Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Barghest | Barguest (Yorkshire England Folk Tale)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Rose Landry, Svetlana Vetrova, Original Characters, Jackie Pike, Hayden Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe, Strangers to Lovers, Sharing a Bed, Forced Proximity, Mutual Pining, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Tea, Alternate Universe - British, Fish as Weapon, Sex Stuff, Happily Ever After, Slow Burn, Slow Build, romcom, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Yorkshire, Alpacas, glamping, Cottagecore, Comfort No Hurt, Comfort, There Was Only One Bed, Manchester, Scarecrows, Kingston-Upon-Hull - Freeform, Romantic Fluff

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-01 Completed: 2026-09-26 Words: 79,447 Chapters: 12/12

I'm Coming to the Cottage (No, Not That One)

Summary

Shane Hollander desperately needs to disappear.
After a spectacularly awful week, a remote Yorkshire cottage seems like the perfect place to hide from the press, rediscover himself, and drink an irresponsible amount of tea.
Unfortunately, the cottage isn't empty.
The Russian stranger insists it’s his, but Shane has paperwork that says otherwise.
It's just after midnight, there's a storm outside, the roads are probably flooded, and the only available weapon is a stuffed fish.
Clearly, this is all Svetlana's fault.
They're both convinced the cottage belongs to them and they're both refusing to leave.
A Yorkshire romcom.
Inspired by The Holiday (2006), with lashings of Wallace & Gromit.

Notes

My lyrical fantasy fanfic is kicking my butt, so get in, loons—we're going troping.

This is my love letter to Yorkshire, terrible plumbing and tea, and begins with convoluted forced proximity.

Chapter 1: Freddy

“There’s still press outside the building. Fucking vultures. I can’t believe they haven’t got bored yet. There have been at least three juicier scandals in the past week. Why they’re still sitting in the rain waiting for a photograph of you going shopping or something, I’ll never understand.”

Rose dragged her eyes away from the window of the Montreal penthouse as if she could actually feel the reporters lurking below, their lenses pointed upward, patient and hungry. Even this high up, it felt like they could see everything.

Behind her, the television was talking over itself.

“…breaking situation this morning as photos…”

“…sources say the NHL is preparing a response…”

“…#ShaneHollanderGay continues to trend worldwide…”

“...second active player at this level…”

Rose lunged for the remote and muted it. The silence was worse. Or maybe it just made the rest more obvious.

Shane’s phone was vibrating on the kitchen island, lighting up again and again, screen flashing with names Rose recognised and names she didn’t. Text previews stacked one after another without being opened.

Hayden

Coach

Unknown Number

Mom

She glanced down at her own phone, reading the latest message from her driver.

“Jerry says he’ll drive around for a while and come back in an hour. The building concierge is going to get us out the service entrance. That’ll help us avoid the worst of them.”

There was no answer from the man curled up on the sofa.

He hadn’t moved in nearly an hour. Knees drawn tight to his chest, bare feet tucked under him, his body folded in on itself like he could make himself smaller, less visible. The hood of his soft, oversized sweater was pulled so far forward it half-covered his face.

Rose watched him for a moment, something tight and angry twisting in her chest, before she crossed the room and dropped down beside him. He didn’t react. She placed her hand lightly against his side, grounding, warm.

“Shane. Hey.” Her voice softened automatically. “Listen to me.”

Nothing.

“I promise you,” she went on gently, “it won’t be as bad as you think. Your mom is already working with Farah on a response. They’ll find a way to control the narrative. They’re both scary good at this, yeah?”

Nothing.

She grimaced, "God, listen to me. Forget the narrative. They'll deal with the press. You don't have to."

The apartment felt too big and bright: every sharp edge of it exposed in daylight. Floor-to-ceiling glass, open plan, no corners to hide in.

“Listen to me, baby. I love you, okay? I’m here for you.” She shifted closer, her shoulder touching his. “Your friends have been texting and calling all morning. People love you, Shane. It’s shitty that coming out wasn’t your choice. It’s shitty this has happened this way. But people are going to get over the fact that you’re gay. I promise you.”

Still nothing.

On the muted television, a ticker crawled steadily along the bottom of the screen.

#ShaneHollanderGay

She turned the television off and kept talking, softer but firmer now.

“You’re still a hockey legend. Still a three-time Stanley Cup winner. You’re Shane fucking Hollander. And this fucking dick taking photos of you doesn’t change that. He’s the one who should be hounded by the press. Not you. He’s a disgusting coward and once we find out where he is, we’ll destroy him, yeah?”

She leaned her head against his shoulder, wrapping her arms around him as much as his curled posture allowed.

For a long moment, nothing changed, then his fingers tightened in the fabric of his sleeves, and a small voice whispered out of him. “I wasn’t ready.”

It came out rough, scraped raw, barely more than breath.

“I know,” she replied quietly.

Shane shifted, just slightly, enough for the hood to fall back an inch. His voice was still muffled, but clearer now. “I didn’t get to tell anyone,” he said. “Not the team. Not my…” He cut himself off sharply, jaw tightening. “I'd spent ten years deciding how to do it. They just took that away from me.”

“I know,” she repeated.

“I hate this,” he said, flat and honest.

“I know.”

Another buzz. Another call. His mom again.

“I hate that I can’t even go outside,” he went on. “That you have to sneak me out of my own place like… like I’ve done something wrong.”

“Hey.” She nudged him gently. “You know you haven’t. You don’t owe anyone anything, OK?”

He didn’t respond and curled back in on himself on the sofa. Rose let the silence sit for a moment, then breathed out slowly and straightened a little.

“Okay,” she said, a decision colouring her voice. “We’re not doing this.”

Shane made a faint noise, noncommittal at best.

“We’re not sitting here waiting for it to get worse,” she continued. “We’re not letting them trap you in this apartment while they tear you apart on TV. Absolutely not.”

He made a small, broken murmur, that might have been a question and Rose’s mouth curved, just slightly.

“Instead you disappear. You leave. For a few weeks. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one gives a shit about hockey.”

That got a reaction, barely, but it was there. A small shift.

“The cottage,” she said automatically, wanting to wrap Shane in the comfort of his favourite place on earth.

Shane groaned slightly. “The cottage is out of the question. They found carpenter ants in one of the walls. It’s all torn apart while they’re treating it.”

There was a long pause.

“Of course they did,” Rose said, temporarily thwarted. “I know, I know.” She reached for her phone again, already scrolling. “So let’s go to… plan B.”

Shane didn’t look interested but Rose was undeterred. “You go abroad,” she said, angling the screen toward him anyway. “Somewhere anonymous. Somewhere nobody cares. I’ve got access to this house swap network for clients who need privacy. Rich people trading houses with other rich people who don’t want questions asked.”

A flicker of something crossed his face: scepticism, maybe. Rose tapped, pulled up a listing.

“Look. This one, Russian woman, Svetlana Vetrova. She’s got two properties. A flat in London, although that’s too exposed, in my opinion, and a cottage in Yorkshire.” She scrolled, then held it steady. “She needs to be in Montreal for a month. Perfect timing.”

Shane didn’t move for a second. Then, slowly, he lowered his knees just enough to see the screen. Stone walls. Low ceilings. A small kitchen with mismatched cabinets. A garden that looked slightly overgrown. Grey sky. No neighbors in sight.

No cameras.

No glass.

No one watching.

“It’s… quiet,” he said.

“That’s the point,” Rose replied softly.

He hesitated, eyes lingering on the images.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “This is…”

“A temporary escape?” she suggested. “Exactly what you need?”

He huffed faintly but before he could argue, she tapped a few more times.

“There,” she said briskly. “I’ve put in your interest and sent it to your phone. You can back out if you hate it.”

“Rose…”

Her phone buzzed and she read the incoming text. “That’s Jerry, baby. I have to go,” she cut in, already standing, grabbing her bag. “I hate leaving you like this, but I can’t get out of this.”

She paused, softening. “Try to breathe a little.” She leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to the side of his head, then headed for the door. “Service exit,” she reminded him. “And don’t answer unknown numbers.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Silence.

For about three seconds.

Then his phone started buzzing again. Sluggishly, as though he hadn’t walked for days, Shane dragged himself from the sofa and looked at his phone on the kitchen counter.

Mom.

He stared at it until it stopped.

Then it started again.

Hayden.

Another message pinged. Then another. Notifications stacking faster than he could read them.

The room felt smaller now. Louder, even in silence.

He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling shakily, and reached for the phone, flipping it over. He stared at nothing.

The phone continued to buzz.

Slowly his hand turned it back over and he opened it, navigating to the message from Rose. Opening it, he clicked on the link to her discrete house swap website and looked at the listing. Svetlana Vetrova, Russian, Strategic Advisor. A cottage. It would be like his place, he told himself. Quiet. Isolated. Safe. No one would be there. No one would care about him. He couldn’t stay here in Montreal, that was the only certainty he could cling on to at the moment.

The phone buzzed again and he jumped. Another incoming call from his mom.

Finally, he hit answer and spoke before she could “Mom, can you get me a ticket to Yorkshire, England?”

*

The rental car smelled faintly of air freshener and something citrus that didn't quite cover the underlying damp. Shane gripped the steering wheel harder than necessary, knuckles pale against the black leather, eyes fixed firmly on the ribbon of road unspooling ahead of him.

He still wasn't used to being on the wrong side. Every instinct he’d built over fifteen years of driving insisted he should be sitting on the other side of the car, in the other lane. Every right-hand bend made him flinch. Every approaching vehicle looked, for a split second, like it was driving straight at him.

"Stay left," he muttered under his breath. "Stay left..."

The first hour out of Newcastle Airport had been manageable enough. Motorways. Multiple lanes. Familiar road markings, even if everything was mirrored. Then the satnav had guided him onto smaller roads. Then smaller still.

Now...

Now there was just this.

Grey ribbon-like tarmac threading its way through rolling green hills, hemmed in on both sides by dry stone walls that looked older than Canada itself. Beyond them, sheep dotted the fields like scraps of dirty wool, lifting incurious faces as he crawled past. The light was strange here: flat and silvery, as though the sun was somewhere overhead but couldn't quite be bothered to make an appearance. Every now and then the road climbed high enough for the North Sea to appear between the hills, vast and slate-grey beneath the cloud cover before disappearing again behind another rise.

It was beautiful.

Not the dramatic beauty of the lakes back home. This landscape seemed quieter than that. Soft green hills folded into one another, stitched together with ancient stone walls and narrow lanes that looked as though they hadn't changed in centuries.

A sign flashed past.

He had learned in the last hour that it meant: ‘Single track road with passing places’. He really, really hated that sign. English signs had rapidly become his least favourite things.

A sign had warned him to watch for sheep.

Another had warned him about concealed entrances.

Another simply announced: ‘Give Way’

He’d had to Google that one while waiting at a petrol station.

“Yield,” he muttered under his breath. “You could just say yield.”

As if on cue, the satnav's pleasant English voice announced,

"Continue for two miles."

"Two miles of this?"

The road narrowed again. It shouldn't have been physically possible, and yet somehow it happened. Stone walls pressed close enough that he found himself drawing in a breath, as though making himself smaller might somehow help the car fit between them. A battered Land Rover appeared around the next bend, faster than it had any right to be. Too close. Entirely on what his brain insisted was his side of the road.

“Jesus!”

He swerved instinctively toward the stone wall, heart lurching, convinced he was about to sideswipe either the car or several hundred years of Yorkshire infrastructure. Instead, the other driver slowed with practiced ease and pulled into a gap in the wall Shane hadn't even realised was there, completely relaxed, one hand on the wheel. Like this wasn’t a near-fatal experience.

A passing place.

The rental slipped by with inches to spare. The driver lifted two fingers from the steering wheel in a casual wave. Shane stared at him in despair. “Right,” Shane breathed. “Sure. Totally normal.” The road narrowed even further. He didn’t understand how that was possible, but it did. And now a soft strip of grass and moss ran down the centre of the road. That felt like it might not be a good thing for a Canadian driver in a rental car drenched in growing panic.

Slowly, the road climbed steadily higher, twisting around blind corners bordered by foxgloves and ferns. His shoulders nudged higher, hunched about his ears, his knuckles white around his death grip on the steering wheel. Another sharp, blind bend, taken at a crawl, to face a cluster of sheep standing directly in the centre of the road. Shane hit the brakes a little harder than he'd intended, The car rocking gently to a stop, as the animals turned their heads toward him in slow, collective confusion.

The sheep looked at him.

He looked at the sheep.

"...You've got to be kidding me."

One of them bleated forlornly.

"Yeah," Shane muttered. "No, I get it."

His imagination conjured images of battered land rovers screeching around the bend and smashing into the back of his rental. Or worse, pulling up on the other side of the sheep. A Yorkshire stand-off ensuing. He really needed to move.

He tapped the horn.

Nothing.

Another, slightly longer press.

One sheep wandered vaguely towards the verge. Another appeared to be ruminating on the meaning of existence. The rest simply stood there, chewing thoughtfully.

Shane dragged a hand down his face. "This isn’t real."

Eventually he eased forward and the sheep reluctantly and balefully moved to the sides of the narrow road. For a while there was nothing except the crunch of the tyres on the broken road, the wind pushing gently against the car, and the occasional cry of gulls carried inland from somewhere beyond the hills.

Then the satnav chimed again.

"Turn right."

"There is no right." he muttered.

And there wasn't.

There was, maybe, the barest suggestion of one: a break in the stone wall leading onto something that looked less like an actual road and more like someone had repeatedly driven across a field until the grass had surrendered and pretended to be a road.

"This is a driveway."

"Turn right."

He hesitated, and then, because apparently he’d committed to this entire sequence of increasingly questionable decisions, he slowed and turned. The car bumped vigorously onto rougher ground. The lane became even narrower, grass brushing against the doors on either side. The stone walls fell away in places, replaced by open moorland where the wind flattened long grasses into purple waves.

Then the sea appeared.

It stretched along the horizon in endless shades of blue-grey, merging almost seamlessly with the sky. Far away, tucked into a curve of the coastline, sat a cluster of red roofs and narrow streets surrounding a harbour. Close enough to see, but far enough away to feel entirely disconnected.

The satnav chimed one last time.

“You have reached your destination.”

He looked around.

“There’s nothing…”

Then he saw it. Half-hidden, crouched behind a crooked hawthorn hedge sat a low stone cottage. Grey-coloured stone walls, a weathered slate roof, two squat chimneys. Ivy creeping lazily across one side and a narrow gravel drive curved toward an open wooden gate.Beyond it, the land fell away sharply toward the sea, the coastline stretching north in a jagged line of cliffs and surf.

It was terrifyingly, gloriously isolated.

No neighbours.

No glass towers.

No cameras.

Only wind in the long grass and the distant sound of the sea.

Shane pulled the car up by the gate and switched off the engine. His phone, face down in the cup holder, said nothing. He turned it over almost cautiously. No messages. No missed calls forcing their way through.

No signal.

He sat there for a moment, hands still resting on the steering wheel. Rose had been right. Nobody here knew who he was. Nobody here cared. Outside, a lone sheep in the next field lifted its head, regarded him with complete and utter indifference, then went back to eating grass. Shane let out a slow breath. It was, he decided, the warmest welcome he'd received all week. He reached for the door handle and stepped out of the car.

*

The wind hit him first.

Cold and immediate, cutting clean through his jacket the moment he opened the car door. Not just cool, but damp.

“Right,” Shane muttered, stepping out and squinting up at the sky. “Love that.”

The cottage was considerably smaller than it had looked in the photographs. Shane had called his own open, glass cabin a ‘cottage’ for years and had expected something equivalent. It was not. It was small and squat, and the arrangement of doors and windows leant it a vaguely judgemental expression.

The door was thick wood, slightly warped and painted a blue that might once have been brighter. There was no keypad. No keyless entry. No anything, really. Svetlana had sent a number of messages about the cottage and he had remembered to print them out at the last minute. He fumbled in his bag and pulled out the paper, which instantly became a little damp and a little crumpled in the Yorkshire air. He found a line reminding him about a lockbox, but there wasn’t one of those visible either. He set off to explore the perimeter of the cottage.

He found it eventually, fixed a little crookedly to the wall beside a lean-to. It took him three tries to get the code right, fingers slightly numb from the wind, before it clicked open with a small, deeply satisfying sound. Inside: a single, very solid-looking brass key.

“Wow,” he exhaled. “Vintage.”

The key didn't work.

Shane frowned at the lock, tried repeatedly, before once again fumbling in his pocket for the notes from Svetlana. ‘Lift handle before turning key.’

"...Of course."

He lifted the worn brass handle and the lock clicked immediately. He felt an absurd rush of triumph, but then the door stuck when he pushed it. “Come on,” he muttered, leaning his shoulder into it. It gave all at once, swinging inward with a faint groan.

There was a strange chill inside, that rippled through him. How was it colder than the outside? He stepped inside anyway, dragging his bags after him, and shut the door firmly against the wind. The cottage smelled faintly of woodsmoke and lavender. As he closed the front door, it fell silent except for the faint ticking of what sounded like an ancient clock somewhere deeper in the house.

He stood in what was apparently the main room.

It was...

Cosy.

Cosy, in the way people used when they meant small.

The photographs hadn't really conveyed how small it was. There was a low ceiling, whitewashed walls and heavy wooden beams crossing overhead. A large squashy fabric sofa was pushed up against one wall and an enormous stone fireplace took up most of the opposite side. Drawing it together was a large worn Persian rug, placed over the battered, but varnished wooden floorboards. Where possible, there were books overflowing from mismatched shelves, and a window seat piled high with faded cushions beneath tall sash windows. Dried flowers sat in a chipped blue jug on the mantelpiece and someone had left a knitted blanket folded neatly over the arm of the sofa.

It didn't look like a holiday rental. It looked lived in. Loved.

His shoulders loosened before he realised they had. He smiled slightly.

The cottage was quirky. But quirky was okay. It had a fireplace and was isolated and…

"...Is that a fish?"

A large stuffed fish stared at him from its vantage point on the wall, with an expression of permanent surprise.

Shane stared back.

"...Right."

That was a choice.

A doorway led into the kitchen, which was somehow even smaller. The cupboards were painted in mismatched colours and lined with checked fabric. The wooden worktops were worn silky smooth with age. A Belfast sink beneath another sash window looking out across windswept fields towards the sea, and copper pans hung from a rack above an old-fashioned range cooker.

Everything was spotless.

Everything was also at least thirty years older than anything he'd owned since he was drafted. He turned slowly and opened the closest cupboards. There was no coffee machine. There was, however, a kettle: A bright pink kettle, sitting proudly on the counter beside a dizzying quantity of Yorkshire Tea.

A welcome basket sat on the table with bread, butter, eggs, cheese and jam. A packet of Chocolate Hobnobs was sticking jauntily out of the top, alongside something labelled Yorkshire Tea Cakes.

A handwritten card rested on top, decorated with small flowers.

Welcome, Shane!

Help yourself to anything. The milk is in the fridge. Boiler instructions are in the blue folder. Please don't let Boris the hedgehog into the house if he visits. He means well, but he has no manners.

—Sveta

Shane read it twice.

He wasn't entirely convinced she was joking.

The chill had settled somewhere between his skin and his bones. He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. If Britain insisted on being cold in June, the least it could do was provide tea. He clicked on the switch of the kettle. Nothing happened. He tried again, then reached for the round lightswitch on the wall, shaped vaguely like a breast, and flicked the nipple. His inner child sniggered.

Nothing happened… Electricity then.

The blue folder lay exactly where Svetlana had promised.

WELCOME TO BRAMBLE COTTAGE

He opened it, flipping past neat handwritten sections.

Heating.

Hot water.

Aga instructions (important!).

Electricity.

There were twenty-seven pages: a mixture of official documents and handwritten instructions.

Emergency Numbers.

Recycling Collection Days.

The Wood Burner.

The Septic Tank.

Television.

Boiler.

Boiler.

Additional Boiler Notes.

"...There are three sections on the boiler?"

As he flicked through the folder, the headings became increasingly unhinged. A second style of handwriting began appearing more and more often: jagged, emphatic block capitals contrasting with the looping cursive he assumed belonged to Svetlana.

If the upstairs toilet whistles, ignore…

The back gate sticks in the wet …

The sheep belong to Malcolm. Please …

The gulls cannot be reasoned with ...

Boris is not allowed inside after The Incident…

Shane realised that this wasn’t an instruction manual, it was an extended record of cottage lore.

He sighed and turned back to the start.

Step One: Switch immersion heater on at wall.

Wall? He looked around, searching until he found it: an ordinary seeming light switch beside the small pantry. He flicked it and was unsurprised when nothing happened. He tried again, then glanced down at the note scrawled in the jagged handwriting beneath it: ‘NO. NOT THIS ONE. OTHER ONE. BEHIND KETTLE.’, underlined twice. He turned and saw, tucked discreetly behind the kettle, another switch.

He flicked that and a tiny orange light glowed to life. The kettle clicked on.

He allowed himself a tiny nod of satisfaction. "...Your electricity has electricity." He murmured, returning to the pantry switch and shaking his head in despair thinking about the maze of wiring that must be tangled somewhere inside the walls.

Britain was exhausting.

His phone battery had slipped below five percent during the drive. Even though there was a stubborn lack of reception, he could not let it die, so he dug out his travel adapter, plugged it into the wall and connected the cable.

Nothing.

He stared. Unplugged it. Plugged it back in.

Still nothing.

After five increasingly irritated attempts he noticed the tiny red switch beside the socket. He pressed it and the charger immediately sprang to life. Shane looked at it for a long moment.

"You people don't trust your own plugs."

Shane made himself a cup of tea. The cupboards had revealed an assortment of crockery, all mismatched. There were at least seventeen different mugs. He had chosen one with the word ‘Whitby’ scrawled in a gothic font in front of an image of what appeared to be Dracula. It made no sense to Shane, but the tea was hot and bitter. He had added a splash of fresh ‘full cream farm milk’ and groaned at how good it tasted. As he drank, he idly reached for the welcome basket note, smiling at the hand drawn flowers. He flipped it in his fingers and saw the spiky, jagged handwriting on the back. “EAT THE HOBNOBS. SO GOOD!” Underlined twice.

Shane frowned slightly. He looked at the packet, then looked back at the note. Whoever this second person was, they seemed oddly invested. He opened the packet.

They were right.

They were so good.

*

His suitcase bumped against every other stair as he hauled it upstairs. The staircase was narrow and steeper than he expected, the steps worn slightly uneven in the middle. He had to dip his head to avoid headbutting one of the ancient beams.

“Definitely up to code,” he murmured.

The bedroom was… beautiful.

One large bed, with a handcrafted patchwork quilt thrown over it in pinks, reds and yellows. Beneath it, crisp white cotton sheets, soft and smooth. The ceiling was low, and another sash window framed a view of the sea and sky merging to one. Next to the window was a delicate vase filled with fresh wildflowers, arranged chaotically but charmingly. There was a book by the bedside table: Yorkshire Folk Tales, and a warm blanket folded over an overstuffed floral chair.

Outside, rain began tapping softly against the window. He crossed the bedroom and tried to open it. It refused to budge. He frowned at it: was it painted closed? He pushed harder.

Nothing.

After a brief wrestling match with Victorian engineering, he finally noticed the little brass catch at the top, he turned it and the lower half of the window slid smoothly upwards.

"...Well."

Cold, salt-scented air drifted inside. Somewhere beyond the fields he could hear gulls crying and the breath of a wind.

He rested both hands on the old wooden sill and closed his eyes. The cottage creaked quietly around him, settling into itself and he felt a wave of tiredness brushing against him.

The en suite bathroom was the most modern thing he had seen for the last few hours. A shower stall and a bathtub, with separate taps.

“Hot and cold?” he said, staring at them. “You’re kidding.”

He turned one cautiously. Water spluttered out, aggressively cold. He turned the other and waited as something somewhere inside the walls gurgled ominously, and then jerked his hand back as a burst of scalding water spluttered out.

“Great. Excellent system. No notes.”

By the bobbled obscure glass window hung a message, absurdly in embroidery, the letters starting a little muddled, before the confidence of the artist clearly grew: PLEASE LEAVE THE WINDOW AJAR. Okay. He smiled and turned to exit, before crouching slightly. He stood straight, then crouched again, frowning at the ornate brass framed mirror on the wall. It had been hung at the perfect height for someone who was very much under six feet tall. Shane could only see his chest reflected, unless he crouched low. Assuming the position, he looked at himself in the mirror. It had tiny black spots where the silver backing had worn away and one corner of the frame had been repaired with glue. His eyes scanned these details before settling, briefly, on his reflection. Pale face, dark smudges under his eyes.

He stood straight and leaned against the small sink, taking it in. It was… ridiculous. Completely impractical and slightly inconvenient in almost every possible way.

And yet, there was something about it.

About the quiet. The thick walls. The fact that nothing here was trying particularly hard to impress anyone.

No glass walls.

No city noise.

No phones ringing themselves into oblivion.

Just a small, stubborn, slightly chaotic cottage on a cliff in the middle of nowhere.

Shane let out a slow breath, some of the tension he’d been carrying since Montreal easing, just slightly.Downstairs, the pipes clanked again, a little louder this time, as the cottage slowly, reluctantly, began to warm.

“Okay,” he said softly. “This might work.”

After unpacking his suitcase, the travel and time difference finally caught up with Shane. He pulled on his softest pyjamas and crawled into the enormous bed beneath the patchwork quilt. The mattress dipped comfortably beneath him, warm and unexpectedly forgiving. He’d barely put on his glasses and opened ‘Yorkshire Folk Tales’ before the words began to blur and the book slid down onto his chest.

A minute later, he was asleep.

*

The rain woke him, and not gently. It hammered against the cottage, drumming on the slate roof and rattling the sash window hard enough to make the old glass shiver in its frame.

Shane jerked upright, heart racing. For one disoriented, panicked second, his mind scrabbled for context.

Photos.

Montreal.

Reporters

No.

Stone walls.

England.

The cottage.

A flash of lightning split the room, bleaching everything white before plunging it back into darkness. Thunder followed a heartbeat later, rolling across the cliffs hard enough to make the bedframe hum beneath him.

“Jesus Christ.”

His eyes snapped to the en suite bathroom and the painstakingly embroidered sign: PLEASE LEAVE THE WINDOW AJAR.

“Absolutely not.”

He stumbled out of bed, bare feet recoiling against the cold floorboards, and crossed the room. Rain had forced its way through the narrow opening, speckling the windowsill and dampening the chair beneath. The brass catch was slick with rain and resisted him for several seconds before finally giving way with a sharp click. He shoved the window down and immediately, the storm became distant. Shane stood there for a moment, resting one hand against the old wooden frame and looked out through the rain-streaked glass.

The sea had vanished entirely, swallowed by darkness and weather. Every so often lightning revealed the cliffs in brief, ghostly flashes, before they disappeared again. The wind howled around the cottage.

Something downstairs creaked. Then clunked.

The pipes, he told himself firmly. Just an old house with opinionated pipes.

Another gust, another creak, and the clock downstairs ticked on with infuriating calm. Shane climbed back into bed and dragged the quilt up to his chin. The cottage settled around him with soft groans and sighs, as if the storm had woken it up as well.

Eventually, his breathing slowed, and he listened, learning the rhythm and pattern of the house. His eyes drifted closed.

*Click*

His eyes snapped open again and he stared into the darkness, frowning, listening as hard as he could. Just as he felt the need to breathe in again, he heard another creak. The wind.

Probably.

*Click*

No.

That hadn’t been the wind. That had been metal. The definite sound of metal. A key. A key turning in a lock. Shane’s entire body went rigid as he listened to the unmistakable sound of the groaning front door swinging open.

Someone muttered something downstairs. The words were unfamiliar, but they landed with all the weary emphasis of a curse. A deep male voice and Shane couldn't understand the words spoken, his panicked, tired mind struggling to organise what was happening.

The front door closed with a heavy thud.

Silence.

Then the sound of footsteps, slow and unhurried.

Shane’s pulse slammed against his ribs.

The reporters…

No.

No reporter would have a key.

…would they?

His brain supplied a quick, unhelpful list:

Wrong cottage.

Burglar.

Serial killer.

British serial killer. (Worse somehow.)

He slid silently out of bed. There wasn’t much in the bedroom that qualified as a weapon.

A lamp: too flimsy.

The book: not ideal.

He eased the door open and stepped onto the landing. The staircase dropped away into darkness. There was another creak from below and a sigh.

Shane glanced around wildly, still failing to see anything that could be used as a weapon. He crept halfway down the stairs and peered around the bend. The sitting room flickered with intermittent lightning from the front windows and Shane saw the shape of a man standing with his back to him, shrugging off a rain-soaked coat. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair plastered to his head by the rain. He was humming to himself while picking up what looked suspiciously like groceries.

What kind of burglar brought groceries?

Lightning flashed again and Shane gasped. The man turned quickly and their eyes met. For one suspended heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then…

They both screamed.

Instinct took over and Shane lunged for the closest object within reach. The stuffed fish came cleanly off the wall and he gripped it in both hands like a baseball bat.

The man stared at him, water dripping steadily from his hair, down his nose, onto the floor.

A long, incredulous silence pulled taut between them.

Finally, in a rich Russian accent, the man said, “Don’t threaten me with a dead fish.”

Shane tightened his grip. “Who the hell are you?”

The man blinked. “I was just about to ask you exactly the same thing.”

Shane’s heartbeat was pounding in his chest and throat, as he stared at the intruder, brandishing the fish like a weapon. The accusatory tone had taken him by surprise and his fear was starting to crystallise into indignation.

“I’m supposed to be here.” He announced, frustrated at the way his voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat and regrouped. “I have a reservation,”which felt like an important detail under the circumstances. Yes, that was better: a tight, clipped voice that conveyed his confidence.

Then the stranger took a step towards him and he raised the fish slightly, fingers tightening. The man stopped and raised a hand slightly, in what could have been a placating gesture and he seemed to be trying to make his body physically smaller and less threatening. It was not working.

“I think, maybe, there has been a mix up” he said in a low, calm voice, his eyes gazing steadily at Shane, a small smile quirking the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps you could put Freddy down and we can talk?”

Shane blinked and raised the fish higher, squaring his body and trying to look fierce and capable. “Freddy?”

“Yes”, the man gestured at Shane. “Freddy Fish. He has maybe had a difficult life, yes? We should let him rest.”

He grinned. A broad, wide smile that revealed his teeth.

To Shane’s overstimulated mind, it looked terrifying.

He gripped the fish tighter and tried to look fierce. “Why are you in my house?”

“Is not your house.”

“Excuse me?”

The man tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, “Is mine.”

For one awful, heart dropping moment, Shane thought maybe he had stumbled into the wrong isolated Yorkshire cottage and had made himself at home in a stranger's house. His brain skidded to a halt, before regrouping and realising that that was ridiculous: he had the notes from Sveta and the welcome basket. Of course this was the right cottage.

“No. It isn’t” he argued firmly. “It’s Svetlana Vetrova’s. I’m Shane Hollander. I’m here from Canada. As a house swap. She’s at my Montreal apartment. You’re in the wrong place and I need you to leave.”

The man looked at him intently, before closing his eyes and letting out a deep, frustrated sigh.

“Ok,” he said tiredly. “Ok. I think maybe there has been a mix up. A mistake. Something.” He waved his arm tiredly around the room, as if it could help him explain. “Please put down Freddy Fish. He looks so scared it is hurting my heart.” He placed one big hand over his own heart and directed a small, boyish half smile at Shane.

The change of energy in the room left Shane feeling ridiculous. He slowly placed the stuffed fish on a shelf, not quite relaxing and not taking his eyes off the man, whose smile deepened and, oh my god, he had actual dimples. Shane noticed them, and then was instantly irritated that he had done so. He covered his stray thoughts with a deep frown.

“So who are you and why are you here?” he demanded again and the man gave a small bow.

"Ilya Rozanov. Cousin of Svetlana Vetrova. Wet. Cold. Very hungry." He gave a tiny shrug. "Owner of Bramble Cottage. I think."

“You think?”

“Is late, I’m so tired. But yes, I think is my house.” He pointed to a shelf, upon which was a small, framed photograph of a man and a woman laughing at the camera. The woman was beautiful with curly hair blowing in the breeze. Beside her grinned the man who was currently standing, dripping, in the living room of Shane's escape cottage. Behind them was Bramble Cottage, dazzling in bright sunlight.

“But I have documents…”

“Svetlana.” Ilya sighed and moved to rest on the arm of the sofa. “She is on her fancy house swap website, yes? And people stay at her flat in Mayfair. But also she offers Bramble Cottage.” He waved his hand again. “Which is not hers. Is mine.”

Shane felt the fragile peace he'd so carefully wrapped around himself begin to splinter apart. “Have I been scammed? Is this a trick?” he whispered.

Shane didn’t know what his face was doing: it was numb. But something on it caused the man, Ilya, to stand and hold out his hand, making soothing noises. “No, no no.” he said softly. “Is not a scam. Is a mistake, yes? I thought Sveta said her swap guest had changed his mind. Wanted to stay in London, yes? I thought Bramble Cottage was empty. Is just a misunderstanding. Easy to fix.”

He was watching Shane like he was a skittish wild animal.

Shane swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “So,” he said, with forced steadiness, “you’re saying this is a mistake.”

“Yes.” Ilya nodded, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. “A very stupid mistake, but still a mistake.”

“And you just… walked in.”

“Is my house,” Ilya replied mildly. “I thought it was empty. I did not expect to be attacked by a man with a dead fish.”

Shane pressed his lips together. “It was a reasonable response in the circumstances.”

Ilya’s grin returned to his face. “Of course,” he said. “Was very tactical.”

Shane nodded and attempted to reconstruct the framework of his life. “Right. Fine. So. This is clearly Svetlana’s fault.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed immediately, with deep conviction. “This is definitely Svetlana’s fault.”

That, at least, was common ground. It was so sensible that Shane felt some of the panic begin to loosen its grip and the tightness in his chest eased just a fraction. “Okay. Good. Then we’ll call her in the morning and she can… fix it.”

“Yes.”

They both stilled and looked at each other. Great. That was tomorrow pencilled in. Shane felt his body tightening awkwardly. The storm rattled against the cottage windows, a low, persistent roar pressing in around them. The lights flickered once, briefly, then steadied again. Shane glanced toward the window, then back to Ilya.

“And in the meantime,” he said carefully, “you’ll… leave?”

Ilya blinked at him.

“Leave,” Shane repeated, more firmly. “And come back tomorrow. And then we can sort this out.”

Ilya glanced over his shoulder toward the door, where rain was still lashing against the wood in relentless sheets. Then he looked back at Shane.

“Is two in the morning,” he said.

Shane hesitated.

“I walked six miles to get here,” Ilya added, “In the dark. In the rain.” He gestured vaguely toward his still-damp clothes. “I am not going back out there.”

Shane followed the gesture despite his better instincts. His jeans were soaked through. Water was still dripping steadily from the ends of his curls, pooling faintly on the wooden floor. And his top had plastered itself to an annoyingly impressive chest.

“You didn’t drive?” Shane asked weakly.

Ilya shrugged. “Where is the fun in that?”

Shane stared at him. “This isn’t fun,” he said.

Ilya smiled. “You were holding a stuffed fish like a weapon in a storm, in the middle of nowhere. It is a little bit fun.”

Shane didn’t rise to that. He pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, he looked tired and resigned, understanding the way this scene had to play out.

“Fine,” he said, shortly. “Fine. You can stay. For tonight.”

Ilya inclined his head slightly, accepting this as if it had never been in doubt.

“We’ll call Svetlana in the morning if we can get reception somewhere,” Shane continued, already restructuring the situation into something manageable. “And she’ll sort out where you’re supposed to be and where I’m supposed to be. And then you’ll leave.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed easily.

Shane nodded, once. “Good.”

Another small pause settled between them. Less sharp now, but still awkward. Shane glanced up the stairs and then down. His feet shuffled slightly.

Ilya glanced toward the sofa. “I will sleep here,” he said.

Shane looked at it too, then back at him. “That’s… probably best.”

“Yes.”

“Right,” he said. “Well. Good. That’s settled.”

They stood there for another few seconds, neither apparently sure how two strangers accidentally sharing a cottage were supposed to end the conversation. Rain hammered against the windows. The old pipes clanked somewhere in the walls, a hollow, echoing sound.

“Do you need blankets?” he asked stiffly, gesturing vaguely toward the sofa without looking directly at Ilya. “I think there are some upstairs. Somewhere. And… tea. There’s so much tea in the kitchen if you want it.”

“I always want tea,” Ilya smiled. “Is my house Shane Hollander. I know where spare blankets are.”

Of course. Idiot. Shane hesitated, just long enough to almost add something else, then thought better of it.

“Good night?” he said instead.

Ilya nodded solemnly.

"Goodnight, Shane Hollander from Canada."

"Goodnight, man who may or may not own this cottage."

"I think I do."

That earned the smallest ghost of a smile from Shane. He picked up Freddy Fish from the shelf where he'd abandoned him, regarded him thoughtfully for a second, before carefully rehanging him on his hook.

"There."

Ilya watched approvingly. "Better. He looks happier now"

This was a lie. The fish looked as outraged as he ever had. But the comment settled something in place, and Shane turned to leave.

He climbed the narrow stairs, every tread creaking beneath his feet. He paused outside the bedroom door and listened. Nothing. Just the steady hiss of rain against the windows and, after a few moments, the soft rustle of blankets as Ilya settled onto the sofa below.

He closed the bedroom door.

Downstairs, Ilya stared up at the heavy oak beams above him. The sofa was approximately six inches shorter than he was. He sighed.

Upstairs, Shane lay awake staring into the darkness, every creak of the cottage making him wonder why he had just agreed to spend the night under the same roof as a complete stranger.

Downstairs, Ilya wondered what kind of man instinctively armed himself with a stuffed fish.

The storm continued to sweep across the fields around them.

Neither of them slept particularly well.

Chapter 2: Boris

Chapter Summary

Previously on... Rose helpfully found Shane a cottage swap in Yorkshire, after explicit photos of him are leaked online. However, the cottage came with a Russian owner.

Chapter Notes

Shane woke to the sound of something trying very hard to die inside the walls. For a few long, disoriented seconds he lay perfectly still beneath the patchwork quilt, eyes fixed on the low wooden beam above him, listening as the noise built into a hollow, metallic groan followed by a violent shudder that rattled straight through the mattress. Pipes, he realised finally. Old, furious, opinionated pipes. The cottage seemed to expand around him, every beam creaking in sympathy, and somewhere below, a tap screamed into life, clearly resenting the reality of its existence. Shane squeezed his eyes shut and dragged a pillow over his face.

Right. England. The cottage. Not a dream. And, he remembered with a sinking sort of clarity, not empty.

His phone indicated that it was mid morning already. Normally he woke at 5am and started a rigorous and regimented routine of exercise, healthy food and strategy. But the events of the last week had scrambled everything, rattling the structures that held his life in place. The time difference, the travel, and the emotional upheaval of late-night fish attacks had loosened something inside him. His usual routines felt strangely out of reach.  Left him feeling slightly squeezed and stretched, both mentally and physically.

Now he had to face the stranger and get his emotional retreat back on track. As much as he really wanted to, he couldn’t hide in the bedroom all day. If he did, the man downstairs would probably assume victory and settle in for the long haul. That was very much not going to happen. He had to leave. This was Shane’s retreat. He couldn’t go back to Montreal, where Svetlana was in his apartment, doing whatever it was that a strategic advisor did. He didn’t want to go to the Mayfair flat: too noisy, too busy, too much like Montreal. No, this cottage was exactly where Shane needed to be. And he would stand his ground. He had a signed contract. Shane was a firm believer in rules. The contract was the winning move in this game. Ilya Rozanov would leave today.

Feeling more positive and energised, despite the lack of decent sleep, Shane crawled out of bed and prepared to battle the Yorkshire shower system. 

This was harder than it seemed. Every heat adjustment came with a delay and the only available temperatures appeared to be glacial or molten. He snapped between the two, his skin steadily turning pinker from the abuse. Eventually he had to declare himself as clean as he was going to get under these conditions and gave up.  He wrapped a soft towel around his hips, opening the door and returning to the bedroom, where he was greeted with the sight of Ilya Rozanov, in his underwear, leaning over a chest of drawers that had been locked, rifling through the clothing that was apparently in there.

The man had a naked back that was woven from golden skin and taut muscle, every movement shifting and flexing beneath the surface, in a way that would have inspired sculptors and poets.

Shane froze.

He blinked.

Or, you know. He was kinda hot.

Biology asserted its dominance and Shane took a sharp, slightly wheezing breath in, startling the big Russian, who turned, clutching some clothes to his chest, with a slightly guilty expression on his face. He held up his bounty rather defensively.

“Trousers,” he announced, in a raspy voice. “Mine are still wet. I keep clothes here.” He gestured at the locked drawers. “Because it is my house, you know. Just a few things.” 

Shane was acutely aware that he was not keeping up his side of the conversation, but his throat was too dry to participate.

Rozanov waved the clothes again slightly and then cleared his throat. “The kettle is boiled. I am making tea. It will be perfect soon. So, come down when you are ready.”

Shane’s blink was the only reply, his eyes fixed determinedly on the Russian’s face and not on the wide, rolling, glorious expanse of naked, toned flesh, that flexed and rippled under the warm honeyed skin of…

Face, Shane reminded himself firmly.

Unfortunately, his tense insistence on watching Rozanov’s face meant he couldn’t miss the subtle shift in expression as the Russian tilted his head and let his gaze drift over Shane’s damp torso, lingering for the briefest fraction of a second before snapping politely back to his eyes. They stared at each other for a charged second, before Ilya mumbled something about tea and breakfast and escaped downstairs.

Fuck.

Shane deliberately rolled his shoulders, trying to force them to relax, before turning to dry himself and get dressed, much more slowly than necessary. By the time he buttoned his shirt, he'd managed to reconstruct a strategy. The contract was in his bag downstairs. Contracts were facts. Facts won arguments.

*

The kitchen smelled strongly of bacon and tea. Every available space seemed to be occupied by either food, crockery or Ilya Rozanov, who had somehow managed to establish himself at the centre of the room and subsequently now filled every part of it. Shane paused in the doorway, momentarily uncertain whether there was actually enough physical room left for him to enter. It seemed even smaller than it had yesterday. Pale morning light spilled through the sash window over the sink, turning the dust motes gold as they drifted lazily through the air. Outside, low clouds hung over the fields beyond the cottage garden, pressing the landscape flat beneath a blanket of grey. The sea had vanished entirely behind mist. A slow drizzle of rain settled gently against the glass.

Inside, however, Bramble Cottage appeared determined to continue existing at maximum intensity. The ancient grandfather clock ticked enthusiastically. The pipes in the walls knocked at irregular intervals. Occasionally the electricity buzzed in response. 

The cottage, Shane was beginning to realise, was incredibly chatty.

At the stove, Ilya stood barefoot in a pair of dark sweatpants, which hung dangerously low on his hips. He had on a tight, faded navy t-shirt, decorated with a white rose, which proclaimed he was ‘Born in Yorkshire’. Shane was sceptical about the genetic accuracy of the T Shirt. He was pouring boiling water into a toad shaped teapot, one hip resting against the counter. 

Shane watched him for a moment, then shuffled in embarrassment and felt his cheeks flush. The problem wasn't that Ilya was doing anything particularly distracting. The problem was that now Shane knew what was under the t-shirt. His brain had filed it away with the sort of efficiency normally reserved for hockey statistics. And now it flashed urgently in his mind when he looked at the Russian. He tried very hard to keep his facial expression neutral.

As if sensing his presence, Ilya glanced over his shoulder and curled a lazy half grin..

"Good morning."

His voice was rough with sleep, which was unfairly sexy. 

"Morning." Oh. Apparently Shane’s morning voice was as sexy as a chicken squawk.

A brief silence followed. Not necessarily awkward, but definitely cautious. The slight tension that settled between two men who had met twelve hours ago, while one of them was wielding a stuffed fish.

Shane moved towards the kettle.Or at least tried to. He stepped left. Ilya stepped right.

They both stopped. Then both stepped the opposite way. And nearly collided anyway.

"Oh my God." Shane breathed. This was ridiculous.

Ilya backed up immediately, hands raised in defeat and his smile widening. .

"Sorry."

"No, it's fine."

“Tiny kitchen.”

There was another pause. The cottage creaked overhead. Shane was acutely aware that the awkwardness was radiating out of him in waves, and settling into every nook and cranny of Bramble Cottage.

Ilya waved his hand gently at the kitchen table where a mug waited beside the tea tray. The Whitby Dracula one. A second mug, decorated with a painting of a small, bemused dog, sat beside it. He then stepped back and Shane carefully sat down at the battered wooden table and took his mug, adjusting it in front of him, as though the angle were important.

Ilya placed the toadpot in the centre of the table and then busied himself removing things from the fridge and placing them haphazardly on the table.

As he pottered around the space, he continued a low, slightly gravelly monologue about the weather, the cups, the sheep, the light, the tablecloth. Small observations of mundanity, delivered in sharp, accented snippets.

“If you can see the sea, it will rain. If you can’t see the sea, it’s already raining.”

“Luckily there are no sheep outside the window yet.”

“Sveta insists the red tablecloth is better. Is just more dramatic, I think.”

“The pipes have finished their dawn chorus, maybe”

“The milk is from Malcolm. Well, from one of his cows.”

He placed the toadpot next to Shane, who poured himself a steaming cup of tea and felt a small pang of guilt as he added the same splash of creamy golden milk as yesterday. Ilya, armed with duckling oven gloves, opened the Aga and warm air rushed out, dragging the smell of bread out, to curl soothingly around the small kitchen.

Shane watched him tip out a loaf onto a wire rack and  blinked. "You baked something?"

“Just bread.” Ilya shrugged as though baking before breakfast was a completely normal thing for a person to do. Maybe in Yorkshire it was. At this point Shane would believe almost anything. 

Wanting to contribute, he started to organise the products Ilya piled on the table: crumbly cheese, honey in a little pot shaped like a beehive, orange juice in a glass bottle, butter wrapped in paper and small mismatched plates. Despite the thin thread of tension woven into everything, this felt… nice. Domestic. 

Cosy.

Shane didn’t think he had ever labelled anything ‘cosy’ before in his life. And here he was in England, rolling in it.

Ilya sat at the table with him and poured himself a cup of the strong tea, adding milk and a shocking amount of honey.

Shane did not comment.

When Ilya had taken a small sip from his dog cup, he leaned back in his chair and his eyes connected with Shane’s. Shane felt a small shiver of… something… in the depths of his stomach and he swallowed loudly. But he didn’t look away. Rozanov’s eyes were like the North Sea outside. Blue, grey, green and stormy. A shifting wave of colours, reflected in the flat, pale light that struggled through the small window. As Shane watched, Rozanov’s gaze shifted slightly, the lids becoming hooded and intense. A small smile quirked the corner of his mouth and Shane broke the moment.

“I have a copy of the contract in my bag. I can show you my correspondence with Ms Vetrova.” he blurted out into the silence.

Rozanov flicked his fingers dismissively. “Later.Yesterday was intense I think. So,breakfast now. Bread is too warm, but will be nice. Bacon is crispy. Eat, Shane Hollander from Canada, and we can bargain when we are not so hungry, yes?”

Shane didn’t want to bargain. He wanted the Russian to leave, so that he could enjoy his hermit retreat from the burning dumpster fire of his life in Montreal. But the bread smelled amazing and he had a deep enough reservoir of self pity to feel as though he deserved it. Breakfast wasn’t a terrible idea. He reached for the bottle of orange juice at the same time as Ilya and their fingers touched briefly. He jerked his hand back and he knew he was blushing. He put his hand in his lap and refused to look up again. 

Ilya smiled and started to slice the warm loaf.

*

The weather was conspiring against Shane. The storm of the previous night had abated, leaving behind a grey drizzle that drifted lazily from the unrelenting slate grey sky.

He had opened the front door and realised immediately that the situation was complicated. The grassy ‘road’ he had driven the day before, was now slick with rain water, soft and soggy underfoot. The rental car stood on grass that had become decidedly muddy. 

After tramping around the perimeter of the property, arms raised repeatedly in an effort to get phone reception, Shane knew that he would need to move further out, if he had any chance of contacting Svetlana. This would require a walk through the muddy fields, or a drive along the terrifying tiny roads. Neither was appealing.  Ilya was leaning against the doorway of the cottage, a cup of tea in hand and a dimpled smile on his face. Shane realised, with irritation, that he definitely was appealing. But he was also at the cottage Shane had arranged to stay at. His mind skittered wildly away from the knowledge that this seemed to be Ilya’s actual home, and that in fact Shane was the interloper, and that the Russian was being incredibly relaxed and accommodating about the situation. Ironically, these thoughts, that Shane was definitely not lingering on, were amplifying his nervous energy, and sense of frustration. He needed to have a plan. The contract was worthless when Ilya could probably just insist that Shane left. Shane’s innate Canadian politeness would probably have him packed and out the door before he could protest.

Shane straightened his shoulders and made a decision. 

"I'll just take the car." he called. “Until I can get reception to call Svetlana.”

Ilya looked over the rim of his mug at him. "Hmm."

Shane frowned. "What?"

"Nothing."

"What does 'nothing' mean?"

"Means I think perhaps..." Ilya glanced meaningfully towards the glistening grass track. "...maybe today is a walking day, not a driving day."

Shane followed his gaze. The lane didn't look that bad. Wet, certainly. A little muddy. Perfectly manageable. He had learned to drive in Canada. He could cope with snow and the path to his cottage. This small grassy Yorkshire path was not going to defeat him. 

"It's front-wheel drive."

Ilya nodded with infuriating serenity. "The mud will not care."

Shane chose to ignore him and started the engine. He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. He selected reverse and eased the car gently backwards. For one glorious second it moved.

Then the rear wheels sank with a soft, determined squelch.

The car stopped.

Shane frowned and in the tried and tested reaction of drivers the world over, he pressed harder, because more power would surely solve the problem. The wheel spun enthusiastically, spraying an elegant arc of Yorkshire mud directly across the side of the rental car.

Which remained exactly where it was.

Shane remained seated, both hands clutching the wheel, deciding between his two paths of action. Try again or get out and inspect the wheel. He got out to inspect the wheel.

Without glancing at Ilya, he exited the car and walked slowly around it, staring at the wheels. It was, expertly speaking, very stuck. His small burst of power had managed to sink the car half way down the wheels. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Little bit muddy." A helpful voice called out from the cottage doorway.

Shane opened his eyes. "I noticed." He kicked the tyre gently.

It did not make matters any better.

"Would you like help?"

"No."

"Okay." Even with his back to him, Shane could practically feel the satisfied sip of tea occurring behind him.

"I've got it."

"I believe you."

This was ridiculous. The car was not moving without help. Fine.

“I'll walk.” He called out. That should fix it. How far would he need to go? When had he lost reception on the drive here? He didn’t know. He had been so focused on the ridiculously narrow roads and invading sheep that he hadn’t checked his phone for hours before arriving at Bramble Cottage.

He was wearing his expensive walking shoes and a good quality rain coat. He would be fine. He waved a hand nonchalantly in Rozanov's direction and then he set off, with determination.

He had travelled approximately 5 metres when the Yorkshire weather decided that it hadn’t finished fucking with him.

The fine misty drizzle that had been seeping into his hair changed abruptly, with no warning. Sheets of rain crashed from the sky, slanting across the fields and stone walls and lashing into Shane, his designer waterproof, no opponent for Yorkshire rain. Within seconds water was running down the back of his neck.

He stared across the fields. The horizon had vanished again and the angle of the rain was changing to lash directly into his eyes. 

He stood, shoulders tense, in the muddy path by the little stone house with the warm lights in the windows.

"Shane?" 

He hung his head slightly, not turning.

"I have umbrella you can borrow?"

*

The flames in the large fireplace danced and stretched, filling the room with a flickering warmth. Seated on the Persian rug, legs outstretched, a quilted blanket pooled around his waist, Shane was losing his temper.

On returning to the safety of the small cottage, Shane had showered and changed into his softest, most worn pyjamas. Then, wrapped in the bright blanket, clutching a mug of hot chocolate, he had watched as Ilya built a fire, made scones, cleaned the kitchen and organised a pile of magazines that had been left haphazardly on a side table. 

Just as he was becoming aware of a simmering sense of guilt at not contributing to the tasks, Ilya had dropped to the rug opposite him with a large sigh. He pulled over what appeared to be an old milking stool, and placed it between them. Onto the stool he dropped a pack of Uno. In his deep, lilting tones, he had challenged Shane to an Uno competition and Shane’s hackles had quivered into life. Shane was not sure where his hackles were, but he had been conscious of their competitive bristling and he had confidently told the Russian to ‘bring it on’.

He had since lost count of the amount of rounds they had played and Shane was fuming. The competition had quickly overspilled its initial constraints and they had long ago played for the title of ‘Master of Universe’, which Shane would have won if Ilya hadn’t cheated. Now he was leaning forward, the blanket dropped to his waist, waving his hand of cards at Rozanov.

“You can’t just make up cards!” he shouted for what must be the hundredth time.

“Hollander! They give blank cards for you to write on. Is part of the game.” Ilya explained the same number of times.

Ilya did not understand the proper rules of Uno. He played with a chaotic, creative energy that was driving Shane crazy. They had abandoned the competition at least three times, and each time Shane had returned, thumped down to the floor and demanded that Ilya play ‘properly’ this time. Ilya had vowed to, before unleashing his inner gremlin and destroying every carefully constructed rule Shane liked to play by. He had laughed with abandon when Shane tried to rebuild his rules and suggested that maybe Shane’s parents had lied to him about the rules, to go easy on him. This showed a fundamental lack of understanding of the Hollander family dynamics, but Shane had no phone reception to call his mother and demand that she set the big Russian straight.

He was also starting to wonder if the teasing, and constantly shifting boundaries were deliberate. Ilya was clearly having a lot of fun and Shane wondered if the chaos was part of that. He also, if he was being completely honest in a way he usually avoided, was also having a surprisingly good time. Ilya didn’t allow Shane to pout or withdraw into himself. He talked constantly, pulling Shane along in his wake. Every time he drifted too far into his own head, the Russian dragged him back out again with another ridiculous story, another argument about Uno, another completely unprompted observation about sheep. It should have been irritating. Somehow it wasn't, and Shane was… charmed by it. Rozanov was good company and the overwhelming sense of being anchorless and adrift that had been washing over him for the past week, was slowly disappearing. Shane thought that maybe he was anchoring himself to the deep, amused Russian voice. Another thing to not think about.

He flung his cards down dramatically on the table and sat back against the sofa.

“None of the matches have counted since I was declared King of England, anyway.” He announced dismissively. “You can't cheat your way out of it. It’s my first decree as your new ruler. My Uno rules are sacrosanct.”

Ilya snorted a laugh. “I am Russian. No kings for me. And as Master of the Multiverse, I outrank you.” He stood slowly, stretching out the kinks from his long legs. “But I am a benevolent god, Hollander. You can keep your little crown.” He winked and moved to the kitchen, turning on the kettle. “Cup of tea?” he called over his shoulder.

“I think I’m about 60% tea already, Rozanov.” Shane called back. “How can you drink so much?”

Ilya laughed. “Is a national pastime Hollander.”

Shane stood, walking over to the cushioned window seat, staring at the fat drops of water that meandered down the window pane. The little pink kettle began its familiar popping, while rain whispered steadily against the cottage windows. Somewhere above them the old pipes knocked once, as though reminding everyone they still existed. 

The room settled into an easy, companionable quiet. It lasted all of five seconds, and then the thoughts he'd been successfully outrunning all afternoon began to creep back in.

Montreal.

The reporters.

The team.

The photos.

Shane's smile faded slightly.

"Okay," he called back quietly.

He watched Rozanov reach for the Whitby Dracula mug and place it beside the ridiculous toad-shaped teapot.Somehow, it had somehow become his mug. 

Across the room, Freddy Fish regarded the proceedings with quiet approval.

*

After lunch, the pounding ferocity of the rain had lulled into a constant, rhythmic patter.  Shane huddled in the deep window seat, a large overstuffed cushion behind his back and the quilted blanket across his knees. Perched on his lap was the book of Yorkshire Folk Tales. Despite knowing that his first language was technically the same as the English, Shane was having doubts about the Yorkshire dialect, as he struggled his way through the tale of ‘The Bosky Dyke Barguest’. There really should have been a list of translations at the back of the book. Rozanov was stretched out on the sofa, with a pile of magazines beside him. He was occasionally underlining or highlighting words and phrases, and he turned down the corner of pages with a regularity that itched frustratingly against Shane’s skin.

Every few minutes, Shane caught Rozanov glancing at him over the top of a magazine. 

This had started when Shane had come back downstairs, to read, with the book tucked under his arm and his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

Rozanov had been regaling him with a tall tale involving Farmer Malcolm, a goose named Atticus and a weather vane. Except he had looked up as Shane reappeared and his words had faltered, his gaze zeroing in on the glasses. He had swallowed audibly and his seemingly endless river of chatter had dried up abruptly. He had stared so intently at Shane, that he’d become uncomfortable, his ears flushing red and he had raised a nervous hand to the glasses. 

Rozanov had hit him with a dazzling, wide smile and continued his tale, until Atticus was safely back in the barn and the unfortunate weather vane had been replaced by a less threatening one. But now, the small flashing looks were becoming difficult to ignore. Every time Shane glanced up from his book, Rozanov appeared to already be looking at him. It was distracting. Annoying, even. Shane was trying very hard not to examine why it wasn't entirely unpleasant.

Wrenching his thoughts away from Russians, dimples and smiles, his mind instead followed the thread of his turbulent seven days. Twenty Four hours away from the internet and his phone, had pushed the crisis into a small, dim place inside him. It already felt as though Canada Shane was a different person, that things were happening to him. Not to Yorkshire Shane, whose immediate concerns were sheep, weather, tea and accidental Russian housemates. Unfortunately, Yorkshire Shane might also be homeless tomorrow. Which, actually, was a pretty significant problem, which sucked. So, both Canada Shane and Yorkshire Shane were disasters apparently. 

Outside, rain slid down the window in crooked silver lines.

He remembered seeing the photographs for the first time. The sick feeling in his stomach. The certainty that the life he'd spent years building had slipped out of his hands. 

He watched the rain.

He thought about his parents. His mother's fury. His father's careful optimism.

Outside, the rain kept falling. 

He thought about the messages. The supportive ones. The awkward ones. The ones he'd deleted.

"You have been on that page for twenty minutes."

Shane blinked. "What?"

"The page." Ilya pointed. "You keep looking at it. You are not reading it."

Shane looked down. The Bosky Dyke Barguest was indeed exactly where he had left it.

“Shouldn’t linger there Shane Hollander from Canada.” Ilya then continued, with what was possibly an attempt at a Yorkshire accent, wrapped in a blanket of Russian “The Bosky Dyke, the Bosky Dyke, Ah! tread its path with care ; With silent step haste through its shade, For ‘ Bargest ‘ wanders there!”

He waggled his eyebrows and Shane stared at him in stunned confusion.  "Was that supposed to be Yorkshire?"

"Yes."

"It sounded like Yorkshire surrendered to Moscow." 

Ilya looked offended."My accent work is exceptional."

Shane barked out a sharp laugh and the thoughts of Montreal receded beneath the steady patter of rain. He found himself returning the Russian's smile and settling back into the warmth of the window seat cushions.

* 

As the light started to fade under the oppressive weight of the clouds, it was decided without much discussion that nobody was going anywhere today. Shane stood and stretched, rolling his shoulders until they clicked satisfyingly into place. Two days of travelling, rain, tiny sofas and increasingly competitive games of Uno had left muscles stiff that normally spent their days following a carefully regimented routine.  

Ilya watched him, head tilted slightly and suddenly announced “You need to move. I have a small gym. You want to workout?”

A gym? That certainly hadn't appeared anywhere on Svetlana's meticulously detailed house swap listing. Shane had resigned himself to morning runs along country lanes and locating the nearest commercial gym once civilisation became reachable again.

But Ilya simply gestured for him to change into workout clothes and, a few minutes later, with an umbrella held over their heads, they crossed the tiny cottage garden, boots crunching across damp gravel, before Ilya unlocked the heavy timber doors of the old stone outbuilding. 

The lights flickered once, then steadied.

Shane stopped in the doorway and looked around. “Oh.”

The space was small, sure, but it was also immaculate, with racks, dumbbells and a high end cable machine. It looked like the private training facility of someone with a very specific knowledge of exercise.

“This is not for guests who stay in the cottage,” Ilya explained. “Is my gym.” He spread his arms proudly. “But we can share. I think I also need to work out some tension.”

He winked at Shane and turned to fiddle with an integrated sound system

Whilst he was busy, Shane ran a hand along one of the racks. Everything was organised and arranged meticulously and a notebook sat open on a workbench, covered in dense handwriting and columns of numbers. Shane glanced towards Rozanov. The man who played Uno like a criminal, and made up stories about homicidal geese apparently tracked his workouts with military precision. 

Huh.

Rozanov finally succeeded in connecting his phone to the sound system and a low pulse of music drifted through the barn: a steady rhythm beneath the rain drumming against the barn roof.  They warmed up without further discussion and Shane rolled through gentle mobility drills: shoulders, hips, ankles. Across the room, Ilya mirrored the movements with ease.

Shane shook his head and moved towards the squat rack, the familiarity settling over him almost immediately: loading plates, adjusting the rack height. For the first time in days his thoughts stopped scattering in a hundred different directions as his body took over driving. They settled into companionable silence, broken only by the muted clink of plates, the hum of the cable machine and the occasional quiet encouragement.

Rozanov was working through his own routine and Shane paid him absolutely no attention whatsoever. Unfortunately, absolutely no attention still involved noticing things. Mostly because Ilya appeared incapable of doing anything quietly. Every lift came accompanied by a small exhale, a muttered observation, or occasionally an entire conversation directed at nobody.

"Gravity."

Clank.

"Nope."

Clank.

"Not today, San Jose."

Shane rolled his eyes and continued paying him no attention. Five minutes later he caught himself smiling.

Annoying.

He finished a final set and stepped away from the rack, grabbing his water bottle. As he tipped his head back to drink, he saw Rozanov in the mirrors. He had abandoned the cable machine and was now deadlifting.

Shane immediately looked away and took another mouthful of water.

Then looked back.

This was, of course, strictly for technical reasons. Shane was a professional athlete and had access to excellent training and advice. He could maybe help Rozanov with his form. That was all. He was going to be helpful. Magnanimous even. Shane studied the lifts critically.

Very critically.

Unfortunately, critical analysis still involved noticing that Ilya's t-shirt had ridden slightly upwards. And that his shoulders were absurdly broad. And that his muscles shifted beneath the tight, sweaty,  fabric in fluid, elegant ways.

Shane took a long drink of water.

His water bottle was empty. 

Oh.

Across the room, Ilya locked out another rep and glanced over, their eyes catching. 

Shane pulled in a sharp breath, before redirecting his attention to absolutely nothing. The wall, a corner, the door. Anything. He raised the bottle, before remembering it was empty and lowering it again hastily. 

Okay.

Outside, rain lashed harmlessly against the old stone walls. Shane’s eyes flicked back to the Russian, against his will and he saw Rozanov’s eyes focused on him intently. When he saw Shane looking, his lips twitched in a small smile, before he continued his workout.

Inside, heat gradually built beneath Shane's skin and he picked up the weights, to justify it, pushing himself, feeling his muscles burning. He finished another set and stripped off the sweatshirt he'd started in, tossing it onto a nearby bench. As he began a set of squats, he watched Rozanov in the mirror again. The Russian's gaze lingered for perhaps half a second on Shane’s… form, then returned very carefully to his own workout. Shane picked up a heavier dumbbell than he'd originally planned and he heard a soft snort of laughter across the room. He felt an entirely unwelcome flush creep up his neck as he strained, the muscles in his arms bulging.

When he finished his set he startled slightly at the sight of Rozanov standing close to him, holding out his own bottle of water. He shook it slightly at Shane who frowned and dismissed it.

Rozanov took a step closer and raised his eyebrows. Shane huffed out a laugh and thanked him, taking the bottle and feeling the stroke of long fingers against his as it was passed over.

Huh.

Shane felt a small spark of something in his spine. He locked eyes again with Rozanov and took a long drink from the bottle. When he lowered it, he wiped his mouth slowly on the back of his hand. He might also, possibly have bitten his lower lip slightly. Ilya’s eyes jumped to it immediately. Shane grinned inside, handing the bottle back and quite deliberately trailing his fingers against the other man's.

Rozanov swallowed and Shane returned to the weights, a pleased hum settling his mind. 

*

By early evening the rain had softened from a steady drumbeat to a gentle tapping against the windows before drifting east, out across the cliffs and the rolling North Sea. There it lingered, suspended beneath the lowering sun, cascading down in sheets of amber light. The cottage was finally calm, and tendrils of evening summer sun were creeping over the ivy walls and through the steamy sash windows. Ilya moved around the rooms, opening the windows and letting a fresh sea breeze curl through the warm spaces.   

They had cooked an evening meal together, quietly and comfortably, as though they both welcomed a chance to breathe in the stillness of the remote cottage. Shane had moved back to the window seat and curled up with his book, not reading, but watching the dance of light and shadows skipping across the horizon. He compared the rhythm of Bramble Cottage to his own modern, glass cabin in Canada. The evening chorus of birds was familiar, as was the glint of sun reflecting off wet stone. But here there was a wildness, a ferocity in the sweeping moorland to the West and churning grey waves of the North Sea to the East. Between them, the little stone cottage glowed warmly, its windows throwing soft squares of light into the gathering dusk, a pocket of warmth and bright, balanced between two wild and ancient things.

“Shane.” 

He startled slightly, despite the soft, quiet voice Rozanov had used. Looking over, he saw him standing, holding a thick, tartan rug over his arm and two brown glass bottles with a large black sheep on the label. 

“Come.” 

He turned to put his boots on. Reluctantly, Shane uncoiled from his spot and pulled on his own boots, following Rozanov out the front door.

Ilya led them through the paved path of the garden and up a small hill, where wooden planks had been embedded into the soft ground. At the top of the hill the wind caught at the long grass. Ilya stopped and laid out the tartan rug, a waterproof membrane against the wet earth. He then sank down onto it with a groan and stretched his long legs out in front of him, facing the moorland. Shane hovered awkwardly for a second, before Ilya smiled and patted the rug beside him.

Okay.

Shane settled beside him, feeling slightly uncomfortable and accepted the bottle he was given. ‘Black Sheep Ale’. Shane didn’t really drink beer, but it seemed like this was the week to do the strange and unexpected, so he took a long sip from the bottle. The ale was bitter and earthy, with a caramel undertone. Not entirely pleasant, but still, he took a second mouthful and decided it was growing on him.

“This is one of my favourite sports.” Ilya told him quietly. “In the morning out here, you can watch the sunrise over the sea. And now, the sunset over the moors. Is beautiful I think.”

Shane snorted. “Pretty low-impact sport.”

“Not true. Is very dangerous. Sometimes there are sheep involved.” He grinned at Shane, the dimples highlighted by the amber hues of the sunset settling across his face. He tilted his smile to the sun.

Shane followed his gaze.

The clouds still lingered above the moorland, their undersides painted gold and copper in the sinking light. Long shadows stretched across the heather. Somewhere in the distance gulls cried.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

"Okay," Shane admitted quietly.

Long after the sun had disappeared and the sky had settled in an inky blanket, they stood to return to Bramble Cottage, both men stretching out muscles and kinks in their backs and legs. The clouds hid the stars, but the warm lights from the little cottage guided their steps back down the small hill. The little garden glowed amber beneath the kitchen window. As they tracked down the path, Ilya stopped abruptly and held a finger to his lips, before pointing at the flower bed.

Something moved in the darkness. A small, prickled shape emerged from the tangle of plants, snuffling industriously amongst the leaves. The hedgehog waddled slowly across the path, stopping every few steps to investigate some invisible matter of great importance. It made tiny snuffling noises as it explored and its prickles brushed against a terracotta pot with a faint scratching sound.

Shane felt a ridiculous smile spreading across his face as he watched the strange creature potter down the path, strutting around its territory. 

He turned to Ilya and mouthed excitedly “Hedgehog!”. 

Ilya's grin widened. "Boris," he mouthed back.

Shane shook his head at the ridiculousness of Yorkshire, before watching Boris disappear into the undergrowth at the end of the garden. 

Inside the cottage, Ilya took the blankets and pillows from the cupboard under the stairs and placed them on the sofa. Shane realised that neither of them had mentioned Svetlana, or leaving, since that morning. He shuffled awkwardly for a moment, before offering the olive branch.

“You slept on the sofa last night. We can swap. You take the bed tonight. We can, you know,” he cleared his throat, “take turns?”

Ilya regarded him thoughtfully, his expression blank and unreadable, until the small half smile twitched at the edge of his lips.

“Is fine. You take the bed. You are my guest, Shane Hollander from Canada.”

Heat crept unexpectedly up Shane's neck and his eyes immediately skittered away from Ilya’s face to the fireplace. The rug. Freddy Fish.

Anywhere except Ilya.

"Oh."

Brilliant.

“Okay. Well, thank you. For that.” He paused slightly before forcing his eyes back to the Russian. “Good night, Ilya.”

Ilya’s eyes were slightly soft and hooded as he replied.

“Good night, Shane.”

Chapter End Notes

In next week's episode, the boys attend a village fete, play in a cricket match and help Farmer Malcolm's sheep.

Chapter 3: Coconut

Chapter Summary

Previously on... Shane and Ilya were trapped in the cottage by inclement weather and hedgehogs.

Chapter Notes

The next morning, Shane woke to fingers of sunlight trailing across his face. He opened bleary eyes and stared out of the sash window. A pale blue sky hung above the fields and sea, the windows of the little village glinting in the morning sun. Downstairs he could hear Ilya moving around the kitchen, the smell of bread with undertones of cinnamon, making his stomach growl. 

Pushing his feet into his slides, he padded sleepily down the narrow stairs to the kitchen, waving two fingers at Freddy as he passed. Freddy looked outraged at the warmth. Although Freddy looked outraged at everything, so his opinion could not be trusted.

Ilya was in the kitchen and seemed to have lost his T-shirt overnight. Why did he not wear T-shirts in the morning? Was it a Yorkshire thing? His pyjama pants were slung low on his hips, those glorious muscles of his back twisting and shifting as he prepared breakfast, and the soft swell at the top of his ass, highlighted by the sunbeams that felt like they were bouncing off him in celebration, or something. He looked like a Greek god. 

Fuck.

Shane’s witty morning greeting, that he had been workshopping in his head since waking up, slid away from his brain. All that remained was static. He stared at the Russian, his mouth slightly agape, a faint blush staining his cheeks and a definite warmth pooling low in his stomach.

At that moment Ilya turned, his face immediately brightening into a wide smile.

“Good morning, sleepy head.” he cooed. “Breakfast is ready. I was going to call for you. But you are here now, so you can set the table.”

He turned back to the kitchen counter, and Shane tried to sift through the static noises in his head, to attach meaning to the words.

Ilya looked at him for a beat longer than usual. Something warm and soft rippled across his face, and the corner of his mouth lifted into a smile that made Shane's stomach perform an alarming little somersault. 

Shane swallowed loudly before dragging his eyes away and scanning the small kitchen. Had it been this small yesterday? Why was there no space to get to the toadpot? He was sure there had been space yesterday. They had cooked a meal together and Shane didn’t remember them being plastered against each other the whole time. He may have imagined it. But it hadn’t actually happened. 

Ilya leaned his hip against the wooden table and his eyes drifted across Shane’s body.

“You look nice.” he finally said, in a low, gravelly voice. “Pretty. Good pyjamas.”

Oh. Shane just knew that his face was flushing bright red and he grasped for control of the scene.

“Well, you look nice too.” he said and, oh my God, why was his voice so loud? He had pitched that completely wrong for the intimate space. 

Ilya’s grin widened, genuine amusement flickering across his features. “Not pretty though.” he teased.

The soft, flirting banter-ball landed on Shane’s side of the court and he… dropped it. He had no idea how to navigate this conversation and he turned abruptly, walking to the window seat, where he busied his hands, folding and smoothing the quilted blanket and cushions. When he had run out of creases to smooth, he stared stubbornly out of the window, at the bright blue sky and green fields. The weather was finally reflecting the concept of Summer and Shane knew that today, he would be able to reach the village. And a phone connection. And Svetlana. And one of them would have to leave Bramble Cottage. He thought it might have to be him, and was surprised that his eyes felt damp. 

Behind him, he could hear the soft clink of jars and crockery, as Ilya set their breakfast out on the table.

He had forgotten, he realised. When he first woke up, he had forgotten about Montreal, the photographs, and the unexpected cottage owner. 

He had felt relaxed and… safe. Just for a moment. 

“Shane.”

The soft voice called him back to the moment. Ilya had set up the table: pops of orange and gold against the bright red table cloth, sitting in a shaft of sunlight stretching through the open kitchen door. He had found a T-shirt from somewhere, a soft blue top, faded from repeated washes. His hand was outstretched. In it was the Whitby Dracula mug, filled with dark black tea, steam curling lazily upwards.

“Breakfast is ready.” He smiled and Shane took a breath before nodding and moving back to the kitchen. 

*

After breakfast Shane had announced, in that too loud voice, that he would call Svetlana today, now that the weather had lifted and he could seek out reliable cell phone reception. He wasn’t sure if he imagined the flicker of disappointment on Ilya’s face, but then the lazy grin had returned and he had declared that he would accompany Shane on his adventure, to avoid him becoming lost on the moors, “like a tragic Bronte heroine”. Shane had no space to put that comment, so he left it behind and nodded in what he hoped was an efficient manner. Then he dressed in Yorkshire summer appropriate clothes of boots, jumper and raincoat and waited for Ilya to talk to the house before they left.

The pipes rattled and clanked and Ilya put a hand on the walls, muttering something soft in Russian.

He placed their tea mugs together on the draining board: Dracula and the small, bemused dog, looking out of the kitchen window, and he muttered something in Russian.

He passed Freddy Fish and tapped him on the nose, muttering something in Russian. 

Shane blew out a breath and went to wait outside, determined not to find any of it charming. When Ilya had finished his conversations he approached Shane, with his lazy smile and gestured at the poor, stuck rental car.

“Malcolm will bring a tractor, pull it out.” he announced and Shane frowned.

“Really? You think we can’t drive it out today.”

“Rain has stopped Shane Hollander. But the mud will not give up its bounty so soon.” 

“How can you throw out lines about ‘bounty’, but keep dropping articles?” Shane answered, genuinely confused. “Your language skills make no sense.”

Ilya shrugged carelessly. “Depends on the narrative.” he replied, before turning and walking down the grassy path, towards the cliffs and the tiny village in the distance. 

Shane jogged to catch up with him, determined to argue. But Ilya disarmed him with his Yorkshire tales. Every few hundred yards, Ilya pointed at something. A collapsed stone wall, a distant farm, a tree twisted sideways by decades of sea wind.

Apparently every feature of the landscape came with a story.

He spoke with his whole body, using his hands and exaggerated facial expressions to bring to life the stories of geese, sheep, tractors and the local villagers. Shane found himself staring at the Russian as they walked, drawn into his warmth like a moth to a headlight. Which, Shane realised, probably ended badly for the moth.

By the time they reached the little village by the cliffs, Shane was laughing openly at the details of Boris and ‘The Incident’, as Ilya insisted on calling it, as though personally wounded by the hedgehog’s choices. 

He bumped his shoulder against Ilya’s, “I don’t believe one word of this. First, because you love that hedgehog. Secondly, I don’t even think they can climb stairs.”

Ilya flicked his hand elegantly. “Mysterious are the ways of the hedgehog, Shane Hollander. You were not there. You didn’t see. You did not have to pull prickles out your ass.”

This set Shane off again and he was wheezing as they stopped outside a small local shop. The three women standing outside turned to stare at him and he started to feel his face freeze under their inspection. 

Just as he felt his soul start to curl up inside, Ilya opened his arms wide and bellowed ‘Beautiful ladies”, in the most cheerful voice conceivable, startling him out of the moment.

The three women, the youngest of whom was in at least her sixties, all blushed and giggled at the ridiculous Russian. 

“Away wi’ yer.” one laughed, patting his arm. He engulfed her in a hug, and kissed her cheek loudly. 

“Tha daft ha’porth, Stop bein' such a mardy flirt.” she laughed, pushing him away. 

Ilya continued to flirt outrageously and the three women protested just as enthusiastically, batting his arm away only to pat it again a moment later. They laughed at every terrible joke, called him "Eel-ee-yur" in long, flat vowels, and fussed over him with the easy affection reserved for favourite sons. And he soaked it up. Shane watched his smiles and bashful glances as he responded to their affection. None of it was forced, or had an edge. Everyone genuinely seemed to be charmed by each other. Ilya appeared to understand every word with ease. Shane, however, had to concentrate on every word. He knew he spoke the same first language as the women, but the dialect was kicking his ass. Eventually he started to zone out, a polite media smile plastered on his face.

He was startled back into the conversation when one of the women patted his arm. Refocusing quickly he picked up the tail end of a conversation, where Ilya was apparently being instructed to “tek thissen and thi lad t’fete.” Another winked at him and told him he was “reet bonny.” Shane thought his face might have settled into an impersonation of Freddy Fish. But Ilya laughed and agreed with the women, before hooking his arm in Shane’s and tugging him down the road. 

As they walked, people waved and greeted Ilya and he responded with genuine joy to each of them. 

“How do you know everyone?” Shane asked eventually.

Ilya frowned. “I told you Bramble Cottage is my house,” he explained.

Shane had lived in his Montreal apartment for over ten years. He knew none of his neighbours. The original day concierge had left a few years ago and Shane wasn’t sure he knew the name of his replacement. He didn’t know how often Ilya stayed in the cottage, but he seemed to be woven into the fabric of the village. How had this Russian come to be adopted by the villagers? He opened his mouth to ask, but Ilya had stopped outside a butcher's shop to kneel in front of a small yapping dog, which was covering his face in slobbery kisses, its whole body vibrating with excitement. It looked like the dog on Ilya’s mug Shane realised. Ilya was cooing to it in Russian. It had a long pink leash, which was held by a large, silent, bald man. Shane nodded at the man. The man nodded back. Then they both looked at Ilya, who seemed to be in a fairly committed relationship with the small dog.  A tiny woman, with bleached blonde hair exited the shop and immediately launched into a loud, rapid conversation with Ilya. Shane glanced back at the large silent man, grimly clutching the pink lead. He gave a small smile and the man heaved a sigh. 

Shane took the opportunity to check his phone.

Reception.

Finally.

He quickly sent a text to Svetlana asking her to call him.

Beside him, Ilya crouched to scratch the little dog's back, laughing as it danced excitedly around his feet.

No reply. Shane sent a second message, this time explaining the situation in rather more detail.

The little dog launched itself into Ilya's arms and enthusiastically began washing his face and the blonde woman declared this to be entirely his own fault.

Shane opened his emails and wrote a longer explanation, carefully worded, politely phrased, impossible to misunderstand. He pressed send.

Nothing.

Behind him, Ilya and the woman had drifted effortlessly into an animated discussion about the weather. Or sheep. Or perhaps weathered sheep. Shane couldn't really tell anymore.

He tried Rose. Straight to voicemail.

He tried Svetlana. The call rang. And rang.

And eventually stopped.

Across the street, Ilya scooped the little dog into his arms and covered its face with noisy kisses, making the woman laugh all over again.

Shane checked his phone. Nothing. No replies, no calls. Nothing. He sighed and looked up, jumping slightly when Ilya’s big frame filled his sight. Ilya was directly in front of him, grinning widely, his face slightly sticky and one of his curls rigid from dog spit. How that was sexy, Shane couldn't immediately figure out. But there it was.

Ilya was excitedly talking about a village fete they apparently had to visit. Shane didn’t know what a village fete was, but the enthusiasm was compelling.

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and followed. 

*

The village fete occupied every available patch of a sloping field behind the little stone church.  Strings of bunting fluttered between wooden poles, snapping and dancing in the brisk coastal wind, while folding tables covered in brightly coloured cloth formed uneven rows across the grass, selling everything from homemade jams to hand-knitted tea cosies. Which actually wasn’t that wide a range of produce, Shane thought to himself. Children ran wild with painted faces and sticky fingers, dogs tangled themselves in leads beneath picnic benches, and elderly men in flat caps stood in solemn circles discussing tractors.  Somewhere a brass band was playing enthusiastically, if not always in agreement with itself, and the warm air smelled faintly of cut grass, sugar and frying onions. Every few minutes someone called Ilya's name from somewhere entirely different and he answered each greeting with the same delighted enthusiasm.

Shane followed behind Ilya, eyes wide. Somehow everything looked exactly like a village fete in England should look, whilst, at the same time, being totally strange and inexplicable. 

There was a large children’s paddling pool, filled with water and struggling to contain itself with the slope of the field. In it were a mass of bobbing rubber ducks. A sign proclaimed HOOK A DUCK - 50p

Shane stopped. “What is this?” he asked Ilya, who frowned, puzzled.

“Hook a duck, Shane. Sign is right there.”

“Yes, but what do you do?” Shane insisted.

“You hook the duck, Shane. The duck. With the hook.” Ilya seemingly had nothing more to add to the explanation.

“So, just out of curiosity, do you maybe have a fifty pence on you?” Shane asked, in the most casual, uninterested voice he could fake.

Ilya grinned, before rummaging in his coat pockets. Eventually he pulled out a large collection of coins. He removed a few bits of fluff and a button, before pouring all of them into Shane’s hands. “For your first Yorkshire fete,” he smiled. “Have a go at everything, Shane Hollander from Canada.”

Shane’s instinct was to refuse, to insist Ilya take the coins back. But then a small child raised a long stick, with a duck on the end. On the bottom was a large red cross and the other children cheered. It was a competition. With prizes. Shane did love winning…

He smiled at Ilya and rooted through his little pile of coins for a 50p, handing it over to the bored teenager near the pool, accepting the long piece of wood with the hook on the end. He frowned at the paddling pool. The ducks drifted lazily in circles, their little plastic hooks bobbing on their backs. There had to be a technique. There was always a technique. Unfortunately, the other competitors were six year olds on sugar highs and Shane thought that learning from them might be counter productive. He nodded his head decisively and went to hook a duck.

Five minutes later Shane was leaning dangerously far over the edge of the plastic pool, his jaw clenched in concentration, whilst the children effortlessly hooked ducks around him.

He blew out a frustrated sigh at Ilya and pointed with his hook, "This one’s cheating."

Ilya laughed, "The ducks aren’t cheating. They’re moving. They float Shane."

Shane humphed. "That sounds like an excuse."

He had hooked four ducks already, but none had the coveted red x on the bottom. He had since figured out which was the winning duck and was hunting it relentlessly. The bobbing duck spun away from him and Shane clenched his jaw, ignoring Ilya’s laughter. Eventually he snagged the small duck, hoisting it about his head in triumph. Ilya led the children in a round of applause and Shane bowed, ridiculously pleased with himself.  The teenage boy running the stall looked up from his phone and nodded his head towards a pile of small stuffed animals. 

“Ya get one.” he muttered and Shane examined the little pile of toys, before selecting a small black and tan dog. It looked like the one on Ilya’s mug. Like the one outside the butcher’s shop.

Shane did not examine why he had chosen it.

He smiled at the boy who had returned to texting on his phone, before jogging back to Ilya. 

“I won a prize!” he called.

“I saw you! I am very proud of you, Shane Hollander.” Ilya smiled. “Excellent Hook a Duck skills and a worthy reward.”

Shane grinned and held the little dog out to Ilya, who blinked. 

“Is your prize Shane,” he said, confused.

“Yes but it’s the dog.” Shane explained, enthusiastically. “Like the one on your mug and by the shop.”

“Yes, a Yorkshire terrier.” Ilya agreed.

“So I thought you might want it. For Bramble Cottage.” Shane continued.

There was a slightly strange moment, where time felt like it warped slightly and Ilya’s eyes changed from amused to… intense. Shane, holding out the small stuffed toy, suddenly felt ridiculous. It was a cheap little thing, from a village fete. You didn’t just give that to a man you'd met 48 hours ago. Why would he even want it? Shane had messed up the moment and unintentionally misjudged the…

“I love it.” Ilya said sincerely, reaching out to take the little dog. 

For a moment, Shane didn’t let go, and they stood, fingers touching on the toy, eyes locked, in a muddy field, next to a paddling pool full of bobbing rubber ducks, serenaded by a truly awful school brass band.

Ilya’s gaze dropped to Shane's mouth for a moment, his eyes growing darker, the smile fading from his face.

Shane couldn't breathe.

“Eel-ee-yur!!”

Shane jerked away, as a large woman, with hair shaped like a helmet, and a loud, strident voice bustled over to them, waving a clipboard. “There tha ‘art. By 'eck, tha 'ad me mithered summat rotten.” 

Nope. Shane was out. The woman and Ilya laughed and chatted, while Shane looked at the other stands in the small field. At the end of the row was a stall with a striped sheet hanging in front of a group of coconuts. A badly painted sign pronounced it a ‘COCNUT SHY’. The spelling of ‘coconut’ made him doubt that the word ‘shy’ was intended, but he immediately recognised the concept of the game. He turned to tell Ilya he was going to have a go, when he saw the woman smiling at him warmly. “Nowt wrong wi’ a proper looker.” she beamed, patting Ilya’s arm in an affectionate manner. “Bring yer man!” she called over her shoulder at Ilya, as she wandered off towards a large white tent. 

Beside him, Shane fixed his attention firmly on the coconut shy. 

There was a tiny, awkward silence, before Ilya said they had thirty minutes before he had to judge the annual pie making competition, and what would Shane like to do next.

Shane knew that he would really like to throw balls at ‘cocnuts’.

He rummaged in his pocket for the little pile of coins, counting out fifty pence for the man behind the stall, before testing the weight of the wooden balls in his hand. They were worn smooth from years of fete participation and Shane tossed them up, experimentally, before taking a stance at the front of the stall. The man nodded in appreciation at the sight of a customer taking the event as seriously as it deserved. 

Ilya stood too close to him and Shane frowned, rolling his shoulders slightly and shuffling away. Ilya followed, peering over his shoulder, as if to check his aim.

“You are going to throw at these ones closest, yes?” he asked quietly and Shane felt a small spurt of defensiveness spread along his neck.

“Well, yes. They're the biggest target.“ He replied, rather snippily he would admit. Ilya raised his eyebrows and nodded. 

Shane lined up again and then paused. Letting out a breath, he turned slightly.

“Why? What is it?”

Ilya looked unconvincingly innocent.

“Is nothing. Nothing.” he said, palms raised, taking a step back. “Is just,,,”

Shane dropped his arm again and waited.

“Is just maybe the ones at the back would be more challenging. But you know, if it is too hard, is ok. No, throw at these little ones here. Absolutely. You throw Shane. Yes? “He raised his arms and waved them in encouraging ‘jazz hands’. “Go Shane!”

Shane levelled a flat stare at him for a few seconds, before sighing.

“Fuck it.” he muttered and changed stance, aiming at the tallest coconuts at the back of the stall. 

Ilya grinned wildly. "I believe in you, Shane Hollander from Canada! Show coconuts who is boss!"

Shane narrowed his eyes at the coconuts and let loose. The first throw missed. Shane adjusted his stance slightly. The second clipped the edge. He tossed the third ball thoughtfully, recalculating the weight. It sailed cleanly through the air and knocked the last coconut off its perch, with a satisfying thud.

Shane didn't turn around to see what Ilya’s face was doing but the man behind the stall was visibly impressed. “By ’eck,” he breathed, impressed. “That were a shot an’ a half! What’s yer fella’s name, then?”

Ilya, grinning, opened his mouth to answer, but Shane beat him to it. “Shane Hollander,” he announced. “From Canada. I’m staying at Bramble Cottage.”

The man nodded solemnly, as though this explained everything. “Champion thrower, that one.” He handed over a coconut the size of a small cannonball and Shane received it solemnly.

When the man moved on to the next customer, a small girl in a fairy costume, Shane grinned at Ilya and shook his coconut at him in triumph. Ilya laughed and pulled him along the line of stalls. They looked at hand knitted tea cosies, and admired small pots of home made jam. They stopped beside a stall selling rabbit pelts. Shane reached out automatically to stroke them, before noticing that Ilya hadn't. The Russian's attention lingered on the display for a moment, his smile gone. Shane withdrew his hand and nodded towards the next row of stalls.

"Come on," he said lightly, guiding Ilya away.

A few moments later, the Russian’s laughter returned. With his coconut firmly wedged under his arm, they queued at a candy floss stand, arguing cheerfully about the merits of the name candy floss versus cotton candy. Shane didn’t care, but Ilya’s indignation was so entertaining, he felt the need to really push the opposing line. 

As they moved on to the next stall, Yorkshire  gossip had already done a full lap of the field. Now, as well as greeting Ilya warmly, Shane had become part of the conversation as well. 

“Canada, is it? You’ve come a fair way for coconuts, love.”

“Betty says you’re handy wi’ a duck hook. Fancy a go at the raffle?” 

“Ilya’s told us you’re stayin’ up at t’cottage. Brave, that. Pipes have a mind of their own.”

“We were just sayin’, you’ve brought sunshine wi’ ya. Must be that Canadian charm.”

It struck Shane that half the village now knew he was Shane Hollander from Canada, staying at Bramble Cottage. But not one of them knew about Montreal, the Stanley Cup, or the photographs in the newspapers. He hadn't realised how liberating it felt to simply be... Shane. 

When they reached the tombola stall a woman in a floral apron leaned over the counter and winked. “You’re the lad from Bramble Cottage, aren’t ya? Go on, love, have a ticket,  first one’s lucky.”

The tombola table was a riot of prizes:  bottles of wine, tins of biscuits, a suspiciously large jar of pickled eggs, and, perched proudly among them, a small wooden toy on wheels. It was carved into the shape of a hedgehog, its tiny snout painted pink and its wooden spikes polished smooth.

Shane stopped. “Look, Hedgehog. Boris Jr,” he said quietly.

Ilya leaned in. “Boris Junior has wheels. He has evolved.”

Shane stared at the toy, irrationally determined. “I want that one. What do I have to do?”

The woman behind the stall, already whispering to a friend about “the lad from Bramble Cottage,” handed him a ticket drum with a wink. “Go on, love. Lucky Canadian today. If you pick an odd number ticket, you get the prize it matches.”

Shane wrinkled his brow. “But how do I win the hedgehog? What do I do?”

The woman blinked. “It’s a tombola, love.”

Ilya leaned close. “Is just luck Hollander. No strategy.”

Oh.

Shane’s luck had not been stellar lately. He took a deep breath, drew, and unfolded his ticket.

“Lucky number seventeen!” The woman checked her list, then crowed, “Winner! Premium car-cleanin’ kit!” She produced a bright yellow bucket. It had a yellow sponge at the bottom. 

Shane blinked. “That’s… not the hedgehog.”

“Better prize, maybe?” Ilya mused. “You can scrub yer coconut.” 

His atrocious Yorkshire accent made Shane bark out a loud laugh, bright and spontaneous. He stopped and blinked in surprise. Ilya looked delighted.  Shane sighed, but had to admit that the bucket was absurdly cheerful, and the coconut fit perfectly inside. He took one last, surprisingly longing look at the hedgehog, before shrugging the moment off. As they walked away, the gossip rippled further through the crowd. When they reached the large white tent, everyone knew that Shane Hollander from Canada, guest of Bramble Cottage, had conquered the fête and was now the proud owner of a toy Yorkshire terrier, and a coconut in a yellow bucket.

The tent was packed with people, the air thick with pastry and ambition. A buzz darted between the crowd, feeding back on itself and amplifying, reminding Shane of the arenas during playoffs. Ilya, it seemed, had to judge a pie competition. This had been commented on by almost every member of the village they had passed in the last half hour. Ilya had been commended for his bravery, laughed at for his foolishness and had his forehead checked by three different people concerned he was ill or crazy.

The annual pie competition, Shane had quickly discovered, carried generations of local baggage. He had been treated to a history of the animosity between three pie making dynasties, and the many sordid tales of corruption, sabotage and skullduggery surrounding the jewel in the crown competition. Everyone else refused to judge it. Ilya had embraced the chore three years ago and was now apparently essential to the smooth running of the fete. 

Shane watched as Ilya donned a small white hat and moved between the trestle tables with a solemn air and a clipboard. He stopped at each pie, cut himself a neat little piece and chewed with solemn concentration before making furious, jagged notes on his clipboard. He was followed by the local vicar, a serious young man, with a look of permanent unease and a stern, tall woman, who somehow managed to judge without eating one crumb. Around him, the villagers muttered their opinions and predictions. 

"Tha'll tek best in show if t'crumb's reyt."

Shane nodded sagely. The man was probably right. 

As Ilya came close to Shane, he used his height to peer at Ilya’s clipboard to see what he was writing.There was a complicated set of numbers in small columns, with coded headings and the occasional scrawled comment. He immediately recognised the jagged handwriting from his first night at Bramble Cottage. The notes started a bit disappointingly:

‘EXCELLENT PIE’

Before becoming thoughtful:

‘GOOD PIE. HONEST PIE.’

And then descending into Ilya:

‘TOO MUCH RHUBARB. AGGRESSIVE.’

Shane laughed despite himself, his expression softening as he watched Ilya finish his rounds, add up his ridiculously complicated columns of numbers before finally handing the clipboard to the vicar, who announced a golden cherry pie as this year's winner to thunderous applause from half the tent and loud accusations of bias from the other half. 

*

Later, they ate sitting at a picnic bench, balancing paper plates of pork pie and Wensleydale, the air thick with sugar. Shane’s yellow bucket sat between them like a prized guest. The brass band had conceded to a fairground organ, which wheezed out cheerful music, with carved cherubs bobbing in time as the paper roll rattled through the machine. The tune was half-march, half-chaos, and entirely perfect for the day. 

Shane was looking at his coconut proudly, when a weathered old man appeared from nowhere and nodded at them, as though they were the answer to his question. 

“Eel-ee-yur!” he said, his voice like gravel. “Short fer t’cricket. Half o’ them’s still in t’pub. You 'nd yer fella’ll do.” 

Shane blinked. “Cricket?”

“Aye. Village match. Annual. Tradition. Tha’ll play for t’home side. Eel-ee-yur”, he jabbed a finger at him, “can play for t’pub team.”

Ilya smiled, his mouth full of cheese. “I will bring glory to the Bucket and Hole.,” he announced, which seemed to satisfy the old man entirely.

Twenty minutes later they were standing on a sloping field with an assortment of very young and very old men. Shane had been handed a bat and a set of instructions that made no sense. He’d tried to listen, he really had, but every sentence was a new dialect. 

“Tha’ll be bowlin’ t’googly, mind, and watch fer t’silly mid-off.” 

He nodded like he understood, though he didn’t. He played hockey at the highest level, he’d trained for years, he could read a play before it happened, but this was madness. The rules were written by lunatics.

Ilya, meanwhile, was thriving. He was taking every opportunity to use his Yorkshire, shouting things like “Good length!” and “That were a bobby dazzler!” even when it made no sense. He was laughing, chatting with the umpire, and waving at the crowd like he was a local celebrity. And apparently, he was good. Shane watched in mild disbelief as Ilya stepped comfortably into position, accepted the ball with easy confidence and exchanged what appeared to be an entirely serious tactical discussion with a man wearing Wellington boots, and a twelve year old boy. 

Shane had no idea what was happening, but at some point, he was told he was next to bat. The barrage of advice intensified:

"Keep th’ eye on t'seam." 

“Don’t be gettin’ thi’sen in a tangle wi’ t’googlies.” 

“Keep tha’ bat straight, lad, and don’t show thi’ stumps.”

He squared his shoulders, tried to remember what the stumps were, and marched to the crease.  Ilya bounded over to crouch three feet away from Shane’s bat, declaring himself ‘Silly Point’. Everyone nodded solemnly, so maybe he wasn’t joking. The first ball came at him slowly, bowled by Badger Hopkins, who had recently had his hip replaced. Shane swung, feeling slightly smug that he was going to humiliate Badger in front of his ancestors and progeny, but the ball bounced wildly on the rough ground, veering past his legs, and he missed entirely. 

The Bucket and Hole supporters applauded vigorously and Ilya grinned, taunting Shane.

“Too difficult for you, Canada? You need your glasses to see the slow ball?” 

Shane frowned. “Are you chirping me, Rozanov?” he asked.

“Sledging,” the teenager behind the stumps called out. “He’s sledging yer. Getting in yer head.”

What the fuck was ‘sledging’?

Badger Hopkins ambled up with his second ball. This time Shane was prepared for the bounce. Except this one went high, over his head. Physics was apparently not familiar with cricket. 

From across the pitch, a lone voice bellowed, “Fucks sake lad, just slog it.”

 Right. Slog it. He could do that. He was a professional.

The third ball he swung, purely on instinct, and made contact, a satisfying thud of leather on willow. He sent the ball soaring over the field, straight towards an elderly man with a red nose, who was standing somewhere called “deep midwicket,” which apparently was a real place.

The ball went through his hands and over a wet rope positioned behind him. The crowd erupted. “That’s six!” someone shouted. “He’s hit him fer six!”

Shane had no idea what that meant, but everyone was cheering, so he assumed it was good. He set off running, because he had been told to run. Ilya was laughing so hard he had to lean on his knees, before chasing him down the wicket and grabbing him around his waist, to stop him. Shane grinned, breathless, bewildered and covered in grass stains.

"I still don't know what's happening."

Ilya squeezed his waist, before letting go.  "Nobody does."

"...Really?"

"No." He smiled. "Is cricket."

*

The Bucket and Hole was exactly the sort of pub Shane had imagined existed only on television. Low beams had forced him and Ilya to duck, and every available wall held something historical that nobody could explain. The carpet was dark and disturbingly sticky, and a woman called Sheila held court behind the bar, never smiling or raising her voice, but ruling with complete authority. By the time they had made it to the pub, the sky was the purple of a two day old rib bruise, and the air had a soft, heavy warmth. The Bucket and Hole was overflowing, every window had steamed up and the cricket match was being reanimated, ball by ball. Shane still didn’t know who had won. 

Shane had a pint of something bitter. Or it was called bitter. He couldn't remember, but he didn’t really like it. There had been a picture of a hedgehog on the label and it had seemed appropriate. He had decided after the first sip that he should stop taking beverage recommendations from woodland creatures, but then a toothless man slapped him on the back and announced, “Tha fellas reyt sound.” Ilya had raised his own pint glass in acknowledgement, the entire pub had cheered, and now here he was, on his third pint of hedgehog beer. 

The door of the pub burst open so suddenly that Shane jumped. A gust of fresh evening air swept through the room carrying the smell of salt, heather and vinegar. A young woman stood, panting in the doorway. Her brown hair was windswept and her eyes were wide and panicked. 

"Malcolm!”, she called out.

Farmer Malcolm, who was halfway through a story about spin bowling and a combine harvester, looked up.

"What?"

"One o't sheep's gone cragfast."

The pub fell silent.

Shane waited. He had no contextual parameters to help him know which facial expression to apply, his eyes flickering to Ilya, ready to follow his lead. 

Nothing happened for a pregnant moment and then the mood in the small, damp pub switched to one of alarm and wholly undeserved confidence. A wave of earnest, drunken agreement rolled through the room and half the occupants erupted into motion, chairs scraped, pints were abandoned and someone shouted for a torch. Someone shouted back that they had a torch. A third voice announced that his torch was better. A fourth demanded everyone stop arguing and save the bloody sheep.

Malcolm finished his pint in one determined swallow and he stood, swaying slightly in the lack of a breeze.  "Right then."

Apparently this was now everyone's problem.

Ilya stood, tugging Shane’s arm.

"...What's ‘cragfast’?" Shane asked quietly.

Ilya’s lips were disturbingly close to Shane’s ear when he replied. "Sheep gets stuck on cliffside."

Shane might have shivered from the brush of air against his ear. He pulled a conversation thread out of the heat of the pub. "Why?" Awesome.

Ilya didn’t hesitate. "Because sheep are idiots."

"Ah."

Looking around the pub, he wasn't convinced sheep had cornered the market on that. 

Ten minutes later Shane found himself striding across the moors in near darkness carrying a torch he didn’t remember being given. A parade of men and a woman, in various states of inebriation, all convinced they were about to perform a heroic rescue despite being unable to walk in a straight line. The beam of his torch bounced across the uneven ground. The rescue party consisted of Malcolm, Ilya, three elderly men in flat caps, a woman named Jean, the vicar, a teenager carrying biscuits and, somehow, Shane.

One minute he had been drinking hedgehog beer, the next he was participating in what appeared to be sheep rescue. In the dark. On a cliff. For some reason, it did not seem like a terrible, awful idea. 

Ahead, Ilya walked beside Malcolm, listening intently to sheep-related strategy.

When they reached the cliff edge everybody stopped. The sea stretched inky and endless below them, explosions of white foam glittering against the cavernous darkness of the rocks. Small beams of light from the torches flickered across the rocks.

The sheep was easy to spot. It stood on a narrow grassy shelf about twenty feet below. It appeared perfectly calm and was chewing on a patch of grass. Shane was not familiar with sheep, but he thought it looked quite pleased with itself. 

Around him the rescue committee launched into immediate debate. Shane just watched the sheep and the sea until he realised that everyone was looking at him encouragingly. 

“Yer young and strong.” Malcolm was telling Ilya, who was agreeing enthusiastically. 

Shane looked around at the rescue party: Malcolm, who couldn’t bend his left knee; Badger Hopkins, who had a hip replacement and was still wearing his cricket whites; two men who were weaving dangerously at the side of the cliff; a teenager who had stolen the umpire’s hat and Jean, who was wearing heels and could have been any age between twenty and seventy.

Shane understood that he had been volunteered.

Ilya was nodding solemnly, as though this were the most reasonable request he’d ever received. “We will save the sheep,” he announced.

Shane sighed, “Of course we will.”

Beside Shane, the vicar spoke up. "At least the weather's good."

Everyone nodded seriously.

The emergency biscuit teenager offered Shane a digestive and Shane accepted because it felt rude not to.

A few minutes later he and Ilya had carefully picked their way down a narrow path that zigzagged towards the ledge. Above them, the villagers illuminated absolutely nothing useful with their torches while shouting inconsistent instructions.

"Go left!"

"Not that left!"

"Mind the rocks!"

"Watch out fer sheep!"

The sheep occasionally glanced at them. She looked mildly annoyed but not inclined to participate.

Ilya tried talking to her. "Sheep," he cooed.

The sheep chewed.

"We are here to rescue you."

Still chewing.

Ilya crouched.

"My friend."

Nothing.

Shane folded his arms. "I’m not convinced the sheep’s stuck."

The sheep blinked mournfully at him, then took another mouthful of grass.

Above them Malcolm shouted."Have ye got her?"

"No!"

"Well, get her then!"

Ilya considered for a moment, before reaching out towards the sheep, who objected immediately. Apparently that had been the wrong move. It launched itself towards Ilya and Shane with surprising athleticism. Ilya tried to grab the wool, but it twisted free. Shane lunged instinctively, Ilya attempted to coordinate with him, and for one glorious second all three of them occupied the same small patch of cliff.

Then the sheep exploded out of their grasp and sprinted. Up. Like a heavy, muddy, stinky cloud. Shane watched in stunned disbelief as the sheep bounded up the slope with effortless confidence.

Three jumps, maybe four, and the sheep was on the top of the cliff, staring down at them, outraged.

Above them, the rescue party dissolved into relieved laughter. Shane found himself laughing too, breathless as he leaned against the cliff face. The sheep stared down at them all as though they were idiots. Which, to be fair, felt increasingly difficult to argue with.

Malcolm sighed heavily. "Daft bugger."

Shane didn’t know which of them he was talking about. 

*

They walked slowly back towards Bramble Cottage beneath a sky washed deep indigo, the village lights shrinking behind them. Out on the moors an owl called, and the sea answered with its endless wash against the cliffs. The moon was a sliver in the night and stars were emerging, in a scattered tapestry across the night.

Shane carried his yellow bucket, with his coconut cradled inside and felt a sense of satisfaction resting against his bones. As they walked, their shoulders occasionally brushed against each other. Neither of them moved to prevent it.

They talked about cricket, sheep, the sea, biscuits, pies, brass bands.

They did not talk about Montreal. Or Svetlana. Or contracts.

It was late when they returned home, the cottage quiet except for the soft ticking of the grandfather clock and the occasional sigh from the pipes. Shane placed his coconut on the kitchen counter, displayed proudly. After a moment, he put the yellow bucket on the floor and turned back to the living room.

Ilya had taken the toy Yorkshire terrier from his pocket and found a space for it on the mantlepiece, over the stone fireplace. He was looking at it, a smile curving his lips, one long finger brushed against its back. Shane cleared his throat quietly, caught in the fragile moment.

Ilya turned and smiled, a gentle smile, not the performance or the character. A smile that belonged only to this quiet little cottage. And to Shane. 

“I have something for you.” he said in a soft voice.

Shane frowned. “What? Why?”

“It is a ‘thank you’ gift,” he replied.

“Thank you for what?”

Ilya hummed to himself, his head tilted to the side.

“Thank you for today. For the puppy, for the cricket, for the sheep. It was a good day.”

“Yeah. It was a good day.” Shane answered, his throat suddenly feeling tight.

Ilya took a step forward, almost warily, as though not wanting to startle Shane, and he reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out something small and wooden, holding it out to Shane, who looked at it, transfixed.

It was the toy hedgehog. From the tombola. The carved hedgehog, with its snout painted pink, its spikes polished smooth.

Shane stared at the hedgehog, then at Ilya. “You won him?”

Ilya shrugged. “I may have bribed the tombola gods with several tickets and some candy floss.”

Shane picked up the toy, turning it over in his hands. “It’s perfect,” he said softly.

Ilya smiled. “He is yours, Shane Hollander from Canada. Every hero needs a hedgehog.”

Shane looked down at Boris Jr., then back up at Ilya, warmth settling in his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed easily. 

They watched each other in the dark of the cottage, unsaid words pooling between them. Shane dropped his gaze to Ilya's mouth: generous lips, so often curved into a smile, the cupids bow a graceful arch. Ilya moistened his lower lip and Shane's breath caught for a second. His body betrayed him, drifting almost imperceptibly towards the heat that was Ilya, the small wooden hedgehog cradled in his hands.

He drew in a breath, about to say something that couldn't be unsaid, but Ilya spoke first.

His eyes deep and stormy, flicking between Shane’s, he whispered, “Goodnight Shane.”

Shane felt warmth spreading through him as he stood on a precipice, unsure which way to fall. 

“Goodnight Ilya.” he whispered back, before turning and carrying his treasure upstairs. 

Chapter End Notes

In next week's episode: a day trip involving alpacas, the moors and there may only be one room left at the inn. Oh no.

Chapter 4: Mabel

Chapter Summary

Previously on... Shane conquered the village fete, played cricket on the green and participated in the daring rescue of a sheep that absolutely did not need saving.

Chapter Notes

The next morning, Shane woke slowly, floating upwards through layers of warmth and sunlight. For a few blissful seconds he remained tangled in the patchwork quilt, his eyes half closed against the pale gold light spilling through the sash window. The cottage had already begun its morning conversation. Somewhere downstairs a floorboard creaked. The grandfather clock ticked steadily away. Pipes murmured inside the walls, probably gossiping about vampires and dogs.

Shane smiled sleepily.

The previous day's adventures drifted back to him in fragments. Cricket. Pies. A sheep rescue conducted by enthusiastic alcoholics.

His smile deepened.

His head felt slightly thick. Not quite a hangover, more the body’s lighthearted reprimand that followed an evening of drinking hedgehog-themed beer with farmers and vicars.

As he rolled over, something on the bedside table caught his eye. Boris Jr. The little wooden hedgehog sat proudly beside the lamp, his tiny wheels tucked under him,his pink painted snout pointing proudly towards the room. For a moment Shane simply looked at him. Then he reached out and nudged him gently.

"Morning." he whispered.

Boris Jr, quite sensibly, ignored him. That was probably for the best.

He pushed himself upright and stretched. Something clicked satisfyingly between his shoulders. The room was warm already. Sunlight reached lazily through the window, turning everything glittering gold. Cold, salty sea air rippled across his face, zesty and clean. The sky hung clear and bright above the cliffs, and the…

“What the fuck?!”

A large seagull banged against the window, its yellow beak open in a grating squawk of anger. It tried to settle on the window sill outside, failing to gain traction with its webbed feet, before falling away in an echoing scream.

Shane gaped at the window, his heart hammering in his chest, before stumbling to the window and pulling the wooden frame down. He leaned out, but the seagull had vanished, probably in a puff of indignation.

For a moment he rested his hands on the worn wooden frame and simply breathed.

No phones.

No cameras.

No reporters.

Just sea, sky and the distant sound of sheep arguing with existence. And homicidal seagulls. But, whatever. 

Padding into the little bathroom, he crouched down a foot, to check his hair in the mirror. It was sticking up on one side and flattened on the other. His eyes were slightly reddened, but even Shane could see that the tension in his forehead and shoulders had softened, and there was a satisfied, pink tinge to his face.  He pulled a soft grey hoodie over his T-shirt and made his way downstairs. The familiar creak of the staircase greeted him and he ducked his head automatically to avoid the murder beam.

"Morning, Freddy." The stuffed fish continued to look outraged, although Shane felt that a layer of suspicion had settled over the top. "Yeah," Shane agreed. "Fair."

As he turned into the living room, his eyes flickered across the worn Persian rug, the scattered and muddled books, the bright knitted blanket, the photograph of Ilya and Svetlana. All familiar now and embedded with a sense of safety and calm. The little toy dog on the fireplace, had already become part of Bramble Cottage, sitting naturally amongst everything else. Shane smiled softly at it, before turning to greet Ilya in the kitchen.

He was not wearing a T-shirt. Again. Shane looked at the expanse of golden skin, the broad chest, the muscular arms and the trail leading down into his low slung joggers, purely with a detached, professional curiosity. The smile was still on his face and Ilya’s eyes softened in response, darting between Shane’s as if searching for something.

Shane thought that maybe the air fizzled a bit, and he cleared his throat to say something, although wording good seemed complicated right now. 

Ilya held out Whitby Dracula and Shane accepted the mug. Their fingers brushed briefly, deliberately against each other.

As usual, something delicious was in the oven. Ilya had boiled some eggs and already placed the little honey pot on the kitchen table next to the coconut.

The coconut. 

Which was watching Shane, with its large eyes and surprised mouth. It had eyebrows. And seemed both shocked and disappointed at the same time. It reminded Shane vaguely of his Coach. He would not react. He would not fall into Ilya’s trap. He would not be involved in this ridiculousness. He would not…

"You gave it a face?"

Ilya followed his gesture. "Oh. That."

"Yes. That."

Ilya considered the matter seriously. "He looked lonely."

Shane considered this. His shoulders itched slightly with the imagined silent criticism from Coach Coconut. 

Finally he replied, "It's a coconut."

Ilya shrugged. "Everybody needs friends."

Yeah. That felt consistent. Shane sat down opposite the coconut and wondered if his Coach was ever lonely. He then wondered if his team mates were ever lonely. What about his parents? Shane became uncomfortably aware that he had not spent much time considering the emotional fabric of the people in his life. That seemed bad of him. Should he have noticed more? He had certainly felt lonely at times…

“Shane.”

The gentle, husky voice dragged him back to the little kitchen, the honey pot and the tea. Ilya was crouching next to him, his hand resting on Shane’s thigh.

“Is just a coconut.”

Shane laughed despite himself and curled his hands around the warmth of his mug. Ilya watched him carefully for a moment, before standing and moving around the kitchen with familiar confidence. For a while neither of them spoke, the quiet companionable and comforting.

Shane sipped his tea and watched him. Professionally. 

It wasn't until Ilya carried over a plate of toast that Shane noticed something else: the Russian was walking oddly. Not dramatically different, but a faint stiffness through one side. A wariness to his movements when he turned to the left.

Shane frowned. "What's wrong?"

Ilya paused. "Nothing."

"You look uncomfortable." Shane placed his mug on the table and gestured to Ilya’s left side.

"I’m fine."

Shane hummed slightly. "No. You're limping. You’re carrying your weight differently. On the left."

He did not want to examine how he was so intimately familiar with the gait of a man he had met two days ago.

Ilya paused for a moment and then sighed dramatically. "It’s nothing. The sofa is plotting against me."

"What does that mean?"

Ilya shrugged dismissively. “I am tall, the sofa is not. Every night we are in conflict. I think, maybe, the sofa is winning.”

"You said it was fine."

"I lied."

Ilya lowered himself cautiously into the chair opposite, the movement looking genuinely uncomfortable and guilt pricked unexpectedly at Shane's chest.

"You should have taken the bed." The words came out more quietly than Shane intended.

Ilya sipped tea from the dog cup and clearly decided the conversation was over.

"Too late now. Damage is done."

Shane huffed slightly and glanced at Coach Coconut. He offered no solution.

They ate their breakfast, the morning stretching lazily ahead of them. Shane had arrived in England with a tenuous plan that consisted of ‘hide and recharge’. Beyond that, there had been no shape or form to his schedule. Today seemed like he had reached that place. He could fully exist in that plan: relax and hide.

“Shane?”

Ilya was watching him with suspicious attentiveness.

"What?"

The smile appeared immediately. "I have an idea."

"No." The denial was automatic and he ignored the small tingle of anticipation in his stomach. Stomachs were not renowned for making good decisions. 

"You don’t even know the idea." Ilya tilted his head. “I promise you, it is an excellent idea.”

"And it would need my involvement because…?"

Ilya sat forward. “Because I need your help. I can’t do this without you Shane. Help me Shane Kinobe, you’re my only hope.”

Shane fixed him with a flat stare. “Last night I climbed a cliff to rescue a sheep that wasn’t stuck. What could you possibly have planned for today?”

Ilya thumped his hand across his chest. “The sheep was not planned, Shane Hollander from Canada. It was fate.”

Shane huffed out a sigh and waited. Ilya leaned forward enthusiastically, tapping his fingers on the table.

"Alpacas."

Shane stared.

"What?"

"Alpacas."

"That's the plan?"

Ilya continued with complete sincerity. "I sponsor one."

"You sponsor an alpaca?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because she’s beautiful, Shane. And the rescue centre needs funds. So I help by sponsoring an alpaca. She’s called Anya."

Shane rubbed his eyes. "I don't ever know if you’re telling the truth." he grumbled.

Ilya looked outraged. “I’m always telling the truth. I would never lie to you, Shane Hollander. She lives at a sanctuary, on the moors."

"Ilya."

"My back hurts."

Shane frowned at the conversational detour. "Your back has nothing to do with alpacas."

"You’re wrong. Walking will help me."

There was a pause. Shane waited and Ilya smiled hopefully.

"Both the alpacas and me need emotional support." Ilya continued. “And it’s sort of your fault that my back is stiff, because you made me sleep on the sofa.” Shane opened his mouth but was cut off. “Also you have a car.”

Shane lowered his mug. The car was still stuck in the mud on the tiny grassy lane. 

"Ilya."

Ilya pouted a little. "The alpacas will be sad if you don’t come."

The smile tugging at the corners of Shane's mouth became impossible to suppress.

Across the table, Ilya's eyes brightened with quiet triumph.

“I asked Malcolm last night to help liberate your car. He should be here soon.” Ilya tossed into the conversation, before lifting the toadpot and refilling his mug.

Outside, the sunshine blazed over the cliffs.

Inside, Coach Coconut watched the proceedings with concern.

And somewhere down the lane, Farmer Malcolm and his tractor were already on their way.

*

Shane had never really thought about animals before, other than in a vague, general knowledge kind of way. He hadn't had a family pet and had spent very little time with friends who did. 

He was not, it turned out, a natural with them.

 The alpaca sanctuary was bleak. Not in a depressing, sad way. More in a Yorkshire way.

 It was at a large stone farm, nestled at the foot of some hills on the windswept moors, with hard stone walls and vast, rolling skies. Stunted, twisted trees punctuated the landscape and a beck gurgled and crawled its way through the grounds, which were sodden from the recent storms. 

When Malcolm had pulled the rental car out of the mud, using a tractor named Betty, Ilya had kissed him on the cheek before settling into the passenger seat, declaring himself ‘passenger princess’ for the day. Malcolm had trundled off, laughing at the foolishness of youth, and Shane had nervously buckled in to drive. 

They had made it about half a mile before Ilya had casually asked why they were crawling so slowly down the grassy, single track lanes. Shane had gestured to the road, as if it were answer enough and continued his hunched, tense stealth drive. Another ten minutes of Ilya’s exaggerated huffing and tutting, had made him pull over and pointedly ask if Ilya thought he could do any better. 

Of course Ilya thought he could do better. 

The journey had sped up after that, dragged along by Ilya’s supreme confidence in passing places, the rental cars brakes and locals driving land rovers. Shane had refused to admit it but he was eternally grateful to Ilya for tackling the crazy road system. 

The journey to the alpaca farm had taken a couple of hours, which had passed with only a few awkward silences. On the journey Shane had sent texts to Rose, Svetlana and his parents. None had responded and there had been no answer to his emails from the previous day. 

He’d been about to worry about that, when they’d arrived at the alpaca farm. 

It turned out that the rescue sanctuary had a collection of sheep, goats and pigs, as well as its small herd of alpacas. 

Ilya had parked in a creative and haphazard way, before leaping out and making a beeline for a small, golden alpaca waiting by the fence. 

“Anya!”, he cried out, throwing his arms around the bemused animal's neck. 

Anya chewed grass. 

“She’s missed me.” Ilya declared, turning to Shane, his fingers scratching behind Anya’s ears. 

Anya pulled more grass up and continued to chew. 

“My poor girl has been so lonely.” He cooed, pressing his face against her neck. 

Anya saw more grass and wandered off, turning her back on them all. 

Ilya looked fondly at her retreating back, before attempting to introduce the rest of the herd to Shane.

They were similarly unimpressed, but Ilya remained relentlessly enthusiastic, introducing each alpaca in turn before somehow drifting into an impassioned lecture on llamas versus alpacas. Shane listened, bemused. Two of the smaller animals had recently been shorn and Shane watched their long, naked necks, with the round, furry head wobbling on top for a moment. They seemed unbalanced and out of step with the others.

Same, little alpacas, Shane thought to himself, same.

“Eel-ee-yur!” A woman called from the farmhouse.

Brenda the alpaca rescuer was short, round and rosy. She looked like a cheerful cartoon character and Shane expected her to provide unsolicited apple pie and charming, homespun advice. He smiled at her instinctively as she walked towards them, wiping her hands on a cloth and holding what Shane optimistically assumed was some sort of nutcracker . 

“Won’t be a second,” she called in her soft, flat vowels “we’re just castrating the lambs.” 

Wait, what?

Ilya nodded wisely and pulled her into a hug, before introducing her to Shane. 

“This is Brenda, the rescuer of all poor abandoned farm animals. The kindest woman in Yorkshire.”

Shane was not sure that the ball-less lambs would agree with the character study. She held out her hand to Shane with a beaming, caring smile. He hesitated for a moment before holding his breath and shaking her hand. He tried really, really hard not to wipe his hand on his trousers until she had stopped looking at him. 

“Oh, Eel-ee-yer, yer fella’s right bonny.” She beamed, waving the nutcracker in his direction. His thighs clenched together involuntarily and he tried to focus on her face. 

Ilya smiled softly in agreement, bumping his shoulder against Shane’s.

“Shall I give him a tour, or do you want to do it?” he asked her and she smiled fondly.

“Yer know where everything is, like, lad. Have at it and we’ll be done in a jiffy.”

Ilya beckoned to Shane, who followed him into the farm and around the small muddy paddocks and cabins. He was introduced to chickens and goats. A pig named Winston, and an extravagant guinea pig home. In a smaller hutch next to it, sat a single guinea pig, eating something green and looking pensive.

“Oh no!” Shane said, leaning over to look at the isolated guinea pig. “What’s wrong with this one?”

Ilya grimaced. “Is Daddy piglet. He can’t be trusted, Shane. I saw Mamma piglet give birth, Shane. And he stayed with her, sniffed at the babies, cuddled against her and I thought, ‘This is so romantic. Who knew guinea pigs were so loving?’ They are not romantic Shane. The second the last baby is out, he fucks Mamma piglet. No dinner and dancing. Straight away he is humping on her. He is for neutering and adoption.” He paused for a moment. “You want a randy guinea pig?”

Shane shook his head. “Not today.”

“Good decision.” He held out hand and beckoned. “Come and meet Little Ilya.”

Little Ilya was sitting near a large pond. He honked as they approached, which they took as a warning, watching him from a distance. He was a Sebastopol goose with magnificent curling feathers and a bright orange beak. After contemplating them for a moment, he stood, shook his feathers out and sat again, with his back to them. Shane thought he was magnificent, if a little lonely looking.

“Aren’t there any other curly feather geese at the farm?” He asked Ilya.

“Not yet. But soon. Soon he will have a friend, I think.” Ilya said, a solemn expression settling on his face.

Shane gently bumped shoulders with Ilya, who turned and looked at him intently, his eyes flicking between Shane’s own. Little Ilya honked again and they smiled at each other, the moment stretching between them. Shane moistened his lips and Ilya tracked the movement, the smile fading away.

Brenda’s voice carried across the yard again, cheerful and oblivious to the emotional crisis unfolding by the pond. “Reet then, lovebirds! Off t’walk the daft buggers. Group’s at t’gate! Move yer arses.” 

Ilya blinked, the spell not just broken, but smashed under the heel of Brenda’s welly boot. 

“Come, Shane Hollander from Canada. Time to walk majestic creatures.” 

Shane exhaled, both grateful for and frustrated by the interruption. “Of course it is.” 

The wind had picked up again, carrying the smell of wet grass and sheep. Shane shoved his hands into his pockets, following Ilya’s easy stride down the path. Brenda’s wife, Jeanette, stood in a fleece jacket and hiking boots, clipboard in hand, already assigning alpacas to walkers. Beside her, Maisie, their teenage daughter, was scrolling her phone and chewing gum with the kind of performative boredom only teenagers can achieve. A few other tourists waited nearby: a retired couple in cheerful matching waterproofs and a solo hiker with an expensive camera.

Jeanette glanced up from her clipboard. “Right, you lot, pair up with your alpaca and keep hold of the lead. They spit if you annoy ’em.”

Maisie didn’t look up from her phone. “They spit even if you don’t.”

*

The alpacas were magnificent, in a slightly ridiculous way: long necks, huge eyes, and an air of constant amusement. Ilya was already deep in conversation with Anya, whispering Russian endearments and stroking her golden fur. She looked unimpressed but tolerant, which seemed to be her default setting.

Jeanette handed Shane a lead attached to a large, chocolate-brown alpaca with a fringe. “This is Mabel,” she said. “She’s a bit stubborn, but she likes grass and compliments.”

Shane nodded, unsure what kind of compliments would work best with an alpaca. He held the lead in a knuckle whitened grip and stared into its eyes. The alpaca chewed thoughtfully and pursed its lips. Shane remembered the warning about spitting and ducked.

After a few moments, he looked up again to find Mabel, Anya and Ilya regarding him. All had their heads titled to the side, curls flopping into their eyes. Shane fought a smile and tried to relax more.

The group began to move, a slow procession across the field. The alpacas shuffled forward with the resigned air of creatures who had seen this nonsense before. Brenda waved them off cheerfully. “Don’t go near t’ beck! Buggers’ll jump in if they fancy it!”

Maisie muttered something wistful, and they departed.

The first ten minutes were chaos. 

The retired couple’s alpaca refused to walk in a straight line, zigzagging between them like a furry pinball. The hiker kept stopping to take photos, which caused a chain reaction of halted alpacas and tangled leads. Mabel decided to eat every patch of grass they passed, dragging him to a standstill every few feet.

Ilya, of course, was thriving. He walked beside Anya like a man leading a parade, smiling at everyone, his voice carrying easily on the wind. “You must walk with confidence, Shane Hollander from Canada! Alpacas respect authority!”

“She’s eating grass,” Shane called back. “I don’t think she respects anything.”

Ilya laughed, the sound bright and easy. “Then you must earn her respect. Be strong, but gentle. Like me. Coax her out of her shell. Distract her.” He winked.

Shane rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help smiling.

The path wound up through the farm, the wind picking up, carrying the smell of damp sheep and peat. The group began to spread out, the chaos settling into rhythm. The couple chatted quietly, the hiker muttered about lighting, and Maisie trudged ahead, her phone held aloft for signal.

Shane and Ilya fell into step together, their alpacas occasionally tangling leads, forcing them closer. The moors stretched wide and endless around them, green and purple under the pale sun.

For a moment, it was peaceful,  just the sound of wind and the occasional disgruntled hum from Mabel.

Ilya glanced sideways, his expression soft. “They always walk in pairs,” he said. “Alpacas don’t like being alone.”

Shane looked at him. “You’re making that up.”

Ilya admitted. “Maybe, maybe not. But it is nice for them, yes?”

Shane didn’t answer. The wind tugged at his hoodie, and Mabel hummed softly beside him. Maybe Ilya was right. It did seem nicer this way. 

*

The path left the sanctuary and climbed steadily across the fields, the mud giving way to springy grass and heather. Somewhere in the distance came the low, mournful bleat of a ewe, answered lazily by another further up the hillside. Stone walls stretched across the landscape before disappearing over the next rise.

Mabel stopped. Again.

Shane looked down.

She had found a particularly interesting tuft of grass.

"Come on," he said gently, giving the lead a slight tug.

Mabel considered his request, took another mouthful and continued chewing with the serene confidence of an animal that had absolutely nowhere else to be. They advanced another three metres before Mabel stopped again. Ilya and Anya watched her, their golden curls blowing in the damp breeze. 

“We are definitely losing the competition.” he huffed.

“I don’t think it’s a race Rozanov.” Shane chastised.

“Everything is a race, Hollander.” He looked up at the slow parade winding its way up the hill. “And we are coming last.”

Ahead of them, the retired couple had become completely besotted with their alpaca and were discussing its eyelashes in hushed whispers.

“He’s beautiful, Ravi.” The woman gushed.

Their alpaca belched quietly and wandered sideways into a patch of nettles.

The photographer hiker was still trying to get the perfect shot. He crouched, climbed in the walls, stood on tiptoes and spun around, muttering about sun and shadows. He had also committed the cardinal sin of letting go of the lead and Jeanette had reprimanded him twice already. He did not appear to be a quick learner. He was currently edging backwards for a better angle, crouched low, and his expensive walking boot disappeared ankle-deep into a patch of mud. There was a loud squelch. He pinwheeled his arms, somehow stayed upright and looked around to see whether anyone had noticed.

Everyone had.

Even the alpacas seemed to judge him.

Maisie sighed without looking up from her phone.

"Alpacas can hum when they're happy," she recited in the flat tone of someone who was being forced to have fun. "Their stomachs have three compartments. They can live for about twenty years. And no, you can't ride them. They’re too delicate"

The photographer looked shifty. "I wasn't going to ask."

"Someone always does." Maisie shot back, not looking away from her phone.

The path dipped towards a line of trees. Ahead, the sound of running water grew louder, bright and insistent. Jeanette called back over her shoulder, “Stream up ahead! Keep ’em movin’!” and a couple of the alpacas slowed, ears flicking forward. 

Shane smiled to himself as Mabel wandered after Anya, finally deciding the next patch of grass was worth investigating. He followed obediently, the lead slack between them. Above them, the sky seemed impossibly wide. 

Mabel nosed at his hoodie and let out a small hum.

Shane spared at a glance at the others, and then he hummed back.

*

As they climbed a thin mist started to descend on them, and the Alpaca’s wool started to glisten in the moist air.

Ahead of them, Jeanette raised her voice. “Ok. Time for the beck. They’ll cross if you’re firm wi’ ’em.”

Maisie didn’t look up from her phone. “Some of ’em won’t. They get dramatic.”

The stream itself wasn’t large, but it was lively, bubbling over stones and flashing silver in the sunlight. The sound of it filled the air, bright and cheerful in the melancholic mist. The alpacas slowed, approached individually, their toes clicked on the path. 

Anya stepped daintily across, barely disturbing the water. Ilya beamed,basking in the approval of the group, as though personally responsible for her good example. Shane rolled his eyes.

The couple’s alpaca took a dramatic leap, landing on the other side with a flourish that made them applaud. It took more effort to get Ravi across. Apparently his shins were playing up in the damp, and Jeanette practically hauled him over the last part.

The photographer’s alpaca sniffed the water, hummed, and refused. He tried bribing it with grass. It accepted the grass, then continued refusing.

Maisie sighed. “They’re so extra.”

Shane approached the stream with Mabel, who stopped dead at the edge. Her long fringe trembled in the breeze. She stared at the water before swinging her gaze back towards Shane.

“Okay,” Shane said softly. “It’s just water.”

Mabel sucked her teeth, her entire body vibrating with disapproval.

Ilya appeared across the beck, Anya standing serenely beside him. “She senses your fear.”

“I’m not afraid,” Shane said.

“You’rre tense. Alpacas don’t like tension. They prefer calm, confident leadership.”

“She’s an alpaca, not a rookie.”

Oh. Hockey. Shane's stomach lurched. Had anyone noticed? Had Ilya? He hadn't talked about hockey at all. Shane’s heart thumped in his throat. But maybe he should have. He swallowed and looked stubbornly at the water, his head ringing.

Mabel immediately tried to back up, pulling Shane off balance a few feet.

Shane tightened his grip on the lead, not looking at anyone else in the group. Mabel snorted slightly, her neck stretching out like a furry periscope. She planted her feet. She was not moving.

Neither was Shane.

Maisie didn’t look up from her phone. “She’s being dramatic I tell ya. It’s just another step”

Shane breathed out noisily. Maisie was right. She was so right. Shane was being dramatic. It was just another step. He blinked rapidly. And looked up, straight at Ilya, who was looking right back, steadily and calmly.

“Talk to her.”

“What?”

“Talk to her. She needs reassurance.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You do. She’s scared. You need to calm her, Shane Hollander from Canada.”

Shane looked at him, before giving a quick, jerky nod. He exhaled, crouching slightly. He’d done this a thousand times, not with alpacas obviously, but with teammates, rookies, kids at summer camps. Ground yourself. Lower your centre of gravity. Make your voice calm. Let them come to you.

He held the lead loosely, giving Mabel space. “Hey,” he said softly. “It’s okay. It’s just a stream. Just a couple of steps. You can do this.”

Mabel’s ears flicked.

Shane kept his voice low, steady. “You’re good here. I’m right here. I’ll come with you.”

She hummed again, but the pitch softened.

“Good,” Shane murmured. “We’re going to step forward. Just one step.”

He shifted his weight, guiding her gently. Mabel leaned forward, sniffing the water. Her fringe dipped dangerously close to the surface.

“Don’t drink it,” Shane whispered.

She drank it.

Maisie sighed. “They always drink it.”

Shane waited, patient. Mabel lifted her head, water dripping from her fringe. She looked at him, then at the stream, then at him again.

“Okay,” Shane said. “Let’s go.”

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate. Mabel followed, one cautious foot at a time, humming under her breath. The water splashed around her leathery feet. She paused halfway, trembling slightly.

“I’m so, so proud of you,” Shane smiled.

Mabel blinked at him. Then, with a sudden burst of determination, she stepped across the rest of the stream and onto the grass on the other side. The couple cheered, the hiker snapped a photo and Jeanette nodded approvingly. “Tha’s done well wi’ ’er.”

Maisie glanced up for the first time. “Not bad.”

Ilya was watching Shane with an expression that made Shane’s stomach tighten, warm, proud, and something else he didn’t dare name.

“You were very gentle,” Ilya said quietly. “She trusted you.”

Shane swallowed. “She just wanted grass.”

“Still,” Ilya murmured. “She followed you.”

Shane looked down at Mabel, who was already eating another patch of grass, entirely unbothered by her near-death experience.

He felt something loosen in his chest, a small, unexpected swell of satisfaction.

“Come on Shane,” Ilya said softly. “The hill is next.”

Shane nodded, giving Mabel’s neck a gentle pat. “Okay. Let’s go.”

They began to climb, the group spreading out again, the moors rising before them in purple hues. The mist clung to their clothes, soft and cool. Mabel’s wool shimmered faintly, silver in the light. Behind them, the stream bubbled on, unconcerned, as though it hadn’t just hosted a life-changing event for one stubborn alpaca and one Canadian hockey player.

*

The climb was steady, the path winding upwards through heather and grass, the air growing cooler with each step. The group stretched out again, a slow procession of humans and alpacas, their shadows long and soft against the hillside.

Shane and Ilya walked in companionable silence for a while, their alpacas occasionally forcing them closer, their arms touching. 

A skylark rose suddenly from the grass, spiralling upwards in a burst of song. Shane stopped for a moment, watching it. The sound was pure and bright, and he felt it in his chest.

Ilya paused beside him, following his gaze. “They sing to mark their territory,” he said softly. “To say, ‘This is mine.’”

Shane smiled faintly. “Again, you know a lot of things that might or might not be true.”

“Maybe,” Ilya said. “The question is, do you trust me?”

Shane smiled and continued walking. His legs ached pleasantly and his lungs felt clear. The tension that had lived in his shoulders for weeks, maybe months seemed to have loosened, replaced by something lighter.

When they reached the ridge at the top of the hill, the world opened.

The moors fell away in a sweep of colour: green fields, purple heather, the distant shimmer of the sea. The horizon stretched wide and endless, the mist lifting for a glorious moment. The wind rushed over them, cool and alive. Far in the distance, a viaduct rose from the landscape and a small puff of white smoke from a steam train punctuated the view.

Jeanette stopped, hands on her hips and breathed deeply. “ Best view in Yorkshire, if tha asks me.”

Maisie didn’t look up. “It’s proper nice.”

The retired lady looked overwhelmed.  “Oh, Ravi, look at that!” Ravi pulled her into his arms in front of him and they swayed slightly, lost in thought.

Shane stood still, breathing in the air. The wind tugged at his hoodie, the grass rippled around his boots. Mabel hummed softly beside him, her fringe blowing sideways. 

Ilya stepped closer, his shoulder brushing Shane’s. “Is beautiful, yes?,” he said softly.

Shane turned to agree and saw that Ilya was not looking at the view. He was simply watching Shane.

Shane looked back at him, at the curve of his mouth, the way his hair curls danced in the breeze. He wanted to say something, something that would explain the strange, quiet ache in his chest. But the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, he reached out and stroked Mabel’s neck. “She’s humming again.”

“She’s happy,” Ilya said. “They hum when they’re happy.”

Shane smiled. “Guess we’re both humming, then.”

Ilya laughed softly, the sound carried away by the wind.

“Do you want a picture?” The photographer stood by them, waving his camera.

For a fast, instinctive moment, Shane panicked, a denial in his mouth before he could register it. But he bit it back. The thing he had been so scared of for so many years had already happened. And here he was. He would like a photograph. A memory of this moment. He’d spent years avoiding cameras. Now, for the first time, he wanted proof he’d been here. 

He nodded and they arranged themselves: Ilya, Mabel, Anya and Shane, with the windswept moors behind them and the pale yorkshire sun in their eyes. Ilya threw his arm over Shane’s shoulder and Shane turned to him, a smile on his face. He heard the click of the camera and his heart stuttered once, before he let the tension drift away, across the heather, with the skylark.

Below them, the group began to turn back towards the farm, voices drifting on the breeze. 

Shane and Ilya lingered a moment longer, standing side by side at the edge of the ridge. The sea glimmered in the distance, endless and calm.

Ilya tilted his head. “You know, Shane Hollander from Canada, I think you are becoming very Yorkshire.”

“I already complain about the weather.”

“Then you are halfway there.”

They started down the hill, the alpacas moving easily now, their hums blending with the wind. The path wound back towards the farm, the stone walls guiding them home. As they walked, Shane glanced sideways at Ilya. The Russian’s expression was peaceful, his usual mischief softened by the light. Shane thought, fleetingly, that he could stay here forever, in this ridiculous, beautiful place, with this ridiculous, beautiful man.

He smiled and looked back towards the path home. 

*

By the time they reached the farm again, the fog had rolled in thick and low, swallowing the moors in a soft, silver hush. The air tasted faintly of rain and wool and the alpacas looked ghostly in the mist, their shapes drifting through the grey like slow-moving clouds.

Brenda was waiting for them by the gate. “Well done, folks,” she called, her voice muffled by the fog. “Tea’s in t’barn if yer fancy it. Pods are ready for anyone stayin’ over.”

Maisie yawned. “It’s proper grim out,” she announced to her phone.

Shane rubbed his hands together, the chill settling into his bones. “I thought we were driving back tonight.”

Ilya tilted his head, curls damp with mist. “We could. But look.” He gestured towards the field, where a cluster of small wooden glamping pods sat, their windows glowing faintly through the fog. “They are warm. They have beds. And possibly biscuits.”

Shane hesitated. The idea of driving narrow lanes in this fog made his stomach tighten. “You think there’s space for us?”

“I’ll ask Brenda,” Ilya said confidently. “And she will feed us until we beg for mercy.”

Behind them, the photographer appeared out of the mist, clutching his camera like a relic. “Are those the pods?” he asked, hopeful. “I’ve booked for the night, to get some dawn shots of the alpacas.”

“Aye, you’re in pod number one. Ravi and Manisha, you’ve booked number three.” The others handed their alpaca leads to Maisie, who took them without comment. 

“Are there any empty for the night?” Ilya asked, looking at the remaining two pods hopefully.

“We’re still expecting a couple for pod two,” Brenda said, frowning. “But the man who booked number four won’t drive in this fog, so he’s cancelled if you two want it.” .

The photographer smiled. “Perfect.”

Ilya smiled back. “Perfect indeed.”

Shane frowned. “Wait, two?”

Jeanette nodded. “Aye. Two. Each sleeps two folk. You’ll have to share.”

There was a pause. The fog pressed close around them, thick and quiet.

The photographer looked between them, oblivious. “Well, I don’t mind sharing if needed.”

Ilya’s smile widened, slow and deliberate. “Oh no,” he said smoothly. “Shane and I will share. But thank you.” He said in a tone that made it clear that no thanks were on offer.

Shane blinked. 

Brenda chuckled. “Sorted then. I’ll get t’keys.”

The photographer looked vaguely disappointed but wandered off towards the barn.

Ilya turned to Shane, eyes bright in the mist. “It will be cosy,” he said. “Romantic, even.”

“It’s a shed with a plug socket.”

“Exactly,” Ilya said cheerfully. “Luxury.”

The fog thickened, curling around them and somewhere in the distance, Little Ilya honked mournfully, and Shane’s heart ached, thinking of him waiting patiently for someone to share with.

He followed Jeanette to the glamping pod.

*

The glamping pod looked smaller up close, much smaller. Shane stopped in front of the curved wooden structure as the fog curled around its edges like a cat settling in for the night. 

It was… cosy. There was that word again. Cosy, as in small. Cute, but absolutely not designed for two grown men and their collective emotional baggage.

Jeanette handed Ilya the key. “There’s a heater, kettle, and some biscuits in t’jar. Mind the step. Door sticks in t’damp. It has a shower sink and toilet, but if you want to do laundry, that’s by the barn.”

“It is perfect,” Ilya declared, already charmed.

Shane wasn’t convinced. “It’s tiny.” he whispered after Jeanette had disappeared into the fog.

Ilya pushed the door open with a grunt. “See? Luxury shed.”

Inside was warm, lit by a single lamp that cast a soft amber glow over the pinewood walls. A small table sat under the window, where fog pressed its curious face against the glass. A kettle, two mismatched mugs, and a jar of digestives waited on a shelf. 

And the bed.

The bed was one bed.

One. 

A mattress that looked like it had been designed for two small people who slept very still.

Shane stared at it. “That’s not a real double.”

Ilya shrugged, stepping inside and kicking off his boots. “Very intimate.”

Shane’s brain short-circuited for a moment. He stood in the doorway, damp hoodie clinging to him, fog curling around his ankles, while Ilya moved about the pod with ease. The photographer passed by outside, heading to his own pod. “Hope you two have a good night!” he called cheerfully through the mist.

Ilya smiled. “We will.”

Shane made a noise that wasn’t quite a word.

Ilya turned to him, expression softening. “Shane. Come inside. You are letting all the heat out and all the fog in.”

Shane stepped in, closing the door behind him. The pod felt even smaller with the door shut.

Ilya stood by the bed, hands on his hips. “We can sleep head-to-toe,” he offered. “Or back-to-back. Or front-to…”

“Head-to-toe,” Shane said quickly, then kicked himself internally for his panicked reply.

Ilya laughed. “As you wish.”

Shane took off his shoes and coat and sat on the edge of the bed. It dipped under his weight, and Ilya sat beside him, their shoulders touching. The heater hummed. The fog thickened. Somewhere outside, an alpaca hummed mournfully.

It was quiet and warm. Too warm. Shane could feel every point of contact between them: shoulder, thigh, the brush of Ilya’s curls against his cheek when he turned his head.

“This is nice,” Ilya said softly.

Shane swallowed. “It’s… cosy.”

Ilya bumped his shoulder. “You like cosy.”

Shane didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could. His chest felt tight in a way that wasn’t unpleasant, just unfamiliar. He felt something expanding inside him, slow and careful.

Ilya reached for the biscuit jar, opened it, and held it out. “Digestive?”

Shane stood abruptly. “I need to shower.” he blurted out and moved to the door at the rear of the pod. Inside was a tiny en suite space. He closed the door firmly and manoeuvred his muscular frame through the process of showering in a space that was decidedly not designed for him. When he finished, he took one of the two towels and knotted it around his waist, before opening the door, clutching his clothes to his chest and allowing Ilya to shuffle past for his own shower.

Grimacing slightly he pulled on his boxer shorts, before sliding into the bed, pulling the covers up and trying to test the boundaries that demarcated half the bed. 

By the time Ilya exited the shower, wearing only his black briefs, Shane had shuffled to the edge of the bed, and was holding his body tightly in place.

Ilya turned off the lamp, climbed onto the bed at the opposite end and lay back.

There was silence.

Shane shuffled slightly and kneed Ilya in the stomach.

“Sorry.” he bit out and lay perfectly still.

Ilya turned slightly, his foot clunking into Shane’s face.

“Sorry.” 

Shane tried to settle, his elbow catching on Ilya’s leg.

“Sorry.”

“Ok, this is ridiculous. “ Ilya announced, climbing out of the bed and then getting back in, lying next to Shane. 

The bed was small.

Very small.

Their shoulders touched. Their knees brushed. Their breaths mingled in the warm air.

“How is your back?” Shane asked softly. “Do you have enough space?”

Ilya turned onto his side, his hands tucked under his face, smiling at Shane. “It is good I think. The walk was good. And believe it or not, this bed is better than the sofa.”

Shane huffed out a laugh.

“Well, that’s good.”

He turned his head and was surprised at how close their faces were now.

The moment seemed unreal, in the darkness of the wooden pod, the outside world washed away by the fog that pressed against the glass.

Shane searched Ilya’s face. He didn’t know if he was looking for an answer or a question.

Outside, Little Ilya honked in the dark and the fog.

“We need to find a friend for Little Ilya.” Shane whispered.

Ilya’s eyes were soft and warm. “Okay.” he answered, his breath caressing Shane’s face.

“Thank you.” Shane continued. “For today. For the walk and the view and… Mabel.”

“It was a good day.”

“It was a good day.” He replied.

Their eyes caught and connected, as they lay, a breath apart, the moment fragile and tender.

“Goodnight Shane Hollander from Canada.”

Shane smiled. “Goodnight Ilya Rozanov from Bramble Cottage.”

He turned to lie on his back, looking at the knotted pine on the ceiling, and he listened to Ilya’s steady breathing. 

Eventually, his hand moved an inch and found Ilya’s under the cover, who opened his in silent invitation. 

Their fingers tangled together in the dark, palms pressed close.

Chapter End Notes

In next week's episode... a day trip to Whitby and an encounter with the majesty that is Yorkshire seagulls. And will Svetlana ever answer her phone???

Chapter 5: Seagull

Chapter Summary

Previously on... Shane learned the joys of guinea pig romance, Sebastopol geese and alpacas. The fog forced them to stay in a glamping pod, with only one bed.

Chapter Notes

Shane woke up in stages. 

The first stage was understanding that he needed to pee.

The second stage was the awareness that he was hard.

The third stage was a vague confusion about his duvet. It was tangled around him, pressed across his chest and stomach and twined between his legs. It was also very heavy, very hot and was breathing slowly into his neck.

Ah.

He lay, very still, silently mapping the different continents of the bed.

The Southern Archipelago was inhabited by one of his legs stretched out, with Ilya’s leg pressed into him, their feet gently rubbing against each other. His other leg was hooked over Ilya’s thigh, clamping him in place. The Northern Highlands consisted of Ilya’s chest across his own, weighing him down, their breathing almost synchronised. Ilya’s face was buried deep into the crook of Shane’s neck, his nose pressed against the warm skin where Shane’s pulse beat increasingly erratically. The air between them smelled of cedarwood cologne, damp wool, and the cheap lavender body wash from the pod's tiny shower. A long, muscular arm was wrapped firmly around Shane’s waist, pulling him in close against the morning chill. And their hands, the ones that had tentatively reached towards each other in the shroud of the evening fog, were still clasped together between their chests, fingers loosely interlaced.

His mental map ended somewhere around the Equatorial Basin. ‘Here There Be Dragons’, the cartographers warned. He was absolutely not going to mount an expedition, even for perfectly valid exploration and research purposes. Especially since one very obvious dragon appeared to have woken up before the rest of Ilya had and was pressed hard against his hip. 

He really needed to pee.

Instead, Shane held his breath and stayed completely still.

He let himself feel it: the solid, undeniable weight of Ilya’s body against his, the rhythmic rise and fall of his ribs, the fragile, quiet isolation of this tiny wooden room. For someone who spent his entire life measuring every move, every word, and every public expression, being held like this in the pale morning light felt like a gift. 

Ilya shifted slightly, letting out a low, rumbling sigh that vibrated against Shane’s collarbone. His arm tightened instinctively around Shane’s waist, dragging him half an inch closer, and he buried his face into Shane’s messy morning hair with a contented hum.

A bit like Mabel.

"Mmm. Good morning, Shane Hollander from Canada," Ilya murmured. His voice was raspy, thick with sleep, his eyes still closed.

Shane’s throat felt completely dry. "Morning, Ilya Rozanov from Bramble Cottage," he whispered back.

Ilya’s eyelashes fluttered open. He blinked slowly, his stormy North Sea eyes taking a moment to focus on Shane. A lazy, wicked little smile  spread across his face, making Shane’s stomach flip. Ilya lay there, looking at Shane, his thumb absently tracing a small, feather-light circle into Shane’s waist.

"You used me as heated blanket," Ilya whispered softly, his accent heavy with sleep.

"You were freezing," Shane lied, his voice barely audible in the quiet room. "I was saving you from hypothermia. I’m Canadian. It’s in my DNA to be polite. I expect some gratitude for this."

"My hero," Ilya whispered, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He paused, his gaze lingering on Shane's mouth, before he leaned up and pressed a brief, feather-light kiss to Shane’s forehead.

Before Shane could even process the feeling of Ilya’s lips against his skin and the shape of the dragon near the equator, Ilya was untangling his long limbs and sitting up with a dramatic, full-body groan, stretching his arms toward the curved ceiling until his joints popped.

"Ah. My back is fine," he declared, rolling his shoulders. "My spine is completely healed. A miracle of Yorkshire air and tiny bed."

Shane lay back on his pillow, staring up at the knotted pine ceiling, his skin still buzzing where Ilya’s mouth had touched him.

Ilya got to pee first.

*

As appeared to be the way with Yorkshire, the weather had chosen a completely new outfit for the day. The sun was rising in the East, over the North Sea, painting the sky in pink and orange hues and burning away the misty remnants of yesterday. When Ilya had opened the door of their little pod to ‘let it breathe’, Shane had felt a sharp clenching feeling gripping tight in his chest, almost like panic, as though the safety and intimacy of last night would escape out of the door and disappear in the wind. 

He didn’t want to watch it leave.

But Ilya had beckoned him over to the door and pointed at a grey speckled hen roosting on the ledge by the door. She regarded them coolly. After a moment she emitted a soft 'bock' and plumped herself back down to rest. 

“Chicken.” Shane grinned.

“You are very good at animal identification, Shane Hollander.” Ilya replied solemnly. “Chickens. Hedgehogs. You know your stuff.”

Shane snorted out a laugh and punched at his arm, startling the hen, who squawked quietly and jumped from her perch. Shane was immediately apologetic, but she ignored his pleas to return and instead scratched at a small mound of dirt, flicking it towards him, probably with disdain.

Ilya waited whilst Shane pulled on his muddy shoes and then held out his hand.

Shane lived a lifetime in the small pause that followed. 

Thoughts and feelings he had hidden and ignored for over ten years, raised their sights towards the sun. Canada Shane would bury them again, cover them tightly and move away from the place where they lay. Yorkshire Shane held his breath for a moment, undecided, until Little Ilya called out with a plaintive, lonely honk that remained unanswered in the chill morning sky. Without looking directly at him, Shane reached out and grasped at Ilya’s offered hand. 

And the buds of his buried thoughts and feelings pushed through the broken earth, and reached towards the sunlight.

They entered the barn to a round of cheerful greetings and the smell of bacon and butter. Shane had a small thought that glanced off Winston the Pig, and regrouped at the breakfast table. The barn itself had a long wooden table in the centre and a small kitchenette, which was currently at the mercy of Brenda. Fairy lights had been strung around the walls and swallows darted through the open doorway, skimming low over the yard before vanishing back into the rafters.

"There they are." Brenda smiled broadly, wooden spoon still in one hand. "Help yerself, don’t be shy and eat up you two.”

Ravi and Manisha were wearing matching jumpers today, clearly hand knitted with more enthusiasm than skill. They had a large map open on the table and were following pathways with their fingers. A black and white dog sat beside them, upright and intense, dark brown eyes tracking the moments of their hands. It glanced at Shane and Ilya, determined they had no food yet and returned to its vigil by Ravi. The photographer sat near the window, a laptop connected to his camera, clicking buttons rapidly. Every few moments he smiled quietly to himself before taking another sip of tea.  When they had piled their plates high with food, he waved them over and they sat opposite him at the table, waiting as he clicked rapidly through the photographs of sky, sea, mist, rain, drizzle, fog, storms, clouds, murk and puddles. Yorkshire had a lot of shades of grey. Eventually he found the images of alpacas and turned his laptop towards them. Shane’s polite smile froze as he looked at the photograph.

Ilya was grinning widely, his dimples on display and his wet curls sparkling in the weak shards of light. His arm was thrown around Shane’s shoulder and Shane was turned towards Ilya. He remembered the moment. He'd been smiling at the ridiculousness of Ilya and alpacas. But that wasn’t the moment the camera had caught. Instead Shane was gazing at him with a soft expression he didn’t recognise as his own. His face was flushed and his whole body was leaning towards Ilya’s gravitational pull. Next to them, Mable and Anya looked like the majestic creatures they were, with their curly hair, thin necks and smiling faces. 

It was the most beautiful photograph Shane had ever seen.

“I can email you a copy if you like?” 

Shane nodded jerkily, before engaging properly and sharing his preciously guarded email address with a practical stranger.

Beneath the wooden table, Ilya tapped his foot gently against Shane's. Shane tapped back.

As breakfast finished and people made their final small talk and farewells, Jeanette wandered through the doorway carrying a cardboard box with both hands.

"Brenda?"

"Oh!" Brenda wiped her hands hurriedly on her apron. "I nearly forgot."

She looked towards Shane and Ilya. "You two are headin' into Whitby on’t way back?"

Shane had absolutely no idea.

"Yer wouldn' t mind doin' an old woman a favour, would yer?"

Shane agreed immediately, fully aware he was being manipulated. Brenda smiled.

"My sister lives over by t’harbour."

She lifted the lid from the box. Inside were neatly wrapped containers of soup, a fresh loaf still warm from the oven, two jars of chutney, a knitted cardigan folded military style and a small basket of eggs, padded with alpaca wool.

"Carol's laid up," Brenda continued. "She's been under doctor's orders all week."

"Oh no. I hope it isn't anything too serious.” Shane replied in the polite tones of a young man whose mother would be proud of him. 

Brenda's expression shifted. "Oh..." She glanced around the barn before leaning forward slightly and whispering, "...Women's problems."

Jeanette nodded solemnly. 

Ilya caught Shane's eye and he pulled a face which Shane would absolutely in no way find funny.

Then, with the exaggerated gravitas of someone sharing state secrets, Brenda silently mouthed across the table, ‘Waterworks’. Her eyebrows performed most of the sentence.

Shane bit the inside of his cheek so hard it almost hurt and behind them, Ilya snorted out a laugh and he hurried off to find the dog.

Brenda nodded gravely.

"I see." Shane foundered.

Jeanette rescued him. "She's had surgery. We can’t get away, so we’ve put some things together for her."

Shane nodded earnestly. "For sure, of course. We will absolutely take Carol her groceries."

"And tell ‘er," Brenda added, pointing a wooden spoon at him, "she's not to be lifting owt."

"I will tell her."

"And she'll ignore yer."

“Oh. Okay.”

"So tell her anyway."

"Yes ma’am."

*

Thirty minutes later the cardboard box sat carefully secured in the boot of the rental car. Without discussion Shane held the car keys out, tossed them gently and Ilya caught them one-handed.

Neither of them mentioned it.

Shane sat in the passenger seat, reading through  his alpaca adoption pack. A glossy photograph of Mabel smiled back at him and a short paragraph declaring her ‘gentle, fun-loving and active’ made him snort out a laugh. There was some seriously false advertising in this pack. But she was his now. Sort of. At least, he was one of the people who sponsored her. Brenda had told him that Maisie would send hin weekly updates. Maisie had retorted “Monthly mebbe.”, still glued to her phone. Shane didn’t think he had seen her face enough to reliably pick her out of a lineup. But anyway, a piece of Mabel’s was his.

Also, after sending his daily texts to Rose, Svetlana and his parents, he had found himself searching livestock sellers for a Sebastopol goose. Maybe he could sponsor a friend for Little Ilya. And Winston the pig. Perhaps he could find a home for the Randy Guinea pig as well. 

He looked out of the window and sighed. He just wanted all of them to be loved. 

Yeah. He could recognise the work his subconscious was doing here. 

For a long while they drove in companionable silence. The lanes unfurling in ribbons of damp tarmac. Sheep appeared and disappeared behind folds in the hills while small puffs of cloud drifted lazily across the moors.

Shane frowned through the windscreen.

“What on earth is that?”

Ahead of them, sitting alone on the horizon, was an enormous dark pyramid, looming like a supervillain's lair.

“RAF Fylingdales.”

“The what?”

“Early warning radar.”

“For…?”

“Nuclear missiles.”

Shane looked back at the pyramid. “Seriously? That feels a bit bleak.”

Ilya raised his eyebrows at the surrounding windswept moors. Fair enough. Bleak was part of the furniture here. 

“They also look for space debris.”

“That doesn’t make it cosier.”

Ilya smiled faintly. “It used to be three giant golf balls.”

Shane turned to stare at him. “Shut up.”

“Is completely true.”

“No, I’m not falling for this one.”

“There were three enormous white spheres. Very famous.”

“Ilya.”

“They looked exactly like golf balls.”

“Ilya.”

“They were visible for miles.”

Shane shook his head.

“You’re fucking with me.”

Ilya sighed with exaggerated patience. “You Canadians are very suspicious.”

“I’m suspicious because you’ve just told me that Britain’s nuclear defence system used to look like a golf course.”

A tiny smile crept across Ilya’s face. “Trust me, Shane Hollander.”

Shane watched his profile as he drove. He did trust him. I mean, not about the golf balls. That was clearly bullshit. But maybe about the alpacas. And the hedgehog. And the skylarks. And sheep. 

Fuck it. 

Maybe there used to be giant golf balls on the Yorkshire moors. Why not? 

As the road continued to stretch ahead of them, the moors rolled beside them in an expanse of green and purple waves. Far in the distance a tiny plume of white smoke curled upward into the clear sky.

Shane squinted at it. “What’s that? Yorkshire’s stealth jets disguised as clouds?"

“Nearly,” Ilya agreed. “Steam train.”

“A steam train? Like a Harry Potter train?”

“Yes Shane, North Yorkshire is magical enough to host its own steam train. You want to see?” 

“I’ve seen a steam train Rozanov. I’m from Canada. Not the moon.”

Ilya held his hands up and grinned. “Sorry. Sorry. Was just a suggestion.” He pointedly ignored the signposts to the railway.

“Yeah for sure,” Shane continued, "there's one in the Science Museum in Ottawa. I went with my parents and, you know, with school a few times.”

Ilya swerved the car to the left abruptly, forcing Shane to grab hold of the door handle harder than he would have liked.

“What the fuck?”

Ilya had made the turn that they had been passing, with no time to break, signal or prepare, and was now merrily driving down a different road, away from Whitby.

“A steam train in a museum isn’t real, Shane. You need to see it in the wild. In its natural habitat. Where it has air to breathe and room to roam.” Ilya replied with enthusiasm.

“We could have taken the next exit!” Shane held on to his righteous indignation, not willing to let it go yet.

“Carpe tramen Shane. Seize the train.” Ilya pointed triumphantly as they crested the next rise. “Station.”  and he pulled into the gravel car park, forcing the rental car into a space not designed to let two large men exit comfortably.

After they had squeezed out the car, they wandered up to the tiny stone station. A wooden sign announced ‘Goathland Station’, in cheerful, slightly peeling letters. Flower tubs overflowed with bright geraniums and everything was polished and tidy.

The platform was surprisingly busy, with families holding the hands of excited children, some of whom were dressed as wizards. Wait, was this actually the Harry Potter train? Men with waterproof coats, long lensed cameras and tiny notebooks stood at one end, and a small group of white-haired pensioners gathered at the opposite end. Everyone was chatting and relaxed, the different groups blending seamlessly.

Walking amongst them all was a volunteer in a bright red waistcoat, marching importantly along the platform, a clipboard in his hand and a large gold pocket watch attached by a chain.

Ilya and Shane weaved their way through the waiting crowds to climb a small, red painted iron footbridge. It was already busy, but they managed to find a space to stand in, staring down the long train track to the approaching train. 

From their vantage point on the bridge, Shane could hear the rails singing faintly beneath them and then a distant whistle echoed across the moors, almost mournful. There was a hum of anticipation from the crowd on the platform as another sound started to echo down the tracks: a slow, rhythmic chuffing, like someone taking enormous breaths. 

Ilya’s eyes lit up. “Here it comes.”

Shane tried very hard not to smile. “You’re very excited.”

“Steam train, Shane!”

The whistle sounded again, louder this time, and a plume of white steam curled around the bend. The train emerged slowly, chugging along the track. Some of the children on the platform squealed and people raised cameras and phones to record it. The thrum of the engine vibrating in their chests as it approached.

Shane laughed under his breath. “This is ridiculous.”

But, on impulse, as the huge black engine came closer to pass under the bridge, Shane took out his phone, thumbed the camera open and held it up, moving closer to Ilya and grinning. Ilya pointed dramatically at the train and Shane clicked a selfie as white steam from the engine bellowed up into the bridge, engulfing them inside the cloud. 

As the train passed below them, they all moved to the other side of the bridge, to watch the engine stop at the platform and people disembarking and boarding the carriages. The driver waved at people and smiled for photographs. Small wizards bounced up and down, posing by the engine. 

Eventually the engine started again, huge chugging exhalations of steam and soot, as the train prepared to move on to its next destination.

Shane couldn't help smiling.

"Holy shit."

"I know."

Everyone watched as the train gathered energy and the driver blew the shrill whistle, causing a rippling cheer to spread around the waiting crowd. The engine began to pull away, wheels clacking rhythmically along the track. The steam drifted across the platform, curling around their legs like a friendly ghost.

Everyone was smiling. 

They stood there for a long moment, shoulder to shoulder, watching the train chug into the distance.

Shane exhaled slowly. “Okay,” he admitted. “That was pretty cool.”

 Ilya nodded. “Everyone likes steam trains.”

Shane checked his phone, looking at the photograph he had taken: Shane, with an intent expression on his face, Ilya gurning wildly and pointing in the air, a huge billowing cloud of white surrounding them and the top of a steam train stretching down the tracks. 

Oh, now that his phone was out, he should probably text Svetlana again. And Rose. Probably.

Ilya leaned on his shoulder to look at the image.

“Send it to me.” He demanded. 

And thus followed the small ritual of two people exchanging phone numbers whilst pretending that they were not both pretty fucking excited about sharing those phone numbers. 

Shane saved Ilya's contact details as ‘Ilya Rozanov from Bramble Cottage’.

Ilya saved Shane as ‘Dork’.

They then wrestled about this for a short while, until Ilya surrendered and changed it to ‘Shane Hollander from Canada’.

*

After delivering Brenda’s box to Carol, receiving lipstick heavy kisses on their cheeks and being told they were a lovely couple and Carol couldn’t be happier for them, they walked into the town. 

Whitby was a curious mix of different stories happening all at once, with a confusing, but cheerful cross over. There were families existing on holidays from the 1970s: taking donkey rides, buying cartoon postcards and letting their small children roam free on the beach, in the freezing North Sea and round the amusement arcades. There were couples admiring the harbour and old fishing boats, painting the quirky, winding roads and houses and browsing local craft stalls.

And then there were the goths. Apparently Whitby, a quaint little northern English fishing town, attracted goths, like ravens to a tower. They wandered happily through the streets in buckled boots, despite it being improbably sunny. They admired one another's lace, velvet and architectural hats, posed dramatically on every available set of steps and railings, and queued with elegant patience for ice cream and coffee. 

The groups co-existed, intertwined and all seemed to enjoy the ridiculousness of it. It felt remarkably civilised. 

Shane found it unsettling at first, but after being commandeered by two teenage girls in black lace dresses and wearing what looked like six months' worth of eyeliner, to take their photograph, he decided to find it charming.

The town spilled down steep streets towards a harbour crowded with fishing boats and pleasure craft. Gulls screamed overhead, eyeing every paper tray of chips with professional interest. Perched high above the town on the East Cliff, towering dramatically against the sky, stood the dark, skeletal ruins of Whitby Abbey.

"Look," Ilya said, catching Shane’s sleeve and pointing up at the cliff. "Bram Stoker came here. He stayed in a house somewhere over there, looked at the abbey ruins, saw a dog run up those steps, and said, 'Ah, yes. Dracula.'"

“A dog made him think ‘hot brooding vampire?”

Ilya blinked. “You think Dracula is hot?”

Shane snorted, “Everyone thinks Dracula is hot.”

Ilya tilted his head thoughtfully, “You know, if you wore a long black cape, with red lining and put on a bit of eyeliner you could probably get a job here. Tourists would pay a looooot of money to take their photograph with you. By the abbey. You have a hot Dracula vibe going on underneath the…” he waved his hand a bit and Shane bristled. Underneath what? The tension? The anxiety? The absolute self destruction of his carefully constructed life and career?

“...underneath the cuteness.” Ilya finished.

Oh.

…

Ilya thought he was cute.

Shane didn’t know how to categorise his response to that. But it was hot, and kind of tingly.

He cleared his throat and looked around at the crowds shuffling down Church Street.  "There are a lot of goths."

Ilya nodded sagely. "If I was an immortal vampire, I would also live near fish and chip shops."

"You'd get fat," Shane pointed out.

"Vampires don’t get fat, Shane, they have superior metabolism," Ilya scoffed. "Come and try the fish and chips."

Shane laughed, “We have fish and chips in Canada Ilya.”

Ilya stopped abruptly, his hand pressed across his chest. “Shut up Shane Hollander.” he ordered, outraged. “You do not have Whitby fish and chips. It’s an entirely different food group.”

He held up his hand, tutting at Shane to accept no further discussion, and led the way to a long queue outside The Magpie Cafe.

They bought two massive portions of fish and chips, served in heavy paper boxes that immediately began to seep warmth into their cold hands. They took them down to the harbour and sat on a low wall to eat in the sun. The fish was as long as Shane’s forearm, golden-battered and piping hot, resting on a mountain of thick, soft chips soaked in dark malt vinegar. The salty, sour kick of the vinegar hit his tongue immediately. 

"Okay," Shane admitted, chewing. "Fuck. That's actually incredible."

"I tell you!" Ilya beamed, looking intensely proud of himself, as if he had caught the fish and fried it personally. "I am never wrong about food."

Plastered every twenty feet along the stone sea wall were bright yellow metal signs: PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE SEAGULLS. 

The seagulls were clearly offended by the signs. A massive, sleek herring gull perched on a wooden post barely three feet away from them. It was the size of a small dog, with a thick yellow beak and unblinking yellow eyes that were fixed directly on Shane’s paper box.

Shane had recently been manoeuvred into feeling waves of sympathy for lonely creatures. "Look at him, Ilya," he said, feeling the surge of sympathy tight in his throat. "He’s just standing there. He looks kind of lonely. And hungry."

"Shane, no," Ilya said instantly, tucking his own fish box close to his chest like a small child. "Don’t engage. Don’t make eye contact. That bird is not lonely, it’s a criminal."

"He’s just a bird, Ilya! He's looking right at me." Shane picked up a small, stray piece of batter from the edge of his box. "He’s probably hungry. Look, I’ll just drop a little bit right here…"

"Hollander, I am warning you.."

Shane casually dropped the batter towards the bird. He wasn’t technically feeding it. It had been an accident. So he wasn’t disobeying the signs. Just careless. "Here you go, buddy."

What happened next occurred with the precise escalation of a classic Warner Bros cartoon.

The bird didn't calmly step down for the batter. It emitted a blood-curdling, demon screech, opened a wingspan that looked roughly six feet wide, and launched itself off the post straight into Shane’s face. Before Shane could even scream, two more gulls descended out of the clear sky like a pair of tactical fighter jets executing a synchronized bombing run.

A heavy wing slapped Shane hard across the side of his head. A pair of sharp orange feet scraped against his knuckles, and with a brutal, practiced swoop, the primary gull snatched the remaining battered fish straight out of Shane’s paper box.

"Jesus Christ!" Shane yelled, ducking instinctively, throwing his hands over his head as feathers and chaos swirled around him.

Ilya grabbed Shane by the hood of his jacket and yanked him backward out of the splash-zone, laughing so hard he was wheezing, his own fish box still clutched to his chest. "Shane, the signs don’t lie."

They climbed the wall and moved across the harbour, watching as gulls arrived to scream, threaten and bully their way to the remainder of Shane’s fish and chips, now scattered on the floor, or flying off, clutched in angry yellow beaks. Shane stood there, breathless, his heart hammering against his ribs, his hair completely disheveled from the wing-slap. The massive gulls squawked triumphantly at his retreat. A slow, helpless grin broke across his face. He straightened his jacket and shook his head. 

"Okay. Message received. The sign was right. You were right."

Ilya, was still grinning wildly as he tugged Shane to walk along the cobbled street. 

“You lost your dinner, Hollander. Here.” His expression softened into something warm and affectionate as he reached into his own box, pulled out a piece of golden fish, and held it up between his fingers. "Open."

Shane hesitated for half a second, then stepped closer, opened his mouth, and let Ilya feed him the piece of fish. The batter was hot and crispy, and as Ilya pulled his hand back, his thumb brushed softly, deliberately, against Shane’s bottom lip. He then raised his thumb to his own mouth, licking it once.  

“Salty.” he smiled.

Shane swallowed, his eyes locked onto Ilya’s. 

The sea wind butted against them, blowing salt spray off the pier, but for a long moment, neither of them moved. Ilya’s hand lingered in the air between them for a moment before reaching down to tangle with Shane’s.

They decided to climb the 199 stone steps up to the Abbey ruins to burn off the grease and vinegar. The steps were ancient, uneven, and steep, winding up the cliffside between tiny cottages with red-tiled roofs. By the time they reached the top, both of them were warm, their faces flushed pink. They walked past the old parish churchyard, where weathered headstones leaned at chaotic angles against the green grass, and toward the massive stone arches of the Abbey itself. They found a quiet spot near the ancient stone perimeter wall, away from the other tourists, and leaned their elbows against the cold masonry, looking out over the sea.

The silence between them was comfortable, filled only by the sound of crashing waves far below and the distant call of the gulls.

"Shane," Ilya said quietly.

The tone of his voice made Shane turn his head immediately. The playful, chaotic energy of the harbour was gone. Ilya was staring out at the sea, his eyebrows pulled together, his profile sharp against the sky.

"Yeah?" Shane asked.

"I have been thinking about something," Ilya said, his fingers tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm against the stone wall. "About Svetlana."

Shane’s chest tightened slightly, a familiar knot of anxiety twisting in his gut. Was this the moment that reality would come crashing back down? "What about her?"

"She’s not calling us back," Ilya said flatly. "I leave messages for Sveta about the cottage. You leave messages for Sveta about the cottage. But she does not call us back.'"

Ilya turned his head to look at Shane, his eyes bright and steady. "Sveta is always on her phone, Shane.”

Oh. 

“Are you worried? Do you think something’s happened to her?”

Ilya hummed and tried again. "Your Rose?" He questioned, raising an eyebrow. "She ignores your calls and texts for three days? Is this usual?"

No.No, that was not usual. Rose was a good friend who very much relished being in the middle of Shane's business. 

Shane stared at him as the pieces slowly began to click together in his brain. "Wait... you think..." He stopped, his brain refusing to take the next step. 

"I think," Ilya said softly, a wry smile touching the corner of his lips, "that Sveta has a friend she very much likes to see sometimes. A friend who had a film shoot and somewhere for her to stay in Montreal for two weeks."

Shane felt his mouth go slightly dry. "Ilya, what are you saying?"

"I am saying," Ilya continued, shuffling closer so their shoulders were pressed tightly together against the cold stone, his foot pressed against Shane’s with a comforting tap, "that maybe Rose didn’t find Bramble Cottage by accident. Maybe Sveta didn’t make a mistake when she told me that it was empty.”

The wind caught the hood of Shane’s jacket, blowing it back from his face. He stared at Ilya, his brain short-circuiting as he digested the sheer absurdity of it. Two women who surely couldn't possibly know each other, conspiring to trap their friends in a secluded Yorkshire cottage surrounded by sheep, fog, and stubborn alpacas.

“That’s ridiculous.” he whispered into the wind.

Shane looked at Ilya. He looked at the breeze blowing Ilya’s curls across his forehead, at the warmth in his eyes, at the absolute lack of distance between them right now. 

“Do you think they've set us up?” he asked quietly. And he hated that his voice sounded small. He hated that this beautiful, ridiculous, chaotic thing he’d found so unexpectedly, might have been drawn up and designed by someone else. No matter how well meaning it might have been. It felt like something was fading from his grasp, until a large hand settled over his, and squeezed firmly and sea glass eyes stared intensely at him. Ilya’s voice was soft, firm and grounding. 

"Shane. The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." Shane blinked. “Terminator 2. John Connor. Absolute truth.

“I don’t know what that means.” Shane frowned, holding Ilya’s gaze. The hand moved to his face, holding him gently. 

"Neither did Kyle Reese. Or Sarah Connor. Or baby John Connor." He brushed Shane's cheek with his thumb, his eyes certain and warm. "Or T-800."

Shane searched Ilya’s eyes, looking for something, finding everything and understanding nothing. 

“Ok. That makes more sense.”

 Ilya nodded, satisfied. “Good. Shall we go home?”

“To Bramble Cottage?”

“To Bramble Cottage.”

The small, wild thing that had nested inside of him stretched its wings again and Shane could breathe easily at last. 

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

*

By the time they drove back down the winding track toward Bramble Cottage that evening, the sun had set. 

The cottage welcomed them back with its familiar, comforting smells of old oak, dried lavender, and smoke. The pipes clanked a greeting and Freddy Fish looked outraged at their return. Probably. 

Shane went straight upstairs, mumbling something about clean clothes and a shower. Ilya went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. 

When he was clean and embraced by a particularly soft pair of loved pyjamas, Shane put his adoption certificate on the bedside table, propped against the lamp. Mabel smiled out at him from the image and Shane felt the ridiculous urge to introduce her to Boris Jr. 

He was clearly being infected with crazy cottage syndrome.

He huffed out a small laugh and then gave the large comfortable bed, with its bright patchwork quilt a glance, before making his way back downstairs. Ilya had made them each a mug of hot chocolate and he nodded towards Shane’s mug on the counter. 

Shane smiled. “Whitby Dracula. It makes sense now.”

“Ah yes, you’ve now seen the birthplace of Dracula.”

“Pretty sure that’s Transylvania or somewhere,” Shane chirped back. 

Ilya pursed his lips. “Brat. You’ve seen the birthplace of the idea of Dracula.”

“A dog on the steps. Sure. Sounds like something a tourist board might make up.” Shane grinned and sipped at his chocolate.

Ilya gasped, outraged. “Shane no. The barguest is real. You’ve read the tale! In the story book!”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Bosky Byke barguest. You read it, yes? You remember the story?”

What Shane remembered was wearing his glasses. Remembered Ilya watching him over the top of his magazines. Remembered the rain, and the workout in the gym. He remembered the way Ilya’s muscles had tensed and moved as he lifted weights. He remembered the water bottle and the slow drag of fingers against his own. 

“Shane? The barguest? Is a dog yes? Dracula was a dog when the boat runs aground at Whitby. A barguest…”

“You shouldn’t sleep on the sofa tonight” Shane blurted out. 

Oh, okay. 

Ilya looked at him, a little wide eyed and unmoored. 

“I mean, your back will only get worse if you do.” Shane explained, with common sense and logic. “The bed is more than big enough. Much bigger than the glamping pod. And that was ok, right?” It made sense. It was a really, really logical and sensible suggestion. 

Shane could not make eye contact as he continued. “I mean obviously not if it makes you uncomfortable or something. But it won’t make me that. Uncomfortable I mean.” 

Ilya still wasn’t speaking, so Shane continued to fill the silence he had created. “I’m fine with it. I mean I could sleep on the couch I suppose, but I’m too tall for it as well and I need to be careful of my back. And the bed is big enough, we can both be mature about it. We’re grown adults. It’s not really a big deal. So if you want to share the bed. To sleep. You know. That would be for the best. I think that..”

“Hollander.” Ilya’s voice was soft and dark, his eyes glinting in the low light of the lamp. “Yes, I will sleep with you” He winked and the outraged denial that had been building in Shane’s throat dissolved and drained away.  “Now drink your hot chocolate before it gets cold.” 

“Okay.” Shane smiled and took another sip of hot chocolate, the wild thing inside him stretching and preening a bit. 

Ilya’s quirky smile softened, replaced by a look that made Shane’s breath catch in his chest.

Later that night, the cottage settled into deep, peaceful quiet. The sea rolled in the distance and the owls hooted softly to the sky. 

Inside, the bedroom was warm and dark.

They had handled the whole bed situation really maturely Shane was proud to say. Very respectful. Very courteous. They had their own sides of the bed, or at least Ilya had taken the side away from Shane’s growing memorabilia without comment. They were just sharing the space, like two polite, sensible adults. Shane lay on his side under the warm duvet, staring at the soft moonlight filtering through the sash window, the salty breeze caressing his face. 

…

God, Ilya was so far away.  

He sighed and shifted slightly. How would he ever be able to relax in this huge bed? Why was it so large?

He shifted again.

He felt the mattress dip as Ilya turned toward him.

Without a word, Ilya slid his arm over Shane’s waist, pulling him back against his chest until there was no space left between them. Their legs tangled together and Shane let out a small, contented sigh. Ilya rested his chin lightly against the back of Shane’s shoulder, his steady, rhythmic breathing warm against Shane’s neck.

Shane let his eyes close. He reached down under the covers, found Ilya’s hand resting against his stomach, and laced their fingers together. Ilya’s thumb gave his knuckles a slow, reassuring stroke before settling still.

“Goodnight Shane.”Ilya whispered. 

Shane waited for the rest of the title, but it didn’t come. He smiled

“Good night Ilya.” 

Finally, the bed was just the right size. 

Chapter End Notes

In next week's episode... chicks and chats. Farmer Malcolm's eggs hatch and all Serious Talks are better covered in chicks saying peep peep.

Also, yes I know they are driving a bonkers route across the moors, but I wanted Shane to see a steam train and I love Goathland station. Also, RIP the golf balls...

Chapter 6: Peep Peep

Chapter Summary

Previously on... Shane & Ilya visited Whitby and encountered the magnificence of Yorkshire seagulls, before returning to the cottage and deciding that sofas were not suitable spaces for sleeping.

Chapter Notes

In Shane’s dream, the pipes of his cottage in Lanaudière were humming at him, whilst a guinea pig ran inside them, all through the walls. He had been tracking the progress of the randy creature by following where the humming was strongest. In his hand he had a hammer and he was poised to strike when he had a lock on the little shit. He had finally found where it was hiding because the pipes were almost deafening in their hum and he struck the pipes with his hammer. Over and over. As loud as possible to drown out the humming pipes and force the guinea pig away, out of the end of them, maybe letting it escape through the empty wood burner.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The guinea pig was going to move again, the pipes took in a breath, ready to sing their opinion and Shane raised the hammer to pound on them again and…

“Eeel-ee-yur!”

A sharp voice sliced its way through the dream, eviscerating Shane’s cottage pipes and exploding the guinea pig out of the wood burner, in a gruesome spray of wet, lumpy, red confetti. 

Shane sat bolt upright in the bed, his head dizzy and his stomach nauseous with the shock.

A hand thumped on the front door of the cottage with unnecessary power and volume for stupid o’ clock in the morning.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

“Eeel-ee-yur! I’ve got summat for you’n ya fella.” the demon voice continued to screech. “I’ll leave it on’t doorstep.”

Next to Shane, Ilya had finally woken up, eyes wild and unfocused. His curls were completely flattened on one side and expanded on the other, his face was puffy from sleep and there was a thin line of dried drool stretching out of the corner of his mouth.

He looked absolutely fucking gorgeous.

“Come up to’t farm when yer ready. Kids’r ‘ere!” The wailing banshee voice smashed through the sash window, landing on their bed with sharpened claws.

Ilya staggered out of bed and pulled the window up as far as it would go, before leaning out and glaring down at the intruder. 

“Fuck’s sake Gillian, you have woken the dead.” he bellowed. “Me! I am the dead. You have killed me.”

There was a hacking cackle outside and Gillian the Evil Banshee screeched back up. “Get yer slack arse up and in gear. It’s middle o’day.  Brekkies on’t doorstep. Kids are expecting yer. Chicks are hatched.”

Ilya groaned. “Your kids are demons and I am still sleeping.”

Demonic spirit Gillian’s voice faded slightly as she moved away from Bramble Cottage and back up the path. “Bring yer fella. Mum want’s t’feed ‘im. See ya later, Eeel-ee-yur. I’ll tell the kids yer comin’”

Ilya leaned over the window frame, resting his forehead against the glass.  Shane tried really, really hard not to ogle his ass. But it was just there, wrapped in thin, faded pyjama bottoms clinging shamelessly to every curve and muscle. And whilst Shane searched desperately for a suitable literary comparison he found, to his annoyance, that his brain had stopped producing metaphors altogether.  

It was just a really good ass. 

Poetry.

Ilya turned and stretched his arms over his head, his shoulder blades clicking, before he rubbed a sleepy hand on his hair and frowned at the wayward curls, patting them down absent-mindedly as he padded toward the en suite.

He glanced at Shane as he passed, shaking his head in annoyance, “Gillian.” he complained moodily and wandered into the bathroom, scratching his butt as he went.

The door closed and Shane dragged in the breath he hadn’t realised he'd been holding. His stomach still felt slightly nauseous and there was a slightly light headed fuzz surrounding him, but he had no idea if it was from the rude awakening, or from the terrifyingly ordinary and relaxed domesticity of the last minute. It didn’t feel weird or strange. There was nothing awkward or embarrassing about it. Well, apart from fucking Gillian. 

But it felt really… right. 

He hoped, very much, that he registered somewhere above "vaguely acceptable" on whatever internal sexy-o-meter Ilya seemed to possess. Hopefully drool stains, pillow creases and catastrophic bed hair weren't immediate disqualifications. 

He was still sitting upright in bed, processing, when Ilya exited the bathroom, smelling of lemon soap and minty toothpaste. 

“Come on,” he grinned, “Gillian is a fucking menace, but she is the best cook in Nettlethwaite.” 

He exited the bedroom and thumped down the stairs, slapping the murder beam as he went.

Shane felt that maybe he had been about to jump willingly over the precipice of a revelation, or spiritual awakening, but he would put a pin in it for now and freak out about it later.

He followed Ilya down the stairs, tapping Freddy lightly on the nose as he passed.

Evil Spirit Gillian had left a heavy pot on the doorstep, wrapped in a knitted blanket. It had porridge inside, enriched with goji berries, blueberries, flax and chia seeds. It was thick and warm and Shane actually moaned when he took his first mouthful. Next to it was a metal jug full of freshly squeezed juice, which Shane greatly appreciated as he had been starting to worry about getting scurvy on his Yorkshire diet. 

“Why did she bring us food?” he asked as he finished his first bowl and reached for seconds.

“She wants a favour.” Ilya replied instantly, spooning honey out of the little beehive pot. “Her kids are feral monsters and she thinks I will entertain them while she catches up with sleep or pays bills or something.”

“Oh.” Shane felt something small and hard spring to life in his stomach. “Do you often babysit for her? Are you close? Like, good friends?”

Ilya shrugged and gulped down his juice.

“If I am here, yes. Her husband was a piece of shit, ran off with their neighbour and cleared all the money out of their joint account. Is hard for her. She is Malcolm’s daughter and sometimes she comes to the farm when she needs help. I try to give her a few hours if I can. Mostly she sleeps.”

He stood and started clearing the pots and dishes from breakfast and Shane felt small and mean and really relieved, which only made him feel smaller and meaner. But also happier. So, breakfast was going well.

“So, are you going to go up to Malcolm’s farm today?” He asked in the most casual of casual voices. 

Ilya turned and frowned slightly at him.

“No,” he replied, clearly confused, “we are going to the farm. You heard Gillian. Fuck, everyone in Nettlethwaite heard Gillian. Jean wants to feed us, so fed we will be.”

Oh. Okay. 

The small, mean thing dissolved. Which was a relief quite frankly, because Shane had been starting to worry that he would have to identify it as jealousy. But now he could avoid that. 

Cool.

“Also,” Ilya continued, “she said the chicks have hatched.”

“Which means?”

“It means there are chicks. That have hatched.”

“Okay?” Shane was genuinely trying to keep up.

“Oh Shane,” Ilya smiled. “Wear your blue hoodie, the one that makes you look snuggly and adorable and lets go and play with the kids and the chicks.”

Shane blinked twice.

And then went to find his ‘adorable’  blue hoodie. 

*

Shane quickly discovered that a real farm was quite different to an animal rescue centre, which was designed for maximum cuteness and audience appeal. A real farm was chaotic on the surface and littered with death trap equipment casually lying around. Shane was treading very carefully and hoping his expensive walking boots could be deep cleaned. 

He also discovered that milk cows were not as cute as alpacas. 

First, they were huge. So much bigger than they appeared when seen from a distance, safely contained in fields. Second, they shit and pissed constantly when being milked. The milking barn was an assault on every single one of his senses and the steady stream of waste sludge underfoot was freaking him out.

Malcolm seemed oblivious, pushing and patting the cows with affection and leaning against them when necessary. The cows gazed back at him, their huge long lashed eyes relaxed and sleepy.

He had asked Shane if he wanted to try hand milking one of them. Shane had stared at the long, pendulous udders, and at the floor, covered in murky waste, and tried to form a polite answer that made it clear that he was absolutely not ever going to go anywhere near those nipples, when a small child burst into the milking shed, insisting that Shane come to the barn to ‘help with the games’.

Shane held his hands up to Malcolm, with an apology and gratefully followed the boy out of the moist shed, to the hay barn, taking deep breaths of clean air at the first opportunity. 

The barn was a huge metal structure, open on two sides and filled with bales of hay that were stacked around the sides in different sized towers and steps. When the boy pulled Shane into the cavernous space, Ilya was lying on his stomach on one of the top bales, reaching over and down, dramatically pulling up a small girl in dungarees. 

“Don’t give up now Saffy!” he called loudly, “I won’t let you die here! You can make it to the summit if we all work together! Nobody gets left behind on my expedition.”

He grabbed hold of the giggling girl’s arms and dragged her squirming body up and over onto his hay bale, whooping when she shuffled round, dangling her legs over and peering down at them.

“Danny!” she screeched at them. “We’re at the top of the mountain. We’re on a, a… exmadiption!”

“Expedition.” Ilya adjusted. “There is room on the mountain for more explorers!”

Danny grinned and abandoned Shane instantly to start climbing his way up the towers of hay, whilst Saffy shouted encouragement down at him.

When he had reached the top, accepting Ilya’s outstretched hand to reach the final push for the summit, he sat next to his sister, legs dangling over the side, and waved down at Shane, who grinned back.

“Awesome climbing skills!” Shane called up. “You’re clearly expert mountaineers.”

Ilya, still on his stomach, called back down, “Tragically we lost one of our team on the ascent. A small one. Can you be ‘Search and Rescue’ and see if you can find them?” He waved a hand towards the side of the barn, at a different tower.

“I thought nobody got left behind on one of your expeditions! Seems pretty unprofessional, Rozanov.” Shane chirped back, but climbed over to the other tower and looked until he spotted a girl lying on her back on a hay bale, her arms raised above her face, spinning her fingers together. She was probably 6 or 7, Shane guessed, based on his knowledge of the Pike children. She watched him as he climbed closer, but didn’t otherwise acknowledge him. 

Shane sat on the bale of hay next to her and dangled his legs over the side, before lying on his back as well. Her head turned to the side and she watched him. He watched her back for a moment, before speaking quietly to her.

“The expedition was pretty intense huh? You don’t want to climb to the summit?”

Serious eyes watched him and then the girl gave a small shake of her head.

“Too scary?”

Another head shake.

“Hmm. Too loud?”

A small shoulder shrug.

Okay. She reminded him a bit of Arthur Pike. He could work with that.

“Yeah, for sure, I think maybe, that all of Ilya’s games are loud, huh?”

That got him the reward of a small smile.

“So I was thinking I might set out on a small, sneaky, silent expedition on the other mountain.” He nodded his head towards the other end of the barn. “I think like maybe that summit will be even cooler but a lot quieter.”

The solemn eyes stayed locked on his face.

“So, er, you know, I could maybe do with a team mate?” he raised his eyebrows and hoped his face looked fun but reassuring. “Always safer to climb with a partner. And I was thinking that you could look out for me. Make sure I don’t fall.”

A small, loaded pause was followed by a tiny nod.

“Okay. Good. We gotta be quiet though. So the, er, rival expedition don’t know that we’re, you know, outdoing them. Come on.”

He sat up and started to slowly climb towards the opposite end of the barn, taking the easiest route he could manage, without making it obvious that he was being careful. The girl followed him at a distance, checking where his feet and hands were placed, using the same steps and movements as she travelled.

He made sure that he checked on her progress and that she was safe, starting to worry that maybe he was being reckless.

A sharp, high pitched squeal drew his eyes over to Ilya, who was now tossing the small, dungaree child off the summit onto a different pile of hay and then pulling her wriggling body back up to throw her off again.

Yeah, maybe Shane wasn’t being that reckless. 

Shane and the girl eventually made it to the top of their ‘mountain’ and they sat side by side, their legs dangling over the hay bale. He had attempted to celebrate with a high five, but she had just levelled a serious look at him and he nodded in agreement, lowering his hand.

“Hey!” a deep, amused voice called from across the barn. “You have conquered a different mountain.”

“Yeah!” Shane yelled back, “Yours was too easy. We decided we needed a real challenge.” 

He belatedly realised that this was supposed to be a silent expedition, but the girl next to him bounced slightly and a small smile ghosted across her lips.

Shane would count that as a win.

The opposition team however were outraged, and Shane listened smugly to the demands of Saffy and Danny to climb the ‘more challenging’ peak.

Oops. Victims of their own success. Shane realised they were about to become afflicted with over tourism in their silent retreat.

Below them, Saffy had made it to the base of their mountain and was determinedly attempting to swing her leg up on the first block, ‘helped’ by Danny. Ilya sauntered after them, an easy smile on his face as he peered up at Shane.

His clothes were rumpled, his hair was messy and he had straw stuck to his clothes and in his curls.

Shane lost a few moments, just gazing at the messy glory of him, before a hand patted his arm. Looking down, the silent girl was watching him, her legs bouncing.

“Shall we let them climb our mountain?” he asked her and she appeared to think, before nodding once.

“Okay then.” he smiled.

He leaned over, copying Ilya’s pose from earlier and reached to help the two small mountaineers reach the summit of their far superior peak. Saffy narrating her progress.

“I’m nearly at the top. Nobody can stop me. Look out! Mountain goat!” and other observations.

They made it to the top and Shane waited for Ilya to join them when a roar from below genuinely made him jump, his heart thumping wildly in his throat. 

Ilya stood on the floor, glaring up at the four of them, before he shouted out in a deep voice, his accent deliberately thickened.

“You think you’re safe? That’s my dragon’s lair and I’m looking for three small meals.” The children squealed and immediately started scrabbling to hide, Shane grabbing hold of Saffy’s dungarees, terrified she would fall. “Three small meals and one large, delicious snack.” 

Shane frowned down, Ilya winked at him and Shane blushed.

All lost in the giggling terror of three children trying to bounce down hay bales to escape a ferocious, child eating dragon.

Ilya roared again and the children scattered, jumping off the bales, down the side and hiding wherever they could, whilst Ilya climbed slowly and dramatically, roaring occasionally and narrating his journey to find three small meals to eat. Shane sat at the top of his summit and watched. The kids hid and ran, a mixture of genuine terror and hilarity hampering their escapes. 

Yeah, he was ridiculous.

Ilya dropped onto his back midway up a climb and the children emerged and attacked him, all three jumping on him and tackling him. He wrestled and ‘fought’ back as they screamed, eventually dying a long, drawn out and melodramatic death at the hands of the three ‘knights of the realm.’

“You have killed me. I am dead.” he groaned, before letting his arm flop over the side. “Shane, you brought the secret weapon of Mia to destroy me and my lair. How could you betray me?” 

The silent Mia smiled slightly at Shane, before dropping onto Ilya, with her elbow in his chest.

Saffy cheered and joined in by hurling her small body on top of them, making the dead dragon huff out a groan of pain.

Ilya rolled and roared and groaned, complaining about being dead and the perils of letting feral children loose near his lair.

Shane sat on a hay bale and laughed through the warmth.

*

Malcolm, apparently, had a room just for chicks. There was a large, low red heating lamp and soft bedding for them to rest.

Shane was sitting on the floor, his back against a wall and his legs stretched out in front of him, his shoes outside and his bright blue and red Metros socks on display. Ilya was sitting in a mirror image, legs outstretched and his dark green walking socks bumping occasionally against Shane.

Around them, on them and over them, the tiny yellow fluff balls were pecking, scratching, climbing and nestling. All accompanied by a constant chirping of ‘peep peep’.

After they had eaten lunch with Malcolm, Jean and the children, a tired Gillian emerged from wherever she’d been resting. She hugged them all, thanking them for looking after the kids, her eyes red and swollen. She looked small and a little bit lost, and Shane kind of regretted some of his less charitable thoughts about her from the morning. She hugged him again when she left and whispered in his ear that Mia adored him. Shane had still not heard Mia speak, but he had watched her pulling at the toes of her socks for five minutes, before kneeling in front of her and adjusting them so that the seams didn’t press against her feet. She had rested her hand on his arm for a few seconds, before slipping on her trainers and going to wait by the car. 

Ilya had hugged Gillian tightly, mumbling something in her ear and making her laugh, before she pulled back and punched his arm. The goodbyes finished up with some comments about a wedding between names he didn’t recognise, and she hurried out of the farmhouse, waving as she wrangled the kids into the car and drove off.

Ilya had then taken hold of Shane’s hand and announced that he had stayed away from the chicks for long enough and now he needed time to de-stress from Gillian’s monster children. Malcolm and Jean had just laughed at him and continued about their day, as he led Shane to the small, warm room. They had pulled off their boots and stepped inside. 

He hadn’t stopped smiling since. A wide, toothy grin stretched across his face, dimples on display. Ilya cooed to the chicks, spoke to them in a low, soft voice, in Russian and lifted them onto his lap and chest when they struggled. There were four chicks currently exploring his legs, pecking at the black jeans and another on his chest. One chick was resting on his shoulder, pressed up against his ear and ‘peeping’ enthusiastically. Another he had placed on his head a while ago and it had pecked at his curls, arranging a nest, before settling down. Shane thought it might have fallen asleep. Ilya was keeping his head steady, whilst trying to keep up the games with the chicks on the floor.

Occasionally he would grin at Shane, making observations about the different chicks, assigning them names and personalities.

“Ivan here is formidable. A leader among chicks,”

“Nika, she is sly and will steal your socks if you don’t keep watch, Shane Hollander.”

“Zhenya is flirting with me. I think maybe they will be coming back to Bramble Cottage with me.”

Shane was finding him endlessly charming, a hot intensity growing and stretching inside his chest. He wanted to preserve this moment and all the other moments, as though they could provide him with warmth when he was back in his cold world of ice. The room felt suspended: warm, humming, soft. The chicks shuffled and peeped, tiny claws tapping against denim. Ilya’s toes nudged his again, absent-minded, like he didn’t even realise he was doing it. Shane let the moment settle, thick and golden, something inside him stretching open in a way he didn’t have words for. 

On impulse, without planning or giving himself time to rationalise his way out of it, he blurted, “Can I take a picture?” Ilya turned his intense Yorkshire sky eyes on him and Shane tried to smooth the bumpy awkwardness. “Only if you’re comfortable with it. But you look… funny with the chicks. I thought you might like to see it. I can share it with you.”

Ilya’s smile softened, “Of course, but get Zhenya in shot or they will be jealous.”

Shane had no idea which of the many chicks was Zhenya, but he nodded and carefully withdrew his phone from his pocket, before quickly snapping a few photographs of Ilya and his chick companions. He looked at the photos and smiled.

“You don’t like photographs?”

He looked up, surprised. “What? No! They’re great. I’ll share them now. Oh, I took more than one, so you can choose.”

“No,” Ilya’s voice was soft over the peeping of the chicks. “I mean you don’t like photographs in general.”

Shane frowned, “Why do you say that?”

Ilya hummed slightly before trying to explain his thoughts. “You asked just now, you have hardly taken any in the last few days. You were very tense when Barry offered to take our photograph.”

“Who’s Barry?”

“The photographer at the alpaca sanctuary.”

“He was called Barry? Did we know that? When did we know he was called Barry?” 

“We knew straight away when we all introduced ourselves, Shane, Barry isn’t important."

Shane actually thought that it was really fucking important that he had called a man ‘photographer’ in his head for a day, when he’d had a perfectly good name. Well, an okay name. But Shane hadn’t known it, and he hadn’t thought to ask. Had it been deliberate? Had he seen the camera and consciously avoided Barry?

“Shane? It was just a question. Questions are choices. You don’t have to answer.”

“No. No, I do.” Did he? I mean, it wasn’t a secret. All Ilya had to do was google his name and he would know everything about Shane. He had a wikipedia page. Someone had probably updated it with all the salacious details by now. Shane couldn’t control that. Maybe the only thing he could control is how Ilya heard the story. 

He took a deep breath and watched the chick on Ilya’s shoulder, that was currently pulling at the threads of his hair.

“I, erm, someone took some photographs of me. In, in a… compromising position. And then they put them on the internet. So now, they’re there for like, forever, I guess. So, I don’t really trust cameras at the moment, I guess.” He watched the little chick start burrowing into the neck of Ilya’s shirt. “I mean, I get a lot of photographs taken. You know, I’m used to cameras. For my job. For my brand deals. It’s just this week, it’s not such a good thing for me. Not a fan of photographs this week.”

The little chick misplaced its foot and tumbled down Ilya’s chest, coming to a disgruntled rest on his lap, peeping loudly. Ilya put his hand on his leg, palm up and the chick climbed into his hand, settling there.

Shane felt as though he was pushing through something thick and sticky, his throat tight and a squeezing tension constricted his chest. But he was determined to confront everything that was festering inside him. And this strange little room, with its glowing heat lamp, the constant high peeping and the feel of Ilya’s toes pressed firmly against his own, made the struggle bearable.

“I was, sort of, on my knees. In the photograph. It’s of my face. You can’t see him. Well, you can see his… you know. But they’re of me. I didn’t know he’d taken them. I’d closed my eyes because I hadn’t wanted to look at him. The eye contact was too weird. Maybe… maybe if I'd kept my eyes open, I’d have seen him. I’d have noticed and it wouldn’t have happened.” He was getting tangled in the mess. He’d thought that talking about it might clear a path, but it wasn’t working, his chest and throat hurt more and more.

“Hey.” Ilya’s soft voice cut through the knot of his thoughts.”Stop Hollander. Stop trying to find a way to make any of this your fault. He’s a dick. Not you. He took something private and chose to make it public. He’s the asshole. You get to be sad, you get to be angry, you get to be embarrassed. You don’t get to blame yourself. Okay?”

Shane gazed at Ilya. The sleeping chick was still in his hair, another in his hand and others still climbing over his lap and legs. The warmth of the room seeped into his chest and he felt it relax. The chicks peeped at him and he nodded.

“Okay.”

Ilya reached up and took the chick from his head, so that he could lean to the side, removing his phone from his jeans pocket. He held it up and showed it to Shane.

“Shane Hollander from Canada, please may I take a photograph of you?”

Shane blinked and then nodded his head, in a sharp jerky movement, watching as Ilya held out his phone and clicked an image. He then tapped the screen and Shane’s phone binged with a notification. Holding it up, he looked at the picture that Ilya had sent him: his eyes were dark and glistening with unshed tears, his hair messy and falling over his eyes, some stray pieces of hay still visible. Chicks were surrounding him and on his lap. His hoodie did indeed look snuggly and, curled up and nestled in his hood, he could see a small yellow chick that he hadn’t realised was there, although it explained why the peeping was so loud.

“There you are, Hollander,” Ilya smiled. “I’m so very sorry about what happened to you. But he doesn’t own you. You don’t get to make yourself smaller because of him. He doesn’t get this. You’re here now. No more hiding, pretty boy.”

He tapped his toes against Shane’s. Shane smiled and tapped back.

*

As the afternoon stretched before them, they went to say goodbye to Malcolm and Jean, who both stood with arms folded. 

Not huggers then. Good.

Malcolm rocked back on his heels and gave Ilya a look that suggested immense disapproval.

“So,” he said, voice heavy with doom, “I hear tha’s off t’Manchester tomorrow.”

Ilya groaned. “Oh, who told you?”

“Gillian,” Malcolm replied darkly. “She said it to proper wind me up, telling me yer off t’Lancashire.”

Shane blinked, his eyes darting between the two. “Is… is that bad?”

Ilya huffed out a long sigh and tried to explain. “Malcolm and the rest of Nettlethwaite, have been at war with Lancashire since 1455. Roses. Bloodshed. Betrayal.”

Shane frowned, “Is it a different country?”

“Yes.” Malcolm growled.

“No.” Ilya corrected. “It’s the next county Shane. Is an hour to the west.”

Malcolm jabbed a finger at Ilya. “Tha goes over t’border, tha keep yer wits about yer.”

“I’m not going to be robbed, Malcolm.” Ilya rolled his eyes.

Malcolm would not let it lie, however. “They’ll tek yer wallet, yer dignity, and yer accent.”

Jean patted his arm. “He’s only goin’ for t’day.”

“That’s how it starts,” Malcolm muttered. “No red roses, Eel-ee-yer. Promise me.”

Ilya had to promise to resist being converted to the House of Lancaster and Shane had to agree not to buy football memorabilia before they were allowed to leave. Shane had found the insanity of the War of the Roses conversation quite familiar. It felt like hockey team grudges. With about the same amount of fighting. So he readily promised not to go to Old Trafford or to start singing about Wonderwalls. It was the least he could do. 

And then the long, slow walk back down the twisting, tiny lanes, with moss and grass in the middle, flanked by the crooked dry stone walls. The sounds of the gulls in the distance and the air a mixture of heather and salty sea air. 

As they walked, Shane reached out and pulled some hay from Ilya’s tangled hair, before dropping it self consciously at the side of the road.

“So,” he began. “Manchester tomorrow?”

“Mhm.” Ilya agreed. “You will like Manchester I think. But never tell Malcolm that. Or Sheila. Or Badger Hopkins.” He frowned. “To be honest is probably just best if you don’t tell anyone in Nettlethwaite that we went to Lancashire.”

“Are you sure you want me to come?” Shane worried. “Is it for work? Or are you seeing friends? Should I be there?”

Ilya bumped his shoulder against Shane’s.

“Is for work. Come. You will enjoy it I think. Just a few hours and then we can explore. Have some fun maybe.”

Shane was momentarily worried that Ilya’s idea of ‘fun’ and his own, didn't completely align. But then he thought of Mabel’s hum, Coach Coconut’s eyebrows and Boris the Hedgehog. He should stop fretting so much. They aligned just fine. 

“What’s your work? I mean, what do you do? Will I wait somewhere?” 

Ilya stopped and tilted his head slightly, thinking. “I teach. Tomorrow I will teach some children. It is at the university there. A Summer school. You can come.” He smiled at Shane. “I’d like you to come.” 

He started walking again, his arm pressed against Shane’s. “We get the train there and stay overnight in a hotel. I can show you the sights.”

“Not Old Trafford though.” Shane grinned, remembering Farmer Malcolm's horror.

“Okay. Maybe not Old Trafford. Although is cool there.” he looked intently at Shane’s face. “You will come?”

Shane did like the trains. And maybe, seeing as he was in England, he could see a few of the sights. He assumed Manchester was a sight. He didn’t really know anything about it. And so far, nobody seemed to know anything about ice hockey, so maybe Manchester would be the same and he would continue to be anonymous.  And it might be nice to see Ilya teach. It hadn’t been what he expected as Ilya’s job and he would never have guessed it but, after today, seeing him with the children, it maybe made sense.

“Yeah,” he smiled. “I’d like that. I’d like to see you work.”

Ilya’s face lit up in a wide grin and he reached for Shane’s hand, linking their fingers together as they walked. The sun was sinking in the west, the sky long streaks of deep orange, pink and gold that glistened on the stone walls and the path.

They walked in companionable silence for a few moments before a sudden ripple of tension travelled through their joined hands and Ilya paused slightly, a small frown on his face. Raising their joined hands he asked quietly and urgently, “Is this ok? I didn’t think to ask.”

Shane frowned, confused, until focusing on where their hands were linked.

Oh.

“Oh, yeah. For sure. It’s nice.” he smiled, certain it was awkward and maybe a little too toothy.

“I push maybe sometimes.” Ilya said quietly. “If I push too hard, you tell me and I will stop, yes?”

Even Shane understood the subtext here and he stopped walking, tugging at Ilya’s hand until he stopped and turned to face him. 

“You haven’t pushed me. Well, I mean not about this.” he gestured at the clasped hands. “I mean, you’ve pushed about the fete and the cricket and the alpacas and the chicks and…”

“Yes. I understand, Hollander.” Ilya rolled his eyes.

“But not about this.” Shane took a deep breath, looking at Ilya’s ear as he spoke too fast. “It’s not like, like it was with him. We didn’t spend time together. It was just a hook up. Sort of a mutual thing. It was a bit uncomfortable, to be honest. Not, you know, nice or anything. It was my first time. With a man and… and you know we didn’t really talk about it.” He ran out of breath and his eyes flicked towards Ilya’s. “It was fast and a bit sketchy to be honest. I was too nervous. Scared of getting caught the whole time. We didn’t even kiss.”

There. 

That conversation was out there and done. They could move on. 

He started walking, but Ilya didn’t follow, pulling him back slightly and facing him, his eyes flicking earnestly between Shane’s own. 

“That was your first time?” he asked gently.

“With a man, yes.” Shane swallowed. “Not like my first time ever. I’ve dated. You know…” he trailed off.

Ilya was looking at his mouth.

”And he didn’t kiss you?”

“Oh, er no.” Shane shrugged. “It wasn’t really that kind of… date.”

Ilya tilted his head, his expression serious.

“Maybe your first kiss with a man should be a better moment?”

Shane’s lips were suddenly so dry. He licked them with the tip of his tongue and Ilya’s eyes grew hooded and relaxed.

Ilya leaned over slowly, giving Shane every opportunity to pull back, every chance to step away. Shane didn't move an inch. Instead he leaned forward to meet him halfway.

Their lips touched once, a soft press against each other, chaste and achingly beautiful. Ilya’s other hand moved up to gently cradle Shane’s cheek, his lips continuing to brush easy and warm against Shane’s. He didn't deepen the kiss. He simply stayed there for a heartbeat, warm and impossibly gentle. 

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested together, their breaths mingling in the space between them. Ilya’s thumb smoothed gently over Shane’s bottom lip, his dark eyes shining and dark.  Shane made a small sound at the back of his throat and Ilya smiled, pressing another soft kiss to his mouth, before stepping back, his eyes mapping every slight flicker of Shane’s expression.

Shane chased the kiss for a small moment, before opening his eyes and standing straight, focused on Ilya’s lips, as they curled into a soft smile.

“A better first time?” Ilya whispered.

Shane nodded slightly. “Yes.”

For a moment neither of them spoke. The lane stretched ahead, narrow and winding, the dry stone walls glowing gold in the last of the sun. In the distance a gull called but apart from that the world felt strangely hushed, as though it had paused for them.

Ilya cleared his throat gently. “We should walk,” he murmured, his voice still warm around the edges.

Shane nodded, falling into step beside him. They found each other's hands again without discussing it and carried on down the lane, fingers loosely entwined. Their shoulders brushed once, then again, a quiet rhythm as they made their way down the path. The sky deepened into violet, the first stars pricking through. Shane felt lighter, as though the wild thing that lived inside him were breaking free.

They rounded the final bend and Bramble Cottage came into view. Ilya opened the wooden gate to the back garden and they walked up the small stone path together. A round shape snuffled near the back door, unmistakably Boris, doing whatever mysterious hedgehog business hedgehogs did at dusk. They paused and watched until he had shuffled off into the garden.

Shane smiled, his chest warm. "We should probably pack. For tomorrow.”

"Mhm." Ilya unlocked the back door and they stepped inside, toeing off their muddy shoes.

"What time are we catching the train?"

“Early. We need to get to Scarborough, take the TransPennine Express to Manchester Piccadilly.”

Well, those were words that probably meant something to somebody.

“What time do we need to wake up, Ilya?” Shane tried again.

“Ah. Six.”

Okay, that was a clear plan.

“Pack party clothes, Hollander.” Ilya threw out over his shoulder as he passed Freddy and walked up the stairs.

“Wait, what?” Shane frowned. “Why do I need ‘party clothes’?”

Ilya stopped on the third step and turned round, leaning slightly to look at Shane under the murder beam. “We’re going to Manchester, Shane. I will work, you will be bored, we will not go to Old Trafford and then we’ll party.”

“Oh. I’m not really great at parties. Or clubbing. Or lots of crowds, Rozanov. So maybe I should stay at the hotel while you go to your party?”

Ilya tilted his head and smiled. “No, I don’t think so. We’ll leave if you hate it. But we’ll try. Maybe it will be fun, okay?”

Shane searched his eyes before giving a quick nod. “Okay.”

Ilya grinned and bounded up the remaining stairs to the bedroom. Shane followed, more slowly, making eye contact with Freddy as he passed. Freddy looked unimpressed by his willpower.

In the bed that night, another contented silence settled between them. Shane turned and carefully placed his arm over Ilya’s stomach, curling against his side. Ilya's arm immediately came to hold him close, and he felt a chin rest against the top of his head.

Into the darkness of the bedroom, Shane whispered, “Thank you for a good day, Ilya Rozanov of Bramble Cottage.”

Soft lips pressed against his hair. “It was a good day, Shane Hollander from Canada.”

Shane smiled and closed his eyes, the wild thing inside him utterly relaxed and content, sleep claiming him almost immediately. 

Chapter End Notes

In next week's episode (which might be delayed slightly by bad holiday WiFi)... Manchester day trip in enemy territory (according to the good people of Nettlethwaite)

Chapter 7: Quark!

Chapter Summary

Previously on... Shane & Ilya talked whilst covered in chicks saying peep peep and shared a 'U' rated first kiss.

Chapter Notes

The train ride to Manchester had been surprisingly smooth. The sandwiches were not great and the coffee was unpleasant, but the view had been spectacular at times. Ilya had opened up a small laptop and prepared his lesson, and Shane had gazed out of the window, watching the vast purple moors give way to green fields, before dissolving into industrial estates, factories and tightly packed terraces. Ilya looked up from his laptop as the train crossed the border into Lancashire, but Shane firmly refused to believe that he had ‘felt a change in the air.’

Shane also watched the people.

At least four separate giggling groups had boarded the train at different stations. Ilya had called them ‘hen parties’ with a smile and Shane had shrugged because, why not?

One hen party, consisting of women in their forties, were sitting in the seats around them, and had offered them small paper cups of strawberry creme tequila. Shane had declined because gross. Ilya had accepted, knocking back the thick pink drink with a grimace. The bride-to-be was wearing copious amounts of spray tan and a sparkling sash, and every conversation so far had been conducted at maximum volume. Now they were all singing along to one woman’s phone and had so far musically declared that “you can make me whole again”, that somebody was going to “spice up your life” and that they knew “how I feel about you now.” They were stronger at enthusiasm than melody, but their laughter was infectious rather than annoying and Ilya had hummed along with every song they played, occasionally muttering the lyrics into his laptop.

As the train drew closer to Manchester, the hen parties began to interact and entwine. Stories were shared, outfits admired and plans discussed. Shane smiled modestly at the dramatic compliments they occasionally tossed his way, and politely refused to judge the spontaneous ‘Best Dressed Bride-to-Be’ competition, fully aware that this was a war he couldn’t win. Ilya, of course, volunteered immediately, closing his laptop and appearing to muse and judge the four women with exaggerated confidence, before declaring them all the winners and deciding that their grooms, (or brides, no judgement here), were not worthy of them. Shane rolled his eyes at the obvious flattery. But by the time they were disembarking the train, Ilya was wearing a diamante tiara and he and Shane had invitations to three different weddings.

They walked a few minutes to check in early at their hotel. It was housed by a canal in a converted cotton warehouse, with an incredible glass atrium, exposed brick walls and blue painted metal girders and columns. Shane sat in the broad brick window nook, watching the city unfold whilst Ilya showered.

When his hair was dry, after a complicated curly hair care routine that Shane watched with fascination, Ilya dressed in his usual black jeans and a dark green button-down shirt that had a kind of soft sheen to it. Shane looked at his own jeans and hoodie with alarm: was it time for ‘party clothes’ already? But Ilya just grinned and packed his laptop into a leather messenger bag, pulled on a black pea coat and announced that he needed food.

Shane followed him, feeling slightly under-dressed, and they walked to the city centre. Glass towers rose beside soot-black Victorian townhouses, cyclists threaded between yellow trams, and every street seemed to contain another coffee shop full of young people. Ilya was practically vibrating with excitement, and when they passed through a shopping centre and stood outside a fast food restaurant, with familiar lettering on the sign, Shane finally understood why.

“Look!” Ilya pointed at the enormous sign, five feet away that Shane couldn’t possibly have missed. “It is the food of your people, Shane Hollander.”

Ilya had brought him to a Tim Hortons restaurant, and was rocking on his feet, grinning wildly.

“Do we salute?” he asked. “Or sing ‘Oh, Canada’?”

Shane shot him a dry look, somewhat undermined by his grin. “You actually want to eat here?” he asked lightly. “It’s really not healthy, you know.”

“Shane Hollander!” Ilya gasped dramatically. “Canadian slander!”

Shane had been eyeing up a particularly nice looking sushi place, but Ilya dragged him inside the Tim Hortons, and started discussing Timbits, clicking through the menu on the self service screen, adding way too much food to his order. Shane was surprised to find a tight sense of nostalgia and homesickness tightening his stomach and he reluctantly added a few things for himself to the order.

As they waited for the food, Ilya’s shoulder pressed against his. Shane was musing that he didn’t feel any anxiety about this, when a small voice from behind them broke through the layer of safety that had grown around him over the past week.

“Hey. Hello. I recognised you. I was wondering. Can I get a selfie with you please? If it’s okay?”

Shane and Ilya both turned, looking down at the girl, who was peering at them through her glasses, serious and uncertain, her hand gripped around a phone that she was holding out slightly.

Shane’s heart was beating wildly.

The Tim Hortons had been a really dumb idea. Even if people maybe thought they recognised him walking the steps in Whitby, or the streets of Manchester, they probably wouldn’t connect him with the Montreal Voyageurs: the two worlds too utterly separate. But here, in a fucking Tim Hortons, Shane might as well have been wearing a Mountie costume, sitting astride a moose and waving a giant maple leaf flag.

It felt like his bubble had burst and now he would have to think about home, hockey and the photographs again, when he had been doing so well at pretending they weren’t a thing he really had to deal with.

He forced a calm smile onto his face and prepared to be utterly polite to this child, whose parents were hovering anxiously a few feet away, ready to swoop in and protect her, when Ilya knelt down to her level and gifted her with his widest, most brilliant smile.

“Of course.” he smiled at her, holding out his hand and gently drawing her to his side. “Shall I take it? My arms are maybe longer than yours.”

The girl grinned and blushed, her whole tense body relaxing completely under the weight of an Ilya Rozanov charm offensive. Ilya held the phone out and up slightly and took a couple of photographs on the phone of himself and the girl, before handing the phone back to her, telling her it was an honour to meet her. Which made her giggle.

What the fuck?

The girl returned to her parents, who smiled gratefully at Ilya, with an awkward wave and then turned away to leave them to their day.

Shane realised that his mouth had fallen open.

He was about to say something that was probably brilliant, when their order was called and Ilya went to pick up their food from the counter.

“Come on Hollander.” he called, walking out onto the streets. “We need to get to the university. I have to set up my lesson.” And he walked and ate, which was really not healthy, but Shane kept pace and answered questions about the food, and drank his juice and had no time or space to question Ilya about what had just happened.

*

A lot of the University of Manchester was beautiful.

A lot of it was not.

Ilya took them to a tall, cylindrical silver building and directed Shane to the lecture theatre entrance, told him he would find him after the lesson, and promptly disappeared.

Shane looked around, increasingly perplexed.

When Ilya had told Shane that he was a teacher, he had imagined a small, brightly coloured classroom, filled with art work and exercise books. He had pictured Ilya teaching children like Saffy, all wearing dungarees and being thrown off desks made of hay bales. Or sitting on a padded mat, reading outrageous stories about alpacas and seagulls and hedgehogs. It had all been a bit vague and intangible.

What he had not imagined was this.

The lecture hall was steep, curved, and packed with hundreds of excited tweenagers, a handful of teachers, and one deeply confused Canadian hockey player sitting in the very back row, trying to blend into his hoodie.

There was an introductory video about the summer school, which appeared to be focused on making science inclusive and accessible for all, whilst encouraging and enabling gifted scholars. It was a long video, with too many words, but the audience seemed to enjoy it. Many had notebooks and were occasionally writing in them. Afterwards, a tall woman, wearing a cheerful yellow dress delivered a short lecture about electrodynamics, which was genuinely interesting.

However, every part of it flew out of Shane’s head the second she finished. The large screen at the front flicked to an image of a surprised looking cartoon sheep, with the phrase ‘QUANTUM FLEECE’ below it, written in a bold, jagged handwriting that Shane recognised immediately.

The room erupted in noise, similar to the sound inside the Forum, during a play off game. But much higher pitched.

At the front of the room, Ilya sauntered into the hall, a broad grin on his face, his green shirt shimmering in the lights and his curls messy on his forehead. He stood in the centre, and waved at the children, who waved back and shouted, trying to get their individual comments heard through the wall of sound. Behind him, on the giant screen, the cartoon sheep danced.

Shane felt a rush inside his chest and he smiled helplessly at the ridiculous man.

Eventually Ilya raised his hand and signed to try and dampen the noise, putting a finger to his lips, his eyes glinting in the projector lights.

"Okay," He said, his deep, accented voice carrying effortlessly across the room without a microphone. The kids instantly quieted down. "We talk today about high-energy particle physics.” There was a cheer and Shane looked around, bewildered. “Who knows what holds the tiny pieces of matter in the universe together?"

Hands were raised across the hall, kids stretching their arms high, bodies contorting to be chosen. Ilya pointed at a kid in the front row, who stood before answering. "Gravity?"

"Gravity is weak," Ilya scoffed, blowing a raspberry and waving his hand dismissively, before he threw something small to the kid, who caught it, grinning. She thumped back into her seat, high fiving her neighbour. Ilya continued, pacing the floor and making eye contact with his enraptured audience. "Gravity is for falling fruit. We talk about real force. The glue. The thing that stops your hand from passing through the desk.” He slammed his hand down on the desk, the sound echoing through the hall. “The strong force."

More hands shot up into the air. How did these kids know this stuff?

“Electromagnetic force.”

A small cheer and another something thrown into waiting hands, caught with glee.

“Electromagnetic force stops your hand from passing through the desk.” Ilya continued. “Strong force is even stronger. It keeps the nucleus itself from flying apart.”

He picked up a digital stylus and tapped the board. The screen changed to reveal a large number of cartoon geese, drifting chaotically around. Some were the right way up and some were moving upside down. They all looked a bit like Little Ilya.

The children in the room started ‘quacking’ and Shane jumped, looking around, baffled.

Ilya raised his hand again before calling out, “And these are…?”

“Quarks! Quarks! Quarks!” the children quacked.

Ilya nodded, and grinned. “So how many quarks in a proton?”

Hands were raised and an excited boy was chosen to stand and announce “Two up quarks and one down quark.”

The room ‘quarked’ and the boy received his mysterious reward.

On the screen, Ilya dragged two of the ‘upright’ geese and one ‘upside down’ goose together, the three cartoon animals merging in a poof of smoke and becoming a fluffy white ram, with an angry scowl drawn on its face.

The room erupted in cheers.

Shane, sitting entranced in the back row, covered his mouth with his hand to stifle a loud snort.

“And my neutrons?” Ilya shouted over the noise. “What quarks are in a neutron?”

The quacking returned and a child pointed out one upright goose and two upside down geese. Ilya repeated the animation, producing a placid cartoon sheep at the end.

Ilya held both of his hands out wide, and the room returned to an expectant hush.

“But,” he continued dramatically, “My protons and neutrons are just chaotic geese! Quarking away! What holds them in place?”

Hands, child, reward.

“Gluons.” A cheer. “Gluons are…”

“The glue!” the room shouted back at him.

“Yes,” Ilya beamed. “The glue.” The animation on the screen showed the wool of the sheep glowing gold. “Magic wool. That holds the quarks in place and makes my protons and neutrons rams and sheep, not chaotic quacking geese.”

The quacking returned.

This time Shane joined in.

“The wool doesn't make them look like sheep,” Ilya said seriously. “It makes them behave like one object.”

The children nodded, Shane frowned, refusing to get left behind. He should have brought a notebook.

"Think of atomic nucleus like a sheep pen in Yorkshire," Ilya explained, completely deadpan, pacing slowly in front of the screen. "You have protons and neutrons.” He tapped the sheep and rams. “But protons have positive charge. Like four grumpy rams who hate each other. If you put four grumpy rams in the same small pen, what happens?"

Hands in air, child picked, answer shouted out: "They fight!"

"They fight, yes!" Ilya pointed at him approvingly, throwing another of the small objects to him. "They push apart! Electromagnetic force says 'Get away from me!' They want to push the nucleus apart. So... why doesn't the universe explode?"

Silence fell over the room.

Ilya clicked the screen again and a cartoon sheep dog appeared, circling around the sheep pen.

“Because of nuclear force,” Ilya announced triumphantly. “Nuclear force is the sheepdog of the subatomic world. It is incredibly strong, but only when the sheep are very, very close together.”

He tapped the screen. The sheepdog bounded between the rams, keeping them together.

Shane sat back, half-hidden in his hoodie, and watched the rest of the lecture unfold with stunned awe. It was chaos, but it was organised chaos, the kind that only existed when someone genuinely loved what they were doing. Ilya prowled across the stage like he was herding invisible livestock, switching between deadly-serious physics and utterly deranged Yorkshire metaphors without missing a beat. One moment he was explaining colour charge, the next he was yelling about “quarks behaving like badly-trained Sebastopol geese,” dragging cartoon birds around the screen while the children quacked in scientific ecstasy.

And throughout, the children were utterly enthralled. They shouted answers, argued about quarks, corrected each other, and occasionally made noises that Shane was fairly certain had no place in a university lecture theatre. Ilya encouraged all of it.

Shane understood perhaps fifty percent of what Ilya was saying, at best. But he understood something else that seemed much more important: Ilya knew this stuff. Like really knew it. Somehow he could take something unimaginably strange and enormous and make a room full of children feel as though the universe was just a farm in Yorkshire, full of sheep, geese and badly behaved animals. When he demonstrated how the strong force kept the nucleus together, he mimed wrestling four imaginary rams back into a pen, complete with snorting sound effects and a dramatic fall to his knees. The kids screamed and laughed.

Shane found himself watching the children almost as much as he watched Ilya. They were leaning forward, scribbling notes, and throwing their hands into the air. Ilya was completely in his element, grinning and gesturing and occasionally making some outrageous comparison that sent the whole room into delighted chaos.

And Shane, sitting in the very back row, felt something warm and terrifying unfurl in his chest. This was another version of the man he had spent the last week discovering. The same Ilya who could make a four-year-old feel brave enough to climb a hay mountain, was now making hundreds of children feel clever enough to understand the universe.

Throughout it all, Ilya handed out the small objects to reward answers, volunteers and kids who just looked like they were “listening really hard”, or those who were “wearing a really cool T-shirt.” Shane started to suspect that no child was going to be leaving the session without a reward.

Eventually the lecture was drawing to a close. Ilya scanned the audience, his gaze resting briefly on Shane, before he smiled and carried on.

"Now," Ilya said in a soft tone, the children hanging on his words, "sometimes, two particles travel very fast. From different places. Maybe different oceans or different countries. They are moving in straight lines, minding their own business. But when they get close enough..."

He drew two small sheep on opposite sides of the board, drawing dashed lines that curved toward each other until they met in the middle. “When two particles travel fast enough, they carry their own tiny storms with them, invisible fields swirling around their bodies. And when those storms overlap, even for a moment, the universe notices. It pulls them together. They collide. They create new energy. New light. New heat. And after that… “ he glanced briefly at Shane again, “...they are changed. They cannot pretend they were never in each other’s path.”

The room of tweenagers nodded solemnly, taking notes whilst Shane felt his fundamental being shifting and changing.

He sat frozen in his seat, his heart hammering violently against his ribs, his breath caught in his throat. The joke had completely evaporated. The sheep metaphors were hilarious, yes, but the look in Ilya’s eyes, as he stood under the bright lecture lights, explaining the fundamental laws of the cosmos was the most breathtaking thing Shane had ever seen.

A boy raised his hand. "Professor Rozanov?"

"Yes?" Ilya smiled, looking down at him.

"Do the particles like being bonded?"

“Physics has no opinion." he answered and the kids laughed.

Ilya looked directly at Shane again and smiled, a slow, soft, completely un-shielded smile that pierced through his chest. "But I think yes. They like it very much. It stops them from being cold."

Shane felt as though all the oxygen had been pulled from his lungs. Probably by some quarking geese or angry proton rams.

Okay then.

*

The end of the lecture was apparently not the end of Ilya’s commitments. Shane sat at the back of the lecture theatre, chewing on the string of his hoodie and watching Ilya work.

Seemingly every child and adult who had attended the lecture wanted to meet him, talk to him, shake his hand, have a photograph taken and get something signed. And Ilya obliged with each and every person. He talked to the last one with the same focus and enthusiasm as he talked to the first one, even though it took well over an hour to clear the crowds.

Whilst he was meeting his adoring public, Shane pulled out his phone and googled ‘Ilya Rozanov’ and ‘Quantum Fleece’. There were a lot of results, most directing him to YouTube. Shane willingly followed the trail.

The Quantum Fleece channel was easy to find, with the ridiculous hand drawn cartoon sheep logo and a shockingly large number of videos with deranged titles. Black Holes: Don't Panic; What Even Is a Field?; Why Neutrons Are the Chill Ones; One Minute on Quarks (QUARK QUARK QUARK).

Shane clicked on the most recent video, Dark Matter: The Invisible Cow in the Field, absently noting that Ilya had nearly two million subscribers. In the video, Ilya used animations, key words and, if Shane were being completely honest, very tight clothing, to keep the viewer engaged.

He searched for a compilation of his own goals. Hmm. Ilya’s most watched video, The Universe Is Basically a Farm had well over three million views. A compilation video of Shane’s best goals from ESPN had less than five hundred thousand.

That felt rude somehow.

He scrolled down to the comments on the video, expecting maybe a handful of polite statements from parents or teachers, and the usual bizarre shit show that was the world of internet commentary. Instead, the screen was incredible. Hundreds of messages, each a small glimpse of a life intersecting with Ilya’s.

“PROFESSOR ROZANOV IS THE BEST PART OF MY WEEK.”

“My mum says I’m not allowed to quack at the table anymore.”

“Can you do a video on bosons but make them cats?”

“I met him at the York summer school last year and he signed my sheepbook!!!”

Shane blinked and scrolled further.

There were fan edits, there were compilations of Ilya saying “quark” in different tones, there were animations of the sheepdog tackling proton-rams. There were parents thanking him for making their children excited about science, and teachers begging him to visit their schools.

There were also a lot of thirst comments.

And then there were the comments that made Shane’s stomach flip over:

“I want to be a physicist because of you.”

“Your videos helped me when I was sick.”

“You’re my hero.”

Shane stared at the screen, his throat tight. This was a whole world built out of sheep and geese and Yorkshire metaphors, and thousands of children who adored him for it. Comments that were eerily similar to the ones he heard from fans about hockey.

He swallowed, his throat unexpectedly dry. He wanted to go back and find every child who’d asked him for an autograph or told him that he was their inspiration, and give them the same attention and focus that Ilya was giving these children. He wanted to be someone who made people feel important.

He looked up from the screen, watching Ilya laugh with a girl who couldn’t have been older than ten, giving her the same bright, focused attention he’d given the entire hall.

He wasn’t sure whether he felt proud, overwhelmed, or slightly faint.

Probably all three.

His scrolling was eventually interrupted by a shadow falling across him. Ilya was leaning against the back of a chair in front of him, his face sweaty, his eyes shining and his body almost vibrating with energy.

“I’m sorry it took so long.” He said, his voice rough after the long public speaking session. “Were you bored?”

Shane gaped at him. Was he serious?

He thought about taking a second to gather his thoughts, but instantly decided against it.

“Ilya,” he blurted. “That was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen. You’re amazing. Like seriously, completely amazing.”

There was a pause.

Ilya’s face, already flushed from adrenaline, blushed even darker and his smile softened, almost embarrassed.

He held his hand out and waited for Shane to take a small object from his hand. One of the mysterious rewards. It was a pin badge of the cartoon sheep, and the QUANTUM FLEECE logo underneath. Shane looked at it with a soft smile, before attaching it to his hoodie, gently patting it to make sure it was secure.

He glanced back up at Ilya, who was watching him with dark, glittering eyes.

“Thank you.” Shane whispered. “I love it.”

Ilya nodded. “Is for good listening skills.” He replied, just as softly.

“I did listen really well.” Shane agreed.

“What was your favourite part?”

Shane risked eye contact. “You know my favourite part.”

“Tell me.” Ilya insisted.

“The particles.” Shane whispered, his eyes dropping. “That meet randomly. And change each other.” He risked another bit of eye contact. “That they’re not cold any more.”

Ilya gave a half grin. “To be honest, the physics got a bit… erm… poetic at that part. I think the metaphor took over.” The grin widened. “Don’t let that be the physics you remember.”

“Okay.” Shane agreed. “I’ll just remember the metaphor.”

*

When they finally left the university and returned to the hotel to change, Shane started to fret about his ‘party clothes’. Ilya’s work shirt had been flashier than anything Shane owned and he was now changing into a tighter, shinier patterned button-down for their ‘party time’. Shane changed into a black T shirt and black jeans. He looked like a cartoon bandit. But his only button down was a blue linen shirt, that just didn’t have the right vibe. And the T-shirt was quite tight, and he knew his arms looked good in it and fuck it, he wanted to look impressive.

Ilya finished working on his hair, running his fingers through to style the curls he had just put gel into. He turned to Shane and whistled.

“Hot.” He grinned.

Shane gave a small, pleased smile. “You too.” He cleared his throat. “You look… nice. You know. The shirt is… it’s good. Looks good on you. You’re pulling it off.”

Yeah, that had been too many words. Why was he so bad at this?

“Let’s see if Manchester is ready for us.” Ilya grinned, before handing a small cardboard box to Shane.

For a single, terrifying, stomach plummeting moment, Shane thought it was a ring box.

It was not a ring box.

Shane refused to examine his brief flare of disappointment.

He opened the box, confused, to find a set of ear plugs in it.

“Loop earplugs”. Ilya explained. “They help with the noise. Less, erm, you know, background noise. I know you said you don’t like the busy places. These might be good. Make everything quieter. But you can still hear me speak. So you won’t miss the important stuff.”

Shane stared at the earplugs.

There had been an anxious edge to Ilya’s smile, so Shane hurried to smooth the moment.

“Thank you. I haven’t tried them before.” He said truthfully. “We can try them out. Thank you. Seriously.”

Ilya nodded before it could become a whole moment, and pulled Shane out the door of the hotel so they could walk the few blocks to Canal Street, which Ilya had insisted was a compulsory visit.

Canal Street was bustling. Shane was struck by the strings of lights running between the cafes and the canal, illuminating the bunting that crisscrossed the street. Rainbow flags were hanging from the buildings, and umbrellas, tables, and chairs were lined along the canal. There were crowds of people sitting out in the evening sun eating, drinking, and chatting. Music, a thumping bass line, drifted down the street

They found a table outside one of the cafés, squeezed between a planter full of flowers and a group of lovely middle-aged women wearing matching T-Shirts proclaiming ‘Hebden Bridge Bad Bitches’.

Shane could see couples, families with children, parties, and tourists.

But despite the different varieties on display, Shane realised that Ilya had quite clearly brought them to the Gay Village.

It was loud, colourful, unapologetically queer, and Shane’s shoulders locked up the moment he sat down.

He tried to hide it. He really did. But the rainbow flags, the drag queens strutting past in sequins, the couples holding hands, the sheer openness of it all pressed against him like a physical weight. He hadn’t been anywhere like this before. At least, not without worrying who might see him.

His eyes flicked around the street, before his gaze lowered and he tried to draw himself in physically, to distance himself from his surroundings.

After a moment, he felt Ilya nudge his foot under the table. He leaned forward, and said lightly, “Is compulsory to try, so that we can tell Boris about it tomorrow.”

And somehow, stupidly, that helped. Shane glanced around. Nobody was looking at them. It was just like the fete. Louder, queerer and less PG rated. But he could just be Shane.

He nodded, slightly jerkily.

They ate something spicy, and drank something fruity, and the evening sun warmed the back of Shane’s neck. People were friendly, smiling as they passed, shouting compliments at Ilya’s shirt, at Shane’s arms, at absolutely nothing at all. A man in glittery shorts told them they were a “gorgeous couple,” and Shane blushed into his drink whilst Ilya simply waved like royalty.

Bit by bit, the tension drained out of Shane’s shoulders. The music wasn’t too loud with the earplugs and the crowd wasn’t too overwhelming.

He found himself smiling. Actually smiling.

They talked about the lecture, about the sheep badge and about the patterned shirt Ilya was wearing. Shane relaxed so much he even let Ilya take a photo of them together, with the canal behind them, a shimmering reflection of colour and lights.

They were finishing their drinks when a drag queen in towering heels and a sparkly gold dress strutted up to their table, fanned herself dramatically, and said, “Well hello, boys. Someone’s brought the refreshments.”

Ilya beamed.

She handed them a glossy token shaped like a star. “Olympus tonight. Free entry for hot stuff. You’re coming.”

Ilya accepted it with both hands, like she’d given him a Nobel Prize. “Thank you.”

Shane opened his mouth to protest, but the music was warm, the lights were soft, and he felt strangely buoyant. Ilya’s foot tapped his again under the table, grounding him.

*

The inside of the club was a sensory assault.

Colour exploded across the walls and ceiling: hot pink, electric blue, acid green and gold, all flashing, and shifting with the music. Glitter caught in the lights and seemed to hang in the air. Shane's earplugs softened the worst of the noise into something warm and distant, taking the sharp edges off until the whole place felt like being inside an enthusiastic disco ball.

Ilya steered them to a spot near the back, close enough to see but far enough that Shane didn’t feel either trapped or exposed. He sat, shoulders tense for a moment, before leaning over to Ilya to whisper, “I thought it would be dancing.”

Ilya tilted his head and whispered back, “Cabaret first, dancing after.”

The lights dimmed and a hush fell over the room. Then a spotlight snapped on, revealing a drag queen in a glittering blue gown that sparkled in the neon lights. She struck a pose, hand on hip, chin lifted, and the room erupted in applause.

“Well, well, well,” she purred. “Look at all of you. Out after dark and pretending you have respectable jobs.”

The room erupted.

“Manchester, my darlings, you look absolutely fucking gorgeous tonight. Some of you look expensive. Some of you look like you've been released from a rehab centre. And some of you..”

Her eyes swept across the room.

“...look like you came here because your friends lied and told you it would be a quiet evening.”

A few people pointed and cheered.

The queen launched into a spectacularly filthy-but-funny monologue about public transport, dating apps, losing an expensive lipstick in a nightclub toilet and accidentally fucking your Uber driver. She moved around the stage like a diva, pausing for effect, raising one eyebrow whenever the audience gave the wrong response and accepting every shout from the crowd with glee.

Shane was grinning before he realised it.

Another performer swept onto the stage, impossibly tall in a silver sequinned suit, trading insults with the host, each trying to outdo the other while the audience cheered them on. It was ridiculous and completely shameless. Another performer appeared in a cloud of feathers. The music started and she launched into a lip-sync performance, strutting, posing, and conducting an invisible orchestra with passion.

The show continued: a mixture of comedy, storytelling, and theatrical lip-sync numbers. And Shane realised, somewhere between the feathers and a filthy goat story, that he wasn’t tense anymore. He was just here, sitting beside Ilya in a room full of colour and laughter, feeling warm and steady.

Ilya, of course, cheered and laughed and waved throughout. He sparkled in the glitter ball lights and Shane came to an important decision.

Nobody here was hiding and Shane didn’t want to hide any more either. His worst fears had already materialised. He’d put himself out there and been slapped back down by circumstance.

But… that had brought him here. To a bright, loud, glittering drag show in a room full of people who were celebrating themselves and others.

Two particles, whose paths have unexpectedly crossed and who have changed each other.

He looked at Ilya’s wide grin and decided that he wanted to celebrate too. He had really enjoyed his first kiss with Ilya. And he planned to really, really enjoy the second.

The fruity drinks had made him pleasantly warm and giddy, his stomach bubbling and popping. The whole evening had loosened something inside him.

He felt brave. Reckless, perhaps, but brave.

He leaned closer to Ilya, smiling to himself. This was it. He was absolutely going to make a move.

The room erupted in applause and he leaned back a bit.

Okay. He just needed to wait for the right moment.

When the final queen took her bow and the lights shifted to a softer glow, Ilya nudged him gently.

“Now,” Ilya said, eyes sparkling, “we dance.”

Perfect.

*

The music was a physical pressure in his chest, the bass vibrating through him and energising his whole body. Even with the ear plugs in, the constant thrum of music crashed over him like a wave and down into the sticky floor, connecting him to the rhythm. Shane had hesitated at the edges for a frozen moment, before Ilya had pulled him into the throng of people who surged and jumped like a single organism.

Ilya moved with effortless confidence, laughing at himself and everyone around him, occasionally throwing his arms into the air when a familiar song started. He seemed to know exactly where his body was at all times. It wasn’t necessarily that he was a good dancer, it was just that there was an un-selfconscious joy in his movements, which created a magnetic pull. People gravitated toward him trying to dance beside him, with him, on him.

In fact someone was actually grinding against him right now.

Like, what the fuck?

Not helping Shane’s cunning seduction plan.

Shane was not a bad dancer, but he was self-conscious about how he appeared to other people, which dampened his energy. He was tall, muscular and sometimes didn’t know where his hands should go. But the club definitely had an ‘anything goes’ vibe. When he realised that the swell of the crowd had separated them, he tried to manoeuvre his way back to Ilya’s side, his stomach churning in anticipation.

On the journey, a man with angel wings tried to pull him onto a dancing platform and a woman in a bikini and body glitter told him he was ‘hot enough to eat’. Shane kept losing track of Ilya in the chaos, then finding him again.

When he finally found his way back, he was pressed against several bodies, one of which was probably Ilya’s. Again, there was a fluttering, loose sensation deep in his stomach, as he prepared to engage in his second amazing kiss with a man.

With Ilya.

Ilya was always laughing, always glowing, always reaching out to steady Shane with a hand on his arm or a quick tap to his wrist. And every time Shane connected with him, he thought, ‘Okay. Now. Kiss him now’.

But something always interrupted.

Once, a woman spun between them holding a giant furry flamingo.

Another time, a man in a sequinned cowboy hat dragged Ilya into a group photograph.

A drag queen handed Ilya an inflatable sheep. Ilya laughed and threw it into the crowds, before turning and running his hand down Shane’s arm.

Shane’s stomach flipped again.

The evening continued on in an overwhelming montage of bass, heat, touches, sweat and eye contact.

And Shane’s focus became narrower and narrower, his connection to Ilya becoming the centre of his universe, as the thought of making a move, being brave, and actually taking a chance consumed him. His stomach was performing somersaults, making it harder to breathe properly. He thought he might have started sweating. I mean everyone was sweating, but Shane felt drips of liquid running down his back.

Thank god he had worn the bandit outfit.

Ilya stepped closer to him, placing his hands on Shane’s hips, his eyes flicking between Shane’s. There was an expression on his face that may have been concern. But Shane’s world narrowed to the single space they occupied on the jumping dance floor, the gold and pink lights that swept across Ilya’s face and curls, the tip of his tongue peeking out to moisten his lips.

Their hips bumped against each other and Shane inhaled sharply, his attention now zeroing in on the slow press of their bodies as they swayed to the heavy bass beat of the music. Ilya’s fingers tightened on Shane’s hips, drawing him closer.

Shane’s breathing stuttered and he glanced up, his gaze clashing with Ilya’s, who pressed even harder against him, a thigh pushing between Shane’s, his chest pressing against him, as they abandoned dancing for the slow grind of bodies. Shane's breath hitched, his face hot and his stomach in turmoil.

Ilya leaned forward slightly, maybe to speak, but Shane had had enough of waiting.

He pushed through the remaining air and pressed his lips hard against Ilya’s, his tongue licking hungrily into his mouth. Ilya made a small noise at the back of his throat and, terrified that he was about to pull away, Shane gabbed at his curls and the back of his neck, holding him in place and tilting his head slightly to lick against his teeth, his tongue, his lips.

Ilya resisted for a heartbeat, before he enthusiastically got on board with kiss number two.

“Fuck Shane.” Ilya moaned, a hand reaching down to grab Shane’s ass, pulling him hard against Ilya’s thigh, rocking their erections against each other. A second hand reached up to grab Shane’s jaw, tilting his head and allowing Ilya to push his tongue harder and further into his mouth, licking against him with wet, hungry sounds.

Shane’s knees went weak and his stomach clenched, as he pushed himself against Ilya’s thigh, rutting against his leg, the music pounding into his skull.

This was what he had been waiting for. What he’d been hoping for when he was finally brave enough to take what he wanted.

He clung to Ilya’s shoulders, not letting him stop the kiss, making soft moans into his mouth.

Ilya walked him backwards, still kissing him back, hard, open mouthed and wet. He guided him through the press of dancing bodies, until Shane’s back collided with a sticky, damp wall and Ilya thrust against him hard, making him whine.

“Ilya,” he gasped.

Ilya tilted his head and kissed him harder, sucking on his tongue and flexing his fingers against Shane’s ass.

“Ilya, I need…” Shane's hands were pulling up the back of Ilya’s shirt, his fingertips digging into the muscles of his back. “... I need…”

“Anything,” Ilya vowed into Shane’s mouth, gripping his jaw harder, kissing him desperately. “Anything you want.”

Shane abruptly pulled back.

Ilya released him immediately, his eyes tracking rapidly over Shane's face. They stood, plastered against each other, pressed against the tacky wall of the nightclub as people danced and pushed against them.

“I think I need to get out.” Shane gasped, turning wide, horrified eyes on Ilya’s. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

Ilya pulled back and looked at Shane’s flushed, sweaty face and glazed eyes, and acted fast, grabbing his hand and weaving through the crowds, until they emerged, blinking, into the coloured lights of Canal Street.

Shane staggered over to a dark corner and promptly threw up over the fence and into the canal.

It probably wasn’t the worst thing that would happen to the canal tonight, but Shane was still mortified.

He stood, his arms leaning on the barrier, heaving for air and willing his stomach to settle.

Beside him, Ilya rubbed slow circles on his back, murmuring soft, sympathetic words, his voice warm and steady.

“Is okay,” he said quietly. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

Shane moaned. “God, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Ilya said, still rubbing his back. “You did very well. Lancashire is a dangerous place. Malcolm warned you.”

“I’m so embarrassed.”

“Why?” Ilya asked, genuinely baffled. “You danced. You looked hot. You were very impressive.”

Despite everything, Shane let out a weak laugh, resting his head on his arms as his stomach churned.

Ilya shifted closer, lowering his voice. "Let's go back to the hotel. Less lights, less people, less… everything.”

Shane nodded, still gripping the railing. “Yeah. Okay.”

Ilya kept one hand on Shane’s arm the entire walk back, guiding him gently through the crowds on Canal Street. The noise felt distant now, muffled by the foggy haze of nausea. Shane focused on the pavement, and on the warm pressure of Ilya’s hand.

“Sorry,” Shane muttered at one point, voice thin. “I really wanted tonight to be good.”

“It was good,” Ilya said immediately. “It was very good. Until you know, the vomiting. A dramatic response to my kissing.”

Shane groaned again.

They reached the hotel lobby, quiet and dim compared to the club and Shane felt another wave of nausea roll through him. He grabbed Ilya’s wrist.

“I need a bathroom,” he managed.

Ilya steered him into the lift, pressed the button, and kept a steadying hand on his back the whole ride up. Shane leaned against his chest, breathing shallowly, trying not to panic.

When they reached the room, Shane barely made it to the bathroom before he was sick again. He knelt on the cool tiles, shaking, mortified and miserable.

Ilya sat on the floor beside him and pressed a cool flannel against his hot forehead.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “I’m here. Is okay.”

Shane felt that the occasion demanded at least a little roll in self deprecation. “I’m ruining everything.” he whispered.

“No,” Ilya said firmly. “You’re not ruining anything. You’re having a bad moment and I’m helping. Is what people do.”

Shane rolled a tiny bit more. “I’m sorry.”

Ilya shook his head. “Stop. You don’t need to be perfect. You just need to be Shane, yes?”

Shane didn’t think he knew who Shane was any more. Canada Shane was a mess, Manchester Shane was a disaster.

Yorkshire Shane was okay. Brave. Sassy even.

Tonight he would feel awful and tomorrow he would be sassy Yorkshire Shane.

There. That was a plan.

Ilya rubbed slow circles on Shane’s back, humming under his breath, something soft and tuneless. Shane leaned into the touch, exhausted and grateful.

After a while, when his stomach finally settled, Ilya guided him to the bed, and pulled the duvet up around them both.

Shane cuddled up against him, feeling weak, exhausted and still embarrassed. “Ilya?” he whispered. “Thank you for looking after me.”

Ilya reached out and brushed a strand of hair off Shane’s clammy forehead.

“Always, Shane.”

Chapter End Notes

In next week's episode... the journey back to Bramble Cottage via Whip-Ma-Whop-Ma-Gate.

Thank you for all your lovely comments, I love reading them:)

Chapter 8: Yaffle

Chapter Summary

Previously on... Shane and Ilya travelled to Manchester where Ilya delivered an awesome lecture on Quarks and showed why you should never throw away your A Level Physics folders. They then went clubbing on Canal Street and kissed. Until Shane was sick.

Chapter Notes

The train to York was significantly quieter than the one to Manchester had been, which Shane was grateful for. He sat by the window, hoodie pulled tight, watching the landscape shift from city blocks to rolling green fields. His body felt like someone had shaken the snow globe of his insides and he was waiting for the flakes to finish settling.

Ilya was sipping a large, mediocre coffee and Shane was trying to finish his second bottle of water. He picked at the label occasionally and took tiny sips when he remembered. Ilya had organised the morning with his usual confidence and efficiency, packing Shane’s overnight bag, nudging him toward the shower, reminding him to brush his teeth, guiding him through the station and onto the quiet train.

He had tried to make Shane eat a banana but Shane had turned a shade of pale green. Ilya had slowly pushed the banana away again, keeping a careful eye on Shane’s complexion before settling back in his seat, long legs stretched into the aisle. He looked tired. His curls were soft and untidy from sleep, and his eyes still slightly heavy.

Mostly they sat in silence, watching the fields and roads and factories blur together as the train sped toward the dawning sun. Eventually, Shane felt that maybe the flakes inside had settled enough for him to communicate.

“Ilya?” he asked quietly, still watching the countryside rush past. “Why are you here?”

Ilya frowned. “We did lesson yesterday. In Manchester. Are you still ill? Is your memory okay, Shane Hollander?”

Shane snorted. “It’s fine, idiot. I meant why are you here in England? In Yorkshire and Manchester and…” He waved his hand vaguely. “…in Nettlethwaite?”

Ilya sighed and gently put his arm around Shane’s shoulders, drawing him into a loose, comfortable lean. They sat like that for a while, looking at the passing landscape, before Ilya replied.

“I’ll tell you a small story,” he murmured. “True, but small.”

Shane blinked and turned slightly toward him. “Small?”

Ilya brushed a stray bit of hair from Shane’s forehead.

“Some stories are big, some are small. Today you get a small one.”

Shane settled back into the quiet closeness, feeling Ilya’s cheek rest lightly against the top of his head.

“When I first came to England,” Ilya began, tone light but threaded with something heavier, “I was seventeen. I’d never been away from home. Never been on a plane alone. I had never spoken English out loud to anyone except my tutor, who was from Vladivostok and whose English, I found out later, could not be trusted.”

Shane huffed out a laugh.

“I arrived with two bags, a shocking amount of confidence, and a letter saying that I was very clever. I thought the whole country was small. Like… village tiny. Compared to Russia, everything was so close together. I thought I could walk everywhere.”

“Did you try to walk across England?” Shane guessed.

“Oh yes. I tried to walk across England,” Ilya confirmed gravely.

The train rattled over a bridge, the countryside slipping past in shades of green and grey.

“I was essentially a… scholarship student,” Ilya continued. “Very lucky. I applied for a bursary because my physics teacher in Moscow told me that I should. I thought probably I would not get it.”

“But you did.” Shane felt a warm swell of pride for seventeen-year-old Ilya, who of course won a bursary to study in England.

“I did,” Ilya said, shrugging. “I was terrified.”

Shane blinked. “You?”

“Yes, me.”

“I’m having trouble imagining it.”

“You have known me for one week, Shane Hollander. I have lots of big feelings.” Ilya gently squeezed his shoulder. “I didn’t know anyone, I didn’t understand anything. I felt… displaced maybe. Like I had stepped into someone else’s life by accident.”

Shane’s breath caught. That was a feeling he was currently quite intimate with.

“But then,” Ilya said softly, “people were kind. And loud. And nosy. And they fed me. And they told me stories. And they made me a part of things. And slowly, slowly, I felt less… wobbly.”

Shane thought about that for a moment: teenage Ilya Rozanov, embraced by strangers when he was vulnerable.

“Like me,” he whispered.

“Like you.” Ilya’s voice was gentle. “Do you feel less wobbly?”

Shane looked down at their legs pressed side-by-side, then out at the fields of wheat, then back at Ilya.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I think I do.”

They sat with the moment for a while until Shane pushed again.

“But why Nettlethwaite? How did you end up at Bramble Cottage?”

Ilya pressed his cheek against Shane’s hair for a moment. “Because I fell in love,” he said softly.

The wild thing in Shane’s chest roared back to life, beating against his ribcage and shoving tentacles up his throat, making it hard to breathe.

“Oh.” he managed to whisper.

Ilya stroked his fingers through the hair that brushed against Shane’s neck.

“I fell in love with the moors, the sea, the… wildness of it. I even fell in love with the fucking sheep. Mainly I fell in love with the cottage. Everything else was included as baggage I think.”

The wild thing retreated slightly and Shane remembered to breathe.

“There was something… desolate maybe inside of me. The moors… resonated with it. Made it beautiful.” He sighed. “I don't know. Maybe I should have done poetry and not physics. Would be easier to explain.”

“I think you explained it beautifully.” Shane breathed. “I get it, I think. And the cottage is beautiful. And you, you know, you get steam trains and can walk alpacas and see hedgehogs and stuff.”

“Shane?”

“Mmhmm?”

“You think we don’t have alpaca walking and hedgehogs in Russia? What the fuck? What do you think Russia is like?”

Shane could hear the grin in his voice. “I don’t know! I haven’t really thought about it. Do you have those things?”

“Yes, Shane. We have sheep and hedgehogs and fucking steam trains and alpaca walking.”

Shane huffed, “Well good. I didn’t know!”

Ilya snorted out a laugh. “You think I grew up with nothing but rain and existential despair, Shane Hollander?”

Shane giggled and pushed at Ilya’s side. “Shut up. Go away.”

Ilya pulled him closer and pressed a kiss against the top of his head. “Nope.”

Together they watched the fields, grey stone walls and indifferent sheep blur past as they headed to York.

*

York Station was a cathedral of iron and glass, curved like the ribcage of an enormous Victorian beast. Sunlight poured through the arches, catching on the rails and the polished brass of the station clock. People moved in gentle currents: tourists with backpacks, school groups in matching T- shirts, locals who had chosen to live in a tourist town and who were now constantly annoyed by the fact that they lived in a tourist town with tourists.

Ilya inhaled deeply, as though the air itself were a reward. “York,” he announced, linking his arm with Shane’s. “City of Vikings, Romans, ghosts, and chocolate.”

Shane blinked. “That’s a lot.”

“York is a lot,” Ilya agreed cheerfully. “Come on. We walk.”

Ilya hired lockers at the station to store their bags before they stepped out into the streets.

Shane had visited old cities before. There were some beautiful historic parts of Montreal and Ottawa, and he had visited London as a child. But York was a different kind of ‘historic’ altogether: like a movie set in places. The streets twisted and curled like narrow ribbons, threaded through buildings that leaned at improbable angles.

Shane stared at everything.

“I feel like I’m in a children’s book,” he murmured.

“You are,” Ilya agreed. “York is for children and romantics.”

They crossed the road toward the city walls, the ancient stone stretching in a long curve around the centre. Shane touched the rough surface with his fingertips, feeling the warmth of the sun baked into it. “This is… old.”

“Very old,” Ilya confirmed. “Older than Canada.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “The First Nations people might disagree.”

“Mr Pedantic,” Ilya grinned, delighted. “Point conceded. But these walls are older than the modern Western understanding of the country of Canada.” He raised his eyebrows challengingly at Shane, who laughed.

They continued, walking past the walls, ancient gate towers and cobbled streets. Shane found himself repeatedly distracted by tiny things: brass plaques, carved doorways, flowers spilling from window boxes, the occasional glimpse of the towering Minster between buildings. He stopped repeatedly to take photographs.

Ilya teased him for ‘doing a tourist face’ before pulling him down The Shambles, a street that had enthusiastically committed itself to being ‘whimsical’. Shane raised his eyebrows at Ilya, before joining everyone else in photographing the crooked houses, tiny shops that sold wizard hats and ancient swinging signs.

He watched as a family walked past, the children chattering excitedly before asking Ilya, “Why do we go to so many places with wizards?”

Ilya laughed and continued walking, Shane following behind, his head constantly twisting to see the sights. “It feels like being on a film set.”

“Which film?”

“I mean, like, all of them at some point.”

Ilya grabbed his hand and pulled him down a narrow passage between two buildings,  barely wide enough for a single person, ducking his head to avoid a low, wonky wooden beam. The walls were close enough that Shane could touch both sides with his elbows and the air smelled faintly of stone, damp, and the distant sweetness of fudge. The passageway led to another, twisted left, then right, then left again, opening suddenly into a tiny courtyard.

“Do you have a plan?” he asked Ilya. “Where are we?”

“The Snickleways,” Ilya replied, as though this were a perfectly normal word. “Tiny secret paths. Very twisty. Very fun.”

“‘Snickleways’ is not a real word.” Shane huffed and Ilya tilted his head in consideration.

“Ah, I see you want real grown up names, Shane Hollander of Canada. Come”

He led Shane through more passages until they emerged in front of a street sign:

WHIP-MA-WHOP-MA-GATE.

Shane stopped dead. He read the sign, then read it again.

“That's a real street?”

“Yes.”

“That's the name?”

“Yes.”

“Whip-Ma-Whop-Ma-Gate?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Ilya spread his hands. “There is a sign there. Lots of theories, but nobody really knows. ‘Gate’ means street in Norwegian. So, the vikings left their mark on a Roman relic perhaps.”

Shane stared at him then took out his phone.

“I need photographic evidence.”

Ilya stood beside the sign with exaggerated solemnity while Shane took a photograph, before he angled the phone to capture both of them for a grinning Whip-Ma-Whop-Ma-Gate selfie.

York felt… enchanted. Not magical, but rather very charming. Shane wanted to explore more, but he was definitely starting to feel wobbly, the sensation humming under his ribs. He put a hand on a building to steady himself, taking a gulp of air.

Ilya noticed, of course.

“You need food,” he declared.

Shane’s stomach curdled slightly.

“I don’t know that I can eat anything else fried, or spicy or, you know, just potatoes.” Shane protested.

“Then let’s get you some vitamins,” Ilya insisted. “Come.”

He dragged Shane into a food shop called Marks & Spencer, which was bustling with shoppers clutching meal deals and bags of pink pig sweets. Ilya moved with confidence through the alien British products to a takeaway aisle and, after browsing for a moment, Shane had to admit that Marks & Spencer picnic food was pretty fucking awesome. 

Despite the slight churning in his stomach, he carefully considered the many different protein pots and salad bowls on offer, before choosing one for lunch. Ilya then insisted they gather fruit and a pack of the ‘Percy Pig’ sweets. He also dithered for a while in front of a ‘Colin the Caterpillar’ cake before Shane dragged him away from any more unnecessary cartoon animal food choices. They paid, gathered wooden cutlery and walked to the ancient stone walls to sit and eat their lunch in the sun.

They sat on the wall, legs dangling over the edge, eating fruit and protein bowls while the wind tugged gently at their clothes. The spot gave them a view of rooftops, church spires, and the enormous silhouette of York Minster rising like a stone ship above the skyline.

Life drifted along the streets in slow, meandering currents: families with guidebooks, couples holding hands. A ghost tour passed beneath them, the guide wearing a long black cloak and gesturing dramatically at a pub window while a group of tourists nodded solemnly.

A man in full Viking costume strode past the ghost tour, his historically inaccurate horned helmet gleaming in the sun. He paused to adjust his fur cape, then continued on his way with confidence..

A busker played a soft tune on a violin near the river, the notes drifting up toward the walls like smoke.

The Minster towered above everything, pale stone glowing in the sunlight. Shane stared at it for a long moment, feeling something quiet and warm unfurl in his chest.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured.

“What is?” Ilya asked, popping a strawberry into his mouth.

“All of it,” Shane said. “The Minster. The walls. The Viking. The ghost tour. The… Percy Pigs. It’s kind of like the city is showing off.”

Ilya grinned. “York likes to impress visitors. Probably angry it isn’t still the capital city.”

Shane quirked a small smile. “Malcolm would probably go to battle for it.”

Ilya nodded. “He would probably win.”

They finished eating in comfortable silence, watching the real life characters perform their stories. A man in a tweed jacket cycled past with a basket full of flowers; a woman in a long dress sketched the Minster from a bench.

Shane breathed in the cool air, letting the moment settle.

The day was holding him.

York was holding him.

Ilya was holding him.

And then, as though the city had decided that the beautiful moment was complete and the narrative needed to progress, a group of children in matching T-shirts appeared on the walkway, chattering loudly.

One girl stopped mid-sentence, stared at Ilya, and gasped.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “It’s him.”

Another child turned. “Professor Rozanov!” and the entire group swarmed.

Ilya brightened instantly, as though someone had plugged him into a power source. “Hello!” he beamed. “Are you learning interesting things today?”

“Yes!” they shouted.

“Good,” Ilya said. “I hope you are listening to your teachers. Teachers are like quarks, yes? Without quarks, everything would fall apart. Like your school trip if you do not listen to your teachers.”

The teacher grinned and the children gathered around him, peppering him with questions. Ilya answered each one with theatrical seriousness, waving his hands, miming particle collisions, and at one point using a strawberry to demonstrate gravity wells.

Shane watched him, his chest both tightening and expanding. He took a quick, impulsive photograph of Ilya as he talked, backlit by the sun and framed by the minster.

He was so beautiful.

And brilliant.

And kind.

And so hot.

And Shane was falling.

Hard.

As Ilya explained black holes using a satsuma, Shane noticed something else.

A man stood a few metres away, completely still, watching with intent.

He was old, like storybook-old, with wild white hair that curled around his ears, a tweed suit, and a gold pocket watch tucked into his waistcoat. His glasses were metal and round, perched precariously on the end of his nose.

He looked like he had stepped directly out of a children’s fantasy series.

And he was staring at Ilya with an expression Shane couldn’t decipher: fondness, pride, something like amusement, something like sadness.

Then Ilya turned and registered his presence.

The old man raised his hand.

“Ilya,” he said warmly, the name a blur of two soft syllables, not the three flat syllables that Shane had been using. Was Shane saying Ilya’s name with a Yorkshire accent?

Not important. He concentrated on the scene that was unfolding.

Ilya froze.

His entire expression changed: shock, joy, disbelief, something deeper and older flickering across his features.

“Professor?” he whispered.

The old man smiled and for one extraordinary second, Ilya looked like a teenager, before he hurried over to the old man and threw his arms around him.

The professor hugged him back, his eyes shining and damp.

Ilya pulled back slightly with a wide, slightly shaky smile.

“I thought maybe I would come and see you later.”

The old man laughed, before patting Ilya slightly awkwardly on the shoulder.

“But of course, my dear boy. You must come for tea now if you can. Heisenberg will be quite beside herself.” He patted aimlessly at his pockets, his hair, and then his nose, before taking a step back.

Ilya reached out, grabbing Shane’s arm and pulling him in front of the professor, his posture upright and slightly formal.

“Professor Yaffle?” he said, clearing his throat, “This is my… my Shane.”

And Shane felt the world tilt slightly. He smiled happily at the old man, who regarded him with twinkling eyes, before nodding his head slightly.

“Nice to meet you, ‘My Shane’. Come to tea.”

Shane grinned at Ilya brightly and followed Professor Yaffle to tea.

*

York had completely prepared Shane for Professor Yaffle’s house, so he wasn’t in the least bit surprised when he stepped through the front door.

He lived on a street called Ogleforth, because of course, in a narrow, crooked townhouse that laughed in the face of straight lines. Its red brick front leaned slightly towards the street, squeezed between two taller houses, with a battered blue door, and windows crowded with plants, books, and objects that Shane couldn't identify.

Inside, the hallway and stairs were crammed with books: in shelves, piled on the stairs, lying open on the side tables. The carpet and wallpaper were both a patterned, deep wine red, shrouding the house in a sense of mystery and faded glamour. There were large maps framed on the walls, as well as displays of knots, architectural blueprints and darkened oil paintings of Serious People. They hung their coats by the door, next to an alarming number of hats and Shane twitched a small smile at the umbrellas and walking sticks gathered together expectantly.

The stairs were uneven and warped, with a faded mahogany banister curling up and around, out of sight. A large, rubbery leaved plant brushed against his face as he followed the others into the living room.

Mismatched furniture, more books stacked and loitering on every available surface, and a large grandfather clock leaning at a different angle to the walls, creating a slightly strange, undulating sensation in Shane if he looked at it for too long. In a glass trophy case on the top of a bookshelf was a stuffed lizard of some sort, with an anxious expression on its face.

Shane fully understood now where Ilya had acquired his Bramble Cottage Guide to Decorating and Home Furnishing skills. He wondered if the stuffed lizard had a name. Larry? Lizzy? Lulu?

“Ah,” Professor Yaffle’s voice broke through his musing, “I see you’ve spotted Kant.”

The lizard slowly turned his head and gazed at Shane for a moment, before a long tongue erupted out his mouth and dragged over its eye, which then swivelled away.

Shane yelped. Not stuffed then.

“Yes, I inherited him from a dear friend of mine. Pennington, Dean of Philosophy at Brasenose. Poor chap. Tragic end really. Punts are not to be trifled with.” He paused for a moment, lost in a thought before he clapped his hands together brightly. “I shall prepare tea. You must choose My Shane. If we leave it to Ilya here, it will just be regular black tea.” He laughed and Shane felt obliged to join in. “Let’s see, I have Lapsang Souchong, er a lovely Darjeeling, Lady Grey, Jasmine Green tea of course.” Of course. “And er, let me see. Some Genmaicha that a doctoral student gifted me last year.”

Dear god, that was a confusing tea-related choice. Shane glanced at Ilya who just gave him a small smile and raised his eyebrows.

“I’d erm, I’d love to try the Genmaicha if that’s okay?”

The professor looked delighted and pottered into the kitchen to prepare. “What a wonderful choice. It won't take me long. From Japan you know. Green leaves. Made with toasted rice. Such a lovely surprise gift.”

He continued his slightly chaotic conversations as the kettle boiled and Shane leaned against the doorway, watching as Ilya pulled out a tray, floral cups and saucers and rifled through drawers before removing three small silver balls on chains. The professor loaded each of the balls with a scoop of the green tea and rice, before laying one into each cup. Ilya carried the tray into the living room, placing it on a low table. The professor followed, carrying a flask of hot water, which he poured carefully into the three cups when they had settled.

The steam curled lazily into the air, the tea leaves in the antique tea balls in each cup staining the water a golden green hue. Shane watched it darken, and tugged at the silver chain, moving the tea ball around the cup. The tea had a fresh but nutty scent to it that Shane found incredibly pleasing.

Throughout, Professor Yaffle talked to them about the house, the city, his books, his daughters, his grandchildren, the weather, a radio show. Brief, disjointed anecdotes that flowed with enthusiasm and expression. His pale blue eyes were lively and teasing and his hair wafted gently as he moved his head. Ilya had a reply for every question and a comment for every observation. Shane sipped his tea and watched, remembering Ilya’s constant whimsical stories and observations over the last week.

Yes, Shane could definitely see some part of the Ilya Rozanov Origin Story coming from this space.

And Ilya turned constantly toward the professor, like a sunflower following the path of the sun, seeking warmth.

In the distance, Shane heard the soft chirrup of a cat.

“Aah ‘My Shane’. I hope you like cats?” Professor Yaffle interrupted his thoughts, his white eyebrows raised and his face crinkled in a smile. “I’m afraid that if you don't, Heisenberg will sense it. A cat’s superpower I’m afraid. To detect the one person in the room who wants nothing to do with them and then attach themselves.” He laughed. “Heisenberg will ignore poor Ilya, who wants nothing more than to squeeze her with love.”

“She is squeezable. But grumpy.” Ilya agreed.

Shane was not a cat person. But then, he wasn’t an alpaca person either. And Mabel had warmed up to him. Or he’d warmed up to her. Something like that. So maybe a cat wouldn’t be bad. He didn’t think he was allergic. Maybe a small cat, curled up on his lap, purring softly would be… nice.

A yowl from the hallway announced the arrival of Heisenberg. Ilya put his teacup on the tray and opened his arms wide.

“Heisenberg!” he crooned. “Come to my knee.”

Shane rolled his eyes, before an enormous animal pounced onto his lap, heavy, and inelegant, knocking the air out of his lungs. His mouth was immediately full of fur and sharp claws attached themselves to his jeans. He held his cup and saucer out to the sides, his arms stretched wide and tried to communicate with Ilya. Unfortunately the giant clawball that had claimed him was blocking his view and he simply sat, in no small amount of pain, with his arms held out and a face full of fur.

Ilya reached to take the saucer and cup grumbling, “I knew she would love you, Shane Hollander. You are so lucky.”

Shane didn’t feel lucky. He felt targeted. This was the cat?

Heisenberg started to purr, a loud, rumbling vibration that echoed through her chest and out her mouth. She continued to knead at Shane’s jeans, picking her claws out with a small pop, before returning them, pushing harder and deeper into the meat of his legs.

It was fucking agony. But Shane was far too polite to say anything. He attempted to find her paws and stop the attack, but realised he was too wary of the sharp nails, and he backed off.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Professor Yaffle called.

Shane had absolutely no idea. His vision was mostly obscured by fur and all of his senses were currently focused on the claws shredding his jeans and leg. The purr vibrated against his face and the cat turned her head to drag her cheek against his nose.

“She’s scenting you!” the professor announced cheerfully.

”You are so lucky Shane.” Ilya added enviously.

Yep. Lucky Shane grimaced.

“Norwegian Forest Cat.” Professor Yaffle continued. “Quite rare in England. But she came to me from a dear, dear friend when he passed. Poor Fothergill. Chair of Scandinavian Studies at Pembroke. Quite a shock at the time. They say the room is haunted now. I believe the freshers have a dare to spend the night there and nobody ever passes.”

Shane was frozen in an iceberg of social indecision, whilst Ilya laughed loudly.

Eventually the cat finished turning in slow, heavy circles on Shane’s lap, her claws softening his muscles to provide a comfortable resting spot, and she thumped down onto his lap. He instinctively held up a hand to support her back and stop her from falling, and she immediately rested her entire weight against his hand. 

God, she was heavy.

The professor and Ilya continued to talk in half remembered anecdotes, ridiculous urban myths and ramblings about people they may or may not have both met, and Shane continued to support the weight of the Norwegian Forest cat that was steadily growing heavier.

*

The tea had settled Shane’s stomach and he was now curled into the large leather chair, still supporting Heisenberg’s whole weight with his hand. He was strong and fit, but his arm was really starting to cramp. Professor Yaffle was sitting back, steepling his fingers and regarding Shane with bright eyes.

“So,” he said, “do you wish to know secrets about our Ilya?”

Ilya groaned softly. “Professor…”

“Oh hush,” Yaffle said, waving a hand. “I’m an old man. My primary function is to tell stories nowadays.”

He leaned forward conspiratorially. “He arrived at Oxford at seventeen you know, with the most alarming amount of confidence I had ever seen in a first year. He actually corrected me at one of his first lectures!”

“I did not mean to be rude,” Ilya muttered.

“You weren’t rude,” Yaffle corrected cheerfully. “You were brilliant, and you terrified me. You won almost every departmental prize we had.”

Shane’s eyebrows rose. “You were his tutor?”

“Oh yes,” Yaffle said. “Ilya was my star pupil and my headache.”

Ilya looked down into his tea, cheeks faintly pink.

“The department at Balliol practically begged him to stay and complete his Masters at the college.” Yaffle continued, warming to the story. “But, at the end of his Bachelors, I left Oxford and moved back to York. Couldn’t resist it. This city has a way of tugging at one’s toes. And Ilya…” he gestured grandly “…followed me.”

Shane blinked. “He followed you?”

Ilya shrugged, embarrassed. “Is a good physics department here. I wanted to do my Masters here.”

“Idiot.” Yaffle said fondly. “Came to York to do his Masters instead of staying at Oxford. He rented the room in the attic.”

Shane looked up at the ceiling automatically.

“And he paid his way,” Yaffle continued, “by tutoring my grandchildren. Two of the loudest creatures ever produced by the British education system.”

“They were very loud,” Ilya agreed.

“Very,” the professor said. “But Ilya was patient and kind. And he made physics fun. He made it alive.”

Shane smiled. “That sounds familiar.”

Yaffle beamed. “And that, that is where his video programme was born.”

Shane’s breath caught. “His… video programme?”

Ilya caught his eye and grinned.

“Oh yes,” Yaffle said. “In this very room. On that very sofa. He was trying to explain elements to my granddaughter, who was seven and obsessed with knitting. And suddenly, bam!, he had a whole universe made of wool.”

Ilya rubbed the back of his neck. “It was silly.”

“It was brilliant,” Professor Yaffle corrected. “It’s award-winning and innovative. Children adore it. Adults adore it. I adore it.”

Shane looked at Ilya, really looked at him: the soft curls, the bright eyes and gentle hands. The warmth that radiated from him like sunlight.

“You’re incredible,” Shane said quietly.

Yaffle clapped his hands. “He is incredible. And stubborn, and occasionally infuriating. But brilliant, my dear boy.”

Ilya swallowed, before standing abruptly.

“Hobnobs,” he announced. “I know you have chocolate Hobnobs. I will find them and eat all of them because you’re embarrassing me and Heisenberg has forsaken me.”

He marched out of the room, his eyes maybe a little bit wet and tapped the professor on the shoulder as he left.

Professor Yaffle watched him leave and sighed. “It’ll take him ages. I’ve hidden them somewhere new.”

Shane smiled at him and gently stroked the enormous purring clawball, feeling his left hand slowly die under the weight of supporting it.

The professor looked towards the door that Ilya had disappeared through and shook his head slightly.

“It's such a shame about what happened, of course. With the doctorate.”

Shane stilled momentarily, his hand pausing on Heisenberg’s back. His eyes flicked towards the door and then back to the professor.

Utilising his most casual of casual tones he gently nudged, “What was a shame?”

And then immediately felt terrible.

If there was a deep, dark, and tragic backstory hidden somewhere, then that was Ilya’s story to tell. Shane was unfortunately very familiar with having another person dictate the story of your life and decide how it should be told. He would not be the person that did that to Ilya.

“I’m sorry. Please don’t tell me. Ilya can tell me in his own time, if that’s what he wants.”

Professor Yaffle turned back to Shane, his expression slightly surprised.

“Ah, no of course.” he agreed. “That is indeed Ilya’s story. I forget myself sometimes. I love to tell a tale or two.” He beamed, watching Shane and Heisenberg. “Maybe you can tell me a tale ‘My Shane’. What has brought you into our orbit?”

Shane smiled. “Nothing as exciting as Moscow, Oxford and YouTube I’m afraid. I just…” he turned his head and looked out of the front window, at the crooked buildings across the street. “…I just wanted some space. Some quiet. I’m from Canada and things had gone a bit, erm, you know, a bit out of shape for me.” He sighed. “I just wanted to go somewhere safe. So I got on a plane to England and ended up in an isolated cottage in the Yorkshire Moors. I was going to be alone, and probably be a bit tragic.” He laughed and Heisenberg dug her talons into his leg in protest. “Instead, I found Ilya and I haven't had a minute alone to mope ever since. I’ve played cricket, I’ve taken an alpaca for a walk and I’ve climbed a hay bale mountain.” He looked at Professor Yaffle and felt tears pricking at his eyes. “I think you’re right: I did come into his orbit and now, erm, now his gravity is sort of, erm pulling me along and our particles have sort of passed and changed each other. You know, not so cold.” He trailed off helplessly. It had all made perfect sense yesterday at the lecture.

“I see you aren’t a physicist.” Professor Yaffle said kindly.

“No, no. I’m a hockey player. Ice hockey.”

The professor's eyes lit up in delight. “Well then I was wrong. You are a physicist.”

“No, I don’t think so?”

“You are a practical physicist my dear boy. Forces, angles, motion, velocity. You calculate all these things, and more, at incredible speed. Tell me, are you a good ice hockey player?”

Shane attempted to be humble, but seriously... “Yeah, yeah I’m pretty good.”

“Then by default you must be a rather good physicist as well.” Professor Yaffle beamed. “Not knowing the vocabulary doesn’t make you any less skilled.”

Shane smiled and then glanced at the doorway, to see Ilya leaning there, a soft expression in his eyes and an open packet of chocolate Hobnobs in his hand. 

“One more cup of tea and then we must catch our train.” He announced, moving into the room.

Shane’s left arm cramped and spasmed, whilst Heisenberg heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction and settled further onto his arm, sharp talons lazily and sleepily piercing his jeans and thighs.

Ilya fussed with hot water, antique silver tea balls and Japanese tea leaves. 

Professor Yaffle regaled them with tall tales and whimsical memories.

And Shane let his arm slowly die under the weight of a vicious Norwegian Forest cat.

*

They arrived back at Bramble Cottage just as the sky had softened into evening, the dying light turning the stone walls gold and the garden into a patchwork of shadows and bronze. The air smelled of salt and heather, and Shane felt the wild thing inside of him stretch and sigh the moment he stepped out of the car. 

Ilya unlocked the door with his usual flourish, pushing it open with his shoulder and stepping aside so that Shane could enter first. Shane hesitated for a heartbeat because the cottage felt different now. Familiar and safe. More like a home than an escape.

The cottage was warm and the faint smell of tea still clung to the air. The mismatched furniture, the patchwork blankets, the crooked bookshelf, the reading nook. He looked at the toy Yorkshire Terrier sitting on the mantelpiece and at Freddy Fish greeting him with joy. Probably.

Ilya followed him in, closing the door gently behind them. He didn’t say anything at first. He just stood, watching Shane with an expression that was soft and unreadable. Shane’s stomach fluttered.

“You look better, but tired,” Ilya said finally, voice low and warm. “Sit.”

Shane sat on the sofa and Ilya dropped down beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and sighed, tipping his head back against the cushions. 

“It was another good day?” he asked softly.

Shane nodded. “Yeah. It was.”

Ilya shifted slightly, his knee brushing Shane’s. He tilted his head, curls falling into his eyes, and said quietly, “I’m glad you came with me on the trip.”

Shane swallowed. “Me too.”

Ilya’s voice dropped, soft and sincere. “I’m glad you came to Bramble Cottage.”

“Me too.”

Ilya’s eyes grew hooded and his gaze shifted to stare at Shane’s mouth. “I’m glad that Sveta made… a mistake with the booking.”

Shane let a small smile ghost over his lips. 

“Yeah. Me too.”

They stayed, pressed against each other in the darkness of the tiny cottage. Outside a sheep bleated, answered by a hunting owl.

Ilya shifted his hand to brush against Shane’s, trailing a long finger gently back and forth against Shane’s palm.

“In the club,” he began, his voice deep and maybe a little tentative, “when you kissed me…”

He trailed off for a moment and Shane realised that they were standing at the edge of something. 

“It wasn’t the alcohol.” Shane replied. “I don’t even think I was drunk. It was, you know, all of it: the food, the drink, the nerves maybe. I’m really sorry I got sick. But yes, I meant it. The kiss.”

Ilya smiled, “No more sorries for that. They hurt my brain.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Shane’s hand twitched and their fingers brushed together, before curling and grasping each other. Ilya kept his gaze locked on Shane’s before leaning in slowly to press their lips together. 

Shane’s eyes dropped closed and he sighed, opening his mouth and brushing his tongue gently against Ilya's. 

The kiss stayed gentle for a few seconds, long enough for Ilya to feel certain that they were together in the dance and then it deepened, his hand reaching up to pull Shane closer and licking deeper into his mouth. 

Shane moaned at the back of his throat and grabbed clumsily at whatever he could reach: Ilya’s curls, his arms, his hoodie, tugging in frustration. Ilya leaned back, pulling his top off before falling against Shane again, pushing him deeper into the sofa, his mouth wet and hard and hot against him.

Shane placed his hand against Ilya’s chest, stopping him for a moment, while he scrambled and tried to pull his sweatshirt off, Ilya helping him and throwing it on the floor. Shane cringed a little inside, but tried to ignore it, before diving back into the kiss. Ilya bit at his lower lip, before licking a stripe down his neck, grazing with his teeth and making Shane arch up into his body, their hands stroking over pecs and arms and stomachs.

Ilya bit hard against Shane’s neck, sucking at the flesh and Shane moaned, his eyes flying open and catching sight of the Yorkshire Terrier toy. Oh, weird.

Ilya moved lower, dragging his mouth down Shane's chest, his tongue swiping at the a nipple and Shane turned his head away from the puppy, only to lock eyes with Freddy Fish’s outraged disapproval. 

So weird.

Yeah, he was hard and really fucking ready, but there were too many characters watching for him to be able to relax. 

He steeled himself and tried to focus on Ilya, who had dragged his hand down Shane’s stomach and was now moving to cup Shane through his trousers, his lazy, spaced eyes moving to check that things were still good. By the way his hand stopped moving, Shane realised that maybe things were not still good.

“Is okay?” Ilya asked, concerned.

“No, yeah. No. Still okay.” Shane swallowed. “It’s just…” His eyes moved to the kitchen table. Coach Coconut stared at him, his thick Sharpie pen eyebrows arched in disapproval. 

Fucks sake.

“There’s a lot of… things watching. I’m feeling a little… exposed I think.”

Ilya frowned and looked round the room, as if expecting to see a row of judges with scorecards. He followed the direction of Shane’s gaze to Coach Coconut and huffed out a laugh.

“Upstairs,” he decided.

“Upstairs.” Shane agreed, grateful for the chance to retrieve his tops and hastily fold them as they climbed the uneven stairs, bending to avoid the murder beam.

In the bedroom, Ilya turned to him, a lazy smile on his face. He was so beautiful and Shane’s mouth dried up instantly. He placed his clothes on a chair and tried to take some confident, seductive steps towards Ilya. 

Instead he lost patience and thumped urgently against him, their chests pressed together, his hands gripping tightly in the curls and he kissed his way hard into Ilya’s mouth. Ilya grabbed his legs, picking him up to throw him onto the bed.

Fucking show off.

Shane grinned and unbuttoned his jeans, pushing them down and off with his boxers, folding them as Ilya finished undressing. Ilya saw the housekeeping moves, and his face split in a wide smile. 

“Better?”

Shane nodded. “Better.”

He lay back, against the pillow and watched as Ilya prowled forward and leaned on the end of the bed. Their eyes connected for a drawn out moment before he bent forward and kissed Shane’s ankle.

Slowly he moved up Shane’s body, a kiss against his shin, tongue caressing a small circle. Lips pressed against his knee, his thigh, where he paused and bit the sensitive flesh. 

Shane’s head fell back on the pillow as Ilya traced his tongue against his cock, before swallowing him in a single move, resting his face against Shane’s skin, his tongue lazy but firm. He sucked hard, his cheeks hollowed, his eyes hooded.

“Fuck,” Shane muttered, turning his head to the side, where he locked eyes with Boris Junior and Adoption Certificate Mabel. 

He tried to ignore them, he really did, but a ridiculously embarrassed flush crept onto his neck and cheeks. 

As if he were perfectly attuned to every small flicker of Shane’s soul, Ilya pulled off Shane's cock with a pop and looked at the bedside memorabilia. He laughed and crawled up the bed, flopping his body on top of Shane’s before he reached out and turned the toy hedgehog to face the wall and pulled the certificate down flat on the table.

“Is there anything else watching Shane Hollander?” he grinned. “Any spiders you have made friends with? An owl you have adopted who sits at the window at night? Any more woodland creatures who will object to me making you come?”

Shane barked out a laugh and punched Ilya’s shoulder.

“I think that’s all of them.”

Ilya hummed and looked carefully around the room. 

“You are sure? I am happy to stop again, but maybe you would like to move forward a bit, hmm?” He waggled his eyebrows, smacking a noisy kiss on Shane’s lips.

“Fuck you.”

“Would rather fuck you. But if the supporting characters are all safely hidden, can I kiss you properly again?”

Shane grinned, relaxed, happy and horny. Was sex supposed to be fun? That didn’t fully match up with his previous experiences. 

“Yeah. I’d like that. Please.”

Ilya’s smile turned lazy and sexy again, and he leaned forward, licking against Shane’s lips and demanding entry. The kiss turned deeper and wetter, Shane gripping Ilya’s ass in his hands, desperately trying to create friction against their hard bodies. 

He felt greedy and a little dizzy as the heat caught between them instantly, his body rocking against Ilya’s and soft desperate moans pulled from his throat, swallowed by Ilya’s dirty kisses.

One of Ilya’s hands gripped his jaw, turning his head to deepen the kiss. His other hand squeezed against Shane’s pecs, pinching the skin and his hips rocked maddeningly slow, dragging his cock against Shane’s. 

Shane pressed his hips up harder and tried to move his hand between their bodies, but Ilya held him down, and moved slower.

“No, like this first time.” he whispered in a hoarse voice and Shane sobbed slightly, his eyelids drifting close, seeking the friction against the maddening, slow drag of body against body.

As the pressure built inside, their movements became more ragged and urgent and Ilya kissed him hard, open-mouthed, before pressing their foreheads together. 

“Fuck, Shane.” Ilya groaned, breathing into his mouth, his body clenched, almost in pain. Shane rocked harder against him, raising his legs, to wrap them tight around Ilya’s thighs, their breathing jagged and harsh. 

“Ilya,” he breathed as he came, surging up against the hard body that held him safe. 

Ilya clenched his fingers tight in Shane’s hair as he followed him, his face pressed hard against his sweaty neck.

For a long moment after, neither of them moved.

The room was quiet except for their breathing, ragged at first, then slowly settling into something soft and shared. Ilya’s head lay against Shane’s shoulder, his curls damp and tickling his skin, arm tight around Shane’s stomach as though he couldn’t quite let go yet.

Shane lay there, chest rising and falling, feeling the wild thing inside him curl up and purr. His body felt warm and loose, his mind drifting in a loose hazy space. He turned his head slightly, brushing his cheek against Ilya’s hair.

Ilya made a small, content sound and shifted just enough to press a lazy kiss to Shane’s collarbone.

“Shane Hollander from Canada,” he murmured, voice rough and soft at the same time, “thank you.”

Shane huffed out a laugh, the sound quiet and disbelieving. “I think I should be the one saying thank you.”

“Mm,” Ilya agreed, nuzzling closer. “Quite right.”

Shane lifted a hand and threaded his fingers gently through Ilya’s curls, feeling the warmth of his scalp, the softness of the strands. Ilya melted under the touch, his whole body relaxing, his breath evening out.

After a stretched, sinuous moment Ilya shifted again, sliding up just enough to look at Shane properly. His eyes were soft, hooded, still a little dazed. He reached out and brushed his thumb across Shane’s cheek, slow and tender.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

Shane nodded. “Yeah. I’m… good.”

Ilya’s face shifted into a small, private smile that made Shane’s chest tighten. He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to Shane’s lips, nothing like the frantic heat from before. Just soft and warm.

“Shane?”

“Yes?”

“Be honest.” Ilya whispered. “How crazy are you going right now because you need to go and shower?”

Shane let out a groan he hadn’t realised was coiled in his throat.

“Oh my fucking god, so much. So crazy.”

Ilya laughed and knelt up slowly, their bodies making sticky, squelching noises as their chests separated. Shane snorted out an undignified laugh, which set them both off giggling, and they moved through the slightly awkward, messy and inelegant aftermath of having had a really good time. 

Afterwards, they settled again, their bodies tangled together, Shane curled against Ilya’s chest feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Ilya’s hand found his waist, fingers tracing idle patterns against his skin, slow and absentminded. Shane’s eyelids grew heavy and their breaths synced.

“Shane?” Ilya murmured in a sleep heavy voice.

“Mm?”

“I like you.”

Shane smiled as he drifted off to sleep.

“I like you too.”

Chapter End Notes

In Next Week's Episode... by 'eck, there be a wedding in the fair village of Nettlethwaite, and all are invited.

Also (Edit straight away:)) THANK YOU to everyone who leaves their comments every week. I feel like we are a little book club, and I genuinely love reading them. I sometimes try to reply, but then feel so cringeingly awkward that I need to go and lie down in a dark room for a while:)

Chapter 9: Lucy Ackroyd and Max Oxtoby

Chapter Summary

Previously on... Shane and Ilya went to York and met Ilya's old professor.

Chapter Notes

There was an annoying fly, or something, buzzing around Shane’s head.

“Shane? Shane?”

He groaned, his eyes stuck shut, his lower back aching. He attempted to roll over and stretch, but he couldn't seem to coordinate his limbs properly.

“Shane? Shane?”

He attempted to open his eyes, but gave up, wincing at the brightness and the way his eyelashes seemed to have been woven together to create a finger trap puzzle.

“Shane? Shane?”

Stupid fly that knew his name. He tried to yawn, but couldn't because his chest wouldn't expand enough, cutting him off halfway through his attempt. Fuck. An aborted yawn was awful. Now his mouth felt stretchy wrong and his lungs were all crumpled up like an accordion.

“Shane? Shane?”

The fly was not letting up and Shane tried to wave his arm around to bat it away. He blindly collided with a solid object that grunted slightly at the impact. Heh. That would teach it.

But then his fingers lingered and he felt curly softness between them.

‘Little Ilya’ he thought, remembering the lonely goose in his curly glory, all on his own at the small pond.

Well, now his heart was a bit sad. He clumsily patted his hand against Little Ilya’s feathers, hopefully offering him some sort of comfort.

“Shane? Shane?” Little Ilya honked insistently at him.

“Mm sleeping.” He slurred, continuing to pat at the goose.

A finger poked his cheek.

“Shane? Shane?”

He tried to roll over again, to bury his face in the cool pillow, but his body was stuck. And heavy. And a bit achy. He felt as if he was swimming through warm honey: heavy and sticky, but sweet.

“Fuck’s sake, Shane. Wake up enough so that I can blow you.”

Shane’s body, mind, and libido slammed into alert harmony in a nanosecond.

He blinked down at Ilya’s blurry face, his gorgeous body spread lazily across his own, pinning him to the bed.

Oh yeah. That made more sense. His nervous system hastily came back online and he wanted. Very much.

“Okay, I’m awake enough.” he croaked.

Ilya winked and slid down his body.

Shane’s head fell back against the pillow as Ilya bit and licked at his inner thigh, before dragging his mouth down Shane’s cock. His instinctive, helpless thrusts and pushes were restricted by Ilya holding down his hips and Shane arched his back slightly as the rhythm built and his breath stuttered. Looking down, he saw Ilya watching him, pupils dark and intent. Shane was used to closing his eyes during blow jobs, finding that the sight of his girlfriends had been slightly distracting and he’d needed to focus on staying hard. This was different. The sight of Ilya’s flushed face, swallowing him down, staring back at him with an unfocused gaze was the sexiest fucking thing he had even seen. His climax caught him by surprise, a sudden pulsing, with no time to warn Ilya, who closed his eyes and swallowed.

He felt a flash of embarrassment at how quick and hard that had been, but it dissolved rapidly as Ilya prowled up his body, a smug smile on his face and planted a loud, wet kiss on Shane’s lips.

“Ugh.” he complained. “Morning breath.”

Ilya laughed and sat up, straddling him.

“Brush your teeth so I can kiss you, then.”

Ilya slid out of bed and sauntered into the en suite, a satisfied smile on his face. His curls were flattened down and his lips were slightly red from the kissing last night. He looked… soft. How somebody with abs like that could look soft, Shane didn’t fully understand, but there it was.

Canada Shane would probably be embarrassed and insecure right now.

Fuck it. 

Yorkshire Shane was sassy.

He heard the shower turn on and waited a few seconds before jumping out of bed, to hastily brush his teeth and then see if the shower could fit two people.

*

The shower had not, in fact, comfortably fit two large, healthy men. But there had been enough space for Shane to press up against Ilya, and stroke him until he came hard against Shane’s stomach, their kisses wet and soapy, so he was counting that as a win.

Now they were at the little breakfast table, with the red tablecloth. The beehive honey pot  and the toad shaped teapot were on the table, next to Coach Coconut, whose eyes even Sassy Shane wouldn’t meet.

Shane tapped his fingers against the table, organising a list of Very Important Topics in his head, that he felt they should probably talk about.

Ilya placed the Whitby Dracula mug in front of him, filled with bitter tea, and then pulled out warm breadcakes, butter, jam, and cheese for breakfast. They ate in comfortable silence for a while before Shane approached the first Very Important Topic. Sassy Shane.

“Ilya?” he began. “How do you say your name?”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t listen when I introduced myself? Rude.”

“When you introduced yourself I thought you were a grocery shopping British serial killer, and I only had Freddy to defend myself with. I wasn’t in the right space to remember things like Russian name pronunciation.” 

“Il-ya.” he slurred the two syllables softly and Shane frowned.

“You’ve been listening to me say ‘Eel-ee-yur’ all week. Why didn’t you say anything?” 

Ilya shrugged a shoulder. “Was cute.”

Shane attempted the name a few times until Ilya nodded, with a grin, and Shane chanted it in his head. He was worried the Yorkshire version was lodged too firmly in his psyche, but he would try.

As they tidied and cleaned the tiny kitchen together, Shane thought about how to phrase his next Very Important question. But Ilya kissed the back of his neck, then placed his hands on Shane’s hips, pulling him back against his chest. Shane's head fell back against Ilya’s shoulder, and he titled his head, giving him more access to suck and bite into the skin. Shane moaned and Ilya’s damp hand pushed down inside his pyjama bottoms and cupped him firmly. Shane’s hips rocked against him and he felt Ilya’s hard cock pushing against his ass.

He turned in Ilya’s arms, frantically seeking a messy, wet kiss, their hands and clothes getting tangled in the process. It didn’t matter. Everything felt good to Shane’s overstimulated skin, even the clashing of teeth and accidental treading on toes.

They stumbled the short distance to the living room, mouths connected, hands pulling and squeezing as they fell against the sofa. 

“Upstairs?” Ilya managed to gasp.

Shane mumbled something, probably, before dropping to his knees and pushing his face against Ilya’s stomach. His fingers frantic and a bit shaky as he pulled down the waistband of his pyjamas to lick against the head of his cock. 

Large hands stroked his hair and face as he stared up at Ilya. His eyes kept trying to close, so that he could lose himself in the sensations, but a sharp thread wouldn’t let him relax. Fighting his own eyelids, he watched Ilya as he sucked.

Ilya was panting and swearing roughly above him, and Shane started to feel lightheaded. The friction between his eyelids and his need to keep staring was both confusing and uncomfortable, and his frustration started to itch at his skin. His eyes unfocused, but he kept them open, locked.

“Shane?” The hand tangled in his hair pulled slightly and Shane forced himself to refocus on Ilya’s concerned expression. “Is okay?”

Shane pulled off and nodded abruptly.

“Yeah. Sorry. Fuck. Sorry. It’s just…” he tried to untangle his thoughts. “The last time I did this…”

“Hey.” Ilya tapped his cheek gently. “We don’t have to.”

“No. I want to.” And Shane really, really did want to. It was just that his brain was getting in the way.

Ilya raised both his hands and held them up. “No, phone. No camera. Just us.” He cupped Shane’s cheek again, his thumb stroking gently against the freckles. “You can trust me. I promise. Is supposed to be fun, yes? If it isn’t fun, we stop. Simple.”

Shane nodded, then pressed his head into Ilya’s hand. Fuck it, he did trust him. 

He leaned forward again, slowly sliding his mouth down Ilya’s cock and then, deliberately, he closed his eyes and sighed. The taste and sensation of the hard flesh instantly quietened his mind and he hummed in contentment as he licked and sucked.

Yeah, the Very Important questions could wait a bit. 

*

They ate cheese and crackers on the sofa, wrapped together in the colourful quilted blanket. Ilya had wandered off into the pantry to find drinks, returning with a crate of glass bottles with a Fentiman’s label. Shane had looked through the flavours, bemused, but had chosen a Pink Ginger bottle, whilst Ilya had cracked open a Dandelion & Burdock for himself, which, quite frankly, sounded like a Medieval herbal remedy rather than a drink. Shane had declined a sip, but had secretly quite liked the taste when it spread to his tongue following a lazy, wet kiss.

The Very Important Topics bubbled in his brain again, and he launched into the next item on his mental list.

“In York, at Professor Yaffle’s house, you heard me tell him that I played hockey.” Shane said, whilst Ilya cut an apple into slices for them.

“Yes.” Ilya agreed, “but I already knew that.”

“You knew who I was?”

“Shane, I saw the papers from Sveta. I left the welcome basket for you.” He fed Shane some of the apple slices, a sappy smile on his face. “When I thought you were going to Mayfair instead, is why I came here in the middle of the night. To put things away, and stay the night before going to Manchester.”

Huh. Shane was too relaxed, warm and fizzing inside to feel anything much about this. He dropped his head against the back of the sofa, curling his toes on Ilya’s lap.

“Did you know about the photographs?”

“No. Not until you told me. I just knew you played hockey. And that you were good.” Ilya squeezed his ankle. “You aren’t the first famous person to stay in my cottage. Not that big a deal. I didn’t do research.”

Shane grinned. “‘Not that big a deal’? Thanks a lot.”

“Shane, Alison Hammond has stayed here.”

Shane raised his eyebrows, confused and Ilya sighed. “Also, Rylan Clark stayed once.” He looked at Shane, who shook his head with a bemused smile.

“Hmm. Okay, okay. Stormzy?”

“Nope.”

“Fucks sake, Shane.” Ilya shook his head. “Okay, point is, you are not the first famous person in my cottage. You aren’t even the gayest. I didn't do any research. Sveta does the property things when I am not here.”

Shane’s foot moved slightly, to gently press down on Ilya’s cock, and his smile stretched, catlike.

Ilya huffed. “I mean, if we’re being really picky Shane Hollander,” he arched his eyebrows at Shane, “you aren’t even the most famous person on this sofa.”

Shane yelped and pulled out a cushion to hit him with. Ilya laughed, covering his head with his arms and the blanket slipped down. 

The wrestling turned hotter and time continued to slip away. 

*

The fire cracked and hissed, shooting out sparks of gold. Outside, the wind pressed against the windows in slow breaths, but inside the world had shrunk to firelight and shadows

They sat on the carpet, leaning against the sofa, tangled in each other, watching the flames curl and dance. The cottage smelled of wood smoke and old stone, and the room was bathed in gold and orange lights that flickered across the books, Freddy Fish, and the Yorkshire terrier toy.

Ilya’s cheek was pressed to Shane’s chest and he twined a curl around his finger, watching it bounce back, feeling the cottage hold them both in its small, glowing heart.

Ilya’s thumb had been drawing small circles on Shane’s stomach, when it stilled and he drew in a small breath.  

“Can I tell you something?”

Shane looked down at him. “Of course.”

“About the doctorate.” 

Shane stroked his other hand across Ilya’s shoulders, gently pressing against the tension there.

“Is a tragic story.” Ilya continued. “I’m the hero, of course, and am very handsome and sexy throughout, but it is long and sad. Hmm, maybe I will just give you the highlights.”

Shane smiled slightly and waited for Ilya to work through his performance before opening his heart.

Ilya shifted slightly against Shane, thumb still resting on his stomach, and began.

“Oxford was… fun,” he started, voice quiet. “I was very clever, very cocky, very nineteen, twenty maybe. Everything was big and loud and important and it made me feel like I was the same. I loved it and I was good at it. In the third year, I started working with a doctoral student. He was… clever but lazy maybe. More arrogant than me even.

Shane felt Ilya’s small laugh as a warm breath against his chest.

“I thought I was in love,” Ilya continued softly. “And I thought he felt the same about me. We worked together every day. We wrote together, we argued, we fucked. He was larger than life and I trusted him with everything. Every part of me, including my work.”

The fire cracked gently.

“But he stole it,” Ilya said simply. “My research, my ideas. He submitted them as his own. I complained of course. I thought Oxford would protect me because I was right and I thought I was its favourite son.”

Shane’s hand tightened slightly on Ilya’s shoulder.

Ilya gave a small, humourless huff. “He accused me of lying. Said that I was trying to sabotage him, that I was obsessed with him.”

There was a long pause and Shane asked quietly, “They didn’t believe you?”

Ilya shrugged. “Maybe? Maybe not. But it didn’t matter. He was an old Etonian. His father had a title.”

Another pause.

“I don’t really know what that means.”

Ilya smiled, his fingers reaching to link with Shane’s. “It means that he was always going to win, because he had the right accent and the right school and the right family.”

He paused.

“Except Yaffle,” he added quietly. “Yaffle believed me. He shouted at people and made a scene. It was very dramatic. The Drama Society apparently made it into a musical the following year. When Oxford refused to listen, he resigned. Packed up his office and went back to York.”

Shane swallowed. “And you went with him.”

“I got my First,” Ilya said, shrugging. “Balliol offered for me to stay for my Masters, but I couldn’t. He was still there and I’d lost my bursary. So I followed Yaffle to York. Did my Masters and loved it. And later, when Balliol begged me to come back for my doctorate, I thought… maybe. Maybe enough time had passed, maybe it would be different.”

Shane felt the tension return under his palm.

“But he found out,” Ilya said softly. “He found out I was coming back.” His thumb stopped moving.

“He published something, anonymous, but everyone knew who had written it. It was about me, my sexuality, Russia, my visa, my family.” He swallowed. “Basically, he made his version of me a very undesirable character.”

He breathed out slowly.

“It was loud and ugly and everywhere. And suddenly Oxford wasn’t begging anymore, they were ‘reviewing.’ They were ‘concerned.’”

Shane’s chest tightened.

“So I left,” Ilya finished quietly. “I didn’t fight or argue. I came back to York, to the cottage and the moors. Then Russia changed for me, and I stayed here.”

He twined his finger absently through Shane’s shirt.

“That’s the story,” he said softly. “Tragic, handsome hero. Very sexy, very sad.”

Shane pressed his cheek to Ilya’s hair, holding him gently as the firelight flickered across the room.

“But maybe with a chance of a happy ending,” he murmured.

Ilya twisted in his hold, turning to look up at him, his eyes glinting wet in the firelight. 

“That would be nice.”

*

Shane turned his head and, through blurry eyes, saw the half moon glowing over the North Sea. The bedroom was washed in its flat, silvery reflection. The wind was dragging itself around the cottage and the sash windows groaned and shivered in their wake. 

Shane’s cheek was pressed firmly into the pillow and his hands were tightly gripping the cotton sheets. He let out a small sob, closing his eyes again. 

Ilya’s mouth and tongue were torturing him. Soft flicks, firm strokes, probing darts against his wet skin. Ilya's face was wet and shiny, flushed. His pupils were blown dark and he occasionally pulled back, muttering darkly in Russian, before pushing forward again, holding Shane captive with large hands gripping his hips.

Shane shivered and pulsed against him.

As the moon travelled across the sky, the bedroom enfolded him in darkness. 

*

He was ticklish at the juncture of his hip and thigh. On the right side. The skin sensitive and vulnerable. The gentle brush of a tongue, a whispered kiss would make his whole body shiver and tense, a hand reaching down to grip at his hair. With the right pressure, the right stroke of fingers, he would squeal and shuffle away, giggling helplessly. If the touch was firm, he couldn’t move fast enough, choking out protests between his laughter and tears. 

He fucking loved that spot.

He lowered his head and blew warm air on his inner thigh.

“Hollander.” A warning.

Shane grinned and licked harder as the giggle started above him.

*

"What day is it?”

“Monday?”

“No. We did Monday already. That was, you know, in the gym.”

Ilya grinned, his teeth fully on display. “Oh yes. Monday was good.”

Shane pressed closer against him.

“It was good.”

“Today will be better.”

“What’s today?”

“Hmm. Monday?”

*

Ilya had decided that they needed food. Shane thought they might be able to survive a few days more on the last Ritz crackers and baked beans, but new food was probably a sensible idea. 

Ilya was tapping furiously on his phone and Shane’s brain pinged something at him. But his brain was working at half speed nowadays, and he let it float away.

“What are you ordering?” he mumbled, sticking his leg out of the duvet to try and cool down. Ilya ran so hot.

“Food.” Ilya answered helpfully. “And drink.”

“Condoms and lube.” Shane suggested and Ilya dropped his phone to his lap for a moment.

“Shane, I can’t ask Sheila and Badger Hopkins for fucking lube.”

Shane blinked blearily. “What? Why are you asking Sheila and Badger for food? Who is Sheila? What?”

Ilya gave a melting smile and kissed Shane’s forehead.

“We are in the middle of fucking nowhere. No delivery service out here. We either leave the cottage, starve, or send out a distress signal. I am sending out a distress signal.”

Shane shuffled up the bed to peer at the screen of the phone.

“You’re on Facebook?”

“Mhmm. The average age in Nettlethwaite is probably seventy. They aren’t on Instagram. So, Facebook village group is the only way.”

He finished typing and put his phone down, smiling triumphantly.

“How are you using Facebook to get food and drink?”

Ilya sighed dramatically and picked his phone back up before reading out loud, “Status update: We are starving to death. No food or drink in Bramble Cottage. So sad. Send supplies. I love you all. Ilya. (But don’t knock)”

Shane stared at him. “That’s you ordering food?”

“It will work.” He snuggled Shane closer, his hand dipping down under the blanket to grip Shane’s ass. “I mean, it’s a complete lottery. We might end up with six shepherd pies and a bar of Kendal mintcake. But, it’s better than shopping.”

“But no condoms or lube?”

Ilya's hand moved more deliberately, more intimately.

“You want me to add another message for the village? ‘Shane is greedy and needs more condoms’?”

“I mean, maybe, yes?”

Ilya crawled under the duvet. “I will let you ask Sheila when she turns up.”

Shane might just do that.

*

In the end they only had one shepherd’s pie, but it was delicious. They ate it out of the casserole dish, sitting together on the sofa, wrapped in the blanket, forks in hand. The back door was open and a soft sea breeze was drifting through the cottage. The sticky air full of sweat, sex and kisses was being carefully ushered out to fly free over the moors. 

They drank their crazy Fentiman drinks and talked about work, and friends.

Shane’s team, Ilya’s lecture circuits.

Shane’s brand deals, Ilya’s brand deals.

Fucking Lego! Shane was actually a bit jealous of that one.

They talked about family and home.

Therapy and medication. 

A lot of it was sad.

But not all of it.

And every conversation, every whispered thought stitched itself inside Shane, like a patchwork Yorkshire blanket, keeping him warm.

*

“Eel-ee-yur!”

The knock on the door, when it finally came, felt like an assault. Shane blinked stupidly, his sex drunk, languorous brain trying to identify the meaning of the sound.

The days and nights had twisted and merged, an intricate, intimate braid for just the two of them. Bramble Cottage had become the whole universe to him and the arrival of an outside body just didn’t make sense to Shane for a moment.

Ilya staggered out of bed and down the stairs, pulling on a pair of low slung pyjama bottoms and rubbing at the wild, tangled curls that Shane’s hands had been clenched tightly in only moments before. He opened the door with a scowl, to find Gillian, smiling brightly and holding out a pot of porridge and a carton of multivitamin juice.

“It’s Saturday.” She beamed.

Ilya blinked mutely, before taking the offered breakfast and firmly closing the door in Gillian’s face.

“Be there by nine and bring yer fella.” She shouted through the door before crunching up the pathway to her car.

Ilya groaned and rested his forehead against the door for a second before heaving a large sigh and heading to the kitchen. Shane padded after him, rubbing at the stubble on his face.

“It’s Saturday? What Saturday? What’s at nine?” he mumbled, lifting the lid on the pot, his mouth watering.

“Wedding.” Ilya replied, his voice hoarse, from sleep and also, you know, maybe from having his throat fucked a few minutes ago. He put mismatched bowls, glasses and spoons on the table, before thumping down into his seat and pouring a drink.

Shane served the porridge and picked up his spoon. He paused and looked at it for a moment. It had an elephant on the handle that made him smile. He loved this silly elephant spoon. I mean, he totally loved it. His gaze drifted around the kitchen a moment. He loved this red tablecloth and the stupidly small table. He loved the honey beehive and the toadpot. He loved this brightly painted bowl, even though it was chipped. 

He ate his porridge, smiling goofily at Ilya, who smiled back softly.

He loved this… cottage. He’d only been here for two weeks maybe? Three? It was Saturday, but which Saturday? Either way, it was definitely long enough to fall in love. With this ridiculous, bright, quirky cottage. 

The wild thing in his chest stretched and grew, consuming him and Shane knew it would be obvious in his eyes, and it would push words out of his mouth.

Sassy Shane didn’t care.

A shaft of sunlight broke through the small kitchen window. Settling across Ilya’s face and lighting his hair in a soft, golden halo. Because of course it did. The wild thing sighed.

“Lucy Ackroyd and Max Oxtoby.” Ilya continued. “The families used to fight about a farm somewhere. Boring story. All very Romeo and Juliet.”

“Okay.” Shane smiled happily. He loved the nipple light switches and Coach Coconut. He loved the hot and cold taps.

“We are helping to set up the barn, then the wedding, dancing, food. Did you bring a suit?”

Wait, what?

“No? Ilya, I can’t go to a stranger's wedding.”

Ilya paused and frowned. “It’s Lucy and Max’s wedding, Shane.”

“I don’t know them. Do I know them? I haven’t been invited. Do I just turn up?”

Ilya smiled. “They’re from Nettlethwaite Shane. Is a village wedding. I’m invited, so you are. Eat your porridge and let’s find you something to wear.”

He paused a moment, then put the elephant spoon into the bowl.

Shane loved this porridge.

*

What Shane did not love was these fairy lights. 

He sat on the floor of the converted barn, his back against the ancient warped wooden beams in the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him and tried to untangle the huge knot the lights had transformed into. Gillian had handed them to him, winked and sauntered off to shout at Ilya which, Shane was beginning to learn, was one of her favourite pastimes. They bickered and complained like siblings. The lights clicked softly between his fingers as he attempted to fix the mess. The barn was warm, sun filtering through the high windows in dusty gold shafts. Someone had turned on a speaker, and tinny pop music filled the space, echoing off the beams.

Next to him, adopting the same position, small fingers working at a different end of the fairy light fiasco was Mia: silent and intense.

They made a good team, whilst around them chaos unfolded like a Saturday matinee farce.

Villagers were everywhere, bustling, shouting, carrying boxes, arguing about napkins. Ilya was, of course, in the middle of it, setting up chairs and tables, sweeping the floor and clearing the small stage. Expressing opinions about bunting. At one point Shane saw him flinging up tablecloths that drifted slowly down to settle on the round tables. People had tried to engage Shane in an argument about napkin shapes, attempting to get him to choose between a Lover’s Knot and a Pocket Fold, both thrust into his face in determined enthusiasm. Shane cared so little that he couldn’t even bring himself to choose arbitrarily. But Mia had silently pointed at the Lover’s Knot and the narrative had progressed.

When the lights were finally untangled, Shane and Ilya hung them up on small hooks around the room, a second strand strung over the raised stage. The wooden step ladder creaked and wobbled and Shane had been fairly sure it would collapse under Ilya’s weight. At one point, Shane was instructed to arrange jam jars of wildflowers on the tables. The flowers were mismatched, chaotic, and beautiful, as if someone had raided every garden in Nettlethwaite. Shane placed the jars carefully, one by one, watching the barn slowly transform into something warm and glowing and utterly chaotic. 

Shane had been to weddings of his team mates and extended family over the years, but had never been involved in this ‘behind the scenes’ chaos. He had vague ideas that you paid ‘people’ to come do these things. He had never expected to be the ‘people’ himself, and the somewhat haphazard structure was making him tense.

But a woman had brought crates of cider, the barn sparkled in the fairy lights and the Lover’s Knot napkins were wonky, lacked any symmetry and were absolutely perfect. Shane tidied the chairs, Ilya swept the floor yet again, and people left to get changed for the wedding. 

Shane paused and looked at the barn in all its glory. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, catching dust motes that danced like tiny, confused fairies. The barn smelled of old wood, salty air, and possibly cows.

He hoped Lucy Ackroyd and Max Oxtoby loved it as much as he did. 

Ilya pulled him into a separate building where they got changed for the wedding at the tiny church on the hill. Shane had borrowed a shirt and smart trousers from Ilya. Their differing body shapes made it an interesting fit. The arms of the shirt were a little loose, the chest a little tight. The trousers pulled firm against his thighs and really hugged his ass. Ilya kept stealing glances at it in a way that Shane felt was inappropriate for a church. They had stood to sing at some point and Ilya had groped him. Luckily they were on a pew at the back, and hopefully nobody had seen Shane slapping his hand away with a grin.

Shane thought that weddings were essentially quite dull, even when you knew the happy couple, however this one was objectively quite good fun. The young vicar stuttered and blushed his way through the ceremony. A tiny flower girl lay on her back in the middle of the aisle, her legs straight up in the air, humming Disney tunes. Members of the congregation joined in at times, calling out inappropriate comments and, at one point, the blushing bride turned around with a grin and told someone to “fuck off”.

There was also some added excitement in the form of a pigeon that had become trapped up in the rafters of the church. Most people kept flicking quick, anxious glances at it, as it hopped and fluttered around the beams. The occasional feather drifted down, and everyone was just hoping that it was not directly over them when the inevitable shit happened. 

Pigeon roulette. 

Afterwards the congregation spilled from the little church into the sunlight, laughing and calling to one another. Someone produced a hip flask that was passed around the crowd. The bride was swearing at her new husband on the church steps while he laughed. Ilya was playing hide and seek with a gang of kids wearing pale blue dresses or velvet suits. Mia stood beside Shane and her hand wormed into his without words or glances.

Against his protests he was included in some of the photographs, squeezed between Ilya and Gillian, with Mia pressed against his legs. Someone started singing and the rest of the guests joined in. The photographer just rolled with it.

It was loud, and affectionate, and gloriously unpolished. 

It might have been the best wedding Shane had been to.

*

The lull between the wedding and the reception settled over the churchyard like a sleepy fog. People milled about in that awkward, post-ceremony way, half-heartedly chatting, adjusting outfits, pretending they weren’t hungry yet, and waiting for someone to announce what happened next.

Ilya wandered off toward a squat stone outbuilding beside the church, tugging at a door that looked like it hadn’t been opened for fifty years. It groaned, then gave way with a puff of dust and the smell of old wood.

“Storage cupboard,” Ilya announced, as if unveiling treasure.

Shane moved next to him and peered inside.

 And Ilya was right: it was, in fact, treasure.

Old wooden field hockey sticks: the heavy, curved kind designed for teenagers who played hockey in the rain and fog. A scuffed ball rolled out, some tattered bibs hung from a nail. There was even a chalkboard with PE EQUIPMENT written in the cursive handwriting of a person who had definitely retired decades ago.

Ilya’s eyes lit up. “Shane.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Ilya, we can’t.”

But it was too late. Ilya had already grabbed an armful of sticks and marched out into the field next to the churchyard. Children spotted him instantly. Saffy appeared first, then three more, then eight, then suddenly there were children swarming around him like excitable bees.

Shane sighed, but joined the parade and trotted after him.

The field was a wide, uneven stretch of grass dotted with daisies and the occasional molehill. It was on a definite slope and there were bemused rabbits hovering at the edges, near the trees. 

There were fifteen children, eight hockey sticks and a mis-shapen, soft leather ball. Ilya quieted the children and handed out the sticks, which were generally much too big for the assembled teams. Then with a dramatic flourish, he passed their fizzling attention over to Shane, to explain the rules.

Shane did not actually know the rules of field hockey. He attempted to explain them anyway.

The children ignored him completely.

A bridesmaid declared herself referee. A toddler wandered onto the pitch holding a bottle. A kid shouted “I’m goalie!” and stood in front of a random bush.

Ilya, naturally, encouraged the chaos.

“Yes, good run!”

“No! Other way!”

“Pass to… actually no, is fine, keep going!”

“Shane! You’re defence!”

“Shane! Stop being defence and come here!!”

“Shane! Where was the defence!”

Shane was tackled by a small boy in a crushed velvet suit and a snotty nose.

He recovered, laughing, and dribbled the ball forward. By the time he reached the bush goal two children clung to his legs, and Saffy was hacking at his feet with one of the ancient hockey sticks. This was so dangerous. Ilya sprinted past him, curls flying, stick raised triumphantly. He looked like a man whose entire mission in life was to play hockey with a gang of feral Yorkshire children.

Shane somehow managed to pass the ball to him.

Ilya missed it completely and it bounced off the leg of the flower girl, who scored by accident.

Everyone cheered because nobody knew what team they were on.

Despite the danger, Shane found himself laughing as he dodged wooden sticks clutched in tiny hands and spun two children around in a circle. His borrowed shirt was grass-stained and the knee of his trousers was muddy. 

Ilya had dirt on his cheek, grass in his curls, and the grin of a man who had discovered his true calling: chaotic village PE teacher.

They supervised the rest of the mayhem until the bride called everyone back toward the barn and the children scattered at the promise of food.

As they walked Shane’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

He ignored it.

*

The reception unfolded in the barn like a cheerful, slightly drunken village pantomime. Plates of food were filled and consumed, drinks flowed in mismatched glasses, and the speeches were affectionate heckling disguised as heartfelt tributes. Ilya cried twice, Badger Hopkins shouted “Hear hear!” at entirely inappropriate moments, and someone’s uncle attempted a toast that turned into a ten-minute parable about a cow. There was a moment of friction where the Oxtobys and the Ackroyds had teetered on the precipice of a fight, but the bride had folded her arms and given them all ‘a look’ and the tension dissolved. 

The transition into dancing was no less chaotic. All adults were recruited to push tables to the side of the room, whilst small children weaved between them in an elaborate game of chase that Shane suspected Ilya had instigated.

The following barn dance began the way all Nettlethwaite events seemed to begin: with someone shouting “Right then!” and they were off.

The speaker crackled, a fiddle started and the caller began to gather the troops. Shane found himself swept into a line of villagers before he could protest. Gillian grabbed his hand, Mia grabbed the other, and suddenly he was part of a human chain snaking across the barn with very little rhythm.

He recognised very quickly that many of the villagers were tenuous with their ‘left and right’ identification, and that a beat of four was surprisingly hard for many of them to stick to. There were collisions, people spinning out of the formations and some groups getting tangled in knots of arms and elbows.

Shane had never felt particularly comfortable in clubs, and dancing was something he usually barely tolerated.

In a Nettlethwaite barn dance he was apparently Rudolph fucking Nureyev. 

Ilya, of course, was thriving. He had somehow acquired a ribbon, tied it around his wrist, and was spinning in a circle with three elderly women who were shrieking with laughter. His curls bounced, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his grin wide and wicked. Every few seconds he shot Shane a look that Shane interpreted as ‘this is your life now’.

At one point, Shane found himself swinging two small boys at once, their legs flying out like helicopter blades. They shrieked with delight and he echoed it with terror as he realised he was spinning out of control. 

The next dance he was pressed surprisingly close to a tiny grey haired woman whose rock solid corset he could feel under her magenta dress.

Shane tried to keep up, he really did. But the evening had the structural integrity of wet cardboard. People were swapping partners at random, some of the teenagers had introduced a move that looked suspiciously like a rugby tackle, and the tiny flower girl from the church was now being swung around like a maypole tribute.

Another dance was one of those traditional reels where you meet your partner, leave your partner, meet someone else’s partner, leave them, and then somehow end up back where you started without ever understanding how.

Shane attempted to follow the instructions, even the bowing which, he realised, had placed him on the ‘boy’ side and Ilya on the ‘girl’ side. Ilya curtsied really well. He met Ilya, lost Ilya, met Gillian, lost Gillian, met Sheila, lost Sheila, met a man called Craig who winked at him. And then, miraculously he ended up back with Ilya, who looked far too pleased with himself during the final spin, insisting that Shane lift him off the ground.

Shane obliged and Ilya smacked a sweaty kiss on his cheek.

The evening bled into night into early morning. The music grew faster and louder, and the floorboards shook. 

When the music finally crashed to a stop, the whole barn erupted into applause and cheers,  not because the dances had gone well, but because they had gone exactly as a Nettlethwaite barn dance should.

Shane stood there, flushed and breathless, watching Ilya bow dramatically to his elderly dance partners, whilst over tired children tried to climb him like a tree.

*

Packing away the barn felt like a gentle aftershock. The villagers moved around in that slow, satisfied way people do when they’ve eaten too much, danced too hard, and are now pretending that they aren’t exhausted.

Shane stacked chairs, Ilya swept the floor yet again, Gillian wandered around hugging people and occasionally shouting instructions nobody listened to. It was warm, chaotic, and oddly lovely.

When the final chair was folded and the last tablecloth draped over a box, Shane stepped outside into the cool evening air. The barn door clicked shut behind him, muffling the lingering chatter.

He reached into his pocket for his phone and the screen lit up with a small, glowing list of missed calls and messages.

His agent.
His mom.
Hayden.
His agent again.
His mom again.
His agent again.

The wild thing in his chest gave a small, uneasy twitch.

He locked the screen and put the phone in his pocket.

He didn’t want to deal with it tonight. Not when his skin still hummed with laughter and warmth, and the moors stretched out in front of him like a soft, dark ocean.

Ilya appeared beside him, curls wild from dancing, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

“Ready to go?”

Shane wasn’t. But he knew that wasn’t what Ilya meant. Instead, he nodded. “Yeah.”

The path wound away from the barn and up toward the moors, the sky a deep velvet blanket. The moon highlighted a silvery path, and a soft breeze tugged at Shane’s borrowed shirt. Ilya walked with his hands in his pockets, humming something that might have been the barn-dance tune or might have been invented. They reached the cliff path, where the land dropped away into a rolling sweep of shadowed hills. Stars pricked through the sky one by one, shy at first, then bold.

Ilya glanced at him. “You’re quiet.”

“Just tired,” Shane said. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.

“I have something for you.”

Shane frowned at him. “What?”

Ilya reached into his pocket and drew something out of it, held in his palm.

Shane blinked.

“Condoms and lube? We’ve been at a wedding all day. When did you get them? Where did you get them?”

Ilya shrugged, “Craig at the corner shop.”

Craig? Oh. Winking man. That explained it. Shane thought he had been hitting on him.

He grinned and linked arms with Ilya.

Bramble Cottage appeared at last, tucked into the hillside. Its windows glowed with warm light and the garden gate creaked in the familiar way Shane had grown to love.

Ilya pushed the door open and stepped inside, kicking off his shoes with a sigh. Shane followed, closing the door behind him. The cottage smelled of wood, warmth, and tea.

Shane slipped his phone onto the table without looking at it.

He didn’t want the outside world tonight.

He wanted this: the cottage, the quiet, the warmth, the man humming softly as he lit a lamp.

Shane stepped forward and pressed himself against Ilya, his mouth a little desperate as he sucked and licked against his neck, fingers plucking at the buttons of his shirt. He felt Ilya’s hands sliding against his body, down his back, firm against his ass, before stroking up his side, a firm hand gripping his jaw and tilting his head. His legs parted. Ilya pushed a thick thigh between them and Shane rocked against him.

The wild thing was rattled and anxious.

His movements became uncoordinated and he knew that he was acting a little frantic. He pushed Ilya’s shirt off and kissed down his chest, but Ilya pulled him back up, holding his face, his eyes searching. He leaned forward, pressing a soft, tender kiss to Shane’s lips.

“Come upstairs, Shane Hollander from Canada,” he whispered.

And Shane nodded, pressing his forehead against Ilya’s before they moved apart and climbed the stairs.

The wild thing in his chest settled, curling up like a creature finding its den.

Shane exhaled.

He was home.

Chapter End Notes

In the next episode (which will probably be more than a week as I am back at work)... bridges and liminal spaces.

 

Also I added a chapter count. As much as I would like to just keep taking them on day trips in Northern England, I feel as though the plot should probably progress a bit:)

Chapter 10: Horse!

Chapter Summary

Previously on... Shane and Ilya enjoyed smooching times in the cottage, before attending a village wedding and nailing the barn dance.

Chapter Notes

Shane was vaguely surprised that he still looked the same. 

Bent over, staring at his reflection in the chipped mirror hung way too low over the bathroom sink, he found himself staring back. Same old Shane as usual. 

That seemed wrong. 

The last few weeks, culminating in last night, had surely changed him on a fundamental, cellular level. That should show in his reflection.

He felt different. His body was tender and sore, fizzing with a warm, persistent burn. Not a bad feeling, but one that was constantly there, tingling under the surface of his skin. 

Surely that should be manifesting in sparks or something? A faint glow. A halo. A flashing neon sign on his butt, saying ‘Sex God Woz Here’. Anything. 

Sure, his lips looked a little swollen from the hours and hours of kissing. There was a red rash on his cheek, stretching down his neck from Ilya’s stubble. What looked suspiciously like bite marks on his pec, just below the nipple. And, quite frankly, if he squatted over the mirror, he’d maybe be able to see his epiphany in physical form. 

But that felt like a step too far, even for whatever creature he had apparently become overnight. 

He stared at himself a moment longer.

Still Shane.

He hoped it was enough. 

Grabbing Ilya’s toothbrush, he squirted some paste on it, before carrying it back into the bedroom. He crawled up the bed and nudged the sleepy Russian. Most of him was hidden under the duvet, but an arm and a leg protruded. Shane poked at the arm.

“Teeth. Quick.” he muttered, shoving the toothbrush into the hand.

Ilya yawned and grumbled, but the toothbrush was withdrawn into the blanket den and he made a half-hearted exploration of his mouth with the toothbrush.

Shane watched him, a soft, sappy smile on his face.

When the toothbrush emerged from the duvet, Shane took it back to the bathroom, returning a moment later with a tumbler half filled with water. He placed it into the sleepy hand.

“Drink. Don’t spill.”

More grumbling and a bleary eyed Ilya half sat up to swallow a few sips of water. He fell back to the bed and Shane hastily grabbed the glass, returning it to the sink. He then padded to the sash windows, opening them fully hoping the sea breeze would clear the miasma of sex and sweat from the room. 

He glanced quickly at the room. There were clean towels folded on the table, which they were using to avoid constant sheet laundry because, who had time for that? The condom situation was good. The lube situation was passable. Mabel and Boris Jr were still hidden from being traumatised by the debauchery, and their teeth were clean enough for the next episode.

He nodded and pulled up the bottom of the duvet, revealing Ilya’s foot.

Leaning over he pressed a kiss against it, feeling Ilya’s leg shiver at the sensation. He lazily dragged his tongue over the skin, between his toes, before sucking one into his mouth.

Objectively gross. But this was Ilya and every single inch of him was apparently achingly erotic and sensual to Shane.

He had wondered often, in the past, if he was not a particularly sexual person. He had liked his girlfriends. Some of them he had liked a lot and he was confident that he loved Rose, both now and when they had dated. But he hadn’t been super excited about sex before. There were a lot of body parts to coordinate, and rhythms to maintain, and facial expressions to control.

It had been exhausting, and sometimes stressful.

And now he was hard from sucking on Ilya Rozanov’s toe. And licking up the muscles and hairs of his leg. And biting on his ass. And pressing his tongue in the small place on his thigh that he knew would make him laugh. And then, the weight of his cock in Shane’s mouth, against his tongue, pushing against his throat.

No worries about body parts, expressions or rhythms.

Just Shane and Ilya’s bodies, bound together.

He moved further up, kissing his way along Ilya’s stomach and up to his neck.

Ilya sighed happily, “What do you want, milyy?” 

Shane kissed him, wet and soft. “You know what I want.”

“Yes, but you must ask me.” 

“I want… you know… you.”

Ilya hummed, a lazy smile spreading over his sleepy face. “You have me. Here I am.” He leaned forward, chasing Shane’s mouth, but Shane pulled back, aware he was pouting.

“No. I want… you know.” Ridiculously he was aware that he was blushing slightly. After everything they had seen and done and talked about over the millenia they had been coccooned inside Bramble Cottage, he was still actually fucking blushing because Ilya was going to make him use his words.

And Ilya knew it.

“Tell me what you want. Explain it to me.” He whispered against Shane’s neck, sucking the skin between his teeth.

Shane groaned and dropped his head slightly.

“I want you inside me.” he whined.

And Ilya, fuck him, used his fingers, crooning against Shane’s neck. “Like this? Is what you want, yes?”

And the friction, the fingers, the teeth, the words were driving him insane. 

In their Bramble Bubble, they had quickly discovered that Shane would eventually beg. They had also discovered that it drove Ilya crazy when he did so. 

Which is why Ilya held out, until Shane was beneath him, pressed under his heavy weight, pushing back against Ilya’s cock, begging him to “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. Please fuck Ilya. Fuck me. Please. Please.”

And Ilya, who was ever generous, finally obliged.

Shane came with a wail and Ilya a moan. And they collapsed, panting, a tangle of sweat and tears.

And through the open windows, drifting on the salt breeze, a flat voice announced:

“There’s food on the doorstep.” Shane froze. “Just so yer know, yer windows are wide open. Anyway. Don’t get up on my account. Morning lads.”

And the crunch of footsteps retreating up the pathway.

“Fuck.”

Ilya snorted out a laugh against his sweaty back.

*

The food was a box of leftovers from the wedding reception, apparently left by Sheila. Shane still couldn’t remember who Sheila was, and didn’t know if that made the morning interruption more or less embarrassing. Ilya refused to let him melt in a puddle of shame, and made them walk up the hill behind the cottage, where he threw the picnic blanket on the ground. In the warm sun, bathed in the scent of heather and sea, they feasted on sausage rolls, grapes, and cheese and pineapple on cocktail sticks. 

Shane waved one in the air. “Why was there a cheese and pineapple hedgehog at the wedding?”

Ilya shrugged. “I don’t even know who makes them. But at any party in Nettlethwaite, there is a cheese and pineapple hedgehog on the table.”

Shane nodded. Because that made sense. “It’s awesome. More parties should have them.” He munched another hedgehog prickle snack. “A lot of food in England seems to be animal themed.”

“Or just animals.” Ilya popped a sausage roll in his mouth and Shane rolled his eyes, sipping on today’s Fentimans curiosity: rhubarb lemonade flavour. A seagull squawked in the distance and Shane instinctively hugged his drink and hedgehog prickle closer.

“Not going to feed the poor, starving seagull?” Ilya teased and Shane glowered at him, before hastily finishing his food.

Ilya looked sideways at him for a moment, before announcing, “I have another summer school lecture tomorrow. Will you come with me?”

“For sure.” Shane answered automatically. Why would he go anywhere else? He thought briefly about his phone, and the persistent buzz of messages, and a worm of guilt tried to burrow its way into his chest. He had arranged to come to Yorkshire for a month. Everyone knew: his parents, his agent, his friends and team. It hadn’t been four weeks yet. Had it? He tried to remember the days, but there was a looping, dreamy, sex shaped kaleidoscope after the first week in Yorkshire. 

Fuck. 

He really needed to use Ilya’s gym a bit more. And start his cardio back up. Lots of team mates came back after summer having let their standards plummet for two months. Shane was not one of those people. He usually maintained a strict diet and training schedule. Not this summer though. He had eaten fish and chips. He had spent days in bed. And on the sofa. And on the floor. And pressed up against the window in the small gym. Either way, he had not been behaving like a professional athlete, and the tiny worm burrowed deeper and grew slightly larger.

Ilya hummed thoughtfully, dragging Shane out of the spiral he was hovering over,

“You have a crinkle.” he announced, waving his hand in the vicinity of his forehead. “Here, between your eyes. Little angry crinkle.”

“I do not.” Shane argued automatically. Many of their conversations had fallen into a slightly combative pattern. Ilya seemed to like it and Shane rolled blissfully in it. 

“Oh no, big crinkle now.” Ilya agreed. “Very grumpy.”

“I’m not grumpy.” Shane argued, using what was clearly a grumpy voice and Ilya raised his eyebrows.

Shane considered his options and settled on telling the truth, however much he really, really didn’t want to.

“I’m not. I was just thinking that I should probably start conditioning.” The little worm grew larger and harder, digging teeth into Shane’s stomach. “I need to make sure that I’m ready for the captain's skate in a few weeks. You know, when I go back.”

Shane felt as though he had well and truly pierced the Bramble Cottage bubble. He could almost feel the magic hissing out of the rupture, leaving behind the smell of wet mud and sheep shit.

But Ilya smiled slightly and placed his metaphorical finger over the wound.

“Okay. You can make a schedule. We have the gym here, or we can go to one of the town gyms if you need. There are ice rinks a few hours away as well, if you need to skate.”

And suddenly Shane could breathe again. Of course. He just needed a plan.

“In summer usually, when your cottage isn’t riddled with ants, what do you do?”

“Oh, I have a synthetic rink at the cottage. And a gym. But yours is as good.” Shane tried to reassure Ilya. “And I work with a specialist in Montreal, with some other players. On skills and stuff.”

Ilya nodded, eating another sausage roll and watching the wind ripple through the purple heather waves.

“Your team is okay?” he asked quietly. “I know sports are not traditionally…” he waved his hand vaguely at the sea, the sky and the moors. “Maybe not very tolerant.”

Shane sighed. “I don’t know. Some of them will be okay. Others...” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Who is the loudest sheep?” Ilya asked.

“What?”

“The biggest voice in the room? Who is it?”

Shane frowned. “Well, I’m the captain, but I wouldn’t say I have the biggest voice.”

Ilya reached out a hand and stroked Shane’s arm affectionately. “No, will not be you. You are… contained, maybe. You will be captain through example I think? You are good, and assume they will follow.”

Yeah, that was probably right.

“But someone else will be the biggest sheep. The loudest. The one who goes to clubs, who knows the wives and girlfriends. Someone who is in the middle of the fun and who makes them smile and laugh.” Ilya tilted his head slightly. “This is the biggest voice. Is this person okay with you?”

Shane considered this carefully. A few years ago the answer would have been Gil Comeau. He was always at the centre of the locker room, the loudest and strongest personality. And he would absolutely not have been okay with Shane. But he had chirped once too often at Scott Hunter, after his ‘pick me’ moment a few years ago when he won the Stanley Cup, and Carter Vaughan had come to the defence of his captain. It had been a clean hit, not even a penalty. But Comeau’s shoulder was fucked, and he hadn’t played since. Shane hadn’t been particularly upset about it.

When Comeau went, the atmosphere in the team changed. One of his closest lackeys had been traded and the others had… moved to the sidelines a bit.

So, who was the centre of the room now?

“Probably JJ. I think. He’s probably the loudest voice. The team likes him. He kind of gets on with everyone. Always wants to go for drinks. He’s funny.”

Ilya nodded, “So, will this JJ be okay? If he is good, then the others will probably follow his lead. People are very like sheep that way. Always follow the loudest, ugliest fucker in the flock. Bleating his opinion. Saves people from having to form their own.”

Shane sat and pictured his team as sheep, baaing their way around the locker room. JJ in the middle with ram horns curling out of his head, bleating the loudest. The rookie lambs gamboling around him.

“Yeah, definitely JJ.” The picture made scary sense.

Ilya squeezed his leg. “So, will JJ be good?”

JJ, Hayden and Shane had worked together for over ten years. He was closer to Hayden, but JJ had inadvertently introduced him to Rose, which had set this whole wheel of events in motion. Rose had made him confront his sexuality and had encouraged him to take risks. The risk had backfired, but the result of that moment was sitting in front of him right now, messy curls sticking to his head, a warm hand on his thigh and concern in his steady gaze. So really, if he followed this story back years, JJ had set him on a path to Ilya.

God, he loved JJ.

“Yeah." He croaked a bit. “I think he’ll be fine.”

Ilya’s eyes flicked over Shane’s face a few times, as if reassuring himself that this was the truth, and then he nodded firmly.

“Good. If the noisy sheep is with you, then the dumb sheep will be as well.”

And strangely, that was enough to settle Shane’s anxiety. Not to erase it, but enough to calm the turmoil below the surface. 

“Talk to the loud sheep first.” Ilya advised. “On his own. Agree a strategy for the idiot sheep. Decide who will kick them in the head if they are dicks. And then, the flock is with you.”

Shane nodded. That was a plan. He loved a plan.

“And Shane?”

“What?”

“You need, maybe, to answer your phone at some point. It buzzed a lot yesterday.”

“Oh, I don’t get reception at the cottage.” Shane didn’t want to deal with his phone. That was for future Shane to deal with.

Ilya looked as though he might have more to say on the subject, but he pursed his lips slightly and nodded his head, letting Shane ignore the inevitable for a little while longer.

“Okay Shane Hollander.” He stood and stretched his back, the joints clicking slightly, before holding his hand out to assist Shane up. “Gym, walk to Nettlethwaite, or sex?”

Shane considered this for a moment. “Well, I haven’t made my training schedule yet, so sex.”

“Not Nettlethwaite?”

He thought about the dry, flat voice drifting through the open window of the cottage this morning, as he loudly collapsed in the sticky bed.

“No, no. I don’t think I can ever show my face there again.”

Ilya laughed and gathered up their small picnic.

“Sex then. You can be on top. I’m tired of doing all the work. You need to start pulling your weight here, Hollander.” 

He winked and sauntered down the hill, leaving an outraged Shane to argue his way after him.

*

They set off before dawn the next day for Ilya’s summer school lecture. Shane curled in the passenger seat, swaddled in one of Ilya’s hoodies, his head leaning against the door, sleepily watching the bruised purple sky fade to a deepening blue haze. The mist from the sea drifted and gathered in patches as they drove along the coastal road, small moths and the occasional slant of rain flickering in the headlights of the rental car. As the tiny, twisting tracks merged into wider main roads, Shane’s hand crept towards Ilya’s, and their fingers interlocked as they made their way to the city. 

“Horse.” Ilya announced, like he did every single time they passed a horse in a field.

Driving further south and inland, the hills flattened and bled into wide, open fields stretching towards the grey sky, until, in the distance, there was an expanse of churning brown water. The River Humber pushed its muddy path through the bleak landscape on either bank. Smoke curled from industrial chimneys, and a soft drizzle of rain flattened the light into a melancholy haze. 

“This is a bit… bleak,” Shane muttered, the river and sky the same dull silver as the distant industrial scars etched across the horizon 

Then, through the monochrome morning, the Humber Bridge appeared. Its massive concrete towers clean and straight against the haze, and its web of cables sweeping across the estuary with an unexpected grace and beauty.

“Bridge.” Shane announced. He thought it was cooler than the horses. 

“Shame it doesn’t really go anywhere.” Ilya observed.

“Oh, what’s on the other side?”

“Literally nothing.” Ilya squeezed his fingers, his thumb brushing gently against the skin. “The bridge is cool though.”

The city of Hull emerged slowly from the flat fields, a collection of warehouses, chimneys and industrial estates. They parked in a metal and glass multi-story car park suspended over the docks and made their way out into the city.

“So, is this another English place full of little wizards?” Shane joked, and Ilya stopped abruptly, turning to him.

“Shane,” he started seriously. “I think if you dress as a wizard in Hull, you will probably get the shit kicked out of you.”

Oh. Okay.

Shane eyed the locals suspiciously, as they crossed an open square towards an elaborate building, kitted out in ornate columns and domes. 

Everyone nodded at them as they passed and most offered a muttered greeting.

“Morning.”

“Alright.”

“How do.”

Ilya nodded solemnly back and parroted a return greeting each time.

“Do you know them?” Shane whispered as they reached the town hall.

“No.”

Okay then. Friendly locals who would kick the shit out of you. Cool.

Hull was fun.

*

The Hull lecture turned out to be every bit as chaotic as the one in Manchester. Quarking, hilarious animations and livestock metaphors. Shane sat at the back of the balcony, and soaked up the joy, love and fun that was filling the hall, as Ilya glittered at the centre of it all. 

Afterwards, the expected queue immediately formed. Ilya signed notebooks, posed for photographs and handed out shiny Quantum Fleece pins with the enthusiasm of a man who had actually enjoyed a full night of sleep, rather than one who had been constantly woken up to service an insatiable Canadian hockey player. 

In his pocket, Shane’s phone squatted. He realised he'd run out of excuses and pulled it out to look.

The texts and unanswered calls were lined up on his screen and he scrolled through the names and numbers, his breath held tight in his chest, until he exhaled fast and pressed one of the contacts.

The phone rang a few times before the idea of ‘time difference’ bubbled in his brain. Shit. What time was it in Canada? There was a five hour difference or something like that, which meant he was calling at 5:30 in the morning. Not good. He moved his thumb to hang up, when the call connected and a gravelly, sleepy voice muttered, “Hein?”

Shane swallowed before speaking to the real world.

“Hey JJ. It's Shane. Hollander. I’m sorry it’s so early. I forgot about the time difference and all that. I was going to hang up before you answered. I can call back later and let you sleep. Sorry.”

“Capitaine,” JJ responded, sounding maybe a little more alert. “Tabarnak. T'es vivant.” 

“Yeah. I’m sorry I kind of disappeared. I just needed some time, you know? Away.”

“Of course.”

There was an awkward pause whilst Shane imagined a sleepy JJ as a ram, stretching from a bale of hay, pieces of straw dangling from his curling horns.

“Shane.” JJ said quietly. “What happened was fucked up. But you know we’ve got you, right?”

Did Shane know that? He made a non-committal noise in response, but JJ carried the conversation forward for a few minutes, before asking,  “When are you back?”

Back to Canada. Away from Yorkshire, and Bramble Cottage. And Ilya.

“Soon.” Shane tried to speak around the throbbing pain in his throat and chest.

“It will be good to see you. We’ll go out, yes?”

“I’d like that.” Shane lied. “Thank you JJ.”

JJ made the correct noises and Shane tried to join in, before they hung up, an agreement to meet in Montreal on his return to his apartment fixed between them. He would wait before contacting anyone else. No need to wake everyone up, he reasoned.

Shane stared at the dark screen for a long moment, and then he cried, wiping his teary eyes on his sleeve. 

Ilya’s sleeve. 

A loud whistle eventually pierced his melancholy, and he peered over the edge of the balcony. Ilya was looking up at him, a wide grin on his face.

“You fall asleep up there, Hollander?” he teased, and Shane attempted a tremulous smile in response.

“No. You were amazing,” he called back, resting his arms on the ledge. “I was just… making a phone call.” 

“Ah.” Ilya tilted his head. “A good phone call?”

Shane considered. “I think so. Yes. The loudest sheep in the flock.”

Ilya nodded. “He will kick the idiot sheep in the head?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Then it was a good phone call.” Ilya made grabby fingers towards him. “Come down now. I need to walk off my energy. I’ll show you one of your favourite things.”

When they met in the foyer, Ilya bumped his shoulder against Shane’s, and Shane hoped he looked fine. They stepped out into the sunlight and walked across the square, Ilya nodding greetings to those who acknowledged him. Hull was much more mellow than either Manchester or York had been, and Ilya explained it was because there were no tourists.

“Nobody visits Hull.” He proclaimed. “You either live here, or you got on the wrong train.”

That felt a bit rude, but looking around, Shane decided it was probably accurate. They merged with the crowds down a parade of shops, before turning left into a small, elegant side street. 

Ilya pointed at the sign.

“You love a good street name, Hollander,” he smiled.

Shane read the sign: ‘The Land of Green Ginger’. He glanced at the street, a mixture of red brick, white stone, and the slightly deformed and crooked walls that he now associated with England. No green. No ginger shops. A whimsical name stamped onto an unassuming street.

“Why on earth is it called this?” he grinned, snapping a photograph of the sign, before forcing Ilya to participate in a selfie.

“Nobody knows.” Ilya proclaimed mysteriously, and Shane snorted. “No, really. Look, the sign even says so.”

And indeed, a blue sign announced that the origins of the name were unknown

“It gets better.” Ilya dragged him to an old pub at one side of the street and pointed at a crack between two large white stones in the wall.

“It’s a crack.”

“Is not a crack, Shane Hollander.” Ilya argued. “That is the smallest window in England.”

Shane peered at the crack and yes, deep inside was glass. He leaned back. “Smallest window in England huh?”

Ilya nodded, “Where is the smallest window in Canada? Hmm?”

“How would I know that?”

“No national pride.” Ilya shook his head. “I have shown you the largest and the smallest windows in England. And you have only been here three weeks.”

“What? Where was the largest window?”

“There! I knew you were interested in windows. York Minster has the largest window. It is hundreds of years old." He linked arms with Shane and they began their walk back to the car, Ilya regaling Shane with window facts the whole time, while the weight inside his chest slowly lifted.

*

Ilya only drove for about five minutes, before he was indicating and pulling off the main road, into an industrial estate at the edge of the town. He parked the car and Shane looked at the large sign over a warehouse sized building and frowned.

“Seriously?” he asked, and Ilya shrugged.

“Seriously. I think it might be time for you to be good at something again.” He winked and opened the door of the car. Shane watched him leave before reluctantly following.

The moment the doors to Hull Ice Arena swung open, Shane felt at home. Thousands of miles away from the rinks he had grown up with, and the arenas he played at, the smell hit him in his gut. Cold air, wet rubber and steel. Immediately Shane was six years old, at early morning practices, his mom behind him, his dad carrying his gear bag. It wasn’t a pleasant smell, but it was the version of Shane that existed in his soul.

Next to him, Ilya wrinkled his nose. “Stinky,” he observed.

Shane laughed. “You live in the middle of fields full of sheep shit. This place is practically an air freshener compared to that.”

“Lies, Hollander.” He strode forward, calling over his shoulder. “Come, show me your lair.”

Shane’s ‘Hull Ice Arena lair’ was tiny. At least, the rink was full sized, but there was only seating for a few thousand people. It looked like a practice rink and there was a chaotic, dull roaring sound as skates, voices, and machinery echoed and bounced around the space. On the ice were children of all ages, being corralled and encouraged by young adults who twisted between them: catching small bodies that were falling, slowing down teenagers and organising skill drills with the more competent groups. Shane sat on the bleachers and watched, a small smile on his face, as kids tumbled and slipped. It wasn’t an ice hockey group, or speed skating, or ice dance. From what he could tell it was just a ‘try to stay upright’ session which was failing pretty badly at its core aim.

Ilya wandered off to find hot drinks for them and Shane watched the ice.

It was chaos and, quite frankly, none of them were any good. But it was fun. 

After a few minutes, one of the rink staff approached Shane cautiously. A teenager, with sandy hair, pale freckles and a breaking voice.

"I’m sorry to bother yer, like. And yer can tell me to fuck off, it’s okay. But you’re Shane Hollander right? I mean yer look just like him. Again, tell me to fuck off and I will. I don’t wanna bother yer."

Shane glanced towards the children on the ice, and breathed in the damp cold air. Strangely, his first thought was of Manchester. Of sitting at the back of a lecture hall watching Ilya somehow spend hours talking to people without ever looking bored or impatient. Every question had received the same attention, whether it came from a teacher or a nervous twelve-year-old.

"I am," Shane said. "And it's fine."

The teen blinked.

"Yer sure?"

"Yeah."

"Can I get yer autograph?" he squeaked. “I’m in a team and we watch videos of yer. You’re like the best player ever. Yer in the blue team, right?” He fumbled for something to sign, pulling out a crumpled flyer from his pocket. “The others will shit a brick. I can’t believe yer in ‘Ull. Like, what the fuck?”

Shane grinned. “I heard Hull was the place to visit in England.”

The kid snorted. “Someone’s fucking with yer.”

Shane signed his name on the flyer, and completely failed to think of a motivational quote to add. He should work on that. The teen wandered off with a grin, his pale face flushed and Shane settled back to watch the skating, and the wild thing in his chest softened.

He pulled his phone out and glanced through some of the messages and emails he had been sent. It buzzed whilst he was still scanning, and he was surprised to see the incoming video call from Hayden. He accepted the call and was greeted with the sight of his friend still in pyjamas, in bed, his hair messy and a trail of dried drool on his chin. 

“What the fuck, dude?” Hayden greeted him. “You called JJ first? Seriously?”

Shane sighed, “Loudest sheep.”

“What? What the fuck?”

Shane just grinned. “Sorry. If I'd known you were gonna be a big fucking cry baby about it, I would have woken you at 5 am instead.”

“Damn straight.” Hayden agreed. “Anyway, Jackie made me call. When were you going to tell me, dude?”

“About the gay thing?” Shane frowned. “I mean, I was getting there. I was just exploring it myself, you know. It hadn’t become a group project yet.”

“No, not that…”  Hayden cut him off impatiently, before back-tracking a bit and remembering to be supportive. “Although I'm here for you man. You know that right?”

“Yes?”

“Cool. No, when were you going to tell us about…”

Hayden was abruptly interrupted and the video became a chaotic jumble of duvet, ceiling and walls, before the phone was clearly gripped in Jackie Pike’s hand, her face filling the screen, eyes wide. 

“Ilya Fucking Rozanov.” she whisper-shrieked. “Professor Tight Tops? What the fuck Shane Hollander? You pulled Quantum Fleece? Tell me everything!”

Shane blinked. The conversation had veered off track and left him behind. How the fuck did they know about Ilya?

“What?” he frowned and Jackie pursed her lips at him.

“Shane, I love you, but don’t try to weasel out of this. There were photographs of you on one of the thirst accounts on Instagram. Dancing with him and his Tight Top.” She pulled the phone even closer, her face distorted on the screen, “Way to go, Shane! You looked so hot. And he’s like a fifteen out of ten. Did you get his number?”

Hayden tried to grab the phone back, but Jackie turned her body away from him. “We love you and support you honey. I’m sorry things were taken out of your control. But also, Ilya Fucking Rozanov!”

A small flurry of movement before Hayden’s face was on the screen again, Jackie leaning over his shoulder. Shane should say something.

“What ‘thirst account’?”

Jackie shook her head slightly. “Rozanov has fans, Shane. And a lot of them are women. And a lot of them are feral.”

Hayden joined in. “They didn’t even recognise you, dude. You were just some ‘lucky guy’ who got to feel this YouTube stud up in a nightclub.”

“You should read the fanfiction, Shane.” Jackie laughed and Hayden shook his head, eyes wide.

“No, dude you really shouldn’t.”

Jackie grinned, “So did you? Get his number? I know you felt him up. Although I shouldn’t have looked at the pictures. Consent. I know. I’m sorry. But again, Shane: hot. Tell me you got his number.”

Ilya thumped down on the bleachers next to Shane, two coffee cups in his hands.

“Whose number?” he asked, and Jackie screamed.

*

They drove to Hessle Foreshore to eat the last of their wedding buffet food for lunch, seated under the vast pale tower of the Humber Bridge. A giant sentinel guarding the muddy estuary against the endless blue above. Around them, people wandered the waterfront paths, cyclists drifted past, and dogs chased one another along the shoreline. A cargo ship moved slowly in the distance, and the cables of the bridge hummed faintly in the wind.

For a while neither of them spoke.

They simply sat together, eating the last of the hedgehog prickles. 

Eventually, Shane tackled at least one of the topics that needed categorising.

“So, ‘thirst accounts’ huh?”

Ilya grimaced. “You probably have them too. People that post endless pictures of you looking broody or sweaty or sexy. Then they scream about it in the comments.”

Shane considered this. “Maybe. I’ve done a lot of modelling. A lot of hockey stuff, clothes, sports gear. I mean there was the Calvin Klein stuff as well, I suppose. But that was years ago. A drink commercial as well, where my T-shirt had to be really wet. I don’t remember why. And the…”

He had lost Ilya’s attention, he realised. Ilya was hunched over his phone, googling. 

“Fuck.” he muttered, before turning to Shane, holding out his phone. Shane looked at the photographs he had done almost ten years ago. It had been very embarrassing at the time, but the look Ilya was giving him right now made the journey completely worthwhile.

“Fuck, Shane.” Ilya repeated. “I think maybe we can be absolutely sure that there are thirst accounts for you as well.”

Shane tried to rein the conversation back in.

“Is it okay for you? That there are pictures of us together on them? That people will be talking about you. Making assumptions.”

Ilya shrugged. “I have already had my ‘outing’ story, Shane. Years ago. The world knows I’m bisexual if they look hard enough. You know about my family, so no contact there. I have a British passport now. Normally the pictures they post of me are sponsorship ones, or from my lectures and summer schools.” He glanced at Shane and grinned. “There are a lot of mothers with Instagram accounts. And fathers.”

Shane smiled back at him. “Okay. So no trauma we need to work through?”

“Oh my God, yes.” Ilya replied dramatically. “Still loads of trauma. But you know, I talk to someone, I take medication. I think I’m good most of the time. What about you? You’ve only been gay for like five minutes, and now you’re photographed with the hottest guy in England. Over achiever, Hollander.”

Shane laughed and they settled to watch the ships navigate the churning waters.

“I have to go back soon,” he said softly. “To Canada. I have some meetings my agent has set up with brands and management, and I need to get ready for the season.”

And there it was. The thing that both of them knew was an absolute certainty, but that neither of them wanted to poke with a stick. 

“There’s an email from my agent. She’s booked a flight for me in a couple of days, from Heathrow airport. Then I get a few weeks to condition before training camp.” 

Ilya was uncharacteristically quiet and Shane turned to look at him. His eyes were glossy and wet, the light drained out of his face. Shane made a small sound and leaned against him, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s waist. Ilya pulled Shane closer and kissed the top of his head.

“This has been a good summer, right?” Ilya asked quietly and Shane sniffled.

“It’s been the best summer I’ve ever had.” He answered truthfully. “I have this amazing cottage in Canada. It’s beautiful. I had it designed, and it’s so peaceful and calm. Near to my parents, but away from everything chaotic. I love it there. I love being there.” He tilted his head slightly and looked up at Ilya, his eyelashes damp with tears. “But I think I love Bramble Cottage a bit more.”

“Even though it’s the exact opposite of ‘peaceful and calm’?” Ilya teased wetly.

“Yeah.” Shane snuggled back into the embrace. “Even though it’s absolute chaos, it smells like sheep, you have a sadistic hedgehog, and I can't understand what anyone is saying. Your taps are ridiculous, and the windows suck. I should hate it. But I don’t. I love it.”

Ilya breathed out a small laugh against his hair.

“I love my Dracula mug. And Freddy Fish. I love that the gate squeaks and the pipes rattle.” He wiped his face on Ilya’s jacket. “Mostly I love that you’re there.” he whispered and Ilya’s arm around him tightened. 

“Is this…?” Ilya started and then trailed off, before having a second attempt at the question. He seemed uncertain in a way that Shane hadn’t seen before, and his heart ached. “Would you like to come back one day? You know, to still see us? Or was this a… a hot girl summer?”

Shane pulled back again, his eyes searching Ilya’s face.

“A ‘hot girl summer’?” he repeated and Ilya shrugged sheepishly.

“You know. Just fun.”

“I know what a ‘hot girl summer’ is, Ilya, I just can’t believe you…” He stopped and took a deep breath before leaning forward and pressing his lips against Ilya’s. “This is more than that.”

Ilya looked at him, his expression serious, before he nodded firmly and pulled Shane back into his embrace, both ignoring the impossibility of the dream. 

They sat quietly for a few moments, watching the water meander through the mud, before Ilya spoke again, his voice more animated and certain again.

“Hollander, you know the bridge is a metaphor, right?”

Shane groaned immediately. “Oh God.”

“No, seriously. Think about it. Two separate places. Big river in the middle. Massive fucking bridge connecting them.”

“Ilya...”

“It's us.”

Shane snorted a laugh and thumped him. “Yes Ilya, I see that the bridge is a metaphor.”

“Good.”

They rested in the moment, by the shores of the Humber, listening to the wind humming in the cables and the waves caressing the shore, next to the giant fucking metaphor. 

*

When they returned to Bramble Cottage, Shane had assumed that the evening would be filled with sex. Instead it was filled with straw.

Ilya had pulled Shane to a barn at the edge of Malcolm’s field and announced that they needed to make scarecrows. It was so far removed from anything Shane had imagined the day would bring, that he just shrugged and accepted it. 

So he had spent a couple of hours sitting on the floor of a barn, legs outstretched, stuffing clothes attached to a wooden frame,  with straw. His scarecrow was wearing one of Ilya’s dark blue tops, with blue shorts and long black socks, borrowed from Jean. He had drawn a face onto a pillow case and attached it at the top. It was objectively terrible, but was no worse than Ilya’s, which had a manic grin, full of teeth, and wonky eyes. Ilya’s scarecrow was dressed like a European fuckboy. Shane couldn’t even explain what that was, but he recognised it clearly in the sparkly shirt and black leather trousers on Ilya’s scarecrow. 

It had taken Shane an embarrassingly long time to recognise that they were making scarecrow effigies of themselves. Ilya had handed him a child's hockey stick, with Hull Ice Arena crossed out and ‘Montreal’ written over it in pen. He had also bought a helmet, which Shane stuffed the scarecrow head into. 

Throughout the construction they had laughed, kissed and occasionally cried, as the sand in the Bramble Cottage hour glass drained away.

By the time they finished, the evening light had turned the fields gold.

"Perfect," Ilya declared, looking at the two scarecrows with satisfaction.

Shane looked at them. One was a misshapen hockey player with a grimace and the other looked like a minor criminal who sold cocaine in the toilets.

"They're horrible."

Ilya wrapped an arm around Shane's waist and admired their work. "I love them."

“Well, at least they’ll protect us from the seagulls.” Shane mused.

Outside, the sound of an engine drew close and Ilya picked the scarecrows up under his arm.

“Your carriage awaits.” He grinned.

Their carriage turned out to be a trailer attached to the back of Malcolm's tractor that was already half full of Gillian, her feral children and scarecrows. Shane couldn’t identify any of the effigies, but Ilya seemed delighted with all of them.

He and Gillian started arguing immediately as they climbed in, and Mia ignored Shane completely, whilst shuffling closer and resting her hand on his leg.

Within minutes they set off across the fields towards the village, at the speed of continental drift. The evening air was warm against Shane's face. One of Ilya's hands rested loosely on his other thigh, while he attempted to keep his hockey player scarecrow upright.

When they crested a hill, the field came into view.

"Oh," Shane said softly.

Music drifted from somewhere near the church, and children ran through the grass carrying glow sticks, while dogs weaved happily between their legs.

And in the centre stood the bonfire, an enormous structure rising into the darkening sky, made from branches and pallets, surrounded by the villagers and scarecrows. 

Ilya nudged Shane.

“Have you seen The Wicker Man?” he asked casually.

“No. Why?”

“No reason. Nothing. Don't worry about it.” Ilya smiled, and jumped out of the trailer, carrying his disco physicist.

For the first part of the evening Shane found himself being hugged, photographed, handed food and thanked for things he wasn't entirely sure he had done. Several villagers wanted photographs with him, and at one point a woman in her seventies kissed both his cheeks and informed him that she had always known he belonged there.

Shane was sure he had never met her before.

The second part of the evening centered around an elaborate scene being made from all the scarecrows planted in the ground. The straw version of Shane leaned slightly to one side, its hockey stick was crooked and the face looked rightfully concerned. Beside him, straw-Ilya grinned maniacally into the darkness. They looked ridiculous and Shane found himself tearful as he took pictures of them.

When the last sunlight slid away over the moors, the bonfire was lit, a vast ribbon of orange climbing into the sky. Heat rolled across the field as the flames reached higher and golden sparks spiralled into the night. 

He and Ilya found a space at the side of the bonfire, cuddled together with a blanket wrapped around them both. People laughed, shouted and sang as the bonfire crackled. They ate food baked in the heat of the fire, and Shane grimaced when handed a cup of bitter ale, which might have been brewed in someone’s bathtub. An unsmiling woman with a sequined top winked at him and handed him a can instead, a hedgehog logo on the front. Sheila! The pub landlady! Of course. Shane smiled at her, relieved to finally have remembered who she was, before his face flushed in embarrassment on remembering her early morning wake up call.

But Sheila had moved on, Shane’s embarrassment barely a blip on her radar. Which was fair, Shane thought. He wasn’t close to being the strangest person in Nettlethwaite. 

A tiny dog ran up to Ilya and insisted on settling in his lap. A Yorkshire Terrier. Ilya fussed over her, as her small body trembled and quivered as they gave each other wet, fuzzy kisses. Some people had brought an array of instruments: a guitar, an accordion and at least two trumpets, and songs were weaving their way through the crowds and smoke. There was a lively song about Ilkley Moor, where Shane could understand none of the words, but joined in with clapping. And one about Scarborough that he thought he recognised. After that, the music shifted into Beatles songs, apparently draining the well of Yorkshire songs dry pretty quickly. 

The fire continued to crackle and spit. Shane watched the embers drift into the night sky, growing dimmer as they left Nettlethwaite. He leaned into Ilya, the blanket warm around them, the tiny dog snoring softly against Ilya’s chest.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Ilya murmured, almost too quietly to hear, “We made a good summer, Shane Hollander from Canada.”

Shane swallowed, his throat tight. “Yeah,” he whispered. “We really did, Ilya Rozanov from Bramble Cottage.”

The bonfire cracked. Their scarecrows grinned into the night, and they sat, tangled together in the glow, holding on to the last of the light. 

*

Chapter End Notes

In the next episode... Canada bound, but I promise there is a happy ever after!

Chapter 11: Honk

Chapter Summary

Previously on... Shane and Ilya went to Hull and Shane made contact with Canada. They made scarecrows for the village festival and said goodbye to Summer.

Chapter Notes

It rained the day he left Bramble Cottage because of course it did. He had packed his bags the night before, possibly adding in a few of Ilya’s things. He would probably feel guilty about that later. But not right now. Boris Jr had been wrapped carefully in a towel, and Mabel’s certificate was laid flat against the suitcase spine. Ilya had asked if he wanted to take Whitby Dracula with him, but Shane had wanted to know it was safe in the painted cupboards of the little kitchen in Bramble Cottage for when he returned. He was leaving his yellow bucket to Ilya’s care and had given Coach Coconut to a bemused Gillian. His Quantum Fleece pin was attached securely to his hoodie, and underneath it he was wearing Ilya’s ‘Born in Yorkshire’ T-shirt. 

It was time to leave.

Ilya locked the front door, and they climbed into the little rental car and slowly drove away. Shane craned his head to watch the squat cottage disappearing from view, its ‘face’ scowling at him in disapproval. When they had turned onto the narrow grassy death road, Shane turned to face the front, watching the windscreen wipers as they clicked and thunked across the glass. The sea and Nettlethwaite were hidden from view, behind thick grey clouds that hung low against the moors. 

There had been a small, hard lump in Shane’s throat all morning and he swallowed loudly around it as Ilya turned the car towards York. He reached across and Ilya automatically held his hand flat on his thigh, for Shane to grasp and hold tight. 

The rental car was returned to a garage in York, and they boarded a train for London, wrestling Shane’s suitcases into a space and finding their seats in first class.

Shane waited maybe thirty minutes before he pulled a large notepad from his hand luggage and spread sheets of paper covered in neat handwriting, across the table. 

“What is this Hollander? We can ask for place mats if the table is dirty.”

“No.” Shane huffed in reply, putting his glasses on and frowning at the twelve sheets of paper, before underlining the name of a month on each one. “Okay. This is my schedule for the next twelve months.” He tapped the sheet with September written at the top. “Captain’s skate at the start, training camp, scrimmages, pre-season games.” 

He paused and looked at Ilya, who was simply gazing at him, a soft smile on his face, his eyes darting across Shane’s freckles, glasses and mouth. Shane tapped him on the nose with his pen. “Concentrate.”

Ilya sighed loudly and feigned exaggerated interest in the paper. Shane restarted his lecture. 

“So, the season starts in October and you can see my games for the next season, including travel days, erm, scheduled practices, and compulsory charity events.” He sat back and looked at the paper. “I haven't put my full schedule, you know, team meetings, video reviews or physio. Just the main events really.”

“Shane?”

“Hmm?”

“You must promise never to meet Sveta.” Ilya shook his head at the calendar on the table. “She will love this and have many questions. And the two of you will fall in love over spreadsheets and she’ll steal you away from me.”

“Not gonna happen.” Shane replied instantly and Ilya pouted at him sappily.

He tapped February with his pen, “All Star weekend is at the start of the month.” He then put a finger on April. “This is where play-offs start.” He looked over at June. “And I’ll probably be lifting the cup here and then there’ll be some, you know, awards or something at the end of the month.” 

He hoped he looked modest, but he really needed to be prepared for every eventuality.

He then nodded firmly and picked up July. “So this is my real break. I might have sponsorships or charity work, but I’ve got practically a year to reschedule those. And I don’t need to be as ‘full on’ as I was ten years ago.”

“Not as full on, eh?” Ilya grinned, his eyes flicking over the spread papers. “You have a very full calendar, Shane.”

Shane nodded seriously. “Yes I do. And August I need to be conditioning and training. Not just in a gym. On the ice as well. Preferably with other players and a trainer.”

Fuck.

In his head, this had seemed like a good idea. Organise his life into small compartments and then show how easily Ilya and Yorkshire could slide into the spaces. But now he realised that all he was doing was showing how little space was available for sexy Russian sliding.

He should have thought this through more.

“I thought…” He trailed off and looked at the twelve sheets of paper that had seemed like a bridge, but was rapidly becoming an insurmountable paper wall between them.

“Tell me.” Ilya pressed his leg firmly against Shane’s under the table.

“I thought that you could add your commitments and schedule onto the paper and then, I don’t know, I thought maybe a magic timetable would erupt in sparkles and everything would be obvious.”

“What ‘everything’?”

“You know. Us.” Shane turned and stared at Ilya. “Me and you would be obvious, and our lives would magically slot together.”

Ilya tapped his foot gently against Shane’s. “Maybe if we were characters in a story this would happen. Would be nice, yes? Reality is maybe a bit different.”

Shane nodded, but his attempt at a smile wobbled into a sad pout. He looked back at the pieces of paper on the table. “I mean this is going to be my reality for the next… eight years maybe. Less if I get injured. More if my body doesn’t let me down. But… yeah. This is me.”

Ilya looked at the papers and his mouth quirked slightly. “Eight years. Hmm. And you want our lives to fit together somehow, yes?” He turned back to Shane. “This is what you want? Us to find a way together?”

Shane knew he had tears in his eyes and why the fuck was he still crying so often? “Yes,” he whispered. “Not just a hot girl summer.”

Ilya waved his hand between the two of them, and replied in the same soft voice. “We are hot though.”

“Yeah.” Shane grinned. “We are.”

There was a long, drawn out moment that stretched between them and then curled away into a seemingly impossible, but much desired future. Shane knew that if they were back at the cottage, Ilya would now be offering to make him a cup of tea. 

He suddenly appreciated how much emotional heavy lifting the cups of tea provided for Yorkshire people.

“Okay.” Ilya dramatically snatched the pen from Shane’s sad fingers and he twirled it with a little flourish, before turning to the papers and starting to write what he could remember of his own timetable onto Shane’s ‘Plan for the Future’ calendar. 

It was ridiculous, but Shane’s chest clenched at the sight of the jagged black capital letters threading between his own neat writing, sometimes overlapping, sometimes wrapped around.

He managed to stop himself drawing little love hearts around some of the places where they joined.

But only just. 

*

Svetlana Vetrova’s Mayfair flat was incredible. 

The sun was enthusiastically out, turning the red brick façades into warm honey. Wrought iron railings gleamed outside the tall, ridiculously grand buildings. Their little alcoves, gables and balconies glittered in the light. At ground level there were rows of expensive shops glowing against the grey pavement. Everything smelled faintly of exotic candles and old money. After weeks of sheep shit, stuffed fish, and pipes that rattled like they were haunted, Shane felt like he’d stepped into a parallel universe.

They passed an elegant, bright shop named ‘Farm Shop’, decorated with green and white striped awnings and fake plants cascading around it. Shane glanced inside as they passed and snorted in derision at the elegant, sterile interior, as far removed from a farm as it could be.

Their entrance was next door. Ilya paused as he fiddled with a key.

“Audrey Hepburn lived here," he said.

Shane glanced up. “Who?”

Ilya turned to stare at him. “You don't know Audrey Hepburn?”

“I know she was an actress.”

Ilya smiled and reached for his hand, gently pulling him into the marble hallway. They bumped the suitcases up the elegant stone staircase, which had no stuffed aquatic life, no murder beams and the light was a kaleidoscope from a glittering chandelier. The flat itself was spacious and bright, with minimalist decor and modern fittings.

It was beautiful, and four weeks ago, Shane would have loved the calm it wrapped around him.

Now, it was the pause before the exit from Summer, and he kind of wanted to hate it.

He was gazing out of the window, down at the designer cars and designer people when Ilya came up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist, his chin resting on Shane’s shoulder.

“You want to go out and see the sights of the big city?” he murmured.

Shane shook his head. “No. Let’s just stay here.”

“Not if you are going to be melancholy.”

Shane punched lightly at his arm. “Fuck you. I’ll be melancholy if I want. You’re not the boss of me.”

Ilya slowly licked the shell of his ear and Shane shivered. 

“I could be, if you want me to be.” Ilya whispered.

“You wish.” That would have been more effective if his voice wasn’t an aching gasp, probably.

“Mhhm. I do.” Ilya bit his neck hard, before licking his tongue over the mark.

“We can’t make a mess in Svetlana’s apartment.” Shane gasped and Ilya snorted.

“She has a cleaner.”

“Oh, Okay then.”

“Okay what?”

Shane turned in Ilya’s arms, before leaning to press a kiss against his lips.

“You can be the boss of me. One night only.” 

He bit Ilya’s lip hard, before twisting out of his arms and running, wishing he had checked out where the bedrooms were before committing to his play.

Ilya cursed and chased after him, laughing.

*

The evening moved in the way that time does when you try to hold it still, tight in your fingers. That’s to say it fucking sped past and Shane found himself standing at Heathrow airport in the morning, squinting against the harsh lighting, shoulders tense against the noise that echoed around the cavernous metal framework of the terminal.

Ilya hovered next to him as his bags were checked in, his fingers hooked into the back of Shane’s jeans. They had managed to touch almost constantly on the journey here: arms and legs brushing against each other, fingers linked. Ilya had rested his head on Shane’s shoulder on the Elizabeth Line, rocked by the sway of the carriage as it sped them further away from Summer.

There were things that Shane wanted to say. Words he really needed to speak aloud before he disappeared through the gate. They were buzzing around his head, angry bees demanding to be set free. They could walk to the security gate and discuss the future, the calendar, their feelings and all of the things that he had been kind of putting off because Ilya kept being naked and how was Shane supposed to concentrate on conversation then?

He would lead into it and then maybe say words that it was far too early to say and then…

Oh.

The walk to the security queue was really short.

Fuck.

Time was moving so fast and he couldn’t keep up. It was unfair, and unromantic, and unsexy. And Heathrow airport was really ugly. And noisy. And bright. He was totally going to cry again.

Ilya kissed him. Hard. His hands clutching Shane’s face tightly. Shane tried to kiss him back, but a tiny broken sob kept getting in the way. It was happening and he didn’t think he was going to be able to breathe again. How was he supposed to breathe when his chest was so tight?

Ilya knocked his forehead against Shane’s, which hurt a bit and made him frown. He then reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a book, which he placed in Shane’s hands.

“For the flight. Something to read.” He smiled, somewhat wetly.

Shane looked at the cover. There was a farm building that looked like Malcolm’s, in the snow. And a small boy in Wellington boots pushing at the backside of a sheep.

“‘It Shouldn’t Happen to a Vet’?” he read the title, puzzled. “It’s about a vet?”

“Sort of.” Ilya tilted his head. “Mostly it’s about Yorkshire. It’s good. Funny. So you won’t forget us.”

“I don’t need a book to remember you all.” Shane sniffled. “Besides, I’m coming back. Next July. I need to see you do your lectures. And build a scarecrow. And go to the Nettlethwaite fete. It’s not goodbye.”

Ilya nodded. “Not goodbye.” He kissed Shane, softly this time. “You need to go.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I know. But your plane is soon.”

“Yeah.” Shane pressed a long, salty kiss to Ilya’s lips before turning and passing through the security gate. Before he disappeared around the corner, he turned and tried to smile. It didn’t work. Ilya was crying, but he nodded reassuringly and Shane took a deep breath, before stepping out of sight.

On the plane he opened the book and read about adventures with milk cows, piglets and sheep. In his head he heard the flat Yorkshire vowels of the farmers and he sighed at descriptions of the rolling Yorkshire landscape.

It made him cry. But then, a cup of coffee had made him cry. The seatbelt light had made him cry. Feeling his Quantum Fleece pin against his chest had made him cry. The steward asking him if everything was alright had made him cry.

He leaned his head against the seat and stared out of the window at the clear blue sky and thought about Ilya, nodding goodbye to him at the security gate. And then he thought about Little Ilya, honking sadly at his pond, for a mate that didn’t answer. He was surprised there was enough fluid left in his body to cry more. 

But there was.

*

He’d returned to Montreal a few days before he had originally planned to when he first ran away. The main problem with this was Svetlana Vetrova. She was still staying at his Montreal apartment as part of the original house swap, so he had considered hotels, or travelling to Ottawa to stay with his parents, or asking the Pikes if he could stay in their guest room. But Rose had finally returned his calls and told him to come home to his penthouse.

It was an indication of how tired and sad he was that he didn’t even question why she was there.

He stepped into the hallway, kicked off his sneakers and looked at her across the space, his eyes red and tearful. Rose made a small sympathetic noise and cuddled him.

She cuddled him in the hallway, in the kitchen, and in the living room on the large sofa. They didn’t speak, but he appreciated her extensive retinue of comfort sounds. 

Eventually she poked him in the side, forcing him to look up at her.

“We’ve come full circle,” she said, cheerfully.

Shane was not in the mood to decipher cheerful conversations, so he buried his face in the sofa instead.

“The last time I saw you, you were in this position, thinking the world had ended. And now look at us!”

He turned back to her, his face red and probably a bit scowly.

“Still sad, still on the sofa, still not talking. I feel like we haven’t grown, Shane.”

He tried to smile, but his lips wobbled and he just couldn't finish the movement. It was easy to drown in misery with Rose, because she was so positive, it would just bounce off her.

He had just settled in to continue his pity party when there was an indelicate cough, as someone pointedly cleared their throat.

Shane twitched and sat up, his misery drenched brain trying to form connections. Leaning against the wall, with her arms folded and mouth pressed in a thin line, was a woman he recognised. Svetlana Vetrova. Her photograph was on the shelves at Bramble Cottage and he had looked at it so often during the last four weeks that he had mentally cast her as one of the many quirky side characters in the cottage. It was a jarring shock to find her in his home, wearing elegant, draped lounge clothes. 

Rose stood up and skipped over to her, pressing a quick kiss on her cheek before introducing her to Shane.

Okay. Ilya had guessed at this narrative strand, but Shane had honestly forgotten about it. He really needed to get his head out of his ass more. 

“Shane Hollander.” Svetlana said. Not smiling or positive at all. Instead her gaze dragged itself all over his face and body, observing his bloodshot eyes and puffy cheeks. She had a slight Russian accent and it made his poor bruised heart twang so loudly that he thought they would all hear it. 

“Hi. Svetlana. Hello. Yes. I’m so sorry I’m back early. Rose said to come here. I didn’t really think it through. I can just pick up some documents I need and go to a hotel. You shouldn’t have to leave early. I’m the one that changed…”

“Shh.” She held up a hand, and he skidded obligingly to silence. 

“It’s your apartment Shane Hollander. I’ve been using the guest room, not yours, so there's no need for you to go anywhere else. You should shower, change and then come and tell me all about how Ilyusha has made you cry.”

An itinerary, distributed in a clipped Russian accent. He felt something settle inside him and he nodded, pulling himself off the sofa and wheeling his misery and his suitcases to his room.

Two hours later he was back on the sofa, wearing Ilya’s stolen pyjamas, cuddled under a blanket and squeezed between Rose and Sveta. Damp tissues were scattered across their laps and Rose was holding a nearly empty tub of ice cream. 

Sveta was holding Shane’s paper calendar plan, lips pursed and a small frown on her face as she leafed through the pages. Occasionally she would go back and check something and shake her head. She had photographed each page on her phone and would add notes when she clearly thought of something important. Shane had asked to see, and had tried to engage her in conversation about it, but she had clicked her tongue sharply at him and waved him off.

Rose shook her head and ate more ice cream.

“Let her do her thing, Shaney.” she advised.

Shane didn’t know what Svetlana’s ‘thing’ was, and he admitted to himself that he was more than a little scared of her.

Eventually she turned her sharp gaze on him, expression as serious as it had been all evening.

“What do you want, Shane Hollander?” She asked bluntly. “Twelve months?” She waved the paper slightly.

“No.” Shane replied immediately. “I mean, yes. Yes, I want the twelve months. But then, I want the twelve months after that. And then the next twelve. And… you know, all of the twelve months. I want all of them. With him.”

Sveta’s eyes flicked all over his face, as if she wanted to burrow into his brain with sharp fingernails and read his true intentions.

“Then why haven’t you asked him to come to Canada with you?”

“What?” Shane blinked.

Sveta rustled the paper calendar again. “Why haven’t you asked him to pack up his life and come and live here with you?”

Shane shook his head, frowning. Sveta was pissing him off now.

“Because of Bramble Cottage. And Nettlethwaite. And Gillian. And Professor Yaffle. And… and Anya. And Boris. And thousands of other reasons. Because I would never ask him to give that up.” And, oh my God, he was crying again. His head hurt so much. “I don’t want him to change for me, or give anything up for me.” He sniffled. “I just want… a bridge. I want a big fucking bridge between us.” Rose handed him another tissue and he dabbed at his nose, glaring at Sveta and her haughty face.

A face which suddenly and gloriously dissolved into a smile. The first he had seen from her, that stretched across her face and lit up her eyes.

She turned her body, lifting her feet to rest on his legs and winked at him.

“Okay Shane Hollander.” she smiled. “Let’s build a fucking bridge.”

*

Bridge building apparently took time.

The weeks dragged by, scraping their claws along the ice. 

He had met JJ and Hayden for lunch when he’d first returned and it had been good. More than he could have ever hoped for. He had the support of his assistant captains and, more than that, they had kept the rest of the team in line for him, challenging anything negative in the group chats. Loud sheep kicking the others in the head.

The internet had provided the usual churning cesspit of spite and weirdness, but it had settled and redirected over the summer break. Luca Haas, Ottawa's young centre prodigy, had come out in spectacular fashion, by posting a video of himself dancing on a platform with his boyfriend at a gay club in Brazil, wearing only sequined chaps and a jockstrap. The media circus had a new star.

Shane was slightly jealous. It was a glorious ‘fuck you’ to the commissioner, and had completely taken any focus off Shane and his sad, grainy little blow job pictures. What had been a life changing disaster for Shane, had become old news for everyone else, and a younger, shinier central character had risen from the ashes. Even the pre-season games had been uneventful. Montreal had signed a new enforcer, and Shane now had a Swedish bodyguard lurking near him at the first hint of trouble on the ice.

So, he trained his body, he led his team and he fulfilled his sponsorship obligations.  Still the Golden Boy of Canadian Hockey, his shining crown only slightly tarnished and dented over the summer.

And through all of it, his phone became the axis his whole life spun around. He checked it constantly. Texts. Photos. Video calls. Voice notes. Facetime. A picture of a goose. A blurry shot of a scarecrow. A video of Ilya explaining some physics concepts while wearing a sleeveless vest that should have been illegal. His entire emotional support system was now a small glowing rectangle he cradled like a newborn wherever he went.

It wasn’t ringing tonight as he made his weary way home.

Not yet.

The night concierge nodded in greeting as he walked past, entering the elevator and watching the lights chart his path to the penthouse. Still the phone didn’t buzz.

Inside, the space felt cavernous. High ceilings and large glass windows that opened onto a balcony with views that stretched across the city. He checked his phone: no call or text yet.

He ate his food, then brushed his teeth and changed for bed, his phone a constant companion. It was ridiculous and a bit embarrassing. His entire body and brain felt like a radio picking up static, every nerve ending fizzing under his skin, waiting for a signal from across the ocean. He was constantly vibrating with leftover energy that he couldn’t discharge, addicted to the lazy Russian drawl, the delighted grin on the tiny screen, the random photographs and texts.

He had watched every Quantum Fleece video an embarrassing number of times, and had vaguely considered doing a Physics course online with all his new-found knowledge. Although, if he were being completely self-aware, most of that knowledge revolved around Ilya’s wardrobe and the stretch of his tops.

It had been hours since the last point of contact and his nerve endings were scratching across the inside of his skin with a drawn out screech.

When the phone finally lit up and rang, his tension had wound so tight that he jumped and momentarily fumbled before he could answer.

“Ilya?”

“Are you at home?”

“Yeah. I had to do some media stuff. But I’m back home now.”

“Did you win?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you did.”

Shane could hear the smile in his voice and his body reacted physically, the fizzing tension draining away and being replaced with an aching blanket of longing. He missed him so much. His shiny shirts, his erratic curls, the shifting colour of his eyes. The little snores at night and the way he scratched his ass in the morning. He’d clipped his toenails really sexily once, and maybe Shane was not being entirely healthy about this. 

When was Svetlana Vetrova’s bridge going to be built?

“I have exciting news, Shane Hollander of Canada.” Ilya announced, a little breathlessly. He sounded like he was walking somewhere. Probably trying to get decent phone reception on the edge of a cliff or something. “I am coming to Canada!”

All of the air vanished out of the room and Shane momentarily choked.

“What? When? Soon?” he managed.

“Yes, yes, soon.” Ilya replied easily. “Sveta has booked me a lecture tour. Starting in Canada. But some lectures in the States as well.”

“Oh my God.” Shane breathed. He loved Svetlana. “When?”

“Eh, soon. Sveta will send you the email with the itinerary.”

Shane had to stand up, the energy was back in his body, pushing out along his nerves, and he needed to move. “But when? I can check it against my games. See where I’ll be when you’re here.”

“No need.” Ilya answered cheerfully. “Sveta has done it. She matched it with your schedule.”

“She what?”

“Your cute calendar. Paper one.” Ilya explained. “Sveta has booked me to do a tour in your hockey cities. So I can follow you around like a lovesick puppy. Is good, yes?”

Shane tried to understand what Sveta had organised for him. “Same cities?”

“Yep.” Ilya popped the ‘p’ happily.

“But my schedule is insane, we travel all the time, we don’t always stay, we train in between.”

“Sveta knows. Is all good. Not perfect, but good, yes?” Ilya’s voice softened. “I will stay with you, travel with you when I can and we will see each other more than the other players will see their wives. It will be good Shane. For two months.”

“Two months?” Shane couldn't wrap his head around it. No, it wasn’t perfect, but right now it was the most wonderful thing he had ever heard, and he wanted to see and hold Ilya so badly that his hand was shaking. 

“When?” he whispered. “When will you be here?”

“Erm, first lecture in three weeks.” 

Three weeks? Ilya would be here, in this city, this building, this fucking apartment, in three weeks. It was everything and nothing. It was too long to wait, too far away and yet so close, all warped together. He wanted to touch him so badly, feel those strong hands on his body and just lie next to him in the bed, tangled and warm. With the windows firmly closed. 

“Shane?”

Shane made a small, desperate noise in his throat. It would have to do.

“You definitely want this? Want me to come?”

“Yes.” Shane said hoarsely. “So, so much.”

There was a knock at his door and Shane moved on auto pilot to open it, his phone still pressed against his ear.

Standing outside his door, a wide, hopeful smile on his face, was Ilya. 

He had two suitcases by his feet, his phone in front of him and for some completely insane reason, Freddy Fish tucked under his arm.

“You’re here.” Shane breathed stupidly into his phone.

“Freddy missed you and couldn’t wait three weeks.” Ilya answered, wiggling the fish slightly.

Shane blinked at them.

“We wondered if we could stay with you.” Ilya asked into his phone.

Shane nodded. And then whispered “Yes. Yes I’d like that,”, so that phone call Ilya knew what was happening.

He wasn’t entirely sure that he hadn’t just conjured Ilya up, out of his own frantic, buzzing need.

Ilya’s smile faltered a bit. He spoke into his phone again. “Can we come in?”

Shane’s eyes flickered over Ilya’s smile, his curls, his tight top and his stupid fucking fish, and then he launched himself at him. 

He thumped hard into Ilya’s body, his hands clamped on his face, holding him tight whilst he kissed him, a slashing of lips, tongues and teeth. Freddy was squeezed between them, and Shane felt his outraged mouth bump his chin. He stepped back, pulling Ilya into the apartment, where he turned him and pushed him against the wall. His hands moved over his face, his arms and chest, pushing at the jacket, desperate for it to come off. Why was he wearing clothes?

“Fuck, Shane.” Ilya gasped, before Shane locked onto his mouth again, terrified that Ilya would disappear if he let go for a second. He pressed his tongue into Ilya’s mouth, and pushed the jacket down his arms, where it ended up trapped between Ilya’s body and the wall.

“Shane, should we…”

Shane tugged him away from the wall, so that the jacket fell heavily to the floor, and then immediately pushed his hands up inside the tight T-shirt underneath. He felt the glorious, hot and hard expanse of muscle and moaned into Ilya’s mouth, squeezing his pecs and flicking his thumbs against the tight nipples.

“Shane. Maybe…”

Shane pressed his thigh between Ilya’s legs, feeling the hard cock pushing against him. The T-shirt needed to come off and he tugged it off, catching it on Ilya’s neck when he wouldn’t pull away from his mouth long enough to help.

Freddy clattered to the floor and Ilya started hopping awkwardly. Shane distantly realised he was trying to take off his shoes. It meant that a small gap had appeared between their bodies and Shane desperately grabbed at Ilya’s hips to press them together again. It made Ilya stumble and he reached for Shane’s shoulders to support himself. Shane’s balance teetered on the edge and they fell against the wall, knocking a large painting off its hook.

“S’okay.” Shane muttered against Ilya’s mouth, kicking the door closed and trying to manoeuver them both further inside.

Fuck, he had missed him. He wanted to crawl inside him and never be separated again. That was healthy, right?

Somehow Ilya’s t-shirt was finally off and that gorgeous chest was on display. Shane moaned and bit his way down Ilya’s neck, wanting to taste every inch.

“Milyy, should we…”

Shane bit hard on his neck, licking at the spot with his tongue. He wanted to leave marks on Ilya’s body, so that everyone would know who he belonged to. He loved him so much that his whole body was shaking with it.

Had he told Ilya that? Had he said the words? He’d thought it was too soon maybe and he’d talked around it and run out of time. He should tell Ilya. In a second. When he didn’t have his teeth and tongue wrapped around a hard nipple and when Ilya wasn’t pulling at his hair and breathing hard against him.

Ilya pulled him up and Shane moaned in protest, before slamming their mouths together again, wet and dirty. 

“Fuck. We need to…”

Shane forced Ilya further into the apartment, lips still joined, before pressing his hard cock against Ilya’s.

Ilya moaned and grabbed Shane’s ass, squeezing before reaching to pull up his thighs and lift Shane onto the kitchen counter. Fuck, that was hot. Shane clamped his legs around Ilya’s waist and they wrestled and kissed as Ilya tried to remove Shane’s top. It was a battle between them and Ilya eventually won, sliding the top along the counter. There was a crash and Shane gripped Ilya’s curls hard in his fingers, not wanting to be distracted by what he was fairly sure was the fruit bowl clattering to the floor. 

He rocked against Ilya’s stomach, the friction on his cock making him even more needy and desperate. 

“Shane?”

“Mm?”

“You’re too high up. I’m fucking your kitchen cabinet.”

Shane whined and leaned forward into Ilya’s arms, as he carried him in staggering steps to the living space. He tried to drop Shane onto the sofa, but Shane’s arms and legs were wrapped limpet style around him and they both fell onto the cushions in a tangle of arms and legs.

Shane fumbled at Ilya’s jeans, got momentarily stuck on the button and then tugged down the zip a little too firmly. Ilya breathed in sharply, before exhaling and burying his face in Shane’s neck, as the firm grip tugged on his cock.

Shane stroked his hand up and down, rubbing his thumb around the tip and Ilya thrust gently into his touch. Their mouths together, in a hot, breathy kiss.

Shane needed to tell Ilya something. He was so frantic, so desperate to tell him something. The bees in his head returned, stinging insistently. He couldn’t let the moment get away from him again.

He pulled back with a gasp and looked at Ilya’s hazy, lust-drunk eyes.

Fuck, this was a terrible time to say those three words. But they wouldn’t stay inside him any longer. He should have told Ilya so much earlier. At the Humber Bridge. Or York. Maybe Manchester. God, he probably should have said them that first day when they played Uno and this idiot cheated like a fucking gremlin.

“Ilya.” he gasped, still stroking that glorious cock, which twitched in his hand. “Ilya, let’s get married.”

Oh.

No, that hadn’t been the three words he'd planned. 

Fuck.

Ilya was staring at him, his eyes wide and ever so slightly panicked.

Shane was fairly sure his own face looked just as shocked.

“Did you just fucking propose, Hollander?” 

“I meant to say ‘I love you’. Shit. I don’t know where that… other thing came from. Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“Proposing while I’m trying to get you to fuck me. That’s insane.”

Ilya’s flushed face softened into his shit-eating grin.

“Are you taking your proposal back now?”

“Yes? Sort of?”

Ilya started thrusting into Shane’s shock-loosened hand and grinned. “You want to marry me, Hollander?” he said softly and fuck it, Shane nodded.

“I mean, eventually probably. I think so. Yes. That's crazy, right?”

“Probably.” Ilya agreed. “But you are chaos theory personified, Shane Hollander from Canada. So I should probably just go along with it. To protect the universe.”

He pulled out of Shane’s hand and kissed his way down his body, licking and biting the hard muscles, before nuzzling his face into Shane’s thighs.

He adjusted his position slightly to suck and kiss his way down Shane’s cock before jerking abruptly.

“Fuck.” He pulled back. “Your coffee table attacked me.”

On his leg was a thin cut from the glass table and Shane couldn’t even begin to imagine how Ilya had managed that. 

He stood, reaching for Ilya’s hand, and they hopped, stumbled and staggered up the stairs, kissing, stroking, squeezing and gasping the entire way, a trail of clothes left behind them as they travelled.

In the hallway outside Shane’s bedroom, Shane dropped to his knees, swallowing Ilya down, fingers clenched tight in that glorious ass. Ilya leaned against the wall, having given up on trying to get them into the bedroom.

Shane gazed up at him, from the floor, his eyes glassy and blurred. He pulled off long enough to hoarsely whisper, “I love you so much,” before taking the heavy cock in his mouth again, just as Ilya cursed and came, pulsing down his throat.

Ilya stroked his fingers through Shane’s hair as he leaned against Ilya’s thighs. 

“Come on, Shane. Bedroom.” Ilya whispered.

Shane blinked up at him. “Oh. I… I already came.” he said in a relaxed, slurred voice.

Ilya smiled slightly.

“Five minutes rest, then we go again.” He declared. “I need to find a really good time to tell you I love you too. It needs to be perfect, and better than yours. Let’s go and figure it out.”

Shane followed behind him, his heart full and body warm.

*

“You have a lot of pillows, Shane.” Ilya observed the next morning.

Shane poked his stomach.

“I’ve seen your house. You don't get to give me any shit about too many things in my apartment, Rozanov.”

Ilya hummed, still looking round the room.

“My suitcases are still in the hallway outside I think. Fuck knows where Freddy ended up.”

“Fuck. They’ll be okay. It’s really only me up here anyway. The other penthouse is empty.”

“All alone in a glass tower, Hollander?” Ilya grinned.

“Shut up.” Shane felt that might lack impact seeing as there were cartoon hearts beating in his eyes.

Ilya’s gaze rested on Boris Junior who was in pride of place next to Shane’s side of the bed, and the certificate with Mabel’s smiling face carefully propped next to it. The copy of It Shouldn’t Happen to a Vet was beside them, the spine cracked and creased.

“We fucked in front of your side characters.” 

Shane huffed out a laugh. “They probably need to get used to it if we’re getting married.”

“Good point.”

“To be honest, I was most conscious of the photograph.”

He gestured to the wall above the bed, and Ilya turned his head.

“Wow.” he deadpanned.

In a clean white frame, hanging over the bed was an enormous print of Barry’s photograph. Mabel and Anya looking unimpressed, Ilya grinning broadly at the camera, and Shane gazing at Ilya with what seemed like awe. Beyond them, the harsh beauty of the Yorkshire Moors spread out in purple and green waves.

“You think it’s big enough?” Ilya teased.

“No.” Shane answered honestly, and Ilya kissed him.

“Two months won’t be enough.” Shane whispered, leaning his head on Ilya’s chest and listening to the steady, grounding heartbeat.

“One step at a time, Hollander. That’s what Sveta says.”

“I’ve been thinking. About the future. I think, maybe when I retire I could look at coaching jobs in England. They have ice hockey teams there. Professional ones. They suck, but it might be a fun challenge. They have teams in Yorkshire. Some good arenas too.” 

Ilya squeezed him closer. “Are they good enough for Shane Hollander from Canada?”

“Honestly? No.” Shane smiled. “But it will be a good challenge for a while. It’s just so long away. Eight years maybe. I don’t know if a few weeks every year, and the summer break, will be enough.”

“So, I have another step, maybe.” Ilya said quietly. “I have a meeting at McGill next week.”

Shane pushed up on the bed and frowned down at Ilya, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. “The university?”

“Mhm.” Ilya picked at an invisible loose thread on the sheets. “They have a not completely shitty doctoral programme. I mean, you know, maybe I could start my PhD again. I would like to.”

“So, you would do your PhD in Montreal?”

“Of course. Is a good university.” He shrugged. “So Hollander, you can’t get traded, or it will really fuck me over.”

“But what about Bramble Cottage?”

Ilya grinned and pushed Shane’s hair back off his forehead.

“I am hot, rich, and famous Shane. And Sveta is a terrifying manager. Anywhere would bend over backwards to accommodate me.”

“Modest.”

“Is true. It isn’t fair, maybe, but it is true.” He sighed loudly. “They will adapt. I can still do the summer schools and keep my sponsorships. Quantum Fleece I can film anywhere. And Sveta has already looked at me doing my research at Boulby Mine.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Is an old salt mine. Near Whitby. Is like a mile underground. They tested the Mars rover there. Is very cool. I’ll take you. They’re growing vegetables there now.” 

Shane wondered how far in the future that would be, hoping it was far enough away to give him time to come up with an excuse not to go that wasn’t ‘no fucking way am I going a mile underground, you psycho.’ 

Putting that aside, he tried to organise his world into a framework that he could understand. 

“So, you would move to Montreal to study. For how long?”

Ilya pulled Shane back down to rest against his chest, his lips pressed to Shane’s hair. “Seven years usually. But there will be some flexibility for me. And I will spend time in Yorkshire, for research.”

“And you still keep the YouTube channel?”

“Of course. School is expensive.” 

“And you keep Bramble Cottage?”

“Yes. For our summers and then as a base for your magnificent retirement plan to take over Yorkshire with the power of ice hockey.”

“You know that’s not actually a plan yet. Just an idea, right?”

“One step at a time, Hollander.” 

“Yeah. It’s a big fucking bridge. One step at a time.”

Shane kissed Ilya’s broad chest. His body sore, relaxed and trying its absolute best to crawl inside Ilya’s. He knew that he would make a calendar, a timetable, just to see his and Ilya’s lives entwined in ink. Fuck it, maybe it would be ok to add little love hearts now. His fingers twisted in the curls on Ilya’s stomach and he wondered if he should have offered food by now. Fuck. He didn’t even have any tea in the apartment.

“Shane?” Ilya’s quiet voice broke through his teeny, tiny spiral. “I also did… something back in Yorkshire. A couple of things, actually.”

Shane turned his head and gazed up at Ilya’s sheepish expression.

“Is it bad?”

“No. Not bad. I thought maybe it was too optimistic at the time. But now, I think it’s good.”

Shane raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“I bought one of Malcolm's barns. Where we made the scarecrows.” He said in a quick, breathy rush.

“Oh. Okay?”

“And, it’s being fitted with a synthetic ice rink. I watched your documentary. On your Canada cottage. Which, by the way is a fucking huge luxury lodge and not a cottage. But, more importantly, I’m building you a bigger, better ice rink than you have there.”

“You’re building me an ice rink?”

Ilya shrugged and attempted to look nonchalant. But Shane could feel the rapid thumping of his heartbeat and knew that for some reason, he was nervous.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered Ilya talking about particles in Manchester. How sometimes two things could meet and, afterwards, neither of them was quite the same as before.

Yeah.

He understood that now.

“I love you.” Shane crawled his way up Ilya’s muscular body, to press a hard kiss against his lips. “Thank you for my ice rink.”

Ilya preened slightly and returned the kiss with interest, wet and slow, and Shane needed to brush his teeth.

He was about to suggest it when Ilya’s stomach growled with a jaunty rumble and Shane laughed. 

“Come on. I’ll find you something to eat.”

Ilya slid out of bed, pulling on a pair of Shane’s joggers, and scratching his ass as he padded down the stairs. He looked curiously around the space, which Shane had prevented him from seeing yesterday by locking his mouth on Ilya’s and refusing to part. He was a really shitty host.

As Shane pulled out eggs and peppers from the fridge he stopped suddenly. 

“What else did you do?”

“Hmm?” Ilya turned away from gazing at the Montreal skyline and wandered back to the kitchen.

“You said you did ‘a couple of things’. Back in Yorkshire. What else did you do?”

“Oh.” Ilya grinned, wide and soft, his teeth on display and his eyes dancing pale North Sea gray in the morning light. “I found a rescue Sebastopol goose. Female. I sponsored her for Brenda and Jeanette, at the centre.”

Shane felt his eyes fill with tears. Again. “A mate for Little Ilya?” he breathed.

Ilya nodded, leaning across the counter and kissing him gently. “A mate for little Ilya,” he agreed.

They spent the rest of the morning talking, laughing, and making plans that might or might not work, but felt completely possible now. 

And three thousand miles away, beside a muddy pond in Yorkshire, Little Ilya honked softly, before waddling into the water to meet his mate in the middle.

Chapter End Notes

This chapter is the end of the story… so why has another chapter suddenly appeared after this one, somebody might ask. Well, I wrote a scene and then couldn’t find a place I liked for it. So I am adding it as Chapter 12, but it is just a sort of a deleted / bonus scene. It has two lines in it that I liked too much to totally abandon. Read it if you want, ignore it if you prefer:)

Chapter 12: Fifi

Chapter Summary

Previously on... the story ended. This is just a 'bonus' scene:)

Chapter Notes

Ilya’s long legs were stretched out in the passenger seat of Shane’s Range Rover. His fingers were tapping along to a song on the radio, and he gazed out of the window, humming along with the tune. He was wearing dark shades and his hair was gelled back from his face, in an attempt to look sophisticated. One curl had escaped already and was bouncing on his forehead with the vibrations of the car as it crunched along the snowy roads.

Shane knew that by the end of the party his head would be a dishevelled riot of hair, but for now, he looked… contained.

“Farhan told me about a channel we need for cricket.” He suddenly announced. “Willow. He explained how to get it. I will add it to your subscriptions.”

He looked back out of the window, his knee bouncing.

Shane debated whether to engage or not. 

Meh. Why not?

“Who’s Farhan?”

Ilya looked back at him, astonishment slapped in exaggerated lines over his face.

“Farhan? At reception. In your apartment block? Shane! He has worked there for four years.”

Shane tried to recall the faces of the men who nodded to him as he came and went. He didn’t know their names. He guessed Farhan was the night concierge. When had Ilya talked to him about cricket? Why had Ilya talked to him about cricket?

“Shane, Farhan is from Afghanistan. He came to Canada because he has four daughters. They all play cricket in girls teams. Is mostly children of diaspora I think. I’m going to watch them play and maybe get some publicity for them? There is no funding for cricket, let alone girls cricket. But he loves to watch all games. He likes Virat Kohli. And Joe Root.” He grinned at Shane. “You would like Joe Root, Shane. He is cute. Farhan has a television in the office. We watched some of the Ashes when you were at practice.” 

Shane understood less than half of the speech. But he did understand the most important point. Ilya had been staying in the penthouse for less than four weeks and he not only knew the name of the night concierge, he also knew his backstory, his family history and had actively involved himself in the man’s life.

Ilya had come to a city across the ocean and was building a village inside it. 

When he turned into the Pike’s long driveway, Shane frowned at the cars gathered haphazardly about. He hadn’t realised that other people would be there. Jackie's text had demanded that he ‘bring Professor Tight Tops to the house on Saturday at 3, or I will hunt you down and make you regret it.’

Apparently the hunting party would have been larger than he’d realised.

Shane knew he had been a little … selfish with Ilya. Not wanting to share his time and hoarding their moments together. Usually naked and sweaty. But it seemed that the outside world had stopped being patient and wanted to get involved.

He sighed and squeezed into a space, taking the expensive wine he had bought from the back seat. Ilya had a large, black bag in the trunk. He’d said it had Quantum Fleece things in it, in case the children wanted to ‘do some physics’. But it was suspiciously heavy.

He took a deep breath and chose to ignore it. Taking Ilya’s hand in his, he squeezed it hard and they walked to the front door together. His friends knew he was gay, but them actually seeing him with a boyfriend was adding a frisson of tension to his body. He raised his hand to press the doorbell, but the door was flung open before he could manage it.

Standing, gathered in the doorway, like the cast of a Hallmark movie, were at least six of the team, Jackie and some women he vaguely thought might be wives and / or girlfriends. All of them had a frozen, cheerful expression on their faces and all of them were looking at Ilya.

There was a chorus of greetings and Ilya pulled off his shades, grinning broadly.

He reached into a side pocket of his heavy bag and pulled out a gift box, which he handed to Jackie with a flourish. 

“For my hostess. Thank you for inviting me to your beautiful home Jackie Pike. I’m Ilya Rozanov."

Jackie gaped at him for a frozen second before stammering something inane. She held out her arms, maybe to welcome him inside, but Ilya chose to interpret it as an invitation for a hug, stepping into her embrace.

Over his shoulder, Jackie’s eyes met Shane.

“Oh. My. God.” she mouthed, eyes wide. Her hands made a few strokes across his broad back before she remembered to keep it family appropriate and pulled reluctantly back.

“Come in out of the cold and meet everyone.” She smiled, pulling him into the house. Everyone followed them and Shane stood alone at the doorway, in the cold. His bottle of expensive wine dangling from his fingers.

Right then.

A flustered Hayden jogged back into the entrance hall. 

“Are you coming?"

Shane wished he was, but no, he was stuck at this stupid party which was apparently for the whole team, and his boyfriend had been kidnapped.

“For sure.” He smiled brightly and stepped inside.

Ilya was in the kitchen, surrounded by people, whilst Jackie exclaimed over the contents of her gift box: luxury Yorkshire treats in a box proclaiming ‘Betty’s’ on the front in curling gold letters. He had shrugged off his coat and was shimmering under the lights, in one of his shiny bottle-green shirts. The top buttons were undone, the fabric stretched across his shoulders and he was rolling the sleeves up, displaying his muscular forearms.

Hayden slapped Shane on the back of the head.

“Stop drooling, dude.” He grinned as he pushed his way through the crowd. Ilya looked up and saw Hayden approaching him.

“I have gift for host as well, of course.” He announced and Shane swore he was over-doing the Russian accent for effect. Which was working, judging by the enraptured audience surrounding him. Ilya unzipped his heavy black bag and took out a large object, placing it in Hayden’s arms.

Hayden stared at the stuffed fish, completely flummoxed as to how to respond.

“Is a pike for Pike.” Ilya declared. “I have one too. Although Shane has temporary custody.”

“Not through choice.” Shane smiled and Ilya grinned at him, his cheeks flushed in the warm house.

“You got me a stuffed fish?”

“Freshwater pike.” Ilya corrected. “To bless your home.”

Hayden swallowed. “Is this… Is this a Russian thing?”

Ilya didn’t miss a beat. “Possibly. Is many years bad luck if you don’t display it in a prominent place.”

“Display it?”

“Maybe in the entrance hall? To greet your guests?” Ilya’s eyes were wide, innocent and enthusiastic.

“He’s fucking with you.” Shane sighed. “He has unusual taste in decoration.”

Hayden held the fish away from his body, clearly trying to think of a way he could destroy it without being rude.

“Is that a fish?”

“Oh my God, that’s so cool.”

“Can we put it on the wall?”

“By the stairs?”

“Does it have a name?”

Ilya smiled at the twin girls who were enthusiastically poking the fish in their father’s hands.

“Her brother is Freddy. He is mine.”

“You have her brother?”

“That’s so awesome.”

“Yes, although I think perhaps family relationships are slightly tenuous in the fish world. But I will assume they are siblings.”

Ruby and Jade grabbed the fish and exited stage left, announcing that they were going to find the perfect space to hang it, but wanting to include Arthur and Amber in naming it.

Hayden frowned. “Jackie gets chocolates and I get a stuffed pike? What the fuck?”

“You can share my chocolates.” Jackie kissed his cheek and pressed a drink into his hand. “Come on, time to eat.”

“Everything looks amazing Jackie Pike.” Ilya declared. “You are a goddess.”

Jackie blushed and led Ilya to the food. Hayden rolled his eyes and glanced at Shane.

“You know she’s going to make him a WAG. They’ll never let him go.”

A warm flush spread out from the anxious ball at the centre of Shane’s chest and he felt himself smile.

“Good.” He answered softly and Hayden laughed at him, leading him into the chaos. 

“Fucking Quantum Fleece.” He shook his head. “Not subtle, Shane.”

*

Someone had put a game on, because someone always put a game on. Shane was called to the sofa by his Swedish bodyguard and he ended up wedged between him and LeMair, discussing plays and tactics. It took him a surprisingly long time to realise that he had ended up in a room with just a couple of his teammates, whilst the rest of them, along with most of the women and children had disappeared. Including Ilya.

He made a lame excuse and went off in search of his boyfriend.

Shane knew that Ilya was famous. He’d seen the videos, watched the lectures and spent an unhealthy amount of time stalking the thirst accounts on Instagram. Including getting into an unprofessional online argument with an account called ilyas_chest_hair, which he was slightly embarrassed about in retrospect. But he somehow hadn’t expected Ilya to be famous in Shane’s world of jocks and jock-adjacents. But here he was, holding court in the dining room, making some kind of sculpture from napkins, cherry tomatoes, a corkscrew and three hair scrunchies, in order to explain string theory to a large group of children, WAGs and hockey players.

Shane leaned against the wall beside Hayden and frowned at the group. 

“Who’s that?”

“Mackey’s sister.”

The rookie had brought his younger sister to the party?

“Who are they?”

“Coach T’s nephews.”

Coach T was here? What the fuck?

“Who’s that?”

“She’s Ruby’s friend, Bejna. And over… there is Jade’s buddy Nathan. Oh and Arthur invited someone from class but I can’t remember her name.”

“Hayden?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you invite my boyfriend to be free children’s entertainment at your party?”

Hayden gave him an astonished look. 

“Shane, we’ve been turning people away at the door. The calls and texts Jackie has been fielding all day are insane.” He shook his head. “Half the team are here with their wives and girlfriends and any kids from their extended family. And three coaches. Denise from accounting brought her children. They all wanna meet the celebrity.”

“We play for the Montreal Fucking Metros!”

“Yeah. But that,” he pointed to where Ilya was acting something out. The Big Bang maybe? “That is apparently much, much cooler than a hockey player.”

JJ, who was sitting close to Ilya, utterly entranced, cheered and applauded as Ilya finished whatever the hell he was doing, with a flourish.

Ilya asked questions and people answered enthusiastically, and that fucker handed them Quantum Fleece pins from his bag, as a reward.

Shane’s lips quirked as JJ pinned his badge to his shirt and pointed at it with a wide grin. Shane gave him a thumbs up and shook his head slightly. 

It was ridiculous how easily Ilya built a village wherever he went. Yorkshire, Montreal, the Pikes’ house. It didn’t matter. Give him some party food, glittery string and a tennis ball and he would have everyone orbiting him within minutes. 

*

The moon was high in the night sky by the time they finally managed to leave. Ilya had signed autographs, posed for photos and promised free lecture tickets to so many people that Shane was worried he might make a huge financial loss on his tour. Ilya shrugged and casually mentioned a television deal that was on the table. He waved off questions because ‘Sveta was dealing with it’ and Ilya just wanted to hold hands and look at the stars.

Shane sighed, but held Ilya's hand tightly as he drove them home. Occasionally Ilya would glance at his phone and grin, type something, hum a bit and then look out of the window again. 

Eventually Shane cracked.

“Who’s that?” he asked, super casually.

“Oh, just the WAG chat.” Ilya replied, way more casually.

“What are they saying?

Ilya gasped his dramatic gasp. “Shane Hollander. The WAG group chat is sacred and secret. I can’t share any of the gossip with a player.”

“Well, that’s blatantly untrue. Jackie tells Hayden everything.”

“No Shane. She doesn’t.” Ilya grinned,

The phone buzzed again and Ilya glanced at it, snorting out a laugh.

“Seriously?” Shane huffed.

“Okay. This one thing I can share. The fish has been christened ‘Fifi Fish’”

Ilya held his phone up and Shane glanced at a photograph of Jackie holding Fifi Fish up against the wall, while Hayden drilled it in place above the fireplace. Jade and Ruby in the front making faces at the camera, Arthur grinning and the small bunch of hair on the top of Amber’s head just visible.

Shane laughed. “He’s going to hate you every time he has to look at that fish, you know.”

“Maybe it will be useful as a weapon if someone breaks in? Besides, it would be bad luck if he didn’t display it, remember.”

“That was a joke, right?”

“Who knows?”

“You.” Shane said firmly. “You know.”

Ilya blew a raspberry at him, before lifting Shane’s hand to his mouth to kiss.

Shane concentrated on driving and thought about wool that might match Ilya’s eyes. Brenda and Jeanette had sold alpaca hair wool at the rescue centre. 

Hmm.

Maybe he could learn to knit. 

Shane felt the wild thing unfurl inside his chest, warm and stupid. The kind of feeling that made him want to do reckless things like move to fucking Yorkshire, or knit sweaters, or tell people about cosmically fated particles. 

Whatever came next, he knew that Ilya would build a village, and Shane would be home in the middle of it. 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading my flimsy excuse to drag my two favourite characters around the places I love. Those of you who comment, you are amazing and have inspired me to try and be better at commenting on other people’s stories.
I am on Threads, although I usually just lurk pensively. Say hello if we ever bump into each other:)

To answer a question a few people have asked me… maybe I will write more adventures of this Ilya and Shane. I do love them 🦔🐑🏠💕