much pasta?”

 

Ilya gives a noncommittal shrug. “It was inexpensive.”

 

“You’re a millionaire!” He hisses, bending to pick up the bag he’s just dropped.

 

“Oh my god,” he says, staring at the mess on the floor. “This is insane.”

 

He begins to scoop pasta back into the bag, not even wanting to look at the state behind him. “You could have bought, I don’t know, vegetables.”

 

“You are too pretty for any more rabbit food,” Ilya hums.

 

Shane doesn’t dignify that with a response, turning back to the cupboard to shove everything in more carefully this time, and that’s when something taps against the back of his shoulder.

 

It takes him a second to register it, before the second tap hits him right at the back of his neck.

 

“Did you just throw pasta at me?”

 

“No.”

 

Shane turns slowly. Ilya is leaning against the counter innocently, that slow grin that does something to Shane’s stomach spread across his face. One single piece of spaghetti is still clutched between his fingers.

 

Shane stares at it, then back up at him.

 

“Ilya,” he says carefully, summoning every ounce of patience he has left, “I am in a delicate emotional state.”

 

“Yes,” the other man agrees. “I can tell.”

 

He flicks the spaghetti without remorse. It bounces harmlessly off Shane’s chest and drops to the floor with the rest of it.

 

Shane breathes in through his nose.

 

“No,” he says abruptly. “We are not doing this.”

 

Ilya’s eyebrow lifts, challenging.

 

“You are very sure?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Another piece of pasta hits him in the stomach.

 

“I am begging you,” Shane says flatly. “Do not.”

 

Ilya considers him for a long moment. For a minute, Shane thinks he’s won - then the other man bends to scoop up a handful of pasta, and hurls it at him with force.

 

It’s not well aimed, but a piece lodges briefly in his hair before dropping away.

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

 

He scoops a fistful of pasta from the countertop and lobs it back.

 

It misses Ilya entirely, clattering against the fridge.

 

“Bad boy,” Ilya scolds, clutching at his own chest as if Shane’s just mortally wounded him. “I am injured!”

 

“Don’t,” Shane warns weakly, but predictably, Ilya doesn’t listen.

 

Within seconds there’s pasta everywhere, ricocheting wildly as Shane abandons all pretence of maturity and starts throwing it back with both hands.

 

“You are such an asshole,” Shane yelps, darting to one side to avoid a particularly violent barrage of shells. “You started it!”

 

“You escalated,” Ilya counters, laughing.

 

“You attacked a vulnerable man!”

 

“You survived,” Ilya’s grinning, and it loosens something in his chest. “Barely.”

 

Shane goes for another handful, overbalancing slightly.

 

“Okay,” he pants. “Okay. Truce.”

 

Ilya stops immediately, raising his hands in mocking surrender.

 

“Truce,” he agrees.

 

They stand there, breathing hard, surveying the devastation around them. Shane wipes his face with his sleeve, still smiling despite himself.

 

“Cassidy’s never getting her deposit back.”

 

Ilya hums thoughtfully. “Good thing I am favourite child. She cannot stay mad at me.”

 

“Idiot.”

 

Ilya reaches for a broom, planting a wet kiss between Shane’s eyes.

 

“Is okay. I will make you say sorry for that later.”

Chapter 11: two sugars

Chapter Notes

shane: hehe I’m being brat

ilya: you’re adorable

I was smiling so much my face hurt writing this that’s all I have to say

I’m on track to get another chapter up today, but it likely won’t be til late afternoon / early evening bc I’m stuck on a scene (but I will get it done dw)

Shane wakes with the faint imprint of Ilya’s arm having been heavy across his waist at some point in the night.

He lies there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, and then a terrible idea strikes him. Tea.

 

He slips out of bed with a shy good morning, padding into the kitchenette. Ilya is already awake, perched at the small table with his laptop open, typing an unhurried email with one hand.

 

Shane fills the kettle and flicks it on without thinking, setting out two chipped mugs on the side. He knows how Ilya takes his tea, and muscle memory already has him reaching for the sugar - then he stops.

 

He hesitates, his hand hovering, fighting desperately to suppress the smirk that wants to pull at his lips.

 

The kettle clicks off and Shane pours the water. He makes his own first, perfectly normal, then reaches for Ilya’s mug.

 

He adds milk - and no sugar.

 

Ilya doesn’t look up at first, accepting the offered mug with an absent sound of gratitude, his fingers curling around it as he scans whatever’s on his screen. He takes a sip and pauses.

 

“You forgot sugar.”

 

“Oh. Did I?” Shane keeps his voice light, and hopes he’s got some semblance of confusion on his face. “Sorry. I’ll remake it.”

 

Ilya hums, already back to his laptop. “Two. You know this.”

 

Shane turns back to the counter, biting the inside of his cheek so hard it almost hurts. He dumps the tea, and starts again.

 

This time, he adds sugar. Four spoonfuls of it.

 

He stirs, fighting laughter, and slides the mug across the table.

 

Ilya takes it with an approving smile that dies on his face the moment he tastes it. His eyes snap to Shane.

 

“What,” he says slowly, “are you doing?”

 

Shane widens his eyes. “What?”

 

“This is syrup,” Ilya says. “Are you trying to murder me?”

 

“No?” Shane says, far too quickly to be convincing. “I just - I guess I just forgot.”

 

Ilya stares at him hard. Then the corner of his mouth twitches.

 

“Oh,” he says softly. “I see.”

 

Shane’s stomach flips. “What?”

 

“This,” Ilya gestures vaguely at him with the mug still in hand, “is you?”

 

Shane shrugs, attempting nonchalance. “Maybe.”

 

“You are being brat,” Ilya says, wonderingly.

 

“Am I?” Shane’s trying very hard not to smile, forcing his face into neutrality.

 

He leans back in his chair, beckoning Shane closer with two fingers.

 

“This is what you come up with? Messing with tea?”

 

Shane’s confidence wobbles. “I mean…this is my first go.”

 

Ilya laughs, and Shane allows the tiniest hint of a smile to peek through.

 

“Come here,” Ilya is clearly trying very hard to school his face into a serious expression, and though his voice is stern, it cracks just a little as he repeats the order. “Here, Shane. Now.”

 

Shane hesitates for half a second, leaning into the thrill of it. He isn’t quite sure anymore whether the other man is joking, but he pushes off of the counter and goes to him anyway.

 

Ilya’s hand closes around his wrist as soon as he’s close enough. He tugs Shane forward until he’s standing between his knees.

 

“Sit,” Ilya says.

 

Shane blinks, glancing down at the distinct lack of seating. “Where?”

 

“On my lap,” Ilya replies patiently, like it really should be obvious.

 

“Aren’t you working?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“But -”

 

“Now,” Ilya murmurs, his voice carrying a sharp edge that sends his heart into a flurry.

 

Shane exhales through his nose, acutely aware of how ridiculous this is, and climbs onto his lap anyway, perching awkwardly at first like he’s not sure what to do with his body. Ilya’s hands snag around his waist.

 

“Comfortable?” He asks.

 

“No,” Shane mutters grouchily.

 

“Good.”

 

Shane shoots him a pointed look. “That’s not very nice.”

 

“You are being punished,” Ilya reminds him. “Not coddled.”

 

“For tea?”

 

“For very bad bratting,” Ilya corrects. “Boring effort.”

 

Shane huffs a laugh despite himself. “I tried.”

 

“I know,” Ilya says, and there’s something warm under the teasing now. “That is why this will be small punishment.”

 

He reaches for the mug of more-sugar-than-tea and presses it into Shane’s hands.

 

“You are going to drink it.”

 

Shane stares at the tea. “All of it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You’re a sadist.”

 

“Yes. And you made it.”

 

“For you.”

 

“You add four sugars to be bad.”

 

Shane grimaces. “Okay, when you say it like that…”

 

“Stop distracting and drink.”

 

Shane takes a cautious sip and immediately pulls a face.

 

Ilya chuckles under his breath. “You see?”

 

“This is vile.”

 

“And yet,” Ilya leans up to murmur near his ear, “you did this to yourself.”

 

By the time Shane finishes, he’s slumped slightly, the sugar leaving a filmy residue over his teeth that actually does feel like a punishment.

 

“I hate you,” he mutters.

 

“No, you do not.”

 

Shane leans back into him without thinking when Ilya takes the empty mug from his hands and sets it aside. He tilts Shane’s chin up with two fingers.

 

“Next time,” he says calmly, “I will not be so nice. But is first try, and I am generous.”

 

Shane nods solemnly. “Understood.”

 

His thumb brushes absently over Shane’s hip. It’s possessive, and Shane’s brain goes fuzzy.

 

“I should -” he starts, and then abruptly loses his train of thought when Ilya tips his chin up with the same two fingers from earlier. “I should probably, uh…”

 

Ilya’s laptop pings, and he sighs heavily. “Speak of devil.”

 

Shane blinks. “What?”

 

“Cassidy,” Ilya says, releasing him but not without a final squeeze around his waist. “We have call in five minutes.”

 

“I forgot about that.”

 

“You always forget about that,” Ilya says mildly, dragging the other chair until its next to his. “You are very bad assistant.”

 

“Hey,” Shane protests. “I’m not your assistant.”

 

Ilya’s gaze flicks to him, amused. “Not yet.”

 

Shane gives him the middle finger, but he’s smiling again, and he busies himself with rinsing the mug.

 

“I’ll remake it,” he mumbles. “Properly.”

 

“You will,” Ilya agrees. “And then you will sit and look pretty while Cassidy books our shoots.”

 

Shane makes a face. “She hates Zoom.”

 

“She hates everything,” Ilya says. “Especially when computer does not do what she tells it.”

 

As if summoned by name alone, Ilya’s laptop begins to chime, and once he’s accepted the call Cassidy’s face appears in the middle of the screen, already mid-sentence.

 

“- and I swear to god, if this thing crashes again - oh. You’re there.”

 

Ilya leans back in his chair. “Hello, Cassidy.”

 

Shane edges closer, hovering awkwardly just in frame. Their agent’s face breaks into a cheerful smile.

 

“Good, you’re both alive!”

 

“Barely,” Shane offers, before he can stop himself.

 

Her gaze settles on him with an empathic grimace. “You look like hell. Ilya, stop tormenting Shane. I need his face to not look like that by the time this lockdown’s over.”

 

“Thank you,” he says sincerely.

 

Ilya reaches out, fingers catching Shane’s wrist and tugging him gently down into the chair beside him.

 

“Sit,” he murmurs under his breath.

 

Shane sits.

 

“Have you two had another fight?” She glances uncertainly between them. “Because I love you both, but I really, really need your faces to be okay. Rolex wants you both once all this is over.”

 

“We are having very normal morning,” Ilya says smoothly. “Tea and emails. Domestic bliss.”

 

“Why’s there pasta on the floor?” Cassidy is squinting, her nose inches from the screen.

 

Shane looks behind them, cursing inwardly for not being more thorough. “Oh, uh. Ily- Rozanov’s clumsy. And an asshole.”

 

“Sure,” she says slowly, clicking frantically at something on her screen. “Anyway, let me just share my screen.”

 

Her face freezes, unfreezes, then freezes again.

 

“Why isn’t it -” Cassidy frowns. “Hold on.”

 

Shane watches the little muted microphone icon appear next to her name.

 

“She muted herself,” Ilya observes.

 

Cassidy’s mouth keeps moving, clearly oblivious, gesturing sharply at something offscreen.

 

“She knows she’s muted, right?” Shane asks after a moment.

 

“I am mind reader now?”

 

Shane rolls his eyes, leaning to type a brief message of warning into the chat box. He can feel Ilya’s eyes on him, and the way the other man’s fingers are creeping higher up his thigh beneath the table. He turns his head away from the screen to shoot him an incredulous ‘knock it off’ glare.

 

Cassidy abruptly unmutes, startling them both. “Something’s wrong on my end, lads. I can’t hear either of you and it won’t let me -”

 

Her mouth keeps moving, but the sound cuts out.

 

“I’m going to hang up and try again,” Shane says hastily as Ilya’s hand palms at his rapidly-hardening cock. “This isn’t working.”

 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, his voice infuriatingly calm. “End call. We start over.”

 

Cassidy points at her screen, then at them, then gives the camera a thumbs up that’s almost aggressive. Shane doesn’t wait to say goodbye - he just clicks.

 

“You asshole,” Shane hisses, rounding on the other man. “Stop trying to get me hard while we’re working!”

 

Ilya grins. “You are hard.”

 

Before Shane can argue, he starts forward and snatches his mouth in a kiss that immediately burns away his prior irritation. Ilya breaks it only to nip along the side of Shane’s jaw, humming with satisfaction as Shane’s eyelids flutter closed of their own accord.

 

“Jesus,” Shane murmurs into him, his hands fisting in the front of Ilya’s shirt. Ilya’s thumb sweeps under his chin, tilting his head just enough to mouth at the delicate skin behind his ear. Shane shudders, tilting his hips in search of friction.

 

“- BOYS -”

 

Shane jerks back like he’s been electrocuted.

 

On the screen, Cassidy is very much still in the call - the one Shane actually didn’t hang up, rather just muted her again - with one hand clapped over her mouth, the other flailing helplessly at the keyboard.

 

“I couldn’t end the call,” she wails. “Oh my god - why are you kissing - oh my god -”

 

Shane scrambles sideways in his chair - it tilts, and dumps him in a heap on the floor. He’s going to die. He’s actually going to die.

 

“Is long story,” Ilya says coolly, reaching one arm off-screen to grab at the collar of Shane’s shirt, hauling him up from where he’s actively trying to get into the fetal position on the carpet.

 

Cassidy makes a noise somewhere between a choke and a laugh. “I - you know what, erm. I didn’t see any of that. Shane, can you hear me? I didn’t see anything!”

 

“You’re lying,” Shane whimpers miserably, allowing himself to be towed upright when Ilya gives another insistent yank at his shirt.

 

“Yes,” Cassidy agrees with a wince. “But I’m giving you the gift of lying anyway.”

 

She finally sits back, smoothing her curly hair like that might restore some sense of professionalism. “Right. Technical difficulties. Happens all the time.”

 

Shane presses both palms to his face again. “Please end the call. Please. I am literally begging you.”

 

“I’m trying,” she hisses, stabbing at her keyboard. “Your boyfriend broke Zoom.”

 

“I am not his -” Shane starts.

 

Ilya’s hand settles at his waist beneath the table. “He is upset. We should let him recover.”

 

Cassidy squints at them. “You know what? I don’t get paid enough for this. You two do, but me? Not a chance.”

 

The screen jolts as she finally figures it out.

 

“I’ll email instead. I’ll text. I’ll carrier pigeon.”

 

“Cass -” Shane peeks out between his fingers.

 

She points one painted nail directly at the camera, a smile playing around her lips.

 

“Never again. Do not kiss on work calls. Do not think about kissing on work calls. And absolutely no hickeys. Ilya, if I see one hickey on him, I’ll make sure your next shoot is for Women’s Weekly.”

 

The screen goes black.

 

Shane stares at the laptop for a long time before he speaks. “I’m going to change my name and move to New Zealand.”

 

Ilya grins. “At least you will never forget where end call button is now.”

 

“I thought I ended it!”

 

“Mm.”

 

Shane finally turns to him, his eyes wild. “You are the worst.”

 

“I want to hear you make that noise again. When I kissed here -” Ilya reaches to stroke the still-wet spot behind Shane’s ear.

 

He exhales heavily. “Lockdown is ruining my life.”

 

“Mm,” Ilya shrugs. “Or improving it.”

Chapter 12: hockey

Chapter Notes

I know HR wasn’t out in on tv 2020 I just wanted a ‘is this fucking play about us’ moment okay

(also my shane is such a hater bc it’s his only weapon of self defence he’s not being mean I swear)

Steam still clings to Shane’s skin as he steps out of the bathroom, a towel tucked tightly around his waist. The AirBnB smells faintly of bacon, and Ilya is vigorously whisking a rich-looking yellow sauce in a small pan on the hob. Predictably, Alexa is blasting so loud it might actually burn out the speakers, but the other man is singing so loudly that it could be a competition as to which of them loses their voice first.

 

“Get in the middle of a chain reaction, you get a medal when you're lost in action,” Ilya - still singing at the top of his lungs - shimmies over to the cupboard, slamming two bagels into the toaster with unnecessary force. “I want to get your love all ready for the sweet sensation, instant radiation!”

 

Shane’s stomach twists. His gaze drops down the other man’s body, and something in him lurches with longing. They hadn’t touched each other last night - something he’d been anticipating, painfully aware of his own need. It’d left him aching, but even worse, it had left him thinking.

 

“I’m sure the neighbours love Steps,” Shane mutters, mostly to himself.

 

Ilya glances over his shoulder. “I am making Hollandaise.”

 

Despite himself, Shane chuckles. “With thirty eggs?”

 

Ilya hums, attention turned back to his task. “We are growing boys.”

 

Shane fidgets, tugging the towel tighter around his hips.

 

“I’m…erm. I’m getting dressed,” he says, almost as if it’s a question.

 

Ilya stops mid-motion, the knife hovering over the cutting board. He turns slowly to face him. “No.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“You are not dressing yourself,” Ilya says smoothly, silencing Alexa by turning it off at the wall. “You will ask me if you want to wear something. My choice now. Second rule.”

 

Shane blinks, the towel suddenly feeling far too thin. His heart is hammering. “Oh. Uh - okay?”

 

“Is that okay?”

 

“Yes,” Shane breathes, far too quickly. He sends up a silent prayer for his dignity as he cautiously opens the door to their now-shared wardrobe, peering at the clothes within.

 

Ilya tilts his head, watching Shane’s hesitation.

 

“Say it properly,” his voice is low, and edged with something that makes Shane’s chest tighten.

 

Shane swallows hard. “It’s - okay. I understand. I will - and I want to - ask you. Before I wear anything.”

 

“Good,” Ilya says simply, pouring out two measured glasses of orange juice. “Remove that towel. Is hurting my feelings.”

 

“Uh…you mean?”

 

“Yes.” Ilya interrupts his racing thoughts without hesitation, inclining his head towards him. “Put towel down. Show me how hard you are.”

 

Shane exhales shakily. There’s no point even trying to deny it - he fumbles and drags the towel off, letting it fall to the floor.

 

“Good boy.”

 

When it’s evident that’s all he’s going to get, Shane reaches hesitantly for the nearest shirt - a tight black Gymshark tank he’d received in a PR bundle last year - trying very hard to ignore the way his bare cock is throbbing for attention.

 

“Stop,” Ilya’s voice is abrupt, and Shane freezes mid-reach.

 

“Stop?” he asks, heart hammering.

 

“Yes. That one,” Ilya says, tilting his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You don’t get to touch it unless you ask.”

 

Shane swallows, feeling his cheeks heating. “Can I wear this?”

 

“Mm, no. The white vest.”

 

Shane nods too quickly, fumbling for the fabric of the vest in question. “Okay.”

 

“Good,” Ilya murmurs, closing the distance between them until Shane can feel the sheer heat radiating off him. “Put it on slowly.”

 

Before he can even respond, Ilya tilts his face up to meet his gaze, blue eyes searching his. The other man’s brows are furrowed just slightly, seeking - looking for an assurance that this is fine.

 

Shane blinks dazedly, and feels himself nod.

 

“I will,” he whispers, watching as a flash of relief washes across Ilya’s face before it vanishes. This is okay, he wants to tell him. I like this. I want this.

 

Shane’s damp skin clings to the fabric, and he catches the faintest twitch of amusement in Ilya’s eyes as he awkwardly pulls it over his head in slow motion.

 

“Stop,” Ilya interrupts again, sharper now. Shane freezes, his arms half in already. “Stand up straight.”

 

Shane shivers and corrects his posture, tugging the tank down with painful slowness. “Sorry.”

 

“Mm,” Ilya takes a slow step back, circling slightly as he inspects him. “Good. Pretty boy. You will ask me every day, yes?”

 

Shane nods, fidgeting with the hem of his tank. “Yes. I’m, erm…green on that.”

 

Ilya’s mouth quirks, clearly pleased. “Good. Green is best colour.”

 

“For you, maybe,” he mutters, pulling on a pair of tracksuit bottoms Ilya had nodded at when his fingers brushed them.

 

Ilya ignores that, reaching for the orange juice and taking a long drink. He watches Shane over the rim of the glass, and it makes Shane acutely aware of himself; he corrects his own posture again.

 

“You are distracted,” Ilya says.

 

Shane blinks. “I am literally standing here doing exactly what you told me.”

 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees easily. “But your head is loud.”

 

“You have no idea.”

 

Ilya sets the glass down. “Tell me.”

 

“What?”

 

“What your head is saying,” he says, like it’s the most reasonable request in the world.

 

Shane opens his mouth then closes it again. He scrubs a hand through his hair, pacing for two steps before stopping himself, like he’s just remembered he’s meant to be behaving.

 

“It’s dumb,” he says finally.

 

“I am experienced in dumb.”

 

Shane sighs. “It’s just…yesterday you were all -” he waves a vague hand, “- very much like this, and then last night nothing happened, and now we’re doing rules and -” He trails off helplessly. “My brain doesn’t like the whiplash.”

 

Ilya listens without interrupting, his head tilted slightly. When Shane finishes, he nods once.

 

“That is fair,” he says. “And you are not wrong.”

 

Shane risks a look at him, inching closer as if the table might bite him. “I’m not?”

 

“No.” Ilya steps closer, just into the periphery of Shane’s space - he feels it everywhere. “I did not touch you last night because I wanted you to sleep without wondering if everything means sex.”

 

Shane swallows. “And now?”

 

“Now,” Ilya says calmly, “I want you to learn that control does not disappear just because we are laughing.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yes.” Ilya’s thumb hooks briefly into the hem of Shane’s vest, tugging it straight in a tiny, almost fussy gesture that does something funny to his stomach. “Also, you would have been unbearable this morning if I did not let you sleep.”

 

Shane huffs. “Rude.”

 

“Accurate.”

 

The toaster pops, making both of them jump.

 

“God. Bagels nearly took me out.”

 

“London is very dangerous,” Ilya agrees gravely, turning back to the stove. “First virus, now toaster.”

 

Ilya moves with easy confidence as he plates up. “Sit.”

 

Shane does. “I did that too fast.”

 

“Yes,” Ilya says, pleased. “You did.”

 

Shane flips him off under the table.

 

They eat in comfortable silence for a while. Shane doesn’t seem to be making a dent in what has to be at least five poached eggs, but he diligently works at it regardless, his eyes continuing to flick up to study the other man whenever he looks away.

 

“Do not stare,” Ilya says mildly.

 

“I’m not.”

 

“You are.”

 

“Am not.”

 

Ilya’s eyes snap to his, and the atmosphere shifts almost imperceptibly.

 

“Okay, I’m staring.”

 

“Good.” Ilya takes another sip of juice. “I like when you look.”

 

Shane chokes on his bagel.

 

“Jesus,” he coughs, pressing a hand to his chest. “You can’t just - can you warn me before you say stuff like that?”

 

“No,” Ilya says, unapologetic. “That defeats purpose.”

 

Shane wipes his mouth, flustered and smiling despite himself. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”

 

“With who?”

 

“Myself,” Shane says, then winces. “That came out sadder than I meant it.”

 

Ilya’s expression softens, and he reaches out to nudge Shane’s ankle with his foot.

 

“Today,” he says, “we will keep it light.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yes. You will help me clean. We will watch the gay hockey show.”

 

“And tonight?”

 

Ilya’s eyes meet his. “Tonight we see.”

 

“Okay,” he says quietly, unable to stop the smile from pulling at his lips.

 

Ilya grins. “Good boy.”

 

By the time the credits roll on the fifth episode of the gay hockey show in question, Shane is sprawled lengthwise across the sofa, his feet in Ilya’s lap.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, staring at the ceiling. “But that was not realistic.”

 

Ilya doesn’t look away from the screen as the autoplay countdown begins. “You cried.”

 

“I did not cry.”

 

“You made that noise.”

 

“That was a yawn.”

 

“It sounded emotional.”

 

Shane sits up abruptly, scowling. “They would not resolve sexual tension like that.”

 

“Mm.” Ilya finally glances at him. “How would you resolve it?”

 

Shane opens his mouth, his eyes settling briefly on Ilya’s, before looking away again.

 

“That’s not the point.”

 

Ilya catches one of Shane’s ankles before he can withdraw his legs, his thumb pressing idly into the arch of his foot.

 

“You are very invested,” Ilya says mildly.

 

“It’s badly paced,” Shane insists, tentatively making to move his foot away from the increasing pressure - Ilya doesn’t release him.

 

“They’re supposed to hate each other.”

 

“They do.”

 

“No, but like, properly. With unresolved tension. And -” He cuts himself off, flushing slightly. “It’s just lazy writing.”

 

Ilya’s mouth twitches. “You think you could do better?”

 

Shane lifts his chin. “Yes.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yes,” he says again, emboldened by the way Ilya’s fingers haven’t moved from his foot. “If I was writing it, I would drag it out. Make it so everyone watching is desperate for them to just -”

 

He gestures vaguely.

 

“Just what?” Ilya asks, very calm.

 

“Just resolve it,” he mutters.

 

Ilya hums, considering him. “You do not like when things are unresolved.”

 

“That’s not what I said.”

 

“But is true.”

 

Shane tries to tug his foot back, harder this time. Ilya doesn’t let him.

 

“Let go.”

 

“No.”

 

“You’re impossible.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Shane narrows his eyes. He shifts, turning sideways on the sofa so he can look at Ilya properly.

 

“You know what?” he says, careful to keep his voice deceptively light. “I think they should make the characters switch power dynamics halfway through.”

 

Ilya’s brow lifts a fraction. “Switch?”

 

“Yeah.” Shane shrugs. “Keep it interesting. Let the other one take control for once. Shake things up.”

 

Ilya’s thumb stills against his skin. “Is that so.”

 

“Mmhm.” Shane leans back, crossing his arms. “Gets boring otherwise.”

 

Ilya studies him for a long moment. Shane holds his gaze, hoping his face doesn’t betray the way his heart is racing.

 

“You are feeling brave,” Ilya says at last.

 

“I’m feeling accurate.”

 

“Mm.” Ilya releases his foot abruptly, and Shane’s leg drops back onto the sofa. “Come here.”

 

Shane doesn’t move. “I’m comfortable.”

 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “You look very comfortable.”

 

“I am.”

 

“Good,” Ilya says evenly. “Stay there.”

 

Shane frowns slightly. “That’s it?”

 

“For now.”

 

Shane shifts, restless. “I thought you were going to -”

 

“Going to what?”

 

“Nothing,” he mutters.

 

Ilya leans back into the cushions with his arms folded loosely across his chest. He looks completely unbothered, letting the silence tick by.

 

Shane lasts approximately twelve seconds.

 

“This is stupid,” he says finally.

 

“What is?”

 

“You ignoring me.”

 

“I am not ignoring you.”

 

“You’re not doing anything.”

 

“Ah.” Ilya nods slowly. “You want me to do something.”

 

Shane flushes. “I didn’t say that.”

 

“You did not have to.”

 

He stands then, unhurried, and Shane’s spine straightens automatically.

 

“I am going to make tea,” Ilya says casually. “You sit and think about notes on pacing.”

 

He walks toward the kitchenette, and Shane stares after him, incredulous.

 

“You can’t just disengage,” he snaps.

 

Ilya pauses halfway to the kettle. “I can.”

 

“That’s cheating!”

 

“It is discipline.”

 

Shane huffs, throwing himself back against the sofa cushions. He hears the kettle click on.

 

He lasts another ten seconds before he’s on his feet and following. Ilya doesn’t turn when he approaches.

 

“You’re being annoying on purpose,” Shane says into Ilya’s back.

 

“Yes.”

 

“I don’t want to keep it light any more,” Shane says quietly.

 

Ilya turns then, slowly, until they’re chest to chest. His eyes are dark. “Ah. Is why you are pushing.”

 

The look on his face makes Shane shiver. “Yes.”

 

The other man’s jaw flexes. “Get on the bed.”

 

“What?” Shane blinks, uncertain.

 

“Bed. Go and sit,” Ilya repeats. “Hands on your thighs. Do not touch yourself.”

 

Shane’s pulse hitches, but he doesn’t argue, slinking towards the bed and acutely aware of Ilya’s eyes on him as he does.

 

Behind him, the kettle clicks off, long forgotten.

Chapter 13: first time

Chapter Notes

they be fucking

that’s all that’s the chapter

Shane sits exactly where he was told, his hands on his thighs.

Ilya runs a hand across his face from the kitchenette, before turning to face him, stalking closer. “Look at me.”

 

He does. There’s no teasing in Ilya’s expression now - he’s focused in a way that sends a shiver of anticipation up his spine.

 

“You pushed,” Ilya says calmly.

 

“Yes.”

 

“You don’t want light.”

 

“Not any more.”

 

Ilya steps closer.

 

“You understand what that means.”

 

Shane swallows. “I think so.”

 

“That is not good enough.”

 

Ilya stops directly in front of him, close enough that Shane has to tilt his head back slightly to keep eye contact.

 

“I am not going to guess what you think,” he says. “You will tell me.”

 

Shane’s pulse hammers, his brain swirling.

 

“Use words,” Ilya corrects immediately.

 

“Yes,” Shane breathes. “I want -”

 

He falters, but Ilya waits.

 

“I want you to not be gentle,” Shane finishes, feeling his cheeks begin to heat.

 

Ilya lifts a hand, ghosting it along Shane’s jaw. “Careful. Be specific.”

 

“I want you to take control,” he says, his voice thankfully steadier this time. “I don’t want to pretend we’re joking.”

 

Ilya studies him, his fingers settling under Shane’s chin. “There is something we have not said out loud.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I am going to fuck you,” Ilya says evenly.

 

Shane’s entire body goes still. Ilya’s grip tightens just slightly.

 

“You have never done that before,” he continues. “With anyone.”

 

“No.”

 

“You will not lie to me about nerves.”

 

“I’m not,” Shane says quickly. “I’m just - it’s new.”

 

Ilya leans down, wordlessly guiding Shane out of his vest before he even notices what he’s doing. Shane blinks down at his bare chest, confused.

 

“You want me inside you?”

 

The bluntness makes Shane’s hands twitch against his thighs, but he doesn’t move them.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Say it properly.”

 

“Yes,” he says again, slower this time around. “I want you inside me.”

 

“If at any point you do not want,” Ilya murmurs, “you tell me. I stop. That does not make you weak.”

 

Shane nods quickly, but the other man tsks: “words.”

 

“It won’t make me weak,” he repeats, trying very hard to concentrate as Ilya begins to tug down his tracksuit bottoms. “And I’ll tell you.”

 

“Good.”

 

“You are not in control now,” he says quietly. “You asked for that.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I will decide the pace. I will decide when you move.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And you will not rush me.”

 

Shane’s breathing is uneven. “I won’t.”

 

Ilya leans closer, until his mouth is just beside Shane’s, clearly satisfied now that he’s stripped him of all clothing in less than five minutes.

 

“You have been testing me all day.”

 

“I know.”

 

“And you liked it.”

 

“Yeah, I did.”

 

“Good.”

 

Ilya shrugs off his top, dumping it beside the bed, and leans across to shove Shane roughly back against the headboard. The impact knocks a jagged breath out of him.

 

The other man’s hand slides up immediately, his fingers tangling in Shane’s hair, tugging his head back sharply to expose his throat.

 

“You wanted this,” he says, his voice hardly above a whisper.

 

“Yeah.”

“Louder.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Ilya’s mouth takes his without hesitation, his tongue pushing past his lips, swallowing the noise Shane makes before he can stop it. One hand fists in his hair, the other pins his hip to the mattress, holding him still where he’d started to writhe. Shane balls his hands into desperate fists.

“Don’t you dare,” Ilya mutters against his mouth.

 

Shane forces them flat again. Ilya bites at his lower lip, and the sting makes Shane gasp.

 

“You talk big on sofa,” he murmurs. “About tension.”

His mouth drags down Shane’s throat, his teeth marking skin as if Cassidy’s direct threat was no more than a suggestion.

 

“Let other one take control, you said.”

 

Shane shudders. “I was joking -”

 

“No,” Ilya says sharply, nipping at his collarbone, making him whine. “You weren’t.”

Shane’s hips jerk as the other man’s hand wraps firmly around his cock.

 

“You have been asking for this today,” Ilya continues. “And I am done with my patience.”

 

He spits into his free hand.

 

“I am not going to be gentle with you. And you are going to take it.”

 

Shane swallows hard, fighting to keep his eyes open. “Okay.”

 

He pushes Shane flat against the mattress, climbing over him completely now, allowing his full weight to do the work of keeping him still.

 

“Look at you,” Ilya murmurs, still working his cock with torturous, slow strokes. “All quiet for me now.”

 

“I’m not quiet,” Shane tries, but his voice breaks off before he can think of anything clever to add to the feeble protest.

 

“Mm.” Ilya’s thumb brushes Shane’s tip, making him arch off the bed. “Then beg properly.”

 

“Fuck,” he chokes. “Please.”

 

“What are you asking for, sweetheart?”

 

“You know.”

 

“Use your words.”

 

“Please - ah - fuck me.”

 

“That is better.”

 

He drops one hand low, circling his hole with one spit-slicked finger. “You are going to take me, and you will not panic.”

 

Shane yelps at the intrusion, feeling every inch of Ilya’s finger as he pushes smoothly inside him, the edges of his vision sparking.

 

Ilya kisses down his chest, slower now, but his finger doesn’t let up - nor does Shane want it to.

 

“Mm,” the other man’s eyes search his face. “Brave boy.”

 

Shane manages a choked moan as his fingers press, working him open with a patience he knows not to knock against - as much as he might want to. Slowly, his body starts to relax, and a deep heat begins to spread where Ilya’s curling his fingers inside him.

 

He’s so caught up in feeling Ilya everywhere that when his fingers withdraw, Shane actually whimpers. The other man stifles the noise with a kiss, blue eyes locked on his as he adjusts his hips, pressing the blunt head of his cock against Shane’s entrance.

 

“You will look at me,” Ilya says roughly, ignoring the way Shane wriggles, doing his best to spear himself as fast as possible.

 

Shane sucks in a gasp of air, pressing their foreheads together. Ilya rocks his hips forwards, and the stretch has them both inhaling sharply - he can’t decide if it hurts, but it does make him feel completely and utterly drunk.

 

“Green,” he grinds out before the other man can ask - Ilya takes this, and bottoms out inside him with a wicked smile.

 

He doesn’t give Shane the time to react, snapping his hips forward in a thrust that wipes the air from Shane’s lungs entirely. His hands fly up instinctively, before he remembers himself and fists them back into the sheets instead.

 

“That’s it,” Ilya breathes, watching his face - which is currently screwed up with the intensity of it all. “Do not run from what feels good.”

 

Ilya’s hips tilt, slamming home so hard Shane’s head tips back on its own, lips parted in a loud, broken sound that’s unashamedly filthy.

 

“Fuck,” Ilya’s pupils are blown, the edges of his voice rough, but not once does he slow the punishing pace at which he’s fucking him with. Their skin slaps together, Shane’s legs locked around his waist, pulling him in so deep he can feel Ilya everywhere.

 

“Where?”

 

Shane blinks, unfocused. “Wha -?”

 

“Where, Shane?” Ilya’s voice breaks through the pleasure more urgently this time. It’s strained, composure slipping away with each thrust he drives into Shane’s body. It takes him a second to understand what he’s asking, his breaths coming in ragged, short gasps.

 

“Inside,” he manages, and it comes out wrecked. “Don’t - don’t pull out.”

 

“You are sure?” he demands, even now. Shane nods frantically.

 

“Yeah, yes - I want it. I want -”

 

He doesn’t get to finish that sentence, because Ilya’s face drops to his shoulder, biting the muscle there with a hiss that does nothing to quell the dark pool of desire that’s building in Shane’s stomach. He whines as Ilya’s hips jerk - once, twice - before spilling inside him with a raw string of Russian.

 

“Fuck,” Shane breathes, delirious, chasing each pulse of his cock. “Ilya -”

 

He cuts off when the pressure that’s been coiling in his stomach spikes violently, his thighs tightening instinctively around Ilya’s waist.

 

“I’m gonna -”

 

Ilya’s hand snakes down to grab his own. “No.”

 

“What?”

 

“You don’t,” Ilya says softly, breathing hard. “Not yet.”

 

Shane’s eyes widen in dismay. “You can’t -”

 

“I can.”

 

His hips begin to move again, in short, shallow pumps. Shane makes a strangled noise of protest.

 

“That’s not fair,” he pants, desperate now. “You can’t just - I was -”

 

Ilya’s thumb catches his jaw, tilting his face up.

 

“You asked for control,” he reminds him softly. “Did you not?”

 

“Yes, but -”

 

“But nothing.” Ilya’s thrusts are unsteady, and he’s clearly veering off the edge of oversensitivity, but his voice is firm. “You come because I decide.”

 

Shane’s entire body is trembling.

 

“Please,” he blurts, his pride long abandoned. “Ilya, please - I’ll do anything -”

 

The other man reaches to wrap a hand around Shane’s desperate cock.

 

“You are learning,” he murmurs, giving it a slow stroke. “And I reward learning. Come for me, moy rebenok.”

 

A tear of relief spills free, streaking down his cheek as something in Shane snaps with a hoarse cry.

 

“Let it go, baby,” Ilya murmurs against his neck. “That’s it. That’s it.”

 

Shane’s coming. His vision goes white as he hurtles over the edge, painting Ilya’s fingers with his release. For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of it, the air between their bodies muted.

 

“Good,” Ilya murmurs. “Good.”

 

Shane’s head has fallen back against the pillow, his mouth open. Ilya presses one last, slow kiss to his cheek before shifting, withdrawing carefully. Shane hears himself makes a soft, involuntary sound at the emptiness, at the dull ache that’s flared to life now their bodies are no longer connected.

 

“I know,” Ilya muses sympathetically. “But easy.”

 

Shane nods automatically. The other man studies him.

 

His skin is flushed pink from throat to hips. Bite marks already darkening along his shoulder, bruises blooming in messy smudges down his chest, and there’s a crescent-shaped imprint on his waist where Ilya’s fingers had held him still.

 

Ilya reaches out and drags his thumb slowly down one of the darker marks on his collarbone, and Shane’s eyes flick to him instantly.

“Stay,” Ilya says quietly.

 

He shifts off him just long enough to grab the duvet and tug it up over Shane’s hips - the sensation makes his burning skin twitch and shiver.

 

“You are shaking,” he observes.

 

Shane blinks at him slowly.

 

“I’m fine,” he says, his voice soft and obedient.

 

Ilya reaches to brush the damp hair back from his forehead, and Shane leans into it without thinking.

 

“Colour?” Ilya says, still watching him like he’s trying to make a decision about something important.

 

“Green,” Shane answers immediately.

 

Ilya’s mouth twitches faintly. He shifts again, gathering Shane up with one arm, tugging him against his chest without asking. Shane goes without protest, folding into him, and his breathing immediately slows.

 

Ilya glances down at him. “Look at me.”

 

Shane does, though his eyes are glassy, his vision returning to him in abstract flashes.

 

“I am very proud of you.” Ilya says quietly. “Do you hurt?”

 

He gives a small shake of his head. Though Shane’s certain he’ll be sore in the morning, right now he’s pretty sure he could chop off a limb and be relatively okay about it.

 

“You look broken,” Ilya says after a few minutes of sleepy silence.

 

“You did that,” Shane murmurs.

 

“Yes.”

 

“If I told you to bark like dog,” Ilya says casually, testing. Shane inhales like he’s about to. The other man huffs an incredulous laugh and presses his palm over Shane’s mouth before he can.

 

“Is joke,” he says gently. “Maybe next time.”

 

Shane toys with the crucifix around his neck, before stealing a glance down at his own marked chest.

 

“Ilya?”

 

“Mm?”

 

“Cassidy’s gonna kill you. Enjoy Women’s Weekly.”

Chapter 14: tesco

Chapter Notes

I have nothing productive to say about this except it’s my favourite chapter so far

tesco = huge uk supermarket chain, like walmart i guess??

also shane throwing hands at the self checkout machine is killing meeee

Shane knows he’s in trouble before he even opens his eyes. He attempts to roll over, and pain flares at the base of his spine.

 

“You are making ghost noises,” Ilya observes from where he’s currently shoving toast into his mouth. There’s a plate for Shane already set, with enough marmalade spread across it that he can feel the oncoming toothache telepathically.

 

“Oh my god,” Shane whispers into the mattress, studying his damaged body with growing distress. He looks like he’s just gone ten rounds with a particularly bitey Rottweiler. He looks like he’s been fucked.

 

“What?” Ilya asks mildly, raising an eyebrow.

 

“What,” Shane repeats flatly, “did you do to me?”

 

“I made you good boy again,” the other man grins, gesturing at the way Shane has to haul himself out of bed with effort. “Mouth is not so smart now.”

 

Shane’s hair is a mess, and Ilya does not look remotely sorry.

 

“I’m covered in marks.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Cassidy’s going to strangle you with her bare hands.”

Ilya shrugs. “Mm, she can try. We have to stay six feet of distance apart, remember. How are you feeling?”

 

“Damaged,” Shane groans, instinctively shrugging on the dark green knitted sweater Ilya has pointedly laid out already for him.

 

When he’s close enough, Ilya reaches up and traces one of the darkest smudges on Shane’s neck with his thumb. He inhales sharply.

 

“Don’t.”

 

“You leaned into it,” Ilya says mildly, taking another enormous bite of toast.

 

“Accidentally.”

 

“Mm. You are limping.”

 

“I am not.” Shane corrects his gait stubbornly, rummaging in the fridge for any sign of milk.

 

“You are.”

 

“See?” he says tightly, taking a performative step towards the table.

 

“You look like you have been kicked by horse.”

 

“I have not been kicked by -” Shane gives up, throwing his hands in the air with defeat. “Where’s the milk?”

 

“Empty. We are going out.”

 

Shane opens the fridge again, as if the milk might manifest there if he tries hard enough to summon it. “No, we’re not.”

 

“We are.”

 

“No,” Shane repeats, turning slowly, attempting to stifle a grimace as his shoulder twinges. “We are not.”

 

“We need milk.” Ilya flicks a crumb from the table in his general direction.

 

“We have Deliveroo!”

 

“That is for takeaway. Four pound delivery fee.”

 

“Have you gone through some sort of bankruptcy event without me being aware?” Shane clutches at a slice of the toast, nibbling around a particularly large glob of marmalade.

 

“You are walking fine,” Ilya flicks another crumb. “After all.”

 

“I am tired,” Shane corrects bitterly.

“We are going to Tesco.”

 

Shane slams the fridge shut a little harder than necessary.

 

“Have you forgotten,” he begins carefully, “that we are -”

 

He gestures vaguely at both of them.

 

“- very recognisable?”

 

“We will wear mask.”

 

“That doesn’t make us invisible, Ilya!”

 

“It makes us responsible adults with milk.”

 

Shane stares at him.

 

“And also,” he continues, lowering his voice like the microwave might hear him, “very gay.”

 

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “We did gay things yesterday also.”

 

“Yes, but yesterday we were gay indoors.”

“You think people in Tesco are looking at you?”

 

“Well, kind of, yes?”

 

“Why?”

 

Shane gestures at his neck, skating his fingers over the collection of dark bruises there. “At this.”

 

Ilya leans back slightly to inspect him. “You look fine.”

 

“I look like a fucking crime scene!”

 

“You look mine,” the other man says eventually, as if that solves it.

 

Shane flushes despite his irritation. “That is not helpful.”

 

Ilya stands with an obnoxious groan, closing the distance between them to adjust the collar of Shane’s sweater, tugging the fabric higher.

 

“There,” he says calmly. “Is hidden.”

 

Shane swats his hand away. “That’s not the point.”

 

“What is point?”

 

“The point,” Shane says, lowering his voice again, “is that if we are seen together in Tesco during lockdown, and someone takes a photo, and Cassidy sees it, and then she sees this -”

 

He tugs the collar of his sweater down again. “- we are dead.”

 

“Mm.”

 

“You don’t seem concerned.”

 

“I am not.”

 

Shane narrows his eyes. “Because you don’t have to deal with her.”

 

“She shouts at me also.”

 

“She shouts at me differently.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Ilya, my Twitter is full of fanfiction, and people are sending me edits of - well, of nothing, but I don’t want to be edited! Why am I a ship? What is a ship?”

 

“Is boat,” Ilya reaches to touch the back of his hand to Shane’s sweaty forehead. “You are having breakdown again -”

 

“Just order it,” Shane pleads.

 

“No.”

 

“Why?” His voice has gone up an octave.

 

“Because you need to walk. It will help the aches.”

 

“Fine,” he snaps, caving. “But I’m not aching. And don’t try anything. I’m not holding your hand either.”

 

“Ah,” Ilya clutches his chest, feigning heartbreak. “And I was going to fuck you in the biscuit aisle.”

 

Shane pouts as the other man drapes a coat around his shoulders, trying very hard not to look him in the eye as Ilya fusses with his belt like he’s a 5’8 doll to dress up. His fingers are diligent - Shane would know - and only once he makes an approving sound in the back of his throat does Shane allow himself to float towards the door.

 

“Put shoes on.”

 

Shane stares at the trainers Ilya has just dropped on the floor in front of him.

 

“Go on. If you are fine and not sore, it will be no problem.” His eyebrow raises, challenging.

 

He shoots Ilya a poisonous look. Determined not to give him the satisfaction of being right, Shane bends to tie his laces. Halfway down, he realises he can’t. He - very slowly - straightens with a haughty sniff.

 

“Ask,” Ilya says coolly.

 

Shane’s jaw tightens. “Can you not be smug for one second -”

 

“You cannot bend.”

 

“I absolutely can.”

 

“Demonstrate” Ilya gives an easy shrug. “I want to see.”

 

There’s a long minute of silence in which Shane is forced to swallow his meagre pride, because it’s evident the other man isn’t budging. They regard each other - a smirk plays at Ilya’s lips.

 

“Tie them,” Shane mutters finally, lowering his gaze to his feet.

 

“Properly,” Ilya tsks. “Use your pretty manners.”

 

Shane exhales hard. “Can you tie them for me, please. I’m sore. Need help.”

 

Ilya - to his credit - crouches without another word and does exactly that. When he stands again, he smooths a careful hand briefly down Shane’s shin as if inspecting his work.

 

“Good,” he says simply, snatching up the spare key from the table with one hand.

 

“You are insufferable.”

 

They step out of the AirBnB and into the brisk midday air. The world is quiet around them, and Ilya reaches out to fix the collar of his sweater again, tugging it just high enough to hide the worst of the bruising. His fingers linger for half a second too long at Shane’s throat.

 

Shane takes a halfhearted swipe at his hand. “Stop fussing.”

 

The gravel path crunches underfoot, and the air is sharp and cold enough to make Shane’s skin feel tighter than it already does. There’s a hedgerow along one side of the property and a quiet lane beyond it - it’s picturesque, in its own way. So far removed from the chaos of Canada’s big cities. The most privacy they’ll probably ever get. The keys jingle as Ilya locks the door behind them.

 

They - mercifully - make it to Tesco without further bickering. The queue is already visible up ahead, looping around the building in clearly marked, socially distanced segments.

 

Shane stops before his mind can catch up.“No.”

 

“Shane.”

 

“It’s too many people.”

 

“It is twelve.”

 

“It’s twelve too many.”

 

“You think woman with cabbage is here for you?”

 

Shane glances at the woman with the cabbage, pushing her trolley back to a beat-up Mazda with her headphones in. “She could be.”

 

“She is not.”

 

Shane lowers his voice instinctively, his heart thrumming. “We’re not exactly subtle.”

 

“We are wearing masks.”

 

“That doesn’t erase - I don’t know, vibes.”

 

Ilya frowns, confused.

 

Shane gestures vaguely between them. “Vibes.”

 

“You are projecting.”

 

The line shuffles forward, and Shane reluctantly steps forward with it, exhaling sharply through his teeth before he can stop himself when a pang of - well, something - shoots him like a lightning bolt to the ass.

 

Ilya’s hand finds his elbow in gentle acknowledgement, and then drops away again.

 

“Careful,” he says.

 

“I am careful,” Shane scowls, shifting forward in the queue again.

 

“You are compensating.”

 

“I am not compensating.”

 

“You are.”

 

Shane straightens automatically. “I’m walking normally.”

 

“You are walking like you do not trust your feet.”

 

“That’s a wildly invasive observation.”

 

A woman two places ahead glances back, and Shane goes still.

 

“You are obvious when you pretend not to be obvious,” Ilya murmurs.

 

Shane reaches up to adjust his collar again, but Ilya intercepts the movement, smoothing the fabric properly this time, those traitorous fingers brushing briefly over one of the darker marks at his throat.

 

“Stop touching me in public,” Shane hisses. “We’re meant to hate each other.”

 

“That is old news,” he says lightly, sliding his hand from Shane’s collar to his shoulder. “Now I fuck you instead.”

 

Shane splutters. “That is not how hatred works.”

 

“I am Russian. Is flexible.”

 

“Stand two metres away from me,” Shane mutters under his breath.

 

“You are the one who moved closer.”

 

“I did not!”

 

“You did.”

 

The line shuffles forward again, taking them with it, and Shane shoots Ilya another venomous look.

 

“You are very dramatic in public,” he notes, unruffled.

 

“I’m maintaining the narrative you seem to have given up on.”

 

“What narrative?”

 

“That we are -” Shane lowers his voice again, “- mildly hostile colleagues who happen to be purchasing milk.”

 

“You look like you were kissed aggressively by mildly hostile colleague.”

 

“Stop saying things like that!”

 

Blessedly, they reach the entrance, and an elderly staff member gestures them towards the sanitiser stand with a morose smile.

 

Shane pumps far too much in his haste - the sanitiser drips from his fingers, leaving a wet trail down the front of his sweater.

 

“You are baptising hands,” Ilya observes.

 

“Shut up.”

 

Inside, the fluorescent lighting is unforgiving, but he grabs a trolley just for something to do with his hands.

 

“I’ve got it,” he says firmly.

 

“Of course,” Ilya replies.

 

They move through the fruit and vegetable aisles in tense silence. Shane - who has decided Ilya’s paying considering this is all his stupid fault - blindly snatches up the most expensive punnet of strawberries he can find. As they ghost into the meat section, he does the same thing, dumping two Tesco’s Finest prime filet steaks into the trolley without looking at the price.

 

Ilya steps closer. Their shoulders brush, and Shane jolts away like he’s been burned.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Walking.”

 

“You’re walking at me.”

“There is aisle.”

 

“There’s space!”

 

“You are shrinking it with your bad mood.”

 

Ilya hums thoughtfully and then, just to be unbearable, reaches past Shane for a pack of turkey bacon - close enough that his chest presses briefly against Shane’s back.

 

Shane goes rigid, and a middle-aged man carrying a crate of beer glances up from the end of the aisle.

 

“Stop it!” Shane whispers furiously.

 

“I am only standing,” Ilya says innocently, dropping the bacon into the trolley with a clatter.

 

By the time they reach the milk section, it’s depressingly sparse, but semi-skimmed remains. Shane stares at it miserably. “This is tragic.”

 

“It is fine.”

 

“It’s so thin.”

 

“It is milk.”

 

Shane starts to reach for the carton on the lower shelf, but stops himself. He doesn’t need to look at Ilya to feel the grin on his face, so he refuses to look at him at all.

 

A stubborn silence settles between them, but for the sake of his dignity, Shane breaks it.

 

“Can you get it?”

 

“Properly.”

 

Shane closes his eyes briefly, praying for patience. Or to be hit by a speeding car on the walk back to the AirBnB. “Can you get it for me, please.”

 

Ilya crouches smoothly and retrieves it. When he stands again, he doesn’t place it in the trolley immediately, studying Shane instead.

 

“You are red,” he says quietly.

 

“It’s the lighting.” He squints resentfully up at the ceiling.

 

“You are flustered.”

 

“I’m not flustered.”

 

“Sure.”

 

A phone camera lifts at the end of the aisle, ever so slightly, but Shane’s frayed nervous system detects it immediately, and his stomach drops. “Oh my god.”

 

Ilya follows his line of sight to where a young woman with wide eyes is very obviously pretending to examine yoghurt while aiming her phone at them.

 

Shane straightens instinctively, pretty sure he’s wincing. Ilya steps closer instead, and his hand settles at the small of Shane’s back in a motion that’s completely invisible to their young onlooker, but burns through his sweater regardless.

 

His eyes widen.

 

“What are you doing?” he breathes.

 

“Standing,” Ilya repeats calmly.

 

“You are making it worse.” Shane feels heat crawl up his neck. “We’re meant to hate each other!”

 

Ilya leans in, close enough that his voice is low and private.

 

“When do you ever do as you’re told?” He murmurs. Shane’s stomach does something unspeakable.

 

The girl scrambles away as he snatches the milk from Ilya’s hand and marches toward self-checkout, trailing the other man behind him.

 

The self-checkout machine greets them with aggressive enthusiasm: “WELCOME TO TESCO.”

 

Shane flinches like it’s yelled at him, knocking the trolley into it with far more force than necessary.

 

“I’ve got it,” he mutters, already scanning the milk before setting it down hard again.

 

“Unexpected item in bagging area,” the machine chirps immediately.

 

“Oh, shut up.”

 

Ilya leans casually against the counter, watching him with open amusement. “You are very tense.”

 

“I am not tense.”

 

“You are fighting with machine.”

 

“It started it.”

 

The strawberries beep. The steaks beep. The total climbs in a way that makes satisfies him, because it’s not coming out of his wallet.

 

His phone buzzes three times in his pocket, but ignores it. The machine demands approval for the bottle of wine he didn’t realise he’d picked up.

 

His phone buzzes again.

 

Ilya glances at his pocket with a raised brow. “You are popular.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

Another buzz is quickly followed by another. He exhales sharply and fishes his phone out, already braced for Cassidy’s wrath. Shane’s eyes widen when he sees it isn’t Cassidy - it’s Hayden.

 

14:06

Hayden

Why are you trending in the UK right now?

 

Shane goes still.

 

“Is your other boyfriend?” Ilya asks mildly.

 

Shane ignores that particular comment, but his phone buzzes again.

 

14:07

Hayden

I just opened twitter

14:07

Hayden

Is that you at the tesco

14:07

Hayden

Why do you look like you’ve been fed through a woodchipper

 

Shane flushes violently, turning the screen slightly away from Ilya to type back with all the intensity of someone actively diffusing a bomb.

 

14:08

I am not trending, we are not at Tesco, and delete Twitter

 

The machine beeps angrily. “Please place the item in the bagging area.”

 

“I DID,” Shane snaps.

 

A staff member looks over at the outburst, and Ilya finally straightens, stepping closer - near enough that Shane can feel him.

 

“What did Hayden say?” he asks quietly.

 

“Nothing.”

 

“You are vibrating.”

 

“I am not vibrating.”

 

“You are.”

 

His phone buzzes again.

 

14:08

Hayden

I’m putting that photo on your next birthday cake

14:08

Hayden

Also why is your collar that high

 

Shane’s hand flies instinctively to his neck. “Oh my god.”

 

The total flashes on screen - £90.68.

 

“Card,” the machine demands. Ilya taps his against the contactless screen.

 

“I am going to kill you,” Shane says softly, his brain in overdrive. He is. He’s going to get Ilya back for this so good he’ll regret stepping foot inside this Tesco for the rest of his life.

 

“For what?”

 

“For existing.”

 

“That is extreme.”

 

The receipt prints with an aggressively long whirr. His phone buzzes again.

 

14:10

Hayden

Jackie wants to know if this is enemies to lovers or whether you’re both just bored

14:10

Hayden

Blink twice if you’re in danger though x

 

Shane closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again, Ilya is watching him.

 

“Hayden thinks we’re husbands,” he says flatly.

 

Ilya considers this. “Efficient.”

 

“That’s your takeaway?”

 

“You said you do not want to be ship.”

 

“I don’t!”

 

“And yet.”

 

Shane turns slowly to look at Ilya as they exit the shop, milk, steaks, and wine in hand. “I am going to bury you in this hedgerow.”

 

Ilya smiles. “You would miss me.”

Chapter 15: trouble

Chapter Notes

rip shane’s ass is all I’m going to say

The next day, Shane is halfway through his second tea when Ilya walks past him in nothing but low-slung blue jeans, tousled hair still damp from the shower, to drag his fingers lightly across the back of Shane’s neck.

 

“You are in better mood today,” Ilya observes, moving towards the wardrobe with Shane in tow, not looking back.

 

“I’m fine,” he says carefully.

 

“You are smiling.”

 

“No I’m not.”

 

“You are.”

 

Shane very deliberately wipes the expression off his face, only for it to return immediately when Ilya presses a string of loud kisses to the underside of his jaw.

 

The AirBnB is quiet, sunlight filtering weakly through the plaid curtains. Ilya’s laptop is already set up on the kitchenette table, a ring light assembled and facing towards a branded backdrop bluetacked to the wall.

 

Shane watches as Ilya shrugs on a white Ralph Lauren polo, before stepping into frame to adjust the camera angle. He straightens his shoulders first, rolling them casually, smoothing his face to erase that lazy grin Shane begrudgingly likes so much. Ilya’s stance changes, slipping into professionalism like he hadn’t spent the night before sucking Shane’s soul out of his body.

 

The interview is an easy one - just a public morale boost via Zoom for some UK daytime TV show Shane thinks is called ‘This Morning’. Cassidy had initially booked it for the both of them - thankfully still unaware of the state Shane’s in - but he’d called off last minute when it became clear the bruising wasn’t fading any time soon, feigning a sickness bug.

 

Shane leans back against the counter, the mug still warm in his hands, and watches Ilya fuss with the backdrop.

 

“You’re awfully brave,” he says lightly, tilting his head, “for someone about to go on live television.”

 

Ilya glances at him distractedly, already half-switched. “Brave?”

 

“Yeah.” Shane shrugs. “I just mean it would be really bad if you got distracted. You’re going to be live, after all.”

 

“I do not get distracted,” Ilya says evenly, shooting Shane a sharp look.

 

Shane smiles into his tea. “You absolutely do.”

 

Ilya steps out of frame long enough to grab his watch from the bedside table, fastening it quickly around his wrist. He pauses to check himself in the laptop screen, and Shane’s breath hitches, because Ilya has gone - Rozanov stands in his place, an edge in his eyes.

 

Shane pushes off the counter and wanders closer, drawn in without really meaning to be. He stops just short of the ring light, hovering at the edge of it like a cat testing whether it can knock a glass onto the floor.

 

“You know,” Shane says thoughtfully, “it would be really embarrassing if you lost your train of thought.”

 

Ilya doesn’t look away from the screen. “I will not.”

 

“You’re very confident.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Shane reaches out to tug lightly at the hem of Ilya’s polo, straightening it where it’s bunched at his hip.

 

It would’ve passed as a familiar, helpful gesture, if it had been anyone else. Ilya’s eyes flick to him, and there’s something dangerous in them now.

 

“Behave,” he says softly.

 

Shane lets the direct order wash over him, ignoring the needy pull in his stomach. “I am behaving.”

 

The laptop chimes, and the tinny sound of voices fills the room. Ilya’s expression shifts into something charming and controlled, the kind of smile that wins sponsorship deals without trying.

 

“Good afternoon,” Ilya says smoothly, his voice lower, steadier, all trace of the morning’s kisses gone.

 

“Oh, Ilya, thank you so much for joining us from lockdown! How are you finding London?”

 

“It is quieter than usual,” he replies, hands folded loosely on the table. “I look forward to spending time here after virus.”

 

The host laughs brightly. “And Shane was meant to join us today, wasn’t he? We were so excited to have you both!”

 

Ilya doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes. Unfortunately he is unwell.”

 

Shane inches closer.

 

“I am fine,” Ilya continues smoothly. “But he is dramatic about stomach bug.”

 

Shane folds his arms, leaning one hip against the edge of the counter behind him. He can see the laptop screen from here; Ilya is framed perfectly from his chest up.

 

He lowers himself to the carpet. The chair leg brushes lightly against his knee as he settles himself beneath the table, back against the cabinet, eyes level with Ilya’s knees.

 

Now he’s up close, the transformation in the other man is even more obvious. There’s tension in his neck, and Shane can see how carefully he’s controlling his breathing.

 

The host is asking about training routines now, and Shane watches as Ilya gestures with one hand as he speaks.

 

“Discipline is important. Even without gym, you create structure. You wake up same time. You move your body. You do not make excuses.”

 

Discipline? Shane presses his lips together. Interesting.

 

He reaches, letting his fingertips ghost along the inside of Ilya’s calf. On screen, nothing changes, but Ilya’s fingers tighten subtly against the tabletop.

 

The host sounds like she’s nodding enthusiastically. “That’s brilliant advice. And what’s been the biggest challenge for you personally?”

 

“Patience,” he says immediately.

 

Shane shifts closer, his knees pressing into the rug. He rests one palm lightly on Ilya’s thigh, delighted at the sight of the other man’s cock beginning to stir in his trousers.

 

The muscle under Shane’s hand goes taut, but Ilya continues speaking, his voice disappointingly steady.

 

“You cannot control everything. So you focus on what you can.”

 

Shane chews his lip for just a second, before carefully unzipping Ilya’s jeans to free his cock.

 

The host laughs. “You always seem so composed, Ilya. Very calm under pressure.”

 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees good naturedly. “Is important quality.”

 

His voice sounds steady, but his breathing isn’t. Shane gives him a testing stroke, and the cock in his hand hardens, twitching, like Ilya’s fighting off his own growing need.

 

The host keeps talking, blissfully unaware. “And have you been keeping in touch with friends?”

 

“Yes,” Ilya replies. “We have group chat. Is loud.”

 

Shane’s grin spreads slow and wicked under the privacy of the tabletop.

 

“And we have to ask, any lockdown hobbies? Baking? Reading? Learning a new skill?”

 

His shoulders shake with silent laughter as Ilya inhales.

 

“Cooking,” he says. “Improving domestic -”

 

His voice falters, almost imperceptibly, because Shane has just taken him in his mouth. The host doesn’t seem to notice.

 

“- skills,” Ilya finishes, clearing his throat with a soft cough that he disguises as a laugh. “Domestic skills.”

 

The camera only catches him from the chest up, but from this angle Shane can see everything, cataloguing the way Ilya’s hands grip the edge of the table. 

 

“Oh, we love that! What’s your specialty?”

 

“Steak,” Ilya says carefully. “I am very precise.”

 

That earns him another laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me at all!”

 

“Precision is important,” he continues as Shane drags his tongue up the shaft of his cock. “You cannot rush good result.”

 

“We’ve got some brilliant fan questions flooding in.”

Ilya nods politely, but his pulse ticks in his jaw.

 

“First one,” she reads. “Someone asks: are you and Shane Hollander arguing a lot now that you’re stuck together?”

 

“We argue always.”

 

“Oh, this one’s bold. ‘Which of you do you think will win People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive this year?’”

 

Shane begins to move his head in earnest now, picking up the pace until the taste of pre-come coats his tongue.

 

“Me,” Ilya says immediately, driving his knee into Shane’s shoulder. “Next question.”

 

“Oh my goodness. ‘Who would survive longer in a zombie apocalypse?’”

 

“Me,” Ilya repeats. Shane retaliates from under the table, lapping at the other man’s sensitive tip with wicked speed.

 

“No hesitation!” The host laughs.

 

“Hollander would - ah - apologise to zombie.”

 

Shane’s really moving now, taking Ilya’s cock to the back of his throat, observing the way his hips give tiny, almost unnoticeable jerks with satisfaction. Ilya clears his throat.

 

“Water break?”

 

“Fine,” Ilya says far too quickly. “Is fine.”

 

“This one says - and I apologise in advance - ‘Have you heard of Hollanov?’”

 

“Yes,” Ilya grinds out, “is very - erm - creative.”

 

Shane swallows around his cock, and the other man hisses between his teeth. He’s getting close - Shane can tell by the way his breath comes in increasingly shallow pants, and how every muscle is locked firm in what’s now becoming a pretty weak attempt at maintaining composure.

 

“Last one,” the host sing-songs, oblivious. “What’s Shane’s most annoying trait?”

 

Ilya is losing it, and Shane’s never been happier. He’s watching in real-time as every ounce of media training slips away, picking up speed without remorse.

 

“He - bozhe moy - tests boundaries,” Ilya’s voice is strangled, his hands clenched around the table’s edge so hard they’ve gone white. “Presses every button.”

 

“And what do you do when he pushes those buttons?” The host’s tone is playful, and Shane knows what she’s hinting at, but in the moment he doesn’t care - because Ilya’s about to come.

 

“I remind him,” the other man says desperately, “who is in charge.”

 

Ilya’s hips snap forward involuntarily, spilling into Shane’s mouth in furious pulses that he swallows hungrily, watching the other man shudder in a way that he’s clearly trying to pass off as a coughing fit.

 

The host laughs again, none the wiser. “Oh! I love that confidence!”

 

“Yes,” Ilya says, sweating now.

 

Shane hears her shuffling her notes as he lets Ilya’s spent cock slip from his lips. “You two are going to drive each other mad by the end of this, aren’t you?”

 

“Probably,” Ilya forces a polite smile. “But it will be worth it.”

 

“Well, thank you so much, Ilya. Please tell Shane we hope he feels better soon!”

 

“I will,” he replies. Shane begins to tuck his cock back into his jeans, meekly zipping them back up as if that might fix the stony silence that’s settled in the room as the call disconnects. “Bye bye.”

 

Shane - who had felt so powerful just thirty seconds ago - watches Ilya wordlessly close the laptop. He adjusts the hem of his polo, smoothing it flat over his stomach before unfastening his watch and setting it down on the table, like he has all the time in the world.

 

Only then does he look down. “You disobeyed me.”

 

Shane swallows, his lips still swollen and red. “You said behave.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I was -”

 

“You were told to behave.” The interruption is sharp, and Shane sits back on his knees, his heart racing.

 

“You do not test me when I am working.”

 

There’s something tight in Ilya’s jaw now, and Shane has the good grace to look contrite, dropping his gaze to the floor.

 

“You think it is funny,” the other man continues evenly. “Because I did not stop you. We will see if it is so funny now.”

 

Shane risks a helpless glance up to where Ilya is unbuckling his jeans again, ripping off his belt in one swift movement.

 

“Stand up,” Ilya barks.

 

Shane rises unsteadily, his legs stiff from kneeling.

 

“You are proud of yourself,” Ilya states, backing Shane into the foot of the bed without even having to touch him - the genuine irritation radiating from the other man’s tense body is enough to shepherd him around the room. “You enjoyed having power for ten minutes.”

 

The back of Shane’s calves hit the mattress.

 

“And now you will learn something important.”

 

Shane can’t meet his eyes.

 

“You do not take control from me in public. And since you decided to perform,” Ilya continues quietly, “you can deal with the consequences.”

 

His stomach swoops, and in that moment he realises he has absolutely, spectacularly misjudged Ilya’s level of patience.

 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, suitably chastised.

 

Ilya gives a short, hard laugh.

 

“You are about to be.”

Chapter 16: ten

Chapter Notes

I’m actually kinda nervous to post this one lmao

say it with me now: rip shane’s ass (but equally don’t save him he’s exactly where he wants to be)

tw; spanking / heavy kink

aftercare is !!so!! important to me so I do hope I’ve done it justice / made it clear that ilya would genuinely rather die than hurt shane for real

“Turn around.”

 

Shane blinks at him. “What?”

 

“I said turn around.”

 

Shane hesitates with an uncertain laugh. “Wait, are you -”

 

“I will not repeat again.”

 

Shane turns slowly, his heart thrumming. He feels Ilya step in behind him, ridding him of his trousers with one sharp yank. He twists slightly, trying to catch his eye. “You’re not serious.”

 

“I am.”

 

“We’ve never -” Shane starts, trailing off as the other man’s firm hand guides his upper body into the mattress. “Done this.”

 

“No,” Ilya agrees calmly. “We have not done this. But we are about to.”

 

Shane goes rigid for a second, his brain scrambling as Ilya’s fingers brush his bare ass.

 

“If you want to stop, you tell me. Otherwise it is ten. For ten minutes of disruption.”

 

His mouth goes dry, but he tries for bravado anyway. “Easy.”

 

Ilya ignores him. “Count.”

 

When Ilya’s palm first cracks against the skin of his ass, Shane inhales sharply, more startled than hurt.

 

“One,” he says thinly.

 

The other man doesn’t speak - he just makes a small sound of approval in the back of his throat, before the second clap of skin.

 

“Two,” Shane mutters, embarrassment and desire in equal measure flooding his senses.

 

By three, he’s not laughing any more, and by four, his fingers clutch helplessly at the duvet.

 

“Colour.”

 

“Green,” Shane manages, his pride flickering stubbornly in his chest.

 

Ilya doesn’t smile, and continues. Seven makes his hips shift involuntarily.

 

“Still funny joke?” Ilya murmurs.

 

Shane’s throat tightens. “No.”

 

By the time strike ten lands, his voice cracks when he counts it. Ilya’s palm rests warm and steady against his reddening skin.

 

“Look at me.”

 

Shane pushes himself up, his eyes bright, blinking.

 

“You misunderstood,” the other man says calmly. “That is fine. Now you know.”

 

Shane nods, swallowing hard. Ilya’s face remains unchanged.

 

“Now get on the bed.”

 

He complies, making to lay on his back, when Ilya halts him.

 

“On all fours.”

 

Shane’s face is burning now, listening to Ilya position himself behind him, working him open in a way that isn’t rough, but is decidedly not gentle either. He resists the urge to back himself up onto the other man’s deft fingers, extremely aware that shutting up and doing as he’s told is likely the only way he’ll earn himself an orgasm after that particular performance.

 

Ilya says nothing as he withdraws his fingers. Shane feels his hard-again cock brush at his entrance, slick with spit, and is about to prepare himself for the first stretch when Ilya slides himself in abruptly without warning.

 

Shane gives a muffled cry into the bed - it doesn’t particularly hurt, only a little, but the sensation is everywhere. Heat streaks through his body, sending all good sense west as Ilya doesn’t wait, setting a punishing rhythm that’s so forceful it actually knocks the wind out of him.

 

“God -” is all Shane can manage as Ilya pounds into him. “Oh god.”

 

“He will not help you,” the other man grinds out, digging his fingers harder into Shane’s hips.

 

The mattress shifts beneath them with every thrust, the headboard knocking against the wall hard enough to chip paint. Shane’s breath is pulled from him in sharp, broken sounds he can’t swallow down fast enough.

 

The impact is relentless. Shane’s hands slide helplessly over the duvet, fingers bunching in the fabric as his body reacts faster than his brain can process. He discovers - with rising panic - that he can’t settle into the sensation; it’s too much, not enough, and everywhere all at once.

 

“Ilya -” his voice is high. Whining.

 

“Colour.”

 

“Green,” he gasps instantly, because he is, despite the fact his body is on fire.

 

“Good.”

 

At no point does the other man give him pause. Shane’s head drops to the mattress in defeat, his hair sticking to his forehead. Ilya curses in Russian.

 

“I can’t -” Shane starts, his own cock starting to leak against the blankets.

 

“You will.”

 

Shane’s body reacts harder in defiance of that tone. Every snap of Ilya’s hips drives him further towards the edge of desperation. His skin screams, and his untouched cock aches.

 

“I’m -” His voice breaks. “I’m gonna -”

 

“No.”

 

The word is a snarl, and Shane’s entire body jolts at the denial. His hips twitch instinctively, helplessly trying to chase friction that isn’t there.

 

“Ilya - please -”

 

“You do not come,” he says flatly, his hips twitching, but not slowing.

 

It’s too much now. Shane’s breaths turn ragged, then frantic, and his eyes are stinging.

 

“Please,” he chokes, the last of his pride dissolving completely. “I can’t.”

 

“You can.”

 

Tears spill over, and his body keeps responding against his will. Shane’s trembling, and a broken gasp of pleasure from Ilya has him whimper with need.

 

“Look at you,” Ilya murmurs in response, his voice threaded with his own enjoyment and the sharp sting of mockery. “You wanted control.”

 

Shane sobs quietly into the mattress. “I didn’t - I didn’t mean -”

 

“I know.”

 

Ilya denies him every time Shane’s hips drop, trying at the very least for some kind of friction between his legs.

 

“Fuck,” the other man hisses through clenched teeth, bottoming out and stilling. Shane can feel the telltale twitching, and the spreading warmth as Ilya comes inside him, and it just makes him cry harder. Need consumes him entirely, shuddering as the other man exhales, riding out his pleasure with shallow, selfish thrusts.

 

He’s gasping for air when Ilya abruptly pulls out, and Shane makes a broken sound at the sudden emptiness. He feels hands on him, moving him upright, and his cock throbs hopefully.

 

“Sit,” Ilya says calmly, pointing at his feet.

 

Shane obeys immediately, scrambling to fold down at Ilya’s ankles without protest, peering up at him through wet lashes. He wipes at his face roughly with the back of his hand, mortified.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. Still painfully hard, but quieter.

 

Ilya studies him for a few seconds. Then he drops to crouch in front of him, so close Shane can see the way his pupils are still dilated with pleasure. His fingers tilt Shane’s chin upward.

 

“Beautiful.”

 

His lips are swollen, and he knows his eyes obviously red-rimmed - he swallows down the lump in his throat.

 

“I do not mind when you are little shit,” Ilya says, not unkindly. “But there are consequences for actions.”

 

Shane nods immediately. “I understand.”

 

“Yes. You do,” Ilya agrees, still searching his face intently.

 

Shane’s hands curl uselessly in his lap. He’s still so hard that he’s sure one touch would set him off completely.

 

“You will not come today,” he says simply, as if on cue.

 

Shane’s face crumples for half a second before he reins it in. “Okay.”

 

Something shifts in Ilya’s expression. He exhales slowly and reaches forward, brushing his thumb beneath one of the tear tracks on Shane’s cheek.

 

“Too much?” he asks quietly.

 

Shane shakes his head without hesitation. “No. Just -” His voice wobbles. “It’s a lot.”

 

“Mm. It is.”

 

Ilya helps him to his feet. Shane’s legs are still shaking, and the other man steadies him automatically with gentle hands.

 

“Come,” he says, guiding him into the bathroom and flicking on the shower with one hand.

 

“You were very brave,” Ilya murmurs, almost fondly. “For someone who cries this much.”

 

Shane gives a watery laugh, letting Ilya steer him into the tub without protest, though he does make a confused noise when the other man steps into the shower beside him. The warm spray catches him across the shoulders and he flinches at the sting. Ilya notices immediately, shifting so his own body shields the worst of the water pressure.

 

“Too hot?”

 

“No, just -” Shane exhales shakily. “Sensitive.”

 

Ilya makes a soothing, sympathetic noise. “I know.”

 

The other man reaches past him to grab the shampoo without asking, before tipping Shane’s chin forward with two fingers and beginning to work it gently into his hair.

 

Ilya moves in thorough strokes, his fingertips pressing into Shane’s scalp in deliberate, calming circles. He sighs at the sensation, dropping his forehead to hide in Ilya’s broad shoulder with his eyes closed.

 

“You do not have to apologise again,” Ilya says quietly over the sound of water.

 

Shane swallows. “I know. I guess I just didn’t think you were actually mad.”

 

“I was not mad, Shane,” Ilya corrects softly. “I was correcting bad attitude. You were bad boy, you know this.”

 

Shane nods slightly, careful not to disrupt the hands still working blissfully through his hair. The water runs clear when Ilya tips his head back under the spray, shielding Shane’s eyes with his palm. He then lathers the soap in his hands, setting about massaging it carefully into Shane’s tight shoulders.

 

“It scared me a bit,” Shane admits finally, his voice small. He feels Ilya’s hands go still for half a second.

 

“You should be little afraid when you test me,” he murmurs eventually. “Not of me. Of what happens after.”

 

Shane suppresses a smile.

 

“I was watching you,” Ilya continues. “Every second. Your body talks very loudly at me.”

 

“Yeah, and I wish it didn’t.”

 

“You were green whole time. If I thought for one second you were not, I would not have carried it on.”

 

“I know.” Shane does. That’s one thing he’s certain on. “I said I was scared, not that I didn’t feel safe.”

 

Ilya hums his approval, taking great care to work his fingers lightly across Shane’s ribs. It’s clear the other man is checking - for what exactly, Shane doesn’t know, but he stands placidly while Ilya catalogues him anyway.

 

His fingers skim over the red handprints on Shane’s ass when he turns him, and Ilya frowns at them.

 

“Tomorrow will be darker,” he murmurs.

 

“Yeah, I know.”

 

“I will kiss it better.”

 

“I didn’t think you’d get in with me,” Shane admits quietly after a moment.

 

Ilya lifts a curious brow. “Why?”

 

“I don’t know. Felt like I deserved to just -” He gestures vaguely at himself. “Deal with it.”

 

Ilya’s hand comes up, cupping his jaw briefly with an intensity in his eyes that makes Shane flush.

 

“I dealt with it. Now I take care of you.” The other man’s thumb gently strokes his cheek. “Plus I have to make sure you are not getting yourself off in here. Is rule.”

 

Shane huffs, but he’s smiling now. The last of the adrenaline is bleeding rapidly out of him, and he leans forward again without thinking to press his forehead lightly to Ilya’s chest.

 

The water runs warm down both of them. For once, Ilya doesn’t correct his dreadful posture - instead he wraps an arm around Shane’s shoulders and lets him stay there.

 

After a minute, he tilts Shane’s chin up again.

 

“You are so beautiful to me, Shane Hollander. So beautiful.”

 

There’s something raw in Ilya’s tone that has Shane’s eyes burning again. He considers making a joke, or letting what’s bubbling in his throat spill out into the air between them.

 

Eventually, Shane decides to say nothing at all, and scrubs at his eyes with the back of his arm.

 

Ilya nods, just once, and pinches Shane’s cheek playfully.

 

“Come,” he says, flicking off the shower. “I have steak to cook. And I want to post photo on Instagram.”

Chapter 17: edge

Chapter Notes

ugh needy shane hollander just completes me tbh

Shane hasn’t been allowed to come in three days.

 

Prior to, well, whatever this is, that wouldn’t have been much of a problem. However, being in Ilya’s constant proximity has made this the biggest source of frustration Shane has experienced in his life to date.

 

Ilya is everywhere, with his stupid face, and his stupid body, and his stupid voice that makes Shane’s stomach flip. The worst is when they sit together on the sofa, his thighs spread like he isn’t fully aware of what that does to a man who hasn’t been allowed to finish since Monday.

 

Shane is being so good about it, though.

 

He makes the bed without being asked, wipes down the counters, folds Ilya’s laundry, takes his walks without complaint. He even alphabetises the spice rack, which he knows Ilya will notice because Ilya notices everything.

 

“You are touching my paprika,” Ilya says from the sofa.

 

“Structure is important,” Shane replies sweetly, not looking up. “You wake up at same time. You move your body. You don’t make excuses.”

 

“Mocking me is bold,” Ilya turns down the television, glancing away from Countdown to raise an eyebrow at him.

 

“I’m not mocking you,” Shane says quickly. “I’m just applying your teachings.”

 

Ilya only hums.

 

Three days of being edged by proximity alone has turned Shane’s brain to soup. As if summoned by just by thought, his aching cock throbs under his joggers, and he resists the urge to grind into the countertop.

 

“Would you like a glass of wine?” Shane tries again.

 

Ilya doesn’t look up immediately, but he nods. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

 

Shane reaches for the bottle, not touched since he’d blindly put it in the trolley at Tesco, and pours one glass. He hesitates, hovering over the second empty one.

 

“May I have one too? Please?”

 

The other man frowns, clearly perturbed by the politeness.

 

“Da, yes. You do not need to ask me for wine.”

 

“I wanted to,” Shane says calmly, passing Ilya his before settling delicately beside him on the sofa. He scans the other man’s face, disappointed when he can’t find any indication of approval.

 

Ilya attempts to turn his attention back to Countdown, but he lasts all of five minutes before he breaks. “You are staring weirdly. What is wrong with you?”

 

Shane blinks at him. “Nothing.”

 

“You are vibrating again,” Ilya says flatly. “You will hit ceiling.”

 

“I’m not vibrating.”

 

“You asked permission for wine.”

 

“That’s just manners.”

 

Shane’s cheeks flush as Ilya studies him properly now, the television forgotten. Countdown ticks over in the background.

 

“For three days you stare. Follow me around with sad eyes like puppy dog. You are trying something.”

 

Shane shifts closer without thinking, arranging himself very neatly until their shoulders brush. It makes him shiver. “I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“You are sitting like that on purpose.” Ilya looks him up and down, amusement playing on his lips.

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like you are auditioning.”

 

Shane bristles. “I am not auditioning.”

 

“For what?”

 

He swallows. His pride is hanging by a thread at this point anyway, and he folds. “For, uh…forgiveness.”

 

Ilya’s mouth twitches, just slightly. “You are forgiven, Shane. I told you this.”

 

“Yes, but,” Shane presses, leaning in a fraction. He can smell the citrus of Ilya’s shampoo, and it pools low in his stomach. “There could be additional forgiveness.”

 

“Additional?”

 

“Supplemental.”

 

Ilya takes a sip of wine, entirely unbothered. “No.”

 

Shane exhales slowly through his nose, but he’s no quitter. He tries another tactic, sliding one hand lightly onto Ilya’s knee, resting it there.

 

“Have I been good?” he asks, softer now.

 

“Yes. Very.”

 

Shane perks up like a dog hearing a treat bag rustle. “Consistently?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Exceptionally?” Shane smiles into his wine, certain he’s won.

 

“Mm. So so. I could not find garlic powder earlier.”

 

“I moved it for efficiency!” Shane says, quick to correct any perceived blunder. “It’s in the pull out drawer so you can get to it easily.”

 

Ilya watches him unravel with open interest. Shane’s hand creeps higher on his thigh, testing.

 

“I can be better,” he offers. “I can be extremely, extremely good.”

 

“Ah,” Ilya tsks. “How would you find time? You are already extremely, extremely annoying.”

 

Shane huffs, then smooths his expression back into something sweet and obedient. An idea is forming in both his head and his cock, and Shane seizes it immediately.

 

“Sir,” he says carefully.

 

Ilya’s eyes snap to his. “What did you just say?”

 

“I said Sir.”

 

Ilya sets his wine down slowly. “You have never called me that.”

 

Shane shrugs one shoulder, hoping to god it comes across as casual. “Felt appropriate.”

 

“Appropriate,” Ilya repeats slowly, clearly still processing.

 

“I’ve been good,” Shane mumbles. “I’ve done everything you asked. I haven’t complained. I haven’t -” he hesitates, flushing slightly, “- touched myself since.”

 

“And?”

 

“And I thought maybe,” Shane exhales slowly. “Maybe I could ask properly.”

 

“Properly.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You think this is proper?” Ilya asks quietly.

 

Shane falters just a little. “I think it’s honest.”

 

“You understand,” he says finally, his voice infuriatingly even, “that words like that are not trick.”

 

“I know!”

 

“You are not saying it because you are desperate.”

 

Shane genuinely laughs at that. “I am desperate.”

 

“Yes. But that is not why.” Ilya’s gaze drops briefly to Shane’s mouth.

 

“I like how it feels,” he admits finally. “And I like how you look when I say it.”

 

Ilya trails his fingers across Shane’s forearm. “You are very bold tonight.”

 

“I haven’t come in three days,” Shane replies, plaintive. “Bold is all I’ve got left.”

 

Ilya shifts closer instead. “You are asking me to come?”

 

“Yeah, I’m asking.” Shane’s heart is pounding. He prompts with a needy little: “so?”

 

The other man brushes his knuckles lightly down the side of Shane’s jaw. “You do not use that word to negotiate orgasm. You use it because you mean it.”

 

“I do mean it.”

 

“I know. The answer is still no.”

 

Shane makes a small, wounded noise of distress before he can stop himself, which makes Ilya’s mouth twitch again.

 

“You are very sweet,” he says gently. “But you are still not coming.”

 

Shane stares at him in open disbelief. “You’re evil.”

 

“Mm. I am disciplined.” Ilya picks up his wine again, utterly composed. “You may continue being extremely, extremely good, however. Saves me headache of making you cry again.”

 

Shane exhales hard through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair.

 

“When, Ilya?” He knows he’s whining now, unable to mask the pout on his face, but he just needs to know before he comes apart entirely.

 

“When I decide,” Ilya shrugs, as if it’s obvious.

 

“That’s not a timeframe, though!”

 

“Yes, it is.”

 

Shane slumps dramatically against the back of the sofa. “You’re drunk on power.”

 

“I have had half glass of wine.”

 

“That’s not what I meant.”

 

Ilya ignores him, reaching for the remote again. Shane lasts around thirty seconds before he leans back in. “I could do something for you.”

 

“You are already sucking my cock and folding my socks, Shane. I need nothing more from you right now.”

 

“I mean something even more useful.”

 

“Mm. No.”

 

Shane sighs into his hands, trying very hard to drag his focus back to the television, from the fact he’s straining desperately in his boxers.

 

“You are suffering very loudly,” Ilya notes a few minutes later.

 

“I’m not suffering.”

 

“You have sighed seven times in one minute.”

 

“You’re counting my sighs now?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Shane shifts closer again, because apparently he has no self-preservation instinct left.

 

“What if,” he says carefully, “I promise to be exceptionally respectful. For, say, the rest of the week.”

 

“You are already pretending to be exceptionally respectful.”

 

“I am not pretending!”

 

He hesitates, then tries again. “If I was really good for the rest of the week, would you let me? I’ll get on my knees right now, erm…Sir.”

 

Ilya’s jaw flexes, and his eyes are dark. Shane chases the expression with longing.

 

“You are pushing.”

 

“I’m just asking.”

 

Ilya turns fully toward him now, one arm stretched lazily along the back of the sofa behind Shane’s shoulders.

 

“You want schedule?” he asks.

 

“Yes,” is Shane’s immediate response.

 

“You think if I give you date, you will behave better?”

 

“I’m already behaving perfectly.”

 

“You are doing very well,” Ilya muses, as if he’s deep in thought. “Three days is very long time for needy boys.”

 

Shane nods with aggressive enthusiasm, hope fluttering painfully in his chest. “Yep. Yeah. Exactly.”

 

He might’ve continued babbling at him for quite some time, but Ilya’s hand shifts to palm his cock, and he shuts up instantly.

 

“What are you doing,” he asks hoarsely, watching Ilya stroke him through the fabric. He inhales sharply as the other man’s thumb presses into his shaft.

 

“You are very worked up tonight,” Ilya murmurs, almost thoughtful. “I am thinking.”

 

“Don’t let me stop you,” Shane can hardly believe his luck. Ilya’s thumb presses harder, now swirling around his tip.

 

“You have been extremely good,” Ilya continues. “My sweet boy.”

 

Shane nods quickly. “Yeah. Yes. That’s me.”

 

Ilya’s fingers curl slightly - not quite where Shane needs them any more, but it’s close enough, and he accepts the contact gratefully.

 

“You are shaking,” Ilya observes.

 

“I’m not.”

 

“You are.”

 

Shane swallows. “Please keep going.”

 

He adjusts his hand, palming him just enough to make Shane’s hips twitch involuntarily, which drags a gasp from deep in his chest. Ilya’s eyes sharpen.

“Look at you,” he croons under his breath. “Three days and you are this sensitive for me.”

 

Shane nods before he can stop himself. “Please.”

 

It’s not even strategic anymore - it just falls out of him like a needy vending machine.

 

Ilya’s hand finally closes properly around his cock, and Shane makes a broken, relieved sound, immediately leaning into it.

 

“Poor baby,” the other man muses, giving him an indulgent stroke.

 

“I am,” Shane breathes, fighting with the urge to buck up into his hand. Ilya’s strokes are torturously slow, but it truly doesn’t matter - Shane’s hands clutch at his shirt, half-delirious. “Ah, fuck. Thank you. Thank you.”

 

“You are very close already,” Ilya notes, his voice almost impressed.

 

“Ah - god - I know,” Shane whimpers without any attempt to pretend otherwise.

 

Ilya just hums, picking up the pace. Shane’s breath chokes off, his release coiling at the base of his spine like an uncracked whip.

 

“Ilya -” it breaks off into a needy whine.

 

“I know,” he says, his accent rougher now, blue eyes locked on his.

Shane’s whole body tightens, and he’s absolutely going to come in his pants. He absolutely doesn’t care. “I’m gonna -”

 

Ilya stops, and Shane’s body jerks forward into nothing. There’s a full second of silence.

 

“No,” Shane wails, watching him withdraw his hand entirely. “You’re a fucking monster.”

 

“I am disciplined. I told you this.” Ilya takes a long, satisfied sip of wine.

 

Shane’s mouth opens and closes uselessly. Ilya leans in and brushes his lips lightly against the corner of his mouth in a half-kiss.

 

“You are doing so well,” he whispers. “Imagine how good it will feel when I actually let you.”

 

Shane makes a wounded noise. “You were going to let me.”

 

“No.”

 

Shane collapses back against the sofa, staring at the ceiling in despair. “I hate you. Like, actually. I hate you so much.”

 

“No, you don’t.”

 

Shane drags a hand down his face. “You’re evil.”

 

“Mm.”

 

“And you enjoyed that.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Shane glares at him.

 

“I am also very proud of you,” Ilya adds, which does something funny to Shane’s chest.

 

“Don’t be. I actually don’t even want to come.”

 

Ilya chuckles. “Really?”

 

“Yep.” Shane nods, overly brisk. “I’m over it. I’ve changed my mind,” he continues, waving a hand vaguely. “It’s about the journey, not the destination, or whatever.”

 

Ilya watches him curiously, but Shane crosses one leg over the other in what he hopes is the picture of composure. His knee immediately starts bouncing against his will.

 

“Ah, very convincing.”

 

Shane lasts exactly six seconds before his hips shift against the sofa cushion in a small, desperate drag. Ilya doesn’t even pretend not to notice.

 

“I do not even want to come,” the other man repeats slowly, tasting the words, sarcasm hanging from each syllable.

 

“I don’t!” Shane insists, which would probably have been more convincing if his voice didn’t crack halfway through.

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay.”

 

They sit in silence, and Shane adjusts himself.

 

“I take it back,” he mutters into his sleeve, reaching to fidget with Ilya’s crucifix.

 

“Already?”

 

“I didn’t mean it.”

 

“Ah, no. Really?”

 

Shane glares at him, then abruptly flops sideways so his shoulder thuds against Ilya’s chest. Ilya’s arm snakes around him, hooking his waist to keep him there. Despite himself, Shane goes boneless, feeling the steady thrum of Ilya’s heartbeat against his back.

 

“You’re distracting me,” he grumbles.

 

“From what?”

 

“From being furious.”

 

“You are not furious. You are small kitten.”

 

Shane makes a noncommittal noise. The television chatters on, and Ilya’s fingers trace lazy patterns over Shane’s arm absentmindedly. It’s nice. His thoughts quieten.

 

The other man pauses his ministrations to reach for his wine, and Shane makes a little sound of protest as his hand pulls away.

 

Ilya laughs - a short, fond sound - and abandons the wine, running a gentle hand up Shane’s bicep.

 

“See,” he teases. “Small kitten. What on earth am I going to do with you?”

 

“Rehome me?” Shane grouches, but there’s no heat to it, just a soft sleepiness that blurs the edges of his words together.

 

“Mm, no.” Ilya presses a lazy kiss to the top of his head, before tangling his hands in Shane’s hair. “Never.”

Chapter 18: heart

Chapter Notes

I woke up this morning and made a weird noise when I saw over SIX THOUSAND people have clicked my little fic, thank you I’m emotional

this chapter: fluff, fluff, there’s fluff everywhere, oh look I’ve got more fluff for you

sulking shane? three apples tall

I may be able to get another chapter up later today bc the next one is a bit different and shorter (I’m writing ilya and hayden’s text exchange, would u like to see it)

“I am not domesticated,” Shane snaps into his phone, resuming his pacing around the cramped track he’s constructed in the living room. He does a loop, circling the table.

 

Hayden snorts on the other end of the line. “Hey, no judgement here. I’m happy for you, man.”

 

“There’s nothing to be happy about,” Shane grinds out, ignoring Ilya’s chuckle from the armchair.

 

Hayden lowers his voice theatrically, despite the fact he’s been on speaker for the past thirty minutes. “Is he there?”

 

“No,” Shane lies. Ilya snorts.

 

“Hi, Rozanov.”

 

Shane freezes. “You can’t just -”

 

“I can hear you doing the voice.”

 

“What voice?”

 

“The voice you use when you talk about Jonathan Bailey.”

 

Shane nearly trips over the rug, blushing furiously. “I just admire his work!”

 

Ilya closes his laptop, something menacing sparking in his eyes.

 

Hayden continues, oblivious and delighted. “Put him on.”

 

“No!”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because you’re annoying.”

 

Ilya stands, closing the distance between them in a a few leisurely strides to stop directly in front of him. Shane hears himself make a strange little noise at the proximity.

 

Hayden gasps. “Oh my god, he’s there isn’t he?”

 

“I am,” Ilya says mildly, leaning just enough toward the phone. “Hello, Pike.”

 

“God, I always forget about the accent,” Hayden’s voice is playfully sultry.

 

Shane glares. “Don’t antagonise him.”

 

“I’m not antagonising him. I’m bonding.”

 

“Mm, no.” Ilya cuts in.

 

Hayden laughs again. “Oh, I like him.”

 

“Is one sided” Ilya replies calmly.

 

Shane attempts to interrupt. “Can we not -”

“That’s incredible - I haven’t even done anything yet!”

 

Shane presses a hand to his forehead. “I’m hanging up.”

 

“No you’re not,” Hayden says quickly. “I have questions.”

 

“You always have questions.”

 

Ilya’s hand comes up to settle at the back of Shane’s neck, and he goes still.

 

Hayden ignores him completely. “Rozanov, be honest. Does he follow you around all day?”

 

“All day,” Ilya confirms seriously.

 

“I do not!”

 

“He is very busy,” Ilya ignores the protest. “Very helpful. Very attentive.”

 

Shane’s stomach flips traitorously at that. Ilya’s fingers tighten their grip.

 

Hayden makes a thoughtful sound on the other end of the line. “Attentive, huh?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“So, like, clingy?”

 

“Hayden,” Shane warns, but it’s weak.

 

Ilya tilts his head slightly, searching for the word. “Yes. He prefers proximity.”

 

“I do not prefer -”

 

Shane tries to move away, but the other man’s hand swiftly becomes a vice, holding him there.

 

“You text Shane a lot,” Ilya says coolly, seemingly unbothered by the fact Shane’s currently wriggling desperately to free himself, holding the phone as far away from him as he can manage.

 

“Ah, you’re jealous.”

 

“No,” Ilya says immediately.

 

“Too fast,” Hayden shoots back.

 

Shane looks between them like he’s trapped in a particularly violent tennis match of subtext.

 

“I am not jealous,” Ilya says, but his jaw is tense. “You are just very loud on phone.”

 

“Don’t worry, Rozanov, I’m not gonna steal your man. Much as Jackie would love that,” Hayden drops his voice to a stage-whisper. “Anyway, if you hurt him I’ll key your car.”

 

“Mm. I have five, so,” Ilya shrugs. “No big deal.”

 

“Then I’ll key something else.”

 

“I would like to see you try.”

 

“I would like to see you stop me.”

 

By the time the call ends, Ilya and Hayden have exchanged numbers, and the two have been texting back and forth for the past hour and a half. Every time Ilya’s phone lights up, Shane’s eye twitches.

 

“What’s he saying now?” he asks eventually, hovering in the kitchenette.

 

Ilya doesn’t look up. “He sent picture.”

 

“Of?”

 

“First of kids. Then memes. Now -” Ilya holds his screen out for Shane to see. “Of you.”

 

He recognises the photo instantly. He’d been at a wrap party for some high-brow shoot back in Canada, and Hayden had taken out his phone just as Shane had climbed onto the bar, feeding one of the other models a vape with one hand and clutching a cocktail in the other. He’s going to kill Hayden Pike.

 

“That’s private,” he hisses, watching as Ilya’s thumb clicks the save button.

 

“I have seen your cock. Privacy is so so.”

 

“Why are you entertaining him?” Shane scowls, chewing morosely on the last of his tuna melt.

 

“He is funny.”

 

“He’s not funny!”

 

“He is.”

 

Ilya’s phone buzzes again, and he smirks at the screen.

 

“You like him!” Shane accuses, dumping his plate into the sink with more force than is strictly necessary.

 

The other man looks up at the sound. “Relax.”

 

“I am relaxed.”

 

“I can hear you sulking.”

 

“I’m not fucking sulking!”

 

When Ilya’s phone buzzes again, Shane snaps.

 

“Can you not,” he says sharply. “Just for like - five minutes.”

 

Ilya tilts his head. “Not what?”

 

“Text my best friend.” Shane instantly regrets the bitterness in his voice, but he doesn’t back down. “You’ve been glued to that thing since we hung up.”

 

“And?”

 

“And I’m right here.”

 

Ilya’s expression changes ever so slightly. “Ah.”

 

Shane flushes, watching as he clicks the phone off, setting it carefully down on the arm of the sofa. “Better?”

 

“Yeah.” Shane’s voice is small.

 

Ilya clicks his fingers softly in a gesture Shane has come to learn is a wordless ‘come here.’ “You are jealous of Pike.”

 

“I am not jealous of Hayden,” he mutters, moving towards him without thinking, like the man in front of him has his own unique centre of gravity.

 

“You are jealous of my attention.”

 

Shane doesn’t look at him as he crawls into Ilya’s lap - he’s warm and solid. Familiar. “He gets you all amused. I’ve been here the whole time.”

 

Ilya’s mouth twitches. “And you think I am not amused by you? You are very strange, small Canadian. I laugh at you always.”

 

When it becomes apparent Shane isn’t going to respond, he reaches down to hook two fingers under his chin, tilting his sad eyes up to meet his. “You have my attention. Always.”

 

“Okay,” Shane says meekly, shifting slightly to rock their hips together, searching for pressure. “Good.”

 

“You are very sweet when you are jealous,” Ilya muses, letting his hands drop to Shane’s thighs.

 

“I’m not sweet.”

 

“You are very sweet,” Ilya repeats. “You try to pretend you do not care. But you care very loudly.”

 

“Don’t flirt with him in front of me.” Shane’s only half joking, hardly believing Ilya hasn’t corrected the way he’s moving their hips against each other in small, needy grinds.

 

“Okay. We will flirt in private.”

 

His eyes widen. “Shut up.”

 

Ilya laughs under his breath. Shane wants to pocket that sound forever and keep it safe. Private. Just for him alone.

 

“You think I have not noticed,” Ilya says after a minute or two, his hand snapping up to clamp on Shane’s hip.

 

“Noticed what?” Shane freezes, pretty sure he already knows the answer, but happy to go to bat for it anyway.

 

Ilya looks down pointedly to where Shane’s so obviously hard that the pattern of his shorts - the Christmas ones - is distorted.

 

“You are very subtle,” Ilya says dryly.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You have been doing this for,” Ilya glances at the clock on the oven, “four minutes.”

 

Shane flushes. “I was just adjusting.”

 

“Mm.” Ilya’s hands settle, one firm at the small of Shane’s back, the other splayed wide over his thigh.

 

“You are grinding on me,” he observes with a satisfied smile.

 

“I’m not grinding!” Shane shifts again, just to prove a point, but falters when the movement sends a white-hot spike of need through his cock.

 

Ilya’s eyebrows rise, catching the strain in his face. “Shane. You are filing for residency on my thigh.”

 

Shane rolls his eyes, changing the subject with as much grace as he can muster. “Why’d you save the photo? Of me. You saved it to your camera roll.”

 

Ilya’s hand tightens slightly at his lower back, encouraging another unconscious roll of Shane’s hips.

 

“Lockdown will not last forever. I want to look at it when I touch myself in Russia.”

 

Each part of that sentence has a different effect on Shane’s body. The elephant he’s been resolutely ignoring spears him with both tusks.

 

“You’re so gross,” he mutters automatically, his hips stuttering against Ilya’s thigh before he can stop them.

 

Ilya’s palm smooths up his spine. “You asked why I saved it.”

 

“That’s not -” Shane huffs in a desperate attempt to play cool. “You could phrase it another way.”

 

“I could,” Ilya agrees calmly. “But you are pretending you do not like to be wanted.”

 

Lockdown will not last forever. Shane shifts again as the thought crashes through whatever weak attempt at boundaries he’s been dismantling subconsciously, but this time he’s not just hunting for friction. His fingers curl into the fabric of Ilya’s shirt at the collarbone, as if the other man might just disappear into thin air if he lets go.

 

“You’re very confident,” Shane says, trying miserably for casual and missing it by a mile. “That I won’t still be around to annoy you after.”

 

“Mm. You will.” Ilya presses a kiss to the inside of Shane’s wrist.

 

“I mean…you don’t know that.”

 

“I do.”

 

“How?”

 

“Because you do not grind on people you plan to leave.”

 

“I think -” Shane starts, ignoring the pointed comment and trying again. “I keep forgetting this is temporary. It’s weird.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Like a summer camp,” he adds, for no real reason.

 

Ilya snorts. “You think this is summer camp?”

 

“I don’t know,” Shane mutters. “You’ll go back to your stupid schedule. I’ll go back to mine. We’ll be in different cities. Different countries, most of the time.” He shrugs, as if he’s not actively breaking his own heart. “Normal.”

 

“You do not want normal?” Ilya asks quietly, something strange flickering on his face.

 

Shane rolls his eyes again. “Most of the time I love normal.”

 

“You hate normal.”

 

Shane can’t help himself, leaning in for a kiss.

 

“That’s slander,” he mumbles against the other man’s mouth. “Lies and deception.”

 

Ilya’s hand tangles in his hair, deepening it. “Mm. I am under arrest. This is prison - you are catastrophising about future and rubbing yourself on me like dog.”

 

“Shut up!” Shane snaps, “such an asshole.”

 

Ilya brings their hips together in a firm, slow roll.

 

“Lockdown isn’t ending tomorrow,” Shane says dismissively after a moment, waving one hand in the air. “I don’t care. I might eventually get some peace and quiet.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Then stop acting like I am boarding plane tonight.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

Ilya bites playfully at the side of Shane’s jaw.“You were about to give speech.”

 

“I was not -” Ilya shifts his thigh upward just slightly, and Shane’s voice dies off abruptly at the sensation.

 

“See,” the other man says mildly. “This is much easier problem to solve.”

 

Shane glares. “You’re weaponising your body.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“That’s not fair.”

 

“Oh, no,” Ilya teases. “Report me to government.”

 

Shane tries to reposition himself with some dignity, but Ilya’s hands guide him right back where he was, palming him through the thin fabric of his shorts.

 

“Four days,” Ilya says softly. “Four days, and you are losing structural integrity.”

 

“Quit diagnosing me.”

 

Shane inhales sharply as Ilya’s fingers dip under his waistband to free him, wrapping tightly around his shaft with a taunting squeeze.

 

“You see?” he murmurs. “All these dramatics and your body only wants one thing.”

 

Shane feels his cheeks start to burn. “You’re unbearable.”

 

“You like it.”

 

Shane tries one last time to redirect. “So when this ends -”

 

“No more talking.” Ilya’s free hand moves, pulling out his own cock to press it against Shane’s. “I have headache. And I want to make you come so hard you cry again.”

 

If there hadn’t have been four days of torturous, unbearable edging preceding the way Ilya then spits into his hand to begin stroking them both, Shane might have argued the sudden shift in conversation. But there has been, so he doesn’t.

 

“For real this time?” Shane breathes, mesmerised by the way the other man’s strong fingers glide up them both, setting a slow, intimate rhythm that’s actively making his head spin.

 

“Yes,” Ilya’s watchful eyes don’t leave his. “When you come is up to me. I told you this.”

 

Shane’s fingers curl instinctively into Ilya’s shoulders. “No jokes?”

 

“No. You have been very patient.”

 

“I have not,” Shane corrects weakly as a particularly intense pang of pleasure curls deep in his stomach.

 

“You have.” Ilya’s gradually picking up speed, filling the space between them with wet, filthy sounds. “You did not cheat.”

 

“You would’ve -” Shane breaks off with a sharp gasp. “You would’ve known.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Ilya shifts slightly beneath him, adjusting the angle so their hips press closer, still working them both in one hand. Shane chokes on a breath, watching the way Ilya’s abdomen flexes, every muscle tight with desire. His thumb drags higher, and Shane’s head drops back before he can stop it, pulse thundering.

 

“Ilya,” Shane warns, unable to stop his hips from jerking, so close he can sense the edge he’s about to hurtle from.

 

“Is okay,” Ilya grinds out, his eyes so dark with lust Shane can’t find any blue in them at all. “Let it go, moy paren’.”

 

The pressure in Shane’s stomach winds tighter and tighter. Then it explodes.

 

Shane comes so hard in Ilya’s hand that his ears ring with the sheer force of it. He’s still making broken, stupid little moans, so focused on forcing his lungs to take in air that he almost doesn’t notice how Ilya sucks in a sharp breath looking at his face, before spilling his own release as well.

 

He shudders as the other man releases him, swiping a lazy finger through the mess of come on his stomach. Through habit, Shane opens his mouth, anticipating the taste of them both he’s grown so used to each time. Instead, Ilya licks it himself - Shane blinks dumbly at him.

 

“You feel better?” The other man asks, dragging a discarded sock over the remaining wetness, wiping it away.

 

“I can see in colour again,” Shane feels himself sag, making a sound of gratitude when Ilya pulls him backwards to rest against his chest. “I could run through a wall.”

 

Ilya chuckles into his hair. “Demonstrate.”

 

Shane laughs - actually laughs - and makes to stand up. The other man snakes an arm around his waist immediately, keeping him there.

 

“No,” Ilya groans, grinning against the hot skin of Shane’s back. “No. You stay. Mine.”

 

“Yours,” Shane echoes. “Idiot.”

 

“You are idiot.” Ilya pokes him in the nose.

 

“You are.”

 

“No, you are.”

 

“Ilya.”

 

“Shane.”

 

“You haven’t done Wordle today.”

 

“Yebat!” Ilya slaps a hand to his forehead. “I am allowed to use phone again?”

 

A smug smile pulls at Shane’s lips. “No.”

 

Shane lets Ilya pretend he’s been stabbed in the chest for a few seconds, flailing his long legs in a far too dramatic impression of agonal breathing, before he caves. Because of course he does.

 

The word of the day pulls at something beneath his ribs: it’s HEART.

Chapter 19: hayden

Chapter Notes

I hope it’s clear who’s who through this - I did want to try a texting skin but I got so confused I gave up and did this instead

it’s canon in this universe that hayden sends ilya stupid memes at 3am when he’s up with the baby btw

back to normal chapters tomorrow, I am done for the day

(also I hope the emojis show up?? lmk if not)

This is my number.

 

Lucky me! 
Is it wrong to say I’m glad you text first 👀 

 

Of course you use emoji.

 

You don’t?? Boring

He still mad?

 

Probably yes.

 

Aw. I mean we’re basically friends by proxy now

No.

 

What the fuck is that.

 

My face just then

You hurt my feelings

 

I will call doctor.

 

I just airdropped you a photo of my kids

We have to be friends now

It’s the law

And proof I have a life outside of terrorising your boyfriend

We are not boyfriend.

You have many children.

 

😉

 

You are winking at me. 

This is your wife?

 

HAHAHAHA

Oh I have so much to teach you

Anyway

It’s your turn

 

?

I do not have children.

 

I know that ffs

I meant share something

Sell yourself to me or I’ll tell Shane your accent is fake 

He would not believe.

 

🙄

He might

So, wanna talk about the jealousy thing?

 

I am not jealous.

 

Sure, dude

You typed that in 0.2 seconds

 

To end conversation faster.

 

Where are you from, anyway?

 

Russia.

 

Yeah, no shit

WHERE in Russia?

 

Moscow.

 

You like it?

 

Not so much. Canada is better.

 

Agreed.

Wow, look at that, we found common ground already

 

Do not get emotional.

 

Too late, I feel closer to you already

 

You are making it weird. I see why Shane likes you so much.

 

You text me first!

 

Only mistake I ever make.

 

Serious question

Does he actually follow you around?

 

Yes.

 

And you like that?

 

Very much. I want him close always for safety purposes.

 

Safety??

 

His brain hurts his feelings.

 

Ah, yeah. Makes sense

That’s sweet, actually

I thought you had the emotional range of a teaspoon

 

Tablespoon.

 

What an upgrade 💅 

 

I contain multitudes.

 

Name THREE emotions

No.

 

Coward.

 

I am selective.

 

Very Russian of you

So 

What do you do with him when he’s being a stage 5 clinger?

Sit on him?

I could use the help

 

Something like that.

 

That’s not a metaphor, is it?

 

😈 

 

Jesus Christ 

Oh an emoji! See I’m having a positive influence already 

 

He is calmer when he can touch me.

 

Cute. I’ve screenshot that

 

Delete.

 

Make me, Rozanov

I do have something for you in exchange though

A gift, if you will

 

I am very scared.

 

Here. Shane at an after a few years ago

Fuck.

 

Language!

 

He is dancing?

 

Yeah

It’s funny, only takes a few drinks before the stick comes right out of his ass

 

I know.

 

Wait yeah I remember now!

He asked if he could kiss you, right?

He told me about that

 

Congratulations.

Thank you for photo.

You took photo?

 

Yeah, you can see my hand if you squint

 

I am not looking at hand.

You have more?

 

Thousands. Follow me on Insta

@haydenpike32

 

Is because you have 32 children?

 

Almost. I peaked at 31

 

Accept follow request.

 

Done

Fuck.

 

Please don’t jack off over my Instagram 

 

I have already started. Account is museum of Shane.

 

Scroll down, there’s one of us kissing somewhere

 

?????????????????????????

He said you are not boyfriends.

Pike.

Answer me.

I will book flight to Canada and burn down your entire apartment building.

Is no joke.

I am putting on my shoes.

 

I’m kidding, Rozanov 💀

Unless…

 

I will murder you.

 

I’m too pretty to die young, so hear me when I say this

Shane and I are just friends

We’ve only ever been friends

Better?

 

Better.

 

So you like him then?

 

Who?

 

Pope Francis.

Who do you think??

Shane!

 

Yes.

 

You were typing an awful lot for a one word answer

 

Is hard.

He is messy. Needy. Shy. He is ball of stress and thoughts. His brain will rest only when he is dead.

 

But?

 

He looks at me like I have hung moon in the sky.

 

Oh my god

That one slipped out, huh 

 

Delete.

 

I’ve already sent the screenshot to CNN

You don’t 

Sorry, I’m trying to word this properly

You don’t have anyone to talk to about this, do you?

No. But I do not need committee.

 

That’s not healthy, man

 

Doctor says I am fine.

 

Well, I’m going to force you to be my friend anyway, yeah?

 

Okay.

 

What’s the plan for after lockdown?

 

Plan?

 

Like you and Shane

What are you going to do?

 

We go back to work. Is normal.

 

Dude that’s not what I meant and you know it

 

Moscow is very far from Montreal.

 

😔

 

Would it scare him?

 

??

What would?

 

If I ask Cassidy to book me in Canada for some time.

 

Ilya Rozanov, asking little old me for relationship advice

 

Is not relationship.

 

Don’t ya think you should kind of formalise that first?

But anyway

No, I don’t think it would scare him

I think he’s far too afraid to ask

 

He is afraid of many things.

 

Yeah

Being happy is pretty high up on that list

 

I have to go. Shane is looking at me with sad eyes.

 

Damn, and we were just getting somewhere 

If he asks what we talked about?

 

I will say current political climate and your 67 children. 

Bet

Goodbye.

 

Wait, Rozanov?

 

Yes?

 

Seriously, don’t fuck him up

He’s been hurt enough

 

I would rather die.

 

Good. One more thing

 

Hurry up.

 

Maybe text me when you book Canada?

Would be fun to go for a beer

 

I do not drink beer.

But I can drink vodka.

 

Very Russian of you

Go deal with Shane before he chews through your sleeve

Enjoy my Instagram

 

I plan to.

 

Later!

 

Bye bye.

Chapter 20: live

Chapter Notes

thank you kind user for the reminder that lube exists and we’re going to pretend it’s been here the whole time okay x

in other notes I don’t really like this chapter ?? I don’t know why, but I’ve been like side eyeing it the whole time I was writing but regardless I hope u enjoy <3

Shane’s fingers are curled tight around Ilya’s shoulders when the laptop pings from the kitchen table.

 

Ilya drags a slow kiss across the crease of Shane’s thigh, licking the line where it meets his hip, nipping at the sensitive skin there. Shane is sat on the kitchenette countertop with his legs hitched over Ilya’s shoulders, trying to remember how to breathe.

 

“Ignore it,” Shane mutters, because if Ilya pulls away right now he might actually lose his mind.

 

The laptop pings again. Ilya pushes a coaxing finger up against his entrance, lube still trailing wet down his forearm.

 

Shane’s head drops back against the cupboard with a sharp smack. “Fuck. Ilya -”

 

Ping.

 

Ilya doesn’t falter. Shane nearly slides clean off the countertop, his thighs clenched tight around the other man’s face. He pushes, curling two fingers inside him with merciless precision.

 

“Take it.”

 

“I am,” Shane groans, arcing his hips upward to allow more access.

 

Ilya bites down on the inside of Shane’s thigh, and he cries out, about to beg very prettily before he’s cut off by the sound of an incoming call. The Zoom chime rings loud in the warm air of the studio, and he feels his body clench violently in recognition.

 

“Cassidy,” Shane gasps, his memory muddied.

 

“I know,” Ilya says calmly, adding a third finger like this isn’t a crisis, continuing to stretch him in a way that’s nothing short of desperately efficient.

 

The laptop makes another aggressive incoming call noise. Ilya keeps going, nibbling at the fresh mark he’s just left above Shane’s knee, darkening it.

 

He stares at him in disbelief. “You’re actually insane.”

 

Somewhere, abandoned within the sofa cushions, Ilya’s phone starts ringing too. Shane’s phone vibrates from the bed half a second later.

 

“That,” Shane pants, trying very hard not to move as Ilya mouths at the soft skin beneath his knee, “is not a coincidence.”

 

“Is only Cassidy,” the other man mutters over the renewed Zoom chime, like simply talking over it will remove the unwelcome interruption.

 

Shane’s brain boots up in the second of pause Ilya’s mouth isn’t on him. “Wait - that Instagram thing.”

 

“Is at one thirty,” he murmurs into the base of Shane’s cock.

 

His eyes flick to the clock displayed on the oven in orange LED. 13:34.

 

“Oh my god,” Shane breathes, tightening his grip in Ilya’s curls. “If you don’t answer her she will physically materialise in this kitchen.”

 

There’s a blessed moment of silence while they stare at each other. Ilya abruptly curls his fingers inside him, dragging out a whimper.

 

The room fills with Cassidy’s voice as Ilya’s phone rings out to voicemail.

 

“Ilya. I know you’re there, because your location says you’re at the AirBnB and I have psychic abilities when I’m pissed.”

 

Shane slaps a hand over his face.

 

“If you’re ignoring me,” Cassidy continues, “I will personally fly to London, let myself in, and strangle you with the WiFi cable with my bare hands. I’ll disown you. I love you, but I’ll do it.”

 

Ilya pumps his fingers in one sharp movement. Shane chokes.

 

“This Instagram Live is paid - I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, or just don’t care -”

 

Cassidy continues on, but Ilya’s tongue is dipping lower, teasing Shane’s hole with relentless attention.

 

“- you were contractually obligated to log in five minutes early,” she rants. “Call me back immediately, or join the fucking livestream.”

 

Shane scrambles off the counter, and nearly face planting the kitchenette tiles, grabbing his phone off the bed and dialling before he can talk himself out of it.

 

Ilya pulls on a shirt with infuriating calm, running a hand through his hair like they’re not extremely late to something that directly impacts the pair of them.

 

Cassidy answers on the first ring. “Yes?”

 

“Hi,” Shane says brightly, hopping into one leg of his joggers. “The great news is that we’re alive.”

 

“I can see that,” Cassidy replies evenly, “because Instagram says Ilya was active twelve minutes ago.”

 

Shane winces. “Okay, in our defence -”

 

“Shane, I love you, but I don’t want your defence,” she cuts in, and he can hear paperwork shuffling on the end of the line. “I want you logged into that livestream.”

 

“We’re getting dressed,” Shane blurts before he can stop himself.

 

“Okay…I don’t want to know,” Cassidy says eventually. “It’s like picking a favourite child to be mad at.”

 

“Right. Yeah, of course. No details.”

 

Behind him, Ilya zips up his jeans.

 

“You are so late,” Cassidy mutters. “The brand rep is in the waiting room. There’s nine thousand people already watching.”

 

Shane chokes on that particular statement. “Nine thousand?”

 

“Get on the livestream.”

 

“We are! We are. Two minutes, max.”

 

“Ilya,” Cassidy says sharply, raising her voice like she can sense she’s on speakerphone. “If you can hear me -”

 

“I can hear you,” he replies smoothly, running a hand through his hair.

 

“Good. Behave yourself. Love you both, and don’t fuck it up.”

 

“Love you too,” Shane says automatically, but the line goes dead, and he stares at his phone.

 

Ilya is already pulling on socks as if just moments ago he hadn’t been rearranging Shane’s spine.

 

“We’re so late,” Shane mutters, already towing the two chairs next to each other at the table.

 

“Yes.”

 

“I don’t hear any urgency in your voice.”

 

The other man just raises an eyebrow, and Shane glances down at himself. He’s barefoot, his khaki hoodie half on, joggers beginning to slip down past his hips. He yanks them back up again. “We have nine thousand people watching an empty screen.”

 

Shane sprints for the bathroom mirror, running a hand through his wild hair in an attempt to smooth it out. He leans closer, inspecting.

 

“Why is there lube on my shoulder?”

 

From the living room, Ilya’s voice floats back like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Is because there was lube on my hand.”

 

Shane scrubs at it with the sleeve of his hoodie. “We are supposed to be professionals.”

 

“We are. We also fuck.”

 

“Is it water-based?” Shane paws desperately at the stain.

 

“Small detail.”

 

He storms back into the living room, defeated. Ilya has already positioned the ring light, adjusted the laptop angle, and somehow looks like he woke up ready for a magazine cover.

 

“How do you look composed?” Shane demands, dropping into the seat beside him.

 

“I am composed.”

 

“You were literally - well, you know.”

 

“Yes.”

 

He glares at him as he clicks ‘go live.’

 

“Hi guys! Sorry we’re a few minutes late -technical issues,” Shane starts cheerfully.

 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees solemnly. “London WiFi has bad temper.”

 

The viewer count jumps. 9.2k. 9.8k. 10.3k.

 

The chat is a blur, making it unreadable for a second before Shane reaches over and slows it down just enough to scan the comments.

 

@finally

@Shane there’s a stain on your shoulder lmao

@ilya blink twice if you forgot about this

 

“Everything is fine,” he chirps. “We’re extremely on schedule.”

 

Ilya shrugs gravely. “We were discussing connection.”

 

Shane’s head snaps up to look him. “Internet connection!”

 

@INTERNET CONNECTION 😭

@oh they’re like that today

@have you seen the rock me edit?

@ilya your face card is so unfair.

 

Shane crosses his legs so fast he nearly kicks the table. Under the table, the other man’s hand settles casually on his tense thigh. Shane refuses to look at him.

 

@someone check shane’s pulse

@are you guys sharing a chair

@why is ilya smiling like that

 

Ilya leans slightly closer to the camera, reading.

 

“Why is Ilya smiling like that,” he repeats thoughtfully.

 

Shane hisses under his breath, “Do not engage.”

 

“I am smiling because I am happy,” Ilya answers calmly.

 

@oh

@…oh?

@okay??

 

Shane’s ears go red, but he makes a valiant effort to distract the steadily climbing number of viewers from the fact he’s one or two seconds away from combusting.

 

“Right!” he claps once, and it’s far too loud. “So today we’re doing the Q&A segment and -”

 

“Shane was very nervous,” Ilya cuts in.

 

“I was not!”

 

“For nine thousand people,” Ilya continues. “Is a lot of humans.”

 

“Ten,” Shane mutters, glancing at the counter.

 

10.7k.

 

Ilya glances too. “Ten.”

 

@famous faces thank you for giving us these two

@someone free the brand rep

@why does this feel like we interrupted something

 

“Not interrupting anything,” Shane coughs, elbowing Ilya a second time in warning.

 

“Busy with adult tasks,” the other man says smoothly. The brand rep’s handle pops into the comments.

 

@Hi guys! So excited to have you both 🖤

 

Shane straightens like he’s been electrocuted, clawing some semblance of professionalism back with great effort.

 

“Hello!” he says, suddenly fluent in corporate robot. “Yes. We love your muscle balm. We’ve used it extensively.”

 

Ilya turns slowly to where Shane’s snatched up the sleek tub of warming recovery cream to show the camera.

 

“Extensively?” he repeats.

 

“Yes,” Shane continues enthusiastically. “We’ve really been incorporating it into our routines.”

 

Under the table, Ilya’s hand squeezes his thigh, but Shane barrels on, pleased to be focused on something that isn’t a 6’3 Russian man for once.

 

“It’s great for recovery after, like, intense sessions. You know, when everything’s a bit sore the next day.”

 

@INTENSE SESSIONS???

@SORE FROM WHAT SHANE

@brand rep is typing I can feel it

@can both of you just reject me so i can move on with my life

 

“It is important,” Ilya says calmly, giving up on Shane’s thigh and folding his hands on the table like he’s hosting a press conference, “to warm the muscle before deep work.”

 

Shane nods vigorously. “Exactly! Preparation is key.”

 

@PREPARATION?

@I can’t breathe

@this is paid content I’m crying

 

The brand rep pops up again.

 

@Love hearing how you both incorporate it into your training routines! 💪🖤

 

Shane beams at the camera like a golden retriever who’s just been told he did a good job. “Yes! Training routines. That’s what I meant.”

 

Ilya tilts his head. “What did you think you meant?”

 

Shane kicks him lightly under the table. “Stop.”

 

“I am helping,” Ilya shoots back.

 

The viewer count jumps again. 11.2k. Shane clears his throat, trying another angle.

 

“Right. So the balm itself - it’s warming but not too intense, which is ideal when you’ve, erm - overextended.”

 

Ilya looks directly into the camera.

 

“Yes,” he agrees. “Overextension can happen if you are enthusiastic.”

 

The chat scrolls so fast it the words streak together, and Shane reaches for the tub again, his hands slightly unsteady.

 

“The texture is great,” he says, twisting the lid open to show eleven thousand people who couldn’t care less about balms. “Absorbs quickly. No residue.”

 

“Is very smooth,” Ilya adds thoughtfully. “Easy to apply.”

 

@THE SHOULDER

@is that what’s on your shoulder??

@feel free to demonstrate wait who said that

@i’m buying this for research purposes

 

Shane’s hand flies to his hoodie instinctively. “It’s gone!” he says defensively. “That was water.”

 

“Was not water,” Ilya murmurs, for his ears only.

 

Shane kicks him harder this time.

 

“Anyway,” he powers through, certain his cheeks are crimson, “it’s especially good if you’re working from home and your posture’s terrible.”

 

Ilya nods gravely. “Shane has terrible posture.”

 

“I do not!”

 

The brand rep comments again.

 

@😂 We love seeing authentic use!

 

“Yes! Authentic! That’s what we are. Extremely authentic.”

 

Ilya leans closer to the camera again, the picture of composure.

 

“He was very tense earlier,” he says conversationally. “Now he is relaxed. Because of balm.”

 

@EARLIER???

@WHAT WAS EARLIER

@we were TEN MINUTES LATE

 

“Earlier meaning earlier this week. We both work out. Obviously.” Shane can’t actually remember the last time he’d done anything more than a sulky walk around the AirBnB, and he can feel the other man grin at the blatant lie.

 

“Obviously,” he repeats serenely.

 

The viewer count ticks up to 12k. Shane inhales, visibly regaining control. “Okay! Questions. Drop your recovery questions in the chat.”

 

Mercifully, the comments shift slightly.

 

@How often do you use it?

@Do you apply before or after?

@Can it be used daily?

 

“After,” he says confidently. “Especially if you’ve pushed yourself.”

 

“Daily is fine,” Ilya adds. “If you need it.”

 

“We definitely needed it today,” he chirps.

 

Ilya’s eyes flick sideways to him.

 

“Yes,” he agrees softly. “We did.”

 

@oh my god

@they’re not real

@we saw the Tesco pics btw

 

“This is going great,” Shane mutters.

 

“It is perfect.”

 

He forces one last blinding smile at the camera. “Alright guys, that’s all we’ve got time for today. Thank you so much for hanging out with us - and thank you to -” he turns the tub around so the label faces the lens properly this time, “- for sponsoring this stream.”

 

“Buy balm,” Ilya adds helpfully.

 

Shane ignores him. “For recovery. From sport.”

 

“Or enthusiasm.”

 

@NOT ENTHUSIASM

@I’m never recovering from this actually

 

“Okay! Bye!” Shane says quickly, reaching across Ilya to smash the end button before he can say anything else remotely incriminating.

 

“You are menace,” Shane says flatly, staring at the now-black laptop screen.

 

Ilya leans back in his chair, utterly unbothered. “We did very well.”

 

“You said ‘enthusiasm.’”

 

“Yes.”

 

“On purpose.”

 

“Yes.”

 

He turns slowly to look at him. “You enjoyed that.”

 

“Very much.”

 

He huffs, shoving his chair back and standing abruptly. “You’re impossible. I’m not doing another one with you.”

 

“Okay.”

 

The immediate agreement throws him off. “Okay?”

 

“Yes. I will do alone next time.”

 

Shane pauses. “You will not.”

 

Ilya lifts an eyebrow. “You said -”

 

“I didn’t mean it,” Shane snaps, pacing two steps before turning back. “But you can’t just say things like that on camera.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because people will think -”

 

“What?”

 

“That we were -” Shane gestures vaguely at the table. “Busy!”

 

“We were busy,” he says mildly.

 

“You’re unbelievable.” He crosses his arms, attempting to look genuinely offended. Ilya studies him for a long, deliberate moment, before standing to approach him.

 

Shane immediately straightens, defensive. “Don’t.”

 

“Don’t what?”

 

“Don’t do that thing.”

 

“What thing?”

 

“The -” he flusters, backing up a step as Ilya closes the distance in just a few taunting strides. “The looming.”

 

“I am not looming.”

 

“You are looming.”

 

“Are you upset?” Ilya asks, his voice low but amused, twirling the strings of Shane’s hoodie.

 

“No,” Shane says, instantly.

 

“You are pouting.”

 

“I am not pouting.”

 

Ilya reaches up and smooths his thumb lightly over the faint crease between Shane’s eyebrows. “You are.”

 

“I just,” he mutters, leaning into the sensation. “You make me go insane.”

 

“You are insane already.”

 

“That’s not the point.”

 

“You said you would not do another one with me,” Ilya pulls him in, murmuring into his hair.

 

“I lied.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Shane presses his face into the cotton of Ilya’s shirt, still grumbling. “You were flirting with me in front of twelve thousand people.”

 

“I flirt with you everywhere.”

 

“That’s worse.”

 

Ilya laughs softly and kisses the top of his head. “You were very cute. Red like tomato.”

 

Shane lifts his head just long enough to glare at him, but folds again at the unmistakeable fondness in the other man’s blue eyes.

 

“You did good,” Ilya hums.

 

Shane goes quiet, pawing carefully at Ilya’s crucifix. “Yeah?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He sighs contentedly. “Okay, fine. But next time you are not allowed to say ‘enthusiastic.’”

 

“I make no promises.”

 

“Want to watch Heated Rivalry again?”

 

Ilya is already towing him towards the sofa. “Mm. We have time before Cassidy revokes passports. Sit on my lap.”

Chapter 21: love

Chapter Notes

read the title are you excited bc I am

ilya: the virus is going away yay

shane: how dare you

The notification comes through while Shane is elbow-deep in the fridge.

 

He’s crouched on the tiles of the kitchenette, scraping together ingredients for a stir fry - Ilya had found the recipe on a site called BBC Good Food and had decided that that was all the endorsement he needed before choosing it for dinner.

 

Shane ignores it at first - he’s been trying very hard to ignore most things lately.

 

When his phone buzzes again, he straightens slowly, wiping his hands on his jeans before glancing at the screen.

 

BBC News: Government confirms easing of lockdown restrictions from next week.

 

He stares at it for a long second.

 

“Oh,” he says, to absolutely no one.

 

Predictably, Ilya’s voice drifts over from the sofa. “What?”

 

Shane locks his phone and flips it face down on the countertop like it’s just shown him something illegal. “Nothing.”

 

Then, because he’s incapable of leaving things well enough alone: “Lockdown’s lifting.”

 

“In UK?” Ilya frowns at him.

 

“Yeah.” Shane shrugs, hoping it’s casual. “Next week.”

 

Ilya nods. “Good.”

 

“Yeah,” Shane says brightly, like that singular word hasn’t just gutted him like a fish. “Yeah, obviously. Good. Love that for everyone.”

 

“People need normal life,” Ilya slips a bookmark into whatever romantasy novel he’s currently tearing through - Shane’s lost track, there’s faeries everywhere - and sets it down on the table.

 

“Totally,” Shane agrees. “Normal’s great.”

 

He goes back to the fridge, even though he now has no idea what he was even looking for in the first place.

 

“You are quiet,” Ilya observes from behind him.

 

“I’m not.”

 

“You are reorganising vegetables aggressively.”

 

Shane looks down at the broccoli he’s been gripping like it owes him money. He gently sets it down again.

 

“I just think it’s funny,” he says eventually, still facing the fridge. “We’ve been in this little bubble for months and now it’s just -” he snaps his fingers, “- back to real life.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And that’s great,” Shane continues, unsure why he can’t seem to stop talking. “You’ve got things to do. Flights. Shoots. Russian stuff.”

 

Ilya’s brow lifts slightly. “Russian stuff?”

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

Shane closes the fridge. “When’s your next flight?”

 

“I do not know yet.”

 

“Oh.” Shane nods. “Right. Cassidy will sort that.”

 

“Why do you ask?”

 

“No reason.” He smiles, but it only makes his face feel strange. “Just making conversation.”

 

“I am not about to vanish, Shane.”

 

“I didn’t say that.”

 

“You are asking like I am.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“You are.”

 

Shane huffs, grabbing a pan from the cupboard with unnecessary force. “I just like knowing what’s happening.”

 

“You hate knowing what is happening,” Ilya corrects calmly. “Because then you have something to dread.”

 

“Not about this.” The words are out before Shane can claw them back. He sets the pan on the hob.

 

Ilya’s posture shifts almost imperceptibly, but Shane detects it. “About what?”

 

Shane dumps olive oil into the pan - far too much of it.

 

“About -” he gestures vaguely at the air between them. “This.”

 

“Lockdown?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Lockdown ending is not us ending,” Ilya says, matter-of-fact.

 

Shane laughs sharply. “Isn’t it?”

 

The oil starts to smoke. Ilya stands quickly, reaching past him without comment to turns the heat down.

 

“You are about to burn dinner,” he says once it’s evident Shane isn’t going to protest.

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“You are not fine.”

 

“I’m making us a stir fry.”

 

“You are making fire hazard.”

 

Shane seizes the wooden spoon, dumping an array of peppers into the pan. They hiss violently on contact, and he flinches back at the sound.

 

“You think,” Ilya says carefully, picking up the chopping board Shane has abandoned and starting to slice the chicken with precise, practised movements, “that when doors open, I will walk out and not look back.”

 

If Shane stirs the peppers any harder, he’s at genuine risk of opening a vortex within the pan. “I think when doors open, people walk through them.”

 

“That is not same thing.”

 

“It kind of is.”

 

Ilya slides the chicken into the pan before Shane can overcook the vegetables into charcoal. He nudges Shane’s hip gently with his own. “Move.”

 

“I’m cooking.”

 

“I am not sure that is what I would call it.”

 

Shane huffs and relinquishes the spoon. Ilya takes over seamlessly, flipping the chicken with one hand.

 

The domesticity of it makes everything worse - the way Ilya reaches for the salt without looking because he knows exactly where Shane’s put it is a wound Shane doesn’t think will ever stop bleeding.

 

“Normal is good,” Shane echoes, leaning back against the counter. “You’ve been cooped up here for months.”

 

“I have not been cooped.”

 

“You’ve been in an AirBnB with me.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“That’s not sustainable.”

 

Ilya glances at him. “Why?”

 

“Because this isn’t real life.”

 

Ilya turns off the heat with a soft click.

 

“This is very much real life,” he says quietly. “I am hungry. You are overthinking. There is smoke alarm.”

 

On cue, the smoke alarm gives a warning chirp. Shane groans and waves a tea towel at it.

 

“This is what I mean!” he bursts out. “We’re playing house. You read fairy porn on the sofa and we almost miss paid livestreams because we’re -” he gestures wildly with the tea towel, “- occupied. And then next week it’s just over.”

 

Ilya sets the spoon down deliberately. “Is not over.”

 

“You don’t know that.”

 

“I do.”

 

“How?”

 

“Because I decide what I invest in.”

 

Shane laughs again, but it cracks, and breaks off. “Oh, good. That’s comforting. I’m an investment now.”

 

“You are not an investment.” Ilya steps closer. “You are -”

 

He stops, and Shane’s chest tightens at the flurry of emotion in his eyes. 

“You are important.”

 

Shane’s eyes flick away immediately. “Important for now.”

 

Ilya exhales slowly through his nose, clearly performing an internal seance to resurrect his patience. “You think I am calm because I do not care loudly?”

 

“Well, you’re not exactly freaking out.”

 

“Because one of us should not be.”

 

Shane’s head snaps up. “So you are freaking out?”

 

“No.”

 

“Exactly!”

 

“I am aware,” Ilya interjects. “You are loud about fear. I am quiet.”

 

“That’s convenient.”

 

“It is efficient.”

 

Shane throws his hands up. “God, you’re so -”

 

“What?”

 

“Composed.” He spits it like an accusation. “You just stand there saying ‘good’ like this isn’t -”

 

“Isn’t what?” Ilya chases the admission.

 

Shane falters, unable to run away from it.

 

Like this isn’t the best thing that’s ever happened to me?

 

Instead he says, smaller; “like it’s not a big deal.”

 

Ilya pauses, before reaching out and gently extracting the tea towel from Shane’s hand, because he’s been waving it uselessly at nothing for the last thirty seconds.

 

“Come here,” he says quietly.

 

Shane hesitates, which is new. Normally he goes immediately, like he’s only ever waiting for an invitation to crawl under the other man’s skin.

 

“Shane.”

 

He feels himself step forward. Ilya’s hands settle at his waist.

 

“You are not making this up in your head,” Ilya says evenly. “I am here because I want to be here.”

 

Shane swallows. “And when flights start up again?”

 

“I will still want to be here.”

 

“In London?”

 

“In whatever stupid kitchen you are burning vegetables in.”

 

“You’re so annoying.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And calm.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And infuriatingly unbothered.”

 

“I am very bothered,” Ilya says. The honesty in his voice wrenches something in his chest.

 

“I just do not panic at headlines,” he continues. “If I want something, I make plan. That is how I operate.”

 

“And do you -” Shane starts, then stops. His voice feels too fragile to carry the question, but he forces it anyway. “Do you want this?”

 

Do you want me?

 

Ilya doesn’t look away. There’s no deflection, but there is something. Something else that has Shane’s heart picking up despite the fact he hasn’t moved at all.

 

“Yes.”

 

His throat tightens immediately, and he pushes. “Yes what?”

 

Ilya’s hands slide higher on his waist, searching Shane’s face like he’s memorising it.

 

“Yes, I want this,” he says again, slower this time. “I want you.”

 

The smoke alarm chirps once more and then goes silent, as if even it knows when to shut up.

 

Shane tries to laugh. “You don’t have to say that just because I’m -”

 

“Do not reduce it,” Ilya cuts in, and the sharpness in his tone is unmistakable. “Do not make it smaller so is easier to survive.”

 

Shane’s eyes flicker, but he bites his tongue.

 

“I am not calm because I do not feel,” Ilya continues, dipping his hand under Shane’s top to draw absent circles on his hip. “I am calm because if I let myself feel full size of it, I would not function. And one of us needs to function.”

 

Ilya presses closer until there’s no air left between them at all.

 

“You think I am not afraid?” he says quietly. “When I look at flight schedules and imagine leaving this kitchen? When I imagine you not here, making too much oil, waving towel at ceiling?”

 

Shane’s eyes are burning now, and he furiously blinks, trying to clear them.

 

“I have built my life to be controlled,” Ilya goes on. His English frays slightly, but it doesn’t matter. “Planned. I do not fall into things. I choose them.”

 

His free hand comes up, brushing the side of Shane’s face. “I choose you.”

 

“Ilya -”

 

“I choose you when you are loud and scared and assaulting vegetables. I choose you when you are jealous and pretending not to be. I choose you when you are dramatic on livestream and when you are quiet at three in morning and think I am asleep.”

 

Shane cannot breathe.

 

“I see you,” Ilya says, and there’s something almost fierce in it now, insistent. “I see how you look at door like it is already closing. I see how you prepare yourself for hurt before it happens. And I want to shake you.”

 

His thumb presses under Shane’s eye, catching the first tear as it spills.

 

“I am not here because lockdown trapped me,” he says. “I am here because you make this place feel like something I do not want to leave.”

 

And then, as Shane’s body and mind tip into emotional freefall, Ilya says:

 

“I love you.”

 

The kitchen really, truly could be actively on fire and Shane wouldn’t have noticed.

 

“I love you in stupid kitchens. I love you in airports. I will love you in whatever country you are spiralling in next.”

 

A wet, disbelieving noise leaves Shane’s mouth.

 

“You are not bubble,” Ilya continues, his thumbs still stroking his cheeks like windscreen wipers. “You are not temporary. You are not house I am renting. You are -”

 

He exhales, searching for the word. “Home.”

 

Shane breaks. Sobs shake out of him like they’ve been trapped for years.

 

“I was supposed to say it first,” he chokes, not even sure he’s forming the words coherently. “Hayden made a bet.”

 

“You still can. I will pretend.”

 

Shane pulls back just enough to look at him, his eyes shining.

 

“I love you,” he says, like it hurts. It kind of does. “I love you so fucking much it makes me feel stupid.”

 

“Good.” Ilya smiles, and Shane doesn’t miss the way his shoulders drop just an inch. The way he blinks firmly, like he’s denying his eyes the permission to leak. “You are allowed to feel stupid about love.”

 

Shane kisses him then. Words are dumb. No more words.

 

The stir fry is probably ruined, cooling rapidly in the pan, but neither of them move to check it.

Chapter 22: plan

Chapter Notes

gentle readers I must inform you I’ve now FINISHED THIS FIC.

I may post it all today, or I may not, but rest assured there are still two more chapters after this one and an epilogue

“This looks serious.”

 

Cassidy’s eyes dart between the two of them. Even over Zoom, Shane can hear her brain working in overdrive, assessing every inch of them for signs that something is wrong.

 

“It kind of is,” Shane mumbles, bouncing his knee vigorously under the table. Ilya’s hand reaches out to steady it.

 

“Oh no,” she says flatly. “You’re either about to tell me you got married overnight, or that you’ve committed tax fraud. There’s never any middle ground with you two.”

 

“What? No! Jesus.”

 

“We are not married,” Ilya offers, taking a measured sip of water.

 

Cassidy narrows her eyes. “That wasn’t the reassuring part of that sentence.”

 

Shane presses his lips together, already regretting letting Ilya put a last minute invitation in her calendar in the first place.

 

“We just - okay. So. You’ve been very patient with us.”

 

“With the livestream eye-fucking incident? Or Tesco photoshoots? Or the fact that you two can’t seem to be normal around each other for five seconds?”

 

“Okay,” Shane mutters. “Rude.”

 

Cassidy leans back in her chair. “Continue.”

 

Ilya doesn’t hesitate. “It is not just sex.”

 

There’s a moment of silence so deafening that Shane’s half-convinced the internet has dropped, but Cassidy then blinks, furrowing an arched brow.

“I’m sorry,” she says slowly. “Was there…was there a debate on that?”

 

“We just thought - professionally - you should know -”

 

“I love him,” Ilya cuts off Shane’s floundering, and Cassidy’s eyebrows shoot back up towards her hairline.

 

“You -”

 

“Yes,” Ilya repeats, like he’s confirming a shoot booking. “I love him.”

 

Shane slides down in his chair as their agent looks between them again. Her expression shifts, chewing on the end of her pen.

 

“Okay,” she says carefully. “Okay. That’s not a crisis.”

 

“It’s not?” Shane peeks up, hopeful and miserably exposed in equal measure.

 

“No,” Cassidy says. “It’s context. People love you guys - especially together.”

 

Ilya nods once, satisfied. Shane tries very hard not to think about Twitter.

 

She pinches the bridge of her nose, then exhales, scribbling something down off screen. “Right. So this isn’t just a lockdown fling.”

 

“No,” Ilya says.

 

Shane swallows. “No.”

 

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m really glad I don’t have to worry about you two throwing hands at a shoot any more, but - why are you telling me this?”

 

“Because lockdown is lifting,” Ilya says. “And we are making plan.”

 

Cassidy leans forward now. “Ah. That makes sense.”

 

Shane frowns, confused. “Why?”

 

“Ilya,” she says pointedly, “has been stalking Canadian property websites for three days. He’s still logged in with his Famous Faces GMail.”

 

Shane’s head whips around so fast he nearly injures himself. “You what?”

 

Ilya doesn’t look ashamed. “Research.”

 

“You said you were looking at shoot locations.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“In Montreal?”

 

“Also yes.”

 

Cassidy smiles. “You’re not subtle, baby.”

 

Shane stares at him. “You didn’t tell me.”

 

“You were having panic attack about lockdown end,” Ilya counters. “I prefer evidence before announcement.”

 

“Evidence of what?”

 

“That I can structure my schedule to include Montreal regularly. That I can base myself there for blocks of time. That flights are manageable. That it is viable.”

 

Shane’s heart quickens. “And?”

 

The other man gives an offhand shrug. “No houses with enough space in garage for Bugatti. So I am breaking up with you. Sorry.”

 

“Asshole.”

 

“Okay,” Cassidy says briskly, fighting with her notepad. “Logistics. Let’s do this properly.”

 

Shane wipes at his eyes aggressively like that will fix anything, accepting the glass of water Ilya slides towards him with a small, grateful smile. “We don’t have to -”

 

“Yes, we do,” Cassidy says.

 

Ilya nods once. “Agreed.”

 

Together, they begin to map out the next year of their lives.

 

“Shoots can be clustered. Montreal bookings can be prioritised, and we can just split the rest of the time. I refuse to manage long-distance angst,” she’s rifling through a folder like she’s the only responsible adult in the room. “Wait, Ilya, how long’s left on your contract with Russia?”

 

“Two months.”

 

Cassidy holds up a slow finger. “That aligns with when Shane’s in Milan. So I can send you both together - Versace will have no problem affording Ilya too.”

 

“You can just…merge us?” Shane can hear the hope in his own voice.

 

Cassidy flaps a dismissive hand. “For the salaries you’re both on, I can do what I like.”

 

Ilya nods approvingly. “She is good at this.”

 

“Thank you,” their agent replies dryly. “Now, Montreal. If we’re serious about that being a base, I need to know what we’re talking about. Weeks or months at a time?”

 

“Months,” Ilya says immediately.

 

Shane blinks. “Months?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Cassidy’s pen pauses mid-air. “Consistently?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Okay.” She scribbles something else down. “That’s workable. I can restructure Europe around that. We’ll build North America up as we go - it’s actually cleaner for brand positioning.”

 

Shane stares at her, slightly awed, slightly scared. “You’re doing calendar gymnastics.”

 

“It’s a very niche discipline.”

 

Ilya’s mouth twitches.

 

Cassidy continues, “If Montreal is the anchor, Ilya, you’ll need somewhere stable. Not hotel hopping.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I can have the relocation team source a rental on a flexible lease. Somewhere that won’t have paparazzi climbing through your bins.”

 

“Cassidy,” Shane says faintly, “what the fuck.”

 

“What?” she says. “You think I’m letting him couch surf?”

 

“I do not couch surf,” Ilya mutters.

 

“Actually,” Shane says, very, very quietly.

 

Cassidy’s eyes snap up, and Ilya turns to look at him properly.

 

“He - erm. He doesn’t have to find a rental.”

 

Cassidy lowers her pen slowly. “Go on.”

 

Shane refuses to look at either of them, and picks a vacant spot on the kitchen wall to stare very hard at. “I mean, he could. If he wants. But he doesn’t have to.”

 

“What are you saying?” Ilya’s voice is softer now, and Shane swallows hard.

 

“You could stay at mine,” he says in a rush. “With me.”

 

“You live in a one-bedroom,” Cassidy says mildly.

 

“I know.”

 

“With the terrible green sofa.”

 

“I know.”

 

“And the neighbour who plays drums at 2am.”

 

“He’s improving.”

 

Ilya is staring at Shane like he’s just grown a second head.

 

“You are inviting me to live with you,” he says slowly.

 

“I mean - temporarily. Not like, legally binding. Just while you’re there - because you’re there - with me.”

 

“I will of course have your lawyers draw up a cohabitation agreement if required,” Cassidy says, completely deadpan. “Don’t get each other pregnant or anything.”

 

“Cassidy.”

 

“What? I’m being thorough.”

 

Ilya doesn’t look away from Shane. “You are sure?”

 

“I don’t want you in a rental across the city,” Shane finally meets his eyes. “I want you home.”

 

“Yes,” he says.

 

Shane’s breath stutters. “Yes?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Cassidy claps her hands once, and they startle. “Great. Love wins. Logistics remain.”

 

They both blink at her, and this time Shane doesn’t even try to suppress his smile.

 

“If Ilya’s staying at yours, we’ll need to upgrade some security, because Shane seems to have forgotten he’s famous and forgets to lock his own doors. And possibly get rid of the green sofa. And definitely bin the Jeep.”

 

“I like the sofa,” Shane protests weakly.

 

“Vogue bullied you for weeks about it.”

 

“It has character!”

 

“It looks like it could come alive and eat me at any given point,” Cassidy replies.

 

“Green is best colour,” Ilya defends unhelpfully, and Shane snorts.

 

“Okay,” she says, flipping her notebook closed. “Montreal base: Shane’s apartment. Month long blocks, Europe clustered. Russia contract finishes in two months. Milan together. Then straight back to Montreal for a bit of a break, I think.”

 

Shane exhales slowly, relief wrapping around him like a weighted blanket. “No sad airport separations, promise.”

 

“If they’re photogenic, I don’t particularly care,” Cassidy muses, but the lie is so half-assed that even Shane can see straight through it.

 

Ilya shrugs. “Russians do not cry.”

 

Cassidy smiles. “That’s a shame, because if I’m doing this level of schedule disruption, I expect a return on emotional investment.”

 

Shane groans. “Not you too.”

 

“I’m joking,” she says lightly. Then softer: “I’m happy for you. Both of you. It’s like my sons are all grown up and moving out.”

 

By the time the call ends, Cassidy has assigned three action points, threatened them with some very painful sounding punishments if they tell anyone else before she can get a statement prepared, and told them she’s proud of them in a tone that suggests she genuinely is, but that she’ll deny it later.

 

When the screen goes dark, Shane exhales slowly. He keeps staring at it, like it might reboot and tell him this was all an elaborate prank.

“Well,” he says faintly, standing only to crawl into Ilya’s lap, wrapping his legs around his hips. “That was very adult of us.”

 

“Mm,” Ilya hums, pressing a volley of gentle kisses into Shane’s chest.

 

“We just told our agent we’re in love.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And she reorganised two continents.”

 

“Yes.” Ilya nibbles at the soft, sensitive spot under his chin. He shivers.

 

“You were very calm about the cohabitation agreement.”

 

“I am confident in my fertility,” Ilya replies solemnly.

 

Shane laughs. “You’re unbelievable.”

 

Ilya hooks two fingers into the waistband of Shane’s joggers, rolling their hips together. “You said ‘home.’”

 

“I was being -”

 

“Honest?” Ilya asks.

 

Shane flushes. “Yeah, well. Don’t let it go to your head.”

“It is already there.”

 

“I hate you.”

 

“You love me.”

 

Ilya’s mouth pulls in the beginnings of a teasing grin when Shane doesn’t deny it.

 

“You are sure?” he asks again, more seriously this time.

 

“About what?”

 

“About me in your space. Your routines. Your green sofa.”

 

Shane huffs a shy laugh. “You survived living in a studio AirBnB with one frying pan and window that doesn’t open. You can survive my flat.”

 

“That is not what I am asking.”

 

“You’re not invading,” Shane’s bravado slips just a little. “You’re joining me.”

 

“I have not joined anything before,” Ilya admits. “Not like this.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Shane shrugs, even though his throat feels tight. “You picked a great starting point.”

 

Ilya smiles slowly. “Months. In Montreal.”

 

“Months.” Shane tastes the word with reverence.

 

“And then Milan. Is like holiday.”

 

“And then back.”

 

“And then to wherever you are spiralling next.”

 

Shane snorts. “I do not spiral.”

 

Ilya pulls him closer until Shane has to brace his hands on the other man’s shoulders to avoid actively fusing themselves together.

 

“We will leave this place together,” Ilya murmurs. “Board flight together. Arrive together.”

 

Shane nods once, hard. “Yeah.”

 

“And when lockdown ends,” Ilya continues, brushing his thumb along the quivering line of Shane’s jaw, “it does not take this with it.”

 

“Just say ‘I told you so’,” Shane scowls, but there’s no heat in it.

 

Some time later, when he’s breathless and boneless in bed, he watches Ilya crawl back under the sheets from the shower. His chest is littered with fresh bites, and this time around Shane reviews them with something close to wonder. “We’re actually doing this.”

 

“Mm. Yes.” Ilya licks the plane of Shane’s sweaty abdomen.

 

“You’re moving into my stupid one bedroom apartment.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You’re going to hate the drum neighbour.”

 

“I will buy him better rhythm.”

 

“You can’t just buy rhythm.”

 

“We will see.”

 

Because he can’t quite help himself, Shane curls his body into him, pressing his forehead to Ilya’s.

 

“Okay,” he whispers.

 

“Okay,” Ilya echoes.

 

Outside, somewhere beyond the tiny, cramped AirBnB, the world is already beginning to reopen. It doesn’t matter.

 

Inside, they stay exactly where they are.

Chapter 23: tape

Chapter Notes

oh no, hollanov on a plane…it would be such a shame if something…happens to it

(I’m totally kidding but I had the opportunity to do the worst thing here fr)

tw; alcohol use

also I’ve just decided I’m going to post everything today bc I’m so so happy people like this :’) enjoy <3

The AirBnB looks so much smaller now it’s empty.

 

Shane stands in the middle of the living room with his sunglasses in his hand, staring at the rickety, splintered table like it’s an old friend.

 

Most of their stuff is already stacked by the door, their suitcases zipped tight. Ilya’s already disassembled the ring light. Shane’s laptop has disappeared into his carry-on like it was never there at all.

 

It’s far too clean - it feels wrong.

 

Ilya emerges from the bathroom with the last of the chargers looped neatly in his palm. He pauses when he sees Shane crouched by the rug.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Shane doesn’t answer straight away. He’s picking at something near the edge of the carpet.

 

Ah - there it is.

 

A thin, stubborn strip of orange packing tape remains stuck flat to the fibres. Shane had tried to peel it back up when it had become clear the two of them were incapable of keeping to their respective sections, but this particular piece hadn’t moved.

 

Now he digs at the corner again with his nail. It lifts slightly, but remains stuck.

 

“I can get it,” he mutters, like it’s a challenge.

 

Ilya sets the chargers down, watching him.

 

“Leave it.”

 

“It’s ugly.”

 

“Is part of carpet now.”

 

Shane huffs and tugs harder. The tape curls at the edge, threatening to tear the rug with it. Ilya steps closer, nudging Shane’s wrist gently away with one foot.

 

“Leave it,” he repeats, firmer this time.

 

Shane sits back on his heels instinctively. “Feels weird.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Like we’re just -” he gestures vaguely around the empty room, “- erased.”

 

Ilya looks at the strip of tape, then back down at Shane.

 

“We are not erased,” he says simply. “We are right there.”

 

Shane stares at it again, chewing the inside of his cheek. The tape is scuffed now, but still an obnoxious neon orange. He presses it back down flat with his thumb instead of peeling it up, smoothing it into the carpet.

 

“Okay,” he says quietly. Ilya reaches down and offers him his hand - Shane takes it.

 

There’s nothing left to pack, but Shane does one slow lap of the room anyway, like he’s committing it to memory. The corner where they’d set up the livestream. The kitchen counter. The chipped paint behind the headboard of their bed.

 

“Do you think the next people will notice?” he asks.

 

“The tape?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“No.”

 

Shane nods. “Good.”

 

Ilya slips the key off the hook by the door and turns it over in his palm once. “Ready?”

 

Shane hesitates, then nods. “Yeah.”

 

By the time they make it to the hotel just outside the airport, it’s almost 10pm. Shane drags his suitcase through the automatic doors like he’s entering a hospital wing. The lobby is quite nice, to be fair, if a little muted - tinny piano music plays from the speakers, and the receptionist behind the desk offers them a warm smile.

 

“Reservation for Rozanov,” Ilya says calmly.

She types briefly, glancing between the two of them. “This is a one bed room.”

 

Shane clears his throat, and the receptionist glances up at him.

 

“We can arrange twin beds if -”

 

“No,” they say in unison.

 

The receptionist’s smile widens by half a millimetre before she normalises it again, sliding two key cards across the desk towards them. “Of course.”

 

Shane refuses to look at Ilya as he scoops them up, waiting until they’re in the lift before hissing; “she knew!”

 

“Knew what?”

 

“Everything.”

 

“Is hotel,” Ilya replies mildly. “They specialise in ‘everything.’”

 

Once they reach their room, it’s evident Cassidy has booked it - and all associated packages - with all the subtlety of a rampaging buffalo. There’s rose petals spread in a neat heart on the bed, and even the towels are folded into the shape of two swans, their long necks forming a heart.

 

Shane snatches up the enormous ‘happy honeymoon’ banner from the wall, snapping a photo which he then texts to her with nothing more than a string of aggressive question marks. He drops his sunglasses on the dresser and flops onto the bed, sending a flurry of rose petals up into the air.

 

“This is so weird,” he says to the ceiling. “We don’t live here.”

 

“No.” Ilya shrugs out of his jacket, dumping it on the floor despite the fact it had been a custom piece from some up and coming designer he’s meant to be promoting next week.

 

“We don’t live there either anymore.”

 

“No.”

 

Ilya sets their carry-ons neatly by the wall and kicks off his shoes. Shane turns his head to watch him.

 

“Say something reassuring,” he demands.

 

Ilya unbuttons his shirt slowly. “We board plane in six hours.”

 

“That’s not reassuring, that’s horrifying. We should be sleeping.”

 

“It is factual.”

 

Shane groans and rolls onto his side. Ilya crosses to the minibar and opens it. He pauses.

 

There are six tiny bottles of champagne inside, glowing in the fluorescent lighting. He looks over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow.

 

“No,” Shane says immediately.

 

“Yes.” Ilya ignores him.

 

They sit cross-legged on the bed with two ridiculous plastic hotel flutes.

 

Shane raises his glass. “To not being erased.”

 

“To tape,” Ilya replies solemnly, clinking their glasses together. The first sip is sharp and fizzy, but altogether not too bad.

 

By the second bottle, Shane’s cheeks are flushed and he’s stretched out sideways across Ilya’s lap, scrolling aimlessly on his phone.

 

“I can’t believe we left it,” he says.

 

“The tape?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“It is very powerful symbol. We will unite nations.”

 

“You’re mocking me.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Shane narrows his eyes, then dissolves into laughter. His phone buzzes, but it’s just Cassidy sending a laugh emoji.

 

“We have five more hours before the consequences of this,” Shane declares, fumbling to top up their glasses.

 

“Four,” Ilya corrects, checking the clock, but his face is so warm and loose that Shane wants to - literally and figuratively - dive into him.

 

“Don’t ruin this.”

 

They finish the champagne. Shane finds the tiny gin bottles in a pull-out cupboard next to the fridge. At some point, they migrate to the mirror by the wardrobe - Shane’s barefoot, and his hair is a mess from Ilya’s hands.

 

Ilya looks unfairly composed even drunk, his shirt half-open, watching him like a hawk. Shane lifts his phone.

 

“I have an idea.”

 

“No,” Ilya says immediately, nipping his shoulder.

 

“It’s a good one.”

 

“It is not.”

 

Shane flips the camera to selfie mode anyway.

 

“We survived lockdown,” he announces to it, slightly too loud, words blurring together, “and all I got was this stupid Russian.”

 

Ilya leans in and kisses him in a way that makes him forget there’s a camera there at all. When they break apart, they both squint at the screen. Shane frowns - it looks weird.

 

The other man peers at it, his brows knit together. There’s a moment of silence before he speaks. “Ah.”

 

“What?”

 

Ilya extracts the phone from his hand, presses two buttons, and hands it back to him with the screen locked. “You clicked livestream. Not camera.”

 

The blood rapidly drains from Shane’s face. “Instagram?”

 

The other man hums in response, but he’s watching him carefully. “Four thousand views. I cancelled, and put phone on silent.”

 

For a moment, Shane debates a lot of things. Crying, having a panic attack, or checking himself into a silent retreat are all pretty high up on his list, but in the end he snatches up his phone and snaps a photograph of them both, properly this time. He inspects it. Ilya’s chin is resting on his shoulder, one arm wrapped firmly around his waist. Their eyes are alive. Happy.

 

“Good enough to post?” Shane whispers, his eyes flicking anxiously up at the other man.

 

Ilya just smiles. “Is good. Tag me.”

 

Shane slowly navigates to his main feed, and posts the photo with the caption:

 

@ilyarozanov Turns out it wasn’t just for lockdown. ❤️

 

For a few seconds, nothing happens. Then the likes flood his screen so fast he’s got no hope at all of tracking them. Shane makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp.

 

“Oh my god.”

 

Ilya leans over his shoulder. “Is positive?”

 

“It’s -” Shane refreshes. “It’s a lot.”

 

Shane’s phone lights up with an incoming call. Cassidy. He and Ilya look at each other.

 

The phone keeps vibrating, then it stops, before immediately starting again.

 

“Maybe if we don’t answer she’ll assume we’re asleep,” Shane suggests weakly.

 

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “After livestream?”

 

“Don’t.”

 

Their agent switches to text.

 

02:34

Cassidy (Famous Faces)

Please tell me you did not just hard launch from the honeymoon suite at Heathrow Holiday Inn.

 

02:34

Cassidy (Famous Faces)

I specifically asked you not to hard launch from the honeymoon suite at Heathrow Holiday Inn, Shane

 

02:34

Cassidy (Famous Faces)

I am begging you to confirm this was not done under the influence of minibar gin???

 

Shane glances guiltily at the empty bottles scattered on the dresser.

 

Ilya plucks the phone from his hand again before he can type something catastrophic. He responds with three words.

 

02:35

We are happy.

 

Shane stares at him. “That’s it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

The typing bubble appears almost instantly, before disappearing after a suspiciously long silence. Then it appears again.

 

02:37

Cassidy (Famous Faces)

Okay.

 

02:38

Cassidy (Famous Faces)

I will draft something official in the morning. Do not post anything else. Do not go live. Do not answer DMs. Hydrate. Sleep. I mean it.

 

02:38

Cassidy (Famous Faces)

Also I hate that it’s a really good photo.

 

Shane grins despite himself. “She doesn’t hate it.”

 

“No.”

 

He tosses his phone onto the bed and collapses back against Ilya’s chest, twisting his head to look at him. “You’re not even slightly panicking.”

 

“I told you,” Ilya says calmly, brushing his thumb along Shane’s hipbone. “If I choose something, I do not hide it.”

 

“You’re ridiculous.”

 

“You are drunk.”

 

“Also true.”

 

Shane falls asleep with his phone still glowing faintly on the bedside table, notifications stacking like snowfall through the night.

 

The morning is brutal - he wakes up with a tongue that feels like carpet, and pain slices at his forehead. Light beams through the windows, unobstructed by the curtains they hadn’t bothered to close.

 

“I am never drinking again,” he announces to the room.

 

“You will,” Ilya replies, voice gravel-thick beside him.

 

Shane rolls over. “You look unfairly okay.”

 

“I am Russian.”

 

“That’s not science.”

 

“It is enough.”

 

Shane fumbles for his phone, and the number at the top of the screen makes him go still.

 

1.2M likes.

 

He also has 465 new emails. 15 missed calls from Hayden.

 

He slowly lifts his gaze to Ilya. “Oh.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Did we ruin everything?”

 

Ilya studies him for a long moment, before reaching over to run his thumb along the edge of Shane’s jaw.

 

“No,” he says simply. “We started it.”

 

The airport shuttle leaves in forty minutes, so they shower together, pulling their appearances into something a bit more dignified. Shane’s glad of it, because in the lobby, a couple of people glance at them. One girl does a visible double-take.

 

Shane stiffens instinctively, but Ilya takes his hand without looking at him.

 

Shane exhales. “Okay.”

 

“Okay,” Ilya echoes.

 

As they ghost through security, Shane feels oddly fragile, and he leans into Ilya just slightly in the queue.

 

“You still sure?” he asks quietly.

 

Ilya looks at him like the question offends him. “Yes. I can hear your brain from mile away.”

 

As they step onto the plane, the familiar hum of cabin air wraps around them, and Shane glances back down the jet bridge for just a second.

 

Not at anything in particular. More so just the idea of that tiny AirBnB, with its tattered armchairs. The scuffed neon strip of tape pressed stubbornly into the carpet. Proof they were there.

 

Ilya nudges his shoulder gently. “Come.”

 

Shane nods, and they locate their seats. Their hands find each other automatically across the armrest as the engines begin to whine.

 

He rests his head against Ilya’s shoulder.

 

When the plane finally lifts off the ground, London shrinking away beneath them, Shane smiles into the fabric of Ilya’s shirt.

 

“Not erased,” he murmurs.

 

Ilya presses a kiss into his hair.

 

“Never.”

Chapter 24: montreal

Chapter Notes

hayden I love you and your terrible car

Montreal arrivals is much louder than Heathrow.

 

Shane blinks against the fluorescent brightness of the terminal, one hand curled firmly in Ilya’s sleeve while they wait for their suitcases to clatter onto the belt. His head is still decidedly less-than-ideal, but the airport around him is so familiar he could traverse it with his eyes closed, and the distinct absence of paparazzi is reassuring. The specific chill of Canadian air conditioning washes over him as he guides Ilya towards the exit.

 

“This feels illegal,” he mutters.

 

“Gay is legal here,” Ilya replies mildly. “Is not Russia.”

 

“That’s not what I meant.”

 

Their bags thud down, and Ilya lifts both like they weigh nothing. Shane adjusts his sunglasses like that might disguise the fact he has 1.2 million likes and a dreadful hangover.

 

The automatic doors slide open.

 

Hayden is standing directly in front of them, holding an enormous piece of cardboard that reads in thick black Sharpie:

 

WELCOME HOME MR & MR NOT-LOCKDOWN

 

There’s a little hand-drawn champagne bottle in the corner. Shane stops walking. “Oh my god.”

 

Hayden lowers the sign slowly, grinning. “You two losers couldn’t wait twelve hours?”

 

Ilya nods once. “We were efficient.”

 

Hayden laughs so hard he has to bend at the waist. They do the awkward half-hug dance around suitcases before Hayden steps back, taking them in properly.

 

“You look disgustingly happy,” he says accusingly, reaching to flick Shane in the ear.

 

“Yes,” Ilya replies, unbothered.

 

Hayden vigorously fans them in the general direction of the car park. “Go on! I want to hear everything, and we’ll be here forever if anyone recognises you.”

 

“You are giving us ride?” Ilya questions, currently trying very hard to grow a third arm he can hold Shane with. Instead, he releases a suitcase to free up one hand, and pushes it unceremoniously towards Hayden.

 

To his credit, Hayden grabs it without breaking stride. “Yeah. Pike Celebrity Transport Services Limited has a nice ring to it.”

 

Ilya makes a face. “What car?”

 

“Don’t start,” Shane tries to interject, but it’s no good - Hayden’s eyes have already narrowed.

 

“It’s a perfectly respectable vehicle.”

 

Ilya folds his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and scans the row of cars with a pained expression.

 

They march towards the slightly dented Toyota with a bumper sticker that says ‘Support Local Coffee’ and what appears to be a new scrape along the passenger side door. Ilya blinks at it, dumbfounded.

 

“This is rental?” he asks carefully.

 

“It’s mine,” Hayden snaps.

 

Ilya looks at Shane, then back at the car, as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “You own this?”

 

Shane bites the inside of his cheek to stop laughing. “Be nice.”

 

Hayden slams the boot open with force. “It runs. It has heating, and it doesn’t cost as much as your monthly watch insurance.”

 

Ilya circles it slowly, like he’s waiting for the car to explode right there in its parking space.

 

“It makes noise?” he asks.

 

“Every car makes noise.”

 

“What kind of noise.”

 

Hayden gapes at him. “Normal car noise!”

 

Ilya crouches slightly to inspect the exhaust pipe, but Shane physically grabs the back of his jacket to haul him back up again.

 

Shane forces a stern look, and Ilya straightens. “It is humble.”

 

“It’s reliable!” Hayden insists. “It’s safe!”

 

“It is colour of oatmeal,” Ilya says flatly.

 

“Oatmeal is nutritious!” Hayden fires back.

 

“I will buy you Lamborghini for Christmas. Don’t worry, we will rescue you from sad oatmeal Toyota,” Ilya tentatively opens the door to the back seat, inching onto the leather as if it might burn his skin.

 

“It smells clean,” Ilya admits reluctantly as Shane sidles in beside him, suddenly shy. Quiet. Watching the exchange between his boyfriend and best friend with fondness so profound it’s a physical ache in his chest.

 

“Thank you,” Hayden snaps.

 

“And seat is warm.”

 

“Heated seats, baby,” Hayden says triumphantly.

 

Ilya considers this. “Acceptable.”

 

Hayden throws himself into the driver’s seat. “You can walk next time. Unbelievable. I pick you up from the airport out of the goodness of my heart and you bitch about it the second you’re back in Canadian airspace.”

 

“I like your car, Hay,” Shane chimes in peacefully, laughing at the way Ilya clutches his chest in betrayal.

 

Hayden snorts, pulling out of the parking space a little faster than he should have. “Thank you. Finally, someone with taste.”

 

“I have taste,” Ilya says coolly. “Just not for beige.”

 

“It’s champagne silver.”

 

“It is porridge.”

 

The car merges onto the highway and Montreal opens up around them. Shane absorbs the familiar exits, familiar graffiti, and the skyline he grew up underneath with a peculiar sense of nostalgia. Hayden glances at them in the rearview mirror.

 

“Alright,” he says, turning the radio down. “Full story. Start from the beginning, spare me no details. Except maybe the sex parts.”

 

Shane groans immediately. “Oh my god.”

 

“Nope. You don’t get to act mysterious after all this.”

 

“It was not mysterious,” Ilya shrugs.

 

Hayden grins. “It was actually pretty iconic.”

 

Shane leans his head back against the seat, his sunglasses slipping slightly down his nose. For a second he considers making a joke, or changing the subject, but instead, he exhales.

 

And because Hayden is driving, and because Ilya’s hand is warm on his thigh, and because the city outside looks exactly the same as it always has, Shane begins to talk.

 

Hayden doesn’t interrupt. Not once. Even when Ilya interjects with a far too revealing detail about what they were doing just before the brand livestream.

 

“And then,” Shane finishes softly, “we just made a plan.”

 

Hayden nods slowly. “Yeah.”

 

Traffic moves, and the oatmeal Toyota proves, in fact, very reliable.

 

“You’re very calm,” Hayden says after a moment.

 

“I guess so,” Shane admits.

 

Hayden huffs. “Gross. Growth.”

 

Ilya squeezes Shane’s knee gently. They fall into easier conversation after that - Milan, and the fact that Urban Outfitters are already printing ‘there’s no one I’d rather argue with in Tesco’ tees.

 

By the time Hayden turns down Shane’s street, the sun has dipped lower, and everything is gold. Shane’s stomach flips at the sight of his apartment complex. Home.

 

Hayden pulls up in front of the familiar building and kills the engine.

 

“Alright,” he says, twisting in his seat. “End of the line. Where am I dropping you, Rozanov?”

 

Ilya doesn’t even blink. “Here.”

 

Hayden pauses. “Like, here, here?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Hayden looks at Shane. Shane suddenly finds the dashboard incredibly interesting.

 

“I live here now,” Ilya adds calmly.

 

“You live here,” he repeats, gesturing vaguely at the building. “For how long?”

 

“Months.”

 

Hayden turns back to Shane, eyes wide. “Months? You’re moving in together?”

 

Shane shrugs, failing miserably to hide his smile. “We discussed it.”

 

“You discussed it,” Hayden echoes faintly.

 

“Yes,” Ilya confirms.

 

Hayden leans back in his seat and laughs. “Oh my god. You’re domestic.”

 

“Don’t use that word!” Shane cringes into his hands.

 

“You’re gonna be arguing about dishwasher loading techniques by Tuesday.”

 

“I do not argue about dishwashers,” Ilya says stiffly.

 

“You will when he puts knives in wrong.”

 

Shane gasps, pointing an accusing finger. “I do not -”

 

Hayden points back. “You absolutely do.”

 

Ilya looks between them, deeply unimpressed. “I will fix.”

 

“Jesus Christ,” Hayden mutters, shaking his head. “Okay. Fine. You live here now.”

 

Shane unbuckles his seatbelt before this devolves into a full debate. “Thank you for the ride.”

 

Hayden’s expression shifts as they file out of the car to collect the suitcases. There’s a brief, awkward shuffle on the pavement. Hayden looks at Ilya.

 

“Don’t mess this up,” he says plainly.

 

“I will not,” Ilya answers just as plainly.

 

Hayden nods once.

 

Then he turns to Shane and pulls him into a quick, tight hug.

 

“You look good,” he murmurs into his ear. “I’m really happy for you, man.”

 

Shane swallows. “Yeah.”

 

When he steps back, Hayden clears his throat aggressively. “Alright. Go. Before I get emotional and crash my car on the way home.”

 

“It is porridge,” Ilya calls as they drag their cases towards the building.

 

“Drive safe!” Shane adds.

 

Hayden flips them off affectionately and pulls away. Shane stands there for a second, key in hand.

 

“This is weird,” he whispers.

 

“Yes.”

 

He unlocks the door, and inside, the flat is exactly as he left it. Shane steps in first, then he turns. Ilya is still in the doorway, suitcase in hand, looking around like he’s cataloguing each minute detail.

 

“You coming?” Shane asks.

 

Ilya steps inside, and the door clicks shut behind them.

 

Shane drops his suitcase and crosses the room in three strides, grabbing Ilya’s hand and tugging him further in like he’s afraid he might disappear if he hesitates.

 

“I used to think I’d go anywhere but here,” Shane says softly, almost to himself as he tows the other man into the living room. “You know, if I met someone.”

 

Ilya looks at him then.

 

“Anywhere is fine,” he replies quietly. “As long as is with you.”

 

Shane bends down suddenly, fumbling in the front pocket of his backpack.

 

“What are you doing?” Ilya asks.

 

Shane straightens with something pinched between his fingers - a tiny, stubborn square of orange packing tape.

 

He crosses to the edge of the living room rug and presses it carefully into the fibres near the corner of the sofa.

 

“You brought tape,” Ilya observes thickly.

 

“Just a bit.”

 

He steps closer, sliding his arms around Shane’s waist from behind, his chin resting on his shoulder.

 

“Very powerful symbol,” he murmurs.

 

Shane laughs, warm and breathless. “Shut up.”

 

“Will unite nations.”

 

They stand there for a moment, in the middle of the messy, imperfect, one bedroom apartment, watching sunlight catching on dust motes.

 

“Hey,” Shane says softly, like he’s afraid if he speaks too loud the spell will break.

 

“Mm?”

 

“You’re really here.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“In my stupid flat.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“With the green sofa.”

 

“I will heal her,” Ilya says seriously.

 

Shane’s laugh wobbles at the edges. He turns in Ilya’s arms, hands flattening against his chest like he needs to check he’s not an extremely vivid hallucination.

 

“This is just -” He gestures vaguely around them. “Our life now.”

 

Ilya looks around once more, slow and deliberate. “Good.”

 

Shane blinks. “Good?”

 

“I do not want honeymoon suite,” Ilya replies earnestly. “I want drum neighbour. I want green sofa. I want to follow you wherever you go.”

 

Shane smiles helplessly. “You’re not going to wake up and decide this isn’t enough for you?”

 

Ilya lifts a hand, cupping his jaw firmly.

 

“I crossed ocean with hangover for you. I would cross a thousand oceans if it meant I could stay.”

 

Shane’s breath catches in his throat.

 

“I used to think I had to get out,” he admits. “Like, when the money really came rolling in. Buy a bigger flat, maybe a different city. A different life. I thought that was the goal.”

 

Ilya studies him, thumb brushing just under his eye. “And now?”

 

Shane looks around his apartment - really looks.

 

The packing tape glows faintly in the corner. His eyes catch on the dent in the wall from when he’d tripped over a suitcase two years ago. His place.

 

“Now I know this place is just right for me. For us.”

 

Ilya’s mouth softens.

 

“Anywhere is fine,” he repeats, gentler this time. “As long as is with you.”

 

Shane drops his head to rest against Ilya’s chest.

 

“We’re going to fight about dishwashers,” he warns wetly.

 

“Yes.”

 

“And you’re going to hate my shower pressure.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And Hayden’s going to show up unannounced and eat all our food at least once a week.”

 

“Unacceptable.”

 

“And I lied - the drum neighbour is absolutely not improving.”

 

Ilya shrugs. “Then we will not be bored.”

 

Shane laughs, the sound lighter than it’s ever been.

 

“Okay,” he whispers.

 

“Okay,” Ilya echoes.

 

Outside, a car passes, and somewhere down the hall, a door slams. The world moves forward in its usual, unremarkable way.

 

Inside, Ilya tightens his arms around him, and everything is okay again.

Chapter 25: epilogue

Chapter Notes

it’s all over :’(

this was a pleasure to write and please do let me know what you think!!

(also dw I will be immediately starting another hollanov fic I’m not going anywhere)

Two Years Later - London, England

 

The blindfold smells faintly like Ilya’s cologne.

 

“If you crash this ridiculous car, I’m going to haunt the ever loving fuck out of you,” Shane mutters, his hands white-knuckling the seat of Ilya’s stupid rental Porsche as London traffic hums around them.

 

“I do not crash,” Ilya replies calmly.

 

“You said that about Hayden’s Toyota and we almost died merging.”

 

“That is his fault for buying Toyota.”

 

Shane snorts despite himself. The engine beneath them snarls.

 

“It was good deal,” Ilya says quickly, predicting Shane’s usual grouch about loud engines. After some time, the car slows, and gravel crunches under the tyres.

 

The engine cuts, and the quiet is different. Familiar in a way that makes Shane’s fingers curl slightly into the pristine white leather.

 

“Ilya.”

 

“Mm?”

 

“If this is another joke -”

 

“It is not.”

 

The door opens, and cool London air slips in. Ilya’s hand finds his as he eases him out of the low seat.

 

“Slow,” he murmurs.

 

Shane steps out carefully, allowing himself to be guided a few paces forward. A gate creaks, and Ilya drops the blindfold. He winces at the abrupt, bright light.

 

The AirBnB sits, mostly unchanged, ahead of them. Shane goes very still.

 

Ilya watches him carefully, hands in his coat pockets like he hasn’t just pulled off a highly successful transatlantic ambush.

 

“It was available,” he says simply. “Owner wanted to sell.”

Shane turns to him slowly. “Available.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You bought it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“For what reason?”

 

Ilya exhales through his nose. “For us.”

 

Shane looks back at the house. The front door key is already in Ilya’s palm, and he holds it out.

 

“Open.”

 

Shane’s hands shake as he takes it. The lock clicks, and the door opens.

 

The studio smells faintly of fresh paint and something new. Shane’s eyes catch near the edge of the living room rug. The tape is still pressed unapologetically into the fibres, unmoved.

 

Shane makes a broken, disbelieving noise in the back of his throat.

 

“You left it,” he whispers.

 

“I asked owner not to replace carpet,” Ilya replies. “He thought I was insane.”

 

“He was correct.”

 

Shane spots the little scuff of chipped paint behind the headboard of the bed, and a pang of nostalgia throbs in his chest.

 

“It’s ours,” Ilya says quietly.

 

Shane turns back to him, his eyes already glassy. “You bought the lockdown bubble?”

 

“I bought where you first stopped trying to leave.”

 

He runs a hand over the cramped countertop, deep in thought when Ilya speaks again.

 

“Shane, I need you to listen.”

 

His heartbeat kicks up as Ilya steps towards him.

 

“You change rooms when you are nervous,” he says softly. “You move around like you are afraid walls will close in if you stand still too long.”

 

Shane swallows, because the other man isn’t wrong.

 

“But here,” Ilya continues, glancing around the small studio, “you stopped moving.”

 

His gaze returns to Shane.

 

“You were loud. Anxious. And annoying. But you stayed.”

 

Something sparks across the other man’s face.

 

“I watched you build routines in a place that was not permanent,” Ilya says. “You made tea like it mattered. You cared about what colour the towels were.”

 

A small, almost disbelieving smile tugs at his mouth.

 

“You made temporary feel worth investing in.”

 

Shane’s eyes are burning now, and he blinks, confused by the earnestness on his voice.

 

“I did not understand at first why that felt so significant,” Ilya admits, his voice quieter. “Why watching you choose to remain in a borrowed space made my chest hurt.”

 

He takes one slow step closer.

 

“Then I realised it was not about this AirBnB. It was about you deciding that something was worth staying for.”

 

His hand slips into his coat pocket, and Shane’s stomach drops.

 

“I have built my life around motion,” Ilya says, looking directly at him. “Always another booking, or country, or runway.”

 

His voice wavers ever so slightly, and Shane’s eyes snap to his, catching the shift in tone immediately.

 

“But you are the first thing that has ever made me want to stand still.”

 

Ilya lowers himself onto one knee.

 

“You make ordinary days feel like they are not small,” he says. “You make silence feel full. You make me want to come home - even when I am already standing in it - if you are not there with me.”

 

“I do not want grand gestures that end,” Ilya continues, holding his watery gaze. “I want mornings. I want grocery lists. I want to argue about nothing and fall asleep anyway.”

 

He pulls a small velvet box from his pocket.

 

“I want the rest of my life to be something we build, not something we escape. You are not phase. You are not accident. You are not story I tell about strange year in London.”

 

The box clicks softly open.

 

“You are my future.”

 

The silver band catches the light.

 

“Shane,” he says, and this time his voice breaks for real, “marry me.”

 

“Wait,” Shane wheezes.

 

Ilya freezes, and he doesn’t even try to hide the devastation on his face.

 

“Wait?” he repeats, very quietly.

 

Shane is already dropping to his knees in front of him.

 

“Not stop - oh my god - not stop. Just - hold on -”

 

He fumbles violently in his own pocket.

 

“I was going to do it,” Shane blurts. “I had a plan!”

 

Ilya just stares at him, stunned, still kneeling, the ring suspended in mid-air while Shane yanks out his own velvet box, nearly dropping it.

 

“I’ve been carrying this around for months,” he says, breath shaking. “I kept waiting for the right moment and then you bought a house and started monologuing and I panicked.”

 

For a split second, Ilya just looks at him. Shane opens his box.

 

“I choose you too,” he says, tears streaking hot down his cheeks. “In the noise. In the boring bits. I choose you when it’s easy and when it’s scary.”

 

“You’re not the place I run from,” he adds quickly. “You’re the place I run to.”

They both inhale.

 

“Marry me,” they say at the exact same time.

 

“Yes,” Shane breathes.

 

“Yes,” Ilya answers, like it’s the simplest truth he has ever spoken.

 

They crash into each other, and when they finally pull apart, they’re laughing. Crying. Holding on.

 

Shane presses his forehead to Ilya’s.

 

“Anywhere but here,” he whispers.

 

Ilya smiles, one thumb brushing gently under his eye.

 

“There is no anywhere,” he says softly.

“There is only us.”