Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Grigori Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Rose Landry, Svetlana Vetrova, Sasha | Ilya Rozanov's Coach's Son

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Royalty, prince!shane, Prince!Ilya, Smut, lots of smut, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, depressive episodes, Talk of Suicide, Mentions of Suicide, Mental Health Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Flashbacks, Internalized Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Drinking, Dirty Talk, Okay so its not fantasy per se but like this is not a normal map, also I didn't fuck with a timeline cause let's be honest you aren't here for accuracy, you're here for, Mutual Pining, and longing, so Canada is on the European continent, and it has a monarchy, so just go with it guys, suspend your geographical knowledge and historical timelines, guys we get annggsttyy, but also fluffy and we laugh a little so you're in good hands i promise, Mentions of hunting, sorry it seemed like an activity they'd do in this old world, Think of like a Jane Austen timeline crossed with like The Great timeline but also none of those. It's a period piece Fuck it we ball!, no seriously, this is not a real map and there are innacurate historical references and verbiage

Language:

English

Collections:

Hollanov Big Bang 2026

Stats:

Published: 2026-10-02 Words: 72,805 Chapters: 12/12

Endless

Summary

It’s been a year since Prince Shane Hollander of Canada has heard from Prince Ilya Rozanov of Russia. Until now. Princes to separate kingdoms, influenced by the push and pull of power and politics. Whatever is happening between them? Doesn't change that.

Notes

Hi! I used a workskin that translates the Russian words when you click or hover. It is still fine to read when you download it.

Chapter 1: The things that I lost there, the people I knew

Chapter Summary

Chapter title from and song for the chapter: The View Between Villages - Noah Kahan

Chapter Notes

Hi! Welcome to our hollanov world. A world in which Canada is a country with a monarchy and is situated roughly in place of Germany in Europe. And Russia is a day's horse ride away. Google Maps wouldn’t give me a horse ride estimate (rude), but it would be more than a day, but again—this world is ours alone. This is a made up place (I'm insane with power.) We’ll set it somewhere in the Jane Austen era but please know there is no historical accuracy here, nor am I attempting it. So suspend your disbelief and move onto the Hollanov continent with me. Where distances are exactly as far as needed for dramatic purposes and where Canada resembles some version of Regency England but the people are still semi-bilingual, maple syrup swilling, and say sorry a lot. If you’re good with that? I can promise you some angsty smutty yearning with a happy ending (well.. several).

👑 .:.: Now .:.: 👑

The trumpets are loud in the hall, commanding attention as the Russian royal family enters, quieting any final murmurs.

The sound always makes Shane flinch. Today it makes his stomach flip uncomfortably.

The assembled crowd in the large hall stands. Another beautifully choreographed dance in the ballet that is Shane Hollander’s carefully constructed life. He stays immobile and impassive despite how badly he wants to try to get a closer look. The hall is long and vast, so he can't see shit.

He tracks their progress by the ripple of the crowd until the wave of movement finally reaches him, and he lays eyes on the three members of Russian royalty in front of him. There’s an entire entourage behind them, but Shane doesn’t spare them a glance.

He can only focus on King Gregori Rozanov and his two sons.

The King looks the same. It’s been a few years since he’s been on Canadian soil, so he looks older, maybe more tired. But otherwise, he looks as harsh as Shane remembers. As a teenager Shane had confided to Hayden that he thought that Gregori's propensity to glare was causing him to appear more hawklike. Like holding his face that way was molding him. 

Shane notes that Alexei, the oldest son, looks more like his father every day. His face has hardened into the same mean lines, and Shane watches as he regards the crowd with thinly veiled disdain.

And then there’s Ilya.

Shane can barely look at him. He spares him a glance before immediately looking away, his stomach swooping sickeningly. Sure enough, he continues to look nothing like his two remaining family members. And somehow in the past year since Shane last laid eyes on him, he has defied all logic and sense and has managed to get more handsome.

It’s beyond insane that someone so infuriating can also be so beautiful. It makes Shane’s blood boil, so he takes a couple of centring breaths in an attempt to keep his face impassive. His jaw hurts from how tightly he’s clenching it as he fights the swirling emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

The procession stops once they reach the dais where Shane sits with his parents.

“Your Grace,” King Gregori says, bowing to Shane’s father. Even the way he says those three simple words in his heavily accented English is dripping with fake fealty. “Your Majesty.” His bow to Shane’s mother is less deep, more of a nod. He doesn't even spare Shane a glance.

Yuna—Shane’s mother, Queen Majesty and leader of the realm—tips her head in greeting. She ignores his insubordination. It's typical. There are still a few courts that refuse to acknowledge a woman as the primary monarch, and Gregori’s court is included.

"добро пожаловать, царь Giorgi. (Welcome, Tsar Grigori.) It’s always a pleasure when you visit, and it’s been so long. And you’ve brought your sons. Ilya, it’s a pleasure to see you again. Alexei, it’s been too long,” the Queen says.

"Thank you," Alexei replies, his accent thick.

Yuna and David exchange a glance before Yuna continues. “The staff will see to it that you’re settled. I hope you'll join us for a feast in your honour this evening.

“Yes. Thank you for honour,” Gregori oozes in his stilted English.

The day is long and arduous. As these things always are.

Shane is grateful for his life. He is! He’s incredibly privileged, he knows it. His parents are kind and they love him. He has money and comfort. He thrives in structure and schedules, and he’s lucky to have the rigidity he craves. He’s training to be a future merciful king one day and an athlete today.

But it’s still a lot. In hour five of this never-ending day of rituals and pageantry, he feels that more than ever. He has to sit there and pretend to be interested through the hours of performances that are presented to the Russian family. But it's his duty. So he dutifully sits there and pretends that his skin doesn't feel too tight. That he isn't solely focused on one singular presence in the room.

The hardest part of all is that he's always on display. He is always being observed. If he so much as flinches, the news will be all around town. There are gossip papers distributed daily devoted to Shane’s every movement. His best friend and a member of his primary security detail, Hayden Pike, likes to tease him about it constantly.

This added pressure through dinner has Shane on his last nerve, trying desperately to fight the urge to roll his eyes while yet another performance happens in front of him.

Shane has long since abandoned his meal. The guests were given the option of two Canadian staples—Salmon or Venison— along with brussels sprouts cooked in maple syrup and bacon, and fries covered in gravy and cheese curds. He ate around the bacon and skipped the poutine. On most other nights, the kitchen staff will accommodate his preferred diet but he hates drawing any further attention to himself than strictly necessary on a night like this one.

His clothes feel stiff and heavy, decked out as he is in his best finery. He only barely resists the urge to tug his tunic away from his neck, but years of training not to fidget has him staying stock still. A fur-lined cape with a long train rests heavy on his shoulders, along with the weight of the crown upon his head. A pinky ring set with a diamond big enough to take someone's eye out adorns his little finger, along with several less ostentatious rings and a huge, heavy chain around his neck that glitters every time the candlelight flickers against the royal jewels.

He wants out of these stuffy clothes and this stuffy room. He's distracted and confused, and he feels itchy and confined, and overstimulated.

He spends most of the meal doing mental gymnastics trying to figure out how soon he can reasonably excuse himself.

The room is beautifully adorned with tapestries that reflect the Canadian landscape in rich maroons and creamy whites. But Shane only sees the people within it, sitting at the long tables instead. Everyone is looking a little pink in the cheeks from the copious amounts of alcohol that have already been consumed.

The Russians have, as always, brought cases of vodka with them as a gift to be served amongst the mead and ale. Shane knows from years of experience they present it as a gift, but really bring it so they can drink what they like.

A glass of vodka sits untouched in front of him. Shane doesn't really drink unless it's a special occasion. He'll have a few beers when he’s with trusted company, or when it's required of him as a polite Princeling. So, safe to say, it’s rare.

Hayden and J.J. have gotten him good and drunk a few times. They grew up together and therefore he’s appointed them to roles that mean they rarely leave his side. One of the many perks of being royalty.

Shane takes a deep breath, grits his teeth, and sneaks a peak at the Rozanov table. Ilya is rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed and more beautiful than ever. And of course, he’s surrounded by courtiers. All three of the Rozanov men are, but Alexei and Gregori are mostly ignoring any attention while Ilya grins his charming crooked grin and engages the girls in conversation.

Shane makes it twenty more excruciating minutes, each one slower than the next.

His mood sours further and he can no longer help the frown that tugs at his mouth when he sees what's taking place. He’s been so good, avoiding looking over there more than he has to.

Ilya takes a shot of vodka with the five beautiful women who surround him. Whose tinkering laughter filters across the room just loud enough to make Shane want to remove his ears with a bread knife and flip a table.

But he’s only human.

Now that he’s tuned into it, all he can do is hear the giggling girls and the flirting from the youngest Russian prince. It’s when Ilya produces a slice of lemon and placing it facing out between his teeth, leans over to a pretty blond, holding the lemon for her take back with her mouth against his, that Shane decides he's officially had enough of this day. He stands abruptly.

“It's late. I’m going to bed,” he tells his parents, who are staring at him now.

“Of course, kiddo. Sleep well,” his dad says, but his mother is more astute.

“You okay, honey?” She asks him, brow furrowing with concern.

“Fine, Mom. Just tired. Been a long day.”

Her expression tells him she doesn’t believe him, but she lets him go with a nod.

Hayden and J.J. stand at her acquiescence. Shane feels a small stab of familiar guilt at knowing that, with his penchant to always turn in early, having yolked his best friends to him means that they never get to enjoy these things. As they’re his personal guard, they have to follow him.

He doesn’t risk another look at the Russian royal table, and strides purposefully out of the room. His friends are hot on his heels, hands on the hilts of their swords.

They walk in silence until they make it to the private royal wing. “You can get some of the other guards to cover for you and go back to the party,” Shane suggests to his friends.

“And make our visitors think you’ve been left unattended?” Hayden snorts. “Yeah, not happening.”

“Sorry to take you away from all the fun.”

“You’re good. We’ll have more fun when they’re gone,” Hayden soothes, but J.J. glances away, telling Shane that he doesn't totally agree. He must realize his mistake.

“We are happy to do our duty, 'ollander. We will party when the dirty Russians leave. Oui?” J.J. says in his thick French accent.

At that, Hayden shoots J.J. a look that Shane can’t decipher. He’s too tired to try, even though it’s likely futile, anyway. Shane sucks at subtext.

“I’ll sneak out later to see Jackie,” Hayden tells him. “If that’s cool? I’ll make sure you’re covered.”

“‘Course, man. You don’t need to ask,” Shane assures him.

When, finally, he closes his bedroom door behind him, Shane breathes a sigh of relief.

He meticulously removes his jewellery piece by piece, putting each one into its individual bag and back into their rightful place on his vanity. Then he removes all the layers of clothes, hanging them in his large walk in closet.

He could have his valet help him disrobe but he’s always felt weird about that. He is particular and likes doing things a specific way and values any small moment of privacy he can get back. He changes into comfortable trousers and a loose, well-worn tunic that hangs undone at the neck and the sides, takes a seat in front of the fire on the long sofa in the centre of his sitting room and waits.

He holds a book in his hand with the intention of at least pretending to read, but he never gets around to opening it. Instead, he watches the flames dance. The only sound is the crackle of the wood in the fire.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

It’s not even an hour since he left dinner when there’s a knock at his door. He stands and goes to pull open the heavy door.

Hayden stands there looking--to no surprise--irritated. “Rozanov is here. Insisting on seeing you.”

Shane takes a breath in through his nose as his stomach swoops again.

He nods. “Let him in.”

"He’s got-," Hayden trails off and glances behind him. “—friends with him.”

And Shane hears it now, the tittering. He sighs.

Of course he does. Shane pushes the door open wider and steps out into the hall. Hayden would never let all these strangers into Shane's private chambers. Not that Shane would want them in there.

“Prince Rozanov,” Shane grits out, striding out into the hall.

“Hollander!” Ilya crows when he sees him. His cheeks are rosy and his eyes are glassy from drinking. “Come! These lovely ladies want to party with the famous Canadian Prince!”

The girls giggle. Shane barely graces them with a glance. Instead, he’s trying to hold on to his composure.

Hearing that Russian accent after so long feels almost surreal.

“Rozanov, it was a long day. I retired early on purpose.”

“Always so boring, Hollander,” Ilya says, and the way his accent wraps his tongue around the sound of Shane’s last name makes his stomach hurt.

“Yes, I am. And you should be too,” Shane admonishes.

Ilya rolls his eyes and turns to his gaggle of girls. “Okay, beautiful ladies. I have some business to discuss with the Prince. Why don’t you go to my chambers and get comfortable, and I’ll join you shortly?” The girls make a show of saying goodbye like they're heading off to war before they finally leave, escorted by a palace guard.

The Russian Prince turns back to face him.

He huffs out a frustrated harumph. He nods at Hayden, who watches the Russian with narrowed eyes. Shane's apprehension rises that Hayden's on duty, witnessing this entire production but he turns and stomps into his room.

He doesn’t even check to see if Rozanov has followed him in, just walks until he hears the click of the heavy door close and then comes to a stop. He stands there, chest heaving as his breaths come in short, panicked pants. Then a warm hand is closing around his, and he's turned around. Confronted with those troubled golden eyes.

Shane can't help but drink him in like a man in the desert with the mirage of water.

Sharp cheekbones, moles, plump lips and the smell of tobacco, vodka, and spicy cologne. Smoky and sharp, and delicious. He crowds into Shane’s space, walking him backwards, fingertips pressing into his hips, until Shane's back hits the wall and there’s nowhere else for him to go. He’s trapped. Frozen by the overwhelming presence that is Prince Ilya Rozanov of Russia.

And then Ilya's mouth is on his, crashing together in a hungry kiss. He gasps as Ilya steals the air from his lungs, holding his chin and sliding his tongue into Shane’s mouth.

Shane’s head is spinning, probably from lack of oxygen. He should take a breath and try to calm his hammering heart. Instead he grabs tighter at Ilya’s tunic, pulling him in and licking into his mouth in a claiming, open mouthed kiss.

And it’s too much and not nearly enough. And Shane’s brain is already going fuzzy at the edges, his body lighting up like its been electrified. He shakes himself.

Shoving Rozanov’s chest, causing him to stumble backwards. Ilya looks stunned. “A year!” Shane grinds out.

“Mmm. Could not get away.” And for a moment Shane thinks he sees genuine regret before it’s hidden behind the usual mask of indifference. “What? Did you miss me?”

Shane shoves him again, hard. Then he’s grabbing him and dragging him back in for another all-consuming kiss. He slides his fingers into Ilya’s curls and tugs as Ilya’s hands slide up his tunic and his fingers dig into the muscles of his back. He feels desperate with it, insane with need. The careful control he holds onto is gone. The stopper he keeps on the bottle in his mind marked Ilya comes uncorked, and there’s nothing he can do to contain it.

He tightens his grip on Ilya's curls, licking desperately into his mouth. Ilya gasps, and Shane falls to his knees, landing with a thud.

They both pull at the ties on Ilya’s breeches, their fingers becoming tangled, before Shane manages to shove them down far enough that the Russian Prince's hard cock bobs free, popping up to slap against his abs. Shane rucks his tunic up with one hand, wrapping his other around the base of Ilya’s cock.

Ilya’s resulting moan is loud in the quiet room and it sparks another lightning bolt of lust from his stomach to between his legs.

He licks a pearl of pre-cum off the tip, causing Ilya to take another sharp intake of breath. Shane wraps his lips around the head teasingly, before sliding Ilya's dick into his mouth as far as it’ll go. A hand slides into his hair, and Shane swallows around the length before starting a tortuously slow bob of his head, licking and sucking in time with the pump of his hand.

His eyes close in bliss. The euphoria of having his mouth filled while Ilya curses in Russian above him hits him.

God, he's missed this.

He takes him in deeper, revelling in the feel of Ilya’s cock hitting the back of his throat. It makes him sloppy. He drools a little, his mouth filled with saliva, but he doesn’t care.

He's only focused on the sounds he's pulling out of the man above him. Desperate moans and slurred unintelligible Russian. Shane takes him deeper, choking a little, making his eyes water. He blinks the tears from his eyes and looks up to see Ilya looking absolutely wrecked above him, watching.

“Fuck, Hollander, I’m--ngh-“ he barely gets the words out before Shane tastes the first spurt of cum on his tongue. He doesn’t always swallow, but tonight he’s desperate for it. He wants to be filled, claimed. He swallows down the load he’s given and keeps sucking until Ilya is shuddering with overstimulation and pulling him off his cock.

“Fucking hell, Hollander,” Ilya pants, dropping to his knees in front of Shane, practically tackling him as he takes his mouth in a filthy kiss.

He uses the momentum to push Shane backwards until he ends up on his back on the plush rug in his sitting room.

Shane idly wonders the last time this floor was cleaned. But he’s too horny to be bothered by anything as Ilya climbs onto him, sucking at his tongue, no doubt tasting himself. And Shane gets what he wants. What he's wanted for a year. Ilya's heavy body on top of his. The solid weight a comforting balm in a way nothing else in his life ever has been. It coats his throat, thick with an emotion he shoves down and away.

Ilya kisses a path down his chest and then he’s tugging down Shane’s trousers, freeing his throbbing cock, before it’s encompassed by Ilya’s hot mouth. He gasps out a few choice swear words while Ilya expertly works him over. God, I missed this, he feverishly thinks again, before Ilya tugs gently at his balls. He's hit with a horny swoop so hard that he feels dizzy from the lack of blood in his brain.

“Ah, fuck,” he moans as he feels his balls drawing up. He can’t help but spread his thighs wider in desperation, his whole body pulling tight like a bowstring. Ilya slips a hand between his legs, a fingertip lightly pressing against his hole, and he’s done for.

"Ilya, fuuuck, I’m coming," he almost sobs before he’s pulsing into the heat of the Prince’s mouth.

Ilya swallows him down, his throat working and making Shane shiver as his orgasm rips through him until he's left with tingling limbs.

Shane sucks in air as Ilya licks him clean, before popping off, tucking Shane back into his pants and then rolling off to the side to lie on the rug beside Shane.

They exist for a long moment like that. Breathing together.

Shane doesn’t even know what he’s feeling. Bone-deep exhaustion from the day. Relief. That for one moment he isn't Prince Shane Hollander. He's just Shane. And they're together. The feeling of rightness. But it doesn't last long. Reality sets in. The weight of everything between them. The long year since Ilya last visited. The unanswered letters.

Ilya’s hand slides into his, intertwining their fingers, and Shane swallows. There's a burning in the back of his throat he hates. He turns his head to find searching eyes watching him.

Ilya squeezes his hand before releasing it and reaching up to cup Shane’s cheek, his thumb tracing over his cheekbone.

Shane expects the familiar panic to set in. This is the moment he usually shoves Ilya away, kicks him out of the room out of fear of being caught. The familiar panic. But it doesn't come. Not this time. Instead he just wants. So badly. So much. He aches with it, just under his ribcage.

They watch each other for a long moment, so many unsaid words floating in the surrounding air.

“I should go,” Ilya says eventually, breaking the spell.

Shane’s stomach plummets. “Don't wanna keep your girls waiting,” he says, failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

A dark look passes over Ilya’s face that Shane can’t discern before he’s pulling away and sitting up. Shane immediately misses the warmth of his hand.

The frustration Shane had felt all day, which had temporarily abated, returns in a rush.

Why are you here?

What do you want with me?

Do you feel it too?

Ilya gets up and starts putting his clothes to rights. Shane does the same, a rush of embarrassment heating his cheeks at his earlier desperation. How did they even end up on the floor?

“How long are you here for?” Shane asks before he can stop himself.

Ilya smirks at him, but his eyes are cold and lifeless once again. That perfect face, cut from glass, with the icy Rozanov cruelness transforming his features into a stranger's. No longer the warm, smiling boy that Shane knows is in there, under that indifferent mask.

“Already hungry for a repeat performance, Prince Hollander?” Ilya teases.

Shane’s cheeks go hot, but he stands his ground. He frowns and waits.

“My father’s visit is for a few days,” Ilya says.

Shane holds back his growl of frustration. “And yours?”

Ilya doesn’t answer. He just steps back into Shane’s space, walking him backwards until his ass hits the back of the sofa that sits in the middle of the room. He reaches up and clasps Shane’s chin. Shane slaps his hand away and shoves against his chest, his anger boiling over.

But Ilya isn’t deterred. Eyes glinting, he grins his crooked grin and steps even closer, catching Shane’s wrist. His hand comes up, taking hold of Shane's jaw again, tilting his head the way he wants, and then his hot mouth is on Shane’s again, and he can’t think. He’s reduced to base levels. To the expansion and contraction of his lungs as he tries to inhale Ilya. In the feel of Ilya’s cheeks under his fingertips, the beginnings of stubble rising, to Ilya’s heady scent, to Ilya’s hot tongue in his mouth.

But it’s over as fast as it started, because Ilya is stepping away and Shane is left shivering in the cold of the room.

“See you tomorrow, Hollander.”

And then he’s gone. Slipping out through the door and into the night.

Chapter End Notes

*pulls out chair* So.. how we feelin? I know this concept is a lil' different but trust, these blorbos be the same idiots we love just with more tunics. There's a pinterest board. I hate pinterest... but like.. there is one. Come track me down on le Tumblr and I'll share it if you're nice.

Thank you to Sam for all the amazing support beta-ing! And to Rin for the incredible artwork 🥹💕

Chapter 2: I want you to need me

Chapter Summary

Chapter title and music: pushing it down and praying - Lizzy McAlpine

Chapter Notes

TW: Little kids are assholes, so I wrote them saying racist shit. I hated writing it if that at all makes up for it. 

.:.: Now .:.:

Shane wakes in the morning feeling hungover despite having drunken nothing but non-alcoholic ginger beer all night. He groans into his pillow when his valet wrenches open the heavy fabric blinds and light explodes into the room, filtering through the light sheet of his bed canopy.

“Your bath is ready, Your Highness,” he tells him.

“Thanks, Theriault,” he says. He’s asked him to call him Shane since he's known him since he was a baby, but he never listens, a little over committed to formalities.

Shane doesn't bother arguing further and gets up and into the bath. Usually he’d be heading out to get in some exercise, but with the Russian king visiting he’ll be expected at breakfast. Especially on the first morning that they’re here.

He considers it, though—skipping breakfast. But in the end, the fear of disappointing his parents outweighs the roiling mess inside his head. So he washes, and afterwards he dresses in a simple tunic and trousers. He secures a sword to his waist and decides against his crown and most of his jewellery, so that he can head straight to the practice ring after breakfast.

He’s surprised to find Hayden waiting for him in full armour when he emerges from his room.

“Morning!” he says, entirely too cheerfully. Shane's shoulders tense.

“Hayd,” he greets warily.

He walks down the long hall, his feet taking him down the familiar path through the castle to the dining hall. Hayden easily falls into step beside him, one hand on his sword. He’s good at his job and at being Shane’s best friend, but right now, Shane wishes he’d suck at both a little more.

“What? The usual palace guard couldn’t escort me to breakfast?” he asks.

“Nah, it was Jenkins, and you know he sucks. I told him to head down.”

“How is Jackie?” Shane asks, trying to stave off whatever conversation is coming for him.

“Great,” Hayden breathes out dreamily. “Her belly is starting to show.”

Shane shakes his head. “Dude, I cannot believe she's pregnant.”

“I know, isn’t it great?” And, well… that’s not really what Shane meant, but he figures its best to leave it.

“So.. Rozanov?” Hayden starts.

“Hayd,” Shane warns. Surely he's not actually going to say something?

“And you guys were, what? Talking?” he asks incredulously.

Shane’s ears go hot and his stomach sinks sickeningly. A familiar anxiety claws at his throat, the invisible chains of his life squeezing tighter — the complete and total lack of privacy that is being Prince Shane Hollander. He swallows, and it feels like his Adam’s apple is compressed, like he can physically feel the shackles of his own life pulling tight around his throat.

When Shane doesn’t answer, Hayden glances sideways at him, clearly wanting to say more.

“Look, Shane, buddy. I’m here. If you ever wanna talk about... it.” He pauses, and Shane can practically hear him trying to find the words. “Any of it. Maybe not Rozanov specifically, but, like, you get it. Or… him, if you really want to, although I can’t say that I get that. But, like—you get it,” he rambles.

And no, Shane does not get it. He’s short circuiting. He assumed Hayden knew, or at least suspected. It's obvious he and Ilya are not really talking strategy in the middle of the night, alone in Shane’s bedchamber. But he kind of thought—hoped—that Hayden was oblivious. Or that he would, at the very least, have had the common courtesy to pretend that he was oblivious, and that they would never have to acknowledge it.

Shane does not want to talk about this.

He's still in a panicked mental tailspin and has said nothing when they reach the door to the dining hall. He tries to keep walking, but Hayden catches his arm. Shane shakes him off.

“Can we not? Ever?” he asks in a harsh whisper.

Hayden drops his hand. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, and then closes it again, his expression a flat line. But he lets Shane go this time.

Upon Shane's appearance in the room, chairs scrape against the floor as everyone rises. He barely manages to hide his flinch. He tries to take a big breath in through his nose, attempting to regain control, but he barely feels the air hit his lungs. His life is privileged, he reminds himself. He’s lucky.

He takes his seat to the right of his mother. She usually takes her breakfast in her chambers and lets Shane’s dad field morning conversation. But Russia is one of their most powerful trading partners, and Grigori is slippery on a good day, so she’s gone full formal for this one. He’s even more grateful he didn’t try to duck out of breakfast.

His ass barely grazes his seat before they’re rising again as the herald announces the arrival of the Russian royal family.

Unlike the night before, they’re all seated around the same banquet table today. The other members of the royal court will be having their meal elsewhere, so it is just immediate members of the royal families.

Hayden, since he’s deemed himself on duty this morning for reasons Shane still doesn’t fully understand, is standing at attention against the back wall instead of sitting with them like he normally would. Shane wishes he'd chill the fuck out. Go focus on his pregnant wife maybe? Instead he stands stiffly behind Shane, who does his best to pretend he isn't there while the Rozanov's shuffle in and take their seats.

They all look even more miserable than usual. Ilya’s mouth is pulled down at the sides, and his eyes are steely. Shane figures this means Grigori had words with them earlier. He has seen the rage that Grigori can unleash and he shivers at the thought, his own anger melting away a little, replaced with worry.

The food is brought out, and large plates heaping with eggs and pork and fruit are placed on the table. Shane heaves a sigh of relief when a hot mug of coffee is set in front of him. He watches as Ilya heaps three huge spoonfuls of sugar into his and can't quite stop his eye roll. Ilya clocks him and glaring, picks up his previously discarded spoon and heaps a fourth spoonful in, followed by some cream.

Shane makes a face. Is it even drinkable at that point, he wonders? As if in challenge, Ilya picks up his mug and takes a big whiff of it, before swallowing a mouthful. Shane watches him over his own raised cup as he smiles innocently at Shane like it's the best thing he’s ever had. But Shane sees him hide the wince when the sugar hits his tongue.

Shane rolls his eyes again and takes another sip of his own black coffee before putting it down and digging into the food in front of him. At least, he thinks, whatever fight Ilya had with his father mustn't have been too bad if he's still managing to be ridiculous.

They make it through the rest of breakfast mostly in silence, beyond a few standard polite questions. Are the rooms comfortable? I trust you slept well?

Shane doesn’t mind the silence. It’s easier than small talk, and it’s going to be another long day. A long day made even longer by the brooding, gorgeous, blond asshole across the table who is presently tucking into his food and refusing to even spare Shane another look. Not that Shane would know. It's not like he is looking for signs of what might have happened with the rest of his night or anything. Shane isn't checking his neck for hickies. He isn't trying to figure out if his hair is more mussed. Because, of course, he didn't really hook up with multiple girls after sucking Shane’s cock on the floor of his sitting room. Right?

He tries to turn his focus back to his own breakfast, shovelling eggs and meat and fruit in his mouth to fuel the day ahead.

Once he’s done eating, he sips his coffee and studies the grain of the wood of the table until he’s finally dismissed. He heaves a sigh of relief when his mother finally stands, announcing that they’ll see everyone in the grounds for the tournament later that day.

Then he’s striding out of the dining hall, ready to be free of the oppressive room.

He’s not surprised when Hayden falls into step beside him. Since Hayden and J.J. are nobility and Shane’s best friends, they get special privileges as his gentlemen of the chamber. It's why he’s tempted to order Hayden outright to go off duty and get off his ass already. The Russians haven’t even been here twenty-four hours, and Shane is crawling out of his skin.

He’s opening his mouth to say something when he hears the footsteps. He knows those long strides. Hayden’s spine straightens.

“Pike,” a Russian accented voice drawls. “Your armour is looking extra shiny today.”

Shane keeps staring straight ahead but can’t help his amused eye roll.

“Rozanov,” Hayden grunts in greeting, a scowl pulling at his mouth. It’s insubordination to not use his royal title, but Hayden puts up with a lot of grief when the Russian prince is visiting.

“Your sword, especially. Sparkly. Is good to help distract from being the worst swordsman.”

“I am not the worst swordsman!” Hayden says indignantly, coming to an abrupt halt, spinning on his heel to face Ilya. Shane stops too, as do the many other guards and royal staff that are their constant entourage.

“No, no,” Ilya says, patting Hayden’s shoulder. Shane bites the inside of his cheek to hide his smile. He’s a terrible friend for enjoying this. “You didn’t let me finish. Worst swordsman in the castle, yes? Not the country! Like 50th best in country, yes?”

Hayden’s face is a shade of purple that Shane hasn’t seen for a while, probably since the last time Ilya visited.

“Rozanov!” Hayden snaps.

Shane clears his throat loudly. There are a lot of people listening in, and they are no longer teenage boys messing around anymore—they're adults and Ilya is a prince. Hayden needs to be more careful. Hayden glances over at him before he seems to realize the same thing. His shoulders slump. “Your Highness,” Hayden grits out but adds, “I can’t wait to watch Prince Hollander school you later in the tournament.”

And with that, he resumes walking. Ilya grins. “Oh, Hollander has improved then?” he asks innocently. Shane shakes his head but doesn't dignify that with an answer.

At the nearest exit from the castle to the courtyard, Hayden and Shane turn, striding through the arched doorway and blinking as they walk out into bright sunlight. Ilya follows them outside, instead of continuing down the hall to the guest wing like Shane is expecting him to. Shane shoots him a look.

They continue walking towards the tournament grounds, Ilya still following behind them. Shane’s shoulders hunch around his ears.

“What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” Ilya asks right back.

“I’m going to warm up and get some practice in before the tournament.”

“Good. You need it. I am doing the same.”

“Fuck you.”

Ilya’s smirk turns feral, and Shane’s cheeks heat. He desperately wishes Hayden wasn’t there. Or any of the staff standing five feet away. “That is not very diplomatic, Your Royal Highness.”

“I’ll show you my diplomacy at the tournament later,” Shane hisses, stopping to face Ilya again. Maybe he is feeling stretched a little too thin.

Shane grits his teeth. “Rozanov, we can’t practice together if we’re competing against each other later.”

“Oh? We cannot? Is rule somewhere?”

Shane makes a frustrated noise in his throat. He's not sure he can handle Ilya's teasing right now and there’s a limit to how much they should be seen together. And the two biggest rivals on the continent practicing together before they face off? Not a good look. Besides, Hayden will be there, and after their little conversation this morning, Shane cannot deal with them being in the same space.

The sun glints off Ilya’s golden curls and his eyes look a shade lighter, almost golden. He looks like a Greek god, and it scrambles Shane’s brain. What was his argument again?

Hayden isn’t suffering from the same issue. “Dude, where’s your man-at-arms? If you want to spar, it should be with him. Not with the prince an hour before the tournament.”

Ilya scowls but finally rolls his eyes, holding his arms out to his sides. “I am leaving now.”

Shane watches him go, feeling relieved. When Ilya is around, he can’t think straight. It’s exhausting, like he’s all-consumed by Ilya’s presence. His body and mouth act on their own accord. Ilya knows how to needle him in a way that always gets a response. And he feels like his every thought is being broadcast like a beacon for miles around, and that if people simply look up they'll find a banner in the sky with bold words saying I HAVE BEEN NAKED WITH THIS MAN.

But the minute he’s out of sight, Shane immediately misses him. He’s been near desperate for his presence for a year now, but now that he is back in Shane’s space—in his life—reminds him just how confusing and complicated it all is.

“Ready?” Hayden asks.

Shane nods and follows his friend to the practice field.

The roar of the crowd is deafening when Shane steps into the arena a few hours later. It’s packed. The bleachers are overflowing with nobility and countrymen of all walks of life crowded into every inch of available space.

The public love these tournaments on a good day, but especially today. Shane has worked hard to become the best swordsman on the continent. He’s competitive and trains religiously with the best coaches. He’s won every tournament he’s entered — or almost every tournament. The only time he’s ever lost, the only time he ever has to work for it, is when he’s facing off against the man who is striding into the other end of the arena with his armour glinting in the sunlight.

At the sight of Prince Rozanov entering the field, the screams from the female fans grow so loud and feral that Shane briefly worries he’s going to go deaf.

Ilya strides out, confident and casual as ever, as if he doesn’t even notice his eardrums melting. The air is thick with enough hormones to cause anyone within a three mile radius to start ovulating.

Shane bristles and whips his sword around his body in a figure eight. Partially to warm up, partially because he knows it looks good, but mostly to keep his hands busy so that he isn't tempted to charge into the crowd and start threatening people to keep it in their pants.

There’s the usual ramp up. The announcer walks around the stadium waxing poetic about all the times he and Ilya have faced off (a lot), who’s won more (Shane, fuck you very much), and by how much (okay fine, not a lot. Two more times to be exact, but they were solid performances!).

Shane is barely listening. He swings his sword in wide arcs and paces, anxious for the fight to start. Meanwhile, Ilya grins that big charming crooked grin and waves at the crowd, even running up to a few clusters of girls to sign things. Because of course he does.

Shane’s grateful when the trumpets finally sound, signalling the beginning of the fight. He drops into a fighting stance. Legs bent, thighs and glutes activated, broadsword held in both hands in front of him a foot above the ground, at the ready.

Ilya’s always had a different style. He saunters towards Shane now, broadsword slung over one shoulder like he doesn’t have a care in the world. But Shane knows better. He remembers the first time he was fooled by all the charm and the general air of disinterest. He won’t make the same mistake again.

:.:.:.:Then 👑 12 years earlier :.:.:.: 

The tournament was busier than it should have been, considering they were only teenagers. But the public was dying to get a look at a thirteen year old Prince Shane and the visiting Prince from Russia.

Shane was, at that point, very much over the visiting Prince from Russia. He’d been sent for two weeks the first time, to learn about politics and to strengthen the alliance between their countries. But since he'd arrived, all the young prince had done was sulk. He stayed in his room most of the time, and when he did emerge, he was arrogant, rude, and easily angered.

So when Shane heard he'd be matched with the Russian prince for a fight, Shane didn’t give it much thought. Shane was good—he was the best. It made the other boys hate him. He heard their whispers:

'The Prince is too good to share our locker room. He needs his own. He’s too precious to be with us.'

'Why are his eyes like that?'

'I heard the queen is a Jap.'

'What does that mean?'

'I don’t know. But it's bad.'

'How does he always win?'

'He’s a weirdo. I heard he doesn't even sleep, just trains all night.'

'Bet you he jerks it to his sword.'

And on it went. By thirteen, Shane had heard it all. He’d cried over every word, while his mother smoothed his hair back over his forehead and told him that they were idiots, that his talents were a gift. Had threatened to throw them all in jail—until Shane pointed out that wasn't going to help anything. She told him that people would always be jealous of him. And that was the curse of their privilege. (One of them, Shane felt even then.) That's why he always had to be perfect. Do better. Take the high road. The alternative would be even worse.

So Shane was prepared when he went to face Prince Rozanov of Russia the first time. He was used to the ire of the kids his age. At least the prince was openly rude. He didn't pretend to be nice to Shane’s face. And when Shane told him to fuck off it was the only time Shane saw any semblance of a smile. Granted it was more of an amused smirk but it was something. It was oddly comforting.

And Shane was the best of his year—the best of several years, in fact. So when Ilya wandered out onto the tournament field barely looking like he was paying attention, winking at the girls in the stands (even then), Shane was sure he was going to win.

It was always the cockiest ones that Shane reduced to tears, and so Shane came out swinging.

Ilya sauntered up, looking bored. Shane circled him, ready for an oncoming attack. It wasn’t long before he started getting frustrated with Ilya's lack of movement. He circled a few more times until he was sure the arrogant sovereign was so full of his own importance that he didn't even consider Shane a threat, that Shane got frustrated and lunged.

Moving so fast that Shane barely registered it, Ilya parried. Shane attacked again, only to be blocked.

It wasn’t until Ilya started to truly fight back that Shane realized he'd been played. Shane was worked up, too upset, not thinking clearly. He was fighting on the defensive, and every move, every twist of his hips or wrist, Ilya was there, absolutely shutting him down. He was fast and moved like a cat—smooth and lethal. Where Shane was all textbook, precise movements and perfect form, Ilya was a blur of instinct and natural talent.

Shane pulled out every trick his thirteen year old self knew. He tried a fancy spin, bringing his sword down, only to be stopped by Rozanov, who pushed his sword up lengthwise over his head, stopping Shane mid-attack.

It was then, as Shane found himself face-to-face with Ilya Rozanov and his Grecian curls, his eyes glinting with mischief, more animated and alive than Shane had seen them since he landed in Shane’s kingdom, that Shane realized he was fucked.

Sure, Shane had noticed that he was objectively good looking. But Shane hadn’t noticed him until he swung a sword. And holy shit, he was beautiful.

He grinned a crooked grin at Shane, and it sent a spark of heat flaring in his belly.

And Jesus, Shane was floored by that smile. And completely distracted.

With a flick of his wrist, Ilya disarmed him. Knocking Shane's sword away and hitting him with a pommel strike to his chest so hard Shane stumbled and landed on his ass, the air whooshing out of his lungs.

It was in that moment, as Shane found himself flat on his back, pinned under the Russian Prince’s boot with the tip of a sword at his neck, that he understood that Ilya Rozanov was different.

Shame had burned bright in his cheeks, which was made worse by Ilya not even offering him a hand up.

He clambered to his feet as soon as the boot moved from his chest. He watched on, feeling removed from his body, as Ilya was named the winner.

The minute they were released from the field, he stormed back to his rooms. He didn’t even wait for the staff to draw warm water for a bath, instead using of choosing to wash with cold water. He would never have admitted to the hot tears that had escaped from his eyes and tracked down his cheeks—tears of sheer frustration.

He couldn't even acknowledge the other reactions his body was having, his imagination running away with the possibilities of what muscles lurked under all that tournament-regulated armour.

That night, Shane ate dinner in his rooms, refusing to go down to the hall. He had lost before, sure. Occasionally. He wasn't even just embarrassed, as he was upset. It wasn’t even so much losing the fight. It was how he’d felt during it: the weird swoop in his gut at watching the Russian Prince fight, the feeling of being laid out on his back with the other man standing over him. It was too much.

He lay awake that night, mind churning, unable to so much as lay still. Finally, as his frustration hit a fever pitch, Shane climbed out of bed. He stormed through the castle until he got to Ilya’s door, a guard following quietly behind him.

He didn't even know what he was planning to do. To yell, maybe? To challenge Ilya to a rematch right there? To tell him to leave and never return?

Shane pictured his pink lips, and his brain supplied a fourth option.

He paused, fist raised and heard something that made his stomach drop. From inside the room, he could make out the sounds of distress. Was Rozanov crying? The sound was raw and ragged. It was followed by a strangled roar and then a soft crash, the sound of glass breaking.

Shane lowered his hand and stepped back, staring at the door as though if he looked hard enough he could see through the wood.

He turned and fled. He was grateful to be wearing only stalking feet, his footsteps virtually silent in the quiet castle.

The Russian prince left two days later.

:.:.:. Now :.:.:

Shane circles him at first, while Ilya stands still, looking straight ahead. At least he has deigned to bring his broadsword into both hands in front of him so he at least sort of looks like he's paying attention. Shane knows he’s listening, though, attuned. He knows better than to fall for mind games now.

Shane’s been training for this tournament, and now that it’s here he wants to relish it. And he wants to win. He's come a long way since he was thirteen.

He waits until he’s moved around to Ilya’s right side the second time before he attacks. But as always, Ilya is ready for it. He moves so fast that Shane doesn't see it happen. He blocks Shane’s blade, bringing his sword up and around and knocking it off its path.

But Shane is ready for it. He steps back into his guard position while Ilya reorients and then lunges again, pushing Ilya to defend. Ilya takes a step back, and Shane manages to gain the upper hand. They spend the next few minutes sparring, each of them winning a couple of good blows.

Shane manages to knock Ilya in the ribs with a decent jab, and Ilya retaliates with a hit to Shane’s hip, a blow that Shane is sure he’ll feel for a few days. It’s been an entire year since they last did this. Last summer it wasn’t at a large tournament, but at a private day in the field with all the knights and noblemen. Ilya had won with a lucky hit, but in the intervening time, they’ve both been training. They have more muscle; they’re heavier, wider, stronger.

And today, they’re both hungry for the win.

Ilya gets lucky with a block, tangling their swords together in a complicated motion. He tugs Shane towards him, which forces Shane to stumble forward—their swords crossing, their armour clanking as their chests smash together. Shane remains upright just barely, his chest pressed against the Russian prince's, swords crossed between them. Ilya's only two inches taller than him, but it feels like more as he grins down at Shane, and when Shane's pulse takes off? It has nothing to do with the exertion.

Their faces are inches away in front of thousands of screaming spectators. Ilya's golden eyes sparkle with that mirth that Shane is so familiar with. He’s stunning, his cheeks flushed and his smile wide, and it’s more than Shane can handle.

But fortunately, Shane isn’t a sexually confused thirteen-year-old anymore. He's a sexually confused twenty-five year old, goddamn it, and he is better equipped to deal with Ilya Rozanov's stupid face and his stupid charm. So, he shoves Ilya, letting the momentum take him when he bounces off Ilya’s chest. He flicks his wrist and quickly untangles their swords, which allows him to take a step back. In a move requiring some flexibility, he brings his foot up, plants it on Ilya’s chest, and boots him with all his might.

Ilya’s eyes go wide with surprise as he stumbles backward, knocked off balance, and lands awkwardly with one foot planted behind him. Shane spins, which is frankly mostly for show rather than anything effective, and brings his sword down hard in an arc. It hits Ilya’s blade near the pommel.

It works. The vibrations are too much, and Ilya releases his weapon and drops to a knee, disarmed, and at Shane's mercy.. And then Shane’s blade is at his throat, and the trumpets are blaring.

Winner: Prince Hollander of Canada.

It’s nearing midnight when there’s a knock at his door.

“Enter,” Shane yells. The door opens, and Shane is incredibly grateful it isn’t Hayden. It’s one of the other sentries in his personal guard.

“The Russian prince is here to see you, Your Highness,” he says.

“Send him in,” Shane commands.

The soldier, Miitka, nods and then steps out into the hall.

Shane stands. He's been sitting on the couch in front of the fire once again, failing in another sad attempt to read. He drops the unopened book onto the couch as Ilya strides into his room. His eyes are bright, and his cheeks are slightly flushed from the vodka that Shane watched him drink at dinner. They spent the meal studiously not looking at each other, all while Shane was excruciatingly aware of Ilya's presence.

Miitka sticks his head into the room and gives Shane a questioning look, silently asking if he should stay.

Shane dismisses him, “I'm good, thanks, man.” Miitka is a professional, so he nods once and goes back to his post, closing the large, heavy door.

Shane has a small team that comprises his personal guard. They are sworn to protect Shane, and that condition is inclusive of his secrets. It doesn’t make him feel less exposed, but it’s the life he leads and the parameters he has to work within.

He can't worry about it for long. Once the door is closed, Ilya is on him. The kiss an inevitability. His tongue is hot and heavy in Shane’s mouth, and his hands grab at his shoulders, his biceps, his pecs. His fingertips squeeze just on the right side of too hard as they try to inhale each other.

Shane pants open-mouthed as he licks Ilya’s tongue. He tangles his fingers in Ilya’s hair and tugs, causing him to moan into Shane’s mouth.

“Fuck me,” Shane tries to demand, but it comes out too whiny, too desperate.

Ilya doesn’t argue. He reaches down, his big hands grasp Shane’s ass, hauling him up into his arms. Shane goes willingly, wrapping his legs around Ilya’s waist and focusing his mouth on Ilya’s neck, sucking and biting, while Ilya walks them through Shane’s rooms.

They make their way through the sitting room and into Shane’s large bedroom. Shane is careful not to mark him up, held back by decorum, by the fear someone would somehow know it was him, so he toes the line as close as he can, still feeling desperate for it, to mark Ilya as his.

All thoughts disappear as Ilya tosses him on the bed as if he weighs nothing, as if he isn’t 180 pounds of pure muscle.

Shane tugs his shirt off over his head and sits up. He starts to fold it, but Ilya climbs onto the bed after him and tugs it out of his hand with an eye roll, tossing it across the room, climbing between Shane’s spread thighs, and pushing him back on the bed. He’s shirtless now, too, and Shane breathes a sigh of relief as they come together, Ilya's skin hot and delicious against his own.

Ilya’s mouth is on his again, and they kiss frantically. Shane slides his hands up Ilya’s body, feeling every bump and crevice. Every inch of creamy mole-covered skin that he has been obsessed with for almost a decade. That he's missed terribly over the past year.

Ilya grunts in pain when Shane’s hands slide over his ribs, and Shane pulls back. He’s sure the question is all over his face, because Ilya rolls his eyes at him again, and then puts a little space between them so they can both peer down at Ilya’s ribs. A bruise is starting to bloom there, light blues and purples spreading out under the skin.

Shane runs his fingers lightly over it again before pressing in slightly. Ilya makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Sorry,” Shane says, his eyes meeting Ilya’s.

Ilya raises a hand to Shane’s cheek, his thumb tracing his cheekbone. He quirks an eyebrow. “Mm no, you are not.”

Shane can’t help the grin that pulls at his mouth. “No. I am not,” he says with a terrible approximation of Ilya’s Russian accent.

“I do not sound like that,” Ilya pouts and palms Shane’s face, shoving him away. Shane laughs and rolls them, and while he's still revelling in the endorphins of the competition and his win, the confusing, complicated swirl of emotions from the night before is quiet in his brain. In the way they revel in the joy that comes only from competing against each other.

Shane kisses down Ilya’s body until he gets to the bruise on Ilya’s ribs, kissing each rib softly in a quiet apology. He moves to Ilya’s sternum, where another slightly boot-shaped bruise is starting to take shape, and repeats the ritual there. Ilya lets him, briefly, before he starts to squirm and make frustrated noises.

Finally he growls and rolls them again, so Shane is trapped under his heavy body. The weight feels incredible, and Shane thinks even if they never have sex again, he could never give up the feel of Ilya’s heavy, solid body on top of him.

Ilya reaches up and grasps Shane’s chin. Tilting Shane's face into forced eye contact. “I am going to fuck you now.”

Shane audibly swallows and nods as much as he can while Ilya is holding his face still.

Then Ilya slides his thumb into Shane’s mouth, and time and space cease to exist.

"Are you going to be good and do as I say?" Ilya asks and Shane nods. Grateful to be able to let go. To finally relax. To just be.

Shane loses himself in it.

It's not until after Ilya fucks Shane on all fours. Not until after they’ve both come. Not until Ilya is climbing out of Shane’s bed and pulling his clothes back on. Not until he’s licking into Shane’s mouth with one final filthy kiss and disappearing out of the room. It's not until Shane hears the heavy door open and then close again.

Not until he's gone does Shane let himself think about that last time, last year.

His mind churns. His thoughts spiral.

Why?

What if?

How?

He thinks about it until his eyes are heavy with sleep.

And he wants. Oh, how he wants. 

Chapter 3: I tried to heal your wounds just to say I helped

Chapter Notes

Chapter music (what Ilya is humming later): if the world was ending - Jamie fine
Title from: Haircut - Noah Kahan

TW: sorry there is hunting referenced. I don’t write anything graphic but they talk about it a bit. If you want to skip it jump down to the first flashback. Also there's a slur but I put it in French. Sorry french speakers.

Click on Russian works to see the translation!

.:.:.:Now.:.:.:

Shane wakes up feeling more rested the next morning than he has all week, which only serves to send him into an immediate tailspin of emotional turmoil. He rolls over, putting his face in the pillow that Ilya had laid on the night before, breathing in what remains of his smell. He’s a little horrified at himself. Sure, he changed the sheets after Ilya left. They were gross. But he purposefully left the pillows. He feels a wave of shame over the way Ilya reduces him to his base self.

Shane prides himself on his control. He thinks through everything: his diet, his schedule, his training regime, the deliberate way he wants to rule alongside his parents.

But when it comes to Ilya, it’s like he can’t help but make the worst decisions possible. He devolves into a puddle of lust, emotion, and animal instinct. He’s never once felt in control, and he hates it.

Still, he gets up when his valet, Theriault, enters the room and draws him a bath.

"I'm good, man. Thanks," Shane says curtly, shutting down his offer to help Shane bathe, an archaic ritual Shane has always found as weird and antiquated as his valet.

"It is tradition, my Lord," Theriault pushes. Shane fights to hide his frustration. 

"I know. And I love tradition. But this one's a little outdated, even for me."

"I heard the Prince was here last night?" Theriault asks in French.

The subject change has Shane's spine stiffening. "Uh, he stopped by to discuss politics briefly."

Theriault's eyes narrow. "He is not to be trusted, sire. A barbarian, taking part in debauchery."

"Uh, right. Okay, thank you."

“Take precaution, your royal highness. They say he lays with anything that moves. Other men. Animals. The Russians are all les pédés," he says, using a gross French slur.

"That’s enough. You can take your leave." Shane dismisses him, pointing at the door. More ready than ever to be rid of the man.

Theriault looks taken aback at Shane’s harsh dismissal. “Your highness, I live to serve.”

”Spreading rumours serves no one. I won’t allow slander to be spread about our allies.”

”Of course,” the man says and moves to the door. His eyes downcast in deference but an ugly twist to his mouth.

Shane watches him leave.

He really needs to speak to the housekeeper about moving him into another role. He’s kept him out of a sense of duty. He’d looked up to him as a kid, absorbing his knowledge and thoguht he knew best about tradition and values. He realizes now how misguided that was. His skin crawls from the comment and his stomach twists. But he pushes through the shame and confusion threatening to shut him down. If this was Shane last year he would have hidden away, skipped breakfast. Drowned in paranoia.

But Shane now? He needs to focus of what matters. He needs to talk to Ilya. Bathed and dressed, he goes to breakfast.

“You’re in a good mood,” Hayden tells him as they leave breakfast.

Shane takes stock. His body feels loose—the way he feels only after Ilya fucks him into the mattress. Which only frustrates him further. He reviews the last hour in his mind and can’t think of a thing he's done that has been out of the ordinary, besides eat his breakfast and listen while Alexei—with the occasional grunt from Grigori—argued with Yuna and David about politics. And maybe Ilya was kicking his boot under the table every time Grigori said something that was very clearly a lie. And maybe it was so annoying that, once or twice, Shane had to chew on the inside of his cheek to smother a grin.

“Excited for the hunt,” Shane says.

Hayden gives him a look. “You hate hunting.”

“Uh, well, maybe I won’t this time.”

Fortunately, they’re saved when they enter the great hall and the rest of the nobility are waiting for them to leave. Most are dressed like Shane, wearing riding boots, pants, and a leather jerkin.

Ilya, Shane happens to notice, is wearing a similar outfit; only his jerkin is dark blue, and it makes his eyes look so bright that Shane is pretty sure he'll go blind if he looks directly at him.

The situation is immediately overstimulating as they exit the castle, mount their horses, and head out into the forest. They are riding in a large group that is made up of at least a hundred people, once the servants and guards have been accounted for. There is a lot of chitchat that makes Shane’s brain want to bleed out of his ears—the men posturing about who is going to kill the biggest buck, discussing the latest gear and tools. God, Shane hates hunting.

The Russian delegation and the nobility who came with them ride together. Within their group, the women ride in the carriages that follow. In the Canadian group, Shane's mother and a some of the women join the hunt on horseback, and the groups in the carriages are mixed.

Many times over the years Shane had expressed his desire to be in the carriage at the back. His mother had patiently explained that it wasn't about gender. It was about position, and that as Prince he was expected to participate.  Expected. Shane's least favorite word.

When they arrive at the clearing where they'll set up for lunch later, Shane dismounts and sees Jackie and Rose climb out of a carriage. Rose gives him a little wave, and he gives one back, but then he jumps, startled, when a horse and rider gallop up to him and stop a hairsbreadth away.

He glares up at the rider only to find Ilya towering over him on horseback.

“What the hell, Rozanov?”

“What? I am just warming up. Maybe if you do too, you’ll be better?”

Shane bristles at that. Immediately annoyed by the height difference, he re-mounts his horse, patting her back. Shane is a great shot. It's not that he's bad at hunting, in fact he's great at it. He just thinks the whole thing is barbaric. He tends to hang out near the back and wait for one of the testosterone-addled assholes to kill something so they can all go home. It's one of the few things he's not ridiculously competitive about. Being the winner of this sport feels a lot like being the loser.

“I killed that turkey that one time,” he reminds Ilya. Then he leans in and mutters, “You hate this too, don’t lie.” 

Ilya opens his mouth to retort, but Grigori’s harsh shout of his name in that heavy Russian accent has them both sitting up straighter. Ilya makes a face at him before hurrying off to join his father and brother.

It’s not long until they set off, leaving the carriages behind along with the servants to set up the festivities for later. He nudges Billie, his horse, and she breaks into a canter and catches up to Ilya.

He nods at Alexei, who looks down his nose at Shane as though he is the scum of the earth. It’s par for the course for Alexei who's been looking at Shane like that since he was a kid. Shane ignores him and waits until his brother’s head is turned before leaning into Ilya’s space once more. “Remember when Hayden killed that pig and you almost cried?”

Ilya's head snaps to him and he hisses over his shoulder, “Don't speak of sweet Bertha’s passing. I will never forgive Pike.”

Shane chortles.

“I can be brave like you when hunting in Russia, yes?”

Shane suppresses a shiver at the memory. "Don't remind me," Shane groans.

Ilya’s mouth quirks. “Ah, yes. Canada almost lost perfect Prince Hollander to a boar mauling. And then what happened after?”

Shane glares at him, then clicks his tongue a couple of times and slaps Ilya’s horse’s flank so the white gelding lurches forward, confused by the command.

Ilya grips the reins and pulls back, steadying them, and coming back into step with Shane. He runs a hand over his horse's mane, petting its neck. “Shh, Oatmeal, don’t listen to the mean prince. I will take care of you. You are the bestest and most prettiest horse in all the land.”

Shane rolls his eyes but can’t keep the fond smile off his face. He remembers when they were sixteen and Ilya came to stay with them. Shane had thought he was so clever giving Ilya a horse named Oatmeal, trying to gain any kind of upper hand.

The horse had been named by one of the palace kids, and it had stuck. Of course, Ilya hadn’t been embarrassed by the name in the least, and he’d ridden her beautifully. When he would return to the palace in the years to come, he would always opt to ride her. Now, Oatmeal was unofficially Ilya’s horse.

Alexei makes a frustrated sound and turns to glare at them. “Stop talk. You scare venison.”

Ilya says something back in Russian that sounds rude, but steers them into the treeline, putting some distance between them and the rest of the hunting group. Shane tries to stop the thrill that always swoops through his belly at the prospect of being alone with Ilya, of being the focus of his attention. Even as the back of his neck prickles, considering both of their families and half the nobility on the continent are so close by. Shane follows him regardless. Helpless to do anything else. 

“Come, Oatmeal. Let us get you an apple.”

“How is Roach? Does he know how you cheat on him, doting on Oatmeal like this?” Shane asks. Roach is the massive black stallion Ilya rides in Russia.

Ilya tsks. "Roach would love Oatmeal. Be best of friends."

Once they are a little way inside a copse of trees, Ilya swings a long leg over the saddle and drops to the ground, leading Oatmeal by the reins to a nearby crabapple tree and pulling two down.

Shane follows him, dismounting and easily catching the fruit Ilya tosses to him. He gives it to Billie, who crunches happily while Shane ties her reins to a branch above.

And then Ilya is in his space, crowding him. He grips Shane’s hips and walks him backward.

“The fuck are you doing?” Shane hisses, glancing around to try to see if anyone from the hunting party can spot them through the trees. Panic lances through him, but he doesn't stop it from happening.

Ilya walks them around to the far side of a large tree, against which he presses Shane, one hand coming up to grip his jaw. Shane’s breath catches and he feels lightheaded, just from the smell of him, the grip of his hand on Shane's jaw.

Ilya pulls his chin up, moving him where he wants him, making his knees go weak. And then lips are pressing against his lips. Ilya is kissing him, up against a tree, with hundreds of people nearby. Shane's heart hammers, he wants to shove Ilya away. He should but his brain is scrambled.

The press of a hot tongue against the seal of Shane's mouth, demanding entry, sends a shiver down his spine and has his cock thickening between his legs. Shane opens for him. He’s powerless not to. And lets Ilya lick into his mouth like he’s trying to devour him.

Shane gasps when Ilya finally lets him up for air.

"Ilya!" he hisses.

“Roz?” a deep voice calls, and Shane shoves Ilya off of him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Shane whispers angrily, although it's lost a bit of its potency as he's sure he looks a mess and his dick is currently trying to bore a hole through his pants.

Ilya tugs his shirt back into place, running hands through his hair to reduce the damage Shane has done, before grabbing another apple from a nearby tree and stepping back into view.

"Marly!" he says jovially.

Shane adjusts himself in his pants, cursing his body and how it can’t help but betray him when it comes to Ilya Rozanov. Fortunately, the other voices coming closer quickly remind Shane of how deeply stupid that was, and his cock deflates. He steps back around the tree to find Ilya settling back into Oatmeal’s saddle, joking with a grinning Cliff Marleau, completely unruffled.

“Hollzy!” Marleau bellows in that deep, friendly voice of his when he spots Shane. “Hiding in the woods?”

Shane flinches at the sight of the big man. Shane’s met him a handful of times. He’s nice enough, but not very perceptive, so at least there's that. It doesn't stop Shane's stomach from twisting at the thought that they were almost caught. Even by Marleau. He's a cousin of the King of Sweden. Shane knows he and Ilya are old friends, since Cliff acted as Page in the Russian castle for a few years.

Loaning noble sons and daughters out to foreign kingdoms was a common practice. It helped build alliances and educate the children in new languages and politics. It was well known that if you were sent away a lot, it usually meant you were poorly behaved and the King or Queen hoped the foreign monarch would help get you in line.

“Getting apples for Billie,” Shane says after too long. He feels exposed, like it’s written all over his face that he's just made out with the prince of Russia against a tree. He feels his ears go hot as he clambers back into the saddle. Billie snorts, but otherwise allows Shane’s awkwardness. She shakes out her mane and falls into line with the other horses.

"He lies. Had to take a piss," Ilya says and Shane wants to kill him.

Marleau chuckles. “Good for you for kicking the shit outta Roz yesterday, Hollzy. He was becoming insufferable, winning all the time.”

Shane chuckles awkwardly. "Isn't he always?" His heart rate is finally slowing, even if his mind is still running a mile a minute.

“Fuck off, Marly. Who won last time we sparred?” Ilya says.

“Alright, alright, no need to rub it in,” he says, bringing his horse close enough to hook an arm around Ilya’s shoulder and giving him a hearty pat. Ilya shoves him off.

“What brought you to town, Marleau?” Shane asks.

“I was visiting Roz in Russia before this, made sense to tag along. Keep him in line.”

Crack.

They all startle at the sound of a shotgun firing, followed by a lot of yelling and people on horseback rushing into the trees ahead. Shane sends up a prayer for the poor animal. Even Marly doesn’t look particularly excited about it. They trail behind the hunting group, who are already puffing out their chests and shaking hands in congratulations.

Shane is partially relieved and partially annoyed when they finally arrive back at the clearing for lunch. He’s grateful it’s over, but he always feels that push-pull of wanting to never leave Ilya's side while being on edge the whole time they're near each other in public.

“Shane!” he hears Rose yell before he even sees her. “I mean,” she covers her mouth, cheeks going pink, “Prince Hollander. Come join us!” A bunch of nearby girls giggle behind their gloves and break out in whispered gossip.

He urges Billie in Rose’s direction, where she’s standing with Hayden, Jackie and J.J., but not before he hears Ilya’s derisive snort. Shane shoots him a look, but Ilya isn't looking at him. He's glaring at Rose.

Cliff is oblivious to it all, as he always is. “Damn, Hollzy. Landry grew up good. You hittin’ that?”

Ilya’s expression turns downright murderous.

Shane, having absolutely no idea what to do with any of that, makes an awkward shrugging motion, and a weird noise before nudging Billie into a trot and escaping to his friends.

“So ‘ow was it?” J.J. asks the moment Shane dismounts. “Did King Rozanov make you prove you’re a real man by killing an animal with your bare 'ands?”

Shane glances around nervously, even though they’re not within earshot of anyone else. “Thankfully, no. Not like that one time.”

“‘ollander,” J.J. says in his French accent, clapping Shane on the shoulder. “You ‘ave got to tell us the boar hunting story.”

“You have not told your friends about hunting in Russia, Hollander?” Ilya’s voice comes from behind him, making him jump. Shane hadn't heard him follow.

Hayden eyes Ilya warily as he approaches the group. They’re gathered around a table that is heaped with food: platters of fruit and dried meat, fresh buns, and baked goods. The only good part about hunting is the food, and Shane doesn’t even indulge that much because most of it breaks his strict diet.

Ilya, however, has no such qualms. He picks up a beautiful croissant that is stuffed with chocolate and dusted with icing sugar and tears it in half with his hands, taking a large bite into the oozing chocolate.

“He just tells us to never go ‘unting with Russians, and that is it,” J.J. explains. Hayden grimaces, having heard more of the story.

“Is that your lunch?” he asks Ilya, unable to help himself. Ilya raises an eyebrow at him and holds out the croissant in offering. And fuck, the croissant smells heavenly, and Ilya has chocolate smudging his lip and icing sugar dusting his fingers. Shane is sorely tempted, but less so by the viennoiserie.

He shakes his head, partly in response to Ilya's offer, but mostly to erase the mental images of licking the chocolate off Ilya’s fingers, until he forces Shane onto his knees—NOPE. This is not the moment. Jesus, that kiss addled his brain.

Ilya turns to the group. “Shane was very brave in front of my idiot brother.”

And Shane is… shocked. He didn’t know what Ilya was going to say, but he didn’t expect a compliment.

“And then he got very drunk because he cannot drink vodka, and I have to help him walk so he does not fall down and break his pretty princely face.”

And there it is. It’s close enough to the truth. The hunt had been awful: they'd forced Shane to make the kill as a young visiting prince. Then Alexei and the Russian nobility encouraged Shane do a million shots of vodka with gross comments like 'real men drink vodka, yes?', even though he was barely sixteen and didn't like the taste of alcohol.

Ilya had to pretty much carry him back to his room, where his memory gets a little fuzzy, but he's pretty sure he cried like a baby after the carnage of the day had caught up with him.

He doesn’t remember much, for which he’s grateful, just flashes of Ilya holding him and pushing his hair off his face while he threw up into a bucket, tears streaming down his face. Even years later, Shane's face heats in embarrassment at the memory. “Okay, that’s enough of that,” he says.

“It’s nice of you to take good care of him, Prince Rozanov,” Rose says.

Ilya’s face pinches when he looks at Rose. “Ah, yes. I am—how you say—magnificent?”

“I’d choose a different word,” Hayden grumbles.

Ilya narrows his eyes at Hayden, then turns to Jackie. “Jackie, you look radiant. You must let me dance with you later. You are fantastic dancer.”

“Oh, Prince Rozanov, you charmer, how could I say no to that?” Jackie responds and Hayden turns an angry red, then purple.

“Ilya!” King Grigori’s voice calls from close by. They turn around to see him marching over, Alexei following five feet behind, trying to catch up. The Russian guards trail behind them.

“Where have you been? We went hunting, and you were not there," he says in his accented English.

Confusion passes over Ilya’s face before he pales. “Papa, I have been here the whole time.”

“No, were not there when the boar—“

Ilya cuts him off. “We were hunting venison today, Father. You know this.” He switches to Russian and starts speaking quickly before yelling at Alexei, who shouts back angrily. Then they’re all storming away, faces red.

It’s quiet in the aftermath. Shane’s seen them all fight more times than he can count, but they usually reserve it for late at night when there aren’t quite so many prying eyes. Something about it—about the look on Ilya’s face—sends a warning to his brain. But he figures he’s just bothered by Grigori and Alexei yelling at Ilya. He’s always hated how they treat him.

“Miserable bastards,” J.J. mutters, and everyone but Shane laughs.

They turn back to the food and the chatter.

The rest of the day passes quickly. They return to the castle, bathe, and change. Dinner is lively, with many couples getting up to dance some the traditional dances together. Ilya does ask Jackie to dance, and they stay up there for three songs. By the third one, Shane isn’t sure that Hayden isn’t going to try to fight the Prince in front of half the Russian nobility.

Shane asks Rose to dance, mostly because it keeps him from having to engage in the boring conversation at the table. And only somewhat because he doesn't hate that it perpetuates the rumours that they’re courting, to help him cover for the fact that he’s of marrying age and has made zero effort to start that process. And then there's the small, miniscule part of him that's an asshole who wonders if it will make Ilya jealous.

Rose is happy, as always, to dance with him. She is small and warm in his arms as they go through the motions of the dance. Rose moves wonderfully, fluidly. Meanwhile, Shane moves like he’s a puppet on a string whose puppeteer is drunk. All the while, Ilya is nearby, gliding Jackie around the dance floor with the grace of a gazelle.

Shane can feel Ilya’s eyes boring into him. He tries to ignore it and focus on the steps of the dance, attempting to guide Rose around the dance floor as he was taught in lessons as a kid. Finally, she huffs out a little sound, her arms going more rigid and he gives him a little tug as she takes over, leading him through the movements. He lets her take charge, finally relaxing a bit, letting his feet go where she's guides them.

“Prince Rozanov is glaring at me, Shane,” she says.

And maybe Shane feels a modicum of smug joy at that.

“Oh?”

“Why is Price Rozanov glaring at me, Shane?” she asks him, staring into his soul.

“I dont know, Rose, you’ll have to ask him.”

“Shane, tell him.”

“Tell him what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Shane Hollander. Tell him we aren't together.”

“How would he even know we courted? I haven't heard from him in a year,” Shane says, failing to keep the bitter edge out of his voice.

“No, but you know that gossip is treated like gold on this continent.”

“He’s just an asshole. I'm sure it has nothing to do with that. Why would he care?”

“Shane.”

“Drop it, Rose.”

Shane is relieved when he can finally retire for the night. He slips out when Ilya is busy in conversation with his father and brother. It looks like they are arguing again by the set of his jaw.

Shane is grateful to be back in the quiet his room. He takes off his jewelry and clothes piece-by-piece, carefully returning them to their rightful place in his closet, throwing on a pair of loose trousers and doesn't bother with a shirt before he sits on the couch, elbows on his knees and stares into the fire, his mind full of the events of the day.

He feels as though he wasn’t present in his body for most of the day. Social interaction often makes him feel like he’s outside himself. Adding the stress of Ilya’s proximity. The pressure of the entire situation. It's too much.

He’s just so confused. He wants clarity. But at the same time, there’s nothing to be gained by it. He knows they need to talk. He has to make Ilya talk. Only that sounds awful and impossible. He has thought a million times of what he would say and comes up blank. There’s only one day left before Ilya has to leave, and Shane can’t let him go without talking, not like last time.

He stares into the fire as his brain churns.

It’s longer than usual before the guard on duty announces his arrival, and then Ilya's there, stepping into Shane’s room. Gathering Shane into his arms. Pulling him into his body, his mouth. Kissing the air from his lungs. He tastes of vodka and cigarettes and of something distinctly Ilya.

When he pulls back too soon, Shane whines. He reaches for Ilya’s pants, but Ilya’s big hands wrap around his wrists and hold him still as he takes a step back.

"No. Moy sladkiy (my sweet)", I can’t tonight. I must go back to my room. It was a risk coming here, but I couldn’t… I didn’t want you to—" he cuts himself off. Shane tries to understand, but he comes up blank.

“What? Why?” he asks, as disappointment crashes through him. It's their last night together, and Ilya has to leave?

"I—I just cannot tonight."

"Ilya—" Shane blinks, hating that his eyes are wet.

"Shane," Ilya says, his voice impossibly fond. He looks heartbreakingly sad for a single moment, before his expression closes off and he looks away. When he refocuses on Shane, his face is teasing, his mask back in place. “Now you can practice your dancing so you are not so terrible next time.”

Shane wants to ignore the deflection, but it’s too hard not to take the bait. Ilya knows exactly how to press his competitive buttons. “I don’t need to practice,” he lies, and hates himself a little at the next words that pop out of his mouth. “Rose thinks I’m a good dancer.”

Ilya’s eyes flash, and he steps back into Shane’s space. The heat in his expression, coming off his body in waves, is enough for sweat to break out on the backs of Shane’s knees. “Does she?” Ilya growls, and Shane braces himself to be thrown over his shoulder like Ilya is a caveman and taken to bed (there's precedent, okay?). So colour him surprised when Ilya’s arm slides around his waist. The other slides into his hand, palm to palm. And then Ilya straightens his back, lifts his arms into a dancing position and tugs Shane against him so their chests are pressed flush against each other.

Shane makes a little squawk of surprise when Ilya takes a long step to the left and sweeps Shane around in a circle. Shane lets him lead, he's too shocked to do anything else, moving in some approximation of the steps even though they are backwards. Because holy shit, he’s dancing with Ilya. Prince Rozanov leads him around the room with big, sweeping fluid motions, and he’s as strong and graceful as he looked when leading Jackie around.

“Rose Landry knows nothing about how to dance with Shane Hollander.”

“Ilya—“

“Shh, Shane, you’re interrupting the music.”

Shane tries to grumble that there isn’t any music, but Ilya covers his mouth with the back of his own hand, still clutched in Ilya’s. He starts humming one of the songs that the band played earlier.

Shane finally relaxes into it, letting Ilya drag him around. Once Shane stops fighting it and lets it happen, they both settle. Ilya slows down the pace and his humming, stepping so close that their cheeks press together. They rock together in a small circle. Shane’s head tips back slightly to accommodate Ilya’s extra inches of height. He closes his eyes and just exists in this moment. He briefly has the insane thought maybe that if he lets Ilya lead him around like this, then nothing bad will ever happen. Maybe Ilya will keep him safe, no matter what.

“So are you?” Ilya asks eventually.

“Am I what?” Shane repeats, a little dazed.

“Bedding Rose Landry?” Ilya winces a little, like just saying the words injure him.

Shane wrinkles his nose. "What? No. We—" he takes a deep breath and tries to make sense of what he wants to say. He wants to explain this clearly. "We courted… briefly. But we’re not… compatible… like that."

Something Shane can’t read passes over Ilya’s face. “Compatible?” he asks.

Shane bites his lip in concentration as he thinks about how to explain himself. “We didn’t work in that way. Didn’t fit. We’re good friends, though,” he adds. “So you should be nice to her. She’s cool, I promise.” Not that he minds Ilya being jealous, but he’s not about to tell Ilya that. And, honestly, it would be nice for them all to hang out someday with less animosity. If there is a someday.

Ilya grunts in acknowledgment but says nothing else. He pulls Shane close again, ducking his head to press his face into Shane’s neck. He starts to hum again, leading them in a slow dance in the quiet of Shane’s sitting room.

Too soon he rocks them to a stop, and, taking hold of Shane’s chin, lifts his head so their eyes meet. “I must go.”

Word clutter Shane’s tongue with all the questions he wants to ask. The things he wants to say. Ilya dips his head and slowly, oh so slowly, presses a kiss to his mouth, licks the words away with his tongue.

And then he’s gone, into the night.

And Shane has the horrifying thought that maybe Ilya has to leave because he has someone else waiting in his bed.

👑:.:.:.Then: 10 years earlier.:.:.:👑

The second time Ilya came to visit, he was entirely different. Gone was the quiet, surly pre-teen who wouldn’t get out of bed, the one who yelled at the staff. Sixteen-year-old Ilya was a confident chaos demon, who was beginning to really earn his reputation with the ladies of the court. Teenage girls would be found wandering the castle at all hours of the night, sneaking in and out of his room.

Shane hated it. He was jealous—of Ilya, obviously! Of his confidence, while Shane fumbled around like none of his limbs fit his body. Despite how strong and athletic Shane was even at sixteen, swinging a sword was different to trying to talk to a girl.

Shane couldn’t get over how changed Ilya seemed from his previous visit, over two years earlier. Ilya was handsome and charming, Shane could admit that. His English was choppy, but he was already improved, and his comprehension was strong. He’d sit on a stool in the kitchens and annoy the staff there, practicing his english. Conning them into giving him treats when he got conjugated verbs correctly.

"Want to fight?" Ilya asked him one day.

"What?" Shane responded.

"Practice. Train. Swords, yes?"

And so they did. They started training together anytime they didn’t have lessons. They'd go for hours, both refusing to give up, both constantly trying to gain the upper hand.

Shane could admit it was fun. They'd tease and chirp, pushing each other to be better, work harder. He wasn't sure he would exactly call Prince Rozanov a friend by that point, but he was something. He was closer to Shane than the other boys his age. He was willing to spend time with Shane—he didn't treat him weirdly because he was half-Japanese or the prince.

It was on one of those long, particularly hot training sessions, the air thick with humidity and no breeze in sight, when things changed. Shane felt sodden with sweat by the time they collapsed on the ground, breathing heavily from the exertion.

“Let’s go for a swim in the lake.”

He heard, rather than saw, Ilya turn to look at him.

“Where is this—” he trailed off.

“Lake. Water for swimming.” Shane said it slower, not meanly, but clearly, so Ilya could learn the word.

“Lake, da.”

“There’s one nearby, but the best one is kinda up the mountain in a remote area no one goes to. It’s like an hour's ride away.”

Shane didn't know why he suggested it. He could feel Ilya staring at him. It was hot, they were both tired, and it was a long way to go for a swim. There were closer lakes. He was sure Ilya was going to call him an idiot for suggesting it.

“Okee,” Ilya said instead.

“Okay,” Shane repeated, his belly swirling with nerves. He didn't know why.

That was how they found themselves on horseback with two guards trailing behind them. The ride was hot and quiet, but the air thinned and cooled the higher up the mountain they climbed. When they finally arrived, the lake was clear and calm. It was small enough to swim across easily. It was beautiful.

“Prince Hollander,” Shane’s guard said. “If you are okay here, there is a lookout nearby. We will go wait there. Shout and we will be here in moments.”

“Of course,” Shane replied, and dismissed them.

The moment they were out of sight, his stomach fluttered uncomfortably, as he realised that he and Ilya were entirely alone.

Ilya seemed to be thinking the same thing, because his eyes raked over Shane’s body hungrily making Shane hot all over. Suddenly he could not wait to get into the water.

He walked over to the water’s edge and started pulling at the ties of his tunic. They had stripped off their armour and left it at the practice arena, but they were still wearing their tunics, leggings, and riding boots. Shane carefully removed his boots and socks and the layers of his clothing, and folded them into an organized pile.

He could feel Ilya’s eyes on him, but he was too afraid to turn and look. He’d gone swimming naked with Hayden and J.J. more times than he could count, and had never thought twice about it. But this felt entirely different.

He’d spent hours, days, staring at Ilya. At the bright blue-green of his eyes, those dirty blond curls, the interesting moles dotting his face, the cut of his cheekbones, the flex of his thighs in fighting stance. And he’d wondered about the muscles under the armour and padding, under the tunics, that he’d just seen the outline of.

He shucked off his pants last, folding them quickly and placing them with his other clothes. He didn’t even consider taking his briefs off—he didn’t care if they were going to get wet. He was a little hard, which was mortifying.

He chanced a glance over at Ilya and then almost died. He was facing away from Shane, bent over and sliding his underwear off, exposing his bare ass. It was perfectly round and firm. Shane's heart started beating so fast, and his belly swooped so hard he genuinely thought he might be sick.

More heat pooled between his legs, his cock thickening further as Ilya straightened back up. Oh God, he could not see Shane like this. So, he did the only thing he could think of. He ran a couple of steps into the water where he knew the ground dropped off, and he jumped.

The cold water engulfed him as he slipped beneath the surface. It was glorious, cool and refreshing, sloughing the grime and sweat of the day off his skin. He swam a few feet before coming up for air, flipping his hair back.

He’d barely surfaced before he heard a splash and then was hit with a wave of water from where Ilya had landed in a cannonball next to him in the water.

“Motherfucker,” he yelled when Ilya surfaced, still wiping water off his face. Ilya laughed. Shane shoved him, and then they were tussling in the water.

Shane finally managed to shove him off, pushing away to float on his back. Then he remembered his half chub and almost sank, spluttering when he got a mouthful of water.

Ilya laughed and then started swimming freestyle out into the lake. Shane watched his clean glide and practiced stroke as he cut through the water easily. Then he realized he could see the mounds of Ilya’s ass through the clear water, and he was mortified when his cock thickened with real intent this time. He tread both the water and his sanity as Ilya swam in a wide arc, turning and heading back, straight for Shane.

Shane started to freak out. Could Ilya see under the water? Would he see Shane was hard? He was worried he was going to literally drown in his panic. Would Ilya punch Shane, or worse?

Shane swam backward until it was shallow enough for him to stand. The water hitting below his pecs, his pulse hammering so loudly in his ears that he was sure the guards could hear it, but Ilya didn’t stop his advance.

When Ilya was close enough, he switched his stroke to glide towards him like an alligator stalking its prey. He inched closer, partly submerged, invading Shane’s space, approaching slowly, like Shane was an animal he was trying not to spook.

When Ilya finally stood up, Shane was distracted by how much skin was visible. Water droplets slid down his broad, muscular shoulders. Shane’s breaking brain registered that Ilya had even more moles on his body and his mouth went dry. Ilya ran a hand through his hair, slicking it back. He looked impossibly beautiful.

Suddenly, Ilya was in front of him, standing so close that Shane had to tip his head up.

“Hollander,” he said.

“Rozanov,” Shane replied, embarrassed when his voice came out gravelly.

Ilya took another step closer, his eyes searching Shane’s. Shane wondered what he was seeing. Holding eye contact felt impossible, but he couldn’t seem to look away. He was close enough Shane could smell the fresh water on his skin, the lingering smell of his sweet sweat. Shane had the sudden, insane urge to stick his face in Ilya’s neck and inhale more of it.

“Shane,” Ilya said, voice rough, as he took the final step and stopped. Any closer, their chests would be touching, and he’d feel Shane’s stiff cock basically reaching towards him in the water.

Was it the first time Ilya had said Shane’s first name? He thought it likely. He wondered what Ilya’s name would taste like, so he tried it.

“Ilya,” he said, and the single word seemed to light Ilya's eyes on fire. Shane suppressed a shiver.

Ilya reached out his hand and took hold of Shane’s chin. His strong fingers curved around Shane’s jaw, tilting his head up more. Shane’s arms hung limp by his sides, feeling heavy and useless. Ilya’s eyes searched Shane’s as though they were asking him a question, and Shane swallowed hard, silently saying yes. Silently begging Ilya to end this torture and take care of him. He’d let Ilya do anything. He wanted him to do everything.

And then Ilya’s head lowered, and he captured Shane’s mouth with his own. Ilya’s lips were soft and warm against his, and he wanted more, more. So much more. Shane felt dizzy. He didn’t know when he’d last taken a proper breath.

He pressed into the kiss. Once. Twice. Again. Ilya pulled back to look at him, his eyes hungry.

“Shane,” he said again, his tone almost desperate.

Shane responded by pushing up on his tiptoes and connecting their mouths again. He was clumsy with the movement, and Ilya grunted with the impact, but before Shane could be self-conscious about it, Ilya’s arms were around his waist. Shane finally remembered he possessed arms, and slid his hands over the sculpted muscles of Ilya’s stomach and pecs before sliding them up and into his wet curls.

He tugged gently and Ilya grunted into his mouth, his tongue licking at the seam of his mouth. Shane gasped and then groaned when Ilya’s tongue slipped inside.

Oh God, they were kissing. He was kissing the Prince of Russia.

And then Ilya closed the final distance between their bodies, and Shane froze, his eyes opening wide.

Ilya’s mouth spread into a grin against his. “Hollander.” His hips ground forward and rubbed his thigh against Shane’s very obvious still-clothed erection.

“Shut up.”

Ilya did not shut up. Instead, he chuckled, and his breath came in hot puffs against Shane’s mouth, the rumble in his chest vibrating against Shane’s sternum. "Ah, I do not think you want me to."

Shane’s face went hot, his ears on fire.

"But if want to stop? Okay." And like the asshole he was, he started to step away.

Panic coursed through him. "No!" He gripped Ilya's biceps. But before he could spiral out about it, Ilya's grin widened and he tugged on Shane's hand, drawing it down his body, over the ridges of his abs until his hand was wrapped around Ilya’s hard and very naked cock.

“Oh, fuck,” Shane cursed into his mouth. He felt like his mind was splintering. He experimented with a stroke to Ilya's cock, and he was rewarded with Ilya grunting into his mouth and rocking into Shane's grip. Ilya was large, thick and long. 

Ilya's hand slid inside the elastic of his shorts, gripping his ass and causing him to make a choked noise. It felt so insanely good being held there, with his flesh gripped hard in Ilya's big hand. Shane continued to stroke Ilya’s cock as they kissed frantically, unable to stop, immediately obsessed with the silky texture of his hard length.

Ilya seemed to get frustrated with the fabric of Shane's shorts. He made an annoyed noise before tugging them down until they came to pool around Shane’s ankles in the water. He went back to gripping Shane’s ass with one hand, and the other hand moved down to wrap around Shane's dick, causing him to gasp.

Shane broke the kiss, his head tipping back as Ilya brought their lengths together in the water. Ilya knocked Shane's hand away and wrapped his own hand around them both, pumping them in tandem. Teeth bit into his shoulder, and Shane groaned quietly.

Shane lost himself in it. He tugged at Ilya’s hair, grabbed at his pecs, his delts, clawed at his back.

When Ilya’s hand—the one that was still gripping his ass—slid further. Exploring. Shane’s body went rigid when his fingers slipped into his crease.

When the fingertip brushed Shane’s hole, he was done for. He spasmed as he came, abs clenched and balls tucked up tight to his body. Ilya pressed their mouths together to muffle whatever noise he was making. Then Ilya shuddered, burying his face in Shane’s neck with a muffled moan, and followed him over the edge.

Shane watched, somewhat outside of his body, as Ilya shook, still gripping him tightly. Ilya continued to stroke them until he had pulled the final shudders of orgasm out of their bodies and Shane was shuddering with oversensitivity. The water murky with their release.

“Jesus fuck,” Shane said, still in shock.

Ilya chuckled. “Fucking hell, Hollander.”

"Holy shit," Had that really just happened?

Suddenly, they heard the unmistakable crack of a branch in the woods. Shane shoved Ilya away, hard.

Ilya, ever overconfident, started lazily swimming on his back. Shane, ever awkward, took a few jumpy steps away from the scene of the crime, and then started randomly treading water.

“Your Highness?” the guard's voice called from the tree line.

Shane turned and saw him standing there, taking in the scene.

“Yeah?” he asked, hoping that was a word that made sense in that situation.

“Ah, nothing. It was quiet. I just wanted to check everything was still alright.”

“Oh, um, yup. Just chillin’. You know. Relaxin'.”

Shane wanted to die. Ilya stuck his thumb in the air from where he was floating in the middle of the lake, his soft cock probably visible in the water, absolutely unbothered.

“Okay. Of course. My apologies,” the guard said, cowed.

He disappeared back into the trees, and Shane let out a shaky, disbelieving laugh before he pushed off the ground and joined Ilya, floating on his back in the lake.

What a fucking day.

Chapter 4: …cause it truly fucks with me

Chapter Notes

oh sweet jesus this got out of hand. There is so much smut and angst in here. Buckle up.

Chapter music:
Girl Violence - King Princess
Endless-Dermot Kennedy

:.:. 👑 Now 👑 :.

By the morning, Shane’s anxiety has skyrocketed onto another planet. He passed out not too long after Ilya left, only to wake up a few hours later haunted by sleep paralysis demons in the form of Ilya’s impending departure. As well as the idea that Ilya might, at this moment, be in bed with a woman—or possibly multiple. Or, God forbid, another man.

They’ve never been exclusive. How would Shane have even asked for that? He knows Ilya’s reputation, and in many moments he’s grateful for it. It provides a cover for them. Sure, Shane’s dating history is pretty pathetic, but Ilya Rozanov? He could probably kiss a man on the mouth in the great hall at dinner, and the men would just laugh and talk about all the pussy he gets.

Shane arrives at breakfast exactly on time—so basically late—feeling disheveled, knowing the bags under his eyes are pronounced. No amount of the skincare regime that his auntie taught him could dispel the signs of fatigue from a week of late nights and restless sleep.

The Russians are already seated when he arrives, which says a lot about his timing. He tries not to immediately look at Ilya, and fails. Ilya's head is bent low over his breakfast, his shoulders tense. Shane can’t read him at all, and frankly, he doesn’t know why he tries. His ability to pick up physical and emotional cues is bad on a good day, and today is not a good day.

Shane takes his seat, his chair scraping against the floor. The sound is jarring and loud, and it makes him hunch in on himself.

He’s beyond grateful when the kitchen staff bring him some coffee. He doesn’t think he can stomach much food, so he asks for oatmeal and fruit. This makes Ilya glance up at him and make a face, before he seems to remember that he’s in a bad mood. He looks back down and refocuses on his own plate, which is absolutely heaped in bacon.

After a long period of silence, Yuna clears her throat and says, “It’s been a pleasure and an honour for you to visit us, King Rozanov,” she says.

Grigori all but grunts in reply, and Shane bristles on behalf of his parents. Apparently, he’s not the only one, because Ilya clears his throat and says, “Thank you, Your Royal Highnesses, for your hospitality. We are honoured to be your guests.”

Shane can see Alexei’s frown deepen, but he doesn’t object. He just nods sharply and takes a long drink of his coffee. Gregori barely blinks in acknowledgement. Shane is hit with an unpleasant precognition of what it might be like in the future.

He will be King. His mother has told him time and time again that she has no plans to rule forever and thinks that whole practice is insane and outdated. So as soon as he’s grown and ready she will be passing him the crown. And then what? He’ll sit on that throne across from King Alexei, who will grunt at him, having visited just to check a box on a piece of paper that will allow them to continue their trade agreement? All while Ilya sits at the same table with some (probably) stunning wife by his side, as mini versions of himself with cherubic cheeks and blond curls run around the palace and wreak havoc?

The thought is so miserable that Shane wonders briefly if he might cry into his oatmeal.

He’s distracted when Alexei pipes up, saying more words in a row than Shane remembers ever hearing him say. “Ilya is spoiled with English lessons you give him.”

Shane’s brain tries to parse out the meaning from the broken English, but he is still confused. English lessons? Fortunately, his mother, after exchanging a glance with his father, says: “Of course. Ilya's English is very good. I’m glad to hear it’s been beneficial.”

Shane notices how pale Ilya has gotten. His usual relaxed demeanour is gone, his jaw tight. He shoots a look at Shane, who very much wishes he was better at understanding these kinds of interactions. So Ilya told his family the Hollanders provided him English lessons, then? It's not totally incorrect. He took general lessons when he'd visit for long periods when he was young. They all helped him learn English. But he certainly hasn't taken part in anything formal for a very long time.

“Da, good. He stays now? More lessons?” Alexei says. It's more words than Shane usually hears Alexei string together, and the conversation sheds light on the difference in English proficiency between the brothers.

Yuna looks a bit flustered, which is truly a rare sight. “Oh, yes, we would love that, wouldn’t we Shane?” she asks, turning to him but then doesn’t wait for him to answer. “Ilya is always welcome here. He doesn’t need to wait for an invitation.” After a too long pause, she tacks on, “You as well, Alexei, of course.”

It’s awkward, but they all move past it. “Then business is finish. We leave,” Alexei says with little fanfare, and then stands. The Hollanders are a little off-kilter with the change of plans, but they do an admirable job of seeing off the rest of the Russian delegation.

“Hollzy, it was good catching up. Too bad it was short,” Marleau says, clasping Shane’s hand.

“Thanks Marly,” Shane replies, adopting Ilya’s nickname. “You’re not staying on?” he asks, as a formality. Shane absolutely wants him to go.

“Nah, been gone too long as it is. I’ll head home now, but I’ll stop through again soon. You should do the same. Come visit me and bring Roz. We’ll host a tournament and you can embarrass him again.”

“Sounds great,” Shane says with a chuckle. He wonders if Cliff knows anything, or at least suspects. Shane doubts it, but he briefly thinks about what it might be like if he and Ilya were able to just visit Marly as... what? Boyfriends? Shane feels sick at that thought. He's shocked at his own brain for conjuring it up. That will never be possible. He can't even fathom telling his parents that he's… well.. tell them anything about his sex life. The lack of sleep is altering his brain.

After another hour of awkward goodbyes to the delegation, false promises to visit other regions, and the acceptance of some final gifts—more vodka and insolence—the Hollanders stand at the main gates waving off the Russian party. The Russians leave the palace with much less fanfare than their arrival.

The moment—and it is truly the exact moment—that the Russians have disappeared beyond the gate and moved out of sight, Yuna and David are fussing over Ilya.

“Ilya, why didn’t you tell us you could stay?” Yuna accuses.

“Mom, lay off him,” Shane defends instinctually, although he isn't sure why. He’s just as pissed at Ilya for keeping this information from him and sending him into a fit of worry.

Yuna shoots him a glare like it’s his fault. “I am just worried, Shane,” she scolds, turning back to Ilya. “Ilya, honey, you don’t look like you’ve been eating enough. Or sleeping. Are you alright?”

Ilya looks overwhelmed by the attention, although Shane doesn't know why he would be surprised after years of it. It's almost comical remembering back to a time when Yuna disliked him. 

“Ilya, we’re so happy you’re staying longer. Do you know how long for? Not that it matters — you can stay as long or as little as you want.”

Ilya chuckles nervously and rubs at his neck. “Not long.”

“As long as you need, kiddo,” Shane’s dad says. “You need anything in your room? Want anything else to eat?”

“No, sir. Thank you,” Ilya says, and Shane thinks he’s actually blushing.

“Oh, psssht, don’t call me sir. You know it’s David,” he says, clapping Ilya’s shoulder good naturedly. "We better get to a meeting. We'll let you two catch up." His parents turn, heading into the castle.

“And I didn’t know we were still providing lessons, Ilya, but your English is beautiful,” Yuna says wryly over her shoulder.

Ilya looks sheepish. “Ah, yes, is good excuse I think. Thank you.”

As soon as his parents are out of sight the mood in the room shifts and Shane registers Ilya’s agitation. He paces the now empty hall. They're alone but for one of Shane’s personal guards who stands against the wall, at ease, gaze straight ahead.

Shane takes a tentative step forward, moving slowly so as to not spook him.

“Ilya, are you okay?“

“Let’s leave.”

Shane stares at him, stunned. Ilya stops pacing and stares back at Shane now, eyes wide and chest moving too quickly.

“What?” Shane asks carefully.

“Leave. Let's go and not come back.”

Shane frowns. “Ilya, come on. I can’t leave. You can’t leave. What are you talking about?”

“Why not?” Ilya shouts, his voice bouncing off the high ceilings of the entrance hall.

Shane just stares at him in stunned silence.

“Why not?” Ilya asks again, quieter, voice pleading this time. “Shane, come on. We can get the horses and leave. Together. No one will know.”

The word together pings around Shane's brain, hitting against all the sides of his skull before landing like a thud on his tongue. Leave?

Shane feels like he’s going crazy. He wants to argue more, but there's something about the desperation in Ilya’s eyes, in the agitation in his movements, that stops him. For once in his life, he picks up on a physical cue.

Shane has been studying Ilya for almost a decade, like a cartographer trying to map a new world. Exploring every inch, every facial expression. He’s still terrible at it—if Ilya was an actual country, he’d spend a lot of time lost in the woods—but some things, like certain moods, Shane has learnt. And this is a mood.

So instead of spewing all the arguments that crowd his brain—like "we have responsibilities," and "people will ask questions," and about a million more—instead, he simply says, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Ilya repeats, looking at Shane in surprise.

“Okay,” Shane says, turning to the guard. “Miitka. Tell the stable hand to ready our horses, please.”

The guard looks alarmed. “Uh, sir, your Highness. I cannot leave you unattended.”

Right. Shane sighs and rubs at his temples. The familiar lack of privacy bearing down on him. He could really use a moment alone with Ilya but he's not going to get it here.

Ilya watched his warily like he's waiting for Shane to back out.

“Go to the stables. I am going to run to my room and leave a note for my parents.”

Ilya watches him for a moment before agreeing. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Shane agrees, wishing they could stop saying the word.

Ilya doesn’t immediately start moving, so Shane takes initiative and turns, heading towards his chambers. He likes when Ilya takes charge and he can just turn his mind off. But right now, he knows Ilya needs him to fix this situation. His mind is churning, so he doesn’t immediately register when Miitka starts talking to him.

“Hm?” Shane asks when he realises he's missed whatever it is he said.

“Oh, uh, I can have your valet pack you a bag?”

Right. "Yes, please have Luca do it, a bag for both myself and Prince Rozanov. Just a couple of nights."

Miitka flags down another member of the staff and passes along the orders.

Which is how they end up in the stables twenty minutes later, watching staff load bags onto Oatmeal and Billie.

“Why don’ ya take Freya, here, too, so ye can take more food with ye?” Annise—a chef from the kitchen who has always doted on Ilya—says, as she’s trying to find space on Oatmeal for one more pack. “She’s rickety but she’s a decent pack horse. Just don’ try an’ ride ‘er she’ll toss ya off.”

Ilya is leaning against the wall in the corner, arms crossed over his chest. His face a storm cloud. He watches as staff run in and out of the stables in a flurry, and Shane’s cheeks heat in frustration. Alas, he persists—he’s faced down an angry Ilya Rozanov before and lived to tell the tale.

Shane feels obligated to say yes and is about to agree when Ilya lets out an audible growl before pushing off the wall. “There is enough food. We are leaving.”

Shane sighs. “We have plenty. Thanks, Annise.”

Ilya is already throwing a leg over Oatmeal’s saddle, accepting the reins from the stable boy.

Annise tsks at him. “Fine, but when you’re wishing you had my baked goods tomorrow, young prince, remember this moment.”

Ilya looks cowed. “I am sorry, Annise," he reaches out a hand to her. She takes it and squeezes. "You are still the most beautiful and talented chef.”

“Oh, knock it off,” she says, but she’s blushing. She grabs the bag she was securing to Freya’s saddle and spends a minute fiddling with the bag already attached to Billie. Shane suspects she found room for the pastries, but he doesn’t bother to check because Ilya is already disappearing out of the stable.

Shane climbs into the saddle and with a wave and a yells behind him, "Thank you! Tell my mother we’ll be back soon!" And with that he follows Ilya into the trees.

:.:.: Then 👑 Seven Years Earlier :.:.:

Shane’s leg bounced under the table. He glanced up at the tousled, dirty blond curls, the moles, his plump lips, the dark purpling of the bruise around his eye, then looked away again. He glanced around the room, looked at his food, his drink, Hayden’s plate next to him, and then his eyes flicked back up. He couldn't help himself.

It had been a few months since he’d last seen Prince Rozanov and two years since the incident at the lake. The last visit had been with the entire Russian family, and they hadn’t gotten much time alone together. Just enough for a couple of hurried hand jobs around the castle when they’d managed to sneak off. It had been terrifying, and when Ilya had whispered in his ear about getting caught, it made Shane come so hard he saw stars. He was still embarrassed when he thought about it, not that that stopped him from jerking off about it.

Over the last two years Ilya had visited a handful of times. He'd appear every four to six months for a few nights or a whole week. In the beginning he had some excuse or another, a message from his father, news from the east, but the Hollanders never asked for an explanation, so he stopped providing one.

Shane was a red blooded sixteen year old so he didn't think much of the fact that Ilya was around more than other young nobility. No, he was more inwwardly focused. Prince Rozanov's sudden appearances would set Shane off into a spiral of confusing emotions he tried his very best not to examine too closely. 

Shane didn't have a lot of friends, the other kids still mostly avoided him. Only Hayden and J.J. spent any time with him. And he was grateful for them, their families were both nobility and they were training to become gentlemen-in-waiting and a part of Shane's personal guard which was a huge honour. But it also meant there was still always a discrepancy in their station. They weren't equals. And Shane, being socially awkward on a good day, struggled with that. More often than no he couldn't fully relax.

Ilya was always annoying, teasing him, making fun of Hayden, getting them into trouble. But he seemed to like spending time with Shane. He'd follow Shane around the castle and join him in the training ring, or in his studies or whatever inane thing was on Shane's carefully constructed schedule. And Shane liked his company. No one was as competent as Ilya in the fighting ring. And he was shrewd and picked up on things Shane missed. He was better at understanding human nature and reading between the lines. 

Did it help that their extracurriculars included getting off? It certainly didn't hinder. Their time alone was typically stolen; hidden in storage rooms, the stables, the bath room at the practice area. They took advantage of any stolen period of time without direct supervision. Suddenly hands would grab Shane out of nowhere and shove him against a wall, into a dark corner or behind a tapestry in a random unused room. And then Ilya's hot mouth would be on his, a hand in his pants.

Shane didn't want to examine too closely why it turned him on so much. Why Ilya turned him on so much. He figured eventually they'd get bored and then he'd go out and find a wife. But there wasn't any denying that he liked it. A fact Ilya took full advantage of.

"You love it, yes? Desperate for it? For my cock?" he'd whisper in Shane's ear, his English always exemplary when it came to dirty talk, causing Shane to gasp and spill into Ilya's hand before he'd return the favour.

And here he was again, eighteen and in the flesh, across the table, in person. Not just in Shane’s confusing dreams and dirty fantasies. Shane took him in again. He looked good, if you discounted the black eye. And maybe even because of it. He looked more grown up. His shoulders seemed to have filled out, he'd gotten broader, and he’d sprouted another couple of inches. Shane suspected he was taller than him again, winning the growth spurt race once and for all.

But there was something off about the Russian prince this time. His jaw was set and his eyes seemed almost vacant. He was missing his usual spark; his charming, obnoxious, teasing smile, and his constant provocations. Instead, he was withdrawn, quiet, angry, and a little scary.

Shane studied him, wondering where the bruise was from. His initial assumption was that it came from a jousting tournament. Now he was worried it was from something else. He stared of the top of Ilya's head like it held all the answers he sought.

“What’s up?” Hayden asked, nudging his ribs.

“Nothing!” Shane said too brightly, his cheeks heating. He refocused on the meal in front of him.

“Did Rozanov do something? Want me to kill him?”

Shane almost choked on his mouthful of food. “What? Hayd, no. He literally just got here.”

“That’s plenty of time for him to be an asshole.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “I’m fine, man, don’t worry about it,” he said, but he couldn't help his eyes from being drawn back to those golden curls.

That night Shane waited, assuming Ilya would come to his room and ask him to go somewhere or make up some dumb excuse for them to be alone. He was always the one who initiated anything between them, and Shane liked the story he could tell himself that he was just along for the ride. But when midnight had come and gone and there was no sign of the surly Prince, Shane realized he was waiting for a knock that wasn't coming.

It wasn't until much later, when Shane was lying awake in bed with the sheets kicked off and his eyes stuck on the ceiling, that he decided he couldn't wait any longer to do something about it. He crept out of bed, pulling on a robe.

He stammered out some stupid excuse about going for a walk to the guard, who followed him—because of course he did. Shane’s stomach twisted, and he knew that should have stopped him. He should have turned back, gone back into his own bed, and gone the fuck to sleep.

But his legs kept moving forward on their own accord, one in front of the other, until he was standing in the guest quarters, right in front of Ilya’s door.

He knocked.

It was quiet for a long time. He felt heat creeping up his spine and sweat forming on the backs of his knees. He was too afraid to look at the guard who was standing a few feet behind him, witnessing his shame. The thing he hid most from the world—from himself. He couldn't hide like this; not out here, making this choice.

It took so long Shane almost thought Ilya wasn’t going to answer, so it startled him when the door finally swung open.

And then there he was, glaring down at Shane. Yup, he was taller.

“Hi,” Shane said awkwardly and added a weird wave for good measure.

Ilya shook his head like he was going to send Shane away, but then he reached out, grabbing a handful of Shane’s tunic, and tugged him into the room. The door slammed shut behind him.

The press of Ilya’s heavy body, trapping him against the door, was a relief. Shane sagged like his strings had been cut. He closed his eyes and his forehead fell forward against Ilya’s, taking a moment to breathe him in, until Ilya took ahold of his jaw and tilted his head, kissing Shane viciously, his teeth biting into his lower lip so hard Shane wondered if Ilya would draw blood. He wanted him to.

Ilya was broadcasting tension, his dark mood sucking the air out of the room. Something was definitely wrong, and Shane felt desperate with the need to make it better, to find the real Ilya underneath the sea of simmering rage.

Shane gripped Ilya's hips, swapped their positions, and dropped to his knees. The resounding thunk echoed throughout the room. He fumbled with the drawstrings on Ilya’s pants, his fingers shaking with need and making him uncoordinated. He eventually got them down, freeing Ilya’s quickly hardening cock.

"What do you want, Hollander?" The prince's voice was still cold but underpinned with lust. "You want to choke on it?"

Shane's mouth pooled with saliva at the sight in front of him. His own cock was throbbing between his legs. Shane couldn't claim deniability this time; or use any of the stories he liked to tell himself during the day, when he couldn’t reconcile the image he had of himself as Prince Hollander with the desperate, depraved slut who lost his mind when the Prince of Russia so much as touched him.

"Yeah," he breathed.

Ilya inhaled sharply.

Shane darted his tongue out, tasting the saltiness of his pre-come, licking him slowly. Savouring. He'd only done this a couple of times. A stolen moment in the practice arena baths. He remembered the first time he went to his knees, how powerful he'd felt. How he'd love the weight on his tongue and his mouth being full. 

He looked up and found Ilya watching him intently, bottom lip sucked into his mouth, eyes molten. It emboldened him, and he opened his throat, leaning forward to take Ilya’s length as far as it would go. He felt like he was on fire with it. 

Ilya’s head fell back with a groan, his hand weaving into Shane’s hair as he muttered what sounded like Russian curses. Shane slid up and down the length, Ilya hitting the back of his throat with every suck and lick. Spit was gathering at his mouth, and he felt disgusting and so turned on. It made his dick throb where it was still trapped in his pants. Shane took in as much as he could, using his hand for the rest, his throat bobbing as he swallowed around Ilya’s length, making them both groan.

“fuck yes, Hollander," Ilya growled which only spurred Shane further.

He pulled off and took a ragged breath. “Fuck my face,” he rasped out quietly, conscious of the fact that they were still up against the door.

Ilya’s eyes widened in shock before his pupils engulfed his irises. His eyes were hooded. “You want? You want my cock in your throat, Prince Hollander?” he whispered.

Shane swallowed, but nodded. Use me, he wanted to beg.

Ilya seemed to get the message, as he grabbed a handful of hair and tugged. “Open,” he growled quietly.

Shane opened his mouth, his tongue sticking out, and let Ilya feed him his cock. A horny swoop hit his belly so hard that it made his toes tingle. With a hand on the back of his head, Ilya began to thrust into Shane’s mouth. Shane clutched at Ilya’s hips, relaxed his jaw and fought his gag reflex. Ilya loomed over him, cursing in both Russian and English. Shane was sure they were audible through the door, and he spared a braincell to hope that the guards would keep his secret. Ilya seemed to realise that Shane’s mind had wandered, so he gripped his hair tighter and thrust deeper.

Shane’s eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped a hand to his own neglected cock. Squeezing himself over his pants which did fuck all to relieve the tension, so he pulled at the drawstring until he was able to wrap a hand around himself. Ilya made a series of strangled grunts and tightened his grip on Shane's hair further, holding him there, grunting as his salty come spurted into Shane’s mouth. Shane choked in surprise before relaxing his throat and swallowing it down.

Then he was being pulled to his feet, and Ilya’s tongue was in his mouth again. He gasped when Ilya’s hands grabbed his ass and lifted him into the air, walking them to the bed and unceremoniously tossing Shane onto it. He crawled over Shane and put his tongue back in his mouth, tasting himself before trailing a path of dirty kisses down the length of Shane’s body. He licked at his nipples, tugged his shirt off and his pants down, and freed Shane's aching cock.

And then he was being engulfed by the heat of Ilya’s mouth. Shane didn’t last long—it took only a few pulls before he moaned, "I’m coming." Ilya swallowed down his load with enthusiasm before rolling off Shane, landing on the bed on his back next to him. They were both breathing heavy.

It didn't take long for his brain to catch up with him. Holy shit. “Uh, I better go,” he said, his nerves cranking up to eleven.

Something crossed Ilya’s face before his eyes went cold. “Yes. Go. No one can know Perfect Prince Hollander sucks cock.”

Shane’s cheeks burned, and he knew his face must be bright red. “Fuck you,” he said, wanting to sound angry but worried it came out sounding a little pathetic, his voice rough from his throat being used. He scrambled off the bed, quickly recovering his clothes. He found his robe in a pile near the door.

“Okay, well,” Shane said. Ilya didn't look at him, instead staring out into the room. So he left. Slipped out the door; walked past the guard who was standing against the far wall, his face unchanged and unreadable; and hurried back to his own bed.

The following day Shane changed his outfit three times before breakfast. Each plain practice tunic he tried on seemed to yell 'I sucked a dick last night and I liked it' more than the one before it.

But when he got to breakfast, Ilya wasn’t there. He didn’t show up at the practice arena, or later in the afternoon for the meeting they were going to sit in on. At first, Shane was frustrated. It was rude. Ilya just, what? Slept in?

But as the day wore on, Shane’s anger melted away, and his concern grew. There’d been something empty in Ilya’s eyes that had worried Shane—he’d seen a spark the night before, in Ilya’s room, but it had still been dulled. An alarm was ringing in the back of his brain.

Shane was with Yuna in the throne room, helping her greet the townsfolk and listen while they aired their issues and how they hoped for support. He never loved this task. People were emotional and confusing, and got way too excited to see him. It made him feel weird. He preferred the strategy and planning parts of his role.

He didn't make it long before he snuck away, walking the all-too-familiar steps up to the guest wing until he stood in front of the same door he had the night before. He knocked, but received no answer. After a few minutes, Shane asked the guards if Ilya had been seen at all that day. When the answer was no, he made up his mind.

He knocked again, louder. “Prince Rozanov? I’m coming in.”

He waited another minute, then knocked again, repeating the words. He threw the door open. The room was dark, the curtains still drawn, and the air still as though it hadn't been disturbed since Shane's visit. Shane closed the door behind him, not wanting an audience.

He moved slowly into the room, his eyes adjusting to the dark. The bed was a four-poster, but without the fabric bed curtains like the ones hanging up around Shane’s, Shane was able to spot the lump buried under the blankets.

“Rozanov?” he called, taking measured steps closer to the bed.

No answer.

“Ilya?” he said, softer, as he made his way around the bed. Ilya’s face was buried under the covers, with only the tips of his curls peeking out. "Are you sick?"

There were still no sign of life, so Shane tentatively sat down on the side of the bed. The lump shifted, and Shane breathed a sigh of relief. He pulled at the blanket so it slid down a couple of inches.

There was a faint grumble which indicated that the lump was alive and possibly even awake. Shane pulled the blanket down a little further, uncovering more of Ilya’s face. His curls were sleep-mussed, face creased from the pillow. His eyes were red and puffy, and Shane wondered if he’d been crying.

He looked more beautiful than ever. Shane felt a pang in his heart and a sudden desperate desire to one day wake up next to Ilya. He shook away the thought as Ilya grumbled and rolled over, facing away from him.

Shane chewed on his lip, unsure of what to do. “I’m glad you’re alive,” he said. “It would have been awkward to have to tell people that you died 'cause I sucked your dick too hard.”

That managed to get a small snort out of Ilya. Shane grinned, feeling triumphant, but the feeling dimmed when Ilya tucked himself into a tighter ball and pulled the blankets back up to cover his face again. “Go away, Hollander,” he said.

And it hurt—it did. But Shane knew in his gut that something was really wrong. By now, Ilya had stayed with them a handful of times. He had been hungover plenty, but never once had he stayed in bed like this. Usually, they couldn’t get him to rest. Once when he had been taken with the flu, he insisted that he could still compete in the final round of a tournament. He threw up before going out on the field, proceeded to absolutely destroy his opponent, then spent twenty-four hours moaning on the floor of his water closet.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

No response. The lump was still again.

Shane heaved a sigh and got up. He drew the curtains open a small amount so that the room wasn’t quite so dark, then he ducked back into the hall and made his way to the kitchens, where he asked Annise to make some soup.

“Is the young prince ill, m’lord?” she asked.

Shane didn’t think he was sick, sick. But it seemed fruitless to point that out. “Uh, yeah. Think so.”

“Poor thing,” Annise tutted. “No mother to care for him, tragic all that, such a young boy with no one but that awful King. In that freezing country? Poor thing,” she repeated, rambling as she started pulling out ingredients to make chicken and dumplings. That was always Shane’s favourite when he was sick. “I’ll be done this in a little while and I’ll send him up a bowl.”

“Um, can you send one up for me too, and let me know when it’s ready? I’ll keep him company while he eats.” Shane did not make it through that sentence without turning a deep red. He prayed Annise wouldn’t point it out or ask him about it.

“Are ye sure that’s a good idea, m’lord? You don’t want to get sick.”

Right. Shane had already forgotten his cover story. “I won’t. I’ll, uh, sit far enough away.”

Annise eyed him skeptically but finally accepted the response, sending him on his way with the promise that someone would come and find him when the food was ready.

Then he made his way to the practice field. He made excuses to the Master-at-Arms, explaining that they would be missing training that afternoon, and probably the next day. He really had no idea what was going on, but he had a feeling in his gut that it wouldn't be going away before then.

As he walked back to the castle, Shane remembered Ilya’s first visit. How he’d stayed in his room for days, then suddenly emerged for that fight. He thought about Annise’s words. Tragic. He’d known Ilya’s mother had died, and he’d been curious as a young child as to why the other prince didn’t have a mother, when his own was such a large presence in his life. But he’d never asked more questions about it. He vaguely thought that someone had once called it an accident, but he didn't know why he thought that.

He was suddenly very worried about it. What had happened, and why had he never asked? He’d been young and taken it at face value—it was just the case that Ilya didn’t have a mother. He had always appeared so confident, so blasé. So unbothered.

Shane felt ill as he thought about Ilya’s situation. He’d hated the few times they’d visited the Russian castle when he was a boy. It was huge, larger than Shane’s even, but everything was darker, more damp, more drafty. King Gregori was mean and was always yelling. Shane hated it and he couldn’t even understand what he was yelling about. He'd attempted a few Russian lessons but given up when his mom lit up at the prospect of Shane learning some Japanese and focused on that instead.

He liked listening when Ilya spoke Russian; his words faster than in English, a mix of harsh sounds and lilting sentences. He thought of Gregori's harsh Russian words and Alexi's cruel sneers. The other Russians Shane had met were equally loud and angry. Old men with big bellies, who’s faces went red after they drank too much vodka. There was no comfort. No soft words. No kindness.

Ilya came to visit Canada often, more often than other visiting nobility usually stayed. Now, Shane realised, it maybe made sense why.

“Canada is fun,” Ilya would deadpan when Shane would ask him to do something he deemed boring. But maybe that wasn’t the insult Shane had always assumed it was? Did Ilya like being here? He'd never really considered it that way before.

He’d barely noticed when his feet had returned him to the throne room, where his mother was still receiving subjects. Shane slipped back into the room and went to sit at his mother’s side, in his throne, waiting for a break in the proceedings.

After she’d finished speaking to someone about a possibly corrupt mayor in a small town near the border, she waved at the guards to hold off the next visitor, before turning to Shane.

“Where is Prince Rozanov?” she asked him.

Shane shifted in his seat. He’d expected the question, but had been too lost in his thoughts to formulate a good excuse. He had planned to lie to her like he had to Annise, but he was a terrible liar on a good day, and Yuna Hollander could always see right through him.

“Um,” Shane said eloquently.

Yuna’s eyes narrowed, and he swallowed. “He’s not feeling well, I think?” he tried. 

“You think?”

Shane glanced around at the many eyes in the room. Guards, servants, his mother’s lady-in-waiting. Yuna picked up on his discomfort. She stood up.

“A moment for me to speak to my son,” she announced, in that way of hers that brokered no argument. She walked off the dais and into the antechamber off to the side of the throne room. Shane followed, somehow feeling like he was in trouble, even though he didn’t know why.

When the door closed and they were entirely in private—a true rarity—Yuna turned to look at him and her eyes softened. Shane breathed out a sigh of relief when he saw he had his mom in front of him, not The Queen and Monarch of Canada.

He fidgeted for a moment before blurting. “Something’s wrong with Ilya, but I don’t think he’s sick.” He suddenly felt much younger then his eighteen years.

“Okay, tell me what’s wrong.”

“I dont know. He won’t tell me.” Shane felt like he was going to cry. He swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat.

Yuna sat down at a small table in the corner and Shane slumped into the chair across from her. “I don’t know. Maybe he is sick? But he just seems… off. He won’t get out of bed.”

Worry creased Yuna’s beautiful forehead. She hummed in consideration. “Yes, the staff told me that he yelled at them when they tried to enter his chambers earlier, which isn’t like him.” She mulled it over for a moment. “But he let you come in?”

Shane tugged at his eyelashes, wiping away the moisture there, hoping his mother wouldn't noticed the wetness in his eyes. “I guess. He didn’t tell me to leave, but he didn’t exactly talk to me.”

Yuna gave him a discerning look. “Do you want to sit with him, if he lets you? I know, despite the teasing and competition, that you are friends,” she said, poorly hiding her distaste at the word.

Shane rolled his eyes. They’d had this conversation a few times before. When Ilya first came to the castle, Yuna had initially warned Shane against spending time with the moody and sometimes rude teenager. She didn’t trust the Russians—a fact she’d reminded Shane of more times than he could count—and she didn’t take kindly to anyone beating her son in a sword fight. Watching Ilya knock Shane to the ground a few times had firmly planted him in the villain role. 

But something occurred to Shane in that moment. Yuna and David had never turned Ilya away when he’d come to visit. They had always given him a safe space, despite everything. Until that moment, Shane had not thought about the fact that she could have said no. He felt very grateful for his parents in that moment.

“He’s not like his dad. We’ve talked about this—he’s not so bad if you ignore most of it. Like, he’s a dick, but he’s not an asshole.”

Yuna snorted. David would have corrected his language, but she was the one who Shane had learnt it from.

“So you’ve said, yes. You’ve also complained that you hate him sometimes, so it’s hard to keep up.”

Shane’s cheeks burned. So, maybe he hated losing to Ilya almost as much as his mother hated watching it. He contained multitudes, sue him.

“Fine," she said. "You’re both excused until he’s feeling better. Go, sit with him and make sure he eats. I think, when he was younger—" she paused, clearly choosing her words carefully, “ —he can get sad sometimes, Shane.”

He thought of Annise's words again. He couldn’t reconcile it—Ilya and sadness didn’t make sense to him. “He just seems pissed off,” he argued.

His mother looked thoughtful before she explained, “Sometimes sadness doesn’t come out as sadness. Sometimes being sad makes us angry. Anger is a safer emotion. It’s less vulnerable, and it's easier to have people be angry back at you than for them to pity you.”

Shane swallowed, the lump back in his throat. He nodded, unable to speak.

“Go.”

When Shane made it back to Ilya’s room, now laden with two bowls of soup, he knocked again, before letting the guard open the door and close it behind him. Everything was the same, the air in the room still.

“Ilya?” he called out. There was still no answer, but he moved further into the room a little more confidently this time, knowing that Ilya had kicked out anyone else who’d tried to enter. That had to imply he at least sort of wanted Shane there. Or wasn't actively opposed? The bar was low.

He walked around the bed and put the bowls on the side table. The lump didn’t move. Shane didn’t think he was sleeping, though, the blankets moved with uneven breaths. He sat down on the side of the bed again. “Annise made chicken and dumplings,” he said quietly, reaching out a tentative hand and squeezed what he thought was maybe a calf. “It’s what she makes for me when I’m not feeling well. It’s my favourite. Mom said that we can lay low for a little while until you’re feeling better. I can hang in here with you, if you want? I can sit in the corner and read? There’s this book I’ve been reading about fencing techniques that I think is really applicable to my double hander,” he rambled. He subconsciously rubbed a hand up and down whichever body part was closest under the blanket.

The lump let out a long suffering sigh before it moved. And then there were arms around his waist, and Shane was being yanked down and sucked into the dark void that was the space under the blanket pile. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dark and his new reality. Ilya’s heavy torso rested on his, looming over him, his features barely visible in the darkness. The tension released from Shane’s shoulders at seeing Ilya’s face, even as it was cast in shadow. And at the comforting weight pressing down on him. It made his chest ache. He rubbed a thumb over Ilya’s cheekbone.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

Even in the dark he could see the eyeroll. “So boring, Hollander. I am perfect.”

Shane shoved his shoulder lightly, but then tugged him back. Ilya came easily, kissing him firmly with a closed mouth, soft lips on his. He smelled a little ripe, but Shane didn’t care—he loved the way Ilya smelled. He craved the smell of his sweat like a feral animal.

Ilya broke the kiss quickly before manoeuvring them again, wrapping his whole body around Shane’s and tipping them on their side so that he could press his face into the back of Shane's tunic, between his shoulder blades. He was holding Shane so tightly it almost hurt, but Shane didn’t ever want him to stop.

They lay there for a long time, with Shane listening to Ilya’s breathing until his bladder ached. After he visited the bathroom he made them sit up, and they ate the now luke warm soup. Shane felt a wild sense of accomplishment watching Ilya finish his bowl and then drink some water. Then Shane read his book while Ilya dozed. They stayed like that a long time. That night, Shane made a show of going to dinner, before announcing he was retiring early to his chambers. He waited until it was late enough for everyone to be in their rooms, then he snuck back out to Ilya’s.

One of his guards accompanied him, cause of course he did. He couldn't talk the man out of it—not that he was particularly effective or eloquent, stumbling over his words with poorly-formed lies. He knew there was no more hiding from his personal guards that their relationship wasn't typical. Not with unexplained nighttime visits. The idea panicked him, and he stayed up most of the night worrying about it, sure that half the castle would know in the days to come. But it didn't stop him from going, from staying until the dawn light trickled in under the heavy blinds.

He eventually snuck back to his room. 

Ilya finally got up on the second day, dark circles under his eyes and moving slowly, but returning back to a more tired version of his usual ragebaiting self. Shane had stayed by his side through it all.

They never acknowledged it, the time they spent in Ilya’s bed. How he lay there, alternating between holding onto Shane and letting Shane hold him. How Ilya’s head had rested on his bare chest for hours as he read by candlelight.

How, at times, Shane’s sternum would get wet with Ilya’s tears, and how Shane tried to hide his panicked worry. How he’d kiss the top of Ilya’s curls over and over again and rub his shoulders, unsure how to make it better, but refusing to stop trying.

They didn't hook up again during Ilya's trip. And after he left they never spoke about it again, but it changed something for Shane.

It altered his brain chemistry.

He knew, without a doubt, no matter what happened, he’d kill anyone who hurt Ilya. That he’d defend him to the death if he had to.

Chapter 5: Someday, my pain will mark you

Chapter Summary

Don't forget you can click on the Russian to see the English translation!

Chapter Notes

Chapter Music: Haunted - Phoebe Bridgers
The Wolves - Bon Iver

.:.: 👑 Now 👑 :.:.

The ride to the lake takes a little over an hour. They don’t speak much. Ilya’s black mood hangs over them like a storm cloud, and Shane is too busy worrying to manage small talk.

He wrote a hurried message to his parents before they left, letting them know that Ilya needs some air and that they are heading to the cottage for a day or two. He figures his mother will understand what he means by it. She knows how Ilya gets. He worries, hopes, prays, that they don’t suspect anything further.

He's not entirely sure that once there Ilya won't be despondent. And while he can manage it if it happens—they have food, water and as much privacy as they get—he hopes, for a million reasons, it's not the case. They need to talk. 

Two guards follow behind them, a short ways back in the woods. Shane put his foot down with both Hayden (who was, unfortunately, on duty) and his personal guard, telling them that two guards were plenty while still on royal grounds, and if they were insistent on sending anyone, they would have to sleep in a tent nearby. Shane felt like a total dick about it, but he cared more about having privacy in this moment then being seen as a total asshole. By now, all of his personal guard—Hayden and J.J. included—had made it through ten years of Ilya Rozanov. They could all stop pretending it wasn't exactly what it was.

Shane doesn’t want to know what they think. The thought of their judgement or gossip send him into a tailspin but he's changed a lot in the past year. Instead of fighting against the bars of his cage he's starting to try to work within the parameters of his world. He's trying to balance his position with what Ilya needs from him, and what he needs from Ilya. In truth, he's terrified. But he's trying. 

As it is he can feel the anger radiating off of Ilya in waves. 

He knows Ilya is pissed at him. Shane knows this isn’t what Ilya had in mind when he said, "let’s leave". But Shane argues (in his own head) that this is a reasonable compromise. It stresses Shane out to leave on a whim—Shane Hollander doesn’t do whims. But Ilya Rozanov does, and Shane—probably stupidly—would follow him off a cliff if Ilya looked sad enough. He could never tell the Russian Prince that, though, or risk being talked into even dumber situations than he already allows himself to be put in.

So, he’s not all that surprised when they arrive at the cottage and Ilya dismounts without sparing a glance in his direction, haphazardly tying Oatmeal to a tree and striding off into the little cabin, the door slamming shut behind him so hard the windows rattle. 

It’s beautiful, as it always is. They’d discovered the little cottage when they'd first come for that swim years ago. The swim that had changed everything for Shane. Sitting a little ways off in the woods, it was old and unused, with shattered windows and detritus on the floor. But it was a decent size, with two large rooms, a sitting room and a small kitchen. Shane had made a project of fixing it up over the years. He and Ilya had snuck there a handful of times to hook up—usually just going for an afternoon. 

Clearly, Annise sent a servant ahead to dust and uncover the furniture, as the windows are open and the air is fresh. Shane is grateful for it, and he feels guilty again, for sometimes hating his privilege and position and the limitations these things bring. He dismisses the guards, sending them to their campsite nearby, knowing they'll patrol but give them the semblance privacy. He then unloads and tends to the horses. He finally heads into the cottage, wondering if Ilya has gone straight to bed and what state he's in.

He doesn’t have to wonder long, because suddenly Ilya is striding out into the room, wearing nothing but swim shorts. He doesn’t so much as acknowledge Shane as he walks past and out the door. Shane sighs and places the last few items in the cold box before following him out into the sunshine.

It's a beautiful day, if not a little humid. The air is thick with a gathering storm; some foreboding-looking clouds gather in the far distance. Shane is grateful that he put the horses away safely nearby in the small, covered stable.

Ilya is already in the water, swimming laps. Shane stands at the water’s edge and watches him cut quick, angry lines across the water, his arms arcing with efficient precision. Shane scrubs his hands over his face before starting to peel off his clothing. He strips down to nothing and jumps into the deep edge of the lake.

The water is delicious, and immediately refreshing. He pops back to the surface, tossing his hair back. The cool water helps to relax him. It's good to be back. He treads water, despite the approaching danger: a Russian shark headed straight for him.

Ilya switches up his stroke and disappears beneath the water, the ripple of the water the only indicator that Shane is about to be mauled. It reminds him of the first time they came here.

He waits patiently, but still can’t help the hysterical noise he makes as a hand closes around his ankle and he’s tugged beneath the surface.

Arms circle his waist and lips press to his as they tumble in the water before the natural floatation of their bodies pulls them back to the surface, and Shane enjoys air back in his lungs. He's still clinging to Ilya, with his arms wrapped around his neck, his legs around his waist. Ilya’s hands grip his bare ass and he blows a loud raspberry into Shane’s cheek.

“Gah!” Shane yells. He pulls back and studies Ilya’s face. His eyes seem brighter now, his shoulders more relaxed. It seems the storm has been kept at bay for now. Shane knows that if Ilya were really in a bad way, there would be nothing he could do about it. But sometimes his black mood simmers just beneath the surface instead.

"You are staring? You are obsessed with me?"

"No, dickhead. I'm trying to figure out how pissed you are at me."

"Ah. Because this isn't leaving. This is the cottage."

"Ilya."

"Shane."

"Where were we gonna go, huh? We're Prince's. We have responsibilities."

"Bah," Ilya says, looking away. "Fuck responsibility."

He says it with such disdain, it gives Shane pause. Ilya is always frustrated with his father and brother, but despite his standard complaints, his sense of duty is incredibly strong. And Shane knows their situations aren't the same. Ilya isn't the heir. But this feels different somehow. Shane wants to press him on it, but it doesn't seem like the time.

So he takes the opportunity in front of him and leans forward to press their lips together, kissing Ilya deeply. He immediately gets lost in it. In Ilya. The way he always does. And the fact that they’re really alone, hits him. That it’s just them. No one is expecting them anywhere, it’s not a stolen moment late at night with barely enough time to get their clothes off or get to a bed. Ilya seems to be catching on to this fact, too, as he slowly licks into Shane’s mouth, his hands tightening on Shane’s ass and fingers sliding into even more precarious territory.

Shane wraps his legs tighter around Ilya’s body, grinding his hardening cock against Ilya’s abs. Ilya shifts them and Shane feels Ilya’s length, still clothed and quickly getting hard, press against his, trapped between their bodies.

Their kisses turn more frantic, and they lick desperately into each others mouths. Shane sucks on Ilya’s tongue, licks at his teeth, and bites his bottom lip, which makes Ilya grind against him harder.

They frott against each other in the water and it’s too much and not enough. Ilya growls in frustration. He grips Shane’s thighs tight, and then walks them out of the water, depositing Shane on the grass at the side of the lake before surging over him again. Shane’s hands scramble for purchase on Ilya’s wet skin, desperate and mindless, wanting to pull him into his body. Wanting so much.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya says into his mouth, sliding a hand between them and grasping Shane’s cock. Shane’s head tips back, thudding into the dirt. The sensation makes him realise that he’s lying in the dirt out in the open, completely naked, while the Prince of Russia kisses and licks up his neck. Wouldn’t that be a sight for his guards to see?

“Ilya,” Shane gasps, squeezing the side of Ilya's waist.

“Mhmm?” he says from where his face is buried in Shane’s skin. He tugs on Shane’s earlobe with his teeth, and his hot tongue slides into Shane’s ear, which causes Shane to temporarily forget that the English language exists.

Ilya’s starts working his way down Shane’s body, kissing and sucking as he goes, but Shane stops him. “Ilya, let’s go inside,” he gasps.

Ilya lifts his head to look at him. He looks wrecked already; his pupils black, his curls wet and tangled, his breaths heavy. He looks like he wants to argue, a glimmer of his bad mood simmering under the surface.

"Please," Shane says, a little pathetically, and Ilya’s eyes soften. He rubs a thumb over Shane’s cheekbone.

"Okay, doosha moya (my soul)", and with that he hauls himself up, grabbing Shane’s hand and pulling him to his feet on his way up. Shane’s cheeks heat when he realizes how exposed he is, wandering around with his dick out.

Ilya chuckles and looks down. Shane follows his gaze and realises he is matted with dirt and grass. “Is my birthday?” Ilya teases. “You are naked, dirty and horny, Prince Hollander.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Shane says, letting out a little embarrased laugh. He jumps in the lake again to rinse off, before running back to the cottage. Ilya chases him, cackling while trying to slap his ass.

Shane makes it back to the sitting room before Ilya catches him, grabbing him around the middle and managing to throw him over his shoulder. This is especially embarrassing as Shane is dripping wet and naked, and now ass up in the air.

“Ilya, put me down,” Shane complains.

“No. You are my prize. I have hunted you and won.” He punctuates it with a loud slap to Shane’s ass, which makes him snort out a laugh.

Then, Shane is unceremoniously dumped on the bed and once again finds him underneath a feral Russian. Ilya’s expression turns serious as he looks down at Shane. He grips Shane’s jaw in one hand and grabs the inside of his thigh with his other, spreading him open wide. He presses Shane's knee into the bed, grip just the wrong side of hard.

“You are mine,” he growls, staring into Shane’s eyes. Shane feels flayed open and exposed, and more than just physically. His cock gets impossible hard at the possessiveness lacing Ilya’s tone.

He nods, as much as he can with the grip Ilya has on his chin.

“Say it. Use your pretty words, Prince Hollander. Tell me.”

Shane swallows, his throat suddenly thick. “I’m yours,” he whispers. He brings his hands up to frame Ilya’s face. “Only yours, Ilya.”

Ilya makes a strangled noise, then he’s kissing Shane again. It's dizzying, like Ilya is trying to inhale him. Shane reaches down and fumbles with Ilya’s wet shorts, pushing them as far down as he can reach and trying to get them the rest of the way there with his feet. Ilya huffs out a laugh and reaches down to remove them and then he’s back.

When Ilya’s hand dips back between his legs, skirting over his cock and sliding down over his balls and further back, his vision whites out temporarily.

Ilya’s finger circles his hole before he presses it with a dry fingertip. Shane’s chest heaves, and he gasps like he’s back underwater and can’t get enough air.

“Ilya, please,” he whimpers.

“You need it? Tell me?” Ilya commands.

Shane’s cheeks heat and the tops of his ears go hot, but he’s too horny to care. “I need it, Ilya. I need you. Fuck me.” Shane loses his mind when he gets like this. He is reduced down to bone, muscle, blood pumping, lungs expanding. He feels like he's fracturing a part and only Ilya can hold him together. 

“Lube?” he asks, and Shane points at his bag. Shane takes deep breaths, trying to get a grip before Ilya is back. But instead of using it straight away, he trails kisses down Shane’s body, stopping only briefly to suck Shane’s cock into his mouth before continuing further south. And then he's being folded like a lawn chair.

“Oh god,” Shane croaks out, as Ilya’s tongue circles his rim. His back bows off the bed, which causes Ilya to grumble in annoyance, before he reaches for a pillow and tucks it under Shane’s hips. Then his tongue is slipping inside Shane, and Shane's brain is breaking. The feeling is weird and wet and teasing and makes his toes curl in pleasure. He gasps and mumbles nonsense as Ilya makes a meal out of him, slipping an oil-slick finger inside.

“Ilya, Ilya, stop, I need you, I need you inside me,” he manages to make his mouth say. Ilya pull his mouth off and crawls up Shane's body to kiss him. Shane devours his mouth, mindless and sex-drunk. Ilya is no better off—his eyes are wild and he’s uncoordinated as he slicks himself up. He lines them up, holding Shane’s knees out wide again.

In all the years they've been doing this, Shane has rarely seen Ilya lose control. But he sees it now. Ilya’s curls are frizzy, partially dried, and a mess from Shane running his fingers through them. His chest is heaving, and there’s an emotion in his eyes—something so desperate and lost that it almost makes Shane upset. But then Ilya is pressing in, and Shane can’t focus on anything else.

He throws his head back and moans wantonly as Ilya slowly, tortuously, slides inside him. “Oh god, Ilya. Yes, fuck, yes.” And it feels like coming home, like his body is whole, like this is what he’s needed for so long and he didn't even know it.

He blinks to clear his vision and is surprised to find that his eyes are wet. He looks up at Ilya, who is studying him. “Is good?” he checks. “I hurt you?”

“No, no. Jesus Ilya, don’t stop, fuck.”

So he slides the rest of the way in. Shane breathes through it, getting used to the feeling. He reaches up with his mouth and Ilya accepts his tongue as Ilya starts thrusting shallowly, letting Shane’s body adjust.

“You feel so good, Shane,” he whispers against Shane’s lips. And god, even that makes him want to cry. He needs to get a grip.

He brings his legs up and around Ilya’s waist. “I want—“ he tries, but the air whooshes out of his lungs as Ilya thrusts deep into him.

“You want?” Ilya grunts, thrusting again.

“—to ride you,” Shane finishes, which causes Ilya to slam his mouth to Shane’s and thrust mindlessly for a few minutes. Shane holds on and tries not to come as Ilya fucks into his body. Finally, Ilya gains control again and slows, then pulls out completely, causing Shane to whine at the loss.

Ilya tugs him up and over his body as he lays on his back so Shane is straddling him. Shane lines himself up and sinks all the way down. The new position is intense, and Ilya makes a strangled noise. With the constant space and time constraints—never mind the rest of it— they’ve only ever done this once before.

Shane immediately loves it. Ilya looks absolutely debauched beneath him, his ab muscles flexing and his eyes wild. As much as Shane prefers Ilya to be in control most of the time, there is something delicious about taking it away from him.

“Fuck, Shane, so fucking hot,” Ilya moans.

Shane starts up a steady pace, fucking himself on Ilya’s cock. He feels desperate with it, the feeling and sound of Ilya all around him. He needs this like he needs to breathe, the truth deep in his bones. It's the scariest truth of his entire life.

Ilya appears to be having a similar existential crisis. He’s babbling in Russian and English, gripping onto Shane’s thighs, his eyes flickering between Shane’s face and where their bodies are joined, watching as his cock disappears into Shane’s body.

“God, I feel so full like this, Ilya,” Shane gasps, barely able to form words but needing Ilya to know.

“So full of cock. Where do you feel it, sweetheart?” He reaches up, cups Shane’s chin and slides his thumb into Shane’s mouth. And Jesus, Shane sucks on it, his eyes rolling back.

And then his hand is slipping free and he bring it to Shane’s belly, pressing down. “Here, do you feel it here?” he rasps, his voice gravel.

Shane moans long and low at the pressure on his full belly. He nods, out of words. He bounces on Ilya’s cock, slowing as his thighs start to burn. Ilya notices and takes over, planting his feet and holding Shane’s hips steady, thrusting upwards.

Shane gets a hand on his cock and it’s all over from there. It only takes a couple of pumps before he isn't able to hold it back anymore. His balls draw up and his spine bows and then he’s seeing stars as he comes hard, painting white stripes up Ilya’s abs. Ilya is balancing on a knife's edge himself, and the sight above him has him grunting and pumping into Shane’s willing body, the glide becoming wet and sticky.

Shane rolls his hips and brings Ilya through it, until he’s too oversensitive to continue and collapses down onto Ilya’s chest. Ilya’s arms wrap around him and he holds Shane tight to his chest, and Shane snakes his arms around Ilya’s body as best he can and hangs on tight.

They end up taking a nap, and then they wake up later and eat the food that had been packed for them. By now, the storm that had been threatening is raging outside—the sound of the rain against the roof of the little cottage is relaxing. They play backgammon and gin rummy and take turns being sore losers, teasing each other, and laughing. It’s nice—too nice. Shane doesn't want to ruin the moment so he puts off The Talk. Before long, they’re back in bed and making out again. Kissing for the joy of it. They suck each other off and fall into a dreamless, sated sleep, wrapped around each other.

Shane wakes in the morning, his body sore in the best way. Ilya is sleeping on his chest, a little puddle of drool between his pecs. Shane loosens his grip after he realises he's clutching Ilya to him like he thinks he's going to try and make a break for it. He takes a deep breath and wishes he could freeze time. He’s wanted this so badly: him and Ilya, alone, with no interruptions, all night in a bed. It feels surreal, stolen, and he knows he can’t keep it. Shane’s heart aches.

Ilya stirs, apparently unhappy with being released from Shane’s greedy clutches. He stretches out, all four limbs in every direction, which reminds Shane just how long and lithe his body is.

Then, he’s distracted by morning sex—Ilya behind him and rocking into him with sleepy, lazy thrusts until they’re both spent.

They laze in bed, but before long Shane can't ignore that Ilya is back on a knife's edge. His dark mood has oozed back into their romantic morning in bed. 

He suggests they eat the pastries Annise managed to fit into the bag after all. Knowing it'll cheer Ilya up, he even suggests they eat them in bed and tries his best not to appear horrified about crumbs while it's happening. The pastries are incredible, because of course they are. Ilya is quiet as he licks chocolate off his fingers. Shane opts for the almond croissant. It's his favourite and an indulgence he’d usually never give in to. He knows he'll feel guilty later about eating something so calorie dense. But the way Ilya’s face lights up in delight when he bites into it is worth it.

"You are free now. I know you want to clean," Ilya tells him after they are done eating. He sounds like he's trying to tease, but his tone is off. Too sharp.

"Are you okay?" Shane asks.

“Da,” Ilya says distractedly, staring out of the window that looks out into the trees. The green canopy is serene. At odds with the tense air in the room.

That he has regressed into Russian tells Shane a lot.

Shane shifts, sitting up higher against the pillows, suddenly annoyed at having sticky fingers. He doesn’t want to be naked anymore. He gets up, pulling on briefs and leaves to wash his hands. He walks back into the room, standing there stupidly, panicking.

Ilya’s crouched over his bag, stuffing clothes into it. His shoulders tense further when he senses Shane behind him.

“You're leaving?” Shane finally asks, although he already knows the answer.

Ilya tenses further. He gets up and finds his trousers crumpled near the bed, pulling them on. Shane wants to grab Ilya’s arm and pull him back to bed. He wants to beg him to stay.

“Ilya.”

“Am going to France.”

Shane’s stomach sinks to his toes. So that’s a yes. “France,” he repeats, like it's a death sentence.

“Yes.” Ilya’s shoving clothes into Shane's pack now, and Shane's irritation flares that he doesn't fold anything. How did they manage to make such a mess in such a short time?

“No,” Shane says, and he thinks he’s lost his mind a little. His brain is no longer connected to his mouth.

“No?” Ilya repeats. His voice is sour, a little mean. He scowls at Shane. As if this was the reason for the foul mood all along. “Oh, I should stay here, yes?” he asks, and his tone is mocking.

Shane swallows hard. He has no answer. There is no answer. "Ilya. Stop. You should—"

“I should, what?” Ilya turns to face him now, his anger palpable. “Stay here? In guest quarters forever? And tell your parents… what? Or, I know… I become servant? And you sneak into bed every night to fuck, yes? Become Perfect Prince Hollander’s concubine? This is plan?” Dropping his determiners in his anger. 

Cold fear drips down Shane’s spine. He knows he lost this argument before it started. The stress of that knowledge is shutting down his executive function. “No, I—“ he mumbles. “Ilya, I—“

“You what?” Ilya yells.

"Fuck off!" Shane shouts back. "Enough. I know our situations are different. I know things are hard right now—"

“You know nothing! You understand nothing with your perfect kingdom and your perfect family!” He throws the toothbrush he’s holding, and it ineffectually hits the wall near the far door. It’s a sad result and seems to break the tension in the room. Ilya sags, like he’s suddenly weighed down by exhaustion, and all Shane can see is the young boy crying in bed, his tears on Shane’s skin.

Shane takes a tentative step forward, hands raised like Ilya is a wild animal and he might spook. But he doesn’t, so he tries another. And another. And when he’s close enough, Shane steps into his space and he sags into Shane’s arms, his knees giving out a little, and Shane’s eyes burn at the vulnerability. But he’s strong, so he holds Ilya up, supporting his weight.

“Shhh, I’ve got you,” he whispers. Ilya buries his face in Shane’s neck and takes a shaky breath.

“I am sorry,” he rasps out, voice wet. “I didn’t mean it.”

“I know,” Shane says, but his throat aches and his eyes burn.

“I need you,” Ilya whispers so quietly that it’s heartbreaking. “Please, Shane, please. Don’t leave me.”

“Shh,” Shane soothes. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, Ilya.”

And he lets Ilya cry. Lets them both sink to their knees. Crushed under the weight of their situation.

A lot of time passes where they just lie on the floor together, with Shane flat on his back and Ilya on top wrapped around him, his head on Shane’s sternum. It's their favourite position because Ilya likes to be held, and Shane likes to be crushed under Ilya’s weight. Only then, with Shane’s fingers raking through Ilya's hair, does he finally find the words. They’re not great, but they’re what he has.

“Would you want to be together, if we could?”

“We cannot Shane.” Ilya’s answer is stubborn and immediate.

“But if we could? Shane pushes.

Ilya stays quiet, and Shane desperately wants to shake him. Push him. But he doesn’t know how.

“Can we at least try, please?” Shane asks, apparently not above begging. “Try to… I don’t know. Be honest with each other? Try to see each other more than once a year? Please,” he says again. He feels pathetic. It’s not a plan, it's not the conversation he wanted to have, it's not anything. But it’s all he has. It's more than they've ever asked of each other before. Never before being brave enough to put words to it. Ilya seems to understand, though, and the fight has mostly left him.

He buries his face into Shane’s chest, breathing in between his pecs. Shane feels his nod first. “I will try.” He doesn’t actually sound like he means it, but Shane takes it as what it is: a peace offering.

They lay there a little longer. Shane wonders when he became the kind of person who lies on the ground so often.

Eventually they get up; finish packing the bags, mostly in silence; and feed and pack up the horses. The ground is still damp from the storm, but it dries quickly in the summer heat.

They make their way back to the castle. Once they’re within a ten minute ride, Ilya slows Oatmeal down to a stop, and Shane halts Billie beside him. Ilya glances behind him at the guards that are trailing ten feet behind. And before Shane knows what is happening, Ilya’s fisting the front of his tunic and pulling him forward. He tumbles into Ilya’s mouth, Ilya’s hands coming up to frame his face. He lets Ilya kiss him with tongue for a whole thirty seconds before he pulls back, cheeks pink, looking behind them at the guards.

The guards are looking around at the forest like they have never seen a tree before. One starts studying the sky like there’ll be a test later. They definitely saw.

Shane almost dies of embarrassment, and Ilya sighs loudly beside him. He looks back at the Ilya, but he’s already urged Oatmeal into a trot.

Shane follows after him, feeling like somehow he's managed to fuck something else up.

When Ilya announces he has to leave immediately for France when they get back to the castle, Shane wishes he was more present in that last kiss, wishes he had enjoyed it more. Suddenly, their time at the cottage feels far away.

He watches as Ilya leaves half an hour later, standing next to his parents, the staff having helped Ilya pack up. It feels like a piece of his heart is walking away from him.

Shane wishes he’d pushed Ilya to talk more, to figure out—something. He's confused. Why did Ilya leave so abruptly? Surely he wouldn't have made up that whole excuse to stay only to leave the next day? Shane had wanted answers. But instead, he has more questions then when Ilya first arrived. He doesn’t even know when he’ll see Ilya next. He has failed entirely.

For a whole week Shane is listless, simply going through the motions in his day. Often taking meals in his room. 

On the seventh day, a letter arrives addressed to him.

- -

Alexander Nikolayivich Ivanov honourably requests the presence of His Royal Highness The Prince Shane Hollander at a dinner in his honour next week at Chateau Marsais.

Signed,

Sasha

- -

Chapter 6: I've learned to lose you, can't afford to

Chapter Summary

Okay so let's all hold hands, take a deep breath, and say together 'this world Jess created is fake even though the country names are real. Travel distances between locations are only as long as they need to be for the plot.'

Okay good job everyone! Now grab your emotional support beverage and settle in under a blanket, shit's only gonna get angstier from here.

TW: mentions of someone being sick.⠀

Chapter Notes

Chapter music: how can I pretend - Wasia Project
When the party’s over - Billie Eilish

.:.:.: 👑 Now 👑 .:.:.:

Shane crosses into France a few days later, all the while wondering why he ever agreed to come. The travel takes a whole day, and he opts to stop and stay at an inn on the way, mostly to buy himself some more time. The way things ended with Ilya is haunting him. And he's confused and nervous. The invite he received didn’t come from Ilya. No, it came from Sasha.

Sasha.

Shane has never liked him. All of the royal children and their immediate family members knew each other on the continent. They were thrown together as kids, used in alliances, forced to spend time together while parents were in political meetings. They shuffled to and from each other's realms to learn from each other and spend time with others of the same rank. Sasha was around, but Shane avoided him as much as possible. 

But see, Sasha is friends with Ilya. His father had been Ilya’s Master-of-Arms growing up. He is also the cousin of the French Princess; he was born in Russia and spent his time moving back and forth between the two kingdoms. He speaks French, Russian, and English fluently—much to Shane’s chagrin. Shane is good at languages, but he is only fluent in two. Not for the first time, he wishes he'd learnt Russian. His choppy Japanese isn't going to help him here.

Shane knows Sasha is gay, or bisexual, or just doesn't discriminate. On top of the fact that Shane has seen him make a show of hooking up with men and women alike, he’s hit on Shane himself a few times. Shane rebuffed him, obviously. It isn't that he isn’t good looking—he is. He’s tall and lean, but he is thin, rather than athletic. And Shane isn’t into the twink thing. Plus, Shane suspects he’s also a bottom. 

Oh, and there’s that little fact that literally no-one except Ilya and Rose know that Shane likes men. It wasn’t until he and Rose tried dating that he realized he is pretty gay—or, well--she told him that he may not be into women, and then he realized. Girls are beautiful and fascinating, but if he never touches one sexually again, it’ll still be too soon.

It's considered a taboo practice to be with a member of the same sex. Certain countries like France are more open to it. While it is outright illegal in Russia and some of the surrounding countries in the east. Even in Canada, where things are more liberal, it is still judged. And for someone in a position of power like Shane? Never mind a member of the monarchy? Unheard of.

Sasha is everything Shane isn't. He's brash, and flamboyant, and unapologetic. So possibly, if he is being honest—and he surely isn’t—he might be a little jealous of how confident Sasha is.

But Ilya is in France, and Shane has a feeling—the same feeling that ate at him for the entirety of the Russian visit—that something is very wrong. So ipso facto: Shane, like an idiot, is in France.

He’s on horseback, Billie being a good sport on the long journey.

He’s not been invited to the main French palace, but a smaller residence in Paris, where Sasha stays when he’s in town. Billie’s hooves are loud on the cobblestones as they walk through the city. The residence is the size of an entire block—a traditional Paris Haussmann from the outside, complete with a mansard roof.

The staff bow deeply and welcome Shane and his entourage. He’s brought six guards and his young valet-in-training—Little Luca Haas—opting to leave the curmudgeonly Theriault at home. In fact he's been requesting Luca more and more lately. Shane could have opted to dress himself like he usually does at home, but looking sloppy in France is not an option.

“Your French is so interesting,” the butler says in accented English, as he and five other staff members who seem to be purely there for pageantry purposes, lead Shane and Luca to his chambers. He tries not to roll his eyes at the comment. In true French fashion, it is made to sound like a compliment, but Shane knows better. The French look down on the Canadian French accent.

“Merci,” he replies stiffly, and is relieved when they arrive where he’ll be staying. The room is huge and ornate, much like the rest of the residence. The French aren’t exactly known for being subtle: every inch of the residence is gilded and intricately designed. The room is grand, with a small sitting room within it, a large king size canopy bed covered in toile patterns and a beautiful water closet en-suite made entirely of gold, from the wallpaper to the bathtub.

Shane will outrank everyone here besides Ilya, so it makes sense that they’ve given him the big kid room. It’s ridiculous, but Shane is happy to have any space he can hide away in.

“Dinner will be served shortly, should I let Seigneur Sasha know you will attend?” the butler asks in French.

“Surement,” Shane replies. He really does not want to go to dinner, but that is quite literally the reason why he’s here.

Rose’s voice rings in his ears. “It’s good for you to spend time with people your age. Who knows, you might have a little fun!” she’d said from his closet as she helped Luca pack Shane's bags.

When Luca got lost in the back of his large walk-in closet, he’d whispered to her, “Please come with me.”

She’d laughed and given him a soft smile, taking his hand in hers and giving it a squeeze before dropping it again. “I’d love to come party with you in France, but Ilya hates me. I'm not gonna be able to help you here.”

He hadn’t told her much. In fact, she knew almost no details, but she knew that something was going on. And, after some grilling, Shane had confessed to her that the reason he was going to do something he absolutely did not want to do was because he needed to see Ilya.

He sighs. He knows she is right. He still doesn't know what he wants to say to Ilya, but he knows that bringing Rose would have sent the wrong message. Still, as Luca fastens the buttons on his best tunic, he wishes he could hide behind her company and her social skills. The tunic is a beautiful cream colour, made with silk fabric with intricate blue stitching in the shape of feathers.

He feels a bit like a peacock—or, well, a douchebag—but Rose insisted it looks great on him. He sighs loudly in the mirror, tugging at the waist as Luca walks over with jewellery. Luca flashes him a grin in the mirror, before seemingly realizing what he’s doing and trying to school his face into a neutral expression.

Shane’s ears go a little red. “What?” he asks warily. “I look like a dick, don’t I?”

“What?” Luca says, looking distressed. “No. What?”

Shane turns to look at him, holding his hand out to accept the rings that Luca, now flustered, struggles to pull out of small cloth travel bags. “Then why did you laugh?” Shane asks kindly. Luca is a good kid, and Shane kind of appreciates that he isn’t perfectly stoic, that he doesn't know the perfect things to do or say. Shane tries to figure out how exactly to communicate that.

“You can be honest, man," Shane says. "I feel like I’m throwing myself to the sharks out there. You’re my only ally.”

Luca’s cheeks turn a little pink, but he looks pleased, then embarrassed again. “Nothing, I’ve just—" he pauses, “—I’ve never seen you nervous. You’re nervous. You always seem so calm and collected.”

Shane chuckles. “I… that’s… well. Thank you. But I’m not ever calm or collected. And yeah, I am nervous,” he admits freely, feeling even more grateful for this kid. If that is how people see him when on the inside he’s an anxious mess? Maybe he does have a hope in hell of surviving this weekend.

“But Prince Rozanov is here, and you're friends, right?”

Shane sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. Luca bats his hands away, fixing his eyebrows and hair where Shane had smooshed them. “Yeah, Ilya is here," he says, cringing at the casual address and praying Luca doesn’t call him out on it.

“God, he’s so hot,” Luca says breathily, handing Shane more rings, who slides them on like armour over his fingers. He is so focused on this dinner that it takes him a whole minute to realize what Luca has just said. Luca himself seems to realize what he has just said, as his fingers freeze where they're adjusting Shane's cuff. His eyes go wide with fear, and he blushes so deeply that Shane is worried he’ll pass out.

Shane can’t help the laugh that bursts out of him.

“Oh my god," Luca says. "I mean it like, objectively? I don’t know why I said that.”

“It’s fine. He is,” Shane agrees, still chuckling. “Hot.”

Luca’s shoulders relax. “Is that why you’re nervous?” he asks in a small voice.

“No. I mean, I’m pretty used to Prince Rozanov being hot by now.” He grins at Luca, a rare feeling of camaraderie blooming in his chest. “But his friend Sasha is a vulture. I never know what to say to him.”

Luca nods sagely. “Don’t let him get to you. You’re motherfucking Prince Hollander, future King of Canada. He should be grateful you’re here.” Luca looks embarrassed again, but forges ahead. “Plus, Prince Rozanov is your friend."

Shane takes a deep breath, sliding on a gold pinky ring adorned with an oval emerald and holding still while Luca fits a gold necklace that is carved like a snake around his neck. “Yeah, okay, thanks Luca. And you’re sure I don’t look like a dick?” he asks one more time, turning, arms out.

“Nah, you look great. Sasha is gonna be jealous.”

Shane shoots him one last grateful smile before he finally girds his loins and steps out into the hallway.

Everyone stands as he enters the dining room, because of course they do.

“Prince Hollander of Canada,” the butler announces in English. One of the staff pulls out the chair at the head of the table, opposite to where Sasha is seated. The room is small, not like the hall at the castle. It has vibrant silk wallpaper and plush carpeting, and in the middle of the room sits a long rectangular table that could easily seat twelve, with a white tablecloth and curved matching high-back chairs sitting around it.

He takes in the small party. Sasha, standing at the head of the table, holds out his hands. “Shane!” he says, and Shane holds back the eye twitch at being addressed so casually when they’d barely be considered acquaintances, never mind friends. But Shane did accept his invitation, so he figures he’s not in a position to argue. He thinks he sees Ilya flinch out of the corner of his eye, but Shane's brain can only handle so much right now.

“Sasha. Thank you for the invitation.”

“Of course! Ilya was saying he was coming from Canada, and we realized it has been far too long since we've all been together.” He comes around the table and grasps one of Shane’s hands in his, planting a kiss on the back of his hand in a weird approximation of a deferential royal greeting. Shane hates it with the fire of a thousand suns. And this time, Ilya’s flinch is unmistakable. Sasha misses it, his back is to Ilya, but the other person sitting at the table doesn’t. Shane dies a little inside when he registers who it is.

Sasha sees Shane's focus has shifted, and he follows it. “Of course, you know my other guests! You know Ilya, of course,” he says, pronouncing Ilya in his perfect Russian accent and making Shane want to stab something. “And, the stunning and incredible Svetlana.”

Shane wants to stab multiple things.

He has no idea what his face is doing as he takes in Svetlana, so he clears his throat and schools his expression. “Right, yes, so good to see you again,” he says stiffly.

Svetlana, who does, in fact, look both stunning and incredible—seriously, fuck Shane’s life—inclines her head to him, her glossy curls bouncing. Her eyes are knowing and her smile is vulpine. “Your Royal Highness, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Please, sit, sit. Drinks should be here any moment,” Sasha says, gesturing again to the chair opposite him. Sitting there would put Shane basically across the room from the small party. It makes sense that he'd be seated there, given his station, but it also feels formal and embarrassing to follow formal protocols in a group of his peers. Is he gonna have to shout from down there?

He's momentarily frozen, unsure of what to do. He gears himself up to protest, knowing he’ll feel like even more of a dick, when Svetlana of all people comes to his rescue. He catches her making a face at Ilya that he can’t discern before she meets his eyes. “Shane, it really has been too long, come and sit next to me so we can catch up properly. We’re a small party, we don’t need to stand on ceremony, do we?”

“No, that, uh, sounds great,” Shane says quickly, and walks around the table to sit next to her. The staff hurry to move the place setting over and pour him water as another server emerges from the kitchens with a bottle of vodka, ice, and glasses. Shane sips his water, having an internal chat with his liver. He is going to drink with these Russians tonight. He is not going to throw up and embarrass himself in front of Ilya… again.

This thought makes him finally—finally—look up at the man himself, who is now sitting opposite him.

He looks devastatingly, crushingly handsome. He’s in a straight-collared black shirt which is unbuttoned most of the way to his navel, showing off his cleavage, layered with a longline black blazer with a large flashy gold print that makes Ilya's eyes look gold in the candle light. He’s wearing several rings, like Shane is, and a pair of beautiful diamond earrings, one of which climbs up and around the cartilage of his ear. His cross necklace sits between his pecs as usual, and Shane tries—and fails—not to remember how it feels when it rests in the hollow of Shane's neck. 

Ilya is relaxed in his seat, leaning on his right elbow, looking confident as always, a glass of vodka on the rocks already clinking in his hand. He is scowling and specifically not looking at Shane.

The server fills up Ilya and Sasha’s glasses, and serves Svetlana and Shane fresh ones. Sasha watches as Shane accepts the glass with a quick merci, like he’s waiting for Shane to decline it or ask for a mixer. Shane figures this is another test, and he has no idea how he’s doing, or why he’s even being tested. He feels like he just walked into a den of wolves, and he is still wondering why he accepted this insane invitation.

And then he remembers little Luca Haas’ confidence in him; that he is motherfucking Prince Hollander, that Ilya is his friend, and that Sasha will be jealous.

So, yeah, maybe he can do this. Maybe he can sit here with Ilya’s friends and show them that he isn’t some scared little boy from Canada. He’s the number one swords master on the continent—yes, even over Ilya. And he's the prince of one of the most powerful countries. He can do this.

He can’t do this.

He’s on his fourth glass of straight vodka and he’s pretty sure he’s burnt off all of his tastebuds.

They’re in a sitting room which is equally as gaudy as the rest of the residence, and adorned with velvet furniture, gilded mirrors with black glass, and heavy curtains. Ilya is smoking, sprawled sideways in an armchair across from Shane, with one leg thrown over the side. Sasha and Svetlana are waltzing completely out of sync with the upbeat music playing. The room is filled with French nobility that Shane doesn’t know and doesn’t care to get to know. Everyone has drunken significantly more than him and are handling it with a class Shane doesn't posses when sober.

And Ilya is still ignoring him. Unless forced to address him directly, Ilya has barely looked in his direction all night. The coldness coming off him in waves could cool the vodka, which Shane, despite not caring, has recently learned should always be kept in the ice box.

He barely survived dinner. Sasha spent most of it reminiscing about all their outlandish adventures.

"Remember, Ilya," (perfect pronunciation) "when we got chased out of that nightclub in Chekhiya?"

"Ilya, remember how beautiful those twins were in Sweden?"

"Sveta, remember that night in Croatia, when Ilya did that sexy, hilarious thing?"

And so on and so forth. Svetlana surprisingly made the biggest effort to include him in the conversation, filling in details and background information. She asked him questions about Canada, saying she’s always wanted to visit, and that she’s given Ilya a hard time for never bringing her—Shane can’t imagine why.

And he’s grateful for her efforts, he is, so he is actively trying not to hate her. But he’s hated her for so long that it is pretty much muscle memory at this point. Probably since the first time Ilya mentioned her.

My best friend, Sveta. Sometimes we fuck.

“When did you first meet our glorious queen Svetlana?” Sasha asks, appearing suddenly and dropping down onto the sofa a few feet from where Shane is stewing in existential dread. Svetlana, who is perched on the arm of Ilya’s chair, which Shane is fine with. Absolutely, totally fine with.

He takes a large gulp of vodka and decides that if she sits on his lap, he’s going to murder her, then Ilya, then maybe burn the house down with everyone inside it. Ilya seems to be able to read his face, whatever it may be doing right now, and finally deigns to acknowledge his existence. He lifts an eyebrow wryly before raising a hand—one that Shane might chop off—to squeeze Svetlana’s tiny waist, saying something to her in Russian.

She says something back, laughing, and then mercifully moves off the couch, relocating next to Sasha and draping an arm over his shoulder.

“We met when we were teenagers, didn’t we, Shane? When you came to visit Russia,” she answers for him. “You probably don't remember that.”

“That’s right,” Shane confirms, his mouth dry despite the vodka he’s been drinking.

Oh, he remembers it. He’d heard the rumours that Prince Rozanov was courting a young Russian girl named Svetlana, her father a lord of royal descent. He had been viciously jealous—long before he even understood the depth of the feelings he had for the other prince.

Imagine his horror when he met her, and she was stunning. When Shane had asked about her he was met with Ilya's usual apathy.

”Is just sex, Hollander. Is not serious.”

Shane remembers wondering if that’s all he and Ilya were, too? Friends who had sex. Friends who just got off together. Not serious. And maybe they were, he believed it for a long time.

He looks at Ilya now, who is watching a couple of French girls giggle and dance near the window. Maybe that's all they still are.

“They were awful to Shane,” Svetlana tells Sasha. “Gave him far too much vodka and tried to tease him in Russian. But Ilya wouldn’t stand for it. Threatened all the old men, told them that if they said anything rude about Shane in Russian that they wouldn’t say to his face, he’d take his dagger and cut their balls off in their sleep, one at a time.” She laughs. “It was a very effective threat.”

This is news to Shane, who has never heard this part of the story. Most of his time had been spent in a vodka-infused haze while overstimulated, overwhelmed, and unable to understand the language or the customs.

The side of Ilya’s mouth quirks infinitesimally and then flattens again once the French girls approach him.

“Danse avec moi?” the petite blonde asks, with her perfect stick-straight hair, pink lips and blue eyes. She grabs his hand and tugs on it, and he lets her pull him up, giving her a roguish smile and saying, “I do not speak French. Only Russian and bad English.”

The girl giggles at that like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “Ooh, your accent is so cute. You dance wit us, yees? I teach Frensshh,” she says in terrible English, and Shane decides that he immediately hates her too. Maybe Svetlana isn’t so bad after all.

Shane watches while Ilya dances with this girl, the other girls with her joining in, all pressed in entirely too close to his body. Shane knows what Ilya gets up to when he’s not in Canada—he's never hidden it. And rumours are traded like a commodity throughout the continent. But he really doesn’t want to fucking see it.

It’s when Sasha gets up and joins them, slipping between Ilya and the girl and wrapping one of his long arms around Ilya’s waist, that Shane truly cannot take any more.

He stands abruptly, which pulls attention from nearby eyes in the room, but he doesn’t even pause to give them consideration. He chugs the remainder of the vodka in his glass, places the empty tumbler on a side table, and exits the room through the nearest door.

He finds himself in another, smaller sitting room. It’s dark, with no lamps lit. It looks like someone's private sitting room. From the light streaming in through the small window, he can see that there’s bookshelves lining the walls, a small card table, a drinks cart, and a chaise longue.

Shane flops onto the chaise on his back and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes so hard that stars pop behind his eyelids. He’s embarrassed to feel wetness there, and he swallows around the lump in his throat that is threatening to choke him.

What is he doing here? He knew it was an awful idea to come. He’d deluded himself into thinking Ilya had wanted him here, had wanted to see him. He feels foolish, and a deep well of shame grows in his belly as he wonders if Ilya even knew Sasha had invited him. Or worse, maybe he was in on it, wanting to make a fool of Shane, to show him how he really felt, once and for all.

Ilya’s words from the cottage ring in his ears. I should, what? Become Perfect Prince Hollander’s concubine?

He’d told him there was no future for them. But he’d also agreed to try. To be honest. This isn’t Ilya being honest. Or is it?

Why is Shane so stupid?

He hears the door to the sitting room open. He stays perfectly still with his eyes closed, hoping whoever it is will realize that this isn’t the water closet and will go away. He’s lying in the dark and isn’t immediately visible from the door.

But instead, a long moment later, Shane feels him. And he knows, somewhere deep down in the depths of his soul; somewhere viscerally knitted into the fabric of his being, where he’s crawled in and made a home in Shane’s skin, that it’s Ilya.

His eyes burn and the lump in his throat only grows when the comforting and familiar weight of Ilya’s body presses down on top of him.

Big hands tug at his wrists and pull them away from his face. He swallows hard, trying to stop the tears before they flow over. The room is so dark that he can only see the outline of Ilya's face, the gleam in his eyes reflecting the light from the street.

There’s a dry press of lips to his, before Ilya cups Shane’s cheek and rubs a thumb across his cheekbones, swiping under his eye. “Sweetheart,” he whispers, and Shane’s heart shatters.

Shane throws his arms around Ilya’s neck, burying his face in his chest. Ilya wraps his arms around him and shifts them so he’s lying on his side, Shane tucked into his body.

They stay like that for an indeterminable amount of time, until Shane’s breath evens out and his tears abate. Until he remembers that he’s furious with Ilya.

“Fuck you,” he chokes out. It’s pretty ineffectual, considering that he’s pressing his face to Ilya's chest. Ilya chuckles softly, his chest vibrating.

“Seriously fuck you, Ilya. Why are you being such an asshole?” Shane says, pulling away a little to try to see Ilya’s face, but he’s once again looking away.

“I am asshole, Hollander.”

“No, you’re not. Not really. The fuck is going on, Rozanov?”

“You should not have come. This is not your kind of place.” He’s still looking at the far wall, refusing to look at Shane, and Shane wants to scream.

“Why did Sasha invite me, then, huh? You knew?” Shane demands, his ire rising quickly.

“I knew, yes.”

“And yet you didn’t want me here. You don’t want me,” he says bluntly, sitting up and trying to find some semblance of his dignity. He pulls himself out of Ilya’s arms and swings his legs off the couch so they come to rest on the floor, scrubbing his hands through his hair. He feels pulled thin, like he'll tear in half with the smallest of effort. 

Ilya doesn’t answer, just shifts to lie on his back with his hands clasped in his lap. His lack of response is loud in the room.

“What the fuck is going on with you?” he asks, but he doesn't wait for an answer. “I know something is wrong. I know there’s something you’re not telling me. Ilya, please. Talk to me,” he begs. He’s embarrassed by the emotion in his voice, but there’s no helping it.

Ilya turns his face away further, staring at the back of the chaise. Shane is close to grabbing his face and forcing him to look at him. He wonders if Ilya is under some spell that will turn him to stone if he looks Shane in the eye.

“Is fine, Hollander,” Ilya says, but his voice is less steady and makes Shane push.

Shane growls in frustration and rubs his hands down his face again. He wants to flip a table. "You said you'd try! You'd try to be more honest. Be honest with me, Ilya!" 

Ilya sighs. “My father. He is dying.”

Shane inhales sharply in surprise.

“How?” Shane croaks out.

Ilya taps his head. “His brain is breaking down, how you say?”

“Dementia?” Shane asks. He remembers Gregori getting confused a few times during his visit, the angry conversations in Russian that would follow.

“Yes, this. Is bad. Alexei and I are covering for him but it is too hard now. Alexei doesn’t want to be King. Tells me I must do it. He is too busy doing drugs and fucking women he pays for that are not his wife.”

“Jesus,” Shane swears. He turns fully to face Ilya, who is hiding his face even more now. “I’m sorry. That must be awful.”

“I do not care, he is awful. Let him die,” he says, but his voice breaks on the last word, and it gives him away. Without thinking, Shane crawls into his lap, gathering him into his arms. Ilya sits up and wraps his arms around Shane’s ribs in a crushing hold. Shane rocks them slowly and presses kisses into Ilya’s curls, onto his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, anywhere he can reach, while tears track slowly from Ilya’s eyes.

Ilya allows it for a short while—lets the emotion overwhelm them both—before he pulls himself up again, pushing Shane off his lap. Shane’s heart sinks, and he gets a sudden, terrible feeling. “This is not all, Shane. There is more. More you do not know.”

“What don’t I know?” he rasps, fear suddenly gripping his heart.

Ilya stands, shaking out his clothes, brushes his hands down his shirt, his pants. Shane’s chest feels like it's being compressed. This is it, suddenly he's sure of it; this is the thing Ilya’s been keeping from him. The news about his father was one thing, but this is the thing.

“Ilya?” he whispers.

“I’m engaged, Shane.”

And Shane's stomach drops like a cement block.

“What?” he asks, and his voice is barely audible above the sound of his heart breaking.

“Svetlana and I—we are engaged—since almost a year. It was announced and everything. I thought you would hear but you did not—“

And Shane can’t hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears.

Engaged.

Engaged.

Engaged.

He hears Ilya say something about a wedding, but he can’t be sure. He feels like his world is ending. All this time he’d been telling himself that he’d survive it if, one day, Ilya didn’t want him anymore. For years he convinced himself that it was something he didn't really want, didn't need; that it was something he couldn’t have. And he knew that one day, rationally, they’d marry other people.

What a fool he’d been.

“No,” Shane says, standing up. “No. Absolutely fucking not. That is not happening, Ilya. You cannot fucking marry her. No.”

Ilya looks shocked, before his face twists into something cruel. Shane knows the blow is coming before it lands.

“Oh? I cannot? Because Perfect Prince Hollander tells me no?” he sneers. “What shall you have me do? Tell my people that even though he only wants me as his secret fuck, that I must still hang around waiting until Prince Hollander calls for me to service his perfect Princely Canadian cock?”

Shane recoils as though slapped. “That's not fair.”

“It is not? Okay. Then tell your parents, Shane. Tell them you suck Russian cock!”

“You know I can’t do that! I can’t tell them I’m—“ he breaks off, unable to say the word.

Ilya just shakes his head at him. “You can’t even say it.”

“I have responsibilities, Ilya. My people have expectations. My parents have done so much for me, I can’t—“ Ilya is right. He can’t say it. He can’t promise anything—he has nothing to offer.

He knows that they are of marrying age. His parents have been kind and haven't pressured him, but the pressure is there, anyway. Ilya’s family isn't kind; they have no qualms about telling him what he has to do. Shane should have seen this coming. Why didn't he see this coming?

Ilya hisses out a breath, then lets it out slowly. “So what do you expect me to do, Shane? Huh? Why did you come here?”

“I—I don’t know!” he whisper-shouts.

His head is spinning and he feels overwhelmed. He’s had too much vodka and he can't process this new reality. He feels like the only thing in his life worth having is slipping between his fingers like he's trying to catch grains of sand, and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he concedes.

Ilya nods, like Shane’s just confirmed everything he’s suspected. Shane wants to yell at him, to tell him that he doesn’t understand. But he doesn’t know what to say. It ends up not mattering anyway, because the door to the sitting room opens and Svetlana, of all people, steps into the room and closes the door behind her.

“People are asking where you both went,” she says quietly. And, not for the first time, Shane wonders what she knows about him.

“You can tell them I went to bed,” Shane says, his voice shaking with barely concealed rage. “As for your betrothed?” he spits. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He turns, and wiping his eyes, strides past Svetlana and out of the room.

When Shane re-enters the hall, he walks back to his room as fast as his legs can take him. At the door of his chambers, he turns to face the two guards who are following close behind him. “Let Luca and the staff know that we’re leaving first thing in the morning, before breakfast. We’ll eat on the road. I want to be out of here before the sun is warm in the sky.”

If the guards are surprised, they hide it well. “Yes, Your Highness.”

Shane nods once before retreating into his chambers. Once inside, he makes it to the the bed before dropping to his knees and finally letting himself fall apart.

:.:. Then: ♚ Six years earlier ♚ Ilya .:.:

“I’m sorry,” a drunk Shane Hollander sobbed. He was kneeling on the floor, bent over a chamber pot with one arm braced against the wall holding him up.

"Shhh, dorogoy (sweetheart)", it is okay."

“No,” Shane hiccuped. “It’s so embarrassing.”

Ilya chuckled and brushed the hair back from Shane’s forehead. “Is okay to be weak and Canadian.”

The fact that Shane didn't protest beyond giving him one of his signature angry kitten glares was a testament to how bad he must be feeling. Ilya could see a shiver go up his spine, and he shoved the chamber pot away as far as it would go, before laying down on the floor. Yeah, he felt real bad. Ilya wondered if Perfect Prince Shane Hollander had ever previously lain down on the floor.

Shane curled himself up into a little ball, and Ilya couldn’t help the fond chuckle he let out. He sat on the floor next to Shane. He wouldn’t remember this in the morning anyway, so Ilya scootched closer and, sliding an arm around Shane’s chest, tugged him close so his back was pressed to Ilya’s front and resumed petting Shane’s hair.

Shane groaned pathetically and pressed into Ilya’s hand. Ilya’s chest ached. He propped himself up on an elbow so he could see Shane’s pretty, freckled, and currently slightly green face.

“You did so good today, Hollander.”

“How is this good?” Shane moaned, wiggling back to tuck himself even further into Ilya’s body.

“Alexei was an asshole, but you—how you say—put your face to him.”

They’d been boar hunting. It was Shane’s first time visiting Russia without his parents—the first time he’d been there since he was more than a kid following at his mother’s heels. Now, he was grown; nineteen, like Ilya, but with the weight of the world and a million expectations on his shoulders. Unlike Ilya, his future was certain. He would be king one day, of one of the most powerful realms on the continent.

“Ilya, I hated it so much. I never wanna do that again.”

Ilya’s chest ached again at the sound of his name on Shane’s lips. He swallowed hard.

“I know. Was scary. But you are brave.”

Shane stilled at that. “I am?” he asked tentatively, peering over his shoulder briefly before groaning and closing his eyes again. He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets until Ilya had to tug on his wrists to stop him doing it so hard. Shane relented.

“Da,” Ilya confirmed. He leaned down to press a kiss to Shane’s cheek.

Shane let him at first, before flinching away. “I’m gross. I probably smell like sick.”

Ilya chuckled again. "Ty tak khorosho pakhnesh, ya khochu valyatsya v tvoem zapakhe kak sobaka.> (You always smell amazing I want to roll in your scent like a dog.)"

“Ilya,” Shane scolded, brow furrowing. “I don’t speak Russian yet.”

“Yet?”

“I will. Someday. Maybe I can get a tutor.” He paused, thinking it over. “Why don’t you tutor me? If I get a word right, I get a blow job?”

Ilya snorted. “Ah, Hollander, you are very good with languages, no? My,” he paused, at loss for the English word. Shane snuck a glance at him, and he pointed. “What is this?”

“Your jaw,” Shane explained.

“My jaw would be broken,” Ilya finished.

Shane snorted, his body shaking against Ilya’s. Then he groaned again. “Ilyaaaaaa, I wanted to suck your dick tonight. But now! Now I’m lying on the floor. Which is gross. Because I’m gross. Life is unfair.”

Ilya couldn't help the grin that split his face. He truly didn't know what he did to end up with a drunk Shane Hollander in his life. Under his skin and burrowed deep into his body, yes, but he was grateful nonetheless. Even though it hurt, and even though most days it crushed him. Even though, for the hundreds of days a year they were apart, Ilya felt like someone had cleaved a hole in his heart. Even though sometimes he hated it so much he could scream.

He did none of those things, just held Shane tighter.

"Yes, moy lyubimiy (my love)", life is unfair, he said.

And he meant it.

Chapter 7: Stay with him but be prepared to bleed

Chapter Summary

For this chapter.. just know that Svetlana, Ilya and Sasha are speaking Russian. I didn't bother with translation as I figured it would disrupt the flow with so much conversation.

Chapter Notes

Chapter Music:
Last Time - Medium Build
Bindi in the dirt - Mikayla Pasterfield
A case of you-James Blake

.:.: ♔ Now ♚ Ilya ♔ .:.:

“Oh Ilya,” Sveta says the moment Shane disappears through the door, her voice soft.

Ilya shakes his head. He can't stand her pity right now. He leaves, cutting back through the party, ignoring Sasha's questioning look, only to liberate a bottle of vodka from the bar cart before fleeing to his room.

Once he's there, he paces around the room, drinks from the bottle, and stares at the wall in the direction of Shane’s room. Several times he gets to the door, halfway to going after him, before he stops, goes back to the bed, takes another swig of vodka, and sits back down. He doesn’t expect Shane to come to him, not after everything that happened tonight. He doesn’t even think Shane knows what room he’s in. But he still stares at the closed door. Still stupidly hopes.

Eventually, he passes out on top of the covers, still in his clothes. When he wakes, it’s still morning, even though the sun is now high in the sky. It’s not surprising, albeit not any less crushing, to find out that Shane left at dawn. Leaving nothing but a note for Sasha that simply reads, ‘Thank you for having me. Signed, HRHSHoC.'

Ilya stares at the note for a long time, even going so far as to check the back, as though somewhere on the page is a hidden message that will tell Ilya what to do. But all he finds is a blank page.

Breakfast is an exercise in insanity. The other guests have all left, and so it’s just him, Sveta and Sasha. They’ve decided to take it in the solarium, which is a beautiful, covered garden with a glass roof. The natural light casts a warm glow; the tablecloth is a pretty blue paisley. There’s a proper Russian tea service set up, along with two cakes: a Napoleon cake, and Ilya’s favourite: Poppyseed cake. Both have been made by the Russian cook that Sasha employs.

Objectively, it’s idyllic. Realistically, Ilya’s misery is a black hole that feels like it’s going to suck the colour out of the space and leech the joy from the universe.

There’s a dead flower amidst a grouping of pretty yellow sunflowers growing a few feet from the table. Ilya stares at it. It’s clearly diseased, unlike its brothers and sisters. The petals have turned a sickly brown, and the stem is black and dehydrated. Ilya doesn’t understand how it’s still standing.

He doesn’t miss the metaphor; not when it’s staring him in the face. He is this sad, sick flower. No amount of nutrients and sunshine and natural beauty can save him, and if you leave him there long enough, his sickness will spread to the others.

He replays Shane’s crumbling face over and over again in self-flagellation, intent on causing himself enough pain to pay for the amount he caused Shane. But Ilya knows it will never be enough to make up for it.

The clattering of a coffee cup rouses him from his morose ruminations. He looks up to see that Svetlana has slammed her cup down and is glaring at him. “Enough of this,” she says in Russian, waving a hand over him.

Ilya—who can’t face himself right now, never-mind Svetlana’s meddling—turns his ire to Sasha. “Why do you have a full Russian tea ceremony out if all of us are drinking coffee?”

Sasha immediately gets defensive, his expression haughty. “Not all of us are as simple as your Canadian, Ilya. Some of us like to provide options to our guests.”

“He is not mine, nor simple, Sasha. This is an embarrassment, it's wasteful.”

Sasha reclines, kicking his legs out long with a mocking smile on his face. “Please, you know I’m bougie. It’s why I enjoy the French so much.”

Ilya takes a deep breath and tries to ignore him, despite the blood boiling in his body. He knows Sasha is just jealous. That’s the reason for this whole farce.

Ilya had arrived in France tormented and distracted, knowing he’d chickened out of telling Shane about the engagement.. again. After telling himself for a year that he had to tell Shane in person and that's why he ignored his many letters, he proved himself a coward at every opportunity.

Then Sasha overheard Svetlana asking Ilya if he’d told Shane, and he’d been like a dog with a bone. Ilya had never come right out and confirmed anything, but Sasha has always been shrewd. When Ilya shut down both his and Svetlana's advances, he knew he'd been made. Sasha announced that he was going to invite Shane to join them. Ilya could have stopped it. He should have stopped it.

But he let it happen, because he wanted to see Shane. He craved it like a drug addict who needed his next hit. The time at the cottage had been too brief, too intense, too incredible, too painful to be ripped away so soon. He never could say no to an opportunity to be in Shane Hollander’s orbit—to be destroyed by those big brown eyes. Not since he was sixteen had he had the willpower to stay away.

Shane hated Sasha, so Ilya figured he’d decline, but then Shane had actually come, and Ilya had drowned in guilt. He knew he had to tell him. But a little, awful part of him hoped that if he just pretended Shane wasn’t there, if he showed all this ugly parts—the version of him that fucked around and drank and did drugs—maybe Shane would be disgusted. He would see how fucked up, how dark and twisted and broken Ilya really was, and he would decide to leave all on his own.

And he had, hadn’t he? He’d needed a push, fine. But he left, after he learnt that Ilya had been lying to him for a year. Over a year. Since that last visit. Because Ilya had known then, it had been fresh, and he'd stupidly believed he could change his fate. But he'd known.

“I mean it,” Svetlana says, louder now. Snapping at him, like it’s not the first time she’s said it. “Enough sulking. You need to fix this, Ilya.”

He blinks at her, confused. “Fix what?”

”Shane, Ilya. You need to apologize and make it better.”

Ilya looks at her incredulously, his eyes flicking to Sasha, who is listening like a focused ferret, before they refocus on Svetlana. He hopes she gets the message. Ilya doesn’t want Sasha to know about this. He already suspects too much. He doesn’t want to think what a bitter Sasha would do with the information.

“There is nothing to do. It is done. It is for the best," Ilya says, and with that, he stands up and walks away, putting the awful breakfast and its idyllic setting behind him.

He doesn’t make it far, though. Svetlana catches up to him and grabs his wrist, dragging him into the library and closing the door.

”You’re miserable. He’s miserable. Go to him.”

”And say what?” Ilya explodes. "You’re as bad as he is, with your head in the clouds. What can I say to him to make it better, huh? More lies? Tell him you and I won’t be getting married?”

Svetlana levels a look at him that shuts him up quickly. ”Even if there is no perfect solution, you can apologize for not telling him, Ilya. You can tell him that I know about you relationship, and that our marriage isn’t one of romance. You can tell him how you feel, and you can stop torturing yourself.”

”Oh? And how do I feel, Sveta? Since you know better than me?” he snaps. She’d figured it out a few years earlier—about Shane. She’d found a letter of his in Ilya’s room, tucked under his pillow, the paper thin from being opened so frequently. Not that Ilya has ever confirmed that it was from Shane; it was signed 'Jane'. But the return address was from Canada, and there were context clues. The content had been pretty tame, Shane wasn't exactly sending him dirty talk, but Svetlana was especially skilled at subtext.

She didn’t tell him she'd found it at first, but then she started bugging to accompany him to Canada. He'd refuse, remaining cagey on the reasoning. Eventually, one day she cornered him. They tussled, and she'd ended up sitting on his back with his arm twisted behind him until he’d relented and confirmed that there was something. He was shit at lying to her.

“Clearly I do know!” she retorts. She sighs a long suffering sigh and walks over to him, surprising the anger right out of him by pulling him into a hug. Her small arms wrap around his neck, and he hates the choking noise that comes out of him, hates the tears that burn his eyes, his throat. He bends down, pressing his forehead into her shoulder and clutching her back. She is his oldest friend; his family. The only person he has in the world.

You have Shane, an annoying part of his brain tells him. He tries to tell that part of his brain it isn’t true, but then he remembers the cottage. Remembers what Shane said.

“Please Shane, please. Don’t leave me,” Ilya had begged.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, Ilya” Shane had promised.

Ilya worries that isn't true anymore. That thought, more than anything else, makes him want to surrender to the chasm inside him that is always there, simmering under his skin and threatening to drown him.

“You can let yourself have this, Ilyushichka,” Svetlana says.

“He deserves better,” Ilya chokes out.

”There is no one better than you.”

He makes a noise of disbelief in his throat, so she presses on. “There is no one better than the person you love who loves you back. You would deprive him of that?”

”He probably doesn’t even want to see me."

”Yes he does, you idiot,” she says but squeezes him tighter.

”You don’t know he feels that way about me,” he argues.

”Yes, I do,” she says in a tone that brooks no argument.

”I never said I loved him.”

”Ilya Rozanov, I am going to fucking kill you if you don't go pack your bag right now and get on the fucking road.”

But she doesn’t move, and neither does Ilya. He just lets her hold him while he stands there, frozen with fear.

Eventually, he lets her bully him into going to his room to pack. Sveta, despite her threats, clocks his exhaustion and won’t let him travel until he’s slept. But she organizes his travel with the staff while he’s conked out; makes a plan for him to set off first thing the next day.

When Ilya sees the Canadian castle looming in the distance, he almost loses his nerve, turns around, and heads back to France. Shane doesn’t know he’s coming, so he’d never be the wiser, Ilya tries to reason to himself. But he doesn't turn the horse around; he can’t seem to manage the command. Instead, he lets the animal carry him right up to the main gate, where his entourage is stopped by the palace guards. They greet him as soon as they see him.

“Prince Rozanov? Was her Royal Highness expecting you back so soon?”

“Ah, no. Is surprise.”

The guard nods, and they send a runner to the palace, probably to check that this isn’t a Russian declaration of war or something, Ilya figures. Waiting makes Ilya want to crawl out of his skin and shuffle off his mortal coil. Every insecurity he has about this situation suddenly rears its ugly head: that Shane will turn him away, that this was an awful idea, that he's misinterpreted everything.

They haven't talked about that trip last year, not really. Ilya didn’t want to talk about it! But now, he’s unsure. He’s basing all of this on—what? Svetlana’s wild musings? She barely knows Shane.

Ilya is so twitchy that it causes Oatmeal to snort and shake her mane as she paces in front of the gate. Her nervous energy reflects his own, so he lets her do it. He's about give seconds away pulling a disappearing act, when the gates click and are slowly pulled open.

He hears hooves as he pulls his horse around, making sure his security entourage, who had accompanied him with his things, knows they are to head to the stables. He turns his head, expecting to see the same guard as before; or perhaps Shane, coming out to ask him what the fuck he’s doing here.

Who he isn't expecting, is Yuna Hollander.

Her Royal Highness Queen Yuna Hollander is terrifying on a good day. Physically, she’s not a large human. She's slender and short in stature. Metaphorically? She’s larger than life.

He remembers the first time he met her. After the vitriol his father had spewed about her, he was basically expecting a witch with green skin and horns who was going to bake him into a pie. He was absolutely not prepared for the force that was real-life Yuna Hollander. He knew within seconds of meeting her that she didn’t suffer fools. His father had been right about one thing: she was terrifying. She didn’t take anyone’s bullshit, and she gave it to you straight.

As he walks his horse beside hers up the long drive towards the castle, he reflects on the many stern discussions she had to have with him over the years. Some were particularly horrifying: about using protection and treating women with respect after she'd caught a couple of girls sneaking out of his chambers.

What he didn’t expect, as a thirteen year old who’d just lost his mother and the only member of his family who ever understood him, was how maternal she could be when she showed you that side of her.

Over the years, he’d push her sometimes, get caught doing something wrong, just to test her boundaries, to see if she’d ever truly kick him out—not that he knew that’s what he was doing at the time. But she never did. She was steadfast, and she’d given him a soft place to land when he needed it. In some ways, it made Canada feel like home, irrespective of the fact that Shane lives there.

And then, after that one particularly awful visit where he’d shown the worst, most vulnerable side of himself, when he was sure the Hollanders would be finally done with him for good—well, he’d tested their mettle, hadn’t he? And not even on purpose that time.

But he’d learnt what it meant when a Hollander took you under their wing. It was truly one of the most terrifying moments of his life, to want something that badly. To have something to lose again, to remember what it felt like to have a mother around, even when she wasn’t really his to have. Neither of them were.

She was kinder to him after that. Her eyes would crinkle at the sides when she smiled at him, and she'd say, "we'll miss you," when he was leaving, and it would sound so genuine. David would clasp his shoulder and call him kiddo, and insist that they play backgammon at night; bemoaning Shane for always winning and therefore sick of playing with him. Ilya never got sick of it. They’d make his favorite foods and fuss over him when he looked tired.

He glances nervously at her now. Her spine is stiff, and she's in riding boots and pants instead of one of her queenly gowns. He can tell by the set of her shoulders that she has something to say to him. Her jaw twitches when he risks glancing over at her again, and it reminds him so much of Shane that it makes his throat burn.

They get to the stables, and the wait is torturous as Yuna, in absolutely no rush at all, gives their horses to the stable hands with lengthy instructions, and afterwards asks them about their families. Ilya has no idea if she had already been out for a ride, or whether she came out just to torture him. Regardless, it's working—he feels like a little kid waiting to be reprimanded. He’s both relieved and even more terrified when they finally leave the stables.

She walks briskly. He has long legs and over a foot of height on her, so technically, he should have no trouble keeping up. He finds that he’s breathing hard anyway, because apparently all Hollanders can bend physics if they’re mad enough at you. Sweat beads at his hairline—for more than one reason—and his heart hammers at his ribs.

She hasn’t said a single word to him since she appeared at the gate, and the silence is starting to break his brain, so he tries his best to get a grip on the situation. “Your Highness,” is all he manages to get out, before she shoots him a look so stern that he’s pretty sure the temperature drops five degrees.

Maybe she is a witch.

He snaps his mouth shut and, resigned to his fate, follows a step behind. He’s surprised when she walks them to her study. Absently, he thought she’d be taking him to his rooms, or to the kitchens for food, or even to Shane. So when the door to her study clicks shut, enclosing him alone in the big intimidating space, with the large mahogany desk in the corner and bookshelves lining every open wall space, he’s good and truly worried.

She walks past him and over to the window, looking out for a moment. She then paces back across the room and repeats the same gesture for three more turns with her hands clasped behind her back. Ilya is about to jump out a window when she finally speaks.

“Why are you here?” she asks, her voice sharp.

Ilya tries to stop his recoil, but he can’t stop his flinch.

“No. Wait,” she stops, with her hands up. “I didn’t mean how that sounded. Ilya, you are always welcome here. This is your home as often as you want,” she says, and it's so firm that the emotional whiplash has him reeling.

This is your home.

“What I mean is,” she starts again, taking a deep breath. “Why have you come back so soon? Shane was—is…” she says, giving him a look that says, 'you know exactly how Shane is', “upset. He won’t tell us what happened or why he came back early from France. So, what happened?”

She puts her hands on her hips, and suddenly Ilya is seventeen again and Yuna is cross with him because he called Shane boring a time too many, and they’d gotten into a scuffle that had to be broken up by the guards. Of course, Yuna doesn’t know about the part later that night in his room, when Ilya had kissed every single one of Shane’s bruises while repeating ’and this one is boring' each time, as Shane squirmed until he couldn’t take it any longer, shoving Ilya’s head between his legs to make up for it properly.

Which he did. With enthusiasm.

He blinks to clear the memory. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. He tries again, with the same results. He isn’t even sure how to have this conversation with Shane, and being faced with an angry Yuna is completely shutting down his executive function.

Frustrated by his silence, she tries again. “Ilya. You two are fighting? Why? I feel like I’m missing something and it’s starting to piss me off.”

Ilya shifts on his feet. Damn it, why is she always so perceptive? He rubs the back of his neck and opens his mouth to try again, which unfortunately results in a piece of the truth tumbling out, unbidden. “I am engaged to marry Svetlana," he says.

He immediately kicks himself. Why would Shane care about that if they were just friends? But he feels like he’s unravelling—he needs to talk about this with someone. The whole situation makes him feel heartsick, and Yuna is looking at him with her motherly face on.

“I know,” she says sadly.

Ilya swallows. He thought she would have known. He also thought she would have told Shane. “Ah. He did not.”

He immediately wonders why she never told Shane. Her eyes go sad, but also confused and determined, like she’s once again trying to work out a mathematical equation that she doesn’t have all the numbers for.

“Svetlana is your friend. She is a good match, no? We thought you’d be happy, that you’d tell him yourself,” she says, answering his unspoken question. “But then, you didn’t come back for a whole year.”

Ilya shifts again. “It… could be worse, yes.”

Yuna’s stare bores into his soul. “Ilya…”

“I cannot—is not simple to explain. I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt him. I am here to grovel, okay?”

Her shoulders slump. It’s apparently enough of an answer to crack her tough exterior.

“Ilya,” she says again, kinder this time, massaging her temples with her fingers. She looks almost pleading. “Whatever is going on… if you need help? You know you can always come to me and David, right? We will help you. You know that, right? With anything. Always. Anytime.”

He’s floored by that. He did not know that. Most of his life he’s had to figure things out alone. He never wanted to burden the Hollanders—Shane—more than he already has.

He nods dumbly in response. It’s all he can muster in his overwrought brain.

Yuna sighs again, and gives him one firm nod.

“Shane knows you’re here. He’ll be waiting for you in his sitting room. Be kind to him, you’re his best friend.”

And with that devastating blow, she leaves.

Ilya stands there reeling for a moment.

What about Rose, his brain supplies? Shane’s always going on about her, and J.J., and Pike—in all his great buffoonery. Ilya can’t be Shane’s best friend. The thought is so crushing that he genuinely worries he’s going to have a panic attack.

He cannot think about it for a single moment longer without his brain fully collapsing in on itself, so he shakes himself off and strides off in the direction of Shane’s chambers.

He feels exposed. He’s primarily done this walk in the cover of darkness, and on multiple occasions holding his boots in his hand so he wouldn't been caught sneaking around the castle late at night, with varying degrees of success. Just walking up in the middle of the afternoon, he feels stripped bare.

He doesn't hide his groan when he sees Pike stationed at Shane’s door.

Hayden doesn’t bother with formalities either. “The fuck are you doing here, Rozanov?”

“Pike. Look so cute in your little armour today, is nice they let you hold the big pointy knife,” he says, gesturing at his sword. “Is big day.”

“I don’t know why Shane puts up with you, but I’m sick of your shit. You keep treating him like dirt and I will fight you. I don’t care that you’re a prince."

“Oh?” Ilya says, giving Hayden a salacious smile. “You do not know why he puts up with me? You cannot even imagine? I feel bad for Jackie then.”

“Fuck you, Rozanov.” Hayden’s turning a delightful shade of purple, and it brings Ilya a sense of peace and rightness that helps him gather his courage and settle his breathing.

He tsks. “Now, now, Pike. You know that could be considered very disrespectful to a Prince of Russia.”

Ilya doesn’t give a shit about Shane’s friends standing on ceremony, but watching Hayden’s splutter is worth it. And then the door swings open, and he’s face-to-face with an angry kitten.

Or rather, Shane Hollander’s angry kitten scowl. Ilya loves him so much he wants to die.

“The fuck are you doing out here? Get in,” he hisses, pointing into his room. Much like Yuna, he’s a little terrifying when angry. Very much not like Yuna, Ilya finds it hot when he’s angry.

For all of the above reasons, Ilya heads right in. He makes sure to stride in with a cocky swagger, though, if only because Hayden is still watching, and it makes Shane turn a delightful shade of exasperated.

His swagger evaporates the moment the door closes and they’re alone. When he’s standing there facing Shane, the reality of the situation crashes over him like a bucket of cold water.

It’s only been a day and he already misses him so much. Staying away from Shane this last year had been torture, the days dragging on. The amount of times he closed his eyes and imagined Shane in front of him is truly unhealthy. Standing here now he realizes how much it paled in comparison to the real thing.

“So?” Shane prompts. He hands are in his pockets, his shoulders are hunched up almost to his ears, and tension is rolling off his body in waves. Ilya wishes he could soothe him, but he knows it wouldn’t be wise to try right now.

“So,” Ilya parrots.

Shane grunts frustratedly. “Why are you here, Rozanov? Couldn’t find another French girl to suck your dick, so you came back for a sure thing?”

“Are you offering?” he says, falling back into his usual defence mechanism. Shane’s anxiety is amplifying his own, and it makes him mean.

“Fuck you.”

But Ilya sees the flash of hurt, and he takes a steadying breath. “I am sorry.”

Shane stares at him, clearly waiting for more.

“What? I am sorry. I am asshole, you know this.”

“Ilya.”

“Shane.”

“Fine. Then you said it. You can go now.”

You’re his best friend.

Ilya growls in frustration at his own inability to do this properly. He rubs his hands down his face and bends at the waist for a moment, taking a second to regroup.

When he stands back up, he tries again. “I am sorry, okay? For what I said in France. I should have told you about Sveta.”

Shane visibly flinches at the use of her nickname, and Ilya wishes he could travel back five seconds in time. But regardless, Shane's shoulders release a tiny amount of tension.

“I’m gay,” Shane says then, slumping down onto the couch, and it’s so surprising that Ilya snorts out a laugh.

“Oh?” He asks. “What gave you hint?”

Shane glares at him. “You’re not. Not fully.”

Ilya sighs again. “No,” he agrees. “Not fully.” He finally concedes defeat, moving to sit on the couch next to Shane. Their knees touch.

“So what? Why are you telling me?”

Shane breathes out audibly. “Who the fuck else am I gonna tell?”

And, well, he has a point there. Ilya is sure that Shane is trying to communicate something else, but he doesn’t know what. God, they really are shit at this.

“I want—" Shane starts, then growls in frustration.

“You want what?” Ilya asks, gently this time. He’s afraid to hear the answer, but he fears that not knowing is slowly killing him.

Shane turns to him with his Determined Hollander Face. It’s equal parts so hot and so scary. Do not get between a Hollander, that face, and the thing they are driving towards.

And then Shane says the one thing that tilts Ilya’s entire world on its axis and then shatters it completely.

“You.”

Ilya's eyes burn and his throat feels thick. He tries to swallow around the lump there, looking away, not wanting Shane to see. Trying to get himself under control.

Shane’s fingers move to Ilya's chin, and he tries to tug his face back, but Ilya resists as fat, hot traitorous tears break free of his careful control and track down his cheeks.

Shane makes a rough, broken sound in the back of his throat and then he’s climbing into Ilya’s lap. He’s suddenly wrapped in Shane’s arms as kisses land on his curls, his forehead. It breaks what’s left of Ilya control as he buries his face in Shane’s shirt and holds him tight to his body. The desperate want that is a constant living, breathing, thing in his chest threatens to drown him.

“I want the same,” Ilya finally admits, his voice rough. “But I do not know how to have you, Shane Hollander. I do not know what to do.” It’s surprisingly freeing to admit.

“I know,” Shane says into his hair. “I know.”

Once they've caught their breath, Shane tips Ilya's head up and presses their mouths together. The kiss is wet from both of their tears, but Ilya doesn’t care. He wants to burrow into Shane’s chest, climb into his ribcage and never leave. He’ll take him any way he can have him.

“I like you,” Shane whispers into his lips, punctuating it with a kiss. And fuck, it's such a small, simple thing, but it knocks the air out of his lungs. He remembers Shane's plea at the cottage for them to be more honest. He has been failing pretty spectacularly at that so he tries to do better now.

“I like you, too,” he admits.

Shane buries his face in Ilya’s neck and shudders, and Ilya squeezes him tighter. It’s a strange feeling, that sweet awful relief.

It feels so good to hold Shane, to give in to what he wants. But nothing has changed. He will still have to leave; their situation is still entirely hopeless.

Shane seems to be thinking the same thing. “Don’t marry Stevtlana, Ilya, please," he says, and the way his voice breaks on the last words shatters Ilya's heart even further.

“Shane,” Ilya begs. “What will you have me do? If it is not her, it will be someone else. I do not have a choice. I do not have your parents. I have Gregori and Alexei. And they say they have let me wait long enough.” He shakes his head. “What is the alternative? Someone else? Someone who expects me to be a real husband? Svetlana knows, Shane. She will let us see each other.”

Shane jerks back as if burned, the colour draining from his face. “What? She knows—what?”

“She figured it out years ago. She is my friend. She is safe, I promise. She badgered me to bring her here, but I did not. I know you hate her.”

“She knows,” Shane repeats, clearly still processing this.

“Yes. As does Hayden. What? Only your friends can know?” Ilya snaps.

Shane sputters a little and the tips of his ears go red, but he doesn’t have an answer to that, so he doesn’t give one. “It’s just if people found out…” Shane trails off.

“You think I do not know this?” Ilya’s frustration rises again.

Sensing it, Shane shifts off his lap. Ilya scrubs at his eyes, rubbing the salt of his tears away.

“This is why I fight this. There is no good answer. There is no solution, just madness of wanting you. Years of this. Always wanting, when I cannot have. You make me crazy, is this what you want? You want me to tell you I cannot live without you? Fine. Here. Have it. Is useless," he says, deciding now is as good a time as any to lay the blame at Shane’s feet.

Shane’s cheeks go a different kind of pink, and he looks at Ilya with wonder in his eyes. “You can’t live without me?” he asks in a small voice, like if he says it any louder Ilya might take it all back.

Ilya swallows. Whoops, he didn’t actually mean to admit that. He throws his head back against the back of the couch dramatically and groans. Staring up at the ceiling, he admits, “No. And I do not want to.”

Shane’s hand slides into his, and Ilya grips it like a lifeline. He lays down with his head in Shane’s lap, pressing their joined hands to his lips, and Shane sighs loudly and relaxes, his free hand sliding into Ilya’s curls.

“Last time,” Shane says, and his voice is scratchy, “I thought, maybe, it was different last year when we were together.”

Ilya has spent a lot of time trying not to think about that trip. It was entirely too painful. "Different 'cause you freak out."

Shane sighs. "I'm sorry. I wrote you letters. I apologized. I'm sorry I freaked out. But before that? It was nice."

“It was,” Ilya concedes.

"And it felt like we were something."

"We cannot be, Shane."

“You knew. Even then. About the marriage.”

Ilya tenses, but Shane cards his fingers through his curls and rubs at his scalp to tell him it’s okay.

“Da. I—“ he swallows. “Is why I was fighting with Gregori. His brain was already Swiss cheese. I thought he might not remember. That I could change it. But I could not.”

“Alexei?”

“Yes. Him too. He does not want to be King. He wants to snort his drugs and fuck his whores.”

Shane makes a sound of derision. And Ilya can feel him gearing up to ask another question. He squeezes Shane’s knee. “So many questions, Llubimy.”

“Sorry,” Shane says.

“Is okay.” He squeezes Shane’s knee again.

“No, I meant sorry I didn’t leave you out there so Hayden could fight you and defend my honour.”

Ilya barks out a laugh. “Would be very embarrassing way for Pike to go. Awkward conversation for you with Jackie.”

Shane laughs at this because, as is part of his charm, he is also an asshole. The sound is big and bright, and it heals something in Ilya.

“I do not know what to do now,” Ilya says. He doesn’t have any answers. It's always been the problem, why he's avoided this for so long. But even though it hurts, it's like the pain is transformed, molded into something else, something between them. Maybe it was worth it, to put words to it.

“I do,” Shane says, surprising him. “Up,” he says, pushing gently at Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya sits up and then lets Shane lead him to his bed.

They undress, and Ilya doesn’t even tease Shane for folding every item of clothing that they both discard. He’s too besotted, too raw. And he doesn’t know how long they have together.

They kiss for a long time, wrapped together under the covers.

And when Ilya finally pushes inside Shane’s body, nestled between his thighs, it feels like coming home.

Ilya wakes, startled, to someone saying his name. He reaches for Shane, disoriented, and comes up with a handful of cold sheets.

“Ilya,” the voice repeats, and Ilya blinks and sits up. He’s back in his room, in his bed in Canada, in the guest quarters. He’d fallen asleep with Shane, but had returned to his room in the middle of the night.

David, he realizes. It’s David Hollander.

“Shane okay?” Ilya asks, trying to shake the sleep out of his brain. Why is David in his room? He can tell it's still very early.

“Yes. Shane is fine, but Ilya, I’m sorry—it’s King Gregori.” The words sink slowly into Ilya’s groggy brain.

“Your father has died.”

Chapter 8: you're in my blood like holy wine

Chapter Summary

Chapter Music:
Make it better - Fred Again
On Your Side — The Last Dinner Party

.:.: Now 👑 Shane .:.:

“Shane,” his mother says, and even Shane’s tired brain knows that he shouldn’t be hearing her voice right now. Fear grips his heart and he shoots upright in bed, his hand reaching out automatically for Ilya.

He blinks his room into focus, which is brightening with the dawn light.

The other side of the bed is cold, and he realises that Ilya must have slipped out during the night. His thoughts are spinning out—he hates waking up without Ilya beside him, but he is also overwhelmingly grateful that his mother didn’t walk in on them naked in bed. He wonders if Ilya is still in the castle or if he has left for good.

Such an onslaught of conflicting emotions when he’s barely conscious is making him nauseous.

“I have some bad news,” Yuna is saying.

“Bad news?” Shane repeats, rubbing his face and trying to wake up.

“Ilya’s father is dead.”

Shane’s stomach sinks as he realises that means they’re out of time. Then he feels horribly guilty for having such a selfish thought in the face of Ilya’s loss.

“Oh, God.”

“Yes. Ilya will need our support. Word has spread that he is here and there are already journalists showing up at the castle to speak to him.”

“Oh, God,” Shane repeats.

“Yes. So we will get up and have breakfast, and then we will stand by his side while he faces them today. They will want to speak to us too. Then, we will all go to Russia for the funeral.”

“Oh God,” Shane says again, like a broken record. The magnitude of the situation hangs in the room like a dark cloud.

“Up. Come on. I know it’s a lot, but coffee will help.”

So, up he gets. Luca appears, and his mother, who he belatedly realises was in a dressing gown and robe, disappears. He’s never been more grateful for the young valet. Shane had put a private request in to appoint him as the primary valet; he imagines Theriault was pissed about that, but on a morning when everything is so fraught, he's glad to have someone he trusts by his side. Even more so because Shane had heard no castle gossip about what happened in France, which means that Luca didn’t say a word about anything that happened. He’d even had Rose check with her ladies-in-waiting, since they knew everything that went on everywhere.

Luca quietly helps him choose a black tunic and trousers. The tunic is nice, befitting of a prince who is meeting with the press, but not overly ornate. He decides to wear his rings, but no other jewellery.

He’s buttoning up his tunic when a thought occurs to him. “Luca,” he says.

“Your Highness?” Luca replies, handing Shane his pinky ring.

“I’m good here, can you run and ask the staff helping Prince Rozanov this morning if he needs to borrow any black clothes? Or anything, really? He can have whatever he wants.”

“Of course, sir.”

“It’s Shane, Luca, really. I insist.”

Luca turns a shade of red that on another day Shane would find hilarious. He nods and quickly ducks out of the room.

This innocuous request is how Shane almost chokes to death on his breakfast.

Shane is seated at the small family table that they sometimes use in the kitchen for informal meals, blearily sipping his coffee and munching on a piece of toast, when Ilya enters the room. And Shane’s brain melts.

Ilya is wearing one of Shane’s tunics, a black one with a subtle but intricate grey lace detail. And look, Shane is a big man. He’s a hair under six-foot, and all muscle. But Ilya is bigger. He’s wider and longer and—well, Shane’s made peace with how he feels about how Ilya’s muscles bulge. But right now, he is too tired and mentally unprepared for how Ilya’s arms are testing the integrity of the seams of his tunic. Never mind the trousers, which are doing their damnedest to fit over the swell of his perfect ass.

Naturally, Shane takes in a sharp inhale of breath, which is mostly toast, and starts choking. It's wildly embarrassing, but the silver lining is that almost dying prevents the other response that his body is currently considering.

His Dad thumps him on the back as he tries to breathe air that isn’t entirely made of crumbs. Ilya takes the seat next to Yuna and across from him, and Shane sends up a secret thanks to Luca for choosing a long tunic for Ilya to wear, so that Shane doesn’t have to see the front of the trousers up close.

Ilya quirks an eyebrow at him and, well, at least Shane has an easy excuse for why his face is so red.

“You okay, kid?” his dad asks.

“Yup,” Shane rasps out, then chugs some water. His head is a mess; he needs to get his mind out of the gutter and start being more supportive immediately. So, he mentally files away the fact that Ilya needs to wear his clothes more often, and pulls himself together.

He studies Ilya’s face to get a sense of how he’s feeling. There are smudges of dark blue under his eyes from lack of sleep. But since it’s the crack of dawn and Shane had kept him up fairly late, that’s to be expected. Otherwise, he just looks like Ilya. The Ilya he held the night before, who had cried in his arms after Shane told him he wanted him.

Ilya kicks his boot under the table, and he realises he must be staring. He looks away and gives his piece of toast another chance at regicide. He’s so distracted and his head is so full, that if there was ever a day for death by breakfast food, this would be it.

Ilya barely eats. He takes a couple of bites of toast and sips his coffee, and Shane doesn’t even roll his eyes at the sugar content this time. Ilya’s face is drawn down, his jaw tight and eyes lifeless. Shane desperately wants to grab him, take him to his chambers, and hide them away for the day. He wants to tell Ilya that it’s all going to be okay. But he can’t, because it isn’t.

Yuna and David exchange a few worried glances, but it seems that no one has much to say. It’s early, and it’s going to be a long day. What else is there?

They adorn themselves in their crowns, since they're meeting the public in official capacities. By the time they make it to the throne room, the room is packed.

A throne is brought in—the one which is used by visiting dignitaries—and Ilya takes a seat on it. One-by-one, journalists approach the dais and ask him questions before moving onto the Canadian Royal family. They all ask variants of the same questions, and it is immediately exhausting, especially as Shane knows their every movement will be reported on. If they are rude, or look unhappy, or too happy, it will be picked up. So, he masks, remains as neutral as possible, and tries not to dissociate, despite his brain trying very hard to check out from the magnitude of the situation.

Yes, it’s such sad news. No, Shane doesn’t know what will happen with the Russian Royal family, but they’re strong and will have a plan in place. No, relations with the Russians will not change. Yes, the princes have a good relationship—such a good relationship, Shane’s overstimulated brain supplies, that the Russian Prince was inside him last night.

Yes, they are going to the funeral. Any further comments? No. Their thoughts are with the Princes.

The day crawls by. They get a short reprieve, where they hide in the small antechamber—the same one Shane once spoke about Ilya to his mother in. They are given tea and sandwiches, and Ilya eats one because Yuna guilts him into it. Shane’s grateful she does, or he would have done it himself. He can’t help but watch Ilya constantly the entire day, even while he’s responding to inane questions. He can’t help it—he’s worried.

“Prince Hollander?”

“Hmm?” Shane asks, having missed another question.

“You and the Russian Prince are old friends?”

“Oh,” he says, surprised by a question he wasn’t expecting. “Yes. I mean, uh, yeah, we’ve known each other since we were kids. We have a lot of respect for each other as athletes.”

The response pops out of his media-trained mouth. Only, today it tastes like ash on his tongue. We have a lot of respect for each other as athletes? Jesus. This is the man he’s in love with, for fucks sake.

And, oh, holy shit.

He has not admitted that to himself before.

The journalist seems to sense that Shane has checked out of the conversation and says some kind of vague goodbye that Shane doesn’t hear through the whooshing sound in his ears, and wanders away.

This is good, because Shane is crashing out. The stress of the day and all of its compounding factors have truly caught up with him. He moves to get up, hoping to give an excuse and then go and hide in the antechamber for the next two-to-five business days. Nobody cares what he has to say today, anyway.

But then he sees another journalist approaching Ilya, sees Ilya’s shoulders slump even further, and realizes that he cannot freak out right now. This isn’t about him. He has to be here for Ilya, even if Ilya hasn’t looked over at him once. He knows he can’t leave—Ilya needs him to be strong, to be present.

In the afternoon, things go from bad to worse. They’ve all been awake for hours, but they still have to greet their constituents and listen to the offered condolences. Naturally, the general public use this as an excuse to get close to the Royal Family and say inappropriate shit, and—judging by how many of them try to hit on both Shane and Ilya—young women use this as an excuse to shoot their shot as the next Princess of Russia or Canada.

All day, Shane watches as Ilya’s natural charisma grows dimmer. He seems to withdraw further the longer the day goes on. For the interviews, he doesn’t attempt to be particularly pleasant; though he is Russian, and his father and King just died, so there’s a level of understanding. However, his tone gets noticeably snappier throughout the day.

Shane notices that after lunch Ilya’s seat is pulled closer to Yuna’s, and when his tone turns particularly sharp, she reaches out to touch his forearm. Without fail, it makes him straighten his spine, roll his shoulders back, and soften his tone.

Unnervingly, Shane is jealous of his own mother. He wishes he could hold Ilya’s hand, even though they both would hate that. Even if by some miracle it was allowed. Shane would be awkward with that kind of affection in front of a crowd, and Ilya wouldn’t want to look weak. It doesn’t stop Shane from craving it.

Things fall apart fast when someone gets handsy. Shane is certainly not pleased when girls fall all over Ilya, touching his biceps and hugging him without consent to 'offer their condolences,' but Shane has spent his whole life watching other people fawn over Ilya, so at least he's had some practice. It's when a particularly enterprising girl tries to touch Shane that things get a little dicey.

She looks to come from a middle-income family, and she’s dressed in her best picking-up-a-princely-husband dress. Her bountiful breasts are shoved so high up towards her chin that even Shane notices them. She is fake weeping, and the moment she gets close enough, she throws herself down on his lap, wailing about the loss and asking "is the Prince okay?", and how she’s here for anything he needs.

Shane is more than marginally horrified, but it’s the movement out of the corner of his eye— Ilya’s visible flinch—that catches his attention. Shane has been tuned in to Ilya’s every move all day, and this is no exception.

Ilya’s head snaps over to look at him for the first time all day, and as he moves to stand, Shane catches a flash of something dangerous in his eyes that looks close to an eruption. As quick as it starts, it's over; Shane’s security pulls the girl off him quickly, and Ilya freezes in his aborted movement. His eyes stay on Shane, though, and Shane watches him back.

Shane shakes his head minutely and mouths, ‘It’s okay. I’m okay,’ and Ilya relaxes. He seems to shake himself, refocusing on the next person in the receiving line.

His shrewd mother doesn’t miss it though, and Shane curses her for being so observant. She glances between them a couple of times, lines creasing her forehead like she’s trying to work something out.

They make it through another hour of this, Ilya’s mood growing darker by the second. He’s basically just grunting at people now, not even trying to hide his scowl. On the plus side, as a result people have stopped trying to touch him, which makes Shane feel a smidge better.

And he is grateful to see Rose when she appears next in line, of course he is, she’s one of his closest friends; he just wishes she’d chosen to stay home today. But alas, she’s here, with her parents behind her. He watches, stomach sinking into the ground, as she approaches Ilya and very sincerely offers her condolences and sympathies. Ilya looks carved from ice, barely moving his head as he nods at her. He is marginally better with her parents, influential nobility that they are, but the group moves on quickly.

Shane feels eyes on him as Rose comes straight over to talk to him. She’s pretty astute, so she looks wary and wisely keeps her distance from him, instead of touching his arm or giving him a hug as she often would.

“You good?” she asks simply.

Shane gives a tiny shake of his head and answers honestly for the first time all day. “Not really.”

“Didn’t think so. Feels… tense. Do you think—" she cuts herself off, glancing at Ilya. Shane steadfastly doesn’t look over at him, as it will not help, but her eyes widen, and it tells him everything he needs to know. “He's not okay,” she says. It isn't a question.

Shane should give her some form of media response, but he can't muster up even one more lie today. "No, he isn't."

“Is he going to murder me in my sleep? Or right here? Can looks actually kill?” she jokes.

“He wouldn’t.” A pause. “I don’t think,” he amends.

Rose snorts.

God, he wants to preen under Ilya’s jealousy. After years of not knowing how Ilya really feels, he wants to bask in it. But it’s just not the day for it.

They make small talk for a few minutes, and Rose demands they catch up the minute Shane is back from Russia, warning him that he will be telling her what happened in France, and to not even consider trying to get out of it. Shane agrees, because she’s scary, and she moves on.

It’s a huge relief when Yuna stands and announces that they have to prepare to travel to Russia and the proceedings must end. Shane is pretty sure she is calling it off early on purpose, but knows she’d never openly admit it, just like how she never admits how soft she is for Ilya. She has a reputation as a hard ass to maintain, after all.

Dinner is served in the great hall with the rest of the nobility, with all the castle staff and residents in attendance. Shane wishes they could have sat in the kitchens as they had for breakfast. Why do people want to see the Royals eat? It flummoxes him. Fortunately, dinner is soup: chicken and dumplings, Shane’s favorite comfort food.

He already had a feeling the kitchen staff were saps for Ilya, but this just confirms it. Shane breathes a sigh of relief when Ilya attacks his bowl and eats the whole thing.

The moment that it’s even remotely appropriate, Shane stands and announces his departure.

“I will help Prince Rozanov pack. We can discuss politics,” is the idiotic thing that comes out of his mouth, like Ilya doesn’t have a valet to help him pack, and like he and Ilya ever sit around discussing politics. He couldn’t have said sports? But it’s been such a long day that no one even blinks at the obvious excuse.

His parents wave him off. Ilya looks up at him, a glimmer of life in his eyes for the first time all day. He stands and says a respectful goodbye to Shane’s parents. Shane dumbly realizes that it's because they won’t all be together again until they’re back in Russia.

Ilya is leaving at first light, and Shane and his parents will set off the following day, as it will take them longer to pack and gather the entourage who will go with them.

They leave the room in silence, Ilya following on his heels. Hayden stands and also follows them out, falling into step beside Shane. Two other of the Prince's guard and one of Ilya's trails behind.

He allows it until they’re out in the hallway and far enough away from prying ears, and then he comes to an abrupt halt, turning to face his friend.

“Not tonight, Hayd,” Shane says firmly.

Hayden’s eyes widen in shock. “What? But…” Hayden sputters. “I’m your personal guard.”

Shane’s cheeks heat and he manages to stop himself from glancing back at Ilya. “Not tonight, you’re not. Tonight, I need you to be my friend and give us a minute.”

Shane rubs his temples. He hates doing this in front of the other guards but he needs it to be done. He wants privacy, and not the kind where he knows Hayden is standing outside. Ilya’s room has less sound privacy than his does.

Hurt flashes across Hayden’s face, but Shane can’t worry about that right now. “Come on, you and Ilya drive each other crazy. Please. Just for tonight,” he says.

Hayden’s eyes get impossibly wider at the use of the Prince's first name; at Shane’s familiarity. But then he pulls himself together and schools his expression. “Of course, man. All good.”

And Shane isn’t sure it is, but he’s grateful that Hayden is being an adult about it. Hayden clasps him on the shoulder, glances at Ilya, and then heads off in the other direction. Shane tamps down the urge to groan and instead continues their journey to Ilya’s room.

The guards open the doors for them as they pass through. Shane stops one, saying, “Send up wine and some dessert, please? Something simple.” The guard nods in reply, and then they’re inside and the door is being closed behind them.

The minute it clicks closed, Shane lets his shoulders drop. He rubs at his face and hair.

Ilya lingers in the doorway, watching Shane with perceptive eyes. He looks exhausted, but not quite as lost to himself as he did earlier, like being alone together is already having healing effects.

“Boots off,” Shane demands, sitting on a chair to pull off his own. “Come on.”

Ilya pulls his boots off, and starts tugging at his borrowed tunic. Shane walks over and helps him, undoing the buttons.

“This must be tight. You’re, like, a second away from Hulking out of this.”

A smirk tugs at Ilya’s mouth. “Worth it. You like, yes?”

Shane smiles. “Yeah, I like. You can wear my clothes whenever you want.”

Once the tunic is undone, Ilya shrugs it off his shoulders and lets it drop, leaving him in just his undershirt. Shane’s fingers itch to pick it up and fold it, but he resists. He starts on the buttons of his own tunic, not moving to put any distance between them. Ilya doesn’t help; instead, he reaches up and cards his fingers through Shane’s hair.

Shane drops his jacket on the floor next to Ilya’s. Despite the mess, he likes it there, littered amongst Ilya’s clothes like they belong together.

Shane reaches up and takes Ilya’s face in his hands, stepping closer. He studies him.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

Ilya scoffs, then softens. Shane watches his shoulders relax in real time. “Okay. Not good, probably bad?”

They jump apart at the sound of a knock on the door.

Wisely, the guard standing outside doesn’t enter, instead just calls through the heavy wood, “Prince Hollander, we have the food you asked for.”

Shane hurries to the door, realizing belatedly that he’s now barefoot and in an undershirt. It’s not a great look, but he reminds himself that his guards at this point know the score.

He’s handed a small tray of desserts and a bottle of wine. The guard holds out two glasses, but Shane has no more hands and doesn’t want anyone to come in the room. He shakes his head. “We’re fine.”

The guard inclines his head and pulls the door closed. That familiar feeling of a lack of privacy flashes through him, before he shoves it away. He is focused on his goal—he is going to be there for Ilya. Fuck everything else.

Shane walks back to the bed and puts their treats on a side table, before climbing up high onto the bed, near the pillows. Ilya has walked to the window and is peering around the curtains, watching something intently.

“Rose is not coming with, to Russia?” he asks suddenly.

Shane is confused by Ilya's train of thought. “Uh, no? She isn't royalty, so I don’t know why her family would travel for the funeral.”

Ilya’s sharp gaze lands on him, and Shane knows that was the wrong answer. Unfortunately, he has no idea what the right one was.

“You don't want to bed her?” he asks, frowning.

Oh. “What? No. I told you. We weren’t compatible.”

“Compatible,” Ilya repeats.

“No, weren’t a good fit. Ilya, I’m gay.”

Ilya’s shoulders relax as he saunters back to the bed. “Not too gay to fuck Rose Laundry,” he says.

“Oh my god, shut up,” Shane groans, reaching for Ilya’s hand and tugging him onto the bed on his knees. "It was mostly just embarrassing. She's a good friend. That's all, Ilya, nothing more." They settle against the headboard.

The brownies they were delivered have been cut into small, bite-sized pieces, and Shane reaches for one, shoving it into Ilya's mouth to shut him up. Ilya smiles around the cake, and the sight warms Shane’s heart. Ilya catches his wrist before he can pull his hand away.

“Mmm,” Ilya says seductively and, swallowing the brownie, proceeds to lick Shane’s fingers clean, which breaks Shane’s brain, before he remembers that wasn’t what he came here for.

Shane grabs the bottle of wine next and takes a swig from the bottle. Ilya’s eyes glitter with mirth.

“What?" he asks, gesturing with the bottle of wine.

“No plates? No glasses? Sugar? Surely you are not Shane Hollander.”

“Shut the fuck up and come here,” he says. Ilya takes the bottle from him, taking a large swig before setting it on the side table. Ilya lets Shane pull him up the bed and manoeuvre him into his arms, so that Shane is reclined against the pillows and Ilya’s head is resting on his sternum. Shane pets Ilya’s hair, and Ilya melts into his touch, hitching his thigh over Shane’s hip, his body a heavy comfort on top of him.

Shane presses a kiss to the top of his curls and another to his forehead.

They don’t usually do this. Usually, it’s all heat and sex, driven by an urgency to devour each other in the short time that they have alone. But tonight is different. Shane has been worried all day—it’s been awful, being so close but so far from Ilya all day, in front of all of those parasocial people.

Shane squeezes Ilya tight and presses more kisses to his hair, the top of his head, his forehead—anywhere he can reach with his lips—until Ilya’s shoulders are shaking with light laughter.

“Shane."

“Shhh,” Shane scolds. “I’m busy.”

Ilya wriggles, trying to escape from Shane’s tight hold.

“Prince Rozanov, you’re being very rude. This is political.”

“Ah, political, yes.”

“Yes, international relations. I’m healing the Russian nation!” Shane says, before Ilya manages to wriggle out of his hold. Ilya, now free from his prison of affection, turns over and straddles Shane, grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head.

“Is this you, how you say? Helping me pack and talking politics?”

Shane's cheeks heat. “What? That’s not believable?” He knows it isn’t, but he’s nothing if not stubborn.

Ilya grins down at him, and this one actually reaches his eyes. “If it is anyone else? No. But you? Yes.”

Shane sticks out his bottom lip. “What? Is it boring?”

And Ilya’s smile grows.

“Fuck off,” Shane says, trying to wriggle his hands free. Ilya shifts so he has both in one hand and then reaches for the bottle again. He takes another swig of wine and puts the bottle back.

Ilya’s expression turns sad again. He reaches a hand up and rubs his thumb along Shane’s cheekbone. He releases Shane’s hands and Shane brings then to Ilya’s thighs.

Shane swallows hard as the emotion in the room becomes so thick that he can taste it. “I hate that you have to leave in the morning,” he admits.

Ilya must feel the same, because he lies back down, tucking his face into Shane’s neck and wrapping around his body. “I would stay if I could.”

Stay. A flicker of a memory Shane pushes away.

“I’ll be there a day later.”

“Shane.”

“What?"

"You know we cannot be together like this, there. Is too great a risk. I can not trust my guards like you can. I only trust Svetlana.”

He says it so firmly that it makes Shane’s stomach drop through his feet. It feels like he’s saying goodbye.

“Okay,” he croaks. He knew this, of course, he knew. It didn’t matter what they said the night before. It didn’t matter that Ilya had come for him after France. Ilya was going home to Russia, where he was known as Svetlana’s future husband. They’d be together; engaged. Shane feels sick to his stomach as the reality hits him.

“But you’ll come back soon? After the funeral. You said Svetlana knows,” he says, and his voice sounds desperate. "And if anything happens and you don't feel safe? Or you feel sad? Anything at all, you'll come back, right? You'll get on a damn horse and come home?"

Ilya groans. "Dorogoy. Ya ne magu. Ti menya ubivayesh, pozhalusta. (Sweetheart. I can't. You are killing me, please.)"

“Please, Ilya.”

Ilya buries his face further into Shane’s neck and hugs him tighter. “We should just end this, Shane. It will kill us. You must find a wife, too.”

“No.” Shane is surprised how steady he sounds considering how sick the idea makes him. “Fuck that, Ilya. No way. I’ve wanted you for so long, and I’m sorry it took me so long to get here. But I’m not giving you up. So choose another tactic. We’ll find a way, okay?”

Ilya leans on an elbow so he can gaze at Shane, cupping his cheek. “Shane.”

“Ilya,” Shane says, his voice full of determination.

"I did not fuck those girls."

And okay, Shane is successfully distracted. "What?" 

"That first night back in Canada. I had the guards send them back to their room, made up some excuse you and I drank too much vodka and my guards carried me back to my chambers," Ilya explains. 

The memory pulls Shane back to the onslaught of emotions he faced that first night. Seeing Ilya for the first time in a year. 

"What about when you couldn't stay?" he hates that he asks it, but he's wondered about it more than once. "When we danced." His cheeks heat at the memory. It was romantic. There's no other way of putting it. 

"Ah. Grigori was unpredictable. Alexei and I had to watch him at night. He would wake up confuse. So I went there." 

Not for the first time that day, Shane feels awful for what Ilya has endured. 

"I'm glad he's dead," Shane says, surprisingly himself with the bitterness in his voice, the truth of his words. 

Ilya sighs and it's such a sad sound it pulls at Shane's heart. "Me too." 

But Shane knows it's more complicated than that. Ilya has no parents left. His remaining family is Alexei. It's a grim prospect and even considering it is so terrifying to Shane, so outside the warmth of the love his parents have always provided him, that he can barely comprehend it. 

"I'm sorry, Ilya. You know you always have me? And mom and dad." 

Ilya's arms squeeze him tighter. "I know." 

And Shane's not sure he really does but he hopes that they're on the path. 

They're quiet for a long time after that. They shift to get more comfortable. Shane knows they can't stay there forever, but he doesn't want to move for as long as they can. 

"She would have loved you," Ilya says quietly. "My mother." 

Shane swallows around the lump in his throat. "I would have loved to meet her," he eventually manages. 

They lie there together for a long time. 

Chapter 9: So I will wait for the next time you want me

Chapter Summary

Fun fact.. mayonnaise was invented in 1756. This story doesn't have a historical date attached to it so that's irrelevant of course. But just in case later you're wondering about this.. you now know this fact. Congratulations!

Chapter Notes

Don't forget that if you want the translations just hover or click.

Chapter music: Moon Song- Phoebe Bridgers
I made my baby cry - Beck and the Birds
Unknown/Nth-Hozier

.:.: 👑 Then ♚ One Year Earlier 👑 .:.:

"Khvatit s menya tvoyego nepodchineniya. Ty sdelayesh tak, kak ya skazal! (That is enough of your insubordination. You will do as I say!)," King Gregori’s voice boomed out of the open library door, making Shane jump.

It was after dinner, but Shane had lost track of time, and was only just making his way to the kitchens. Ilya was in Canada visiting with his father and brother, and he'd been weird and distant. It was ratcheting up Shane's anxiety, so he'd reacted the only way he knew how: with hours of extra sword practice. He hadn't even realized he'd missed dinner until it was too late. Now, showered, he was in search of leftovers.

It wasn’t exactly unfamiliar to Shane to hear King Grigori yelling—he did it a lot. But it was the next voice that gave Shane pause.

"Ya ne sobirayus etovo delat, otets. Pochemu eto dolzhno proiskhodit imenno seychas? (I won’t do it, Father. Why does this have to happen now?”)".

Shane couldn't understand the words, but it was Ilya’s tone that caught him off guard. He sounded almost desperate, pleading; where usually, Ilya gave as good as he got, retaliating with cold indifference or shouted words of his own.

Shane made a snap decision and ducked into an alcove. He hid behind the over-the-top marble statue of a siren reading a book that a dignitary had gifted to the castle library years ago.

"Tut ne o chem sporit. Ty sdelayesh tak, kak ya skazal, Ilya. S menya dovolno i tovo, chto u menya na sheye sidit lenivyy, neblagodarnyy syn. Ty i tak uzhe slishkom stariy. Prishlo vremya zhenitsa. Mne dolozhili, chto nashli etu shlyukhu Vetrovu v tvoyey posteli, tak chto ne smey govorit mne, chto ona nedostatochno krasivaya. Yeyo semya obladayet bolshim vliyaniyem. Yeyo otets byl znamenitym masterom fekhtovaniya, a mat' - dvoyurodnoy sestroy britanskovo monarkha, chto obespechit boleye vygodnyye torgovyye usloviya.” (There is no discussion here. You will do as I say, Ilya. It’s enough that I’m burdened with such a lazy, ungrateful son. You are too old as it is, it is time to get married. The staff have told me they’ve found the Vetrova slut in your bed, so you can’t tell me she is not beautiful enough. Her family is influential. Her father was a famous swordsman, and her mother is a cousin to the British monarch, which will ensure a better trading rate.)".

"No otets... (But, Father—)"

"Khvatit! Razgovor okonchen. (Enough! This conversation is done.)"

The silence that followed was deafening. Shane desperately wished he understood Russian. But even for the Rozanovs, who always seemed to be yelling at each other, it sounded like a bad argument.

The sound of footsteps drew closer, and Shane huddled behind the statue, praying that nobody would see him hiding like that, as he’d never live down the embarrassment.

The footsteps paused, and Gregori’s voice said from much closer, "My v Kanade, otets. Eto ikh biblioteka. Tvoya spalnya - vyyti i nalevo. Pomnish? (Where am I? This isn’t our library. What statue is that?)".

"We are in Canada, father. This is their library. Your chambers are out and to the left, do you remember?"

"Konechno, ya pomnyu (Of course I remember.)". The footsteps finally continued past.

Shane waited until he was sure Grigori was gone and far enough down the hallway, before stepping out from his hiding place. Unfortunately, it was at the same moment that Ilya chose to make his exit.

"Yop tvoyu mat! (Oh fuck!)" Ilya yelled, putting one hand over his heart and leaning the other against the wall. “Hollander, what the fuck?”

Shane held his hands up in surrender. “Sorry!”

“Hollander, what are you doing hiding behind sexy statue? Is this new kink? You are into girls who are fish now?”

Shane’s cheeks burned. “I heard your dad yelling and I—“ he paused, unsure how to explain it without sounding like an idiot.

“You hide. To listen to Russian language you do not understand.”

“Well… yeah,” he said, and see, that was why he hadn’t particularly wanted to explain it.

Ilya studied him for a long moment. “Why is perfect Prince Hollander out of his bed?”

Shane huffed. “It’s only 8:30. I missed dinner and was hungry. What were you and your dad fighting about this time?”

“I could eat,” Ilya said instead of answering the question, heading for the door. Shane rolled his eyes at Ilya's usual avoidance, but followed him regardless.

“Didn’t you have dinner?”

“Barely. Is just gross vegetables with that fish you are obsessed with.”

“Salmon and roast vegetables? I love that dish.”

“That’s because you are boring, Hollander. Come, let’s get Annise to make us real food. Or maybe she has cake.”

“I need to eat protein after my workout.”

“Of course you do.”

Shane fell into step beside him. The spark of excitement he always got from being in Ilya’s vicinity bubbled in his belly.

He glanced over, taking the opportunity to study Ilya’s profile; the cut of his nose, his cheekbones. The way his hair was slicked back which always made him look breathtakingly beautiful but created a harsher effect than his tousled curls he usually left wild in Canada, constantly wet from the lake or from training in the yard. The way he wore it when his father wasn't around.

“What?” Ilya asked, catching Shane's stare.

His gaze snapped straight ahead. “Nothing.”

The kitchens were quiet when they arrived. Shane figured that the staff had already cleaned up after dinner and gone to bed. They woke with the dawn every day to start baking, so it wasn’t hard to imagine that they had turned in early.

“Damn,” Shane lamented. “There goes that plan. I can probably scrounge us up a baguette and some olive oil?” he said, snooping in the bread box.

Ilya looked at him funny. “What is this?”

“What is what?”

“Perfect Prince Shane Hollander does not know how to cook?”

Shane flushed all the way up to his chest. He hated that the redder he seemed to get, the more gleeful Ilya seemed to become. At least he seemed to have cheered up from his argument. The thought made Shane’s chest feel weird, and he rubbed at it.

“I hate when you call me that," Shane complained. "Like you even know how to cook.” He hated being bad at anything.

“I do.”

Shane stared at him, trying to pick out the lie.

“A few things,” Ilya amended.

Shane snorted. “Okay, Chef. Then hit me with it.”

Ilya looked at him warily, clearly not understanding the turn of phrase.

“Make me something,” Shane clarified, making a show of pulling out a stool at the counter and sitting down.

Ilya puffed out his chest. “I am not afraid, Hollander.”

Shane watched from his perch as Ilya strode over to the large cool-box doors, full of swagger. He rustled around for a while, making inquisitive noises at the shelves, before reappearing in front of Shane brandishing—wait, was that…

“That’s fish,” Shane said warily.

“Yes, good job Hollander. Two points.”

“And cheese.”

“Another two points,” Ilya snarked.

“Do you actually know how to cook, Rozanov?” Shane asked, suddenly a little worried about the prospect of food poisoning.

“I make this all the time. Will be fine.”

Shane watched as Ilya moved around the kitchen, occasionally asking Shane where items were, questions to which Shane did not have answers.

Ilya sliced thick slices of French bread, and then toasted them in a pan with some olive oil and salt. He mixed the fish—a smoked mackerel—with mayonnaise and some chopped pickles, and even a little dill.

When the bread was toasted, he layered it with mackerel and thin slices of crunchy aged cheddar cheese on top, before popping the pan into the broiler.

Shane looked on in fascination, enjoying watching Ilya move about the kitchen with confidence. Shane saw food as a means to fuel him, and his chefs were so skilled that he'd never had the urge to learn to cook; never thought about it too much. Learning of this new side of Ilya was intriguing, and Shane filed it away in his mental folder marked Ilya lore.

The cheese was bubbling when Ilya pulled the pans out. He covered them with the second slice of bread, then plated up the sandwiches. He set one in front of Shane and then pulled out a second stool to Shane's right, sitting down with his own sandwich.

Shane examined it. Separately, he liked all of the ingredients. But together?

He blew on it a couple of times and then dove in. He took a big bite and then groaned in pleasure—the smokiness of the fish against the sharpness of the cheese was incredible, and the salt made all the flavours pop on his tongue.

“This is good.”

“Do not sound so surprised,” Ilya said with an arched eyebrow. But Shane was surprised.

“What other secret skills do you have?” Shane asked as he munched away on his sandwich.

“Ah, I think you know, Hollander.”

Shane’s ears went hot, but he refused to justify that with an answer. It was nice and oddly domestic, sitting together like this. It both settled Shane and made him feel jittery. He felt an ache in his chest just existing next to Ilya, sharing his space. He licked his fingers, his plate empty, and tried to subtly study Ilya’s profile.

He was so handsome. Shane sometimes couldn’t believe he was real.

“So now I am best swordsman, best host, and best cook, yes?”

And then he’d go and say something like that, and Shane remembered he was very much real, and a very much a dick.

“Shut the fuck up. I might not be able to cook, but I am a better host. When are you going to tell me what I said when I was drunk in Russia?”

"I tell you already, you say I have biggest penis in the world."

Shane snorted. "Oh fuck off, I did not. And I am still better than you with a sword."

“Hardly—too stiff, too technical.”

“It's called precision, and it’s how I beat you every time.”

Ilya made a noise of disbelief. “E-ery?" he said, the word muffled through his mouthful of food. "What is this every? What, you can’t do math?”

Shane rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his mouth. “How did you learn to cook?”

Ilya went quiet. Shane watched him as he chewed slowly, suddenly very focused on the table. Shane didn’t think he was going to answer, so he was surprised when Ilya said, “My mother.”

Shane stayed very still, afraid to break the spell. Ilya had never, in all the years Shane had known him, mentioned her.

After a long moment, when it seemed like Ilya wasn’t going to continue, Shane prompted softly, “What was she like?”

“Beautiful. Funny,” he said, looking away. "Very clever."

Shane reached out and touched Ilya’s cheek briefly, before pulling his hand away. “Sounds familiar,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Ilya played with the crumbs on the table. “But so sad. I wanted to make her happy. Sometimes I thought I could. But in the end…” he trailed off.

“What happened to her? No one ever told me,” Shane asked.

Ilya swallowed hard. Then he stood abruptly, and the scrape of his stool against the floor was loud in the quiet room. He grabbed Shane’s plate and brought the dishes to the sink.

“An accident,” he said, with a humourless chuckle.

Shane swallowed. Something about the way Ilya said it rang false to his ears. “What kind of accident?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking.

“The kind where she accidentally swallowed a bottle of pills,” he said, his voice hard. Shane’s stomach sank through the floor.

Ilya started to wash the dishes in the sink, and Shane wanted to tell him to leave it, that the kitchen staff would handle it. But he also understood that Ilya was taking a moment, so he stayed quiet.

“I found her.”

“What?” Shane asked sharply, bracing himself against the pain that suddenly threatened to drown him. "How old were you?"

His memory of Ilya's first visit to Canada now played in an entirely different light. How old had Ilya been? Thirteen?

"Twelve," Ilya said. “I came home early from riding. My horse landed badly on her foot, so I brought her to the stables. I wasn’t supposed to be home so early.” His voice broke on the last word, and Shane was moving before he was even aware of his actions. He collided with Ilya’s back, wrapping him in a crushing hug from behind.

Ilya let out a small oof as Shane knocked the air from his lungs, but didn’t protest further. Shane wrapped his arms around Ilya’s broad chest and buried his face in the crook of Ilya’s neck.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into Ilya's skin, and he wanted to take his pain away more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. Ilya placed the plate he was holding into the sink, and brought his wet hands up to cover Shane’s. Shane gripped him tighter, sure he was hurting Ilya now.

And suddenly, Shane was thirteen, and he was listening to a bereft Ilya breakdown through the door. Then, he was eighteen, and Ilya wouldn't get out bed. Ilya, with his halo of golden curls and taunting words. From the first moment he'd seen him, Shane was transfixed. Nothing had changed in a decade.

Anger flared through him in an instant as he realized the meaning of Ilya’s earlier words. “Gregori lied. He made you lie.” It wasn’t a question. An accident—that’s what everyone had been told.

“Da.”

Shane made a strangled sound in the back of his throat.

“Shane,” Ilya urged, squeezing his wrist, and Shane released some pressure on the chokehold he had. Ilya so rarely said his first name, and it made his chest ache. “It was long time ago now,” he said, but his voice wavered on the last word, giving him away.

Shane pressed his lips to the soft spot behind Ilya’s ear, placing one kiss there, and then another. Ilya shivered under his touch. “I’m sorry, Ilya. You deserve so much better.”

“Shane,” Ilya said again, his voice rough with emotion. He turned in Shane’s arms, and Shane loosened his grip enough to let him. Then, Ilya’s mouth was on his: soft at first, searching. He kissed away all the words Shane was desperate to say. The platitudes and trite meaningless sentiments that wouldn't help. Wouldn't erase what happened.

Instead he put everything he couldn't say into the way he kissed Ilya, pressing every hurt he couldn't soothe, every moment he wasn't able to be there, every emotion that was suddenly threatening to overwhelm him into Ilya's soft full lips. It didn't take long before the mood shifted from something soft and fragile, to something more frantic. Heat gathered between them as if in attempt to burn off the intensity of their emotion; fuel on the fire that was always burning between them. Like gasoline on a pilot light.

Ilya's kisses turned filthy as he held Shane tight against his body and licked into his mouth. They sucked at each other’s tongues, mouths open, panting in white, hot desperation.

Ilya’s fingers slid under the hem of Shane’s loose tunic, the pads of his fingers hot on Shane's bare skin, his hand tracing muscle, then exploring and dipping further into Shane's trousers.

“Ilya,” Shane gasped, and his stomach swooped so hard he thought his knees might buckle.

Ilya pulled back to look at him, taking hold of his chin. His eyes burned into Shane so intensely that his throat went dry. It was a look that Shane had caught glimpses of over the years, fleeting looks of longing he was sure he imagined; looks he'd replay over and over again in his mind.

But never had he seen Ilya look at him with such naked desire. There was so much in that look; something desperate and tortured that Shane couldn't process or understand. He felt it anyway, an aching in his chest, flaying him open. It made him want things he’d never even allowed himself to consider wanting. Things he’d never admitted to himself that he wanted. But now, it was here in front of him, and oh, he wanted.

“Take me to bed,” Shane croaked, his heart pounding and his dick hard. And how Ilya's eyes smouldered at that.

Ilya growled and reached down, grasping Shane’s thighs. Shane made an embarrassing sound as his feet left the floor. He wrapped his legs around Ilya’s waist, and Ilya, more smoothly than someone should be able to manage while holding another 190 pound man, walked them to the door. It was so hot that Shane almost let it continue out into the hall, but his brain fired its one remaining brain cell and reminded him that it would be insane for anyone to see them like this—Shane in Ilya’s arms.

“I can walk, Rozanov,” Shane said, more breathily than he’d care to admit. He punctuated it by sticking his tongue in the man’s ear. Ilya responded to that with a ragged moan and a pressing of Shane’s back into the wall, his hips canting forward and grinding his cock into the crevice of Shane’s ass.

"I am going to fuck you so hard you cannot," Ilya promised.

“Fuuuuuck,” Shane moaned as Ilya frotted against him, nipping at Ilya’s earlobe. “Put me down so we don’t fuck in the fucking in the kitchen.”

“That is not good enough argument, Hollander," he said, then captured Shane’s mouth in another bruising kiss.

“C’mon,” Shane said, grinding his cock into Ilya’s stomach. “I need you to fuck me. Someone could walk in, please.”

This must have been a good enough argument, because Ilya finally released him, allowing him to drop his feet back to the floor. He adjusted himself in his pants so his hard-on wouldn’t be immediately visible to the guards waiting outside the kitchens.

“Go. Now,” Ilya ordered. And, well, who was Shane to argue with that?

They left the kitchens, walking at quite the pace. The guards gave them a wary look, but followed close behind without comment.

They didn’t speak all the way to Ilya's chambers, and somehow managed to make it until the door closed behind them before Ilya went full caveman. He turned, crouching, and grabbed Shane around the back of the thighs, then stood and threw him over his shoulder in a fireman carry.

Shane yelped—a very manly yelp, thank you very much—and didn’t know if he was turned on or humiliated. Or both.

It was both.

Ilya walked him to the bed and tossed him down, before climbing on top of him, covering his body with his own. He slid his tongue back into Shane’s mouth, and Shane sucked on it, causing Ilya to grind his cock into Shane’s thigh.

Shane felt crazy with lust. Ilya’s heavy body on top of him felt so right, so stabilizing, so calming, that he sank into it; let Ilya’s presence consume him, let him turn off the exhausting part of Shane's brain that never seemed to stop churning.

Shane started tugging at Ilya’s clothes, too desperate to rid him of them to be effective. Ilya swatted his hands away and rolled off Shane’s body and onto his side, starting to undo buttons and clasps.

“Off,” Ilya ordered, pointing at Shane’s clothes, and Shane refocused on removing his own items. He removed his tunic and pants, folding them before placing them at the end of the bed.

When he lay back down, Ilya was there, naked. Miles upon miles of creamy skin on display. Shane wanted to kiss every inch of him and count every mole, but he was too desperate, too frantic to feel Ilya inside him, to feel physically connected.

He lay down beside Ilya , who immediately climbed between his thighs, pressing them obscenely wide. He slid a hand up Shane's knee and pressed it open into the bed, and the delicious stretch in his overworked muscles made Shane groan. Ilya lowered his weight back onto Shane and took his mouth again, but this time he kissed Shane slower. He slid his tongue inside and lazily swiped into Shane’s mouth, against his tongue. He came back to nibble on his bottom lip and then pulled away torturously, before repeating the process all over again.

It was distracting, but not enough that Shane didn’t feel Ilya’s hand creep up his thigh, sending goosebumps across his skin, his hand skimming up and over his already aching cock. His hand slipped down to gently tug on his balls, then his fingers slipped into his crease, circling his hole. Shane tipped his head back automatically as a spit soaked finger entered him. He swallowed and felt Ilya’s teeth nip gently at his Adam’s apple.

“Okay?” Ilya checked. He was always checking, even though Shane was sure he’d let Ilya do anything he wanted to.

He knew he was still pretty open; when he’d cleaned himself in the shower he’d felt it, revelled in it. He was still open from Ilya eating him out the night before, when he’d snuck into Shane’s room in the middle of the night and had surprised him by making a meal out of his ass. He'd tongue and finger fucked him until Shane had sobbed, his body shaking as he came. Then Ilya had jacked himself off, coating Shane’s used hole in hot come, before disappearing into the night without so much as a kiss.

“More,” Shane demanded. As hot as it had been, he wanted that connection that only having Ilya inside him gave him. The connection that Ilya had seemingly been running from the entire visit so far.

Two more fingers slipped inside his body and Shane groaned, unable to keep himself from grinding down.

“Always so responsive. So good. You’re not sore?”

“A little,” Shane admitted, the words slipping out from the lust. “I like it.”

Ilya groaned and kissed up his throat before whispering in his ear. “Such a slut for me, Hollander.”

“Yeah,” Shane agreed, shuddering as fingers brushed the sensitive spot inside him. “Fuck, Ilya, I am. Fuck me, I’m ready, please.”

Ilya’s fingers slipped out and Shane couldn’t stop the quiet whine from leaving his throat. He caught his breath and licked the inside of his dry mouth as the squelch of Ilya slicking up his cock filled the room. And then he was back, his mouth on Shane's, stealing the air from his mouth. The head of his cock pressed against Shane’s entrance.

“Fuck, yeah, yeah,” Shane chanted.

Then Ilya was groaning obscenely and pushing inside Shane’s body, causing Shane’s head to tip back again. He gasped as his body adjusted to Ilya’s size and length. Ilya hitched Shane’s thigh higher over his hip, positioning them so he was impossibly deep inside Shane’s body.

Shane took a shuddering breath, trying to adjust, revelling in the fullness.

Ilya slid out slowly, before pushing back in. They both groaned, their mouths connected but simply breathing into each other’s mouths. It felt so good, so overwhelming, the way Ilya was fucking him so slowly, almost reverently. Shane took Ilya’s face in his hands and kissed him deeply, needing somewhere to put the emotion threatening to spill over in his chest. The urgency had bled away into something softer, something scarier. Ilya’s earlier vulnerability had peeled back the layers that Shane usually kept in place to protect himself, to hide from himself how big this was. How much this actually meant to him.

Now, he was exposed. He blinked back wet lashes to find that Ilya was similarly affected, his eyes wide and glistening.

“Fuck, Ilya.”

Ilya’s eyes went impossibly wider, and there was that thing again. That emotion that made Shane’s stomach swoop and his heart hurt.

“Shane, my perfect Shane,” he mumbled into Shane’s mouth, but it wasn’t his usual tease, no— this was loaded with meaning that Shane didn’t totally understand. Shane was almost grateful when Ilya buried his face in Shane’s neck and started thrusting harder, faster, taking them out of whatever emotional moment had overtaken them.

The sex got hotter and harder as they chased their orgasms. Ilya shifted the angle of his hips, adjusting Shane’s body as he liked, and Shane choked as Ilya started pegging his prostate directly. “Oh fuuuck—Ilya—I’m gonna—”

“Shane,” Ilya chanted in-between Russian words and curses that Shane couldn’t understand. A few more thrusts was all Shane could take, and he reached between them and grasped his cock. All it took was one pump in time with Ilya thrusting deeply inside him before his muscles kicked and flexed, his back bowing off the bed as he followed the wave of his orgasm over the cliff’s edge, gasping out nonsensical words.

Come shot up his chest, and Ilya grunted before letting out his own strangled cry, shaking and thrusting erratically. He pushed into Shane’s body as he emptied his balls into the hot cavern of Shane's body, and Shane held him through it. He wrapped Ilya's ribs in a crushing hug, and pressed kisses to his mouth, his cheeks—anywhere he could reach—until they both collapsed.

They lay there, their chests heaving. As they came down from their intense orgasms, Ilya pressed kisses to Shane's pecs, his clavicle. Shane’s leg was still in a crazy position, and he could already feel come leaking out of his ass in a way that made him want to squirm. But he didn't dare move; he was too afraid that Ilya would pull away and break the spell, would go back to being cold and distant.

But Ilya stayed, even after his soft cock had slipped free, his head eventually coming to rest on Shane’s chest. He drew designs on Shane’s bicep with his fingertips, and Shane pressed the occasional kiss to the top of his curls.

They stayed like that long after Shane would usually insist they clean up. He was too afraid to move; afraid to shatter the illusion.

Shane was tired, but fighting it. “What do you think you would be if you weren’t a prince?” he asked quietly.

Ilya stiffened, then relaxed. “I am lazy. So probably not much of anything.”

Shane frowned at that. The idea was discordant. “I don’t know that side of you at all,” he said, carding his fingers through blond curls.

“Ilya,” Shane whispered then.

“Yes, Shane?” Ilya replied, his voice equally quiet.

Shane didn't even know what he was going to say. He was a jumble of emotions that he didn't know how to name or process.

Ilya buried his face in Shane’s skin.

“I—" Shane began, but the words hovered there. They were aborted confessions; promises he couldn't keep.

Instead, he asked the thing he probably shouldn't have. The dread that he was probably not supposed to voice. “You don’t ever think you would… you’d never do anything—-like your mom, right?”

Shane couldn't stop the tremble in his voice as he voiced the words. He remembered holding a despondent Ilya, and thought about all the times he hadn't been there for him. Thought of Ilya alone in Russia. The thought struck fear into his heart.

Ilya tensed in his arms. He didn’t answer for a long moment. “No, maybe. Sometimes... who would miss me?”

Shane sucked in a sharp breath.

“I would miss you,” he said fiercely. They’d never spoken like this—never anything but teasing and taunting, and dirty-talk in bed. But Shane didn't care, not right now. “I ne—“ he began, his voice cracking. “I need you.”

And it was so honest that Shane felt a little ill. He held his breath, bracing for Ilya to make an excuse and leave. Instead, Ilya's muscles relaxed under his hands, only his grip around Shane tightening. And for that moment, it was enough.

They were quiet for a long time; eventually getting up to wash, before climbing back into Ilya's bed. Shane hovered near the bed, wondering if he should leave. But Ilya just patted the empty space beside him, and when Shane followed him in, he tucked Shane into his body, wrapping around his back, heads together on the pillow.

They talked about dumb stuff for a while: the recent tournament, some of the nobility. It wasn’t long before they were both covering jaw-cracking yawns.

Shane’s eyes were closed. He didn't remember closing them, but suddenly he couldn't find the energy to open them. Ilya was so warm, wrapped around him. He never wanted to move.

“Shane, there's something--” Ilya said, or Shane thought he did. His head was fuzzy and slipping in between dreams and reality already.

“M'asleep,” Shane mumbled. Ilya nuzzled into the curve of Shane’s neck with a sad sigh.

"You'll stay?"

"Stay?" Shane parroted, his tired brain not understanding.

"Tonight. Stay tonight."

He drifted for an indeterminate amount of time after that, reality and dreams swirling. When he suddenly jolted back to reality. What was he doing? They couldn't fall asleep like this. He sat up, rubbing at his face. “Ilya. We can’t get caught like this,” not hiding the disapproval from his voice.

He absently registered Ilya go rigid behind him. "Sleep, Hollander. Is fine. No one will come in. Stay."

"I can't," he said, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest at the thought of someone coming in, even the staff. The rumours that would start. His parents could find out. What would he even tell them? The thought made him want to be sick. No. He couldn't stay. 

He climbed out of the bed. Glancing back at Ilya, his heart sunk. He sat up against the pillows, expression guarded but not enough to hide the hurt and anger in his eyes. Fuck. The night had been different and confusing. But Shane couldn't. So he didn't. 

"I just. I gotta--" and he turned and left. 

When Shane woke in the morning, his bed was cold and empty. He'd tossed and turned, his anxious brain not letting him rest. 

The Russian entourage left that day.

Ilya didn't even say goodbye.

He didn't look in Shane's direction or speak another word to him.

It was a year before Shane saw or heard from Ilya again.

Chapter 10: Break my legs so I won't run to you

Chapter Notes

Chapter Music:
A better son/daughter - Rilo Kiley
Your Love is Killing Me - Sharon Van Etten

👑 .:.: Now .:.: 👑

The journey to Russia is long and awful. It rains almost the entire multiple day passage, as though the universe can sense Shane’s mood, making for a sodden, slow, journey.

Shane alternates between riding on horseback and sleeping in the carriage. He never gets fully dry. It tests his sanity and patience.

He can’t help but feel as if Ilya was saying goodbye to him the night before he’d left. He’d been gone when Shane woke, already on his way to Russia and able to move faster on horseback with only a couple of guards. It was too much like the last time. Ilya leaving without saying goodbye. While things couldn't be more different between them now, it still feels like a bad case of déjà vu. Shane and his parents are bringing most of Ilya's belongings, so Ilya travelled light—although Shane, like a total creep--asked Luca to steal a couple items of clothing out of his travel chest to hide in his own closet.

It was probably an insane move, but Shane wanted Ilya to have clothes in Canada, just in case—what? Shane doesn't know. It wasn’t rational. The thought of Ilya going back to Russia is sending him into a tailspin.

Ilya speaking of how he couldn’t trust his guards, of how unstable Alexei was, even before Gregori had died? It was scary. Shane hates that he was mostly alone there; that once back in Russia, Ilya won't be able to leave again, trapped in a life of obligation.

Shane had told him in the dark of the night that if anything happened, anything at all that freaked Ilya out, he should get on a damn horse and come home. Home. Home to Shane.

But he knows it's fruitless. There is still nothing they can do to change their situation. They are walking into a shitshow, and what can Shane do?

Ilya deserves better than being Shane's dirty secret, not that Shane would even want that for Ilya. Ilya has spent his whole life as the spare. Shane refuses to make Ilya to feel like that in their relationship. Unfortunately, the thought of Shane telling his parents that Ilya is... whatever he is to Shane still makes him feel sick to his stomach.

His parents have given him everything: every opportunity, every kindness, have set him up for success as king one day. And now—what? Shane is going to tell them that he wants to be with someone he can't even legally marry?

As king, he has to have a queen, he has to have an heir. He and his mother fight enough battles because of their Japanese heritage, dealing with the constant claims that they aren't Canadian enough. And he's going to add this? 

But Shane can’t change his situation; now that he’s accepted how he feels, he knows he isn’t marrying anyone else. He doesn’t care if Ilya marries Svetlana and stays in Russia forever. Shane's heart is off the market, and so is his body. So he travels and he spirals. 

All he can do is worry. So that's what he does.

The Russian castle, once they finally arrive, is at least a reprieve. It's as large and foreboding as Shane remembers. He’s visited a handful of times over the years, even after the traumatic boar hunting incident, although he'd never visited without his parents again. 

The castle is imposing—much bigger than the Canadian one, despite the near equal wealth of their states. It feels unnecessary, with dozens of rooms closed and covered in dust sheets.

Despite multiple fires lit in hearths, it’s always freezing, the hallways vast and dark. The dampness seeping into your bones. The paintings that adorn the walls are all of horrific, bloody war scenes. The rooms are all ostentatious, with furs thrown over every couch and bed, everything smelling like mildew and dust.

Shane’s chamber is one large room, rather than multiple ones like his own at the castle. There’s a huge bed off to one side and a large claw foot tub on the other, sitting just outside the water closet, as is tradition in some European countries.

When he finally makes it inside, he pauses to press his forehead to the inside of the door. The only silver lining that he can think of is that at least he is back in the same building as Ilya.

As if summoned, he hears a familiar voice muffled through the door. He stands up straight, walking backwards until he’s mostly across the room, embarrassed to be caught standing against the door like he’s waiting.

There's a knock, and the door opens a crack. “Your Highness?” his guard calls. Shane always brings his own guards from home, on his mother’s insistence. He understands why now more than ever.

“Yes?”

“The Prince of Russia is here to see you, sire.”

“Let him in.”

The door opens wider, and suddenly Ilya is in front of him. Shane swallows over a lump in his throat.

What strikes him first is that Ilya looks very Russian: his curls are slicked back, and he’s wearing an asymmetrical black tunic trimmed with fur, alongside black trousers and tall, shiny black riding boots. His brow is furrowed. He looks every inch the Prince of Russia.

Shane hesitates, his limbs frozen, afraid of which version of Ilya he’ll get tonight. The harsh, sometimes cruel version Ilya wears like a shield? Or his Ilya.

Ilya moves towards him, his long legs eating up the distance in a few quick strides. Shane watches in real time as the mask crumbles, and he sags in relief, almost collapsing into Ilya’s waiting arms.

“Moy lyubimy.”

Shane wraps his arms around Ilya’s neck and buries his face in his skin. Ilya holds him back just as tightly, lifting him a few inches off the ground before setting him back down. Shane hates that he has to blink away tears; he’s the one supposed to be comforting Ilya. “Are you okay?” he croaks.

Ilya chuckles into his hair. “I should be asking you this, I think?”

“Fuck off,” Shane says, without any heat.

They hold each other for a long moment, and Shane wonders when they got so sappy.

“I should not have come, but I could not help myself,” Ilya confesses.

Shane sniffles and holds Ilya even tighter to him, hard enough to hurt. “Yes, you should have. They’re my guards. I've instructed them to let you in no matter what, even if I’m sleeping.”

Ilya pulls away to study his face, his eyes wide with surprise. Shane is resolved—his personal guards have known about them for a long time, and he isn't going to risk missing one more moment with Ilya.

“I cannot come again. You know this,” Ilya says.

“I know,” Shane replies, and he sounds petulant even to his own ears. “But just in case you need to. No matter what.”

Ilya’s eyes soften further, and he rubs a thumb along Shane’s cheekbone. “Doosha moya.”

“What does that mean?” Shane asks; he’s heard Ilya call him that before.

“It means 'my pineapple'.”

Shane snorts. “No, it doesn’t.”

“No, it does not,” Ilya admits.

Shane lifts an eyebrow.

Ilya sighs and presses a feather-light kiss to his lips, then another one to his cheek, then one right in front of his ear, before he whispers, “it means my soul.”

Shane swallows hard. Whatever he expected, it wasn’t that. He presses a kiss to Ilya's lips then asks, “How is Alexei?”

Ilya makes an angry sound in his throat. “Drunk.”

He steps back, putting some space between them, and Shane immediately hates it.

“He's refusing to do anything useful for the funeral. I am grateful for the staff, because my step-mother and brother are useless. There would be no funeral if it were left to them,” Ilya says.

“Is it terrible?” Shane asks, and then cringes. Because, what a stupid question—of course it is.

But Ilya’s eyes are warm as they study his face. “Less now.”

“You can talk to me, you know,” Shane pushes.

Ilya sighs. “Is hard. Brain is full. No room for English words.”

Shane has witnessed firsthand Ilya's English improving over the years, but he knows that when Ilya is tired, stressed, drunk, or, well—horny, he loses his vocabulary.

Shane feels the same way when he speaks French, and he rarely needs to speak it when under duress, so he understands.

“You can speak to me in Russian. I won’t understand, but I can still listen.”

Ilya steps back into his space, grasping his chin and tipping his head up. “Okay. I will consider this. Thank you,” he says, and it’s so polite that Shane can’t help the smile that pulls at his mouth. Ilya leans down and slowly kisses him, pressing their lips together. The kiss is chaste at first, but then Ilya slips his tongue into Shane’s mouth, and Shane can’t help his moan.

Shane tugs Ilya into his body and groans when they press against each other. Ilya licks filthily into his mouth, and Shane’s body responds as it always does: his heart hammers and his cock thickens.

Ilya growls low in his throat, but he wrenches himself away and puts several feet between them, one arm splayed out, warning Shane to stay back.

Shane wants to stubbornly pull him back in and kiss him hard, to love him properly. But he knows, despite how put together he looks, that Ilya is balanced on a knife’s edge. Shane reminds himself that he has to keep it together, and so he straightens his back and fidgets with his shirt, which is still loose from where he pulled it out of his trousers.

It belatedly occurs to him that he is gross. “Sorry, I probably smell like sweat and horse. Long day of travel,” Shane explains, and fortunately, this seems to surprise Ilya back to himself.

He barks out a laugh and then steps closer again with a wolfish grin, making an exaggerated show of smelling Shane. Shane lightly shoves him away, but holds onto his jacket so he can't actually go far. “Stop.”

“I like the way you smell, Your Highness,” Ilya says, and, well, Shane is not proud of the way his mouth drops open in a tiny gasp at that, nor the way his dick perks up.

Ilya's grin grows. “Ah, Perfect Prince Hollander. Do you like when I call you Your Highness?”

Shane swallows. “Prince Rozanov,” he warns. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

Suddenly, there's a loud pounding at the door, and they jump apart. The knock is insistent, and Shane hears the warning in it.

“Your Royal Highnesses. Your presence is requested at dinner.”

“Shit,” Shane mutters, as Ilya smooths his hands over his perfect tunic. “I better wash and dress.”

But before either of them can move, there’s the sound of voices outside. It sounds like Shane’s guards are arguing with someone, but he can’t hear who.

Suddenly, his door is thrown open, and to Shane’s complete and utter shock, he is faced with Svetlana.

Shane dearly wishes he was clean and wearing something immaculate and dashing right now, because Svetlana is a sight. She’s wearing a long, dark purple gown with a white fur cloak wrapped around her shoulders, and Shane hates her with the fire of a thousand suns.

“Shane, it’s good you’re here,” she says, in her perfect English.

“Svetlana. Nice to see you again so soon.” He tries so hard to say it normally, but knows he's failed, because Svetlana’s eyes dance with mirth. Ilya covers his laugh with a fake cough and is suddenly very interested in looking around the large room.

“Ilyushka, Alexei is losing his shit looking for you. Your presence is required. And Shane, your parents are already in the Great Hall and will be asking after you soon. It’s time to put our game faces on.”

As if on cue, there’s the sound of a throat clearing from the doorway, and Shane looks up to find little Luca Haas practically gaping at the Russian royals like he’s seeing a celebrity up close for the first time.

His eyes widen, and Shane follows his gaze. His stomach bottoms out when he sees the absolutely offensively sized emerald engagement ring that Svetlana is wearing. Shane inhales sharply as the air is sucked out of the room. It feels like an elephant is sitting his chest and it suddenly doesn't seem possible to draw a full breath into his lungs. His vision narrows to a pinprick. All he can see is that emerald. 

“Shane,” Svetlana and Ilya say at the same time, and then a big hand is cupping his cheek.

“Go run the bath,” Shane hears Svetlana tell Luca.

Shit just got real, and Shane thinks he might be hyperventilating. Absently, somewhere in the back of his mind tells him that he’s supposed to be keeping it together for Ilya, but his melting brain cannot compute the request.

“Shane,” Ilya says again, softer, his quiet voice next to Shane’s ear. "Breath. You're okay." He puts a steadying hand on Shane's chest, over his heart, their chests so close they're practically touching. Shane wonders absently if Ilya can feel it pounding like it's trying to break free from his ribs. "Breath with me," Ilya commands and Shane's powerless not to listen. He finds himself matching his breaths to Ilya's, and air starts to flow in and out again.

“You know this is happening,” Ilya reminds him.

And yes, Shane does. But knowing and knowing are something else entirely. He forces himself to nod and take another breath.

“Ilya,” Svetlana says apologetically, “we need to go.”

“Shane,” Ilya says again.

“I’m fine,” he says, and tries to mean it. At the very least, air is flowing in and out of his lungs again, and his vision is returning. “Go.”

Ilya makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. He grasps Shane's face with both hands and kisses him on the mouth, right in front of Svetlana, and Luca, who is filling the tub a few feet away.

It’s a firm but chaste peck, but it’s enough to shock Shane back to life. Their eyes connect, and Shane feels his pulse calm, which is insane considering the circumstances. He finally takes a deep breath.

“Go,” he says, his voice steadier.

Ilya studies him for a moment longer, and he's apparently satisfied with what he sees, because he nods once, and then he’s gone. Svetlana follows behind him with one last apologetic look at Shane.

Shane doesn’t know how long he stands there, but he jumps when Luca touches his shoulder. “C’mon, Prince Hollander. We gotta get you ready,” he says gently.

Shane follows Luca to the bath, still feeling hollow and offcenter. He undoes his shirt and folds it, placing it on the chair next to the bath. “It’s Shane,” he says, his voice a little rough.

“What?” Luca asks, confused.

“Call me Shane, Luca.”

“I'll try.”

Shane shoots him a wry look. “You’re about to help me take a bath after you saw the Prince of Russia kiss me on the mouth. I think we’re past formalities, no?”

Luca chokes on his own spit, and Shane gets in the bath.

A few minutes later, Shane is washing and Luca is facing away from him, laying out all of Shane’s clothes and jewelry for dinner. As he puts out the last few items, he says, “He really is so hot, dude. Well done.”

And Shane, even though his throat is burning and he wants to cry, bursts out laughing.

The week is long and awful; just one long ceremony after another.

Alexei goes back and forth between drunk rage and despondency. In front of the public, he pulls it together enough to sit there looking angry—if he shows up, that is. He has had some notable, unexplained absences that worry Shane. Ilya sits by Alexei's side, his expression cold and eyes vacant, and Shane can only watch, helpless.

Svetlana tries to speak to Shane more than once, but he avoids her like it’s his job, and so what? He’s busy with political meetings and handshaking with his parents. The Russians always treat them like celebrities, despite Shane knowing that neither Gregori nor Alexei were ever overly fond of the Canadian monarchs. And yet, the press still come to talk to them, and nobility still line up to ask them questions.

The actual funeral is on the last day that they’re in Russia. They plan to leave the following morning, and while Shane can’t wait to get out of there, he is, at the same time, terrified to leave Ilya behind.

After their stolen meeting, they haven’t gotten a single moment alone for the entire week, and Shane wishes he’d stolen one more kiss that first day. Watching Ilya with his brother from afar all week has been torture, and Shane lies awake at night worrying about Ilya stuck in this awful place with his abusive brother.

The funeral is a continuation of the purgatory; the procession goes on for hours, and they follow the casket through the streets of Moscow until Shane’s feet ache and his face hurts from holding an awkward polite smile all day. The common folk fall into two categories: those who weep, and those who yell angry words and throw produce.

They’re walking behind the Russians in the procession, who are directly behind the casket, which allows Shane a front row seat to the tension that is growing in Ilya’s shoulders.

Shane knows that Ilya’s relationship with his father was awful and complicated, but in the end, it was still his father. Still his father, who Ilya had to watch deteriorate; who he had to watch slowly die. Whose casket he now has to follow.

Shane knows Ilya better now; knows how desperate he is to be loved. He feels stupid for not seeing it earlier, and it makes him ache with hatred for Gregori, and in empathy with Ilya. At the same time, he can’t help but sneak glances at his own dad, walking beside his mom. The thought of anything happening to his own parents is too awful for him to bear.

Dinner—once they finally get to it—starts out quiet. But the vodka is flowing at an alarming rate, and soon enough, men are either yelling, fighting, or singing. No one seems happy, and it seems to Shane to be the world's most depressing party. Once in a while, someone yells ‘Za zdorovye’ in Russian, everyone takes a shot, and then the shots are refilled. Shane drinks two, already having flashbacks to Ilya holding his hair as he threw up into a bucket, but it's rude to refuse. And feels impossible when someone is holding up a toast to him every few minutes.

Svetlana comes over, and Shane can’t exactly get up and leave, so he sits there as she leans in and whispers in his ear, saying, “The trick is to leave your water glass mostly empty and spit the vodka out into it when you go to take a sip of water.”

Then, she touches his cheek fondly, like they’re old friends, and wanders back to her place at Ilya’s side.

He looks at her questioningly, but she just shakes her head. Shane hates to discover she’s right, and it is, in fact, an amazing way to not drink one hundred shots in a night especially without the hope that Ilya would be able to come hold his hair this time.

Ilya does not seem to have the same priorities, as he seems to be getting drunker by the minute. His face is red, and he even joins in on a Russian drinking song at some point. Alexei seemed to have started out drunk, and the situation is not improving. Shane watches as the two brothers mutter low angry words to each other until they leave the hall entirely, exiting into a private antechamber with no possible way for him to follow.

Shane tries to listen through the music, but he can't hear anything; not that he’d be able to understand, anyway. Svetlana looks his way and they exchange a worried look, then she stands and hurries after them. Shane is simultaneously grateful and so deeply jealous that he wouldn’t be surprised to learn his skin is tinged green.

Ilya and Svetlana return not long after, looking tense. Alexei doesn’t return. Ilya resumes drinking, leaning into Svetlana’s space.

Shane wants to leave, but he’s worried about how drunk Ilya seems. He didn't even know Ilya was capable of getting sloppy drunk. Shane always figured his blood started at 40% vodka, so it didn’t affect him the same way.

But he’s got a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and he’s slurring loudly as he argues in Russian with someone at the table. He's also smoking a cigarette in the Great Hall, at dinner, tapping ash into his plate of leftover food.

It’s as good a sign as any that it's time for Shane to give up and go to bed. He's ingested enough vodka, even with Svetlana’s trick, to cause his head to swim. He can’t stand to watch Ilya torture himself further, and he finally admits to himself that he's not actually doing anything productive by being here.

So he wishes his parents—who look exhausted themselves—a good night, and then heads back to his room.

Shane's brain is spiralling as he gets ready for bed, pulling on some sleep shorts and sliding into the big bed. He’s grateful for the fire in the hearth and the heavy furs on the bed, as they help to fight off the constant chill of the old, drafty castle.

He is exhausted and longs for sleep, wanting desperately to put the whole miserable trip behind him. But all he can do is lie there, wide awake.

He hears a commotion at his door: there are yelled Russian words and muffled English ones, and then the door to his room opens. Shane sits up in bed, startled.

And then Ilya is there. He stands at the end of Shane’s bed, his expression shuttered, unsure. Not the same loud drunk Shane had witnessed less than an hour ago.

The bedroom door clicks closed, and Shane is confused, but he isn't going to turn down a single moment of time alone with Ilya.

He peels back the duvet cover and pats a spot on the bed next to him. Ilya’s shoulders slump in relief, and he unbuttons his tunic, first peeling that off, and then his undershirt. He sits on the edge of the bed, tugs off his boots, and then falls into Shane’s arms. His arms circle Shane’s ribs, and he buries his face between Shane’s pecs, his feet hanging off the bed. Shane feels a wave of relief so strong that he’s sure his knees would have buckled if he wasn’t lying down. The desperation Shane has felt having to watch Ilya endure this circus and being so close, yet so far away from him, has been unbearable.

He shuffles them until his back is against the headboard, settling amongst a myriad of pillows. He pulls Ilya higher up on his chest and tucks the blanket around them, rubbing Ilya’s back as he clings to Shane.

Shane kisses the top of his head. The silence stretches, and Shane gets progressively more worried, until Ilya’s shoulders shudder and Shane realizes he’s crying.

“You’re okay. I’ve got you,” Shane whispers, kissing his curls.

Ilya grips him impossibly tighter, and Shane lets him unravel in his arms.

Ilya’s shoulders jump with a silent hiccup. And Shane waits it out, does his best to just be there, to let Ilya feel everything he hasn't been able to.

“Is bullshit,” Ilya mumbles eventually, his voice thick. He makes a show of using Shane’s chest to wipe his tears, scrubbing his nose with the back of his fist.

Shane wrinkles his nose. “Which part? The one where you use me as a tissue?” he teases.

Ilya lifts up to rest on his elbows. His eyes are red-rimmed but clearer than Shane expects. He raises an eyebrow. “These tits are mine, no?”

Shane huffs in surprise, but Ilya continues. “I choose to use as tissue. Is very good.”

Shane reaches up and wipes an errant tear from under Ilya’s eye. “How drunk are you?” he asks, and leans up, abs flexing, to place a chaste kiss on Ilya’s lips. Ilya chases his mouth as he lies back again. He follows him down to press another kiss, lingering this time, to Shane’s mouth. Shane sinks into it, opening to Ilya’s tongue when it licks the seam of his mouth. Ilya tastes of cigarettes and vodka, and where Shane would complain about this in the past, now he licks at Ilya’s tongue, desperate to hold on to the taste, this moment.

“Hey?” Shane asks, pulling away to catch his breath. His cock is getting heavy between his legs, but he’s trying really hard to be here for Ilya in this moment. His body always seems to only have one mode when it comes to the Russian prince.

“Hmm?” Ilya hums, leaning in for another kiss that Shane dodges.

“You had a few shots of vodka earlier?”

“Several,” Ilya agrees, and captures his mouth again.

Shane slides a hand into his curls and grips them, tugging Ilya’s head back.

“Answer the question.”

“I’m Russian, Shane. It barely, how you say? Touch sides.”

Shane smiles fondly. “You seemed drunk at dinner.” And he did. But the Ilya in front of him has clear eyes. Maybe not entirely sober, but not hammered, as he’d seemed.

“Is for show. So I can leave and come here. Ooooh no, I’m so drunk, I get lost in castle. Go bother Canadian Prince and pass out on the floor.” He flails a little, miming being drunk.

Shane’s eyebrows hit his hairline as realization dawns. It was all an act. “To come see me?”

Ilya’s eyes soften, and he melts back into Shane’s body. He brushes a lock of hair off Shane’s forehead. “I could not let you leave without saying goodbye, moy ananas.” He tries to give Shane a salacious smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Shane’s throat closes at the word goodbye. He hears the subtext; that this is goodbye for real. He’s not coming back; he’s going to marry Svetlana and stay in this miserable place and give up Shane to help his useless brother rule.

"Okay, that one actually does mean pineapple," Shane says.

Ilya looks immediately suspicious. "Ah, you speak Russian now?"

"It's the same in French, idiot."

Ilya's grin is infectious. "Da, kotyenok. (Yes, Kitten)".

“This isn’t goodbye, though. You’re coming back, right? Soon. You’re gonna come visit and we’re gonna make a plan, right?”

Ilya kisses him. “So many questions, Hollander. Can we not, tonight? I am tired.”

Shane swallows. He swallows the lump in his throat; swallows all the things he wants to yell at Ilya, at the universe for their impossible situation; swallows the way he wants to beg Ilya not to marry her.

He remembers in the knick of time that Ilya buried his father today, in front of his expectant country. “Sorry,” he croaks. 

Ilya rubs his thumb over Shane’s cheek. He swallows and nods, looking just as affected. He seems to know all the words Shane didn’t yell, all the things he wanted to beg for.

"I love these spots, your vesnushki (freckles)", did you know that?” he says, surprising Shane.

“Spots? You mean my freckles?”

"Yes. Your sozvezdiya (constellations). Beautiful. I used to think about kissing every single one, alone in this big, stupid castle. That maybe one day you’d lie still and let me trace them. Count them."

“They’re just whatever,” Shane shrugs.

Ilya looks aghast.

“Just whatever?” Ilya feigns being shot in the heart and rolls onto his back. “You wound me, Hollander.”

Shane can't help the slightly hysterical giggle that bubbles out of him. Ilya grins, still lying on his back, one arm dramatically thrown over his face. He peaks over at Shane.

“I am feeling very drunk, Prince Hollander. Maybe I accidentally pass out drunk in your room tonight?” His tone is teasing, but his eyes are worried. Shane flashes back to the many times he all but shoved him out the door for fear of being caught. Shane should do that. It is dangerous and stupid; they are in Russia, and the stakes couldn't be higher. But Shane’s guards are at the door, and he wouldn’t give up time with Ilya for anything. He won't make the same mistake again. 

So he says, “Only if you take your pants off, Prince Rozanov. You won’t sleep well partially dressed.”

Ilya grins at him. “Trying to get me naked? Scandalous.”

Shane grins back. “When did your English get so good?”

Ilya rolls back over, caging Shane back in with his forearms, looming over him. He studies Shane's face, emotions flicker across his face. The somber mood of the day, the oppressiveness of their environment, threatens to burst their small happy bubble.

"We will figure something out, I'm not leaving you here, Ilya. Okay? Even if I never marry anyone and rot away in Canada. I'm not going anywhere." He doesn't know why he says it, but he feels he has to in that moment.

Ilya blinks, his eyes suddenly wet. "Shane. My Shane," he whispers. “Ya tebya lyublyu."

Shane blinks in surprise, his brain raising a flag that he's heard those words before. He's heard it before, it in the brief lessons he took in Russian when he was younger.

“Say that in English,” Shane demands. Ilya’s eyes go wide with shock, not expecting to be understood.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice thick.

“Oh, holy shit,” Shane says and rolls them so that Ilya is on his back, and he kisses every inch of Ilya’s face. “I love you too, Ilya. Holy shit, I love you so much.”

“Shane, I have loved you for so long. It destroys me. It’s torture. Put me out of my misery.”

So Shane does.

When Shane wakes up, he feels happy for the first time in a long time. Ilya’s big warm body is wrapped around his, his breath puffing against the back of his neck. Shane blinks into the darkness of the room, barely registering the dawn light trickling in under the curtains.

Shane burrows back into Ilya’s warmth, sleep already pulling him back under, when movement catches his eye.

“Please don’t fall back asleep,” a slightly hysterical Luca Haas whispers, hovering awkwardly near the end of the bed.

Shane’s whole body goes rigid as he registers his reality. He is fully naked in bed, with a fully naked Ilya Rozanov, and his valet is watching them.

He blinks, trying to make his brain function.

“I came to wake you,” Luca continues, without waiting for a response. "I thought he might be in here, and your parents have ordered we leave in an hour. I’ve started packing, but the staff—the Russian staff—want to come in and start getting your things sorted and into the carriages.”

Shane bolts upright as his brain tries to process the words. Ilya, clearly a little hungover, mumbles something that sounds like freckles and reaches an arm around Shane's waist, pressing his face into the skin at his hip and inhaling deeply.

“Ilya,” Shane says, brain thick with sleep. He jostles Ilya’s side. “We gotta get up.”

“Thanks, Luca,” Shane says, turning his attention back to his valet briefly. “I’m up. Give us a minute.”

Luca nods. Shane doesn’t miss the appreciative once over he gives Ilya’s exposed muscular back and the top of his ample buttocks. And well, Shane can’t blame him, really. He owes him a lot, he can’t fault him a crush. Ilya really is gorgeous.

Once he’s gone, Shane leans over and kisses Ilya’s hairline. “Come on, moy lub-im-iy.” The word is clunky in his mouth, but he hopes one day that he can pull it off.

It works, though. A grin pulls at Ilya's mouth where his face is still pressed into the pillow.

“I fucked you so good you are Russian now?” he asks, his voice scratchy.

“Daa,” Shane says, sounding wholly Canadian, pressing a kiss to Ilya’s cheek.

Ilya’s shoulders shake with a laugh.

Shane throws back the covers, which earns a groan from Ilya, and gets out of bed. He pulls on the clothes that Luca thoughtfully left out: his riding boots and travel clothes.

Alone in bed, Ilya blinks and moves to sit up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and yawning. His curls are a fluffy mess, and he looks so much like himself again that Shane could cry.

There isn’t a lot of time—mere minutes—and the guards are knocking at the door, asking to come in and take his things. Luca apologizes fourteen times before bustling in and starting to pack everything into Shane’s travel trunks.

Shane’s heart is pounding now. He isn't ready to go. He regrets falling asleep after they’d frotted together until they'd both come, but they’d both been so tired. They hadn’t talked enough, but there wasn't enough time.

Ilya pulls back on his trousers from the night before, along with his undershirt, holding onto his boots and tunic.

His face has turned entirely serious, and Shane is panicking now.

“Shane, I—“

“No,” Shane cuts him off. “No goodbyes, Rozanov.” He knows it's cruel that he's left Luca to pack up all his things without any help—Ilya needs to leave, so that the other staff, who are probably standing at his door, can come in and help.

“Shane, please.”

“You’re coming back to Canada, soon. And we’re going to talk. For real.”

Ilya opens his mouth to argue. Then he closes it again. He looks impossibly sad, and Shane feels like his world is ending. “Ilya, please,” he begs. If he were a better man, he’d let him go. Maybe preserve some dignity. But he isn’t a better man and he doesn't give a fuck about dignity.

“Shane,” Ilya pleads again, and the word contains so much. He cups Shane’s cheeks with both hands, studying his face, his eyes. As if he’s mapping every inch of him.

Shane sniffles, his heart pounding far too hard. The stress of the mounting pressure is making his brain want to disassociate. There are people waiting outside, and he needs to be doing things, and Ilya needs him, but he can’t focus. He feels pulled in too many directions. There’s another loud knock at the door. “Prince Hollander?”

“No,” Shane says weakly, grasping Ilya’s wrist. But the overstimulation is starting to hit a fever pitch, and he’s been stretched too thin on a couple of hours sleep to maintain any semblance of control.

“Get home safe,” Ilya says simply, like it’s not a world-ending statement. He presses a soft but entirely too quick kiss to Shane’s mouth, and then he’s leaving.

He flings the door open and saunters out, walking in a jagged line. He says something in Russian, which Shane figures is probably about how he’s still drunk. And then he’s gone.

Shane stands frozen as staff bustle into the room. They move past him and start packing the rest of his things.

At some point, Luca comes up and helps him into his jacket, his boots. Shane doesn’t even argue, doesn’t tell him he’s a grown adult who can dress himself, just lets it happen.

He lets Luca walk him to the stables, who pats him consolingly on the shoulder and nudges him towards his horse.

It’s not until the castle is disappearing behind him that Shane realizes he hadn't even told Ilya that he loves him again.

Chapter 11: I need sunshine

Chapter Notes

Chapter Music:
I’ll Believe in Anything (Acoustic_ - Spencer Krug

👑 .:.:.: Now .:.:.: 👑 

Time has no meaning once they return from Russia. It moves in starts and stops. Days pass, then a week. Then another, and another.

There is no word from Ilya. Shane knows there was never going to be. The Russian government read all communications, anyway. For Ilya’s safety, allegedly, but it had also been a way for Grigori to control him.

Ilya had told him, back when they were still young—and Shane didn't realize how dorky it was to ask Ilya if they could send each other letters when they were apart—that every letter was reviewed before he saw it. They’d developed nicknames and code words, but it wouldn't have taken a genius to figure it out. They never spoke outright about anything, just hinted and alluded to it. How many girls were sending Ilya letters? No one looked twice at a letter from Jane in Canada that outlined the latest tournament stats in compulsive detail.

But now, Shane is sure they are paying closer attention.

Besides, the things Shane wants to put in a letter are not for anyone else’s eyes. Not that he even knows what he would say. Pet names and romance are more Ilya’s territory, with his big Russian emotions. Shane is awkward and Canadian; more of a get-on-his-knees-and-show-you kinda guy.

So he waits, and he worries. 

He pushes away his parents' concern; deflects his mom’s efforts to get him to talk. His dad attempts a few Dad Talks by suggesting Father and Son Activities, which Shane dodges as fast as possible.

He feels like he’s slowly losing his mind and doing a bad job of hiding it, so he isn't exactly surprised when Rose informs him in no uncertain terms that they’re having lunch on Thursday and attendance is mandatory.

Once they get there, the lunch is nice, and he’s mostly glad she forced him into it. They eat at a table in the garden, making small talk. Mostly, Rose chatters at him about the latest gossip, while Shane half listens and nods at what he hopes is the right moment.

“How is Ilya?”

Shane, not expecting the segue from the topic of the Nordic Prince Harris and Hungarian Prince Troy have formed an unlikely friendship, starts choking wildly on the champagne he's sipping, which almost comes out of his nose.

Rose waits patiently as Shane remembers which body parts intake air versus liquids. He hopes she’s going to change the subject or get distracted, but neither happen. She pins him with an expectant stare.

“I don’t know,” he finally relents, throwing his hands in the air.

Her gaze turns sympathetic. “You haven't spoken to him since the funeral?”

The urge to deny that there is anything between them, to perpetuate the lie that has shaped his entire life, is strong. But he'd made a promise to himself on that ride back from Russia: he was all in, and that meant being more honest with himself. He could extend that honesty to Rose.

“No, I haven't.”

Rose nods sadly, her eyes worried. “You really care about him, don’t you?”

His heart squeezes, and he thinks he might be sick, but he forces the words from his mouth. “I-I love him,” he admits, and the words are strangled, but they’re there, out loud.

Rose’s eyes fill with tears, and she reaches across the table to squeeze his hand. “Pretty sure he’s been in love with you for literally forever. I'm sure you’ll hear from him as soon as he can.”

"How do you know that?" he asks.

"Girl. I have eyes," she says wryly. Shane's so distraught that he doesn't even bother arguing. Rose has always been better at reading people, so who is he to question her? And he so badly wants it to be true. 

Shane takes another sip of champagne, remembers that he hates champagne, and puts the glass down. He stares out into the garden. The beautiful day feels like it’s mocking him: bees buzz in the lavender, the trees sway in the breeze.

“What if—“ he starts, then has to clear his throat and try again. “What if this is my life now? Sitting around and waiting for him, for a man I can’t have, who is married to someone else. Waiting for him to get away, maybe once a year. Assuming he even wants to be with me that way once he’s married.”

Rose’s hand squeezes his tightly; he'd forgotten she was even holding it. “What if it is? Would you change your mind? It’s okay if the answer is yes.”

And it's the right question, because while Shane has been in agony not knowing how Ilya is doing, not knowing what their future holds, not being sure if Ilya’s just given up on them; he knows in his heart, in his lungs, in the marrow of his bones, that he's Ilya’s. He’s always been Ilya’s. He's just been too dumb to realize it.

It settles him. He lets air out of his lungs. “No. It wouldn’t change anything. Not really.”

Rose nods, and gives him a fierce look. “No matter what, I’m here for you, 'kay?”

Shane is so very grateful for her. He nods, flipping his hand over so he can squeeze hers back. He’s so focused on their conversation that he doesn’t immediately register one of the staff hurrying towards their table, an anxious look on her face.

“Your Highness,” she says when she’s close enough. “You have an unexpected visitor.”

Shane’s stomach is in knots as he hurries into the castle, Rose hot on his heels. He strides right past the stupid statue he once hid behind to eavesdrop on a conversation he couldn't understand, and straight into the library without even knocking. He falters as soon he’s in the room though, because there, perched on a tufted armchair in the corner of the room near the window, sits someone who is decidedly not Ilya.

He comes to an abrupt halt, and Rose almost runs into his back.

“Svetlana?”

She turns her regal head at the sound of her name. Somehow she's just arrived, and yet manages to look more poised than Shane has managed a single day of his life. She’s in riding pants and boots, but has a beautiful floor length royal purple fur-lined coat around her shoulders. He can’t help but sneak a glance at her hand, and breathes a sigh of relief to see that she isn’t wearing the engagement ring.

She watches him do it, of course. She and Ilya share their perceptiveness. Shane hates that he knows she’ll make a perfect wife for him, that she's a perfect choice for him in all the ways Shane isn't.

“Please, Shane. Call me Sveta. When you say my name so formally, I feel like I’m in trouble.” She pauses, her eyes catching on Rose. “Which, with you, I suppose I always am, but can we pretend anyway?”

Shane sighs. “Fine. What are you doing here? Is Ilya okay?” A million possibilities of Ilya being hurt or in trouble flash through his mind sending a shard of ice through his belly. 

She returns her eyes to him, her face sympathetic. “He is fine… enough. He has been trying to get away, but it’s proven… challenging. He finally got so frustrated that he sent me.”

Shane’s eyebrows crawl up to his hairline, and she snorts. “He was clearly desperate. He has also sent me with this message.” She holds up a piece of parchment, and Shane takes it. He scans the short message hungrily, like a man in the desert being handed a glass of water.

Hollander. Listen to Sveta. Don’t be stubborn. I will come as soon as I can.

Shane huffs. He feels a modicum of stress release from his shoulders. Even the fact that the message has been delivered by Svetlana can’t stop the relief he feels at seeing Ilya's words. He walks over and sinks into the armchair opposite to hers, rubbing his hands down his face.

Now that the situation has been diffused, Svetlana takes the opportunity to turn her attention to Rose. She holds out a hand. “Hi, I’m Svetlana Vetrova: Prince Rozanov’s beard and Shane’s friend, despite whatever he's told you. And you are?”

For reasons that Shane is far too stressed to think deeply about, Rose actually blushes when she takes Svetlana’s hand. To his horror, Svetlana doesn't shake it, instead, she brings it to her lips and presses a lingering kiss to Rose’s knuckles.

And, oh Jesus, what in the lesbian? Shane cannot handle this right now.

“I’m Rose. Shane’s friend. I’ve seen you. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Are you staying then?” Shane interrupts, breaking up whatever is happening.

“Yes, for a day or two. I’d like to talk, if you’re open to it?”

Shane wants to tell her no, but she's come all this way just because Ilya asked her to. His mind flashes to Ilya kissing him on the mouth in front of her; to Ilya’s message telling him, 'don’t be stubborn'.

He sighs again. “Yeah, okay.”

“Good. Then I will get settled. It’s been a long couple of travel days. Here,” she says, standing up and producing a letter from her robes. “He also wrote this for you. I haven’t read it, and he didn’t want anyone else to either, so he had me bring it. I will see you at dinner. Both of you, hopefully,” she tacks on.

Shane nods, staring at the letter in his hands. She squeezes his shoulder and takes her leave, with Rose following behind.

Back in his room, Shane locks the door. He removes his tunic, so he’s only in his undershirt. He walks to the far side of the bed and sits on the floor, wedging himself in the small space between the wall and his nightstand. It’s weird, he knows it's weird, but it helps ground him.

He gingerly opens the letter.

Shane,

Moy lubimiy. I’m sorry I have not come yet. Things are not good here. I am trying to make it better, but I am failing. Alexei is at his worst. Which makes me very bad. I think you would not like me much right now. I think about it a lot.

All day long I am in meetings, but I cannot listen. I sit and think about your stupid nerd glasses. And how you always eat boring salmon. And your beautiful sozvezdiya (freckles).

And your weak backhand.

“Weak!” Shane exclaims out loud, into the empty room.

Yes, is weak. And those silly books you read on the history of your own country. How you do not fall sleep, I do not know.

I think of nothing else. And yet I cannot be there with you.

You have ruined me. I have lived all these years perfectly fine and now I am lost without you.

We are so stupid.

I will come soon. I should not but I am selfish. Forgive me for that. And do not be mad that I sent Sveta. I did not know what else to do.

Be nice to her. She is my friend.

(But that does not mean I will be nice to Pike. Is not same thing. Don’t argue.)

Soon.

Yours— .

Shane blinks, and is surprised to find tears leaking down his face. He clutches the letter to his chest before reopening it and reading it through three more times.

We are so stupid.

And isn’t that the truth.

Svetlana corners him the next day. Rose had stayed for dinner, and Shane had hoped the silver lining of their constant flirting would be that he could be spared an awkward conversation.

No such luck.

“Walk in the gardens with me?” she asks.

He sighs a long suffering, and slightly petty, sigh. “Is that necessary?”

“Yes. Let’s go.” She grabs his forearm and drags him outside.

They do actually wander for a bit, and Shane is kind of glad they got out. It’s less claustrophobic than the castle.

It also gives him time to pull up his proverbial big boy pants and ask the question he’s been dying to ask. “When is the wedding?”

A look Shane can’t read crosses her face; it's one of surprise mixed with something else. “Wow, you two have really avoided talking about this?”

Share glares at her. “Save me the lecture, please.”

She holds her hands up. “There’s no date, Shane. He refuses to set one. Alexei won’t stop yelling at him about it. Ilya argues that he is engaged, and that’s all he agreed to.”

Shane’s head swims. This is news to him. Ilya spoke of it like it was a done deal, like he would soon be wed to Svetlana, and Shane would need to find his own wife and get on with it. He has no idea how to feel about that.

“But… why?” he asks dumbly.

Sveta shoots him a look. “Why? Really, Shane? You don’t think it could be because he’s in love with you and he’s hoping some magical answer to your impossible situation is going to appear?”

No, Shane hadn't considered this. The way Ilya had spoken about it, it had sounded so final. But he’s not really keen to air his insecurities to his nemesis.

“He told me he is going through with it.”

She stops walking and turns to face him.

“I suppose he’ll have to… eventually. I’m sorry. I wish I had a solution, but I don’t. I’m just here to offer you my support. I’ve told you this, but you don’t listen. I am not the enemy, I am your friend. I would die for Ilya, he is my family. I will not stand in your way, even if he marries me just for show. He will be yours in every way that counts. He can come visit as much as he's able. Hell, it’s nice here, I’ll come too.” She catches the look on his face. “In a totally different room, maybe a different wing of the castle? Hell, I can stay in town. Or out in the country? Where does Rose live?”

Shane waves her off, barely listening. He gets her point. It’s not an awful idea, he just isn’t sure if Ilya will agree to it. He turns and starts walking again along the same path.

“Thank you,” he says, quietly.

She looks up at him, surprised, then softens. She reaches out and squeezes his forearm. “It’s going to be okay. I don’t know how. But I just know it is. It has to be.”

And Shane hopes she’s right.

He feels a little lighter after that, and actually enjoys dinner for once. His boring salmon tastes a little less like ash in his mouth.

Sveta tells him over breakfast the next day that she’ll likely head back after one more day. Rose, who’s been hanging around the castle nonstop, looks disappointed. 

So Shane is surprised when, later that afternoon, he hears a commotion outside the stables. He’s just returned from a short ride and is hanging up Billie’s saddle when he hears it. Eager voices layer on top of each other, making it impossible to understand at first what's causing the excitement.

And then he hears a voice that stops his heart.

A deep, familiar voice with a Russian accent. “Da. Russia is.. fine. Yes, good to see you, yes. Thank you. But I must—yes, thank you. I must speak with the prince.”

Shane almost trips over his feet as he scrambles out of the barn. And there, looking tired and travel worn, but never more beautiful, is the Prince of Russia.

“Ilya,” he breathes.

Ilya’s head snaps up at the sound of his voice.

He doesn’t think, he just launches himself at the other man. Ilya opens his arms and catches Shane in a tight hug, lifting him off his feet and spinning him in a circle, right there in front of the random assortment of staff members who have stopped to greet Ilya.

Ilya seems to remember himself and their surroundings faster than Shane does, and he puts Shane down, giving Shane a friendly back slap. Shane blinks and comes back to himself. He returns the gesture awkwardly, before standing a normal friend distance away and squeezing Ilya’s shoulder once, before reluctantly dropping his hand.

“You’re here,” Shane says dumbly.

“Yes. Da. I am.” His eyes burn into Shane, and his breaths quicken. “I—uh—we need to talk. In private. Can we?”

“Oh. Right. Okay. Yes.” And Shane can hear them both sounding like idiots, but he is unable to stop it.

He turns and starts walking towards the castle, then stops abruptly and turns back, looking helplessly at the staff. “Sorry, ah, I left Billie,” he says, waving a hand in the general direction of the stables, where he abandoned his poor horse, who is probably still standing in the middle of the room waiting to be brushed. “Oh, and Roach,” Shane adds, realizing Ilya is still holding the reins to his black Stallion, which strikes Shane as a little odd. Ilya rarely, if ever, brings Roach here.

“We’ve got it, sir,” one of the stable hands says, taking the reins from Ilya.

“Thanks,” he says, and he and Ilya make their escape to the castle. Shane is practically sprinting he’s walking so fast, his breath huffing out of his lungs like he might die if he doesn’t kiss Ilya soon.

The first door he sees is the one to his mother’s study. The last he heard, she was in a meeting with the ministers, so he grabs Ilya’s hand and hauls him into the room, slamming the door closed behind him.

He grips Ilya’s face with both of his hands and crashes their mouths together. Ilya matches his urgency, kissing him back so fiercely their teeth clink together. Ilya’s hands grab at every inch of him as he walks Shane backwards into the room. He rubs Shane's shoulders, his biceps, rubs down the muscles in his back before sliding down to grip his ass firmly.

“Oh!” someone says.

Shane’s insides turn to ice. He knows that voice.

Ilya drops his hands and jumps away from him so quickly that it’s almost comical. Or, it would be, if King Consort David Hollander wasn’t sitting in the leather armchair in the corner of the room, a document in his hand, reading glasses balanced on the tip of his nose and a look of utter shock on his face.

Shane’s brain freezes with panic. Every fear he’s ever had about telling his parents hits him like a shovel to the face. “Oh fuck. Dad!” Shane says, eloquently.

“Your Highness, sir—I—we were—” Ilya stammers. And Shane feels a hysterical laugh bubble in his chest. When has Ilya ever called David sir? Or even Your Highness, unless it was an official event.

David must realise that he needs to say something and not just sit there frozen, because he jumps up, his hands raised like he's approaching a skittish animal.

“Okay. This is okay. This is fine.”

And Shane really doesn’t agree with that assessment, but now doesn’t seem like the right moment to point that out.

“I can explain,” Shane starts, and then stops. Because, can he? Despite the amount of time he’s had to consider this moment, he feels woefully unprepared.

This feeling only gets worse when the door opens and closes again, and Yuna strides in, wearing one of her queenly gowns, her brow furrowed. She's studying a piece of parchment in her hands. "David, have you had a chance to lo—" she stops, freezing in place as she clues in that something weird is happening.

“Shane? Ilya! What's going on?”

Shane stands there, absolutely frozen. His executive function seems to have left the building. He watches in real time as his dad processes the shock of what he’s just seen, then the reality of the situation. What he doesn’t know is whether his father is going to say something to his mother. Honestly, Shane wants him to—at least it means he won’t have to fucking do it. But he sees resolve settle on David’s face and knows he isn't going to. Bless his loyal heart, but Jesus fucking damn it, it means Shane is gonna have to do something about this.

Only, he's freaking out. He wants to grab Ilya and run, and also doesn't want to touch him. He wants to look his way, but he can’t make his head move. He feels torn between the person he’s worked so hard to to be: the perfect son and future King, and who he is at his core. The person he wants to be for Ilya: his friend, his support, hopefully one day... his husband.

And holy shit, the reality of that thought clobbers him. It snaps him back to the present, and he finally lifts his head to meet his mom’s eyes. She’s in the middle of some sort of non-verbal communication with his dad.

Ilya, to his credit, reaches over and grabs Shane’s hand, lacing their fingers together. And the gesture gives Shane the confidence he needs. Ilya isn’t hiding from this.

He tries to start talking and finds his throat is so dry he can only manage a croak. So he swallows, clears his throat, and tries again. “Uh, Mom. Dad. I, uh, I’m gay.”

The silence in the room is so loud that Shane feels like he’s gone temporarily deaf. Ilya squeezes his hand tighter, so Shane keeps talking. “Um, and this is Ilya. I mean, of course you know that. But, um, Ilya and I--I mean, we’re, um,” okay, and here he falters. What are they?

“Lovers,” Ilya supplies, with a nod at Shane like he’s being helpful.

Shane can’t help but recoil, because what? “Ew, Ilya. No, that’s gross.”

He risks a glance at his mom, whose eyebrows have raised so high they’re practically levitating off her face.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I know this isn’t what you wanted, and it makes everything so much harder. But we’re together. And Ilya means a lot to me. And if you are angry, I’ll understand, but I'm not giving him up. I'm sorry,” he rambles.

“Shane,” his mom says, and quite frankly, Shane is shocked that she’s made it this long without talking. “Why don’t we take this one step at a time. Ilya, are you okay?”

And well, yeah. It’s a good question; one Shane hasn't had the chance to ask yet.

Ilya’s face, which throughout this long, awkward moment has been the picture of pure innocence, clouds over as reality sets back in. “Yes,” he replies, then falters. “Maybe yes, probably no,” he admits with a frown, like he didn’t really mean to be honest.

Yuna’s face melts into worry, then back into something determined. She turns on her heel and marches back to the door, opening it and calling out to a guard. “Please call ahead to the kitchen and let them know we’ll be there in a moment and we’ll be eating at the family table. If they can make us something quick? One of the family recipes? Yes. Yes. That’s right. Thank you,” she says.

Then she’s back in the room in front of the three stunned men. “Okay. Let’s go eat. We’ll continue this conversation with food. And probably some drinks, I think.” She nods decisively like that’s the best course of action, then glances at David, who looks a bit flummoxed, but shoots her an awkward thumbs up. Then they all file out of the room like school lessons have ended and the bell rang.

On the walk to the kitchens, Ilya keeps a tight hold of Shane’s hand. It makes him feel exposed in a scary way but he doesn't stop it. He's too grateful for it—Ilya’s touch is grounding him. It keeps him present in his body while his mind keeps trying to dissasociate. But Ilya needs him, and he needs to do this.

A few moments later, they're seated around the small, round table in the kitchen.

The cooks are shuffling around them with the last minute request. They pour a glass of white wine for his mother and chilled vodka for David, Shane and Ilya.

“Mmm, good vodka,” Ilya compliments, at the same moment that Shane grimaces.

Shane doesn’t like straight vodka, but he didn’t want wine or to make decisions right now. So, this will do.

“We keep some of the good Russian stuff on hand,” David explains.

Ilya nods in approval.

Silence falls around the table. The cook places plates and a steaming bowl of pasta in the middle of the table, along with a heaping bowl of cheese. It’s classic comfort food, and Shane is grateful the staff were able to whip it up so quickly.

“Need anything else, m’lady?” Annise asks.

“No, thank you, Annise. This is lovely. You and your staff are excused for now. We’ll try not to leave the kitchen in disarray,” Yuna says.

“Oh, psshht, don’t worry about that. If you need anything, the guards are in the hall and they can fetch one of us. The rest of the wine is in the chill box,” she adds with a wink.

“Thank you,” Yuna says again, her sincerity clear.

There’s a flurry of activity, and then they’re alone. The kitchen falls quiet as they’re given privacy, and Shane has never been more glad for a quiet room.

David helps to dish out pasta to everyone, giving Ilya an extra heaping of parmesan. Shane feels something warm settle in him seeing Ilya with a good meal, with people caring for him. The weirdness of the situation aside, it’s been a long, rough couple of weeks of worry.

“So,” Yuna turns her focus back to him. “Start from the beginning. How long has this been going on for?" Shane and Ilya share a look. Jesus, Shane never considered what a shitshow this might be. “A while,” he hedges.

Yuna gives him a flat look, then a look passes over her face Shane can’t read. “This is it. The thing I was missing. I feel so stupid now for not seeing it. Oh my.” She slaps a hand over her eyes, and Shane and Ilya exchange a confused look. “The engagement. Shane, honey, of course you were upset.”

Then she drops her hand and stares between them in disbelief. Shane would very much like to check out of this conversation, perhaps go for a walk, and return once his mom has re-evaluated her entire worldview of the last decade.

“The engagement!” she cries, and Shane prays the floor will open up and swallow him. “Oh, Ilya.”

David, perhaps sensing this conversation is not very productive so far, tries to step in. “Has it been since that tournament last year? You seemed so in sync.”

Shane rubs his hands down his face, before sharing a look with Ilya. “Uh, No. Before that,” Ilya supplies. 

“Since we were sixteen,” Shane says.

“Sixteen?” David and Yuna exclaim at the same time, like they practiced it.

“It was before for me, year before.” Ilya says, and Shane rolls his eyes.

“Not helping.”

Yuna takes a large gulp of wine and then levels them with a look. “So, what is the plan here?”

Ilya glances at him, and Shane shrugs. He doesn’t know. This is the problem: their plan sucks.

Yuna levels Shane with one of her ‘tell me right now’ looks and Shane folds. “I don’t know. Ilya marries Sveta, and we are together in secret when we see each other, a couple times a year?” he says, the whole sentence a question, because he truly has no idea. He’s never verbalised it so clearly, and Jesus, hearing it out loud does not give him confidence.

Yuna apparently agrees because she and David share a grimace, and then she turns back to them and says, “But that’s so sad.”

Shane would laugh, because she’s not wrong. “That’s your issue here? Not the whole, Ilya and I are in love part?” Even saying the words in love out loud sounds insane to his ears, but he can’t worry about that right now. Ilya squeezes his hand under the table.

Yuna looks like she’s going to comment, but David places his hand over hers. “It’s not like we didn’t suspect your… preferences, son.”

“What?” Shane squeaks out.

“Well, you never wanted to date women and avoided talking about marriage. Except Rose, which admittedly made us consider that we had been wrong. But yes, we thought it was a possibility and figured you’d tell us when you were ready.”

Shane is shocked. He really thought he’d done a better job of hiding it. He tries not to be annoyed at this, he really does. It’s better they knew and are taking this well! But he’s only human. He crosses his arms over his chest and temporarily zones out, analyzing every moment where he might have given himself away, while his parents ask Ilya questions on the state of Russia.

Ilya seems to clock him, and a hand creeps onto his knee and squeezes his kneecap in the sensitive place that never fails to make him jump. He barely hides his hiss, his spine straightening and shoots Ilya a glare.

Ilya raises an eyebrow at him, face full of fond amusement. Shane huffs but covers Ilya’s hand with his and squeezes back. He returns his attention to the table to find his mom watching him, something unreadable in her eyes.

She looks away, chewing her lip, before reaching for the bottle of white wine and topping her glass up. Shane catches her eye but is disconcerted when they’re glassy. He doesn’t remember ever seeing his mother cry. His dad? Sure, he gets blubbery at Shane’s birthday every year. Queen Yuna? Not a chance.

Her gaze narrows into ‘determined Hollander' face and Shane gets nervous. He takes his hand off Ilya’s, resting his on the table and then starting to play with his barely eaten food.

“Shane,” Yuna says and Shane looks up, feeling a rush of emotion that clogs his throat. She’s holding her hand out, palm up.

Shane looks at it, suddenly feeling very young. But Ilya squeezes his knee again, gently this time, so he takes it.

“I’m so sorry, honey.” Shane frowns, he immediately wants to tell her it’s okay, but he’s not even sure he understands. “You should have felt safe to tell me. Tell us.” She sighs. “Both of you should have." She holds her other hand out to Ilya who takes it a lot more eagerly. "All this time, hiding this big secret? Thinking you couldn’t say anything? All we ever want is for you to be happy. No matter what. I hope you can forgive me one day.” She reaches out her free hand toward Ilya who takes it eagerly. 

Shane swallows thickly. He nods jerkily, his brain feeling slow as it processes this huge revelation. “I tried, Mom, I swear. I just couldn’t be normal. I know what this means for...” he can’t bring himself to say *for our dynasty, for our country*. “I tried.”

“Oh Shane,” Yuna looks unbearably sad. “You should never have thought you had to try. You’re perfect just as you are.”

Oh God, Shane is gonna cry. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear the tears. He pulls his hand away cause this communal handholding was cute for like a second and now it’s slipped into awkward. Ilya smiles fondly and pats Yuna’s hand before extricating his as well. He seems to be happy as a clam right now. Shane watches as he continues to dig into his pasta with gusto, shimmying his shoulders as he chews. Shane knows its one of his favourite meals. Shane likes to tease him for being a bad Russian and how he should love borscht more, which usually makes Ilya wrinkle his nose and ask if Shane has tried borscht. And yes, he has, and he likes it. Beets are healthy.

Shane wishes he could leave and let Ilya deal with all this. Then he remembers Ilya currently has enough to deal with. Which only makes panic squeeze in his chest again.

“Thanks Mom,” he finally responds. He swallows. "I forgive you," he forces the words out as though the weight of their emotional toll is a physical weight on his throat. It doesn’t feel like enough, words clutter his tongue. But it’s all he can manage right now.

She gives him a small smile.

“I guess I should have seen it. The two of you. The way you’ve always cared for each other. Of course you’ve been in love this whole time.”

“Oh, ah, maybe not the whole time,” Ilya stammers while Shane talks over him, “Woah, no. This whole time? Jesus, no. Maybe earlier than I realized, sure, but like...”

His parents look amused. Shane considers launching himself into the ocean.

Yuna exchanges another look with David before looking back at Shane, and then Ilya. This goes on for a minute, her head on a swivel, back and forth before she shakes herself.

“So this plan is terrible. What are we going to do about it?” she asks, Queen Yuna authoritative voice back in place.

Shane fights not to roll his eyes at her immediate move into fix it mode. But fuck it. Their plan does suck. He and Ilya exchange their own look.

“I hope that’s rhetorical because we have no idea,” Shane admits.

Which was apparently the answer Yuna was hoping for.

“But you’re serious? You want to be together?” She looks Ilya dead in the eye when she asks this.

Ilya squares his shoulders and takes Shane’s hand in his on top of the table. “Yes. More than anything.”

“Okay,” Yuna hedges, but she is doing a shit job of hiding how overjoyed she is. “Would you move to Canada?”

Shane holds his breath. Is that a possibility? Would Ilya?

“Yes. In instant. I would.” And Shane let’s out the breath he was holding. “But is not simple for me to leave Russia. Worse with my father dead.”

Yuna nods, thinking it over. “Alexei is not doing well in his new position.”

Ilya scoffs. “He drinks, he sleeps, he beds whores.” Ilya pauses, realizing his audience. “Ah, sorry.”

Yuna waves him away. “Go on.”

“He claims he does not want it. To be King. He is trying to tell me to take it. But for many reasons, that is a bad idea.”

Yuna makes a noise of disapproval in her throat. “No. That would be bad. For you. For the Russian people. For the country's stability. But most importantly, that would put an end to your relationship with Shane.”

Shane’s chest feels tight. He’s not sure he totally understood the scope of what was going on with Alexei until now. Ilya had said he’d been drinking and unreasonable and fighting his new role, but telling Ilya to become King? The thought makes Shane sick. He’d be followed so closely it would make it even more dangerous for them to be together, even just once or twice a year. And Ilya spending extended periods of time in Canada beyond royal visits would be next to impossible.

And okay. He’s freaking out now. His breath comes in short puffs. He pushes his chair out and puts his forehead on the table, trying focus on getting air to successfully enter his lungs.

“I am trying to convince him otherwise. He agrees sometimes when he is not too drunk. But then demands I stay by his side and do most of the work, and then, and only then, he’ll stay in the position. But that is almost worse,” Ilya continues even as his hand slides up Shane’s neck and cards through his hair.

“That is much worse. As King, you can at least effect change. It limits your freedom entirely. But you’re at least in power. As Alexei’s lackey, you have all the work with no freedom of decision making,” David acknowledges.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, and then rubs circles on the pressure points on the back of Shane’s skull. “Shane?”

“I’m okay. Ignore me. I’m just freaking out,” Shane mutters, his breath starting to even out in time with the movement of Ilya’s fingers.

Ilya’s chest presses against his arm and calms him further. “Hey, you are okay here, You are safe. Your family is here. Your boyfriend is here.”

Shane freezes. “Boyfriend?” he lifts his head and looks in wonder at Ilya, who grins at him.

“Yes, I think so.” And Ilya leans over and presses a kiss to Shane’s mouth. In front of his parents.

His cheeks go hot with embarrassment. But he’s also stupidly pleased. And no longer panicking.

He risks a look at his parents, who are watching him with matching looks of concern. His mom, well versed with his panic attacks, continues in a clear effort not to draw further attention to him. She knows Shane hates when she fusses. 

“So we have a few options. One. You agree to Alexei’s idea. You take on the crown. You become King.” She sighs heavily. “I suppose then you go ahead and marry Svetlana.” She frowns. Shane's gut twists. “Maybe you can legalize gay marriage and maybe one day it’s less dangerous and you can divorce her and marry Shane. I assume Svetlana knows about you two?” She points between them.

“Yes, she is supportive.”

“Okay, so that’s option one.”

And it’s not awful. Shane just hates it so fucking much. He knows he should be grateful to get Ilya however he can have him. But he's selfish. He wants more than that.

“There is another option?” Ilya asks, sounding as defeated as Shane feels. “I do as I’m doing now? Work for Alexei?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” Yuna says, and three pairs of eyes swivel to her in surprise. Well, okay then.

“That’s not even on the list of options, Ilya. We would lose you forever, and you would be miserable. We will go to war with Russia before we let that happen.”

Okay, now Shane is gonna cry. He blinks rapidly trying to clear his eyes. Ilya clears his throat loudly and knocks back the rest of his vodka. David refills Ilya's glass. Shane takes Ilya's hand back and holds it in his lap. 

“Option 2 is we pull a bait and switch. Some sort of deal. Maybe you dissolve your engagement to Svetlana? Maybe you propose to someone we know. Shane, honey, would Rose help? But regardless, something that means you have to move here. David and I speak to Alexei. Offer our support. Maybe we leave Shane in charge here for a few months and come over and help him set up the government. Put together a council of reasonable individuals we can trust. Lots of checks and balances. Cool heads to keep things moving in the right direction. Ward off instability. You announce you’re marrying a nice Canadian woman and moving here. You have a long engagement. And at some point—hey maybe the wedding day, who knows—we swap it. You marry Shane. And then it’s done. The future King of Canada and his King Consort. Done deal. If Russia tries to pull anything, it’ll be seen as a declaration of war. And since we’ll have people in place to stop that… you two can be together.”

Shane can feel his mouth hanging open stupidly, but he’s powerless to stop it. He truly cannot believe what his mother just said out loud.

“What? But we’re both men. Married? What?” So he’s not feeling the most articulate right now, sue him.

But Ilya’s whole demeanor has changed. His eyes are bright, his knee is bouncing. “This would be possible? What about Sveta? And Rose? We would not want them to be at risk. What would this mean for them?"

Yuna contemplates the question. “No, we don’t want them to be caught in the crossfire. And ensure Svetlana's safety. She can get engaged to Shane briefly? We’ll have to figure that out. You’re right, we don’t want to ruin their reputations. But something can be done.”

Shane tries not to grimace at the idea of a fake engagement to Svetlana. She’s been nothing but supportive. Shane can try to forget she ever slept with Ilya. Or forgive maybe. Or pretend he has amnesia. He’ll work on it later. Regardless, it’s a good plan.

“Holy shit,” he says. “That could really work?”

Ilya turns to look at him, real hope alive in his eyes for the first time in a year.

“It could,” he says, and he brings their joined hands to his mouth and presses a kiss to Shane’s palm. And Shane knows in that moment that he’ll do whatever it takes to make this plan a reality.

.:.: ♔ Ilya ♔ :.:.

Ilya feels almost drunk as they walk back through the castle after dinner. He and David shared some vodka, sure, but it's not that. It's different. Like his whole reality has been altered and he isn't sure if he's awake or dreaming.

"Where are you going?" Shane asks, pulling Ilya out of his spinning thoughts.

"To my room?" Ilya says it like a question, realizing he doesn't have a good answer to the question. He's still in his travel clothes from a very long journey on horseback from Russia. He left Russia in the dead of night with a small bag and a couple of guards so that he couldn't be prevented from leaving. He hasn't slept, hasn't washed himself. He probably smells. The shock of being caught by the King and Queen and Shane's resulting panic kept him distracted from his own state.

Shane scrutinizes him for a long moment. Ilya shifts uncomfortably, unsure what Shane is seeing. Shane so often misses basic social cues, but then sometimes he'll see right through Ilya in a way he loves and hates in equal parts.

"Come on," he says, taking Ilya's hand—since this is now a thing they do—and tugs him toward Shane's chambers. Ilya goes helplessly. He's always helpless when it comes to Shane, but usually he hides it better. He supposes there's no point now. They aren't hiding anymore. Or, well, they are, but not to Shane's parents. Not in the castle. The thought is too much for him to fully digest right now.

"You must be exhausted," Shane says gently. And yes, now that Shane mentions it, Ilya feels exhausted. But also exhilarated. Is this really happening?

"Ah, a little. It all feels very-" he searches for the word. "What is word? Fake but real, but not?"

"Surreal," Shane says, nodding.

"Sur-real," Ilya repeats.

Shane manhandles him into Shane's room, out of his clothes and—to his chagrin—into the bath. The idea of sitting still feels impossible right now, despite his exhaustion. He tries to get Shane to join, but he mumbles out some unconvincing excuse, immediately making Ilya suspicious. But he lets him go and takes a moment to enjoy the heat of the water on his muscles, sore from riding all day.

He soaks for three minutes before he's too twitchy to keep sitting there. He feels insane from the events of the day. Are they really doing this? And if they are, why is Shane being weird? He's wanted to see him for weeks. Now, after everything, he wants to sit with him, hold him, convince himself this is real.

He can hear him rustling in the other room. A couple of times, Shane walks into the closet and then back out. It's starting to annoy Ilya. Actually, it's starting to make him worry. Is Shane still freaking out? Ilya is freaking out. But not in a bad way, in a holy-shit-this-is-fucking-real way. Is Shane freaking out in a bad way? Is he regretting this? Regretting Ilya?

The conversation he'd had with Yuna and David was more upfront about the situation with his brother than he'd ever been with Shane. It makes his skin feel too tight and shame burn under his skin. He's never been private like Shane, but he's always avoided letting anyone get too close, to really know him, to really see how fucked up his world is. Why would anyone want to be a part of that? Why would anyone take that on?

While has isn't always succesful, he tries to shield Shane from the worst of it. Perfect Prince Hollander with his perfect parents. He didn't want him to see all of Ilya cracks and imperfections. But now he knows. There's no hiding.

"Shane?" Ilya calls, and his voice sounds shaky and unsure in a way he hates. He clears his throat and pulls his usual cocky mask into place. "Shane!"

Shane hurries in, looking distracted. "Why are you still dressed? Get naked. Get in here," he says in his most commanding voice. In bed, this voice has a 10/10 success rate with getting Shane Hollander to do what Ilya Rozanov wants.

… until today.

Shane's pupils dilate and a sexy flush climbs up his neck. "Uh, I," he shakes his head. "I need another minute."

And then he's gone again, and Ilya is truly freaking out now. He's usually the one calming Shane down, but he's never put himself out there like he did today. He feels a flash of anger go through him, because that's how his panic manifests. He stands up abruptly and steps out of the tub, grabbing a towel and running it through his hair. At least he's clean again.

"Oh, you're out. Okay." Shane says as he steps back into the room.

"Shane. What the fuck is going on?" Ilya asks sharply.

Shane doesn't answer, just steps forward, cupping Ilya's face and pulling him into a kiss. It helps to calm Ilya's racing heart. He finally takes a breath in, calming him further as he breathes the air from Shane's lungs. He wraps Shane in his arms, his towel dropping on the floor behind him, and buries his face, wet hair and all, into Shane's neck. Needing to feel close. Shane melts into him, pulling him so close it's like he's trying to absorb him into his body.

"Ilya," Shane whispers gruffly into his hair. He doesn't reply, just squeezes tighter and the panic settles in his chest. Shane must sense Ilya's apprehension. "Hey," he takes Ilya's face in his hands, lifting his head to look at Shane. "Just trust me, kay?"

"What is more important than you sitting on my cock right now?" he teases, trying to hide the tremble in his voice. Shane groans in his ear, pressing forward, grinding onto Ilya's naked thigh, which helps make Ilya feel much better. This makes sense to him.

"Wait, stop it. You're not distracting me, Rozanov. I have a plan. Nothing bad. Come on." And then he's gone again.

Ilya throws his head back and groans. "This is boyfriend abuse. I am going to report you!"

"Here," Shane thrusts clothes into his chest. Ilya stubbornly refuses to take them, crossing his arms.

"I thought you like me naked, Your Highness."

"Oh my god, you're a child. Please?" he says earnestly.

And Ilya is defenceless to that face, so he pulls on the loose pants and tunic Shane has handed him and obediently follows him out into the sitting room.

He stops.

There's a fire burning in the hearth and what has to be a hundred candles lit around the room. A bottle of chilled vodka is on the table next to a little black box and two empty tumblers.

"What is this?"

"I just thought, y'know." he rubs the back of his neck. "I missed you. And like, we didn't really have time to talk before we were making all these plans. I know my mom and I can be a lot. I dunno. This is stupid."

Ilya looks at his beautiful boyfriend, who is bashfully rubbing his neck. "Shane," he says, softly. "This is not stupid. Let's have some vodka, yes?"

Shane nods gratefully, and they sit on the couch. Ilya pours them each two fingers of vodka and chuckles fondly when Shane takes a sip, grimaces, and puts his drink back on the table a safe distance away.

"So… are you okay with this?" Shane asks tentatively, waving his hand around as though their plan is laid out in the air in front of them.

It's been a big day. He turns, facing Shane and taking his hands in his. "Yes, Shane. This is what I want. Is what you want? To be together?"

"So much, Ilya. So much." Relief washes through him. Pure and sweet. 

Shane pinches his eyelashes, but it doesn't remove the wetness there.

"Me too, doosha moya, me too."

And Shane lets out a shaky breath before throwing his arms around Ilya's neck. "Does it kill you too?"

Ilya kisses Shane's neck, trying to swallow the emotions trying to claw out his throat. "Not anymore."

Shane makes a strangled sound and holds him tighter.

"Is this all? I could not have fucked you over the bath first?"

Shane snorts into his shirt. "Wait, I just wanted to make sure. And you're okay with—" he cuts himself off, pulling back so there's some distance between them again.

Ilya waits.

"Getting married… to me?"

Ilya's eyebrows hit his hairline. And okay, yeah. They talked about this, but they hadn't really talked about it. "Yes, moy lubimiy <love>. I want this very badly. Is what I dreamt of."

And Shane looks so relieved, which seems crazy to Ilya, that he wouldn't already know this. His eyes wide with wonder.

"Okay, good. That's good. I want it too. And I know we didn't plan it and maybe we can make it more official or something one day, but I wanted to, I don't know. Give you this. It's stupid." And then he thrusts the black box into Ilya's hands.

Ilya examines the box, finding the seam before opening it. Revealing two rings. They look like they've come from the royal collection of jewels. Both have gold bands. One band is thicker and is set with a two-carat rectangular purple sapphire, and the other has a thinner band that expands into an ornate gold frame around a three-carat oval ruby. 

He looks up at Shane in awe, who has turned a delicious shade of red. "Are you proposing, Prince Hollander?"

"No. I mean, yes? I don't know. It was all just so practical earlier…" he trails off, but Ilya knows what he means. It wasn't romantic. And he knows Shane doesn't particularly do romance, he's better with the planning portion. So this is for Ilya.

And fuck it. Ilya is going to do this right.

He takes the thicker gold ring with the purple jewel out of the box, closing the ruby ring inside and placing it on the table.

Then he gets onto one knee on the carpet. And holds up the ring.

He looks up at Shane, whose mouth has fallen open in surprise. Hell, Ilya is surprised. 

"Shane," he starts, holding out his hand. Shane takes it, still looking shocked. "I have loved you for a long time. As long as I can remember, I think. Only I didn't know it was that at first. I just thought I loved watching you suck my dick."

"Ilya!" Shane admonishes, but he looks ridiculously pleased and has shuffled to the end of the sofa. His eyes glitter with unshed tears, reflecting the flames of the fire in the hearth.

"But I would give up everything I have. The title, the wealth, all of it, if it meant I could have you forever. I love you, moy ananas <pineapple>. Will you marry me?"

Shane's tears spill over, tracking over paths across his freckles. He nods, unable to form words.

"You must use words, my love."

"Of course I'll marry you, you idiot. This was my proposal," Shane says, laughing. Ilya's surprised and embarrassed by the wave of emotion hearing those words sends through him.

He loses the battle with the lump in his throat and he has to blink wetness out of his eyes so he can find Shane's ring finger and slide the ring on. As it's already his ring, it fits perfectly. Ilya realizes absently that this is what Shane was putzing with in the closet.

He stares at the ring on Shane's finger, that he put there. Engaged.

Shane drops to his knees in front of him, grabbing the black box again. With shaking hands, he pulls out the ruby ring and taking Ilya's hand, looks him in the eye and asks. "And you'll marry me? Be my husband?" his voice breaks on the word and Ilya is good and truly crying now.

"Da, yes, doosha moya." <my soul>

Shane slides the ring on. It fits. And then they're kissing. The kisses are wet from their tears and sloppy, as they breath heavily and try to inhale each other. The ring feels substantial and grounding on Ilya's hand as he touches Shane everywhere, grabbing him and holding on.

"God, we're really doing this. Holy shit," Shane says.

And Ilya lets out a surprised laugh, because yeah, what the fuck. "Fucking hell, Hollander. We are. Yes?"

"Fuck yes," Shane says firmly.

"Can we fuck now, please?" Ilya asks.

"Fuck yes," Shane says again and kisses him.

And they do, right there on the floor.

Chapter 12: Epilogue: You're in my blood like holy wine

Chapter Summary

Ahhhhhhh we made it to the end!!! I'm so proud of us. Enjoy the epilogue ❤️

Chapter Notes

Look I haven't aimed for historical accuracy for one second but yes occasionally I reference something modern. This world is fake! You've made it this far just stick with me here 😘

Chapter Music:
Orbiter - Noah Kahan
This Modern Love - Bloc Party (acoustic)

Chapter title from A Case of You by Joni Mitchell

Doosha Moya = My Soul

👑 .:.: Three Years Later .:. 👑

Awareness filters in slowly to Shane’s subconscious. His body feels heavy, and as he shifts, he realizes why when the body pressing him into the mattress grumbles in protest.

His bladder is going to force him up soon, but for now, he keeps his eyes closed, freeing his hand to rub it up and down the strong muscles of the back of the man he is trapped under.

Ilya grunts, and Shane wonders if he's awake, but Ilya just snuffles, nuzzling his face deeper in between Shane’s pecs and hitching his hip higher around Shane’s thigh. Shane keeps massaging the back of his neck. The only sign of life is Ilya's cock thickening between their bodies. 

“We gotta get up,” Shane says, voice still rough with sleep.

“No.”

Ilya’s koala bear hold tightens, increasing pressure on Shane’s bladder. Ilya had woken with nightmares in the middle of the night, and sometimes the only way he can get back to sleep is in Shane’s arms. It helps Shane sleep too, especially when he is worried about Ilya. His very own horny weighted blanket.

“I’ll pee on you,” Shane threatens.

“Kinky,” Ilya says, but Shane can feel his smile against his skin.

“Wow, you think you know your husband. And then one day you find out he’s into golden showers,” Shane jokes.

He regrets it immediately when Ilya’s fingers dig into his ribs, causing him to make an embarrassing sound and start snort laughing. “Ilyaaa, it’s early,” he whines. Ilya stops, letting them both catch their breath, snuggling back into Shane and starting to place kisses along the curves of his pecs, stopping to swirl a nipple with his tongue.

And, “Oh.” Heat zips up Shane’s spine as Ilya switches to sucking. He can’t stop his hips from canting up.

They both freeze as someone hammers on the door. The door creaks open, and a voice calls out, “You both need to get up. I am coming in. In exactly-“ a pause “twenty seconds. Please be decent.”

And well, that is enough to deflate Shane’s erection. He sighs.

“Come in, Luca,” Ilya calls out.

Shane slaps lightly at his shoulder as they hear Luca tentatively step into the room, not yet visible through the gossamer bed curtains. “We’re not even wearing any clothes,” Shane says.

“Is nothing little Luca has not seen. That is right, yes Luca?”

Luca sighs as he enters their bedchamber. “Unfortunately.”

He acts hard done by, but Shane knows he still has a little crush. Ilya can do no wrong. Where Shane might be jealous in different situation, Ilya treats Luca like a younger sibling. And Luca has been a trusted friend, so he doesn’t begrudge him. Besides, no one knows better than Shane how hot his husband is.

Luca pulls open the bed curtains.

“Your parents got home late last night and have requested breakfast with you both to debrief. In ten minutes. So you gotta get up.”

Shane sighs.

“They are back?” Ilya asks, throwing off the covers jumping out of bed, spreading his arms in a wide stretch, naked as the day he was born. Shane scrambles for the sheets to pull back over his junk, not sharing Ilya’s comfort with nudity.

Luca’s eyes widen and he looks away quickly, his whole face going pink. He practically sprints to the closet.

“Ilya,” Shane admonishes.

Ilya isn't deterred. Instead he looms over Shane, taking his chin in hand, tipping his head back and capturing his mouth in a filthy kiss that makes images of the things he did to Ilya in the middle of the night, dance behind his closed eyelids.

Ilya pulls away and Shane’s a little lust drunk, he sees Ilya hasn’t fared much better, his cock is hard and not far from Shane’s face. He licks his lips and saliva floods his mouth in anticipation. And then Luca yells from the closet. “I don’t think you need, like, official, official kit today. But your parents ordered breakfast in the Great Hall, so not too casual either.”

Shane sees Ilya’s sleep pants discarded near the end of the bed, and he grabs for them, chucking them at Ilya’s chest. He gives Shane a salacious grin but dons the pants, tucking his erection into the waistband. It’s still fairly obvious, being as endowed as he is, which Shane can also NOT think about right now. He grabs his own off the floor, frowning at the wrinkles as he pulls them on and then pushes Ilya towards the water closet.

They wash and dress, and only a few minutes later are on their way to breakfast. The Great Hall is buzzing when they enter. A few noble families and government employees are present, eating at the tables around the room.

David and Yuna stand when they see them approaching, which causes everyone else in the room to stand, because of course it does. Shane wonders if he can make the practice illegal somehow.

“Mom,” he says when she pulls him into her small body with a warm hug.

“Hi Shanebug,” she says in his ear, and he flushes. She rarely rocks out his childhood nickname.

“Son,” David says to Ilya with a hug and then repeats the ritual with Shane, including the moniker. It still makes Shane’s insides feel fuzzy. While his parents adopted Ilya as part of the family a long time ago, they have embraced him as Shane’s partner with vehemence.

From that fateful day when David and Yuna learnt that they were just two idiots in love with no plan, through fake engagements with other people while together privately—the worst kept secret the palace has ever had—to six months ago when they tied the knot in a massive wedding that was so over-the-top Shane was ready to pull his hair out by the third day of ceremonies.

His parents had told him to suck it up, and that it was going to be the most official wedding in the history of weddings. They weren’t going to hide because Shane was marrying a man and they didn't want anyone to question the legitimacy of their union. They even had a whole ceremony around Russia and Canada uniting, even though the only Russians in attendance were Svetlana and Ilya. It was ridiculous. It was embarrassing.

Shane had felt very loved.

Shane had kept up a steady level of complaint about the pageantry up until the moment his parents had given them both away and they had stood at the front of an alter reciting that they would love each other, and be loyal to each other, above all else, for the rest of eternity. Then Shane had blubbered embarrassingly.

Rose still makes fun of him.

They take their seats across from Yuna and David. Staff appear with coffees made the way they like them, or close enough. Shane ordered the kitchen staff to cut the sugar in Ilya’s by a third. He grumbled at first, but eventually gave in. Shane's sure it was partly so Ilya didn’t have to hear another lecture, but the result is the same. He’s also mostly bullied Ilya out of his smoking habit. It’s been reduced to when he’s really stressed or really drunk. Or if they fuck more than three times in a day. It’s a work in progress.

“How was Russia?” Ilya asks once they’ve dug into the food.

Yuna and David exchange a look. “The trip was fine. The country is running. The council is keeping things moving, as is its role. The new appointment in the international relations role is even a woman? Someone named Yulia? Smart. Shrewd. Clear English.”

“Da, yes, I know her. Very smart. Her father is from Sweden. Good for role." He levels Yuna with a look. "What are you not telling me?”

Yuna sighs. “Alexei is still…volatile.”

Ilya's shoulders tense. To say that Alexei didn’t take the news that Ilya had moved to Canada well would be an understatement.

After their big reveal to David and Yuna, and a lot of discussion Shane's parent explained they didn't think that Ilya should return to Russia. Not then, not ever. It wasn’t safe, and after they had all heard about how unstable Alexei was, what he was threatening Ilya with? It made Ilya pace like a caged animal for two weeks straight but Svetlana returned for both of their things and was able to covertly bring back their essentials to Canada, where they both have resided since. As his fiancé no one had questioned her decision at first.

Alexei took the news that Ilya was instead marrying a Canadian worse. He was suspicious and sent messages accusing Ilya of being a traitor. When it came out that it was Shane? Well.

They'd kept the whole thing a secret for a year. Svetlana and Rose moved into the castle. The castle staff were sworn to secrecy. It didn't stop rumours but it created a level of confusion that outsiders couldn't parse through. It just looked like the Russian Prince and his fiancé had moved to Canada after the death of Tsar Gregori. Which sparked rumours in and of itself. But it wasn't until a young courtier, apparently a member of one of Shane's fan clubs (according to Jackie and Rose), was in attendance at a official dinner and saw Shane and Ilya making out in the bushes, did anyone guess at the reality. Once the rumours had started, it was impossible to quell them. So they came out that they were engaged. 

The response from Canada was... mixed. There was a couple of attempted uprisings, one that was even led by Shane's former valet, Theriault. But nothing gained any traction.

Alexei was apoplectic. 

Shane takes Ilya's hand and squeezes. It still feels terrifying and awfully vulnerable to show affection to Ilya in public, but he’s getting better at it. He knows how happy it makes Ilya. How much it hurts him when Shane pulls away or flinches when Ilya reaches for him. It happens rarely now, but it took Shane a long time to wrap his mind around the fact that they are safe, that they were allowed to have this.

“Volatile how?” Ilya presses, bringing Shane back to the present.

“The usual. Going back and forth between threatening us that we stole away his brother and making," she sighs. "homophobic comments. There were moments where he was calm and making sense in between, though.”

Ilya rubs at his temples, taking Shane’s hand with him.

“But the country is running, and it isn’t crumbling, and they manage to keep his drunken escapades from starting wars or imploding the government.”

“Is my fault. I am sorry you are dealing with this,” Ilya says, voice strained.

“Don’t apologize. We took this on and we would do the same again to have you here. You are still governing from a far. Your word still has merit. You have influence there still, Ilya, don’t forget. You help keep things stable in both countries.”

It hasn't been all romance and smooth sailing since they hatched this plan three years earlier. One particular rough patch which had ended in one of Ilya’s worse depressive episodes Shane had ever been privy to was when Alexei was battling hard with his addiction. Yuna and David had been back and forth constantly, trying to prevent the countries from going to war. Ilya had no love for his brother, but he felt responsible for abandoning him and his people. And what remained of his family, like Alexei’s daughter. Of course, he didn't explicitly say that's what had sent him to such a dark place, so Shane had to coax it out of him after he wouldn’t get out of bed for days. They’d gotten through it. But it had scared the shit out of Shane. 

“How is my niece?” Ilya asks, ignoring her kind words.

“Beautiful and doing well. She’s enrolled in some classes and loves to paint.”

Ilya’s shoulders relax a modicum amount, which helps ease the pressure on Shane’s chest. This situation has been hard on Ilya. Shane hadn’t truly considered how much he was asking of Ilya. Another source of contention that has caused some arguments. Shane’s focus was being with Ilya. He hadn't really taken stock of what sacrifices Ilya was making until he had already made them. Giving up his home, his station. His title. His native language on a day-to-day basis. Going from a prince of Russia to Shane's Royal Consort.

“That’s great to hear,” Shane chimes in.

“Yes. There’s much to discuss and decide on, but that can wait until we’re in our official meeting tomorrow with you and the rest of the foreign ministers. It was a long journey home, so we will rest today. What do you have planned?” Yuna says, changing the subject. Ilya had taken on a role of diplomat and leading international relations for the Canadian monarchy. He was good at people. It suited him. 

“Lunch,” Shane answers.

Ilya grins. “Say it.”

“Absolutely not, you’re ridiculous.”

“A Lesbian Luncheon.”

Shane groans.

“Oh! That reminds me,” Yuna exclaims and then calls over one of the staff.

“We were given some gifts to bring back from Svetlana’s family. We’ll get them brought over to give to her,” David explains while Yuna is distracted

“She will be pleased,” Ilya says.

“Give Rose our best, too,” he says. “Tell them both to join us for dinner next week. Oh, and Ilya, we need our rematch.”

“Ah, no. You need rematch. I am already winner.”

David laughs good naturedly. David and Ilya have turned David’s den into what they call ‘The Consort Club’ and they installed billiards and darts, have a case of expensive vodka and the cigars Ilya thinks Shane doesn’t know about. It’s ridiculous and adorable and Shane loves how much Ilya loves spending time with his dad.

They get to talking about ongoing politics and any gossip that happened during the King and Queen's absence. “Anything else we should know?” Shane asks as the staff remove their plates.

“No. There are some decisions to be made on new trade tariffs from England and Ilya will need to consult on some final decisions about the small uprising in the Balkans that need official sign off. Nothing that can’t wait.”

“I think we’ll take our leave then,” Shane says, standing.

Ilya raises an eyebrow at him but quickly schools his face and stands, following Shane’s lead.

Ilya follows him obediently for all of five minutes before he’s tackled into a dark, empty room.

He presses Shane up against the wall, behind the still open door. He can’t help the grin that stretches over his face as he’s enveloped in Ilya. Ilya captures his mouth, licking the seam of his lips. He accepts Ilya's tongue against his, always so responsive and eager for his husband. Even after all this time. Ilya's hands explore down his sides, down to his ass. They’re less kissing than panting into each other’s mouths, tongue's tangling, trying to devour one another. Ilya’s hands grip his thighs and he hauls Shane up, so his legs are around Ilya’s waist, their bodies pressed impossibly closer. Shane wraps his arms around his husband’s neck and sighs happily.

“Are you gonna fuck me right here with the door open, Prince Rozanov?” he whispers in Ilya’s ear, voice gravel.

Ilya pulls away, grin still wide. He leans back and glances out to the hallway.

“Coast is clear. Think you can be quiet enough?” Ilya asks, his grin turning salacious.

If Shane has proven anything in their almost decade together as secret lovers, secret boyfriends, and the following six months as husbands? The answer to that question is a resounding no.

“Yeah,” he lies and leans in to steal another kiss, biting at Ilya’s bottom lip causing him to growl into Shane’s mouth. And Shane is actually considering if this is a viable possibility until—

“Whatever you’re doing in there, wanna stop? Or you're cool being so gross in the middle of the castle?” Rose’s voice asks loudly from somewhere nearby.

Shane and Ilya freeze, they look towards the open doorway and then back at each other. Ilya raises an eyebrow and then puts a finger over his mouth in the universal symbol of, shhh. But it’s fruitless.

“All of your guards are standing out here, you idiots. We know you’re in there,” Svetlana calls, sounding bored.

Shane winces. Busted.

“No one is here,” Ilya says, then tacks on, “Is ghosts.”

Shane snickers.

Rose walks the one foot into the room necessary to see them pressed against the wall, still holding each other tightly. It surprises Shane and he wriggles free of Ilya's hold. Landing unsteadily on his feet and smoothing down his tunic in some semblance of trying to look less disheveled.

Rose rolls her eyes. “You’re such sluts.” She turns on her heal and heads back into the hallway yelling over her shoulder, “Come on, let’s go walk in the gardens before lunch.”

The gardens are lovely, obviously. It’s nice to see Rose, as always. And Shane tries not to grumble too much about getting cockblocked by the lesbians in their lives.

Tries and fails. "You're early!" 

“Oh, put that face away,” Rose chastises as they walk the path. “It’s not like you don’t get dicked down 24/7 by your hot husband.”

And well, that wasn’t untrue, but it hadn’t stopped Shane wanting more of it, not for one second. “Oh, please, you’re no better with the scissoring, or whatever it is you two get up to all the time,” Shane grumbles, and Rose snorts. One of her unflattering, genuine snorts. Shane loves her.

“How is he anyway? Your parents are home from Russia today?” she asks, knowing Shane has been worrying about it.

“Okay, I think? He’s so hard to read sometimes. I’ll check in later.”

“You still doing the plan?”

“Yeah, I think it’ll help. We don’t have anything until tomorrow that we need to be here for.”

“He’ll love it, he’s gotta be the biggest sap in the world.”

Shane smiles fondly, studying the back of Ilya’s head where he’s walking just ahead, having an animated conversation with Svetlana in Russian. Speaking so quickly Shane has no hope of understanding even a word of it despite the lessons he's been taking.

“How’s that going? She still being cold?” Shane asks, nodding at Svetlana. Three years ago when Shane was busy melting down about possibly losing Ilya forever, it turned out he was missing his and Ilya’s best friends falling in love with each other. When he and Ilya had gone to ask Rose to help them, Svetlana had beaten them there. Shane had thought it was a bit strange they were holding hands while Shane and Ilya laid their hearts bare and asked for help.

Sure. Rose had said. But if you’re all staying in the castle during this time, then I am too.

And I am not giving up Rose in my bed. So the castle staff had better be very good at secret keeping, Svetlana had followed up with.

And then the holding hands thing had made more sense. It had taken Shane… a minute.. to come around to the idea.

Okay… a while. He may have drunken too much Russian vodka one night and accused Svetlana of stealing all his people and (unconfirmed) may have even called her a vicious trollop. Ilya hadn’t let him live that one down. It had ended with several more shots of vodka, a very teary heart to heart between him and Sveta, followed by Ilya holding his hair while he yarfed in the bushes. He really needed to stop trying to drink vodka.

“We’re better. I sat her down and made her talk to me. Turns out she was just missing Russia. Missing speaking Russian and some kind of cake thing? Napolean cake? Have you heard of this?”

“Hmmm no. Ilya has taught the staff to make this poppyseed cake with custard cream?”

“Oh yum. Invite us over next time.”

“My parents want you guys to come for dinner this week, I’ll ask them to make it then.”

“Ooh yes! Sounds good. Anyway,” she pauses, looking around at the lush gardens. “She was homesick, that’s all. So you know, I fucked her until she was too tired to be sad anymore.”

“Oh my god. ROSE!” Shane yells, causing Ilya and Sveta to glance behind them, pausing in their chatter.

Rose shoves him in the shoulder lightly. “Oh please, we caught you basically humping your hubby in a hallway earlier. Don’t pretend to be a prude now.”

“Shane is a prude when it comes to pussy potluck.”

“Ilya,” Shane says visibly cringing.

Rose chokes.

“What now?” Svetlana asks, looking perturbed and amused.

“I am trying to find good name for Lesbian Lunch and haven’t found one yet.”

“Ilya, I beg of you,” Shane says.

“Muff meal?” Rose offers.

“Mmm,” Ilya hums like he’s rating a piece of art in a museum. “Not bad. Dine and dyke? Beaver Breakfast?”

“Nice alliteration,” Rose says.

“Snatch snack?” Svetlana asks.

Everyone else chortles. Shane sighs.

But when Sveta and Ilya turn back to their conversation, he leans in conspiratorially, “Did it work? The anti-depression sex?”

Rose laughs quietly. “A bit. But then we made this plan to come here. Talking in Russian and spending time with Ilya helps. A little of home. Family.” She reaches out and squeezes his hand when she says it, and he hates the lump that forms in his throat.

Rose and Svetlana had already been as close as family, but the last couple of years had really solidified it. They’d hidden their relationship for as long as they could to help Shane and Ilya. Somewhere along the way they had become a little unit of four. And begrudgingly Shane could admit that it was good for Ilya to see his friend. To speak Russian. Plus, they’d been taken in under the Hollander wing. It was nice. It was more than nice.

They eat at the table in the garden that used to be where Shane and Rose would kiki. Lunch is light and nice. And after not too long, the girls take their leave. Giving them both kisses on the cheek and promises to come later in the week for cake and a parent dinner.

Shane takes Ilya’s hand as they walk back to the castle.

“Should we finish what we started earlier?” Ilya asks huskily in his ear and smacks a kiss on his cheek.

“We don’t have time,” Shane informs him.

Ilya frowns. “We don’t?”

“Nope,” Shane says and changes their direction. Leading them in the direction of the stables.

Inside, the stable hand is finishing adjusting the straps on Oatmeal’s saddle. While Annise is standing next to Billie fastening food bags to the buckles on hers.

“What is this?” Ilya asks, giving Annise a kiss on the cheek. She blushes as she always does, but turns to Shane.

“You have dinner and breakfast. Packed some special treats for yous. Be safe now.” She pats Shane on the cheek before waving them off and heading off in the direction of the kitchen.

“Thank you, Annise!” he calls after her retreating figure. “Shall we?” he says, turning to Ilya. Ilya raises an eyebrow but climbs into the saddle. Roach snorts from his stall nearby, peeved that Ilya isn't riding him today. Ilya's had to spread his love between the two horses.

Mounted, the saddle boy attaches one final bag and sends them on their way. A retinue of guards following at a distance.

“Where are we going?” Ilya finally asks when they’re in the treeline, following the well trodden path through the forest.

“Guess,” Shane says.

"The lake?"

Shane smiles and nods.

Ilya’s eyes light up. “Really?” Now that they no longer have to hide they make it up to the little lake house less often. They're busy with their duties helping to run the country. Ilya's work as an international delegate. He's great with people, both with building relationships and seeing through bullshit. Whereas Shane works in strategy and finding solutions to city planning and governance issues. 

“Yeah. We don’t have to be in meetings until tomorrow, and it's six months to the day since we got married.” Shane blushes furiously despite his best efforts. He feels ridiculous for doing this but then Ilya’s eyes seem to get rounder and bigger as they fill with adoration.

Rose was right, no one is sappier than Ilya Rozanov. And he loves when Shane does romantic shit. Shane’s trying to get better at it. It’s not hard when this is the response.

“Doosha moya,” Ilya whispers reaching out his hand.

Shane takes it and presses a kiss to his palm before squeezing it and letting it go. His eye catches on movement, and he sees one of the guards on horseback just off in the trees. Trying to give them the semblance of privacy.

Shane still hates the constant supervision. But something about being able to be out and open with Ilya has reduced some of the overwhelming pressure of it. And Ilya can usually tell when he is fed up with the constant surveillance and finds ways to ask the guards to give them the illusion of space. It helps a lot.

About four months into Ilya fully living in Canada Shane had finally, finally worked up the nerve to talk to Hayden about Ilya. When even Ilya told him it was time, he knew he’d left it a little long. So he asked Hayden to have a beer with him one night when they were both off duty from jobs and spouses.

They sat out on a picnic table under the stars, sipping steins of beer.

“So Ilya and I. Prince Rozanov, I mean. Well, we’re… together,” Shane had muddled through.

Hayden’s eyes had widened in surprised and Shane had watched him war with himself as he toggled between wanting to laugh and realizing what a big deal this was for Shane. After a moment, though, he had gotten himself together and said, “Oh. No way!" In the least believable fake voice Shane had ever heard. "That’s great, bud. Glad to hear it.”

Shane grimaced at that. “How long? I mean,” Shane girded his loins. He’d been so curious for so long. “The guards all know. I know that. But for how long?”

Hayden’s eyes widened in faux surprised. “About what?”

“Hayd, just tell me.”

Hayden sighed. “Oh man, you know… a while? At first, it was just me and a few of your primaries. And we just suspected. Which got a little more, uh, clear the more often Rozanov came to visit. It was just surprising, given his, uh, you know… reput—”

"Yeah, yeah, I get it." Shane did not need him to finish that sentence.

“So when did you all know?”

“I dunno, man. In the last couple of years, I think we all did, but we had your back. No one talked about it. I was always gonna be loyal, but the guys are too, man.”

“Seriously? No one talked about it?”

“Not until really recently. I mean, except for the code word.”

“The what!?”

“What? We needed to communicate about who was in your chambers, dude. So the guard passing the shift to you would say The Prince is enjoying vodka and caviar. And you’d know.”

“Oh god,” Shane groaned. How humiliating.

“It could be worse! J.J. wanted to say the gun is in the holster.”

“Oh god,” Shane says again, hiding his face in his hands. “I wish I hadn’t asked.”

“But I swear we didn’t talk about it beyond that. Or we never used to, anyway, not until Rozanov had literally moved all his shit into your room. And then, one night, after a couple of drinks, when you were at that stupid ball the Swede’s put on? We had a lot of time. Price and J.J. were on duty, but the rest of us had a few beers. And someone finally brought it up. We mostly just wanted to confirm that yes, he was staying in your room and the Svetlana thing was a ruse. And then some chatter to figure out if she was single. And we all know how that turned out.”

Shane chuckled awkwardly.

“But apparently Price has accidentally seen you two making out in random places more than once. You’re shit at hiding, man.”

Shane’s eyes widen. “He what now?”

Hayden just laughed. “Anyway, we’re happy you’re happy. When is the wedding?”

And so Shane had told him the plan.

They arrive at the cabin on the lake an hour later and take a few minutes to unpack the things Shane had packed them. Food. Clothes. Lube. The essentials.

Shane is unpacking the food into the cool box when Ilya crowds him into the corner of the kitchen. Pressing his whole body against Shane’s back, his chest hard and strong, his muscles jumping against Shane's body. He tips Shane's chin towards him and kisses him, his tongue sliding home in an instant.

“Mmm,” Shane groans softly, “Wanna go for a swim?”

Ilya quirks an eyebrow, pressing closer for a moment, his semi hard cock pressing into the crease of Shane’s ass. “Okay.”

Shane knows that’s Ilya speak for I’ll do it if you want but Shane takes it at face value, grabbing Ilya’s hand and tugging him outside. Once they reach the edge of the lake, near a dock they had built a few years back. Shane strips off his clothes. So comfortable in his body in front of Ilya at this point. Ilya’s eyes rove hungrily over him, but he says nothing, following suit.

Then Ilya runs out onto the dock and jumps into the water. Doing a cannonball and splashing Shane.

Shane laughs and follows him in. Jumping off the dock and relishing the immediate relief as the cool water washes the sweat from the ride off his body. They splash around for a few minutes, enjoying the feeling of being weightless, floating near the surface.

But they can't survive without touching, so it’s not long before Ilya is tugging him into his body. And Shane’s legs are wrapping around Ilya’s waist in the water, settling onto his thick thighs. And Shane can’t help but be in two places at once. Here with Ilya as his husband, and back then, with Ilya as a teenager, discovering that sex could feel good for the first time in his life. Understanding what it really felt like to be with another person. To feel really wanted.

They kiss languidly for a while, in no rush. Shane getting lost in it. In the heat of Ilya’s body, in the taste of his mouth, his skin. Their cocks grow hard against each other in the water. Until Shane is grinding against Ilya.

Ilya plunges his tongue into Shane’s mouth, making him moan. Grateful that their guards know to stay far away from the lake.

And Shane’s whole body lights up, as it always does when Ilya kisses him. Ilya picks up where they left off earlier with roaming hands and dubious intentions. He slides a hand down, taking Shane’s throbbing cock in a firm grip.

“Ilya,” he pants. “Ilya, please.” he rocks up into Ilya’s fist.

The hand disappears, making Shane whimper. And then he’s in Ilya’s arms. Ilya’s hands lifting him beneath his thighs. He wraps himself tighter around Ilya and licks into his mouth. His heart pounding and his cock hard. Ilya walks them out of the water to a towel Shane had laid out nearby and and sits down, settling Shane in his lap. Shane kisses him, hard, again. Suddenly desperate to be as close as he can be to Ilya, wanting to crawl into his skin.

“I’ve got you, my love,” Ilya soothes, sensing Shane’s need. Ilya holds his fingers up, “Suck.”

So Shane sucks, moaning around Ilya’s fingers.

“Ah, so beautiful like this, you love being filled, yes?” Ilya's accent getting stronger the more aroused he is.

Shane moans again, nodding. Whimpering when Ilya pulls his fingers free, sliding his hand down, fingers teasing down between Shane’s cheeks, until…

Shane gasps as Ilya breaches him. Ilya doesn’t let him come up for air, kissing him firmly on the mouth. His tongue plunging into Shane’s mouth, fucking into him with a promise of what's to come. He pulls off. Gasping for air as another finger slides in.

Ilya licks at his neck, sinking his teeth into Shane’s shoulder.

Shane nods, moving past the point of being able to form words. He sighs in contentment at the press of their bare chests. Hot skin on hot skin.

It lights Shane up from the inside, brings his body to life in a way nothing else, no one else, has ever been able to. He’s so gone on this man, has been, his entire life. Ilya has become the air he breathes. He wondered if they’d get sick of each other, worried about it. Going from seeing each other a couple of times a year to everyday. But it hadn’t happened. It wasn’t always easy, but there wasn’t a day that passed that he didn’t want Ilya.

“Ilya,” he gasps as Ilya adds a third finger. “Fuck me.”

“Always so responsive, so ready for me. I need-“ Ilya gasps.

“What do you need, baby?” Shane asks breathily.

“I need to taste you and then fuck you. Can I?”

And Shane doesn’t ever want to see a day where he says no to that.

“Yeah, fuck, Ilya, yes.”

Ilya gives him one last filthy kiss before he flips Shane, manhandling him onto his front, pulling him up by the hips and without preamble plunges his tongue into Shane’s hole. Shane jerks, his muscles spasming at the sudden intrusion, his nerve endings lighting up like a live wire.

It’s almost on this side of too much, but Ilya pulls back and licks him slowly from his balls all the way over his hole. Shane shudders, his hips pressing into the air, desperate for more.

Ilya growls again, and he makes a meal out of Shane. Making Shane writhe as he fucks him with his fingers and his tongue, until Shane is begging, tears streaming down his cheeks, his hard cock throbbing to the point of pain. “Ilya, please,” he begs, what has to be the fiftieth time. His cock aches.

Ilya finally relents, pulling off and slapping his ass, “Inside. Now.”

Shane’s not even sure how he gets his body to cooperate, but they make it inside. As far as the sofa, Ilya disappearing to get the lube but is back and covering Shane’s body with his own in seconds, kissing him deeply again.

And Shane wants to drown in his kisses. 

But he can’t think about anything more because Ilya flips them, so Shane is lying on top of him. He lays back, hauling Shane into his lap. He slicks himself up with the lube and helps position Shane above him. And then Shane is sinking, sinking into oblivion. Into the ocean that is Ilya’s body. Ilya’s hard cock stretching him open wide as he slides down his length.

His chest heaves with heavy breaths, still feeling Ilya’s size after all this time. Still obsessed with how Ilya fills him up.

“Oh fuck, yes, Ilya.”

“You’re so hot and tight, Shane, Jesus I’m going to come so hard inside you.”

Shane’s brain whites out temporarily at that and he’s shocked he doesn’t come right there as he starts to work himself up and down in earnest on Ilya’s cock, thighs burning as he lifts and drops in a steady rhythm on Ilya's length.

“Yeah, Ilya, I want it,” Shane moans. “Fill me up.”

Ilya makes an animalistic sound and then rolls them. Only the sofa isn't that big so they topple onto the rug. Shane’s on his back and they're laughing, but then Ilya grabs his thighs and hauls him close again and they're not laughing anymore. He slams back in making Shane cry out and grind down as Ilya starts to fuck him hard. Shane’s grunting and moaning and unable to form a single coherent syllable as Ilya fucks into his body.

“Fuck, Shane, you’re so fucking beautiful. I’m gonna—“

And Shane can’t take it, he wants Ilya to come in him, use his body. He reaches down, grasping himself and jerks himself in time with Ilya’s rough thrusts. “Ilya, fuck Ilya, I want it,” he sobs, and then Ilya shudders and is coming.

Shane feels the heat flood him. He jerks himself, making an incoherent noise and then follows Ilya over the edge, coming so hard he sees stars. It's like melted butter down his spine and his whole body radiates from the orgasm. 

They lay there gasping, trying to calm their hearts and lungs. Shane’s usually focused on not being dirty after sex, but something about this, about Ilya today, he wants him close. 

Ilya seems to feel the same way as he clutches at him so Shane wraps his arms tightly around Ilya’s neck. Presses kisses to any skin he can find.

It’s when Ilya takes a shuddering breath that Shane senses everything might not be okay. “Ilyusha? Are you okay?” Shanes asks, sensing his desperation.

It’s only then that Shane realizes he’s crying. Shane pulls back enough to look into his eyes. He holds Ilya’s cheeks, wipes the tears away with his thumbs.

Ilya nods, trying to form words. He leans down and kisses Shane as though he’s trying to convey a message without words. Shane kisses his lips softly. “What's wrong, my heart?” 


“Nothing, I’m being stupid.”

“Ilya,” Shane presses.

“I love you so much. Sometimes I worry, it took us so much work to get here. I don’t believe we really have it. That it won’t be taken from us.”

“Oh, Ilya. No one is ever taking this away. I promise. This is forever.”

“Forever,” Ilya parrots, voice rough before kissing Shane again.

“Forever. I promise. This is real. It's you and me. We did it. Right? We're here. We're married." 

Ilya nods, his breathing calming. "We're here and we're married," he repeats. 

"I love you, Prince Rozanov. I've loved you for so long I don't remember a time when I didn't. You're all I want and everyday I'm grateful I have you." 

Ilya buries his face in Shane neck. Shane figures that was maybe a bit too much. But he feels Ilya nod. "I love you, my Shane. You're my world." 

"Forever," Shane says again. 

"Forever," Ilya agrees. 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you thank you thank youuuuuu for reading. Thanks for any and all comments and kudos. It means so much to me every thought, comment or emoji.

This was definitely a labour of love. Thank you Sam, my wonderful beta for hopping on the project and making me laugh with your comments. Huge huge help. Thank you Ali for kicking it off. Thanks to Jessie for your pep talks and guidance. And Dee, Pie and Mich for all the motivation and support. And thank you to Rin for the incredible art!! and the aesthetic research support and Tsar Gregori. (Wow it took a village). 🫶🏻