lost in translation

The tortoise has been considering his question for eleven minutes now. Ilya knows this because the clock above the fireplace ticks loudly enough to aggravate him, although apparently not loudly enough to hurry Thomas - he doesn’t think anything is loud enough to hurry Thomas. Ilya’s asked him one question since lowering himself onto the living room floor, and Thomas has so far managed to provide half an answer.

The floor.

“Yes?” Ilya prompts, shifting forwards on his knees to peer at the mottling on his shell.

Thomas blinks, and across from him Mrs Cooper cradles her mug in both hands, worrying at the fraying end of her cardigan. “Is he saying something?”

“He is thinking,” he says, distracted.

“Oh,” she glances at Thomas, as though she’s hoping to catch him at it. “Does it usually take this long?”

Summoning the very minimal remains of his patience, Ilya exhales slowly and fixes her with the nicest smile he can manage - he’s booked up today, and can’t afford to overrun. “It can. Nothing to worry about.” Thomas extends his neck another inch or so, and his eyes remain fixed on Ilya with grave attention.

The floor.

Ilya waits. Mrs Cooper does not.

“I know some people must think I’m being silly,” she mumbles, lowering her voice despite Thomas being directly between them. “My daughter certainly does. She says tortoises aren’t exactly known for being lively, but I know him. He used to come and find me in the kitchen every morning. He’d follow me into the conservatory, or if I was doing the washing, he’d -well, he wouldn’t help, obviously, but he’d be there.” Ilya nods as Thomas continues to contemplate the matter. He can feel the tortoise on the verge of something, whether it’s a full sentence or not he isn’t sure, but he lowers himself further until he’s prone and able to look him in the eye anyway.

“He hasn’t done any of it for nearly two months,” she chatters on. “He barely leaves that corner. He eats when I put food beside him, but otherwise he just sits there. The vet couldn’t find anything wrong, his bloods were all normal, his weight hasn’t changed, his temperature - I wrote it down somewhere.”

“You sent me the records,” Ilya says, giving Thomas an encouraging smile. “I read them.”

“Of course, sorry.” Mrs Cooper looks down into her tea - she’s placed Thomas’s food, water and basking lamp beside the bookcase, although faint scratches in the skirting board suggest he once had considerably wider ambitions, and a faded grey towel lies beneath him. From where Ilya sits, the reason for it appears obvious enough, but obvious things are not always correct and he has no interest in interrupting whatever thought the tortoise is attempting to finish.

Wrong.

Ilya waits a little longer in case there’s more, but Thomas only lowers his head towards a dandelion leaf and chews like that’s the end of that. “The floor is wrong,” Ilya says, because at this point he has to give her something, even if it’s vague.

Mrs Cooper looks at the floor with her brows furrowed. It’s polished, some kind of knotty pine that likely cost more than it should, and laid recently enough he can still smell the adhesive if he really focuses. “What does that mean?”

“I am asking him,” he says politely, turning back to Thomas. “What is wrong with it?”

Thomas bites through the stem of the leaf, chews, and swallows. Too smooth.

“Too smooth,” Ilya repeats. “His feet slide.”

Mrs Cooper stares at him. “But he used to walk all around the house.”

“When did you remove the carpet?”

The room falls silent, so silent the ticking of the clock is really starting to piss him off.

She sets the mug on the table with wide eyes. “How did you know there was carpet?”

Ilya feels that part is pretty self explanatory at this point, but the genuine shock on her face is enough to soften him. He’s used to this kind of reaction- the chilling, invasive realisation that even though they’ve willingly booked him to talk to animals, realising he can in fact talk to animals is a hard pill to swallow. “Thomas told me.”

He hadn’t, precisely, but Thomas remembers the room through traction, warmth, directional certainty and the location of reliable obstacles. Beneath the complaint sits a broad impression of something rough underfoot where the polished boards are now. A safe pressure against his claws, and something he could move across with as much ease as an ancient tortoise ever possibly could. Ilya’s long learnt that animals rarely organise information according to the questions humans would think to ask. Mrs Cooper frowns at the clear stretch of floor between Thomas’s corner and the conservatory door. “We had an old carpet in here. It was horrible, brown with these little yellow flowers. I had the boards underneath it restored at the end of May.”

Thomas’s front foot shifts, scraping against the towel. Good ground. “The rug was good ground,” Ilya says.

“That disgusting thing?”

“Yes.”

“But I put this down for him,” she gestures to the towel. “He walks on that.”

“He can walk on it.” Ilya rubs his thumb and finger against the rough material. “He cannot go anywhere on it.”

“Oh.”

Her face changes into something perilously close to tears. Ilya has seen the same relief many times, and he understands it, the gladness that their pet’s suffering can be fixed, that it’s not terminal. He still never quite knows what to say when faced with a crier.

“So he isn’t depressed?”

He shrugs. “I cannot diagnose depression, but this does not sound like emotional withdrawal. He has stopped crossing the room because he cannot grip the floor.”

“I thought he didn’t want to be near me anymore,” Mrs Cooper’s lip wobbles, and he has to resist the urge to offer her a well meaning but highly inappropriate hug. That's what he’d want, if it were Anya. Thomas looks up from the remains of his dandelion. She brings sun food. Ilya looks at the plate beside him, delicate porcelain filled with weeds, leafy greens and several bright yellow flowers dusted with calcium powder. “He remains very appreciative of your catering.”

She chuckles and dabs frantically at her eyes. “Yes, well. He eats better than I do.”

She eats standing over the sink.

Ilya chooses not to translate this. Instead, he checks the rest of Thomas’s enclosure and routine with her, running through basking temperatures, UVB, substrate, baths, diet, access to the garden, and he’s pleasantly surprised to discover Mrs Cooper can answer with the sort of overprepared certainty that tells him the most important thing of all - she’s a good pet parent. She produces an old notebook containing dates, weights and photographs of droppings. Ilya looks at all of it because she, at the end of the day, has paid for his time and because honestly he gets it. “Keep following the vet’s advice,” he tells her, easing his stiff body upright with a little wave in Thomas's direction. “I would put down a runner between the places he uses most, nothing loose that can gather beneath his feet. Cork or a flat rug that is not brown and yellow should give him grip. If he begins moving normally again, you have your answer. If he does not, you go back to the vet.”

“I could bring the old carpet down from the loft, if he likes it so much.” Thomas stops chewing. Yes.

“You could,” Ilya says. “I think he would appreciate that.”

“It really was hideous,” she grimaces, but she’s already jotting it down. Good ground.

Ilya hums. “He feels strongly about it.”

Mrs Cooper gives Thomas a fond look. “I spent so much money on these floors.”

Thomas takes another leaf. Wrong. “He is not concerned by the financial aspect.”

“No,” she says. “I don’t suppose he would be.” He’s halfway out of the room when a door closes elsewhere in the house, and Thomas pulls his head partway into his shell as footsteps carry from the corridor. Mrs Cooper glances towards the living room door. “That’ll be Martin. He’s been staying with me while his kitchen’s being done.” The loud male.

Thomas’s interpretation arrives with unusual speed, enough that Ilya freezes with his hand still outstretched towards the handle of the door. Martin appears from the kitchen a moment later, broad and smiling with the sort of cheer possessed only by middle aged men in pubs or the homes of the person they're fucking.

“How’s the patient?” he grins, before crouching and reaching for Thomas’s head - the tortoise retracts with a jerk.

The loud male touches my face.

“Please don’t,” Ilya cuts in.

Martin’s hand pauses, genuinely confused. “Sorry?”

“He does not like his face being touched.”

“Oh, he doesn’t mind me.” Martin tries again, poking at the sensitive skin of the tortoise’s head. “Do you, Tommy?”

Thomas disappears entirely into his shell. I would prefer the loud male be removed from the territory.

Ilya looks at Mrs Cooper. “He would prefer your partner not touch his face.”

Martin straightens like he’s been electrocuted. “I’m not her -”

“He’s not my -”

Ilya waits.

“We’re friends,” Mrs Cooper manages, her face flushed. “Yes,” Martin says, not half as convincingly as he might’ve hoped. “Old friends.”

Thomas remains inside his shell. Remove him. “He may need more time to adjust to Martin being in the house,” Ilya says slowly. “For now, it would be better if Martin lets Thomas initiate any contact.”

“I’ve known this tortoise for six years,” Martin protests. Thomas cautiously extends his head. Six bad years. “Even so.”

Mrs Cooper gives Martin a look over the rim of her glasses. “You do bother him.”

“I give him strawberries!”

“Those are only an occasional treat,” Ilya says. Too wet, Thomas offers.

“He is also not especially impressed by the strawberries.” Martin gapes at them both. By the time Ilya’s within reaching distance of the front door again, Mrs Cooper’s committed to returning the old carpet before dinner. She’s also written down the names of two suitable alternatives in case it’s suffered in storage, though Thomas has made it clear- after ten minutes of waiting - that he considers compromise unacceptable. Ilya packs his iPad into his bag and confirms he’ll email a written summary that evening, and Thomas has made his way to the very edge of the towel. His front feet rest against the wood boards, but he doesn't put his weight onto them.

Ilya pauses beside him. “Your carpet will return.” Thomas studies him, and only when Ilya’s out the door does his response reach him.

You understood adequately.

For a tortoise, it’s a glowing testimonial. He’s pretty satisfied with that as he steps outside, fully prepared to stick his headphones in and tune out the incessant ramblings of the city’s talkative streetlife, but the first thing he hears is that something good has fallen beneath the silver car. He pauses on Mrs Cooper’s front step with his bag tucked beneath his arm, waiting for the door to close behind him.

Good thing. Under. Mine.

Not yours.

Mine first.

Three sparrows are gathered beneath the hedge, their attention fixed on a crushed piece of cereal bar embedded in the pavement below an old Volkswagen. Their thoughts reach him in quick flashes, something about sugar and oats, the looming darkness beneath the car that frightens them enough not to risk it. There’s no real argument beyond possession, or at least not that he can tell - the smallest bird darts forward to snatch a piece larger than its head and retreats into the branches before either of the others can organise a response.

Thief.

Gone.

More?

Ilya adjusts the strap of his bag and checks the time - he has thirty something minutes to make a forty five minute journey, which isn’t Thomas’s fault exactly, though Ilya probably should’ve prepared for tortoise time. According to the calendar neatly displayed on his smart watch, the next appointment is with a Mr Shane Hollander and…Pork. Pork, as listed on the intake form, is a three year old sphynx cat who’s displayed persistent signs of unhappiness despite having no identifiable medical condition - Ilya read the veterinary summary twice, along with Shane’s very thorough description of the problem, which began as a concise paragraph and then continued for four additional pages. Appetite normal, weight stable, toileting normal, sleep possibly increased, although Shane had noted that this was difficult to assess in a cat, decreased interest in play. Frequent vocalisation and irritability.

The attached comment that ‘Pork has always been somewhat irritable, but this appears different’ leaves Ilya with several questions, most of them surrounding how unpleasant the animal had been to begin with. He’s not new to aggressive animals - Sveta’s parrot has all but neutralised him to the threats of the animal kingdom, but on a Monday? It’s a grim prospect. A bus shudders past before he reaches the end of the road, leaving him in a blast of warm air and the smell of exhaust. A terrier on the back seat catches sight of him through the glass.

Outside!

Outside outside outside -

The bus carries it away as he reconsiders the merits of his headphones again. The city has spoken to him for as long as he can remember, before he knew that other people moved through it in silence, and as a child he’d assumed everyone could hear the frantic arguments between seagulls over McDonalds wrappers, the mice in the walls deciding whether it was safe to move, the neighbour’s cat reporting every person who had entered the building after dark, or worse still, the incessant thrum of even the smallest insects discussing the very serious business of egg laying. It was only when he’d asked his mama why the pigeons hated a woman outside the bakery that anyone realised something was unusual.

Now, most of it flows around him - he’s careful to protect his sanity where possible (and is likely keeping the business of ear defenders and noise cancelling tech afloat singlehandedly), because years tormented by migraines or the wailing of ant colonies when people aren’t careful enough about where they’re putting their feet take their toll. He thumbs one AirPod. Food.

Up.

Hot stone.

Danger above. It’s a hawk.

Gone.

Behind the shutters of a closed restaurant, something small and furry follows the wall through darkness. Ilya receives a route made of gaps rather than street names, warm pipe, wet ground, bitter powder, the place where the large feet strike, and then loses it as he moves beyond range. A gull standing on the roof of the house opposite watches him approach with one yellow eye.

Snack?

“No,” he mutters, carefully tucking the headphone into his pocket, defeated. Please?

“I have nothing.”

Liar. I can smell hotdogs.

Ilya keeps walking - the gull launches itself from the roof and lands several feet ahead of him.

You have a hotdog?

He has to think about that one - he’d had a hotdog that morning, takeaway leftovers he’d not even bothered to reheat, cramming the stale combination of meat, bread, and mustard into his mouth before he’d had to dash out the door for his first appointment of the day. “Breakfast. I do not have it now, sorry.”

Give it.

“You are wasting both our time.”

The gull opens its wings and screams directly into his face, and a woman passing with a young child startles with a yelp. Ilya shoots her an apologetic smile despite having done nothing wrong, then steps around the bird with a scowl.

I will shit on you.

He ignores that, busying himself with checking Maps as he crosses the main road - if he misses the next bus, he’ll be late. Not badly late, but Shane’s form has an air of a person who would absolutely notice, so he hurries as much as he possibly can without looking completely insane. Two indoor cats sit several floors apart behind opposing windows, maintaining a territorial conflict neither has the physical means to resolve, and a dog somewhere beyond the row of houses has been left in a garden. Door.

The door’s closed.

I am finished in the garden now.

He’s still mulling over Thomas when he reaches the bus stop - the display changes from one minute to due, which could mean the bus is around the corner or no longer exists at all. He’s lived here for long enough to understand it honestly could go either way. Beside the bench, a pretty, curly haired spaniel in a yellow harness lies against a man’s shoes, apparently asleep. Ilya stands well outside the dog’s space and opens Shane’s appointment notes. She lifts her head the minute he pulls up the veterinary report.

You look like you’ve had a bad day.

Ilya glances down, momentarily caught off guard - the dog’s dark eyes rest on his face. She’s eloquent, as most dogs are, but her voice carries the sort of pity he’s not entirely happy to accept.

“Yes,” Ilya says under his breath, casting a wary glance around at the near empty shelter.

Her tail thumps against the pavement. My person cannot see you. Ilya looks at the man holding the harness, facing slightly to the left of where he stands. “Okay.”

I see for him.

She’s not boasting - the meaning she shares is a simple arrangement of the fact they move together as one, and the spaniel’s pride is warm as caramel, pleasant and intense enough that he finds he’s smiling before he can stop himself. “You do it very well.”

I do. The dog lowers her head again, returning her watchful gaze to the road like the conversation is concluded. He is very special to me. Ilya grins and returns to the intake form - Shane’s included a list of things already attempted, diligently listing copious veterinary examinations and blood tests, altered feeding schedules, two kinds of pheromone diffusers, increased play, decreased play, new toys, old toys reintroduced after a period of removal, catnip, puzzle feeders and something described only as ‘a calming playlist, ineffective.’

It’s excessive, but not in the way Ilya sometimes encounters. There’s no attempt to force a human narrative onto Pork, no insistence that the cat is punishing him for working too much or grieving the end of a relationship he’d never cared about in the first place. Shane has documented what he can see and admitted what he doesn’t know, which is refreshing enough that he isn’t entirely dreading it.

When the bus arrives, the spaniel stands before her person gives the command, and Ilya lets them board first. There aren’t any animals upstairs so he takes the front seat, setting his bag between his feet - the relative quiet lasts until the bus pulls alongside a delivery van containing a greyhound who informs him through two panes of glass that he’s going somewhere exceptional.

Going! Going, going, going - going with him! Ilya can’t exactly respond verbally, surrounded by unsuspecting commuters, so he tilts his head in what he hopes is a questioning probe. Don’t know, but going!

The lights change before Ilya can uncover any more information - he uses the journey to skim his schedule for the rest of the day, reply to an email about a rabbit refusing to enter one particular room and make a note to send Mrs Cooper’s report before he goes to bed. He also texts Sasha to confirm he’ll let Anya out again if he’s delayed. Anya’s never enjoyed accompanying him to consultations - other animals either become defensive at the presence of a dog or address every thought to her instead, as though Ilya is merely the less qualified half of the partnership. She’s happier at home, where she can sleep across his bed and complain upon his return that no one’s ever suffered a longer separation.

He checks the photograph Sasha sent an hour ago, and he’s pleased to see Anya's stretched on her back in the strip of sunlight beneath his kitchen window with all four legs in the air, coping well enough with his absence. Traitor.

The bus leaves him a six minute walk from Shane’s address, and it’s a quieter street than Mrs Cooper’s, lined with colourful painted houses with small front gardens - for a second he watches a bee drift between lavender stems. More. More. Wrong flower. More.

There’s very little thought behind it that Ilya can separate from movement. Colour, sweetness, direction, the pull of the hive somewhere beyond the houses, and it lands, drinks and leaves him without ever noticing he’s there. Further along, a pigeon is limping beneath a bench, and the visceral discomfort reaches Ilya before he properly sees the bird in an aching, repetitive pulse around one foot that he can feel in his own toes. Caught. My foot hurts.

He checks the time and swears quietly to himself - the pigeon startles but doesn’t fly, which tells him the problem is probably worse than it looks. A loop a six pack ring has tangled itself around two toes, and the bird’s leg is horribly swollen.

“Come here,” Ilya says softly. “I can fix that.” No.

“I am trying to help.”

No hand. No hand.

“You can keep the foot or avoid the hand. Pick one.” The pigeon backs beneath the bench as Ilya crouches, removing the emergency packet of sunflower seeds from the front pocket - he’s nothing if not prepared.

Seed?

“Yes.”

Seed now.

“When you come out.”

Seed there.

“Then remain tangled.”

It takes another minute of negotiation and most of Ilya’s remaining patience before the pigeon ventures within reach - he drops his jacket over it and gathers its wings carefully against its body, trying his absolute best to ignore the immediate explosion of panic that makes his own chest tighten with dread.

Held, death. You are hurting me. Don’t eat me. “No one is eating you,” Ilya huffs, wrestling with the bird as it thrashes. Caught caught caught -

“Hold still!”

The pigeon doesn’t understand the words so much as the intention behind them, but it stills enough for him to work the plastic loose with the tiny scissors he keeps attached to his keyring. There’s no blood, but he’s worried about the swelling - when he sets the bird down on the pavement it staggers a few steps and he stands, brushing away dust and several small, downy feathers.

Seed.

“You are welcome,” Ilya mutters, tossing a handful out in its direction. Seed.

He throws the rest onto the pavement and watches six perfectly healthy pigeons appear from nowhere to claim it. By the time he reaches Shane’s front gate he has three minutes remaining and something deeply unpleasant on the knee of his jeans - swearing, he tries to wipe it away with a tissue as he walks, but succeeds only in making it larger. He decides Shane Hollander will have to accept that communicating with animals occasionally involves kneeling in whatever those animals have left on the pavement.

A ginger cat is lying beneath a car two houses down from Shane’s, and only its eyes move as Ilya passes. Skin thing watches me.

He slows. “What skin thing?”

The cat’s attention shifts towards the house he’s headed for. Inside. No fur. “Does it come outside?”

Would freeze or burn. Would be eaten.

“Pork?” Ilya asks.

The cat yawns, stretching out both front legs. Wants my wall. “It is not your wall.”

Mine.

“It is attached to his house,” he reasons, not quite sure why he’s bothering. Mine first.

Ilya leaves the cat to its legal position and checks the number beside the gate, 1410. The front garden is immaculate, the path clean and there’s hanging baskets of vivid red and blue trailing petunias either side of the door. Through the half drawn curtains, he can just about make out a pale shape sat beyond the glass.

There’s no clear thought yet, but he can feel the pressure of attention anyway - Ilya wipes his shoes and attempts one last repair of his trouser leg before ringing the bell. The door opens with such haste there’s no pretending Shane Hollander wasn't standing directly behind it, and Ilya forgets about the state of his trousers entirely.

“Mr Rozanov?”

The man standing in front of him is not what he’d pictured from the intake form - he isn’t sure what he had pictured exactly, but four pages of symptom tracking had apparently assembled themselves into someone older, certainly not someone with dark hair falling loose across his forehead and such melting doe eyes that they render him briefly incapable of anything but staring.

Shane’s a little shorter than him, and there’s a constellation of freckles scattered across his cheeks that don’t help in any way whatsoever. His feet are bare, and he’s in an ever so slightly cropped white top that exposes just enough of his navel that Ilya’s eyes can’t do anything but take an unauthorised journey along the soft stretch of skin he finds there. Fuck. “Yes,” he wheezes, suddenly very aware there’s pigeon shit on his leg and he’s sweaty enough to look like he’s patient zero for some kind of birdbourne disease. “Ilya is fine.”

Shane smiles, and it’s a friendly smile - probably offered to every tradesperson, delivery driver, normal human or animal psychic who arrives on his doorstep covered in literal faeces, but he almost chokes on it anyway. “Shane,” he says, stepping back from the door. “Come in.” Ilya does, breathing hard through his nose. Shane’s hallway is as clean as the front garden, painted a deep green with a dark wooden table against one wall and several pairs of shoes arranged very neatly beneath it - a framed photograph hangs above them, Shane beside an older couple on what looks like a beach, all three of them squinting into the sun. The house itself smells pleasantly neutral, something he’s grateful for considering the throbbing in his temples. Ilya glances at Shane’s bare feet again and then at his own shoes.

“You can leave them on,” Shane says quickly, and there’s that smile again. Ilya wants to chew on it.

Instead, he looks down at the damp, contaminated knee of his trousers. “That may be a mistake.”

Shane follows his gaze. “Oh.”

“A pigeon.”

“I didn’t think they did that from ground level.” Ilya gives a helpless shrug that makes Shane’s lips twitch, and it takes him an appalling amount of effort not to grin back like an idiot. “Sorry. Do you need a towel or anything?”

“No, it is not -” Ilya rubs at the mark with his thumb, which does fuck all but spread the stain. “The pigeon was caught in plastic. There was some wrestling.”

“Is it okay?”

The concern in his voice is enough for Ilya to set about planning. They’ll have a July wedding, perhaps on a lakefront somewhere. Ilya will wear black, and Shane will wear whatever he wants as long as he shows up. Should they get a pianist or a cellist for the ceremony? “I think so,” he says, keeping his voice as even as it possibly can be when presented with the love of his life. “The foot was swollen, but there was no blood. It flew away eventually.”

“That’s good.” Shane closes the door behind him with a soft click. “Thank you for helping it.”

Ilya briefly considers whether it would be unethical to locate further injured pigeons and rescue them within Shane’s line of sight. Probably, but he’s not seeing a grand downside right now, and he removes his shoes anyway to set them carefully beside Shane’s. There’s a tiny grey feather attached to one of his laces - he pulls it free and slips it into his pocket rather than releasing it into the house.

Bird.

The thought presents itself to him alongside a sharp flicker of interest, followed by a memory of wings.

Bird smell.

Ilya falters - Shane’s watching him with open curiosity, his eyes wide. “Is that him?”

“I think so,” Ilya muses, scanning the house for any trace of other pets - he finds nothing but the serene thoughts of a house spider hidden in the corner of Shane’s bathroom, hoping for the humidity of his next shower. Shane glances towards the door. “Can you hear him already?”

“Not clearly. He knows I have been near a bird.” The curiosity in his face swiftly morphs into that same shock - it happens every time, the first moment a client discovers he can do exactly the thing they’ve paid him to do. Shane at least recovers more quickly than Mrs Cooper. “You smell like it?”

“To him. I hope not to you.”

“No.” Shane smiles again, and Ilya’s mentally sorting through engagement rings. “Just normal.”

This isn’t particularly helpful, but Ilya picks up his bag before his hands can tangle themselves in the other man’s hair. “Where is Pork?”

“In the living room. He was on the windowsill when you arrived, but he’s probably moved to his bed.” Shane hesitates, chewing the inside of his cheek. “He might hiss at you.”

That isn’t a surprise - he can sense the malevolent aura emanating from the fleshy creature without even having to try. “He would not be the first.”

“He hisses at everyone. And sometimes things that aren’t there.”

“He may have reasons.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Shane mumbles, his shoulders almost up to his ears. There’s an anxious tension around his eyes that wasn’t there a few seconds ago, and suddenly the four pages make considerably more sense - he isn’t simply thorough, he’s frightened there’s something wrong with an animal who can’t tell him where it hurts, and most of Ilya’s clients are.

“Let me meet him,” he says, much gentler this time. “Then we will see.” Shane leads him through, and the pale shape Ilya saw from the garden has relocated to a heated bed beside the radiator, though bed is generous for what appears to be a small fort constructed from several blankets and tastefully embroidered pillows. Pork’s sprawled in the middle of it with his front paws tucked beneath his chest, his wrinkled pink skin visible between a knitted blue and white jumper and an expression that immediately tells Ilya how this session is about to go.

The cat pins his ears. Bird man.

Shane crouches beside the bed with another one of those soft, sweet smiles. “Hey, buddy. This is Ilya.”

I know.

Ilya sets his bag beside the sofa, and Pork’s bulging eyes narrow. I am naked.

Ilya looks at the jumper. “You are wearing clothes.” Shane turns sharply, his rosy lips parted. “Did he say something?”

“He is aware I can see him.”

Pork lifts his head, and Shane scratches a finger beneath his chin - he receives a low creaking sound that might be a purr. You are a stranger.

The thought carries along with mixed sensations - Shane is warmth, food, familiar hands, the body Pork sleeps against and the voice in every room of the house. Beneath it sits a faint disturbance at Ilya’s presence, hot with aggravation.

“Is it okay if I sit?” Ilya asks, eyeing the claws Pork has so kindly unsheathed.

“Of course.” Shane stands abruptly, gesturing to the sofa. “Sorry.” Ilya’s suddenly aware of every available inch of sofa when the other man perches on the far side of it, still murmuring soothing haikus to Pork, who hasn’t taken his eyes off Ilya once. He takes out his iPad and opens the intake form, mostly so he has somewhere else to look. “As I mentioned in my email, I am not a veterinarian.”

“I know.”

“I cannot diagnose a health condition, and anything physical should continue to be investigated by his vet.”

“Of course. They’ve done bloodwork and checked his thyroid, his blood pressure, his teeth -” Shane breaks off, his cheeks pink. “Sorry. You read the report.”

“I did.”

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

Even the smaller addition Shane had submitted twenty minutes later clarifying that Pork’s left ear occasionally felt warmer than the right, though he wasn’t sure if that was significant or whether the nude beast had just been basking on a windowsill. Shane tucks his hands between his knees. “I know it’s a lot.”

“It is useful,” Ilya reasons, attempting reassurance. “I thought you might think I was insane.”

“I have a client who sends me photographs of her dog’s bowel movements every morning.”

“Oh.” Shane still doesn't seem convinced.

“She has not booked an appointment in nine months.” The laugh that earns him catches him unprepared. It’s bright and so warm it lodges somewhere between his ribs and burns there, white hot and enough that he has to make a real effort not to try for another, even as the naked cat stares between them.

No.

Ilya blinks. “What?”

Shane’s smile disappears, and he mourns it the second his mouth turns downward. “What did he say?”

Pork doesn’t look away from him. No. “Nothing useful yet,” Ilya says, hesitant. Maybe the cat’s just shy. Liar.

Okay, maybe the cat is a raging asshole. He turns his iPad so the screen faces him, and glances back towards Shane. “Could you talk me through what changed? Form says you first noticed around six weeks ago.” Shane nods, fidgeting. “He stopped playing as much. He used to chase the feather wand every night, but now he’ll watch it and not move, or he’ll walk away.”

Stupid bird.

“You do not like the feather wand?” Ilya frowns. I kill it every day. It returns.

The impression that follows is one of exhausting futility - neon pink and purple feathers dragged across the rug, Pork’s body gathering itself to strike and the satisfying catch beneath his claws, and then Shane lifting his prey from the floor only to resurrect it the following evening. “He may be bored with that particular toy.”

“I tried others,” Shane’s eyes are wide, darting between Pork and his own. “Does he hate it?”

“He mentioned that the bird keeps returning.”

Shane stares at him. “The feather wand?”

“Yes.”

“He thinks it’s a bird?”

“Not exactly. He knows it is an object when it is not moving.” Ilya looks at Pork, who continues to radiate utter disgust. “When you play, he experiences the hunt. He catches it, but you take it away and bring it back to life. The repetition has become frustrating.”

“Oh.” Shane looks genuinely stricken, his face paling. “I thought putting it away made it more exciting.”

Ilya has to resist the temptation to start counting his freckles. “It often does. Pork appears to take the continuity of death more seriously than most.” It is dead.

“Yes,” Ilya tells him, not quite loving the way the cat’s tail whips every time he speaks. “You were very successful.”

Shane bounces between them. “Should I let him keep it?”

“At the end of play, yes. Give him time with it before you put it away. He needs the hunt to finish.”

“I can do that.” Shane reaches for his phone on the side table and makes a note - Ilya watches his thumb move across the screen and briefly imagines that same concentration directed elsewhere. The thought is so incredibly inappropriate that his traitorous cock twitches in his jeans, and he has to force himself to look back at the cat.

Pork is watching him. Ilya clears his throat. “You also mentioned vocalisation.”

“Mostly at night. He’ll sit outside my bedroom and yell.” Door closes.

“Is your bedroom door usually closed?”

Shane leans back, bobbing his foot. “Not usually. I started closing it because he kept waking me up.”

He has nightmares. I was trying to help.

Ilya’s invited to a flash of Shane tangled in his sheets with his legs kicking, and an arm thrown across the place Pork considers his. He moves in his sleep, dislodges blankets and occasionally rolls close enough to present what the cat regards as a crushing risk, whimpering with such fear it’s all he can do not to put his fist through that very nice wide screen TV just a few feet away on the wall. Ilya tries not to picture Shane in bed beyond that, and succeeds in the sense that he’s absolutely picturing Shane in bed. Hitching his thighs up, coaxing him through the first stretch, pushing his head down until he arches so perfectly that he can’t do anything but -“He was sleeping with me every night,” Shane says, shuffling forwards to stroke a sweet hand down the cat’s velvety behind. “You moved.”

He frowns. “House?”

“In your sleep.”

“Ah,” he winces a little, and there’s no mistaking the furious blush now creeping from his cheeks all the way down to his neck. “Sometimes.”

He pretends he’s not sad. Pork’s ears flick towards him. You are not helping.

“I know,” Ilya says, keeping his voice even.

Shane watches him closely. “What did he say?”

“He says you aren’t a still sleeper.”

He’s affronted by that, and his face creases in concentration. “I move around a little, everyone does.”

You kick.

“He feels strongly about this. You kick?”

“I’ve never kicked him.”

Pork sends Ilya a sharp impression of a heel narrowly missing his face, and the way he’d scampered off the end of the bed to the safety of his litter box. “Perhaps not intentionally.”

Shane looks horrified at the prospect. “Did I hurt him?”

“No,” Ilya says quickly. “He is not describing pain. Only a near miss.”

“I didn’t even know!”

I found safety. He does not mean to.

“He would like it noted that he saved himself.” Shane leans towards the cat, his eyes shiny and blinking hard. “I’m sorry, buddy.”

Pork stretches his neck to accept a kiss, and Ilya has to fight to keep his face neutral as those plush, glossy lips touch down on the sentient testicle, who’s eyes remain fixed on him throughout.

My beloved, the cat tells him offhandedly, and Ilya would be damned if there’s not the faint trace of smugness in the way he says it. He lowers his gaze to the intake form before Shane catches anything in his face. “When did you close the bedroom door?” he asks instead, shifting his weight to avoid displaying the half erection already pressing itself to the crotch of his jeans.

“About two weeks ago.”

“So the vocalisation began before that?”

“Yeah, that’s why I closed it. I thought maybe he was trying to wake me up.”

He stops breathing.

The change in Pork reaches Ilya so quickly he nearly mistakes it for his own body, despite his experience - his chest tightens, and he’s filled with the enormous pressure of darkness, burning lungs and a subconscious, desperate gasp of air. He clenches his jaw even as Pork retracts the memory, rounding on Shane with more concern than he should probably possess. “Do you have sleep apnoea?”

Shane’s eyebrows shoot up and his mouth opens again. Ilya wants to bite him. “What?”

“Do you stop breathing while you sleep?”

“I - no? I don’t think so.”

Pork rises from the bed, taking his sweet time. He does. I call him. The thought hits with a strong wash of urgency, and Shane’s face flashes behind his eyelids, turned into the pillow. There’s no movement beneath the blankets.

Call. I call until he moves again.

“Pork is waking you deliberately,” Ilya says, as calmly as he can manage. “He says you stop breathing.”

“I don’t stop breathing!”

“You may not know.”

“I’d know if I wasn’t breathing,” Shane’s gaze flits anxiously from the cat to the iPad in his hands. “I’d know, wouldn’t I? Would I?” The cat steps carefully from the heated bed and crosses the cushion between them, placing a grotesquely bony paw against Shane’s thigh. Mine. “He is worried about you,” Ilya mutters, averting his eyes - Shane’s toying with the spindly end of Pork’s tail, and it’s making him feel quite ill. “The vet thought he was sick.”

“I think he has been trying to tell you that you are. You should speak to a doctor.”

Shane nibbles at his lip again, and god, Ilya’s considering Mexico for their honeymoon. “I live alone. I wouldn’t know if I did.” Ah, so there’s no partner then. Mexico it is. “Pork does.” Shane strokes his thumb between his shoulders. “Is that why he’s been acting strange during the day?”

Tired.

“Partly. He is tired.”

“I knew he was sleeping more.”

Pork doesn’t seem to disagree, so Ilya gives them both a solemn nod. “He sleeps more during the day because he is watching you at night.”

“Oh, Pork.”

The cat leans into his hand and Ilya gives them a moment, resisting a wholly irrational (and wildly inappropriate) stab of jealousy towards a hairless animal in knitwear. Shane gathers Pork closer against his chest and presses his mouth to the loose skin above his nose. “You should have told me.”

I have been screaming.

“He feels that he did,” Ilya adds unhelpfully.

“I’m sorry,” Shane’s eyes are huge and wet, even if he’s staring directly into the soulless, pale eyes of Gollum.

Yes.

“He accepts your apology.”

Pork’s head twists in his direction. I did not say that. Ilya keeps his expression neutral as Shane settles Pork in his lap, absently smoothing the hem of the jumper. “Is there anything else? Anything I should change for him?”

“Possibly. I would like to ask him more questions without directing him towards the symptoms you have already noticed.”

“Okay.”

“Has anything else changed in the house? Your working hours, visitors, feeding schedule? You are not dating?”

Okay, that last question was a little bold, but the other man doesn’t seem to notice or care. “No. I work from home most of the time. My schedule varies a little, but it always has.”

He talks to small people on the small computer. “Video calls?” Ilya asks.

Shane shudders. “A lot of them.”

“Your laptop.”

He glances towards the dining table, where one sits open beside a stack of papers, the screen wallpaper some sort of black and white bird Ilya hasn’t seen before. “Yeah, he walks across it during meetings.”

“I imagine he is trying to participate.”

Ilya receives an immediate impression of Shane lifting Pork away from the keyboard while several tiny human faces speak from boxes. They see me. “He enjoys being seen.”

“That makes one of us.” Shane’s gaze drops to Pork, stuck in the limbo of having said far too much under far too weak of a joke. Interesting, for a man who looks like that.

“He also dislikes being moved,” Ilya says hurriedly, happy to move them along if it’ll bring back the sunny smile again. Jackpot, because Shane chuckles at that, and the sound pools hot in his stomach. “He sends emails!”

“To anyone important?”

“Last week he typed a semicolon to my boss.” He grins, and Shane grins back. It would be perfect, a moment for Ilya’s hall of fame, had the cat’s eyes not narrowed into slits. Stop this. Ilya pauses. This could be a beautiful partnership, between man and cat -who better to tell him what Shane likes than the nudist laying between them? They could plan dates together, concoct a proper courtship - it’s perfect. Spurred on by his own delight, Ilya seizes phase one without hesitation. “I usually spend part of the consultation alone with the animal. Some communicate more freely when the owner is not present.”

Shane frowns. “You think he’s holding something back?” I know you are lying.

“Not necessarily. But your reactions can influence where his attention goes. It may help me understand what he considers important without him monitoring you.”

Pork’s horrible tail twitches in warning.

“Right, okay, I guess that makes sense.” Shane carefully lifts him from his lap and returns him to the heated bed. “Should I wait in the kitchen?”

“That would be perfect.”

He smooths both hands awkwardly over the front of his sweatpants, and Ilya looks away so abruptly it’s almost certainly more incriminating than continuing to stare. “If he wants me, can you tell me?”

“Yes.”

“And if he seems stressed -”

“I will come and get you.”

Shane lingers beside the sofa, looking down at Pork with enough concern that Ilya nearly feels guilty for what he’s about to do next. “Okay,” he says eventually. “I’ll give you some privacy.” Pork watches him cross the room, and Ilya waits until Shane shuts the door behind him.

You want to mate with him.

There’s no ambiguity this time, because Pork shares a vivid and deeply unnecessary image of Ilya pinning Shane down against the very sofa they’re sitting on, his dark head tipped back and those soft thighs spread around Ilya’s hips. He hadn’t thought he was being that obvious about it. Ilya glances towards the closed door before leaning closer to Pork. “I would like to take him to dinner first, at least.”

No.

“He may want to go.”

No.

“You do not know this,” Ilya protests, honestly a little offended. His hopes of a mutually beneficial interspecies friendship have very quickly caught fire, but he’s no quitter. “I would be a good boyfriend.” I know him. Pork stalks closer, from this angle very much resembling raw chicken, but Ilya isn't about to point this out.

Ilya lowers his voice. “What does he like?”

Not you.

“Come on,” he tries again, not above begging a cat if he has to. “You liked me before, no?”

I never liked you. You have served your purpose. Ilya sits back on his heels, blinking. “You are very rude.” You want to mate with him.

“Yes, we have established, but not only this!”

You looked at his body.

“I cannot help that,” Ilya snaps. “I have eyes.” I will remove them.

“Then I will look with my hands.”

That is categorically the wrong thing to say, as Pork’s back arches, every inch of exposed skin gathering into furious wrinkles. Leave. “No. I am being paid to be here.”

Leave and do not return.

“That is not your decision.”

Mine.

The word comes with Shane attached to it again, the familiar weight beside Pork in bed, the gentle touch of fingers beneath his chin, the warmth of his lap and the soft voice he uses when they're alone. There’s love beneath the possessiveness, fierce and absolute enough that Ilya feels it in his ribs. Unfortunately for Pork, this only makes him like Shane more. “I am not taking him from you,” Ilya reasons, holding out a hand in the cat's direction. “Listen, I have a dog - I am a very good human for animals -” Pork bares his teeth, and for the second time Ilya's aware he’s said very much the wrong thing. You are my enemy. “This,” Ilya trails off, quickly correcting the way his whisper-hissing has grown louder. “This is childish.”

You smelled his clothes.

Ilya stiffens. “When?”

At the door. You breathed him.

He had, technically, but not with enough intention to deserve being spoken to like this. “Yes, well you lick his forehead while he sleeps.” The cat steps closer still, and Ilya has enough self preservation to shuffle back until there’s a safer distance between them again. He likes it.

“I am sure I could make him like other things.” You are disgraceful.

Pork’s mouth opens in a silent snarl, but Ilya crosses his arms. “I am asking him out whether you like it or not.”

No.

“Yes.”

No.

“You cannot stop me.”

I will tell him.

Ilya gestures towards the kitchen, though Shane remains safely out of sight. “Tell him what?”

You wish to mate.

“He cannot understand you.”

The realisation passes between them with almost holy clarity, and for the first time since Ilya arrived, the cat appears to understand the monumental and terrible imbalance of power in the room.

Ilya smiles, and Pork’s pupils expand until his eyes are almost entirely black.

Do not.

“What will you do?”

Pork lifts his narrow head, and the yowl that erupts out of him is loud enough he’s half expecting every window in the house to shatter - Ilya flinches, scrambling to his feet as the sound rises into an operatic air raid siren, climbing higher and higher until he swears the glass on the coffee table starts to tremble.

“You little shit,” he yelps, clapping his hands over both ears. “Pork -” The door flies open and Shane bolts into the room, almost colliding with the side of the sofa - Pork stops mid scream and flees towards him, every muscle in his body performing the very convincign role of a pitiful animal who’s suffered unimaginable cruelty.

Ilya stares incredulously at him.

“What happened?” Shane’s already dropping to his knees, scooping up the beast with trembling fingers. “Is he okay? Did something scare him?” Pork looks at Ilya. Leave.

“He is fine,” Ilya grinds out.

“That didn’t sound fine!”

“He wanted you.”

Shane rocks the cat like a baby, and Ilya has to resist the urge to tell him his beloved pet isn’t actually a sphynx, he’s a demon from hell itself. “You should’ve come and got me.”

“I was about to.”

Liar.

Ilya glares at him. “He became impatient.”

“Why?”

Because he is trying to violate our home.

Ilya picks his iPad up from where it slipped in the chaos, stuffing it back into his bag. “I asked whether calling for you at night was intended specifically to wake you, or whether he was also seeking comfort.”

“And?”

Pork presses his face beneath Shane’s chin, staring at Ilya from the shelter of his neck.

I will expose you.

“He preferred to demonstrate.”

“Oh.” Shane’s shoulders drop, his hand rubbing slow circles over Pork’s jumper. “Right.”

It’s an appalling strategy. Shane believes him immediately, though, so it's working. He’ll deal with the moral consequences another day, perhaps on their first family holiday.

“He calls because he is concerned about your breathing,” Ilya says, which has the benefit of being entirely true. “He also dislikes the closed door. I would leave it open until you have spoken to your doctor.”

“I will.” Shane shifts Pork higher against his chest. “I’ll call tomorrow.” Good.

Pork’s agreement comes with enough satisfaction that Ilya almost forgives him - then Shane presses another kiss to the side of his head, and he changes his mind.

“Anything else?” Shane peers at him, hopeful. For fuck’s sake. “He would benefit from more structured play, with a clear end to the hunt. I would also try adding a raised bed or shelf near your desk so he can be involved while you work without standing on the keyboard.”

“He has a cat tree.”

Wrong place.

“Is it near your desk?”

“No, it’s by the window in the other room.”

“He wants to see the screen.”

Shane beams down at Pork. “You want me to buy you your own office chair?”

Yes.

“No,” Ilya says cheerfully.

Pork’s head snaps towards him, and Shane laughs. “Fair enough. I’ll move the tree.”

“He intends to send more emails,” Ilya warns, satisfaction blooming warm in his chest when the cat’s tail begins to lash again. Shane nods gravely, and they spend a few minutes working through the changes, adding notes while the other man asks questions and Pork contributes occasional demands that Ilya opts not to translate - by the time the end of the appointment rolls around, Shane’s created an extensive list on his phone that he finds so endearing he’s almost forgotten they aren’t, in fact, lovers yet.

“Is that everything?”

“For now.” Ilya says. “I will send you a written summary this evening. If his daytime behaviour does not improve once he is sleeping through the night, you should update his vet.”

“I will.”

Ilya should leave - he’s completed the consultation and discovered Shane is single. By any reasonable standard, his work here is done. His shoes are waiting in the hallway - he could put them on, walk home, and spend the next several hours constructing a message casual enough to suggest interest without revealing he’s already planned most of their future together. Shane follows him to the edge of the sofa, still holding Pork. “I can’t believe it,” he says softly.

Ilya freezes. “The breathing?”

“That too, obviously.” Shane glances down at Pork. “But he’s never stayed this engaged with a stranger before. Usually he hides or starts biting me until they leave. Was he comfortable with you?” No. You repulse me.

Ilya meets his gaze and Shane smiles at him - it’s small and hopeful and ever so slightly uneven, and Ilya sees the lakefront again. A cellist, he thinks. Definitely a cellist.

“More than comfortable,” he says before he can stop himself. Shane blinks. “Really?”

I hate you.

“He likes me very much.”

Your eyes, Ilya. I will remove your eyes. “That’s - I’m sorry, I’m surprised.” Shane gestures, bewildered, at the bundle he’s still holding. “He generally hates everyone.” I hate you.

Ilya’s stupid mouth is moving again. “He appears to have formed an unusually strong connection with me.”

The cat’s claws flex.

“Sometimes an animal responds to being understood for the first time,” Ilya continues, because he’s already going to hell. Maybe Pork can show him around. “Continued sessions could help him feel heard while you implement the behavioural work.”

Shane’s face brightens with relief - guilt makes one perfunctory lap of Ilya’s conscience before dying as quickly as it had arrived. “Okay, that makes sense. How often would you recommend?”

Ilya considers the question.

You are lying so you can return.

“Weekly at first,” he says. “We can reassess after four to six appointments.” Pork’s body goes rigid. No.

“That often?”

“The sleep disruption has been ongoing for several weeks, and there may be other concerns he has not yet communicated.” There are not. You are my only concern. “Consistency will allow me to monitor any change.” Liar.

“And it may prevent the behaviour becoming established.” Liar.

Shane nods, already reaching for his phone. “Do you have the same days available each week?”

I will expose you.

The lovely thing is that Pork can’t. Shane is never going to know that his beloved animal has spent most of the consultation calling Ilya a sexual predator.

“I have some flexibility,” Ilya says, maintaining eye contact with Shane while Pork vibrates with impotent fury between them. “What works best for you?”

“Let me check.”

Shane opens his calendar, shifting Pork into the crook of one arm. Ilya catches flashes of colourful appointments as he scrolls, trying not to wonder what any of them are or whether he can persuade Shane to give him access to the whole thing by their third date.

“Thursday?” Shane asks. “Around the same time?” Ilya glances at Pork as though consulting him. If you enter this home again, I will kill you.

Ilya looks back at Shane.

“He says Thursday would be perfect.”

Chapter 2: this voicemail will have consequences

Chapter Notes

so first of all was not expecting this fic to pop off like it has, but i

am SO grateful to everyone who's taken the time to read this silliness, i

have read every single comment and honestly it means the world

<3333

if you've not yet read pork's origin story (meat ugly by the

INCREDIBLE thathastu) i highly highly recommend, it is SO funny

also someone commented in the last chapter that pork's voice sounds

like venom to them and i just want you to know i laughed so hard i

almost puked x

also also, i'm apparently incapable of being chill even for crackfics so

there will continue to be worldbuilding at every opportunity i can cram

it in

also also also (i'll go away in a minute i promise) i had the advantage

of having most of this chapter written already, however beyond a

rough appetiser sized word salad i have nothing for the next, so it will

be with you soon but not as soon as this one lmao

ok that's all enjoy <33

By the time Ilya gets his key anywhere near the lock, Anya’s already waiting on the other side of it, as she always is. She’s also telling him off, as she always is.

You’re an hour late. Ilya, am I a joke to you? You’re so excited I can hear your heart through the door, so whatever it is had better be good. Her voice hits him all at once, a tonic for the rather spectacular headache he’s now sporting, having spent the last appointment of the day discussing different yoghurt flavours with a rat. Apparently vanilla is too plain, but mixed with raspberry it’s perfect - who knew.

“Hello to you also,” he mutters, finally getting the door open. She moves back just far enough to allow him through, wriggling her plumed tail at such speed it’s a wonder she doesn’t knock herself off balance. Ilya closes the door behind him with a sigh, letting his awareness drift outwards - he keeps a quiet home, with the windows soundproof and a rainbow of earplugs or muffling devices available to him in any given room, but quiet rarely means silent. Anya doesn’t count, strangely. She never has, content to give him space when he needs it and conversation when he needs that more. She cocks her head, and her abrupt concern feels like a hand pressed flat against his chest. The Aussie is far too smart for her own good, and without even looking at her Ilya knows she’s already identified his headache, the fact that one leg smells considerably more of pigeon than the other, he hasn’t eaten, and every trace of every client he’s seen that day and when. She’s wasted as a dog - much better suited to private investigation, perhaps MI5.

You look like shit.

He scowls. “I feel very well. And who taught you that word?” You did. You look like you’ve been brought up from the sea. That much is sadly true, if his reflection in the hallway mirror is anything to go by - his curls are bedraggled and stuck to his forehead from the unexpected shower of rain he’d had to walk in, because the stupid bus didn’t stop. He’s paler than he should be (and often is, when his head’s troubling him), and his face is drawn and tight. “I have had a long day.” I know, Anya says, pressing her muzzle to his knee. It’s all over you. The pigeon’s fear passes briefly between them, the desperate flapping panic of wings and the burning pain of a delicate limb. This one survived?

“Yes.”

Good.

She moves to his other leg, following a smell Ilya can’t detect through denim and dried bird shit. Her nose travels slowly over his shin and around his knee and halfway up his thigh before he pushes gently at her soft forehead. “What, you are police dog now?”

You stink of cat. A very angry cat.

“Yes, extremely.”

Anya inhales again, her breath warm through his jeans. You liked him.

Ilya wrinkles his own nose, projecting her an image of Pork Hollander in his evil little jumper, pawing at Shane’s leg. “Not particularly.” I didn’t mean the cat, Ilya - don’t play dumb with me. Right, okay. Fine - they need to have this conversation at some point, if Ilya’s going to be proposing within the next six months, so it might as well be now. Dropping his bag, he sinks heavily into his armchair - it’s a ratty old thing, doesn’t at all match the modern chic of his apartment, but he’d found it out thrifting with Marly and, as he’s been told he often does, become intensely attached to it. “Anya, I have met the love of my life.” The dog freezes. What did you just say? He fixes her with a smile, already mentally noting to give her an extra quail egg with her dinner - maybe a dried sardine or two. “The cat’s person. He is my soulmate.”

Anya’s eyes settle on his face, and Ilya can pinpoint the exact moment whatever excitement she’d detected from behind the door stops being shared. Instead, she very graciously offers him an impression of a disembodied hand (hers if she had one, he assumes) smacking him several times around the face.

You only met him today!

“Sometimes this is enough,” he says dreamily, shifting over enough that she could jump up with him if she wanted - he has a feeling that’s somewhat optimistic considering the blatant horror bouncing around the edges of her consciousness. “When you know you know, or whatever the poets say.” Lana Del Rey said that, and I don’t think she’s a reliable source considering her last album made you cry until you threw up -“- I have thought about it extensively.”

Anya stares at him, and Ilya stares back. Does he know? “Not yet.” Ilya frowns at her. “These things must be handled carefully, Anechka. Perhaps you should try this, instead of making eyes at Cliff’s dogs, no?”

First of all, she leaps up onto the armchair, ignoring his hiss of protest as her weight lands squarely on his crotch. Octavia and I are just friends, and Margot doesn’t spare me a second look at the best of times. They also have nothing to do with whatever stupid plan you’ve concocted, either. Despite the fact she’s unquestionably pissed at him, Ilya ventures for the soft fur of her back, threading his fingers through the silvery grey strands. “He knows we will see each other Thursday. And I know you have a taste for Doberman, you cannot fool me.”

She blessedly ignores this, shooting him a reproachful look instead. Does he know why?

“He believes it is for the cat.”

Because it really is for the cat?

“Partially.”

Ilya kicks off his shoes and leaves them there on the rug, retrieving the tiny grey feather from his pocket before he forgets about it. He places it on the arm, where Anya studies it with brief interest. You arranged another appointment with an angry cat so you could see his person again. “Ah, he will not be angry for long.” Ilya waves a hand in the air. “It is just posturing. Besides, death threats do not bother me.” Her hackles raise, and he can feel her agitation at that - she’s never been a particularly combative dog, but even she has limits. He threatened you? “He has a peculiar inclination for my eyeballs, I think. Do not worry, I will win his favour. Or, blessing. Whatever it is.”

Ilya reaches for his bag to busy himself, anything to distract from the way his dog’s whale-eyeing him into another fucking dimension. She moves, faster than him like always, to bat his hands away with both forepaws. Her claws need clipping again - already. He frowns as the unintentional scratch blooms across his knuckles. Don’t tell me you’ve already mentally married the man.

“July,” he admits, flushing. “Perhaps lakefront.” You can’t marry someone who doesn’t know you’re courting him! “Why not? He will know eventually.”

What’s his name? His full name.

“Shane Hollander.”

Anya considers this, testing the sound through Ilya’s memory. He’s happy to give her what she’s probing for, letting the image of Shane at the door with that evil cropped top swim to the forefront of his mind, bare feet and trusting smiles, dark lashes peeking up at him while Ilya lies with professional confidence, even when the feline equivalent of a sourdough starter in knitwear promises to remove his eyes. Anya’s ears twitch. He’s pretty.

Ilya grins, certain he’s won this argument at the very least. “You see?”

You can stop showing me the two of you mating, now. Fuck. Ilya claws back his runaway hippocampus with an apologetic grimace, unsure when imagination had blurred into conscious memory. “Ah, sorry. I am not doing this intentionally.”

I know. It works even better than eating grass. The dog gives a theatrical gag - a trick she’s learned strikes fear into his heart even when he knows she’s faking, but his head’s too full of Shane for the images not to leak when Anya’s this close. He’s halfway through recalling as many freckles as he possibly can when she finally releases his bag to him, shuffling forwards to lean her full weight into his chest. Ilya sways beneath her, her familiar smell and warmth so soothing he plants a wet kiss to the tip of her muzzle before she can escape the clutches of his affection.

“Sorry I was late,” he murmurs. “The bus did not stop for me.” I gathered that.

He runs gentle thumbs beneath her eyes, checking for discharge, then folds back one ear and the other - everything is clean, no redness, no new tenderness. His hands continue automatically over her jaw, neck and shoulders while Anya permits the examination with solemn dignity. You should have called.

“You do not have a phone, Anya. Your doggy paws cannot click buttons.” You could have called Sasha. He would have told me. That much is true, but he’s tired enough that admitting it would be like summitting Everest. Perhaps not Everest. Maybe a really big hill, or something. Instead, Ilya imitates one of her long, aggrieved sighs, and the dog immediately pushes her face harder into his hands. That sounds nothing like me. She licks him from chin to cheek before he can turn away, leaving a wet stripe across his jaw that he scrubs away with a groan.

“Anya!”

You taste disgusting.

“Then why do this? We are a civilised household, yes?” Anya licks his jaw again and Ilya catches her gently beneath the chin, but there’s no conviction in it and she knows it. Her affection moves through him alongside the comforting weight of her head, entirely without reverence. He’s hers, sometimes before he’s even his own, from the second Sveta brought her home from the shelter. Ilya couldn’t go in himself - far too painful, and he’s got little interest in traumatising the kennel staff by having a breakdown of epic proportions trying to choose just one. Sveta had done the hard part for him, and picked him out the one dog that shot her a disdainful look as she passed - apparently that was enough to seal the deal. “Shane is very beautiful,” he tells her quietly, scratching the silky ruff around her neck.

Yes, I suppose he is. To humans, anyway.

“And kind. He asked me about the pigeon, and he really loves his cat. Though I cannot fathom why.”

You really think you’ll make friends with the cat? He smells very angry with you.

“Pork, yes. I will bring him tuna.”

Anya pulls her head out of his hands. The cat’s called Pork? “Look at him,” Ilya shows her the image of him again, sprawled on his heated bed. “I would have chosen maybe Salmonella, but he is not my cat, so.”

Anya huffs, giving him a pointed nudge when his hand stills. You have terrible taste in men.

“Why are you ruining this for me? And that is very rude. You like Sasha.” Someone has to.

She presses her forehead to his chest before he can defend himself further, and Ilya wraps both arms around her neck, burying his face between her ears. She smells like the house, her bedding (with a thread count higher than his own bedsheets), the rug by the window, the faint trace of grass from the garden, and beneath everything sits the steady trust that he came home because he always does.

I’m glad you’re excited, she says carefully, I just don’t want to see you hurt. Again, Ilya. You’re a fucking masochist. “Okay, again, who taught you this word?”

Sasha.

Ilya kisses the top of her head - Anya allows it for a few seconds before pulling away to inspect him again. Her attention travels down his body, pausing at the dull ache behind his eyes, the stiffness in his back and the empty, sour discomfort of his stomach. When she looks at him this time, there’s no amusement whatsoever.

“I will eat later,” he says before she can start all over again. “I will make dinner.”

You’re an awful liar. Order a takeaway.

No surprises there - he knows this game well enough. She’ll push and push and push, content to ramble on about the convenience of a Dominos delivered to his door, and they’ll both pretend he hasn’t ordered her anything until he begrudgingly presents her with a portion of chicken strips and some no-salt fries.

“You want chicken,” he accuses, gathering up the remainder of his energy to fake offence. “You are using me, and you do not even pay me rent.” You don’t need rent, I’ve seen your bank statements.

They order the fucking pizza. An hour or so later, Ilya’s sitting cross legged in his armchair with a large Texas BBQ balanced across his thighs, while Anya eats the chicken strips she absolutely had not asked for from the ceramic bowl reserved specifically for food she absolutely does not receive. The fries are cooling on a piece of kitchen roll beside her, and she’s very unconvincingly pretending she hasn't noticed them as she crunches through another strip.

You should get the Meat Feast next time.

“There will not be next time,” he says around a mouthful of crust and garlic dip. “This is a failure of discipline.”

You say that every time.

“I do not.”

You said it literally a few days ago.

“That was a McDonalds, it does not count.”

I still got nuggets.

Ilya peels a mushroom from the surface of his pizza and drops it back into the box - he doesn’t remember ordering mushrooms, having selected their usual in the app he’d rather die than admit he has downloaded, ignored every attempt to make him purchase garlic bread because garlic is toxic for dogs, then bought 21 Frank’s Red Hot Wings as an acceptable substitute. Anya watches him find another with her snout coated with crumbs. Perhaps Dominos are trying to broaden your horizons. “My horizons are broad,” he insists, flicking the slimy mushroom at her -she catches it between her teeth and swallows it without chewing. You eat the same six meals, and five of them aren’t cooked by you. “I have met my soulmate today. This is a very broad horizon.”

Anya takes another chicken strip and elects not to dignify that with a response. The pizza helps, and by the end of his first slice the worst of his headache has receded enough that he no longer wants to toss the table lamp out of the window. “How was Sasha?”

Her tail wags at the name - she’s always (for some reason beyond Ilya, no matter how maturely he’d handled their breakup) loved the man, and though he suspects it has something to do with the dried duck he brings her from his very fancy Chef de Cuisine job at the French restaurant down the road, she’s never not happy to see him.

He was great. He told me he’ll bring steak frites the next time he’s over. He has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Did he have the ferrets with him?” Anya’s reaction is anything but subtle - her consciousness fills with a rich, anticipatory pleasure she’s plainly been sitting on since before he arrived home. The chicken strip remains half chewed in the side of her mouth, and he doesn’t need to guess why. His ex boyfriend is a myriad of things, but a passionate owner of four ferrets is arguably one of the foundational cornerstones of his identity. Ilya knows Natalya, Katerina, Miroslav and Isaak well - Sasha, equally, enforces that with such a strict regime that he hasn’t gone more than two days without a detailed review of their health in recent memory. That being the case, he’s also hyper aware that where there’s ferrets, there’s gossip.

Ilya narrows his eyes. “What?”

Oh, nothing, she says sweetly, swallowing the remainder of her chicken with the certain delight of knowing he’ll ask her anyway. “What have they said now?”

She looks away, but the memory is already gathering at the edge of their connection. Sasha letting himself in with the spare key, talking to someone on the phone while four ferrets pour out of the carrier at his feet in a furry spillage of brown and cream. Anya had greeted them politely, and Miroslav had immediately climbed onto her back, Isaak dunking his entire head inside her water bowl as Sasha had disappeared into Ilya’s bedroom without explanation.

The ferrets visit often enough that she’s established something resembling the relationship between a journalist in an active warzone and her charges -Anya enjoys their company in controlled doses, mainly because their understanding of privacy is nonexistent and Sasha appears to discuss his entire life in front of them despite knowing they’ll all report back to Ilya through his dog at some point. She does not, however, trust their morals. They’ve committed crimes worthy of turning them into scarves, having once used her sleeping body as part of a coordinated attempt to reach Ilya’s leftover bacon sandwich.

“They tell you something?”

Anya’s voice turns haughty. I don’t gossip. “That is a lie,” he scoffs. “Katerina would call you a big furry liar.” The dog glances towards the pizza, and Ilya takes another slice and waits -she lasts no longer than six seconds.

Sasha has mated with four of their doctors.

The slice stops halfway to Ilya’s mouth. “What?” Four in a row, Anya says delightedly. All from the same place. Ilya lowers the pizza, abruptly put off. “From the veterinary practice?” Yes.

“Rose Landry’s practice?”

Yes.

He closes his eyes, trying very hard to ignore the glee in her tone. Rose Landry, mortal enemy and supervising veterinarian of the local surgery, has done nothing in particular that Ilya can use to justify his hatred of her. She’s been sweet, kind, excellent at her job every single time he’s taken Anya in for a checkup - and still. Ilya isn’t sure whether she’d burned him at the stake in a past life, or just what has occurred for him to feel such a visercal dislike towards the poor woman, but god does he feel it. “No. Surely not.” Miroslav says yes.

“Miroslav also says the radiator is alive because it hisses at him!” Anya shifts closer to the chair again, settling her chin against its arm so the information can pass between them with greater clarity. There was the first ass touching man who slept in Sasha’s bed, then the angry ass touching woman who also slept in Sasha’s bed. Now they say there’s a new ass touching man, who was in Sasha’s shower last Tuesday. Ilya sits very still, wondering for what surely must be the ten thousanth time in all his twenty five years, whether he can return his gift back to whatever supernatural shop it came from. It’s remarkable, really, how quickly several years of minor mysteries can resolve themselves once supplied with the correct piece of information - Sasha’s ability to secure appointments during bank holidays, and Natalya’s emergency examination on Christmas Eve. The time Miroslav ate one of Ilya’s foam earplugs at eleven at night and Sasha had him seen, scanned and returned home before Ilya had even managed to put on matching socks.

“I thought they prioritise him because ferrets are difficult pets.” They are, but that isn’t why.

“Perhaps he is simply charming,” Ilya tries, wincing as he says it. Anya honest to god barks at him. He flinches. “To other people!”

Miroslav says Sasha mates with the new doctor. “Yes, I have understood this part.”

No, Anya says patiently, like he’s being really fucking stupid. Mates with him, more than once. The new man comes to Sasha’s house now, his name is Luca. Miroslav was in the laundry basket when they were touching mouths. There are far too many pieces of information in this update, and none of them arranged in a way Ilya wishes to receive them. He pictures Sasha’s bathroom, the shower that barely accommodates one adult without somebody taking an elbow to the throat, and Miroslav sitting unseen amongst the towels - that part makes sense, at the very least. He hasn’t seen or heard of a Luca, but if his extensive knowledge of Sasha is anything to go by, he’s about to. “Why was he in the laundry basket?” He likes the smell.

Ilya fishes out his phone.

have you fucked the entire veterinary practice

Lovely to hear from you, as always.

They have thirteen vets there.

that is not a no???

Jealous? 😘

miroslav is telling on you x

The typing bubble appears and disappears, and Ilya lets his phone fall against his chest. “Unbelievable.”

Anya has gone back to her chicken, apparently unbothered. “This is why he can get emergency appointments.” Probably.

“He was not even that good in bed,” he mutters, stabbing one of the pizza crusts into his dip. “Mostly.”

If you say so, the dog muses, padding to her water bowl and taking a deep drink before she responds. There must be a reason you two were together for so long.

“Abuse of - of ferret. I was looking out for them.” The ferrets don’t mind.

“And yet you sit here spreading their gossip.”

There’s a difference between trusting someone’s integrity and appreciating their information.

She returns to her dinner, leaving Ilya to consider the fact Shane appears sane, beautiful and kind, whereas Sasha is for the most part specifically designed to get under his skin. Sasha’s behaviour has never once prevented him from having people fall in love with him, and if anything, it seems to function as some sort of horrific accelerant, like pouring petrol on a bonfire. Ilya lifts the pizza again, and he makes it through half a slice before noticing the dog is watching him - she’s still turned towards the fries, but her attention keeps brushing against him, withdrawing whenever he tries to follow it. There’s something else there, hidden away with the same determined patience she uses when concealing one of his socks beneath her bed.

“What is it?”

Nothing.

“Anya.”

Eat your dinner, Ilya.

“I am eating.”

You’ve stopped.

“Because you are staring at me.”

Anya licks saltless potato from her teeth. Outside, a car passes through the wet street below, and somewhere in the quiet of the apartment building, a spider beneath his bookcase registers the vibration and withdraws further into her web. Her sudden discomfort is a thorn in his side. Will Shane mind?

He’s pretty sure he’s done with his pizza now - he folds the soggy cardboard down and away, staring anywhere but at the congealed and cooling cheese. “Mind what?”

You and Sasha.

“Me and Sasha what?”

Mating.

He coughs, splutters, desperately trying to swallow the remains of a dried chunk of BBQ chicken. Anya lifts her head, concern flashing through her before she remembers she’s actually still annoyed with him. “You cannot say these things while I am eating.”

You knew what I meant.

“Sasha and I are not -” Ilya reaches blindly for his Coke, taking several mouthfuls before his voice returns to normal. “Why are you asking?” She sighs, glancing up at him from the floor. The ferrets know. “They know what?”

That Sasha still sometimes comes here after I go to sleep. I also smell him in the mornings.

Even the spider beneath the bookcase has the decency not to move, and Ilya puts his can down very carefully. “They said this?” Isaak did.

“Isaak is compulsive liar.”

Not about Sasha. He worships him. Anya turns fully towards him now, her fluffy ears lowered just enough to make her disappointment unmistakable. You promised me you wouldn’t do that any more. He had - not recently, but clearly recently enough for Anya to have retained the exact memory of it. Ilya lying on this same armchair with his eyes swollen and his heart flayed open after Sasha had left once again, and Anya had been curled across his feet. She’d made him promise twice, and he’d honestly meant it at the time.

Mostly.

“Ah. Sorry.”

By the time he’s showered and changed for bed, Anya has forgiven him - he thinks, anyway. She’s jumped up in her usual spot, sprawled across the mattress with very little space left for him to claim himself, but it isn’t on the forefront of his mind right now. Ilya shoots her a sheepish smile and begins his usual circuit of the apartment.

There’s rarely anything to find. The spider beneath the bookcase remains in her web, perfectly capable of managing her own affairs, and the tiny beetle he’d noticed near the kitchen skirting yesterday has either left or found somewhere better to hide, because he can't hear him right now. Ilya checks the empty bath and sinks, and is heading into the kitchenette to flick off the spotlights beneath the cabinets when he hears another voice. Stuck, stuck. Light. I cannot reach.

There’s a moth trapped between the living room curtain and the closed window, her panic sparking in weak bursts with very little thought behind it beyond base need - that’s often the case with small, instinct driven creatures, but he understands her well enough regardless. Ilya switches off the lamp, draws the curtain back and opens the window. When this only replaces one confusion with another, he turns on his phone torch and holds it outside.

The moth follows and then it’s gone, fluttering beyond reach. “Goodbye,” Ilya whispers, closing the window again. “Do not come back. There are birds.”

The silverfish beneath the bathroom cabinet requires considerably less assistance, as he’s found darkness and something microscopic to eat (far less appealing than a Texas BBQ, though Ilya can sense his excitement anyway), and would prefer only that the enormous creature looming above it stop flooding its entire world with light.

Ilya switches it off and by the time he returns to the bedroom, Anya’s eyes are barely open. She lifts her head as he climbs beneath the duvet, then permits him to rearrange one of her legs.

Sleep now.

“I will,” he murmurs, settling against the length of her back. “I must be well rested for Thursday, after all.”

She huffs. The cat will hurt you.

“He is very small.”

You are very stupid.

Ilya smiles into her fur, already half asleep.

· · ─ · ✶· ─ · ·

Ilya doesn’t often receive cancellations, but he receives one as he’s halfway through brushing his teeth the next day - he reads it with one eye open and the toothbrush hanging from his mouth, with Anya pressed against the backs of his legs in an attempt to hurry him towards breakfast. Mrs O’Sullivan is very sorry, but Kevin has finally passed the remainder of the sock and no longer requires an urgent appointment to encourage his shy bowels. She includes a photograph as evidence, and in an attempt to preserve whatever sanity he has left, Ilya doesn’t open it.

“Good for Kevin,” he mumbles around the toothpaste, moving the appointment in his calendar with his thumb. He’s still staring mournfully at the newly empty block when another email drops into his inbox. New Client Intake Form: HAYDEN PIKE / BASIL Client Summary: he’s eating bin food :( He opens it out of professional obligation rather than any genuine enthusiasm - dogs who raid kitchen bins rarely need him. They need a cupboard latch, consistent boundaries, sometimes the odd colonoscopy, and owners capable of remembering that most dogs will eat almost anything if it smells bad enough. As he reads on, he discovers Mr Hayden Pike has already tried the cupboard latch, moving the bin, replacing it with a different one and placing a dining chair in front of the kitchen door. Basil has defeated every measure so far, most recently opening the pedal bin with one paw while using his head to prevent the lid from closing again. Ilya spits and rinses the sink. “That is quite clever.” Anya glances up at him, having taken a morning swim in his consciousness to discover what’s preventing him from making his customary breakfast sandwich. For a dog who keeps eating rubbish? He keeps reading. Basil is a four year old chocolate Labrador, a healthy weight, neutered, friendly with people, dogs, children, delivery drivers, and he began raiding the bin six months ago and has since made himself sick on several occasions. According to Hayden (who Ilya mistrusts for absolutely no reason at all other than the fact he’s the psychic in this situation, and therefore can never be wrong), he’s fed appropriately, medically healthy and in possession of enough enrichment toys to count as a wholesaler. The vet believes it’s behavioural, and Ilya suspects the vet is correct. He also suspects Mr Hayden Pike has written the form while Basil was actively stepping all over his last nerve, as the final paragraph begins neatly enough before descending into ‘sorry, he’s got the butter wrapper. One second. Back, the butter wrapper has been recovered. He does know he isn’t supposed to do it, because he only raids the bin when I’m out of the room and looks guilty before I’ve found whatever he’s taken. I’d mostly like to know why he keeps doing it and whether there’s anything I’m missing, because at this point I’m concerned he’ll poison himself.’ It’s a reasonable concern, but not a particularly interesting one. Basil likes food and the bin contains food - Hayden leaves the room, and Basil, being a Labrador with a grasp of basic bin engineering, takes advantage of the available opportunity. Ilya can visit, speak to him and determine whether there’s something more complicated beneath it, but most dogs don’t carry elaborate psychological motives for eating a butter wrapper. He scrolls towards the availability section, already considering whether he should leave the cancellation open. An unexpected free hour would let him complete his invoices, take Anya for a longer walk or lie facedown on the sofa while postponing both. He gets halfway to dismissing the idea when he catches the final, and arguably most important, line. Referred by: Shane Hollander. He said you helped him with Pork yesterday and might be able to make sense of Basil. Anya startles at the sudden, delighted flare that moves through him. You’re so gross, Ilya.

Ilya tsks at her, stepping carefully over her to dive in the direction of the kitchen. Perhaps Shane had called Hayden immediately. Perhaps he’d said Ilya was brilliant. Handsome, even. Unusually gifted and the most compelling man he’d met in years.

He probably said you speak to animals.

“Compelling, yes?”

For people that don’t have to live with you, sure. She doesn’t mean it, evidenced by the way she sets about lovebombing him the second he reaches for her bowl. It’s fate, he’s certain of it - fate that coincidentally provides Ilya with an entirely legitimate reason to ask Hayden several carefully casual questions.

Anya chews on her spirulina tablet. You’re going to interrogate him. “I am going to help his dog,” Ilya says cheerfully, already lunging for his shoes despite the fact the appointment isn’t until the afternoon. And interrogate him.

“I may ask how he knows Shane. This is a normal intake question, important context.”

For the dog who eats rubbish? Just so we’re clear? Ilya swears as he finds the hallway empty, circling back to where he’d left his shoes near the armchair last night. “Perhaps Shane has witnessed it.” Anya’s silence carries all the judgement she can’t presently fit onto her face. Ilya returns to the email and accepts the booking before Mr Pike can find anyone else - not that there’s an extensive list of legitimate pet psychics knocking about East London, but it’s not a risk he’s willing to take. He offers the cancelled appointment that afternoon, adds Basil to his client records and replies with a brief list of precautions to follow in the meantime. It would be unprofessional to mention Shane directly, so he doesn’t. He only rereads the referral line another three times. Maybe five, he isn’t counting.

By 4pm, Ilya’s standing outside a narrow townhouse with his bag over one shoulder and a container of high value treats tucked beneath his arm, advised by a begrudging Anya who has very strong thoughts about yak chews over dehydrated fish skin. He checks the number against Hayden’s form, shuts the garden gate behind him and hears the dog before he reaches the door.

Someone. Hayden, there is someone.

Basil’s awareness bursts through him, as bright as sunshine and as loud as, well, as loud as you’d expect a Labrador who apparently eats baking paper for fun.

Someone is here.

Heavy paws scramble against a hard floor, though he can’t tell if he’s receiving that through Basil or through his own ears, and there’s the impact of a large body failing to account for the corner of a wall, followed by a brief flicker of surprise that disappears beneath far more important information.

Guest.

Guest at the door. Hayden, are you going to let him in? Get up, get up now. Ilya stops on the front step, inhaling deep to steady himself as Basil rushes from one thought to another with none of Anya’s careful distinction. He knows well enough that it’s an unfair comparison - communication is like a muscle, and after living with someone that can actually hear her for so long, Anya’s essentially far more eloquent than she should be. Still, it’s Basil’s excitement making his temples throb, not a lack of understanding. A man has come through the gate. He smells of dog -Great.

Treats. He has treats.

The excitement doubles so abruptly that Ilya nearly laughs, and probably would’ve if it didn’t almost floor him simultaneously. Behind the door there’s a very human string of curses so creative he raises his eyebrow, a bang, more swearing, then who he presumes is Hayden begging the dog to sit.

Basil does not sit, not from what Ilya can sense. He’s moving again, searching urgently for something suitable to bring their guest, and Ilya feels him consider and reject a shoe, and conclude that a blanket is too large. There’s a soft, severely chewed duck beneath the table, but by the time Basil remembers where he left it he’s already returned to the door. Open it. Open it open it open it.

Ilya raises his hand and knocks, and Basil’s entire body hits the other side of the door in an explosion of joy.

“Okay, I’m going,” Hayden wheezes. “Jesus Christ.” The lock turns, and Ilya has just enough time to hear Hayden swear again before the door opens and a solid mass of dog attempts to emerge through the gap no wider than his own head.

Hello, hello!

Basil’s excitement hits him only just before the rest of him does, a vast fizzing rush that floods down the base of his skull - Ilya rocks backwards, clutching the doorframe for support as the Labrador barges against his knees, chattering the entire time.

You came. You came here. Hello. Do you have treats? “Basil, down!” Hayden hisses, wrapping both hands around his collar like that’s going to get him anywhere but dragged along in his dog’s wake. “You can’t mug him before he’s even come inside.”

Basil’s tongue catches Ilya across the chin. Face. “Thank you,” Ilya says, blinking through the white pulse of energy behind his eyes. “Very nice of you.”

Face again?

“No, it is okay.”

The dog stretches towards him with every available part of his body while Hayden hauls him back, and for a few somewhat disturbing seconds Ilya receives the taste of his own cheek (including the incredibly faint smell of BBQ sauce) before Basil catches the scent leaking through the seal of his treat container - the dog’s whole consciousness lasers in with such ferocity he’s starting to feel hungry himself.

Food.

“Yeah, he’ll do that.” Hayden plants his feet with a grimace - he’s red in the face already, chestnut hair falling over his forehead and both sleeves shoved untidily towards his elbows. “Sorry, he has no concept of personal space.” The pressure behind Ilya’s eyes eases enough for him to step into the hallway, noting immediately and with a petty conviction he isn’t judging himself for, that Hayden’s house is far less tidy than Shane’s. There’s boots lining the hallway and what looks like a pair of skates, alongside some incredibly Live Laugh Love-esque wall hangings - that said, there’s a small brass sign hanging from what he assumes is the door to the toilet, that has one simple request: ‘please don’t do charlie in the bathroom’. Hayden closes the door behind him, trapping the strap of Ilya’s bag in it the first time and Basil’s tail the second, though Basil barely notices, too busy examining Ilya’s legs as though they’ve been separated for years. Guest came for Basil. He did. He came.

He crouches slowly, allowing Basil to inspect his hands and the place near his knee where Anya had leaned against him before he left. Dog?

Ilya nods. “Yes.”

Girl dog.

“Yes, my Anechka.”

Big girl dog.

“Do not say this to her,” he chuckles, peering reluctantly up at the man still clutching the dog’s collar.

Predictably, Hayden is gaping at him so profoundly it’s remniscient of the guppies Ilya had spoken to about the merits of safe sex just last week - he elects not to share this with him, at least not until he’s taken the Shane Hollander 101 from the guy. “Did he just tell you something?”

“He smells Anya,” Ilya says, straightening. “My friend.”

“Got it. Shane said I should call you,” Hayden smiles, apparently unaware that he has just made himself significantly more welcome in his own home. “He was really impressed with what you did with Pork.” Keep calm, act natural. Ilya readjusts his cargos before they can tell on him. “Oh?”

“He doesn’t recommend people to me unless he thinks they’re good, though I guess this is the first time he’s ever recommended a...” Hayden trails off. “What should I call you? And, sorry, but just to check - do you see dead people? Or is your whole thing just animals?”

“Just animals,” Ilya says flatly - he counts his lucky stars for that every day. Waking up to Aunt Zoya perched on the end of his bed one day might just send him over the edge. “How impressed was he?” Hayden glances back at him. “Enough that you’re here?” This isn’t useful information, but Ilya can forgive him temporarily because Shane had been really impressed and Hayden appears to have played some small part in delivering that knowledge to him - Basil trots between them with the chewed duck in his mouth, his mind colliding with Ilya’s. It isn’t the dog’s fault, and he likely has no idea he’s doing it, no reason to contain a thought simply because someone else has wandered close enough to hear. “Did Shane tell you what I look like?” Ilya asks as casually as possible, stepping over the chair blocking the kitchen entrance. The other man hesitates, and Ilya looks at him like he’s the problem. He is, though he’s not sure why yet. Divine intuition. “I mean,” he continues, adjusting the container beneath his arm, “it is relevant that you could identify the correct person at your door.”

“You were carrying dog treats, so?”

“Many people carry dog treats.”

Hayden’s mouth twitches. “He might’ve mentioned a couple of things.”

“What things?”

“I’m not telling you.”

It’s also divine intuition that Ilya’s been in his house for less than ten minutes and already wants to bash him over the head with the nearest ‘this isn’t just a house, it’s a home’ sign. However, against all better judgement, he shoots him his most well meaning smile and hopes for the best. “Why?”

“Because he’s my best friend,” Hayden laughs, like he isn’t dangling information (very, very important information) about Ilya’s one true love over his head for fun. That said, he’s glad the other man got that out of the way so soon - if he’d been faced with another Sasha type situationship on Shane’s part, he might just have a few phone calls to make. Ilya places his bag on the kitchen counter, perhaps with more care than required. The room is warm after the cool air outside, and Basil’s excitement has left a humming itchiness beneath his skin. “I am only asking what information was provided to identify me safely.”

“You’re a tall Russian man who talks to animals, so I felt fairly confident.”

“This describes more people than you might think. I could have been anyone.”

Basil pushes the duck against Ilya’s thigh. Take. Ilya accepts it gratefully, even though the fabric is damp - the dog careens away from him, his tail thunking into every piece of furniture he passes. Maybe he’d said Ilya was beautiful, or even better, it could be the case that Hayden’s (unwanted and frankly infuriating) loyalties prevent him from revealing that Shane had spent an hour or two describing the precise colour of Ilya’s eyes. He’s pleased enough with the prospect that he decides he’ll order another takeaway tonight. Who cares? He's in love. “Anyway, Shane and I have been together since college, so I know when he’s impressed.”

All traces of joy, or any positive emotion at all, leaves Ilya’s body so abruptly he’s winded by it. That can’t be right. Shane had said -“Together,” he chokes, wondering if it could just be a horrible coincidence and he’d misinterpreted what that word actually means. “Yeah,” Hayden plops himself down in the nearest kitchen chair, gesturing at Ilya to do the same. “We met first year.”

Basil sits against Ilya’s shin, radiating affection in Hayden’s direction. Ilya, on the other hand, is radiating such heinous animosity he’s surprised it isn’t physically leaking out of his pores. “What does that mean?”

“What does what mean?”

Ilya’s beginning to feel nauseous. “You have been together.”

“In each other’s lives. He’s been stuck with me for years, roommates for a long time too.” Hayden rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “We’ve shared basically everything at this point. It only makes sense that we share the picket fence dream, too.”

Ilya hates Hayden’s kitchen. He hates the chair, the storage box, the smug little child lock and the ugly yellow mug beside the sink. He especially hates Hayden, and is halfway through fantasising about doing unspeakable things to him with said picket fence when the world rights itself again. “He’s the brother I never had. Literally, I love him like a brother.” The gory images in Ilya’s head rearrange themselves into something a touch less homicidal.

“Anyway, is this relevant to Basil?”

“Routine changes can cause scavenging behaviours,” Ilya says quickly. “I must understand who regularly enters the home and what effect this has upon him.”

Hayden frowns down at Basil. “Shane doesn’t live here.”

“Does he stay overnight?”

“Sometimes.”

“How often?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes!”

“Once a week?”

“No,” Hayden says, significantly paler than he had been at the door. “Twice?”

“Are you billing by the personal question?”

Ilya glares. “You asked for a behavioural assessment. If you prefer I perform it without information, I can invent something.”

“Shane visits a couple of times a month, sometimes he stays if it’s late. It doesn’t affect Basil beyond making him lose his mind and sometimes pee a little.”

Shane. Basil’s response soars through Ilya before Hayden’s even finished speaking in the turn of a key, the door opening, a familiar smell moving into the house. Safe. Happy. Hayden happy. Basil happy. Shane belongs here. The Labrador presses closer, offering the memory without reservation, and he sees Shane stretched along the sofa beneath a faux fur blanket, Shane’s fingers moving slowly through the fur behind Basil’s ears, Shane sipping wine in this very seat and Shane Shane Shane. “You gave him a key?” Ilya asks, scraping whatever’s left of his professionalism together before the other man files a police report. “What?”

“Shane. Basil knows the sound.”

“For emergencies. I have a key to his place too.” Every sweep of Basil’s delight produces a wave of nausea that he swallows before crouching to fuss at the dog, desperately needing to put his attention somewhere useful before he asks whether Hayden has ever seen Shane naked.

Friend touches Basil, the dog announces. Friend. Ilya takes the container from beneath his arm and sits on the floor. Food now.

“First you answer questions,” he says gently. “Why do you open the bin?” Food.

“The bin gives you food.”

Yes.

A landscape of scent unfolds through him, paper soaked with meat fat, butter left smeared on foil, the sweetness of a yoghurt pot, onion skin, eggshell, something decaying at the bottom that turns Ilya’s stomach while sending a surge of enjoyment through Basil. Ilya gives him the treat before his own body can decide it has consumed any of this, and the resulting crunch echoes behind his eyes.

More please.

“In a moment,” he waits for the dog’s attention to lift from his hand, giving his awareness a fond but firm nudge with his own. “You know the bin food hurts your stomach.”

Sick. Basil knows. There’s no confusion in him and no meaningful concern either, illnesses simply exist as an unpleasant but temporary event tangled amongst Hayden’s fear, the awful contractions of his stomach and then -Chicken.

Ilya frowns. “Then chicken?”

“Chicken and rice,” Hayden whispers, awed. “Oh my god.” That appears to be the crux of the issue - not one reward but several, linked so completely in Basil’s experience that he doesn’t understand why Ilya would consider the illness separately. The bin produces treasure, the treasure produces pain, but pain produces Hayden kneeling beside him with gentle hands, uninterrupted attention and a warm bowl that smells better than his ordinary dinner.

Bin. Sick. Chicken. Hayden, Basil confirms, thumping his tail against the linoleum. Worth it.

“You make yourself ill because he gives you chicken.” Hayden loves Basil.

Some of Ilya’s dislike towards the man falters. Some, not all. “The food comes back up,” he says, tasting the grim certainty of it without needing much in the way of confirmation.

Food comes back. Sometimes I eat it twice.

Ilya blinks at him. Basil’s tongue lolls, entirely pleased with the system he’s devised. “No, you must not do this.”

Good food. Chicken now?

“You have extorted enough chicken from this household,” he says as severely as he can, ignoring Hayden’s snort of laughter. Treat?

“So he knows the bin makes him sick?” Hayden asks, peeking over the chair to study the way his dog’s shamelessly snuffling at Ilya’s hand. “And he does it anyway?”

“Yes. You give him chicken.”

Hayden blinks. “I give him boiled chicken because he’s been sick. It’s meant to be good for settling their stomachs.”

“I understand your reasoning, so does Basil.” Ilya gives him another pat on the head. “He thinks the entire sequence is worthwhile. First the bin provides one meal, then he is sick, then you panic and provide a superior meal while devoting yourself to his survival.”

“I don’t panic!”

Ilya shrugs. “He shows me that you slept on the floor.” The other man balks, gesturing at nothing in particular. “How do you -Basil, you snitch. So your professional diagnosis is that I’m the problem?” Well, if the shoe fits, and all that. “Yes. He has no reason to consider vomiting a deterrent.”

Hayden laughs, apparently mistaking this for mutual teasing - Ilya dislikes the sound, mostly because it’s pleasant and Shane probably hears it often. He turns towards the cupboard instead. The latch is low enough for Basil to reach with his nose and badly positioned for the direction the door opens. “You need a proper lock at the top, or move the bin into a room behind a closed door. Not behind furniture he can push and not inside something opened by pressing a pedal, because this only makes it a puzzle feeder.” Once the other man is done bemoaning the cost of industrial strength locking bins, Ilya’s thoroughly spent, though it’s different to the usual - like the ache after a good run, he supposes. Basil’s intensity and subsequent limitless outpouring of love is a rare treat, draining though it is, and when they meander back out into the hallway the dog’s energy turns sour. You stay?

“He has to leave,” Hayden tells him with eerily precise timing. “Sorry, Bas.”

No.

“Yes,” Ilya murmurs, even as Basil flops across his path to physically prevent it. Ilya has to stop when the dog’s distress drops like a stone through his stomach.

Friend stays.

“I have to go home to my Anya -”

Stay here.

“I cannot. You live with Hayden, but I may come back,” he says quietly. “If you continue these criminal activities.”

Bin?

“No bin, Basil.”

Hayden opens the front door for him - chivalry apparently isn’t dead, even in the Pike household - and turns to face him with an expression of such sincerity that Ilya almost can’t bear it. “Thanks, genuinely. I’ve been going out of my mind trying to work out what I was missing.”

“Your dog has has decided gastroenteritis is enrichment,” he mutters, giving Basil his customary little wave (one he decidedly hadn’t given Pork, for obvious reasons) and smiling when the dog perks enough to boof in his direction. A boof is a very serious business, Ilya of all people would know that. “Secure the bin, and ontinue following veterinary advice if he gets sick. If he manages to access it again, record exactly how so you can remove the opportunity properly. Do not give him chicken unnecessarily.” Hayden nods sagely. “Got it.”

Ilya steps onto the path, then turns back - he knows what he’s about to do, and feels almost as if he’s watching himself from above, from the view of whatever guardian angel had been lumbered with his case file, feeling the words form on his lips in horrifying slow motion. “Does Shane have a boyfriend?”

The face Hayden makes is almost enough for him to regret asking. “This is not related to Basil,” Ilya hears himself admit. “Ask Shane.”

“I am asking you for good reason.”

“What reason?”

The picket fence is back in Ilya’s mind’s eye. “I need to know whether asking Shane would result in humiliation.”

Hayden shrugs, as unhelpful as he’d predicted. “That sounds like a risk you’ll have to take. Goodbye, Ilya.”

The door shuts in his face and behind it, and Basil’s disappointment tugs inside his chest. Come back!

“I like you,” Ilya calls through the wood. “Not Hayden.” Hayden’s laughter carries through the door, and Ilya stands at the gate until the ache of his departure softens with his hand pressed to his temple. By the time Ilya reaches the pavement on his way back to the bus shelter, he’s decided three things with perfect clarity. Basil is wonderful, Shane Hollander might like him on some plane of professional or personal significance, and Hayden Pike has lived far too long already. “He is smug,” Ilya tells Anya that evening, toeing off his shoes in their rightful place of the hallway. “He thinks because he has known Shane many years, this makes him important.”

Anya lifts her head from the armchair, having already completed her sniff inspection and found nothing she cares enough to interrogate. Important to Shane.

“Yes, obviously. This is the problem.”

She watches him carry his bag into the kitchenette, following his progress over the armrest. She’d been asleep when he arrived, warm and deeply settled - the remnants of it cling to her thoughts in slow shapes that barely reach him from across the room, and Ilya envies her. Basil’s excitement is still thrumming beneath his skin, and every sudden noise in the apartment needles him.

“He gave Shane a key,” he continues, waiting for her to match his outrage as he opens the cupboard. “Shane has key to his house also. For emergencies.”

Friends do this.

He takes out a mug. “He is sinister, you must believe me. Do you not believe me?”

Anya’s answer is still a resounding no, even when he presents her with the memory of Hayden’s very rude secrecy surrounding Shane’s referral, wavering only temporarily when he sidles the idea of a kebab from the local Greek takeaway alongside it. Her refusal to recognise him as a romantic threat is becoming increasingly suspicious, and Ilya mutinously fills the kettle and sets it down harder than necessary, taking his phone from his cargo pocket while he waits. There’s a few voicemail notifications sitting above a collection of less interesting things, an email from Mrs Cooper confirming Thomas has spent the afternoon walking along the old carpet, and a short voicenote from Sveta - when Ilya clicks into this, it’s actually a very sweet message from her flirtatious parrot, Diana, who tells him he’s very handsome indeed.

“He is very protective of Shane,” he tells Anya. “Very obstructive.” A good friend, then.

“He shut the door in my face!”

Ilya navigates to the first voicemail and sets his phone beside the kettle. It’s a woman enquiring about her leopard gecko, who’s recently taken an abrupt and intense liking to his artificial succulent. Ilya listens for long enough to establish that she wants an appointment, saves the message and moves to the next - an older man apologising at length for having the wrong number. The kettle switches itself off with a click and Ilya pours the water, only half listening as the final message begins with a small rustle and somebody breathing a little too close to the microphone. “Hi, Ilya. It’s Shane.” The mug leaves Ilya’s hand and shatters against the floor. Anya yelps and bolts upright as a flood of tea spreads around shards of ceramic, and part of the handle rattles between Ilya’s feet. He mouths a string of ‘sorry’s’ at her, tiptoeing out of the tea to blow her what he hopes is a soothing kiss - from the blatant irritation lancing through her and up his spine, he’s missed the mark somewhat.

“Sorry. Obviously you know that. I don’t know why I said it like you wouldn’t.”

Shane’s voice fills the kitchen, quieter than Ilya remembers it, probably softened by the recording and the unmistakeable hesitation within it. There’s a muffled creak in the background, and although his awareness never quite works properly through the thick slog of technology, he also has two working braincells to rub together in identifying its cause. Pork.

Shane is in his house with Pork, holding his phone and speaking to Ilya. “I just wanted to thank you again for yesterday. I called my doctor after you left. Well, I called the surgery. I didn’t just ring my doctor personally. That would be - anyway. I explained what you said about the breathing, and they agree it sounds consistent with sleep apnoea.” Despite herself, Anya’s fluffy ears prick up. Good job, sunshine. “He asked me a bunch of questions and I’ve been referred for an overnight sleep study. So, that’s happening. It’s, uh. It’s also tomorrow. I pay privately, so.”

Relief spreads through him as warm as the spilled tea still caught between his bare toes - he waves the dog away from the shards, projecting her an image of spiked paw pads, but Anya steadfastly ignores him and begins to lap at it anyway. He throws a tea towel down over the sharpest pieces of the mug.

“And Pork slept after you left. Properly slept, I mean. I left the bedroom door open, and he got into bed only, like, an hour later. He was still there when I woke him up for dinner.”

There’s another reproachful creak in the background, that can only be the gates of hell opening for their wrinkled leader. “I know,” Shane says, away from the phone. “I’m sorry. You could’ve starved to death in the additional nine minutes.” Pork does not answer him.

“I moved the cat tree too, it’s beside my desk now, facing away from the window. He’s been sitting in it while I work, so I think he likes it. He hasn’t hated this quite so loudly, anyway.” Ilya doesn’t need to be able to translate to comprehend the sound of sheer outrage the malignant ball of mozzarella makes next, holding his phone away from his own ear with a wince.

“That was a joke,” Shane tells him. “Jesus Christ.” The ache behind Ilya’s eye recedes far enough that he can feel the rest of himself again, but when the recording falls quiet, he waits. The silence lasts long enough that he glances down to make sure the message hasn’t ended, but the little progress line is still moving.

“So, uh. there was one other thing, actually.” He clutches at the phone and nearly knocks it into the sink, his heart hammering in his chest.

“It’s not urgent, and it’s not really part of the consultation, so you can say no. You should say no if you don’t want to. I wouldn’t be offended.” Ilya has never wanted to say yes to anything more in his life, including the thing Shane has not yet asked. Shane could ask him to commit grand theft auto and he’s do it with a smile on his face and a song in his heart. “So the sleep study is overnight. I knew that, obviously. It’s in the name. I just didn’t think about what that meant until after I’d agreed to it. My parents would normally stay with Pork if I had to be away, but they’re travelling for the next few weeks. And I’d ask Hayden, but Pork hates Basil.”

Pork’s judgement is incredibly clouded if it’s Basil the cat has an issue with in that household.

“I just don’t really want to leave him alone now, not after finding out he’s been staying awake because he thinks I’m going to stop breathing.” I know exactly what he’s about to ask. Anya’s glee is teasing enough that he scowls at her, making to turn away.

“I know this is a lot to ask, so please say no if you’re busy, or if this isn’t something you do, which I’m assuming it isn’t. I’m not asking professionally. I mean, I can pay you. Obviously. Not because I think you’d need to be paid to - obviously people are paid for pet sitting. I just mean I’m not trying to turn a consultation into some kind of obligation.” Ilya might actually be having some kind of cardiac event - Shane wants him inside his house. Possibly alone, except for Pork. Still - inside Shane’s house, where Shane’s bed is. His clothes, his bathroom. All the unguarded evidence of him that people like Hayden have known for years. Better yet, maybe Shane will come home in the morning with his hair mussed from sleep, and maybe Ilya will make him tea.

“But considering Pork likes you so much, would you possibly be willing to stay here with him overnight?”

Time slows to the sort of syrupy bliss that comes with watching a David Attenborough documentary after several edibles - scratch that, somehow it’s better. Ilya’s observance of Emperor penguins trudging through a blizzard can’t possibly match up to the gift being presented to him with every um and ah Shane graces him with. At the same time, his body seems to remind itself that it’s the body of a young man with something akin to a crush, and chooses that moment to flood every mililitre of blood straight to his cock. That doesn’t last long. Pork’s face rises in his memory like an ominous, pink sunrise atop the hill of Shane Hollander’s pecs. ‘If you enter this home again, I will kill you.’

“There’s no pressure,” Shane’s saying, chattering at him completely unaware of the fire (and attached Kubrick style horror) he’s set alight within him. “I only thought I’d ask because he connected with you, and I’d feel better knowing he was with somebody he trusts.” Ilya closes his eyes and accepts his fate.

“Anyway, thanks again, for all of it. Call me when you get this. Or text. Text is fine.”

He remains bent over the phone with Anya at his feet, faced with the simple fact there's no possible way to refuse. Even if he did concoct an excuse feasible enough to pass, Shane might be disappointed, and this is intolerable. Ilya picks up his phone.

of course

pork and i would love this

we will wear matching pyjamas

Anya, having finished with the tea, noses at his knee. You’re frightened. Ilya puts his head in his hands. “His cat is going to kill me.”

Chapter 3: casus belli

Chapter Notes

i was wine drunk writing half of this but shane's phone call might

genuinely be the scene i've had the most fun writing ever, i have been

on the receiving end of monopoly based hostilities and consider myself

quite a brave girl but i simply would never play with pork as always

thank you so much for all the love on this, it has filled my heart with

joy and whimsy <3

Ilya arrives at Shane’s house at 7pm on the dot - to the minute, to the second, probably. Well, there’s no probably about it, because after wishing the ginger cat down the road a pleasant evening, he lingers until the time on his phone ticks over to 19:00 before he rings the bell. He’s also carrying enough luggage to survive the collapse of civilisation, which Anya had assured him was completely insane, and that his client wasn’t about to invite him to stay in his house for the next fifty years. Ilya’s never been a betting man, but he might, and that’s enough for him to come suitably prepared.

The overnight bag itself is reasonable enough - he needs clothes (just under fifty years worth) and toiletries. Less reasonable is the separate canvas bag pulled across his shoulder containing two tins of tuna in spring water, a packet of freezedried chicken hearts, a few tubes of gourmet salmon paste, and a furry mouse with wheels he can connect to an app on his phone. Beneath that, packed where the cat won’t immediately smell them as invitation to cause grievous bodily harm, are antibacterial wipes, plasters, gauze, antiseptic cream and a first aid kit Amazon had assured him was travel sized.

He’s not scared, though.

He shifts his weight as tthe first scuffle of feet sound through the door, hoping to all hopes that this doesn’t look like an honest attempt at putting himself on Shane’s mortgage. The sun hasn’t completely set yet, though there’s a pleasant chill to the breeze, and the vivid petunias sway and tangle themselves as they catch on it. They’ve been watered recently, and Ilya makes a mental note to top them up before he beds in for the night - maybe Shane would appreciate that. Oh god, what if Shane’s type is horticulturalists?

He glances down at his phone again before he can add another lie to the beautiful salad of mistruths he’s currently offering so sweetly out to the love of his life, scanning over the photograph Sveta had sent ten minutes ago. Anya’s mid-chew, her head cocked intently in the direction of Diana, her enormous African Grey who appears to be discussing something very serious indeed, if the way her dark beak is parted is anything to go by. It’s no surprise the two get along so well - both possess an endless interest in Ilya’s mistakes, a broad category (according to them) that includes Sasha, his diet, several financial decisions, and as of this week thus far, Shane Hollander.

Diana had been Svetlana’s first and likely only experience with birds, considering they live the equivalent of a human lifespan, and she’s so possessive over his best friend that any accompanying bird wouldn’t have the time to so much as pronounce ‘lifespan’ before theirs was ended. It’s endearing, in some ways - throughout his career Ilya has found that where parrots are concerned, what comes out of their mouth is almost never what they’re actually trying to say, yet after some intensive sessions on aligning tongue and brain Diana had achieved more than most. Her verbal vocabularly consists of ‘kiss’, ‘handsome’ (derogatory, and most of the time aimed in Ilya’s direction), and ‘fuck’ - always said with emphasis, and often accompanied by multiple descriptors pulled out of a 101 Insults For Edgy Teens book Sveta had found for her on Kindle Unlimited. His phone vibrates - already set to silent, to allow him to fully focus on the simple task of surviving the night unscathed: Anya used her talk buttons to tell me ‘good night’. I assume that’s her telling me she’s enjoying herself, not that she’s sending me to bed.

That is indeed what his dog likely means, and it’s comforting to know his absence has brought them such joy. He pockets his phone and gives himself a quick sniff to make sure the smell of tuna hasn’t permeated his entire being - Shane opens the door before the bell has finished sounding.

Ilya had been prepared for him this time, he’d spent an embarrassing duration of the afternoon preparing, in fact, mentally revisiting every available detail from the small silvery scar on Shane’s shoulder that had revealed itself to him when he’d stooped to pick Pork up, to the tiny crease that appeared between his eyebrows when he was worried - none of it helps. The metaphorical dog has eaten Ilya’s metaphorical homework, because Shane’s dressed more comfortably tonight, presumably for the clinic, in low riding black joggers and a grey hoodie with the sleeves concealing his hands. The complete lack of visible effort produces an immediate, vivid fantasy of Shane wearing the hoodie the morning after Ilya has fucked him, still sheened with sweat and smelling of them both. “Hi,” Shane says, a little breathlessly.

He can do this - just one word.

“Hello.”

Nailed it.

“You found it okay?”

“Yes. I have been here before.”

“Obviously,” he mumbles. “Sorry, stupid question.” Ilya smiles until it aches his cheeks. “Not stupid. I remembered.”

“Right, yeah.”

They look at each other then, and from somewhere down by the wall of the front garden, the ginger cat contributes. Good work. Shane steps back abruptly, knocking his heel into a shiny black suitcase he’s parked in the hallway. “Come in.”

Ilya crosses the threshold awkwardly, turning sideways to avoid clipping Shane with his bags that definitely aren’t the portable equivalent of a U-Haul - they pass close anyway and he catches the slightest trace of grapefruit that must be the other man’s soap. Ilya inhales without thinking, and thankfully Pork isn’t in the hallway to report him. Shane gives the luggage a curious glance. “You brought a lot.” He toes off his shoes and places them as neatly as he possibly can against the wall, then adjusts them straighter again for good measure. It can’t hurt. “Professional supplies.”

“Oh.” Shane looks impressed rather than alarmed, which in Ilya’s eyes is just further proof that somehow, someday soon, the man in front of him will be his husband. “What kind?”

“Food, enrichment. Emergency equipment, you know.” Apparently he doesn’t, because his eyebrows climb higher. “Emergency equipment?”

Ilya doesn’t elaborate - there’s absolutely no dignified way to tell him that he’s brought sterile gauze in case his suede slasher opens an artery. Shane studies the bag for another second before he smiles again. “You really didn’t have to do all that. He has everything here.”

“But perhaps he would like something new,” Ilya says, knowing Pork categorically will not enjoy anything that doesn’t directly contribute to his demise.

“He might. He’s been playing a little more since I started letting him keep the wand at the end.”

“Good.”

“He carries it upstairs now - or drags it, I guess,” Shane’s eyes brighten. “It gets stuck on the first step and then he screams until I fix it.” Ilya has to resist a shudder. “Then he is enriched.”

This is already going exceptionally well. They’re standing in Shane’s hallway, alone, making jokes about their cat - the cat. Ilya adjusts the bag higher and tries not to plan too far beyond breakfast. “Thank you again,” Shane murmurs, scrubbing a hand along the back of his neck. “Seriously, I know this is weird.”

“It is not weird.”

“It’s a little weird.”

“I stay in clients’ homes sometimes.” Ilya has no idea why on earth he’s just said that, because that’s another lie so blatant he’s certain it must be all over his face, wishing he could just clamp both hands over his mouth to stop more spilling out of him of their own accord. He’s an honest guy, not the sort to fabricate an intense emotional bond with someone’s murderous pet in an attempt to seduce them. “No big deal.”

Shane glances at his bags again, and Ilya’s about to tell him he makes enough money that he could probably pay off his mortgage, if he wanted, as a gesture of…goodwill, (something like that, anyway) when he breaks the silence. “Still, I really appreciate it.”

“I am happy to help.”

That part requires no dishonesty at all - Shane’s worry is so plaintively obvious that it hurts to look at, and still he can’t avert his eyes. The other man fidgets endlessly, thumbing the cuffs of his hoodie and scuffing his feet, and there’s a tiny muscle in his jaw that flickers so intensely Ilya itches to catch it between his lips and sooth the twitching with his tongue. “I don’t sleep very well away from home,” he says eventually. “Not really. I’ve never liked it - I don’t like new beds.”

Ilya reverently files this away alongside every other precious piece of information he has acquired so far about Shane, somewhere between drafting the first pitch of selling his apartment so Shane never has to grace an unfamiliar bed with his body again, and the way his cheeks scrunch when he pretends he’s not finding him amusing. “I understand.”

“I know it’s only one night,” he grimaces, none the wiser. “Less than one night, probably. They said I could leave in the morning as soon as they’ve disconnected everything.”

“They will take good care of you.”

(They’d better)

“Yeah. No, I know. The clinic has really good reviews, and it’s not like I’m worried about the actual test.” He begins walking towards the kitchen as he talks, and Ilya follows, delighted by the simple fact Shane apparently has no intention of stopping. He’d listen to him describe every wire of the polysomnography system - Ilya had looked that up before coming -individually, or listen to him read the clinic’s entire consent form, including the information about data protection. Shane could explain the construction of the building if he wanted, and Ilya would stand here until morning, if he lived that long.

“The thing is, they’re supposed to observe you sleeping normally,” Shane continues, listlessly doing a lap to arrive back at the kitchen doorway all over again. “That’s the whole point, they need to see what my breathing does when I’m actually asleep.”

“Yes,” Ilya so very helpfully contributes.

“But I can’t imagine I’ll sleep normally when I’m covered in wires in a bed I’ve never slept in before.”

“That is probably common.”

“Exactly, it has to be, right? Everyone there is in an unfamiliar bed, unless somebody brought their own mattress, which I’m assuming they don’t let you do. I didn’t ask.”

His eyes catch on the way that muscle in his jaw jumps again. “You could call.”

“I’ve called three times already today.”

Ah. “Perhaps do not call again.”

Shane’s hands fall limp beneath his sleeves - his cheeks have turned a pretty pink, and Ilya enjoys this so much he nearly misses the first indication something is wrong.

He pauses, allowing his awareness to move through the house - there’s something primal in the chill that shudders through him, in the same way the birds stop singing before an apex predator emerges from the scrub. In the bathroom the spider he’d discovered last time rests, now behind the warm pipe below the sink, sated by recent moisture in the air. She knows night is coming through the change in vibration outside, and waits for the small flying things that might follow the last particles of Shane’s shower towards her web.

There’s a fly too, trapped near one of the windows in a room he’s not yet seen. Its thoughts reach him without language, oblivious in its odyssey for fresh air, projecting only a kaleidoscopic image of the glass ahead and the shock of collision, over and over. Every impact reaches Ilya without pain, but he’ll go up and release it once Shane’s gone anyway. There’s nothing else - bewildered, he looks towards the living room. The heated bed is visible from here, soft blankets folded and undisturbed, but Pork isn’t in it. The sofa is empty, and there’s no glimpse of the blue and white jumper or the loose pink skin of his horrible back. “The clinic doesn’t offer at home studies, which sucks.” Ilya nods gravely - Pork is probably sleeping, and sleep can make an animal quieter, especially when he isn’t concentrating directly on them. Anya disappears almost completely when she dreams, her consciousness blurring into the rare flash of whatever her she’s lost in.

“I did check that part,” Shane says, opening one of the cabinets and removing a very large Sports Direct mug. “Not with them, just generally. There are companies that send the equipment to your house, but then I’d have to start the referral process again, and my doctor said I should do this as soon as possible.”

“Your doctor is right,” Ilya says, scanning the hallway for any sign of a chicken cutlet. “You are doing the right thing.”

“I just think it’s stupid that they want to see me sleep normally and then create the least normal sleeping environment they possibly can.” Nothing in the hallway. Coat rack, maybe? “Yes.”

“New room, new bed. Wires attached to my head - hey, that rhymes.”

“Yes,” Ilya smiles distractedly, cursing as he shoves his awareness further outwards. Nothing from the living room, and nothing from the stairs or the rooms above. The complete lack of prickling disgust has the hairs on his arms standing on end.

“I’ll probably sleep eventually,” Shane says, now staring at the mug. “They said I can bring my own pillow.”

“This will help.”

“Maybe. I’ve got it in the suitcase, which is probably why it looks so full. I haven’t packed for a week. I know it kind of looks like I have.”

“It is fine.” Ilya's getting desperate now - he detects a small train of ants all the way in Shane’s front garden, hears them considering whether to cross the great forest of his door mat, but there’s nothing, nothing, from Pork Hollander.

“I’ve got clothes for tomorrow too. They said I could arrive in whatever I’d normally sleep in, but I didn’t want to travel there in pyjamas.” Ilya inches towards the living room door, craning his neck. “Understandable.”

Another silence passes between them, though only Shane’s version of it is comfortable, or as comfortable as it possibly can be - Ilya would quite like to take the nearest flight to an underground bunker. He doesn’t need an animal to speak directly to locate them, and he never has. Consciousness has shape and texture and imprints that work their way through his body like it’s their own. It presses against his, sometimes no more than attention shifting in the room beside him, sometimes so firmly his knees shake and and he can no longer determine which flare of neurons belong to him. Pork’s presence was easy to distinguish from the outset (likely something to do with the loathing) - now there’s nothing.

He sets the canvas bag down, and the movement disturbs one of the tuna tins with a clunk. Pork should smell the tuna. Worse still, Pork should smell him. Even if the cat has chosen not to speak, Ilya’s arrival ought to provoke something, even if that something is a graphic image of his dismembered body.

Out, the fly upstairs pleads, finding her voice. “Do you want tea?” Shane asks.

“What?”

“Tea. Before I go,” he gestures to the enormous empty mug, evidently remembering he’s produced it for no reason at all. “Or coffee? I don’t know what you drink.”

Ilya tries his damndest to remain present in the room - the injustice is scorching. He should be enjoying this uninterrupted time with Shane, should be using it to show him exactly why they’re meant to be, and instead it’s wasted on fearing an aerial attack from from a Pantone 13-1513 TCX blimp.

“Coffee is good,” he manages, offering the most normal smile he can possibly manage considering the circumstances. “Milk?”

“No, thank you.”

Shane fills the kettle and chatters about the timings. He has to be there soon, though the monitoring doesn’t start immediately, because from what his research has shown there’ll be paperwork first. He doesn’t know how long attaching the sensors takes, but the website suggests it’s not the shortest of processes. Ilya tries to listen. He really, really does. The other man’s voice is soft and nervous, and under literally any other circumstances Ilya would be going to war with the fear lurking behind each word. He’d be watching Shane’s hands and offering comfort, and most importantly of all he’d be husband material. Instead, he finds himself cruelly unable to focus on anything other than the hanging pompoms from the cat tree Shane had diligently moved after their appointment - they’re deathly still.

Shane notices him looking and misinterprets it completely. “The tree’s been working really well. He spent most of yesterday on the top platform. He can see the whole screen from there.”

Ilya forces his attention back to him. “Good. That is good.”

“He still walks across the keyboard.”

“Of course.”

The kettle begins to rumble as he’s explaining they’ve asked him to avoid caffeine and alcohol and to eat normally beforehand. He’s already had dinner, though stress made it difficult, and he’s packed a cereal bar in case he gets hungry later. Breakfast will apparently be provided, but the website contains no useful information about what kind. He doesn’t drink alcohol, and tends to avoid caffeine anyway, so that part isn’t a problem. Ilya nods where appropriate, considering the idea that Pork might be ill. No, that would be too much like wishful thinking - Pork is hiding. That’s a rational explanation, except Ilya can’t hear Pork hiding. A cat lurking beneath a bed remains a cat, and his thoughts don’t cease just because he can’t be seen. Ilya has spoken to animals through walls, inside cupboards, from surprising amounts of distance, underneath floorboards, and once from somewhere deep within the ventilation system of a restaurant while the owner insisted there couldn’t possibly be a rat. He should hear him. Shane pours the water and holds the mug out to him. “You don’t have to entertain him the whole time,” he says. “I know the voicemail probably made it sound like he needs constant supervision, but he doesn’t, obviously. He’ll sleep most of the evening.” He doubts that very much, but he accepts the mug with a watery smile. “Yes.”

“And you can use anything you need. I put the wifi password on the fridge.”

“Thank you.”

“The television has Netflix, Prime and Disney Plus. I think Hayden’s still logged into that, so ignore any weird recommendations.”

“Okay.”

The spider shifts behind the pipe, stirred by some tiny movement in the wall.

“And you can sleep in my room,” Shane continues, the flush returning. Ilya’s thoughts derail so completely that for several precious seconds, Pork does not exist. “Your room?”

“There’s no guest room,” he mumbles. “I changed the sheets this morning and stuck an extra pillow on there.”

The mug burns his hands as he pictures Shane stripping the bed for him, the same bed Pork showed him in flashes. Ilya will put his head on Shane’s pillow, surrounded by the soft, private smell of him for hours, and Shane has arranged this knowingly. Willingly, even. Something within him changes so abruptly it almost leaves him breathless - Pork Hollander can go to hell. Ilya’s going to put him there himself. There’s no way - no way - Ilya will allow anyone or anything to ruin the opportunity presented to him, even if he has to hire a local priest to perform a ritual on feline Beelzebub. He’ll do it.

“Unless you’d rather sleep on the sofa,” Shane says quickly, paling slightly. “It’s comfortable. Hayden’s slept on it plenty of times.” Priest and a hitman, then.

“I will take the bed, thank you.”

“Right, good.” Shane peers up at him and Ilya takes a mouthful of coffee far too soon, though the pain at least returns enough blood to his brain for him to remember the immediate crisis at hand. He’s probably pushed himself too far, if the first stirrings of an ache behind his eyes is anything to go by. The kitchen is warm, and every sound Shane makes grows distinct, even the smallest of his breaths - it’s not an unpleasant feeling, one he’s used to after long days, like the sharp sensitivity of a breeze on fresh, new skin. If Pork were dead, Shane would know - if Pork were dying, perhaps he wouldn’t. Ilya places the mug down very carefully. “Are you okay?” Shane asks, worrying at his lip. “You keep looking around.”

“I am listening.”

Shane’s expression softens. “Oh.”

He looks pleased at the idea Ilya’s extending his extraordinary connection towards Pork, checking in quietly before Shane leaves. He has no idea Ilya is one unanswered probe away from overturning the sofa. “Can you hear him?”

There are several possible answers, and each of them might frighten Shane enough that he cancels the test. ‘Yes’ would be another lie, but hardly significant compared to those already holding Ilya’s life together. ‘He’s asleep’ is plausible, though dangerous if Shane immediately produces Pork from inside a cabinet and asks what he was dreaming about. Ilya reaches outward once more, straining until the fly’s repeated impacts pulse through his skull.

Out, please. Out.

Ilya projects her an assurance, the only kind he can really give right now, and the suggestion that she settles before he develops a migraine. Shane watches him with complete confidence.

“Where,” he asks slowly, each word causing more pain than the last, “is my good friend?”

Shane chuckles. “He’s hiding.”

“Hiding where?”

“I don’t know exactly. He’s been under things most of the day.” Shane gestures vaguely towards the rest of the house. “He does this whenever I get the suitcase out. I think he associates it with travel and thinks I’m going to put him in the carrier. He hates the carrier.”

That would be believable if it weren’t for the fact Pork was present when Shane left the voicemail inviting him over. No, Pork Hollander isn’t hiding- he's waiting.

“I should probably go, my taxi will be here soon.” Ilya has never heard anything less convincing in his life, which is an impressive feat considering the company he keeps. “Yes, probably.” Shane makes no attempt to move - instead he collects Ilya’s mug despite the fact it’s still half full, and deposits it directly into the sink. His suitcase remains by the front door, and there’s a smart woolen coat slung over the bannister that he keeps glancing at like it might bite him. Ilya could be the responsible adult in this sitatuon, perhaps give him a reassuring push towards the hallway and tell him everything will be fine - alternatively he could allow the clinic to cancel Shane’s appointment for being late, forcing him to remain here (together) for the entire evening. It’s an appealing prospect right up until Ilya remembers the part where Shane might stop breathing.

“Go,” he mutters, hating himself. “You do not want to be late.”

“I know, I’m going.” Shane nods firmly, then absolutely doesn’t go. He opens the fridge instead. “I bought you some groceries.”

“You did?”

The flush has crept down the other man’s neck now, and Ilya has to inhale deep through his nose to prevent imagining what his chest might look like. “Just a few things, I didn’t know whether you’d already eaten, and obviously you’ll need breakfast in the morning. You don’t have to eat any of it. I just thought it’d be weird to ask you to stay and then not have anything here.”

Ilya had been pretty set on a summer wedding, but now he’s considering the bonus of a tomorrow wedding. A tonight wedding, even, as Shane steps aside to reveal the contents of the fridge. His eyes catch on a large tub of hummus and a smaller tub of Greek yoghurt, and there’s so much spinach it looks like someone’s emptied their garden waste in there. Ilya’s eyes widen in alarm as he scans the neatly cut sticks of cucumber and celery that occupy most of the top shelf in clear containers, and beneath them sits a packet of tofu. Ginger ale lines the door.

“I’m not sure what you like,” Shane toys with his hoodie strings, “so I got a few things.”

There isn’t even cheese.

“This is very thoughtful,” Ilya mumbles, wondering if it’s rude to order a takeaway to someone else’s house.

“You can make a salad,” he adds. “There’s dressing in the door.”

Ilya bends slightly to inspect it, with absolutely no intention of making a salad - he’d actually prefer his chances with Pork over whatever a ‘vinaigrette’ is. “Thank you.”

“And there’s bread in the cupboard. I wasn’t sure whether you ate dairy, but there’s yoghurt, obviously.”

Ilya thinks of the rat, who would unquestionably consider this fridge a palace. Perhaps he can call her owner - Marie? Maria? - and arrange an emergency extraction of the yoghurt in exchange for even half a cheeseburger.

“This is perfect.”

Shane glances uncertainly between him and the spinach, and Ilya feels like the world’s biggest asshole - he’s made an effort. A huge one, really, considering Ilya’s nutritional requirements could have been met with deep fried mystery meat and access to the tap. Maybe he will make a salad, even if it’s just to post on his Instagram and hope by the mysterious powers of the algorithm that he’ll show up on Shane’d feed. Location pin: Shane Hollander's House.

“There’s ginger ale too.”

“I see this.”

“I like it, so maybe you will too.”

Ilya looks at it again and understands - the fridge isn’t a random selection of food Shane believes other people enjoy, it’s Shane food. Shane has stocked it with pieces of himself, maybe things he eats when he’s busy, his favourite drinks, snacks he might choose, things he’s decided Ilya might as well. “Then we have this in common,” he decides. It’s of course another lie, but this one is well meaning enough that he doesn’t chastise himself for it. Shane smiles. “Pork’s food’s in the bottom cupboard beside the sink. He gets half a tin at night, but I already gave him dinner, so if he acts hungry, he’s lying.”

Extremely believable, though he opts not to tell him this. “Half a tin only.”

“Well, no, he’s already had the half.”

“No tins.”

“Unless something happens to the food he’s already eaten.” Ilya considers this. “What would happen?”

“I don’t know.” Shane’s forehead creases. “If he throws it up, I guess.”

“Then you want me to replace the vomited quantity?” Shane stares at him, but there’s a small smile twitching at the corners of his lips that Ilya wants to chase. “Maybe not. That seems difficult to measure.”

“I can use the kitchen scale,” he offers.

“No, god. Please don’t weigh his vomit.”

That’s a fair request.

“The fountain’s full,” Shane continues. “There’s another water bowl upstairs. The litter tray is in the upstairs bathroom, but I cleaned it before you came. The scoop’s hanging on the side if he uses it overnight.”

“You are nervous,” Ilya says gently, watching him wrap the strings around his index finger until it pales.

“Only a little.”

This is plainly untrue (evidenced by the way Shane now can’t seem to stand still), but Ilya doesn’t expose him. Ilya can stand here and receive it. “You may continue,” he prompts gently.

Shane’s eyes flick to meet his. “The windows stay shut.”

“Okay.”

“Even the upstairs ones. They have latches, but Pork can get through a smaller gap than you’d think. And don’t leave the toilet lid up.” He’s about to be mildly offended at the suggestion he would leave the lid up, when Ilya recalls he does, in fact, leave the lid up most times. “Why?”

“He falls in.”

Ilya waits for further context and receives none, but he’s content to place that alongside his steadily growing list of ammunition to use in his war against the fiend. “I will protect him from the toilet.”

“He’ll probably sleep with you.”

He doubts that very much, but follows Shane as he shuffles another step or two towards the front door.

“The out of hours vet’s number is on the fridge too.”

“Beside the wifi password.”

“Yeah,” Shane manages to slip on one shoe. “Just in case, and you have my number.”

Ilya very nearly tells him it’s engraved upon his heart, but he possesses just enough self control to keep those words from coming out of his mouth. “Yes.”

“You can text me whenever, even if it’s late.”

“I will.”

“Right.” Shane nods, staring back towards the living room as though Pork might emerge in answer. “He’ll come out once I’ve gone, probably.”

He reaches for him before he can stop himself, intending perhaps to pat his shoulder in reassurance or physically prevent him from looking any more worried than he already does, but he wrangles back control of his motor system halfway through the movement and succeeds only in freezing with both hands outstretched between them. Shane blinks at him for a second, and then for reasons known only to whatever benevolent supernatural force has finally taken an interest in Ilya’s suffering, offers him his own. Ilya’s fingers close around it without hesitation, pressing their palms together. The supernatural force in question has a sick sense of humour, because it possesses Ilya to do the only thing available to him in that moment - to move their palms up and down in a cheery little jerk. Shane gapes at him. “Why are we shaking hands?” Ilya hasn’t got an answer for that one, nor does he have any interest in stopping, now that the other man’s skin is soft and almost certainly well moisturised against his. He lets Shane shake next, agonising over the confused furrow of his brow.

It’s getting fucking weird at this point.

“I will take good care of Pork,” Ilya lies, still shaking. Shane nods, picking up the pace of their interlinked hands. “I know.” What sounds like the thrumming engine of a taxi pulls up outside Shane’s front door - Ilya knows it without having to look, because the ginger cat announces get away from my wall, people car - he, contrary to whatever the hell he’s currently doing, does have a working brain to interpret that. One day, Ilya thinks with entirely sane conviction, he will hold this hand in public.

Shane clears his throat, which is enough to return Ilya back to his body again - the other man's fingers slip free from his own as he turns unsteadily towards the door, wrenching it open at speed. Cool evening air floods the hallway, and he pauses before stepping through. “You’re sure?”

“Go,” Ilya says, stuffing his betraying hand behind his back. “We will have a wonderful evening.”

Nothing in the resounding silence from Pork changes, so Ilya raises his voice.

“We are going to have so much fun.”

Still nothing, damn it. Shane pivots on his heel and hauls the suitcase out after him, and Ilya closes the door before the sight of him climbing into the taxi can have him offering to sleep on the floor beside the clinic bed. That image doesn’t last long, because when he clicks the lock shut, Ilya is faced with the solemn truth of his situation - he is alone inside Pork’s territory. His heart thumps as he lingers in the hallway, reaching carefully through the rooms one more time. The spider remains where she is, and the fly upstairs repeatedly introduces herself to the window - there’s even the distant barking of a dog shouting for dinner somewhere down the road, but Pork remains impossible.

“Pork?” he calls softly, turning towards the living room. “Shane has gone.” He stomps over the threshold, deliberately making enough noise that no reasonable cat (or unreasonable one) could interpret his approach as an ambush, but the heated bed remains empty. One of its many blankets has a small depression in the centre, so Ilya reaches to press the back of his knuckles to it - it’s cold.

“You can stop this now,” he says, jolting at the sound of a car door slamming across the street.

This is fine. Cats hide - Pork is just exceptionally good at it, in the same way certain parasites can remain undetected for years before killing their host. Ilya takes the packet of chicken hearts from his bag and tears open, setting one right in the centre of the living room rug. “I have chicken.”

There isn’t so much as a flicker of attention, and his professionalism survives for another thirty seconds - once the final remnants of it drain away, Ilya sets about clearing the house like he’s searching for an armed fugitive.

He checks the heated bed properly, lifting every blanket with his body angled away in case the oversized prawn launches itself towards his eyes, but Pork isn’t inside it. He isn’t at the top of the cat tree either, or beneath the lower platform, or balanced behind the curtains beside the windowsill, or concealed amongst the faux logs of Shane’s artificial fireplace. Ilya wrenches the curtains back a second time and finds nothing but his own reflection staring wildly at him through the dark glass. “Very funny,” he mutters, already on his hands and knees to search beneath the sofa. He doesn’t locate Pork Hollander, but he does find several toys and a black sock. Behind the television is also empty but for the staticky hum of electronics, and the shelves very visibly hold a collection of nonfiction books and framed photographs, so even as he swallows down his rising panic he feels no need to inspect those.

The top of the cabinets appears empty, but Ilya stares at them anyway. A normal cat could possibly flatten itself behind the storage boxes though remain easy to spot, but Pork is not a normal cat, and Ilya no longer feels safe assuming he’s restricted by a working skeleton. He drags a dining chair across the room, climbs onto it and peers behind the boxes, but there’s nothing.

“I do not want trouble,” he announces, climbing down again. “Reveal yourself.”

In the kitchen, Ilya opens every lower cupboard. One contains enough vitamins and supplements to keep Shane alive through nuclear winter, with each bottle neatly labelled and lined up according to a system Ilya doesn’t understand but finds very attractive. He checks behind the bin, above the refrigerator and in the gap beside the cooker, then opens the washing machine and examines the empty drum. Pork couldn’t possibly have closed the door behind himself, but at this point Ilya isn’t prepared to rule out accomplices.

“Shane wants us to be friends. I can tell him you were very affectionate.” There’s no response to that, so he tries another tact. “I can also tell him you cried when he left.”

Something flickers at that. So minute and barely there that it could also be a worm beneath the shaggy clover lawn of Shane’s garden, but it’s the first decent clue to confirm he’s being watched. Ilya narrows his eyes at the kitchen. “Yes, I thought so.”

His mug remains abandoned in the sink where Shane left it, and for half a second Ilya considers retrieving it. Instead, he takes all of thirty seconds to rinse it out and place it very carefully in the cabinet it had come from. It would feel more husbandly if there weren’t something in their marital household preparing to sever his Achilles tendon. Ilya checks behind the kitchen door before leaving.

To his (quite significant) concern, the stairs present an immediate tactical disadvantage - he’s seen enough horror films to know how this goes, so he takes them slowly with a hand wrapped around the bannister and his awareness stretched thin. Halfway up he stops and looks back, and the chicken heart remains untouched in the middle of the rug. “Coward,” he calls.

Pork doesn’t dispute this, likely because he knows it isn’t true. The first door upstairs leads to the bathroom, where the spider has retreated further behind the pipe at the vibrations of his approach. Ilya checks either side of the toilet and inside the laundry hamper. The spider offers nothing, though he hadn’t expected her to - she knows there are two large warm creatures in the house, but neither is of any relevance to her unless they produce water or flies.

The fly is still banging herself against the window. Go. Want to go. Out. “I know,” Ilya sighs. “One emergency at a time, yes?”

He finds her in the room at the end of the hallway, battering herself against a window above what looks like a small home gym. He paces quickly past a yoga mat laid neatly out on the floor and tries hard not to consider the flexibility implications it holds, cracking the window open enough for her to buzz off. The fly misses it completely in her panic. “Left,” he tells her softly, directing the shape of open air towards her as clearly as he can. “No, your other - there.”

Out.

She disappears into the evening, and Ilya closes and latches the window immediately - although Pork cannot presently be found, Shane’s instructions regarding his ability to squeeze through gaps remain binding. He has no intention of unleashing Pork upon the innocent world outside. What must be Shane’s bedroom remains unexplored across the hall, and Ilya pauses outside it, struck by the fact he has been invited inside. Not just permitted, but specifically instructed to sleep there - granted not entirely under honest circumstances, but invited all the same. Shane changed the sheets for him. He probably pulled the duvet smooth with those lovely hands and wondered, however briefly, what Ilya might look like beneath it. This thought buys Pork approximately five seconds of peace, until Ilya enters and drops to the floor to check beneath the bed before rising to open the wardrobe, moving Shane’s hanging clothes aside with a grim faced restraint. They appear to be sensibly organised by season, containing more colour than he’d anticipated - he lingers on a sunshine yellow sweater that looks so soft he permits himself to touch it with two fingers. It must look good on Shane. Everything looks good on Shane, including the cropped white top he can see amongst several vests and plain tees, the hoodie he wore out the house, and presumably nothing at all. Especially nothing at all - Ilya pictures this with such clarity he has to remember he’s meant to be looking for the cat.

He turns towards the bed, considering the dark wood bedside tables - Pork could fit inside a drawer easy enough, motivated by spite if not inherent flexibility. Checking them would be a reasonable extension of the search, possibly even a professional necessity considering Shane has entrusted him with the safety of his beloved animal. Ilya’s halfway to reaching for the handle when he looks down at it and considers what Shane Hollander might keep beside his bed.

“Ебать,” he mutters, turning on his heel. Irritated by his own integrity (it’s situational, he decides), Ilya cranes his neck to peer behind them instead. He finds nothing but a phone charger, and Pork isn’t beneath the pillows, inside the duvet cover or wedged between the mattress and the headboard either.

By the time he returns downstairs, the search has become faster and considerably less methodical. Ilya checks the cupboard beneath the stairs, behind every coat in the hallway and inside the umbrella stand, despite the opening being narrower than Pork’s horrible little skull. The creature’s stopped being a cat in Ilya’s imagination - he’s an apparition, some form of ancient household deity Shane has unknowingly fed and clothed until it gained enough strength to leave its mortal body. Ilya stands in the middle of the living room, panting and wide eyed. “I know you are here.”

From the kitchen, only the fridge hums in answer. “You heard the voicemail,” he says, eyeing the untouched chicken heart. “You knew I was coming.”

Part of him wishes he’d brought Anya with him - she’s always had a nose for uncured gammon, so she’d sniff out the little fucker in a heartbeat. “Well,” he drops himself unceremoniously onto Shane's sofa. “I can wait longer than you.”

The television offers a decent variety, and first he navigates to Disney Plus purely for anything he can arm himself with should he and Hayden Pike ever end up in the same room again. He finds disappointingly little but The Devil Wears Prada under his recently watched, though he does take a photo of the last season of Glee under ‘continue watching’. Eventually Ilya settles on something called ‘Hammerhead Sharks Up Close’ and settles in to wait. Every tiny sound makes him jolt, but none of them are Pork. The house remains warm and quiet, and Ilya’s had a long day. His head twinges -there’s nowhere useful for the delayed rush of adrenaline to go, so he sinks lower into the sofa. He watches the camera dip below the waves, following a shoal of silvery fish. He can’t hear their panic through the television, even as a large scalloped hammerhead bursts into the fray, scattering them, but he grimaces anyway.

He only closes his eyes for a second, yet three hours later Ilya wakes because he cannot breathe.

His first priority is the burning in his lungs - his eyes snap open in the dark, instinctively scrambling for the warm weight, and the horrifying sensation of something soft sealing his mouth and nose - panic surges violently, along with the blind certainty that he’s dying. He jerks against the sofa, trying desperately to turn his head, but whatever’s covering his face moves with him, warm flesh pressed tight enough that his first frantic attempt to inhale succeeds only in pulling it closer.

Pork’s naked stomach is pressed very deliberately across Ilya’s face, his front paws planted on either side of his head and the back pair braced against his shoulders for stability. For one stunned second, Ilya can see nothing but pink, naked skin and what could very much be the ghostly apparition of his mama descending through Shane’s ceiling to collect her idiot son for the afterlife.

Die.

Panic takes over before good thought can reach him, and Ilya claws at the soft rolls beneath Pork’s ribs in an attempt to haul upwards, but the cat flattens himself with a strength that shouldn’t be physically possible, shifting his weight to follow the angle of Ilya’s face. One bony rear paw catches beneath his jaw, the claws puncturing skin as Ilya twists - when he gets both hands around Pork’s middle and wrenches, Pork simply drives them into Ilya’s scalp.

“Get -” Ilya yelps, but it's trapped inside his mouth as Pork clings harder, all four legs spreading to counter the force of Ilya trying to peel him away. His lungs convulse, searing now, and he bucks upwards hard enough to nearly throw them both from the sofa, one hand sliding over naked skin while the other flails blindly for a cushion to batter him with. The cat doesn’t seem particularly disturbed by this, because he just abandons one patch of his stinging scalp to seize another, scrabbling his claws through Ilya’s hair in his search for purchase.

Thrashing, Ilya manages to wedge his palm between his cheek and Pork’s fleshy stomach, forcing open a tiny channel of air that he dives for, choking on a mouthful of skin as he rolls, falling into the back cushions as Pork scrambles over him to restore the seal.

Give me your eyes.

“No!” Ilya wails, pushing his forearm beneath the cat at last and shoving with everything he has, lifting Pork clear enough to wrench his face sideways. Air rushes into his lungs, and he sucks it down while Pork yowls above him, disregarding the murder attempt in favour of striking at his eyes. He somehow catches him between the forelegs - the cat twists within his grip with such violence that one back paw rakes down the front of Ilya’s shirt, sending his elbow cracking against the arm of the sofa. The television behind them shows a hammerhead shark passing serenely over the ocean floor, the documentary having looped almost exactly back to where it started.

“You tried to suffocate me!”

Yes.

“You have attempted murder!”

Pork pauses the struggle, considering this with his body still stretched between Ilya’s hands and one hind leg bicycling furiously against his ribs. I told you I would.

“You cannot kill people because they wish to date Shane!” You wish to violate him.

“I wish to take him to dinner!” Ilya yells, tightening his grip as Pork writhes again, swiping repeatedly at his face - he uses the momentum to pin him against his chest. “There may also be violation, but this will be very consensual and none of your business -”

Pork’s head snaps up, and for a half a second Ilya wonders if he’s finally got through to the creature - then Pork doubles in on himself and sinks his teeth into the tender skin inside Ilya’s forearm. “Ow!” Ilya’s grip falters, and Pork nearly gets free before he snags him again, crushing the cat’s back to his chest while Pork kicks and claws at anything he can reach. Blood already wells in the punctures, a blackish blue in the glow of the television. “Where were you? Tell me where you were hiding.”

Waiting.

“Where?”

Pork doesn’t answer, too occupied with hooking his paws beneath Ilya's sleeve.

“I searched this entire house!”

Not all of it.

The smugness of it is so intense that Ilya wants to throttle him. “You were watching me?”

Yes.

“From where?”

Pork twists his head and bites at Ilya’s thumb - he misses this time, but the movement brings the answer with it as the cat’s focus slips, and a warm rush of darkness washes over him, heat and the quiet electrical hum Ilya had felt through his feet while searching the living room, a sliding door nudged open by the hideous triangle of Pork’s face. The interior of Shane’s media cabinet engulfs him, and Ilya can feel cables brushing across bare skin as Pork had forced himself through the opening at the back, into the tight, familiar space between the wifi router and the box connected to the television. There’s hard plastic radiating heat into his stomach and a soothing vibration through his paws and something else layered over his awareness, a thick and fizzing distortion of electromagnetism from the router that breaks the cat’s thoughts into scattered fragments before erasing them completely.

Ilya freezes, and Pork takes the immediate advantage, wrenching one leg free and clawing him beneath the chin. He hisses and jerks his face out of range again. “You hid behind the router?”

Your appointments are face to face only.

For a moment the cat’s sheer level of comprehension floors him - Ilya can only stare in dawning horror at the nemesis he’s made for himself. “You knew technology interferes with my listening.” Pork’s sinister satisfaction pushes into him alongside a memory of Shane sitting at his laptop, reading aloud from Ilya’s website while he’d watched from the desk. ‘In-person consultations only, no telephone appointments, no video calls, because it doesn’t work like that’ - he’s editing that out the second he gets home (if he gets home).

Small computer cannot carry us to you.

“That does not mean hiding beside wifi will work,” he tries, “I -” It did.

“You guessed!”

I knew.

Pork’s body arches violently in his hands, but beneath the fury comes the unpleasantly clear memories of all the times he’s used that same narrow opening before - the cable hole is large enough for his shoulders if he compresses himself, the precious pocket of heat behind the television box where Shane can’t easily reach him. He’d already known it felt different there, and even Ilya can feel it now that he knows where to look, a small dead patch in the room where the frequencies become static against his consciousness if he tries to hone in on it.

“You planned all of this.”

Yes.

“How long were you inside?”

The cat sends him the slow accumulation of warmth against his stomach, listening to him as he'd stomped from room to room. Long enough. “You could have cooked yourself!” Ilya snaps, lifting him higher until Pork’s tail whips from side to side. “You could have started a fire!” You would burn with me.

“Shane’s house would also burn!”

That gives Pork pause, though not enough of one. I would wake him. “Shane is not here!”

I would wake my beloved.

“You cannot wake somebody who is not here, you stupid -” Ilya adjusts as Pork begins flailing all over again. “Stop. Stop this, you will hurt yourself.” Die.

“Hold still!”

With a shriek that echoes in the quiet of the room, the cat wriggles free and lands on the rug, skidding to disappear beneath the sofa before Ilya can so much as get both feet under him. He’s still gasping for air, each bite and scratch throbbing, and whatever concern he’d possessed for Pork cooking himself behind the television is very swiftly replaced by the infuriated desire to drag him out by his horrible little ankles. “You sat on my mouth!”

You use it to lie.

With a wordless shout of anger Ilya drops to his knees, reaching blindly beneath the frame and only just manages to brush something warm before claws slash across the back of his hand.

“Fuck!” He snatches it back, cradling his hand to his chest. “You are evil, evil -”

You returned.

“Because Shane asked me to!”

Because you lied.

“I also saved his life, maybe,” Ilya snaps, flattening himself against the rug to peer into the darkness. Two bulging pale eyes stare back at him from behind the sock he’d discovered earlier. “You can be grateful for this at least.”

You did your job. Leave.

“He does not want me to leave.”

Pork retreats beyond the reach of his fingertips, compacting himself further. Shane wants me safe. You make me unsafe.

Ilya grunts, pressing himself forwards again. “I have done nothing to you.” You want him asleep beneath you.

The impression slams into him, projected with enough malice that Ilya’s heart trips - Shane’s face tucked into the corner of his own neck, Ilya’s hand spread possessively across his waist. It isn’t even something Ilya’s consciously pictured yet, which means Pork has constructed it entirely for the purpose of upsetting himself.

“That is private,” he hisses.

It is in my mind.

“You put it there!” Ilya stretches until his shoulder wedges beneath the sofa frame, catches what feels like one spindly hind leg and closes his hand around it, but Pork kicks free before he can secure it and shoots from beneath the opposite end. Ilya lurches upright too late - a pink blur streaks across the rug, vanishes between his legs and nearly sends him headfirst into the door frame when he turns to follow.

Pork makes it into the hallway before him, his claws scrabbling over the polished floor as Ilya gives chase - the cat reaches the bottom of the stairs, changes his mind without visibly slowing and doubles back beneath Ilya’s outstretched hands, while Ilya continues several feet in the original direction before colliding directly into the wall. “Stop running!”

Stop returning.

“I am not returning right now, I am already here!” Pork flies through the living room again, banking sharply around the chair to head for the kitchen. Ilya follows with one hand clamped against the side of his throat, where blood has trickled sticky and drying down his neck, catching sight of the cat leaping from the floor to one of the dining chairs, then to the table and finally onto the kitchen counter in just a few fluid movements.

“Get down.”

No.

“You are not allowed on the counter.”

My counter.

“You put your naked ass where Shane prepares food!” He kisses it.

Ilya stops dead in the doorway. “What?”

Pork uses the interruption to trot along the worktop, stepping delicately around the kettle and knife block.

“He does not kiss your ass.”

My beloved kisses all of me.

“I do not believe you.”

He loves me.

Ilya lunges as Pork passes the sink, but the cat slips beneath his arm and lands on the other side of a decorative green glass bottle, shoving it towards the edge with his back paw. Ilya’s heart leaps into his throat - it looks hand made, probably from a fucking artisanal market or whatever, and he throws himself across the counter to catch it before it falls. Pork watches from beside the cooker.

“You did that on purpose,” Ilya pants, cradling the bottle against his chest. Yes.

“This belongs to Shane!”

You will never know what that feels like. Shame.

He sets it further back, carefully placing it behind the container holding Shane’s wooden spoons, then realises he’s taken both eyes off the cat - Pork launches past him, using Ilya’s ribs as a parkour point on the way down, and by the time Ilya twists around he’s already through the kitchen door. They complete another cursed circuit of the living room, although Pork does most of it while Ilya bumps helplessly around the corners as he disappears beneath the armchair, emerging from behind the curtains without crossing any visible space between them like an evil Whack A Mole. Ilya has to leap sideways when Pork comes directly at him again, frantic now. “You are going to break Shane’s house!”

You break it.

“You are doing the breaking!”

Pork circles, gaining enough distance to leap onto the mantelpiece above the fireplace. Ilya brakes so abruptly his knees almost buckle, because there’s a framed photograph of an elderly lady at one end beside what, terrifyingly, appears to be an urn of some kind. “Do not,” he warns, straightening. “Whatever you are thinking, do not do this.”

Pork stands between the photograph and the urn with his back arched, breathing hard enough that the delicate skin around his ribs ripples with every breath. You will leave.

“I cannot leave. Shane asked me to stay overnight.” You will leave before he returns.

“No.”

I will finish what I started.

“You have already failed.” Pork’s ears flatten, and Ilya regrets it immediately, but he’s far too angry to retreat. “You could not suffocate one sleeping man. Little kitten.”

I will open your throat.

“With what? Your tiny mouth?”

The cat’s head lowers, and Ilya has just enough warning to raise both arms with a cry before Pork launches from the mantelpiece directly at his face. He turns, taking the impact against his shoulder instead, but his claws catch through his shirt and Pork hangs there for one nightmarish second, pressed against his back like a furious, naked rucksack. Ilya spins in an attempt to reach him, which achieves nothing beyond making both of them dizzy, and by the time he manages to hook one hand beneath Pork’s stomach the cat has already released him.

He hits the floor running, springing from the sofa arm back to the perfect launch pad of the mantelpiece. Ilya staggers after him, one hand still searching his own back for damage, watching the cat sail through the air. “We can still be friends,” Ilya attempts a fresh tactic as Pork’s paw reaches very slowly for the urn. “Do not be like this -” Pork appears very committed to being like this, because the urn shifts forwards an inch.

“What - who is this?”

Shane’s grandmother.

He pushes it another half an inch.

“You killed her too?” Ilya spits, inching forwards. “Pork, I will tell Shane.” Pork pauses. Tell him you chased me? “I will tell him you tried to kill me.”

Fine. Tell him why, too.

Ilya opens his mouth then closes it, incredulous. Pork’s right - reporting the attack requires explaining enough of the circumstances that Shane might begin asking questions, and even if Ilya manages to avoid confessing the reason behind original lie, an account of Pork becoming distressed and aggressive in his presence is unlikely to produce the outcome he wants. Shane won’t blame Pork - he's polite enough to thank Ilya for trying, cancel their Thursday appointment and never leave them alone together again. The spiteful little gargoyle pushes the urn another inch, and before Ilya can formulate a threat with any actual leverage behind it, his phone begins to ring from the sofa - both of them freeze. Pork’s paw remains splayed against the ceramic, and Ilya’s hands are still held out in front of him, and for several seconds they stare towards the cushions as Shane’s name lights up the screen.

The phone continues to ring, and Ilya’s heart is thundering. “Temporary truce, or I tell him you are distressed and he will come home.” Pork’s eyes narrow. No.

“He needs the test. You cannot do this forever - he must sleep, and so must you.”

The cat’s flash of fear is sudden and sour in his throat, enough of it bleeding through the memory of Shane’s motionless chest in bed that Ilya shivers, unable to shake it off as his own anxiety climbs. No truce.

Ilya crouches slowly beside the sofa, keeping his eyes fixed on Pork. “Then I tell him you have separation anxiety and require me to stay here every other day.”

Pork becomes so still that even his tail stops moving. “Yes,” Ilya whispers, lifting the phone to his ear. “Every other day, perhaps weekends also. I will suggest gradual desensitisation, many long visits so you become comfortable with Shane leaving us together.”

The horror that moves through Pork is vast enough to wipe away every other thought in the room. You would not. “I have lied before.”

The phone nearly stops ringing before Pork finally lowers his head, withdrawing from the urn with a venemous look. Do not touch me. “Gladly.”

Ilya swipes to answer before the truce can collapse. “Shane,” he says, still crouched beside the sofa and breathing hard. “Hello. Is everything okay?”

“Hey,” Shane sounds muffled, like he’s keeping his voice down deliberately. “Sorry, were you asleep?”

“No, I was exercising.”

Across the room, Pork’s stare flicks briefly towards the scratches on Ilya’s head.

“At midnight?”

“Yes.”

“Right.” Shane pauses, but valiantly presses onward. “Sorry to call, I just -has he come out yet?”

Ilya glances at Pork. “Yes. Everything is wonderful.” Pork places one paw against the urn again, and Ilya’s eyes widen. The cat pushes, so slowly that the ceramic barely appears to move. “Pork,” he mouths silently. “Stop this.”

“Are you sure?” Shane asks. “You sound out of breath.”

“Yes, exercising. Completely sure, everything is -” the urn reaches the edge of the mantelpiece and tilts. Ilya’s voice climbs into a lovely falsetto pitch as he dives towards it. “Fantastic!”

His fingers graze the ceramic as Pork applies one final shove, and it falls -Ilya catches it against the heel of his hand, fumbling, and sends it spinning into the fireplace instead. It strikes with a crack before hitting the floor and splitting into three uneven pieces. To his utter relief there's no immediate plume of ashes, or any sign at all of Shane’s grandmother, but Shane himself has fallen silent.

Ilya remains on his knees, gasping for air and holding one useless shard. “Ilya? What was that?”

“We are playing,” he grinds out, setting the shard down carefully. “Playing what?”

Fuck. The shark documentary continues on, but opposite Pork amongst Shane’s tidy row of books, there’s a battered Monopoly box shoved horizontally beneath several other board games he doesn't recognise. “Monopoly.”

The silence that follows that is painful, and it must be a good twenty seconds before Shane speaks again. “Pork knows how to play Monopoly?” Ilya appeals desperately to the cat, who predictably is no help whatsoever. I own this house.

“He was the banker first.”

“What?”

“He is very competitive,” Ilya continues, his voice cracking. “This game he owns most properties already.”

“How is he moving the pieces?”

“With his paws, Shane.”

Pork’s tail flicks.

“Right,” Shane says slowly. “Of course.”

Before Shane can ask whether Pork prefers the Scottie dog or the rubber duck, Ilya staggers to his feet and places himself between the cat and the door. “He has used his litter tray and is very relaxed.” Pork opens his mouth, but Ilya points at him with enough warning that only a soft click comes out.

“Oh, good,” the relief in Shane’s voice is immediate, and his chest aches in fondness despite the blood drying beneath his chin. “I knew he’d probably hide after I left, but I’ve not been able to sleep yet because I kept thinking about him being alone.”

“He is not alone.”

“No,” Shane exhales softly, and in the background there's a series of harsh beeps before they fade away again. “No, he’s with you.” Ilya holds the back of his free hand up to the light of the television, eyeing the raised scratches there. “How is the clinic?”

“It’s fine - weird, I guess. They’ve put sensors everywhere, and there’s this band around my chest. I’m apparently meant to sleep normally, but I don’t like it very much.”

“That sounds very restful.”

“Totally,” Shane chuckles. “I feel stupid.”

“You are not stupid,” Ilya murmurs, tucking his phone between his ear and shoulder as he nudges the other two shards a safe distance from his feet. “I know, I just -” Shane breaks off, and he just about catches the rustle of sheets as he shifts. “I almost cancelled when I got here. I’m not going to, though - I know I need to do it.”

Pork has moved away from the edge of the mantelpiece now, settling beside the photograph with his paws tucked beneath his chest. His attention is fixed on the phone, and for once the thought passing through him holds no violence.

“Thanks for doing this, again. I was worried you might say no.”

“I would not leave you without help.”

“That’s…” Shane trails off. “I don’t really know what to say to that.” Ilya grins despite himself - the copious antibiotics he’s going to need are worth the sleepy softness of the other man’s voice any day of the week. “You can say I am very generous and handsome.” Shane laughs properly this time. “That's bold.”

“And still you invited me into your bedroom.”

“I invited you to sleep in my bedroom.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, unable to keep the smile from his voice. “This is what I said.”

Across the room Pork’s head lifts, and the demonic sound he produces rises through several octaves until it's a shriek worthy of Paranormal Activity. Shane chokes. “What the hell was that?”

“He has landed on Park Lane,” Ilya says quickly. “Very upsetting. You must sleep now, goodbye.”

“Ilya -”

“Goodnight, Shane.”

Ilya ends the call still smiling, which doesn’t last long - when he turns around, Pork has left the mantelpiece. At first he can’t locate him in the gloom, until the secondhand sensation of relief prompts him to look downwards to where the cat is standing with all four feet carefully contained inside one of Ilya’s shoes.

They stare at each other as Pork squats, releasing his bladder into his faux leather platform.

“We - we had a truce!”

Pork’s stream only intensifies.

Ilya remains frozen, forced to watch it seep between the stitching of the heel - the smell reaches him almost immediately, permeating the air until his eyes water. He’s not crying. (He might be crying). Pork doesn’t break eye contact once.

“You agreed not to do anything!”

I agreed you would not touch me.

“So you piss in my shoe?”

Exactly.

Pork finishes after what feels like an age, stepping delicately out of the shoe and kicking a back foot hard enough to scatter several droplets across the skirting board. Ilya closes his eyes.

This has to be some kind of bad dream. A nightmare, like Shane has - this cannot be happening to him, because animals love him. Animals love him. He spends every day helping nature’s creations, day in day out, tirelessly working weekends when he really shouldn’t, and stewing over complex issues even the most qualified of behaviouralists would reject on sight. This is what he’s good at. Somewhere beneath the blood, broken urn and remains of Shane’s grandmother (wherever they are, in the urn or not), there’s a version of him asleep in his own bed beside Anya, having politely declined the invitation to stay with a cat who’d promised to kill him. That Ilya is warm, and still has all the skin on his face. That Ilya still owns those shoes. When he opens his eyes again, Pork is sitting beside the devastation with his tail wrapped around his feet.

“Why?” Ilya asks, because he needs to understand if nothing else. “Why my shoes?”

You use them to return.

Miserable, he picks up both shoes between his fingers and thumbs, holding them as far from his body as his arms will permit. “You are going to cat prison.”

Pork begins washing one paw.

“I will call the police. I will say there is dangerous man in Shane’s house.” You are the dangerous man in Shane’s house.

“Ah, but I have a phone. You do not.”

The cat’s tongue stops, and Ilya retreats towards the living room door, nudging it open with his hip. Pork tracks him, but makes no attempt to follow until Ilya steps into the hallway - and then he rises. “No.”

Pork continues towards him.

“No, you remain here. You are serving time.”

My house.

“You have water,” Ilya says, gesturing to the bowl beside Pork’s heated bed. It’s not ideal, but neither is being murdered. “You will have access to remainder of the house when Shane is back.”

Ilya swings the door shut just as Pork gathers himself to bolt. You cannot imprison me.

Pork throws himself against the other side of the door with a thump. “I will release you when you have reflected on your behaviour.” The back door is locked, and finding the key requires him to set the shoes in Shane’s sink while he searches the counters. This turns out to be a mistake, because the smell settles into the kitchen so awfully that he gags even as he locates the key beneath a healthy looking aloe on the windowsill. Outside, the garden is dark and cold, and he just about manages to stumble out towards the waste bin on the patio following the light of his phone torch. By the time he reaches it, moisture has soaked through his socks. He lifts the lid of the bin and tosses them inside.

They’re good shoes. Worn in perfectly, soft enough that he could walk between appointments without his heels blistering, and bought during a moment of such severe financial irresponsibility that he’d hidden the receipt from Anya just in case she’d suddenly developed the ability to read (it wouldn’t surprise him).

“Goodbye,” he whispers, closing the lid.

Behind him, something lands in the cypress tree. He turns quickly, his body protesting around his wounds - a beautifully dappled tawny owl rests on one of the gnarled lower branches, with something limp hanging from his talons, its pale tail swinging gently beneath him. The owl studies Ilya with dark eyes. You are leaking. For a brief moment Ilya receives the garden as the owl does, in a cacophony of tiny sounds and bright greyscale, its sensitive rod cells illuminating the clover around them both. He touches his throat instinctively - the scratches have stopped bleeding, mostly, but enough has dried beneath his collar to explain the observation.

“Yes,” he mutters. “I have been attacked.”

The owl’s head turns further. By the hunter inside? He glances back towards the house, ignoring Pork's radiating fury. “Yes.” He is very small.

“Thank you. I had not noticed.”

Small hunters still bite.

“I am learning this.”

The owl shifts his weight, lifting the rat slightly. Its head has been crushed, but he can feel the appeal in it through his unexpected companion regardless. Are you hungry?

Ilya blinks. “What?”

There is enough.

“That is very generous,” he says. “But no, thank you.” You refuse good food?

“I have eaten.”

I live in this garden, you know.

Ilya lowers himself onto the cold edge of the patio with a sigh, resting his elbows on his knees. Every part of him aches now that he’s stopped moving- his scalp burns, his throat stings, one forearm is beginning to swell around the bite and the thin scratches over the back of his hand pulse whenever he curls his fingers.

The owl remains watchful above him. You entered his hollow. “I was invited.”

Not by the hunter.

“No,” Ilya admits. “By Shane.”

His human.

“Yes.”

The owl’s attention touches the house, then returns to Ilya - there’s a genuine will to understand within it, a curiosity that often belongs to birds, though he’s only really noticed it with corvids before. Your mate.

Ilya almost laughs. “No. Not my mate.”

You came when he called. I heard you.

“This does not make him my mate.”

You guard his hollow while he is gone.

He shrugs, dejected. “He asked for help.”

You fought the other male for your place inside it. “I did not fight him for -” Ilya stops, indignant. “He sat on my mouth!” The owl blinks, and he scrubs both hands over his face, wincing when he catches one of the scratches beneath his chin. “I lied, before tonight. I said Pork liked me so Shane would invite me back, and Pork knew. Most of all I like Shane - this is why he hates me.”

Why did you lie?

“Because I wanted to return.”

The simplicity of it only makes him feel worse - there’s absolutely nothing clever left to hide behind out here, no pretty Shane smiling at him and no urgent medical concern to make Ilya’s presence necessary, only the cold soaking through his socks and an owl holding a dead rat above his head.

“I should have asked him to dinner,” he says eventually. “Like a normal person. But if he said no, then that would be it. If Pork needed me, I could still see him.”

The owl’s talons close around his branch, and the dead rat swings. You made a false call.

“Yes.”

And it was answered.

Ilya looks up at him - the owl shows him the shape of sound travelling over gardens, a deep and haunting note sent into a rich darkness and a silence that follows while he waits for something to come back. Ilya doesn’t understand it as speech, more a beautiful, ancient blend of instinct twisted with desire that speaks to I am here. This is mine. Where are you? Sometimes another voice answers, and sometimes nothing does. Ilya gets the idea of it well enough. “You think I should tell him.” I think you should make the correct call.

“That is not very useful.”

It is the only useful thing.

Ilya scowls into the grass. “You are quite judgemental for someone eating a rat in a tree.”

I caught my rat honestly.

Despite himself, Ilya laughs. The sound feels strange after the night he’s had - the owl fluffs his feathers, apparently satisfied, and a long silence settles between them. It isn’t uncomfortable. Most animals dislike the way humans try to fill empty space with conversation, and the owl’s stillness moves through Ilya until he can feel how deliberate it is. Far beyond the garden, barely audible to his human ears, another tawny owl calls.

The one above him lifts his head as the sound comes again, higher this time. A female - Ilya feels the recognition pass through him before the owl answers, his body expanding around a deep note that vibrates in Ilya’s chest, but a response from her never comes.

“She is your mate?”

Yes.

“Where is she?”

Beyond the bright road.

He can’t entirely map that, because the owl knows the nameless motorway through intervals rather than traffic signs or layby names in the periods when he sleeps, or the small bodies struck and left warm under wheels that never stop no matter how much it hurts. He resists the urge to cringe, steeling himself - it’s not his reality, but shrinking away from it would only serve to minimise the owl’s permeating anxiety, so he doesn't. “She will return.”

The owl looks towards the dark beyond the houses. She has crossed it many times.

“But you are worried tonight?”

She flies low. She is small, and there are many long backed ones. They drag great currents of air behind them that moves us. It hurts our lungs. Ilya receives the image of great articulated cargo trucks and rushing flatbeds with wooden pallets strapped to them, their lights flashing in the dark as they roar past on wet tarmac. He curses, once again, the selfishness of human nature - it’s a bitter argument Ilya knows well as his kind steadily foster the world uninhabitable, expecting the animals to understand how to navigate it. Unfathomably egotistical.

“I am sorry,” he says softly. “I believe she will be fine, but I will still think of her tonight.”

The owl ruffles his feathers, plucking a few of the itchier ones until they float down onto the ground below. There is also a younger male beyond the road.

“Ah.”

He calls from the ash trees.

“And she answers him?”

She did once.

The admission comes with a dizzying blend of affection and dismay that almost hurts to absorb. Ilya catches the foreign call as the owl remembers it, higher and stronger than his own, pressing at the border of territory that he’s held for years despite his age.

It is not his place.

“Maybe she told him this.”

She answered. I love her still.

“Pork answers me constantly, and most of it is hatred. Answer is not always invitation.”

The female calls again, and this time the male responds immediately, his call rolling mournfully through the branches. Ilya feels the effort concealed inside it and sees, only when the owl resettles his body, that one wing sits slightly lower than the other. “You are injured also.” Old pain.

“What happened?”

Wire.

The memory is brief and entirely physical, a fence invisible in the glee of a successful hunt, the interruption of flight and the ground rising up to meet him with terrifying speed. There’s an impact then daylight, fear and unfamiliar human hands beneath a thick towel. The owl gives him no human faces and no story beyond what mattered to him in pain and the sharp sting of a very thin stick that made him fall asleep. The wing works. It no longer works as well.

“She stayed?”

Through winter. I told her it was healed.

The memory is dense with her presence, her call returning whenever he sent his own into the dark, and a hidden pain that gnaws in his armpit. “But now you think she might leave if she finds out your wing is still bad?” The owl looks away, and he doesn’t have to answer in words for Ilya to understand that.

He leans forward. “Shane does not know me. He knows the person who helped his cat, who arrives when asked and does not leave him without help. He does not know I am a liar who threatened his beloved.” The small hunter knows.

“Yes. This is also the problem.”

He knows, and you remain.

“I trapped him in living room,” Ilya admits, picking at the crusted blood on his forearm.

The owl’s fluffy feathers lift around his face. Still. “You and Pork would like each other, I think.” I would eat him.

“You must not do this. Shane would be upset.”

Then I would not.

Ilya falls quiet.

The one you want asked you to stay.

“Because he thinks Pork likes me.”

He trusted you before that.

Ilya stares morosely down at his ruined socks, and the stinging in his eyes has nothing to do with Pork’s claws now. “I am a bad person.” The owl receives this without surprise or reassurance, which is the best gift the bird could’ve possibly given him. Are you? “I lied.”

Yes.

“I used my gift to manipulate him, and I am sitting in his garden because his cat urinated inside my shoes.”

Would you like some rat?

The laugh that erupts from him is loud enough that the owl startles, pressing his feathers so flat he halves in size in the same amount of time it takes Ilya to blink. He braces his uninjured hand to his mouth, for the most part to quiet himself, but suddenly, horribly, his eyes are wet. He’s tired, that’s all - tired and bleeding and outside in wet socks. The owl says nothing about the tears, which is the kindest thing anyone could do. “I wanted him to like me,” Ilya mumbles. “Before I had done anything worth liking.”

The owl lowers his head. Then do something. Ilya wipes beneath one eye with the heel of his hand. “This is your advice?”

Yes.

The female calls again, closer now, and he feels the relief flare through the owl so swiftly he almost gets to his own feet to peer over the fence, searching for her. The bird answers, and this time the silence afterwards is expectant.

“She is returning,” Ilya says.

Yes.

“And you were worried for nothing.”

The owl’s black eyes rest on him. The road is dangerous, and the young male is still too close. My wing is still damaged. “Yes, but she returns anyway.”

Yes.

They wait together for a little while, or at least until the cold becomes too much. Ilya’s teeth are beginning to chatter, and when he turns his attention back towards the house, Pork has stopped throwing himself against the door. “I should go inside.”

You should clean your wounds.

“I will.”

The owl lifts the rat, preparing to move higher into the tree. “Goodnight,” Ilya says hurriedly, before he takes flight. “And good luck with your mate.”

As long as she is happy. Luck when yours returns in the morning. Ilya opens his mouth to correct him, and can't. “Thank you.”

The owl launches silently from the cypress, carrying the rat into the darkness to meet her. Ilya watches until he can no longer see him, then trudges back towards the house.

Chapter 4: the first casualty is truth

Chapter Notes

i’m on annual leave i feel so renewed i could run through a wall but

instead of doing that i have returned to the battleground to bring you

more cat related stupidity x also as a meat free girly myself i cannot

wait to make ilya eat quorn

also also, some of you lovely folks in the comments of the last chapter

are VERY close if not completely correct in predicting a few things Ilya only sleeps for around an hour, and only because he locks Shane’s bedroom door and wedges the chair beneath its handle. It’s probably excessive considering Pork remains imprisoned in the living room, separated from him by one closed door, a hallway, the entire staircase and a second closed door, but Ilya has learnt a great deal about his enemy tonight. Assuming he cannot reach the bedroom simply because there are barriers in the way feels fatally naive, so the chair stays.

He sleeps on top of Shane’s duvet in his clothes (getting naked feels a step too far, and he’s also not keen on the idea of facing combat with his cock out, should Pork break free), and his arm folded over his face. Every sound sends a shiver through him, and when the pipes groan from within the walls he jerks upright with his heart pounding, certain there are four warm feet planted on his chest.

By half past six, he gives up. There’s early sunlight drifting through the curtains, and Shane’s spare pillow smells enough like him, a hint of grapefruit and the tiniest amount of sweat, that it goes straight to his dick. He lies there for another minute with his face pressed against it, willing his erection to deflate or at least make itself less known, then remembers the person returning to this bed in a few hours believes Ilya has spent a peaceful night downstairs playing Monopoly with his cat. He sits up again - the bite on his forearm aches something fierce, the scratches across his throat sting when he swallows, and there’s a stiffness in his shoulder enough for him to remain hunched over until it releases. His scalp feels as though Pork has attempted to peel it away from the bone (he has) and there’s dried blood beneath several of his fingernails, none of it belonging to the cat - when he inspects his reflection in Shane’s bedroom mirror, he discovers a raised red line continuing from his cheek all the way into his hair.

He looks appalling, there’s simply no other way to put it. He looks like he’s been forcibly dragged behind a car, released into the wilderness and then mauled by whatever found him there. A naked bear, or something. “Fuck,” Ilya whispers, all temptation of jerking off forgotten as he stumbles to clean himself in Shane’s en suite - with water, because he’d been stupid enough to leave his bags and the first aid kit within it downstairs. He could go and get it, but he doesn’t much fancy waking the bald hellion just yet. His arm is already an alarming shade of red, and Ilya flushes everything twice, hissing through his teeth at the sting. He dithers by the mirrored cabinet on the wall - it’s unlikely Shane keeps anything grievously revealing inside it, and it doesn’t look like it could fit anything more incriminating than condoms or something. Still, it takes him a few painful minutes before he can open it, unreasonably terrified that this small cabinet is a Narnia of dildos - it isn’t, and he’s successful in spotting a box of fabric plasters beside a can of Deep Heat.

He applies five before realising they only make him look worse, and removes them again. The bedroom also requires repairs, so Ilya strips the duvet back, smoothing each crease and wrinkle as he remakes the bed as nicely as humanly possible, though the fitted sheet defeats him at one corner and Shane owns far too many decorative pillows. He can’t quite remember how they’d been before he’d removed them, but he arranges them in a queue according to size - it looks wrong, but maybe Shane won’t notice.

Ilya’s still considering this when there’s a thump from downstairs. I can smell you thinking.

“You cannot,” Ilya calls back.

A furious scratching begins as he changes into a pair of sweats he’d somehow had the presence of mind to grab last night, gathering the bloodied ones in his arms - Pork has stopped scratching by the time Ilya reaches the living room, which is significantly more alarming than if he’d continued. Ilya presses his ear against the wood. “Remain calm.”

Bracing himself, he opens the door no more than an inch. Pork Hollander is sitting in the middle of the rug, staring directly at him. The water bowl has been overturned and the chicken heart is gone, though whether Pork has eaten or concealed it as part of a later attack involving a biohazard is impossible to determine. Mercifully nothing else appears broken - the scratches on the door will need attention, but if Shane asks, he can say Pork became briefly upset by the separation and leave out the part where he was serving a custodial sentence.

Pork’s soulless eyes narrow. You locked me inside this room. “You urinated in my shoes,” Ilya snaps, rifling through his bag for the pair of slippers he’d packed as an afterthought. His dignity is never going to survive this - they’re a pair Sasha had bought him last Christmas, shaped like two shaggy orange Highland cows, with the inside soft and lined with fleece. He had of course intended to wear those in the privacy of Shane’s bedroom, not on the very public walk home, but shit happens. You deserved worse.

“I am sure you will try.” Pork rises into a luxurious stretch, and Ilya points at him. “Remember this.”

The cat settles back on his haunches again. Remember what? “You are physically well.”

I am dying.

“No.”

Look what you have done to me.

“You have had water, food, warmth and approximately six hours without access to my body. You are in a much better condition than I am.” Pork begins licking the inside of one thigh as Ilya finds a towel in the kitchen to mop up the spilled water, diligently taking photographs of the scratches on the living room door so he can find matching paint later. He picks one fragment of Shane’s grandmother’s urn from beneath the edge of the rug, adding it to the others already concealed inside a tea towel on the sofa. The house is quiet when he finishes - too quiet. The cat’s moved to the windowsill, where he watches the street through the gap in the curtains. Ilya keeps his distance, and neither speaks. Their truce has ended (if it had even started at all), though both appear to understand the practical advantages of postponing war until Shane is less likely to catch them at it. At just gone eight, a car turns into the road. My beloved.

The thought explodes outwards with such warmth that it blooms in Ilya’s chest, so tender that he almost looks around for the source of it, because it can’t possibly be coming from the murderous earlobe in front of him. Pork tracks the taxi as it slows outside the house, and he glances over. “He is home?”

Pork drops from the sill and trots towards the front door, ignoring him with a haughty shove of his consciousness.

“You are not launching at him right away. Give him room to come inside.” Open it.

“I will open when he is at the door.”

Now.

“No.”

There’s the faint sound of suitcase wheels rolling over the garden path, and Ilya nudges Pork back with one foot, gritting his teeth at the swat this earns him. Shane’s key enters the lock before he can reach to open it for him, but more concerningly, Pork’s legs immediately stop working. Ilya blinks, dumbfounded.

The cat’s hindquarters collapse first - one moment he’s standing beneath the hall table, and the next his back legs fold beneath him with such terrible weakness that he drops to the floor entirely. He gives a wavering cry, like a newborn baby, trying and failing to get to his feet. Ilya’s blood turns to ice and he forgets everything in an instant, rushing forward with panic climbing up his throat. “Pork?” The cat drags himself towards the door using his front legs - Ilya can’t feel any pain through his awareness, which is unusual, but also opens up the awful possibility of a neurological emergency as Pork’s useless back end trails behind him, his claws scraping helplessly over the wood. His whole body has started to tremble. Ilya lunges for him before he can think. “What happened? Are you having a stroke? Pork, talk to me -” Pork looks back at him, and the smug delight pouring from the pathetic, quivering wreck on the floor and into Ilya’s prefrontal cortex is so sinister it floors him.

“No,” he whispers.

Pork releases another weak cry and continues dragging himself towards the door.

“Do not.”

My beloved will know what you have done.

“I have done nothing!”

The lock turns, and Pork’s right back leg twitches once before falling still. Ilya lowers his voice, desperate now. “You were walking!” I may never walk again.

“You walked five seconds ago!”

The front door swings wide, and all communication between them is drowned out by the sound of unbridled terror that tears itself from Shane at the sight. “Oh my - Pork?”

He steps inside looking tired enough that Ilya’s first instinct is to put him to bed - his hair is rumpled and his hoodie’s creased, and there's a few faint pink marks along his temple and beneath his jaw where sensors must have been attached. Pork emits a broken wail, making one last valiant attempt to crawl. He reaches Shane’s shoes and collapses across them, his entire body shaking. The cat lifts his head just far enough to give Shane an agonised, exhausted blink before going completely limp in a death curl. Shane drops to his knees like his strings have been cut.

“What happened?” his hands move frantically over Pork’s body, scooping him from the floor with such care that the cat’s head lolls against his wrist. “Pork? Hey, buddy. I’m here. Look at me. Pork -” Pork’s eyes open to narrow slits. My beloved. “Ilya,” Shane’s voice breaks, and to Ilya’s horror his eyes are wide and wet, brimming with tears. “What happened to him?”

“He is fine.”

“He is not fine!” Shane shifts him carefully against his chest, supporting his back legs with one hand. “He can’t stand up! Did he fall?”

“No.”

“Did he get out? Did something happen overnight?” Ilya looks at Pork. The cat’s cheek rests weakly against Shane’s chest, but one eye remains open in his direction. You did this.

“He remained inside.”

“Was he acting normal? Did he use the litter tray again?”

“He used many things,” Ilya mutters, itching to google the nearest pet crematorium and ask if they accept live animals. “What?”

“The litter tray,” Ilya says quickly. “Yes.”

Shane presses one hand over Pork’s ribs, his lower lip wobbling. “He’s shaking.”

“He was not shaking before you came inside.” Pork’s bony body convulses in a violent shudder for emphasis, one eye still locked on Ilya.

Shane scans him for the first time, catching on the scratches across his throat - his eyebrows almost disappear into his hairline. “Jesus, what happened to you? You're all messed up!”

Ilya touches his neck offhandedly, resisting the urge to flinch - he refuses to give Pork the satisfaction. “We were playing. Pork likes to wrestle.” Pork’s gaze burns into him from the safety of Shane’s arms, and the other man glances uncertainly between them. “Did he attack you?” Ilya holds his tongue - it’s a truth he can’t afford, because if Ilya says yes Shane will blame himself. He’ll apologise, insist Pork must have been terrified, and decide leaving them alone together had been a catastrophic mistake. Thursday will disappear, and every appointment after it will follow. Pork, on the other hand, seems delighted by the prospect and begins to shake all over again.

“No,” Ilya says miserably. “This was unrelated.”

“I’m calling the vet.”

“He does not need a vet.”

“He can’t use his back legs, Ilya!”

“He can.”

Pork allows one hind paw to dangle lifelessly over Shane’s wrist. “I watched him walk into the hallway,” Ilya says, fighting to keep his voice level. “He only became paralysed when he heard your key.” Shane gathers him closer. “You think it’s stress?”

“I think it is pretend.”

“What?”

The cat’s satisfaction soars. He’s won - Shane is home, Pork is in his arms, and Ilya stands barefoot and injured in the hallway explaining why none of this is what it plainly appears to be.

“He is upset,” Ilya says slowly, reaching into his steadily growing combat arsenal. “because he wants more time with me.” Pork’s trembling stops for a second, but Ilya sees it and stifles a grin. Shane peers down at him. “Really?”

“Yes,” Ilya crosses his arms, ignoring the pain this sends through his injuries. “He found one night insufficient. He has specifically requested that I visit more often. Just now, in fact.”

Pork’s head lifts from Shane’s chest. No. “More often than the appointments?”

“Much more.”

No.

“He feels our time alone has strengthened the connection between us. He wishes to continue developing it.”

Next time I will succeed.

“Yes, I can see how strongly he feels,” Ilya says. “It is very clear to me.” Shane’s eyes threaten to overflow. “Oh, buddy. You love your Uncle Ilya?” I will cut Uncle Ilya’s jugular.

Ilya smiles - he’d have preferred Papa Ilya, but baby steps. “I recommend prolonged bonding sessions. I will not charge you for any of them.” Pork pulls his haunches in, and Shane gasps. “Wait -” The cat immediately lets his legs fall limp again, but it’s too late. “Did he just move that?”

“Yes,” Ilya says cheerfully. “He is recovering already.” Pork sends him an image of a dark pool of blood (his own, no doubt) spreading slowly across Shane’s tidy hallway.

“Maybe the shock of me coming home overwhelmed him.” Shane adjusts his hold, then carefully lowers Pork towards the floor. “Can you stand, buddy?”

Pork remains determinedly boneless in his hands. “I could arrive every morning I am not working,” Ilya offers. “Perhaps stay until evening, some days.”

One of his back paws finds the floor.

“Or overnight visits would allow deeper communication. He is welcome at my house any time. My very large dog would love to meet him.”

Anya is not, in fact, very large, but the lie is one of the least concerning he’s told lately - it’s enough that the second paw follows. Pork hunches unsteadily between Shane’s shoes, keeping his stomach low to the ground. He takes one limping step, dragging his right leg behind him. “We could begin tonight.”

The injured leg touches down.

“A full week may be best.”

Pork stands, and Shane’s whole face brightens. “There you go.” The cat takes another cautious step, checking that Shane is watching to add a slight wobble to his stride. Ilya crouches beside him. “Anya is very excited to play with you, Pork. Shared activities may help us form a healthy relationship.”

Pork bolts into the kitchen, skidding across the floor as he rounds the corner, all four legs working so perfectly he nearly knocks into the door frame in his haste to escape. Shane laughs, pressing a hand to his chest. “Oh my god, he scared me.”

Ilya straightens. “A miracle.”

“He must’ve been completely overwhelmed.” Shane looks towards the kitchen, where Pork is loudly attacking some cardboard. “He’s never reacted like that when I’ve come home before.”

“Last night was emotional for him.”

“I guess it was.” Shane rubs both hands over his face, exhaustion creeping back into his face again. “God, he really does respond to you.”

“More every time.”

“Wait, are you wearing cow slippers?”

“They are on my feet,” Ilya says stiffly. “Obviously I am wearing them.” Shane’s smile lasts just long enough that he has to physically forbid himself from wearing them at every appointment they ever have together. “Kitchen? I need some water.”

He ushers him through, stepping over the shredded corner of an Amazon box without comment - Pork is sitting amongst the remains, and his tail flicks when Ilya leans back against the countertop. “What did the clinic say?”

Shane opens the fridge with a tired shrug. “The technician couldn’t officially tell me anything.”

“But?”

“But there were enough interruptions that she said apnoea is looking likely,” he takes out the water filter, holding it against his chest while the fridge door swings slowly shut behind him. “She was really careful about how she phrased it, kept saying the data has to be reviewed properly and she wasn’t qualified to diagnose me, but apparently I stopped breathing enough times that they’ll probably recommend treatment.” Pork’s irritation vanishes, and Ilya’s consciousness practically staggers at the sudden withdrawal of it, suppressing a grimace at the cold dread lancing through the cat’s thoughts. Perhaps accidentally, Pork shows it to him again- darkness, silence, the shape of the bed in the dark and the unbearable anxiety of waiting for Shane’s chest to move. He jumps down from the box and lands neatly on all four feet, forgetting he’d been apparently paralysed less than five minutes ago, to cross the kitchen and wind his velvety body around Shane’s ankles. Shane looks down and shifts the filter into one hand. “Yeah, I missed you too, Porkie.”

Porkie - Ilya files that one away for later, watching suspiciously as the cat paws at his shin.

Up.

Shane bends automatically to cradle him against his chest, where the cat immediately burrows beneath his chin.

You are breathing now.

“It’s okay, buddy.”

It is not.

“They found what they needed to find,” Ilya says, reluctant to interrupt. “This is good.”

Shane’s mouth twists. “It doesn’t feel good.”

“No, but now somebody other than Pork can keep you breathing.” The relief that ripples through the cat is too tangled with worry to be called relief at all, but some of the terrible pressure eases, releasing it where it’d gathered behind Ilya’s eyes.

“I have to wait a few days for the proper report,” Shane says, kissing the top of his head. Ilya shudders at the sight. “Then they’ll tell me what they think the best treatment is. Probably a CPAP, if it’s what they think.”

“You will use it?”

Shane glances at him. “Of course I’ll use it.”

Pork opens one eye. Make him.

This is one thing Ilya’s happy to relay honestly. “He says you must.”

“I just said I would!”

“He does not trust you.”

“I went to the sleep clinic, didn’t I?”

Late.

“You considered escaping,” Ilya reminds him. Shane stares, affronted. “You told him that?”

“He was there.”

“You told my cat I nearly ran away from the clinic?”

“He knows cowardice when he sees it.”

Pork’s paw tightens in Shane’s hoodie, even if he does begin chewing at one of the strings. Mine stayed. He is brave. “He is proud of you,” Ilya mumbles. “So am I.” Shane falls quiet, nibbling his lip, until he appears to remember the water filter still on the side. He sets Pork beside it and rolls his shoulders, shaking off something Ilya can’t quite determine before he opens one of the overhead cupboards. “I’m sorry, I’m being rude. Do you want some?”

“Yes, please.”

Shane takes down a second glass, fills both and passes one to Ilya. The water is cold enough to hurt his teeth, but Ilya drinks half of it in one go -he hadn’t realised how thirsty he was, or perhaps had simply accepted that every physical need must be postponed until he was no longer under siege, but it’s the best thing he’s had since that Dominos for sure. “Oh,” the other man says, hesitating by the fridge when he returns the filter. “You didn’t touch any of it.”

Ilya frowns. “What?”

“The food.” Shane gestures inside it, where every neatly arranged container and packet remains exactly where it had been when he’d left. “I know there was too much, but - I mean, did you not like it?”

“I was not hungry,” Ilya’s chest aches, longing to reach over and erase the little wrinkle of worry between Shane’s eyebrows.

“You can tell me if you didn’t like it, Ilya.”

Shane’s frown deepens - this is intolerable.

“No, I do,” Ilya says, and then his mouth is moving before his cerebrum has had so much as a cursory scan of what fresh bullshit he’s about to spout next. “I do. This is all my favourite things. I am vegan, after all.” The words dangle there, and Ilya’s seized by the desperate urge to clap both hands over his lying, liar mouth - to take it back with enough force it erases it from Shane’s memory entirely, or perhaps move to Costa Rica after seeing a psychiatrist knowledgeable enough to figure out whatever the fuck is wrong with him.

Pork slowly turns his head, and Ilya feels a cold sweat break across the back of his neck. Death might be easier than finding a way out of this one. Shane blinks. “You’re vegan?”

“Yes,” Ilya grinds out. “Very vegan. The most vegan. I would win vegan awards.”

Pork’s stare burns into the side of his face. You are lying again. You still stink of meat and cheese.

“For -” Ilya clears his throat, gagging on the mere concept of it. “For the animals. You know.”

This is possibly the worst thing he has ever done. He’s going to burst into flames. Soon, if the look in Pork Hollander’s eyes is anything to go by. Shane’s surprise softens, and he’s - to Ilya’s utter devastation - nodding with the sort of expression that indicates he might be impressed. “I guess that makes sense.”

“It does?”

“Well, yeah - you can talk to them.” Shane closes the fridge with his hip this time. “I suppose eating them would be really fucked up.”

“Extremely,” Ilya whispers, hyper aware of the hypocrisy. “I am just the normal amount of fucked up.”

I will tell him.

“You cannot,” Ilya snaps without thinking.

Shane jolts. “What?”

“Pork,” he says, glaring at the cat. “He is being insensitive about my beliefs.”

Pork’s lip curls in challenge, and the other man looks between them, visibly baffled but exhausted enough not to pursue it. “Well, there’s plenty left. You can take some with you, if you want.”

“No.”

Shane’s eyebrows lift.

“I mean, thank you,” Ilya says, white knuckling his glass. “But I could not take your groceries.”

“I bought them for you. I make decent money, it's no big deal.” He briefly envisions Shane walking through a Waitrose and considering what Ilya might want, and the resulting wrench is so intense it briefly (very briefly) makes maintaining a fraudulent plant based lifestyle seem worth it. “I will take some,” he says eventually. “Thank you.”

“Good. You know, I have a pretty specific diet too, so I get it. I only really eat whole foods, but I might do some research into -” he pauses, gesturing at him. “Maybe cutting out meat completely. I don’t eat it very often anyway.”

Pork cocks his head, needling him. You eat corpses. “So do you,” Ilya mutters under his breath.

Yours will be next.

“Ilya?”

“Nothing.”

Shane studies him over the rim of his glass. Even half dead he’s the most beautiful person Ilya has ever seen - nobody should be allowed to look like that while Ilya stands before them dressed in cows, forging a confident and blatantly untrue alter ego that absolutely doesn't shove chicken wings in his mouth every day of the week ending in a Y.

“There is another thing,” he says, trying to claw back at least some semblance of honesty before he has to locate the nearest confessional booth. “About Pork?”

“Technically.”

The cat projects him the image of pooling blood again, except this time Ilya’s slippers are in the flood, saturated in crimson. “What happened?”

“I must show you something,” he says, swiftly retrieving the tea towel from the living room sofa, holding it carefully with both hands. The broken pieces of the urn clink together within it, and Shane’s expression turns increasingly concerned as he carries it back into the kitchen. “I am very sorry.”

Shane looks down at the visible fragment. “Oh.”

“I am sorry. There was an incident.”

Pork begins to purr.

“You knocked over the urn?”

“Yes.”

“With what?”

Ilya glances at Pork. “It was complicated.”

There is nothing complicated about the fact you must die. “You should know,” he continues grimly, “that I inspected every fragment. I could not find your grandmother.”

Shane stares at him, the corner of his mouth beginning to twitch. Ilya forces himself onwards anyway. “I do not know if she was removed before, or if perhaps some of her escaped beneath the furniture. I checked the rug, but -”

“She wasn’t in that.”

“No,” Ilya says gravely. “This is what I am telling you. I looked for her, but- Shane, I am very sorry, but I have lost your grandmother.” Shane makes a very strange sound, slapping a hand over his mouth - he turns away, and Ilya’s faced with the chilling concept that he might be crying.

His stomach almost falls out of his ass. “I am so sorry, Shane. I - I will help you look for her. Perhaps we can buy a special hoover and see if she - if she ends up in the tank.”

Shane laughs. Ilya’s never heard him laugh like this before, a rich sound full of such sunshine that it seems to fill the kitchen with contagious joy -he’s bent over the counter, gasping hard enough that Pork’s ears flatten in offence. Ilya freezes, uncertain whether this is some sort of grief event he should call someone for.

“She wasn’t in it,” Shane manages. “Oh god.”

“Yes.” Ilya’s really worried now, his brow furrowing in concern. “Shane, I have told you this already.”

“No, Ilya.” Shane wipes his cheeks, his eyes bright. “It was hers, but it didn’t contain her. My mum decided to scatter her instead - I’d already bought the fucking thing before she changed her mind.” Ilya looks at the pieces, still confused. “This was a decorative urn?”

“I guess, technically,” Shane’s still laughing, breathless. “She ended up on a beach in Cornwall instead. I got some of her in my mouth.”

“Why did you keep it?”

“Because it was meant for her,” the other man shrugs, his smile going softer. “And because she’d have hated it. When she got sick, she’d always move all of mum’s vases into the cupboard. I guess I was waiting to see if she’d, I don’t know. Visit me from the astral plane, or whatever.” Ilya tries very hard to rearrange this information into something that absolves him. “So she would be pleased it is destroyed?”

“She’d probably think it was hilarious.”

“Good. Then perhaps I have honoured her.”

Shane laughs all over again, and Ilya lets himself watch properly this time. He likes the way Shane’s whole face changes when he laughs this hard, how his nose wrinkles and his cheeks flush. It’s worth every injury and possibly the destruction of several more family heirlooms, honestly. “I’ll replace it,” he says.

“Please don’t. She might haunt me properly.”

“I do not communicate with dead humans, so this would be your problem.”

“Right.” Shane glances towards the living room. “Only the living.”

“Unfortunately.”

Pork stops purring as Shane gathers the tea towel towards himself. “Seriously, it’s fine. I’m more concerned about what the hell happened in here.”

Ilya swallows. “Nothing happened.”

“Ilya, you look like you’ve been attacked with a rake.”

“Unrelated.”

Shane points down at his slippers, grinning. “And the shoes you wore over here?”

“Separate incident. Hence the cows.”

He shakes his head, smiling as he takes another drink, but the amusement drains from him with startling speed when he sways against the counter. “You should sit.”

“I’m fine, just tired.”

“Sit.”

The word leaves him with enough authority that Shane obeys before either of them can be outwardly surprised by it, sinking heavily into one of the kitchen chairs - Pork follows to jump into his lap, settling in a tightly curled ball across his thighs.

Ilya looks towards the kettle. “Tea?”

“No, thanks. Think I need to sleep.” Shane rubs both hands over his face, careful not to dislodge Pork. “I knew it wouldn’t be a normal night’s sleep, but I didn’t realise how impossible it would be with all the wires. Every time I started dropping off, I’d remember they were watching me and wake myself up again.”

Ilya wants to take care of him so badly it manifests as an ache in his hands. He knows Shane’s bedroom is directly above them now, knows the way there, knows which side of the bed has been disturbed and where it smells most like grapefruit. He could carry Shane’s suitcase upstairs, draw the curtains and ease him beneath the duvet. He could make the tea for when he wakes, organise the groceries he’s now obligated to eat and remain in the house long enough to ensure Shane breathes through every minute of his nap.

Memory of the owl’s voice returns through the quiet of the kitchen. Then do something.

He takes Shane’s empty glass and refills it, setting it within reach. “Drink this, then go to bed.”

Shane wraps his hands around it, frowning again. “You don’t have to rush off.”

“I know.”

Ilya collects the soft throw folded over the back of the sofa without thinking too much about it and brings it into the kitchen (after giving it a quick check over for blood spatter), laying it across Shane’s knees without allowing himself to fuss - Pork disappears beneath it, and Ilya distantly hopes he suffocates under there.

“You need rest,” Ilya says through gritted teeth. “I should let you have it.”

“Okay,” Shane says quietly.

“Lock the door after me.”

“I will.”

“And if you feel unwell -”

“I’ll call someone.”

“Me.”

That slips out before he can stop it, but like much else he’s spouted in this house, he can’t take it back now it's been said. “You?”

“I am closer than your parents,” Ilya says, though he has no idea whether this is true. “And Hayden is useless.”

“He lives literally eight minutes away.”

“I can be here faster.”

“On the bus? Or running down the street in your cow slippers?” Ilya narrows his eyes. “If necessary.”

Shane smiles into his glass. “Okay. I’ll call you.” Ilya reaches the hallway before he remembers there’s one final matter his heart requires him to settle. He turns back, gripping the strap of his bags. “Thursday, I will still see you?”

Pork’s head emerges from beneath the blanket. Do not ever return here. “Of course,” Shane says.

“For the appointment.”

“Yeah. I’m looking forward to it.”

Every coherent thought leaves Ilya’s head (not that there was many in there to begin with) - he manages a nod, fumbling with the lock on the door. Shane gets up to follow him as far as the hallway despite having been specifically instructed to remain seated, offering out a carrier bag filled with what’s undoubtedly that horrifying packet of tofu and too many vegetables. “Go to bed,” Ilya tells him, taking it with a grimace. “Yes, sir.”

Shane says it absently, already reaching for the door, but Ilya trips over the front step and staggers out onto the garden path with all the airs of someone who’s been very recently electrocuted. “Wha -” Shane appears not to have noticed what he’s said. “I’ll see you Thursday.” Behind him, Pork has climbed onto the hallway table, poking his evil head around Shane’s hip. Filled with the sort of whimsy Ilya’s only ever seen My Little Pony characters possess, he waits until Shane glances down to place his glass safely out of reach before giving Pork the finger. The cat’s pupils flood black. I will finish this. “Goodbye, Pork. I look forward to Thursday.” The door closes between them, and Ilya can barely contain himself. He’s entirely embracing the fact he looks totally fucking insane as he shuffles off down Shane’s street with a pep in his step, even feeling like he’s been fed through a lawnmower and sporting both Sasha’s ridiculous novelty slippers and a boner, it all pales in comparison to the fact he’s - well, he’s in love. He waves far too delightedly at an older couple waiting at the bus stop with an equally grizzled terrier, and continues on his merry way. Sveta happens to live just a fifteen minute walk from his own place, and by the time he reaches her apartment complex, the joy of his exit has dulled into utter exhaustion. His scratches continue to sting and the bite beneath his sleeve has swollen beyond something water can fix - the handles of the bag have cut into his fingers, and his slippers have collected enough dirt from the pavement that he’ll probably have to burn them too. He’s still in love, though.

Sveta buzzes him in without asking who it is, and Ilya’s barely made it through the door when Diana spots him from her twisted wooden perch in the living room. “Handsome fuck!”

Her wings flare outwards, beautiful silver and grey flashing as she clambers higher to get a better look at him. The thought beneath her words reaches him with none of their cheerful obscenity. You are hurt. Come closer. Ilya sets the bag down in Sveta’s entryway. “Hello, beautiful girl.”

“Handsome fuck!”

“Yes, thank you.”

You are hurt.

“I know.”

Diana hops impatiently from foot to foot, lowering her head in invitation, and Ilya holds out his arm. She doesn’t hesitate, transferring herself to his shoulder and chewing at his hair with her enormous beak. “Careful,” he mutters as she nibbles through his curls, examining his scalp for damage. “The cat has already tried to remove this once.” Bad cat.

“Very bad.”

Diana catches a curl between her beak and pulls it straight, releasing it so it springs back against his forehead.

“Handsome fuck,” she whispers. You smell happy. Ilya smiles despite himself. “Yes.”

There’s a thunder of paws from the hallway, and Anya barrels into Sveta’s living room hard enough that the rug gathers beneath her feet. Her relief reaches him first, fizzy and well rested, and then her entire body collides with his thighs.

“Anechka,” he scolds, staggering back into the wall. “I missed you very much, but this is not how we say hello.”

Don’t criticise me - you’re the one who left.

“For one night.”

Or a hundred years. I’m a dog, I haven’t workshopped the distinction. “If it was so bad, why do you feel so happy? You love Sveta’s place, you cannot lie to me.”

“Fuck!” Diana contributes from his shoulder. We had a sleepover. Anya ignores her, already engaged in the far more pressing work of discovering exactly what’s happened to him since his departure. Her nose travels over his hands with concentration, but he can pinpoint the exact moment she smells the coppery trace of blood - her hackles rise. Pork tried to eat you, didn’t he?

“Only briefly.”

She sniffs the scratches on his wrist, then hones in on his thigh. He chased you.

“He ambushed me.”

He attacked you. Ilya, I’ll handle him - take me with you next time. Ilya looks towards the kitchen. “Where is Sveta?” Anya follows a different trail up his torso, rising onto her hind legs to investigate his chest - he bends so that her nose can brush his chin, distinctly unimpressed. He sat on your face. “He fell.”

Onto your face?

“Yes.”

With his ass.

“Anya.”

She drops back to all four feet and sneezes. Disgusting. I fucking hate cats. “You have rolled in fox shit before,” he reminds her, trying not to let the surge of righteous fury rolling through his dog affect his face. “Remember, he is a necessary evil.”

“Ilya?” Sveta appears in the kitchen doorway with a mug in one hand - she takes a single look at him and sets it down on the side table. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“Nothing.”

Her eyes travel from the scratches across his throat to the dark circles beneath his eyes, then flicker down to his feet. She doesn’t ask about the slippers, and Ilya finds that somehow this is worse than if she had. “The cat,” she says. “You weren’t joking?”

He’s almost offended by the concept that he might have been teasing - he’d gone to great lengths to relay the lore surrounding Pork Hollander, ensuring to convey the threats upon his life with a grave enough sincerity that he had been expecting her immediate assistance in supporting his application for witness protection. Ilya wrinkles his nose. “This is very serious, Sveta.” She hums to herself, approaching to catch him gently by the chin - she tilts his face towards the window, stroking her thumb just beneath the deepest scratch under his jaw. “He needs to die?”

“Yes,” Ilya huffs, suitably convinced the inevitable babying she’ll provide might cure the cellulitis he’ll probably get, now that Pork has kindly introduced every bacterium within his mouth to his bloodstream. “But also no. Maybe. I actually do not think he can die.”

“Very reassuring - wait here.”

Sveta disappears into the bathroom and returns with her own first aid kit, and despite the fact Ilya has one quite literally on his person, he sits without argument. Anya settles across his feet, though Diana remains on his shoulder and tries to take the antiseptic wipe from her hand. “No,” Sveta tells her, holding out a finger in warning. “Fuck,” the bird mutters. Apologies. Habit. She works in companionable silence for a while, interspersed only when Ilya opts to translate Anya’s very thorough review of the Real Housewives episode Svetlana had left on for her overnight. There’s a particularly nasty gash on his shoulder he hadn’t noticed below his shirt, and when she reaches the punctures on the inside of his arm he hisses, jerking away. “Hold still,” she shifts to get a better look at the red, swollen skin. “Jesus, солнышко - you need antibiotics.”

“You are hurting me,” he whines, allowing her to manhandle him back by the wrist. In truth he knows he should almost certainly deposit himself in A&E and beg them to throw every marvel of modern medicine his way before Pork’s vile saliva poisons him more than it already has, but that feels too much like admitting he’s able to be damaged. The cat, having drawn first blood, would almost certainly detect this with a supernatural omniscience only ever attributed to malevolent spirits and Sasha on a Monday morning.

Sveta wipes harder. “Poor baby.”

Ilya glares at her, but she’s close enough that doing so requires him to cross his eyes, which isn’t exactly the stern image he’s going for. “He came at me while I was sleeping.”

“You slept?”

“Some.”

“And Shane? Have you bought an SUV for your seventeen children, yet?” Anya very helpfully presents him with the image of a screaming baby, and Ilya doesn’t have the heart to tell her that isn’t the deterrent she thinks it is. “Seventeen is too many,” Ilya says. “I think sixteen - will be like the movie, Cheaper By The Dozen. I will find a way to get him pregnant -”

“And Pork will leave him a widow with sixteen kids to care for,” Sveta grins, now dabbing at the scrapes half hidden in his hair. “But I was mostly asking after the more important fact that, you know, he does not breathe in his sleep.”

His cheeks flush. “I checked this with him, obviously. He is likely to have sleep apnoea, but they will confirm in a few days.”

“That’s good,” Svetlana pauses, her eyes finding his. “You know, the talking to animals thing has never been the most interesting thing about you-”

“If you are going to be sincere at me, I will need a beer -”

“- and I wish you could see that, Ilya. Look, I really think if you’d just consider -”

“No.”

Ilya knows exactly what she’s about to say, because it’s an age old conversation she’s enforced on a weekly schedule ever since his father had kicked the bucket (he makes a mental note to ask Pork if he’s ever come across Grigori Rozanov during his travels along the burning Lake of Fire) -he indulges it sometimes, because that’s what his mama would tell him to do, and others he would simply kiss the suggestion of therapy out of her mouth until she stopped. The latter of those strategies is firmly off the table now, having been pre-Shane. Before Shane. BS. Now, very much in Anno Domini (Anno Hollandi?) he’s in urgent need of a new tactic. “There’s no shame in getting some help,” she says softly, for what must be the hundreth time. “You’ve been through things that would break most, you’ve no self esteem, and your other two best friends are a dog and a man committed to inseminating the entirety of Landry’s practise.”

“I do not need help,” Ilya shrugs, picking out the greenest hill to die on. “Say I go, and the therapist has a flea in their office I must, I do not know, discuss tastiest blood types with. What then, Sveta?” Svetlana now looks more likely to suggest him a doctor, but she’s careful to keep her face as neutral as she can. “Then I’d suggest locating a therapist that isn’t riddled with fleas, sweetheart.”

“Then the next one may have a snail.”

She sighs, tossing the wipe away in favour of an astringent smelling cream. “Handsome,” Diana tells him. She’s right. Her fingers are cool against his skin, her body familiar between his knees -they’ve existed this way for years, close enough that neither of them thinks about it, touching and occasionally remembering there are other things they know how to do in it as well, so Ilya knows the look currently on her face like he knows the back of his hand.

“I will think about it,” he concedes, opting not to tell her that this thought will stick to its carefully allotted five seconds before ending up in the miserable landfill of his amygdala. “I will - okay?” Svetlana studies him for a moment, dotting a glob of the cream on his arm. “Okay. Anya, I’m getting you an ‘Ilya is lying’ talk button, so do keep me informed.”

The traitorous dog resting at his feet lifts her head. I’d buy several sets of spare batteries, too, or I might burn it out on the first day. “Anya,” Ilya snaps, glowering at her. “Go and chase your tail, or I will buy you a cone of shame and tell Octavia you hurt yourself licking your own ass.”

At least I can reach mine - you always call Sasha. There’s absolutely nothing he can counter that with, so he scrubs both hands down his face and tries to ignore the pounding in his head. Unfortunately, he’s given very little time to play the violin over his dilemma, because Sveta pries his fingers away and tilts his chin up again. “You really like him, don’t you? It’s not just a passing insanity?” Ilya sighs, staring at his knees. “This is very different. Not passing, but I will not rule out insanity.”

“Then you need to be honest with him. Come clean about the cat -”

“And vegan lifestyle.”

“- sure, that too. And if he’s willing to stick around, then you have your answer.”

Sveta knows him too well. She knows every entertaining fixation that’s swept through his life with all the force of a hurricane, every beautiful human he’s ever declared most likely to treat him kindly, and forgotten before remembering to text back. She also knows Sasha, having witnessed what happens when Ilya doesn’t forget, and that horrible, sickening vulnerability that comes with wanting somebody even after it starts hurting. “He thinks Pork likes me,” Ilya mumbles. “He is so happy about it - if I tell him this was a lie, he will hate me. This I can handle if I must, but worse still is that he would be sad. I cannot make him sad, Sveta.”

“Pork tried to scalp you,” she says, unmoved. “If you become the first person on earth to have been murdered by a hairless cat, do you not think this might make him sadder?”

It’s a good point. “Yes, probably, because Pork would be taken away. Taken to evil animal jail, or wherever they keep these creatures. Maximum security. Alcatraz.”

Svetlana drops her head into her hands with a groan. “No, because of you, idiot. If - fuck, I cannot believe this is an actual conversation I’m having - if Pork kills you, you’d be dead. Shane would be sad because you’re dead.” A sore twinge of Anya’s sadness at the thought ghosts along the edge of his mind. It would also destroy me, if you went somewhere I couldn’t follow. I promised I’d follow you anywhere, remember? Ilya nudges her gently with one cow. “He will not win this war.”

“I don’t think your current appearance is helping that defence,” Sveta says. I’d also miss watching you shower, when you sleep over, Diana points out. Ilya, who hadn’t realised she had been, pulls a face. “I will tell him.” Svetlana crosses her arms. “When?”

“Soon.” (the year 3000 feels right)

“No, I need something concrete - I want to put it in my calendar, so I don’t forget to pick your sorry ass up afterwards.”

“After he falls in love with me.”

Sveta stares at him. “You cannot be serious.”

“It is a good plan! He will be less angry, because of all the,” Ilya gestures defensively around at the room. “Because of the love.” She pinches the bridge of her nose, muttering something in Russian that would’ve made Diana’s spoken vocabulary considerably worse if she’d chosen to repeat it in English. Ilya sits patiently through this display, lowering a hand to scratch between Anya’s ears. “You’re going to hurt him,” she says eventually. “And you’re going to hurt yourself in the process.”

“I am trying,” he mutters, abruptly and intensely aware of the truth in it. “I know.” Sveta kisses his forehead, pulling away to screw the cap back on the cream and tuck it into his own palm. “Take your dog and go home.” Ilya gathers Shane’s groceries and the last of his dignity, which isn’t much and never has been - Anya circles him, stopping to shove her muzzle against the bag. What the fuck is this? “It is vegan. Tofu, I think,” he says, his cheeks burning. She looks up at him with a monumental whale eye. Ilya opens the front door, scowling. “Do not start.” The dead are indeed significantly easier company than the living, so they don’t head home straight away - Ilya opts instead for a calming, very normal walk through the local cemetery they frequent together, half tempted to pick himself out a plot while he’s at it. It’s late enough in the afternoon now to render it essentially empty, and (with the exception of a particularly neurotic muntjac deer in the adjoining hedgerow) he’s mostly able to detach from the incessant conversation of the hundred crickets hidden in the grass. It’s as close to peaceful as he ever gets, even if he can technically still hear them, though Anya’s doing her best to ruin it by having him read every headstone aloud.

“Christina Carter, wife, mother, and beloved sister,” Ilya points down at the lichen covered stone she’s focused on. “She was ninety when she died.” Yours will say twenty five, because you’re stupid. Ilya walks on, having changed into actual shoes before taking her right back out again, though parting with the cows had been surprisingly difficult now Shane had looked at them with such fondness - he’d left them soaking in the kitchen sink, where their little hairy faces had stared up at him from the brown water. Anya bounds ahead through the grass, stopping before another weathered stone.

It’s always so tragic when young people die, even more so through entirely preventable circumstances.

“Hush.”

I’m just wondering, that’s all. I think Sasha would pick something like Sarah McLachlan for your funeral.

He grimaces at the thought, but she moves on, her tail sweeping through the wet ends of the grass. There’s bluebells around some of the graves and moss growing on the names of others, and he can feel her happiness without even having to try - she likes it here because the squirrels are bold and Ilya can speak aloud without having to pretend he’s on the phone. Ilya likes it for much the same reasons.

He pauses beside his usual bench and lowers himself onto it - he’d also called by the pharmacy en route, and there’s a strong course of anti inflammatories now stuffed in his pocket alongside a crumpled leaflet about animal bites. Anya eventually returns to inspect him. Does it still hurt? “No, only if I move.”

You’ve been moving.

“Then yes.”

I told you I’d handle him.

He shifts over, leaving room for her to jump up beside him. “You would make things worse - you have a terrible potty mouth, Anechka.” I learned from the best. You should also probably be napping - Shane almost certainly is.

Ilya looks away, tracking a fat wood pigeon as it lands several graves over. “I only stayed awake because Pork wanted to harvest my retinas, one night will not kill me.”

You could have left - I’m sure he would’ve been fine by himself. “No, he requires professional supervision.”

You wanted to be there when Shane came home.

Ilya plucks part of a dead leaf from her fluffy ear, flicking it away. “You ask too many questions.”

You don’t answer enough of them.

His phone vibrates in his pocket before he has to formulate a response that’ll get her off his back - he expects Sveta, probably checking whether he’s taken the first pill or simply eaten the leaflet to avoid admitting she was right, but Shane’s name is waiting on the screen, and he reads it like he’s just been struck by lightning.

Shane:

Slept for ages. Pork’s been lying on my chest the whole time. Ilya wants to tell him he’s got very strong feelings about his chest, despite never having seen it, but does manage to type a response that isn't quite so telling.

he is monitoring your breathing )))))

Shane:

Either that or preventing me from ever leaving again.

How’s your day going?

Ilya reads the question several times over - there’s no real reason for Shane to ask, considering Pork is (regrettably) alive, and Ilya’s overnight responsibility has ended. His heart picks up so suddenly that Anya lifts her head from his knee. What happened? “He asked how my day is going.”

Groundbreaking.

“Shut up,” Ilya opens the camera on his phone, seized with both inspiration and a pending cardiac event. “Sit there, quick.” Anya looks behind herself. Where? “By the tree - hurry!”

Why?

“I need a photograph.”

You have thousands of photographs of me.

“Not from today.”

So you draw the line at lying to him about your precise location? She gets up anyway, huffing as she goes, settling back underneath the nearest yew. Ilya crouches several feet away and studies the screen. “No, move left.”

She steps to the right, gleeful.

“Wrong way -”

I’m a dog, Ilya. I don’t know my left and right. He knows this is a filthy lie, and tells her as much - she moves grudgingly in the correct direction, and Ilya takes a few quick shots. In the first her eyes are closed, and in the second she’s turned her head completely away from him to watch the pigeon again.

“Look at me,” he pleads.

I’m watching something. I’m afraid I can only be convinced by you telling Shane Hollander you’re basically Pinocchio.

“Watch it later.”

No, it might leave - like you might, when Pork eventually drives you to the brink.

Ilya tries portrait mode in sheer desperation - it blurs some of her ears and brings the grave behind her into magnificent focus instead. “Useless, come here and I will buy you all the chicken strips you could wish for.” She trots over at great speed, and he smooths the fur along her neck with both hands before lowering himself almost flat against the grass, ignoring the damp soaking right through his trousers. This angle is much better, with the trees rising up behind her and their branches crossing high overhead. “Stay.”

She stays as he adjusts the exposure, keenly aware Shane’s now been waiting nearly five minutes for an answer, which means he may already believe Ilya hates him, has died or, worse, is composing something desperate (because he is, and Ilya’s developed a very recent, sudden onset allergy to the truth). Ilya sits back on his heels and opens his photographs, scrolling - there’s a photograph taken shortly before Shane texted that he’d overlooked, in which Anya’s stood a few metres away between the older graves, her head raised towards the trees. Sunlight’s turned her marbled fur glossy, and she’s got one paw lifted just a little as she examines something in the distance that he hadn’t caught. It’s perfect, and Ilya attaches it before he can reconsider.

anya and i are having a peaceful day

she is recovering from abandonment when i spent one night away

Shane’s reply appears without a single second of pause. Shane:

She looks devastated.

she hides pain well

Shane:

You let her off the lead?

she does not have a lead

we can talk, remember

she can go where she likes

Shane:

Right, yeah. The animal thing!

That must be so useful.

His phone buzzes again.

Shane:

She’s beautiful, by the way.

Ilya beams, glancing at Anya. “Shane thinks you are beautiful.” As he should.

Ilya’s thumb hesitates above the screen.

beauty is common in our household

The typing bubble appears, and he stops breathing. Shane:

I noticed.

Ilya stares at the screen, and beside him, Anya lifts her head. Are you having a panic attack?

“I think he has just called me beautiful, too.”

As he should.

Chapter 5: an act of good faith

Chapter Notes

a humongous thank you to the incredible IlyaRozanovsMole who has

produced the most perfect depiction of pork versus ilya versus shane

hollander’s grandmother, i am honoured - it’s called man versus cat

and should now be linked in the first chapter !! <333

i don’t know who is a more formidable foe in this one, pork or the

lasagne

as always hugs and kisses for you all, if you fancy joining me on

threads (i am very new) you can discuss pork’s methods with me at

@constellaetionss love u all xoxo

Shane asks Ilya to dinner while a cockatiel is explaining why he has begun biting everyone who approaches the toaster (it’s because the crumbs of toast underneath it are too tasty to lose, if anyone was wondering). It isn’t, strictly speaking, an invitation to dinner at first - Ilya takes it as one anyway, watching the pretty little bird pace along the back of the sofa, repeatedly showing him the same memory of the delicious treasure hidden beneath the appliance and the wall.

I want them.

“I understand this,” Ilya says, keeping a hand raised between the bird and his face. Totoro has bitten Mrs Jenkins, her wife, and both of their adult sons within the last week alone, and though Ilya can ordinarily avoid assuming he’ll be the next target, the cockatiel’s crest has been raised since he entered the house. “But you cannot bite, this is very bad.” My crumbs.

“Technically -”

Are you going to touch my crumbs?

Ilya wrinkles his nose. “No, thank you. I am not hungry.” Totoro’s attention flickers towards the kitchen doorway -the toaster isn’t visible from here, but he knows where it is, and therefore so does Ilya. The explosive appearance of bread makes him jolt, soothed almost immediately by the promise of crunchy sandwich loaf.

Across from them, Mrs Jenkins leans forward in her chair. “What does he think?”

“He is biting because he is protecting the crumbs,” Ilya tells her, struck by the fact that's probably a brand new sentence. “If you clean beneath it, he will have nothing to guard.”

“How embarassing,” she peers at the kitchen, flushing slightly. “I do clean it, but I suppose I forget about the underneath.” Ilya’s phone vibrates again as he’s halfway through an attempt to make her feel better, telling her the (unfortunately true) story of the time he once found a six month old pizza crust behind his own bedside table. He ignores it again, because an animal communicating through him deserves his full attention, even when that animal appears to be engaged in an alarmingly obsessive symbiotic relationship with a Bosch. Totoro shuffles sideways along the sofa, his beady eyes outraged.

Now I will have no crumbs.

Ilya winces. “Instead of crumbs, perhaps offer him a different treat when you have your toast.”

Mrs Jenkins blinks. “Like, some sunflower seeds?” He looks expectantly at Totoro, who bobs his head and pauses his extremely obvious journey towards Ilya’s fingers. Millet. “He is happy to trade toast for millet,” he relays. “There will be a ceasefire.”

His phone vibrates a third time, and Ilya’s merely a man - his concentration slips despite his best efforts. That isn’t unusual in itself - three messages in quick succession could mean almost anything, but the traitorous region of his brain responsible for Shane Hollander has already noticed that Anya rarely sends messages on account of being a dog, Sveta is currently teaching an afternoon class, and Sasha much prefers to communicate through unannounced entry into Ilya’s home.

“Millet,” he tells Mrs Jenkins again. “And do not be unkind to yourself for forgetting invisible crumbs. My crust had grown fur when I found it at last.” She chuckles, and Totoro’s quick flash of approval has him laughing back, pleased she isn’t holding herself to a standard of cleanliness only ever seen on Instagram. “Okay, okay. Millet it is, and thank you, really. I - I try my best, but it's hard running a home. Callie works away a lot, and with the boys gone…”

She trails off, and Totoro’s crest sinks flat against his head. You are gentle with everyone but yourself.

“You do not need to excuse it,” Ilya says firmly. “Your home is a happy one. Occasional toast does not matter.”

The front door has barely closed behind him before Ilya has his phone out, and to his utter delight there are indeed three messages waiting, all from Shane.

Shane:

Hi, I’m really sorry. Something’s come up with work. Would seven be too late to rearrange for?

Ilya stops in the middle of Mrs Jenkins’ garden path - seven isn’t too late, seven could never be too late. Shane could move the appointment to three in the morning and Ilya would arrive at 2:59 with a smile on his face. Still, this is a rescheduling and nothing more.

Shane:

I could make dinner, if you haven’t eaten.

Ilya’s bag slips from his shoulder and he only just catches it before it hits the path, swearing as the strap pulls across the tender, and thankfully less inflamed, location of Pork’s bite. The anti inflammatories have worked wonders, but the punctures have only just begun to scab - he’s kept photographic evidence of every single one for the inevitable future trial, along with a steadily lengthening argument as to why the vengeful scrotum should be locked away somewhere even satellites cannot detect. Anyway, the most pressing fact remains that Shane wants to make him dinner. People eat all the time, sometimes together. Mrs Jenkins had offered him a chocolate digestive twenty minutes ago and Ilya hadn’t interpreted that as an attempt at courtship, and though Mrs Jenkins is beautiful in the grand scheme of things, Ilya hadn’t suddenly announced an impromptu trip to Rome, or that he’s Princess Diana’s third cousin twice removed. Shane:

No worries if you’d rather eat before. I just thought it’ll be late by the time we’re done.

Ilya reads all three again, and a fourth time. Behind the door, he can just about sense Totoro’s satisfaction with the trade as he ponders on the approach of millet. Ilya walks blindly towards the gate, trying to formulate a response that suggests he would enjoy having dinner with Shane without revealing that he’s already considering whether their children should call it the night of their first date.

His first attempt isn’t ideal.

seven is perfect and i would like you to feed me

No - he deletes it and tries again.

seven is not too late i will eat anything you make This is considerably worse, so he deletes that too, hovering for so long that Mrs Jenkins’ neighbour peers at him through the blinds.

yes to both )))))

Too enthusiastic? Ilya agonises before deleting it once again, opening Maps for no reason whatsoever. He knows exactly how long it takes to reach Shane’s house, having made the journey enough times both physically and in his head that he could probably do it blindfolded.

seven is fine

and dinner would be nice thank you )))

The response may well be a hand grenade for the reaction it causes. Shane:

Great :)

Do you have any allergies?

Ilya leans against the nearest lamppost, winded. Shane is planning food specifically for him, so it’s reasonable to deduce he’ll open cupboards and consider ingredients, perhaps look up recipes to choose something according to the information Ilya has supplied about himself. Unfortunately, all the information Ilya has supplied about himself is fraudulent.

no allergies

He does not add only to green things. Shane begins typing.

Shane:

Okay, good.

Vegan, obviously.

Shit. For a moment he can’t bring himself to answer, taking an uppercut to the face from his own many, many lies. Stress is a cruel mistress, and Ilya is halfway throuhg a tofu induced panic attack when he realises the solution to his woes is really quite simple. He could just tell him - the opportunity sits quite literally within his own hands. He considers the phrasing in which to inform Shane Hollander the entirety of their marriage acquaintanceship has been built on the equivalent of increasingly insincere quicksand. Actually, there is something I should explain.

That sounds more like he’s confessing to a murder. Funny story, I have been eating animals throughout our acquaintance. Also no.

I lied because you are beautiful and your cat is actively homicidal. That one is true, and it’d bring him great satisfaction to snitch, but likely too much too soon. Signing away the last of his earthly pleasure, he replies.

obviously )))))

i volunteer for rspca on weekends

So as it stands his plight is easy to understand - dinner with Shane. Vegan dinner with Shane, and assuming Pork hasn’t returned to basking upon the banks of the Styx, he’s to expect bloodshed. Ilya pushes away from the wall half convinced he may be Icarus and Shane the sun, Pork his grotesque and waxy wings clinging to his back as he falls back down to earth. Completely unable to care, he begins the secondmost important communication of the day, navigating to the next thread.

feed anya at seven

do not bring ferrets i have a headache just thinking about it

Sasha replies in the space of thirty seconds, drawn in like a shark to bloody water.

Sasha:

They’re already in the car.

When he finally arrives home, Anya is waiting behind the door, and she seems to know before he even reaches the living room (which of course has nothing to do with the fact he can’t look her in the eye). You’re going back there.

Ilya pauses, plastering an inane smile on his face. “I go many places.” The appointment’s been moved, hasn’t it?

“I have had a busy day, Anechka.”

She circles him, nosing first at the healing scratches beneath his sleeves, though there’s nothing new there for her to discover. You don’t smell of cat. “I am going to see Shane later than planned,” he says carefully. “That is all.”

Anya’s eyes narrow.

“Pork,” Ilya amends. “For a professional appointment.” Then why are you thinking about Shane’s mouth? Ilya fumbles with his keys, affronted. “I - Anya, get out of my head -” Trust me, I’d rather not see it.

Ilya straightens, scowling, to make for the bedroom - Anya follows so closely her muzzle brushes the back of his knee with every step. I’m coming with you this time.

“No, you are not.”

Pork attacked you, Ilya! For heaven’s sake -

“He will not attack me while Shane is home,” he reasons, not entirely sure that’s the case. “And last time he had the advantage of surprise.” Anya sits in the doorway. And his ass. I can protect you. “This is a professional appointment only. I will be fine.” You’re taking off a perfectly good shirt.

Ilya glances down at himself, to where he is indeed unbuttoning a perfectly good shirt. It isn’t dirty enough for washing, so he hangs it right back in the wardrobe - Anya’s attention shoves at him as he rejects every single item in front of him. He does linger over a black button down he’d worn during either the fourth or fifth of his (mutual, let the record show) breakups with Sasha, before moving swiftly on again.

This is a date.

Ilya yanks out a very reasonable white tee that miraculously isn’t covered in dog hair. “It is a professional appointment.” Something in Anya’s focus flickers. Okay. Are you going to wear the jeans that make your ass look big?

“Ah, you genius,” Ilya says, lunging for them. “That is a very good idea -” The dog’s smug satisfaction reaches him at its full force, and her tail thumps against the carpet. Very professional - shall I start drafting your opposing argument now, or after you’ve bathed in cologne? “You are very rude,” he mutters, pulling up said jeans and spinning to inpect his rear end in the mirror. “Bad girl.”

Please take me - I won’t speak to Pork.

“You are a liar and I know you will speak only to Pork.”

Anya huffs. Fine, I’ll only tell him I’m there to protect you. “This would threaten him.”

Good.

Ilya rifles through a few more options before settling, painstakingly, on a smart yet defensibly casual linen shirt that he can plausibly unbutton low enough to expose at least halfway to nipple. A third, maybe. He lays it carefully on the bed and kicks off the jeans, disappearing into the shower and locking the bathroom door when Anya tries to follow. I know what you look like naked, she complains from the other side. I only want to talk.

“You are devising a bribe,” Ilya calls over the spray. “I can feel it, remember.”

Anya quickly squashes the thickening plot to offer Ilya unlimited access to the soft undersides of her ears, and to bring him TV remote every time he asks without complaint, still grouching to herself as she pads back to her latest episode of Desperate Housewives.

The shower does wash the day away, but does very little for the frantic energy buzzing beneath his skin - Ilya scrubs his hair twice and stands beneath the water, tipping his face into the onslaught of it. Shane will be upset, there’s no version of this Ilya can concoct where he isn’t, not when Shane had trusted enough to invite him inside his home, with his cat, in his bed. He’s still cursing himself for every poor decision as he brushes his teeth and dresses, perching dismally on the edge of the bed as he discovers that not even the impending disaster can discourage his cock, which presses insistently through the jeans he’s only just buttoned up. “No,” Ilya tells it.

Anya’s ears prick from the living room. What?

“Nothing,” Ilya says quickly, grimacing at the realisation that it actually is something. “Can - will you go behind the TV for a few minutes?” Oh, god, Anya’s distaste is palpable, and even hidden away in the bedroom Ilya’s cheeks burn. Really?

It’s an imperfect shorthand, more of a compromise that prevents traumatising either of them, and he hears her abruptly leap to her feet. “Sorry,” he wheedles, feeling her trudge just far enough behind the blaring flatscreen that the connection between them flickers, before falling into static. He’ll make it up to her later.

This is ridiculous - he’s due to leave in less than half an hour, and he suspects a normal person would redirect the energy towards something useful. A short run, maybe. Alas Ilya has no intention of running (if anything that would be dangerous, considering he’s carrying all six litres of blood in his cock) and he unzips his jeans just enough to free himself, sitting back against the edge of the mattress. This is practical, preventative -he cannot arrive at Shane’s house with an erection hard enough to classify as a blunt force weapon, nor can he tell him he’d like to seat it so deep inside the man that it would become a slightly less PG version of The Sword In The Stone. If dinner is in fact a date, it would probably be unwise to spend it leaking into his boxers just because Shane passes him the salt. When his hand wraps around himself, the relief has him gasping before he’s even begun to move. He tries not to think too specifically about Shane, which predictably is unsuccessful from the outset - ‘yes sir’ floats between his ears as he grips harder, working himself in a slow, aching pass. He envisions Shane at the kitchen table waiting for him, his wide eyes unfocused and trained on him, imagines standing behind his chair and resting a hand against the soft side of his throat, feeling Shane swallow beneath his palm. Shane would tip his head back, Ilya knows he would, with those shiny lips already parted, playing at surprise when Ilya bent to kiss him.

The fantasy, as the best ones often do, devolves at speed. Shane turns beneath him in the bed Ilya has already slept in, naked now, his thighs spread around Ilya’s hips. He's wearing nothing but the blush Ilya has already seen travel down his throat, and when Ilya pushes inside him for the first time, Shane arches to meet him with a breathless and broken sir against his mouth.

“Fuck,” Ilya groans, tightening his grip to jerk himself faster, completely unashamed at the way the muscles in his stomach are clenched firm and twitching already. It’s been days of this, edged by the very universe itself. In his head Shane’s writhing now, taking every thrust like a fucking champ, his fingers fisted in his curls. Ilya snags a wrist and pins it above his head. He tells him to hold still, tells him he’s beautiful, tells him he’s been so good, he’s taking him so good.

Shane looks up at him and says, I noticed. Ilya comes so suddenly he yelps, fucking up into his fist hard enough that he barely manages to catch it in his hand. He hunches over the edge of the bed, panting and staring down at the evidence of his excellent attempt to become calmer. His heart is still racing, and now his trousers are around his thighs and his hand is covered in an impressive volume of come, and it has helped absolutely fuck all.

He cleans himself off with a frown, resituating his jeans and when he releases Anya from her shield of technology, she looks him over. At least you tried.

It’s seven precisely when Ilya arrives at Shane’s, having spent the final ninety seconds outside house pretending to inspect the petunias. He’d reached the street at 6:46 and walked around the block twice - seven suggests his afternoon ended naturally and brought him here with a professionalism that he hopes makes him appear cool, and less like Shane’s in imminant danger of starring in his own Netflix special. At 7:00:03, he rings the bell - to his delight Shane opens the door before the chime’s even finished, and Ilya’s carefully rehearsed confession disintegrates on contact. He looks - well, Ilya can’t quite explain it, because different is an overstatement and Shane is still Shane, but he’s wearing a slutty white dress shirt Ilya hasn’t seen before, and in his periphery there appears to be a suit jacket hung neatly on the bannister of the stairs. Strangely it isn’t the fact that Shane has (for some reason) deemed a tuxedo suitable attire for their appointment that has Ilya almost swallowing his tongue, it’s the expression on his face. He looks tired, sure, but he’s unmistakably more rested than before - the hollows below his eyes aren’t as aggressively purple as they had been, and there’s a shy smile playing at the corners of his mouth that makes Ilya want to fucking bite him. “Hi,” Shane says, shy despite the fact he could’ve opened the door wearing Lady Gaga’s 2010 MTV meat dress and Ilya would still want to drop to his knees on the threshold.

“Hello.”

They stare at each other - Ilya has imagined several versions of this moment (he’s nothing if not prepared), including one in which Shane seizes him by the front of his shirt and another in which he says, ‘Ilya, my parents are waiting in the dining room, I wanted to introduce you to them’. Instead Shane steps aside, rubbing his palm against the back of his neck. “Come in - dinner’s almost ready, but there’s no rush. I was cooking anyway.”

The lie is painfully obvious considering beyond him, the dining table has been laid for two. Shane has chopped herbs, and - is that a fucking candle? Ilya’s heart soars. “It smells good.”

Strangely that much is the truth - on every inhale he can detect something rich and tomatoey, almost like lasagne. It’s convincing enough that he allows himself to wonder whether maybe Shane had simply forgotten Ilya’s apparently a die hard animal rights activist, and the promise of comforting pasta and bubbling cheese is enough to bring tears to his eyes. He could kiss him. He wants to.

Shane glances over his shoulder, nibbling his lip. “I hope you like lasagne.” Ilya would in fact eat lasagne every day of the week if it didn't take approximately 500 hours and a breakdown or two to make. “I love it.”

“I didn’t know what you usually eat, so I stuck with a classic -”

“I eat anything,” he beams, and the sentence leaves his mouth before he remembers its catastrophic history - Shane’s eyes meet his, and for a lurching second Ilya wonders whether this is the moment he’s been given to come clean, inside the doorway cosplaying a Ralph Lauren model, before he consumes so much as a chickpea. He decides against it, because lasagne is decidedly un-vegan, the last time he checked. He’s not about to spoil it for himself.

Then, like a fleshy Apollo 11 landing upon the moon of Shane Hollander’s hallway, Pork materialises from the kitchen door. You returned. He’s wearing a knitted jumper the colour of dried blood, which Ilya suspects is deliberate - the cat advances with his head held low, each naked shoulder poking up beneath the wool.

“It is Thursday,” Ilya reminds him, shooting Shane a quick smile of reassurance. “You agreed Thursday was perfect.” I promised to kill you on Thursday.

Shane closes the door. “Everything alright?”

“He is very happy to see me.”

Pork stops beside Shane’s ankle and fixes Ilya with a stare of such concentrated hatred that the healing punctures in his arm begin to throb from proximity alone.

You think yourself safe with my beloved here. Ilya, you fool. Shane watches Pork continue to threaten him in complete silence, before startling into motion again. “Should we do the appointment first? Dinner needs another twenty minutes.”

“Of course,” he says, shooting the cat daggers the moment Shane turns away. “Pork, you look very pretty today.”

I will pick my teeth with your bones.

They settle in the living room, where the cat tree has been moved again, this time a bit further away from the mantelpiece (now markedly absent of Shane's grandmother’s intended final resting place) - Pork leaps onto its upper platform when Shane sits on the sofa, positioning himself close enough to supervise him and at an angle where Ilya receives the cursed view of his wrinkled ass every time he stretches, which he does many times, solely to spite him.

Ilya opens his iPad. “How have things been since the sleep study?”

“Better, actually,” Shane tucks his legs beneath himself, then rearranges all over again as though sitting comfortably in front of Ilya might somehow be inappropriate - Ilya half wants to tell him what inappropriate looks like, considering how he'd spent the last few minutes at home. “The proper report came through yesterday.”

“And?”

“It confirmed obstructive sleep apnoea,” Shane says it with a shrug too casual to be convincing. “Moderate, apparently. I’ve been referred for a CPAP trial and fitting, so I’m waiting for them to arrange that.” Pork’s relief is a wash of cool air, and even buried beneath his hatred Ilya can feel something in his own chest spill free. The machine will breathe for him.

“It will help keep his airway open,” Ilya corrects, but there’s no spite to it this time.

It will breathe for him when I sleep.

“Yes.”

Pork settles himself down on the platform, keeping his eyes open.

“That is good,” Ilya says, turning back to Shane. “I read - I mean, I have heard this treatment is effective when used properly.” The other man nods sheepishly. “I know, I’m going to use it.”

“Pork would like this confirmed in writing.”

Shane glances towards the cat tree. “I already promised him. I talk to him all the time now I know he understands me.”

He reads me poems.

Ilya tucks that piece of knowledge away for later, because he’d quite like Shane to read him poems. “He remains proud of you.” Shane’s brows knit together, the softness on his face enough that Ilya needs to flex his fingers to avoid reaching for him. “Yeah?”

“Yes, very.”

Pork doesn’t object, watching the steady movement of Shane’s chest -beneath his relief sits the memory of every night he’s kept himself awake to guard it, and though the fear is still there it no longer stretches endlessly ahead. Ilya averts his eyes to the tablet before the intimacy of it can become unbearable.

“You should continue with whatever the clinic recommends. If the mask is uncomfortable, you must tell them rather than deciding treatment does not work -”

“I will.”

“Good,” Ilya says, tilting the screen to conceal the fact he’s just set himself a reminder to google how long a CPAP fitting takes. “And Pork? He sleeps better?”

“Mostly - I’m still leaving the bedroom door open, and he’s not pacing as much,” Shane smiles, and it's sunshine. “He’s still using the tree while I work. Sometimes he still climbs onto the laptop, but it’s gone from every ten minutes to maybe twice an hour.”

He still does not like the small people. I am trying to remove them, as I will remove you.

Ilya looks at Pork, suspicious. “He does not think you enjoy your job - he is trying to cancel your meetings, I think.”

Shane blinks, momentarily bemused. “I'd never have figured that one out. I mean, most people hate their jobs, right?”

“I love my job,” Ilya says, letting Shane’s eyes dart anywhere but his face without trying to chase the contact. “Without it I would not have met - I would not have met many clients.”

A small silence settles between them, gone again the second Pork’s tail lashes against the platform of the cat tree.

Shane clears his throat. “The play schedule’s helping too. He knows when it’s coming now, so he’s stopped screaming at me every time I walk past the drawer.”

I wait with dignity.

Ilya asks the remaining questions solely to provide some semblance of professionalism, working through Pork’s appetite and daytime behaviour while the cat supplies answers of varying usefulness. He is no longer sleeping through most afternoons, and he still wakes when Shane’s breathing changes but he returns to sleep more quickly now the assurance of treatment is on the horizon. The cat punctuates these with increasingly concerning threats on his life, which Ilya takes in stride (he doesn’t resort to a tennis match of escalating images involving sphynx taxidermy at all, thank you very much).

“Overall, this is an improvement,” Ilya concludes, setting the iPad down again. “Continue what you are doing, but the medical treatment may change things again. Give him time to adjust to the machine, especially the sound.”

“I was going to ask about that,” Shane leans forward, nodding. “Should I play recordings beforehand?”

“That may help - quietly, at first. Pair the sound with something he enjoys.” Chicken.

“Beef,” Ilya so faithfully translates. “And let him investigate the equipment before you wear it, but do not allow him to make it dirty.” Pork begins constructing a detailed thought of himself chewing through Ilya’s trachea.

Shane shuffles forward on the sofa, bouncing between them. “Okay. Does he still want those extra bonding sessions with you?” I would rather swallow glass.

Ilya smiles serenely. “He remains very enthusiastic.” Shane watches him for a moment before smiling back. “Good.” His mobile rings before Ilya can offer to massage his feet - the other man fishes it from his pocket and grimaces at the screen. “Shit. Sorry, it’s work.”

“You should answer.”

“I told them I was done for the night,” Shane mutters, staring at the phone while it continues to ring. The expression on his face is deliciously stubborn, bordering on a pout, and so remniscient of something irritated and unthreatening that Ilya’s in half a mind to put him in his pocket. “Dinner’s fine for a bit, but I might need to -”

“Shane,” Ilya says, very patiently, because he’s beginning to look as though he’d be happy to face a disciplinary rather than inconvenience him. “Answer the phone.”

Shane does, lifting a finger in apology before turning away. “Hey. Yeah, no, I sent that before I left -”

He listens, pinching the bridge of his nose - Pork’s batlike ears swivel towards him.

“No, don’t touch anything, I’ll look.” Shane lowers the phone, aggrieved. “I’m really sorry, I need to pull something up on my work laptop, but it’ll only take ten minutes. It’s kinda confidential, so I’ll need to head upstairs.” Fuck.

“It is fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I can entertain myself.”

Pork rises on the cat tree, perhaps in preparation. Who will be receiving your soul?

Shane laughs, already retreating towards the stairs. “Ten minutes, promise.” The bedroom door closes above them - Ilya waits for Shane’s footsteps to fade, and there’s the muffled beginning of a conversation above before he turns slowly towards the cat tree. Pork is waiting. Prepare yourself.

“I need to ask you something.”

The cat falters, and the few seconds it buys him is enough of an opportunity for him to take it.

“Why do you hate every person Shane might date?” Pork’s pupils contract, and a creeping, sour sensation begins to chew at the edges of his awareness - Ilya had expected outrage or another promise involving the removal of his organs, but he only lowers himself onto the platform and turns his head away.

“I know why you hate me,” Ilya continues, bewildered. “You have excellent reasons, even if I still find your response disproportionate. But you hated me before I lied, when I had done nothing except find him attractive.” The cat’s irritation doesn’t fade. You wanted something from him. “Yes, this is generally why people date.”

They leave.

“Everyone leaves eventually. This is not unique either.” They change him first.

The first memory smells of unfamiliar cologne and rain, where a man’s shoes have appeared beside Shane’s beneath the hallway table, then his coat takes Shane’s usual hook. At first he sees hands in Shane’s dark hair and laughter late at night, food eaten from the same plate on the sofa. Later comes the irritated sound of Shane’s name and a voice telling him he thinks too much, asks too many questions, makes everything difficult. Pork tries and fails to claw back the observation that Shane has learned to swallow the questions before they leave his mouth.

“Pork -”

Get out of my head.

Another person fills the bathroom with bottles. She kisses Shane’s cheek every morning and complains that he works too much, calls him clingy when he asks when she’ll be home. Pork’s bed is moved out of the bedroom because she doesn’t like waking with him between them, and their sheets never smell of mating, only a slight tang of salt and tears. Shane carries the bed into the hall himself and spends half the week sleeping on the sofa beside it.

Get out.

“I’m trying -”

The cat’s distress is physical now, panicked and sharp and not something Ilya is prepared to handle - Pork hisses from the cat tree, lashing out at him with his consciousness until Ilya’s own has no choice but to bow against it. Frantic, Ilya fights to move his thoughts elsewhere, but it’s futile - he knows it doesn’t work like that, he can’t turn it off and again, and he’s considering volleying Pork back into the media cabinet like a pink bowling ball when the next memory surfaces, revealed only through the cat fighting desperately not to think of it.

Someone else laughs at the meals diligently weighed into containers in the fridge, and Shane laughs too. A week later, he begins ordering food he doesn’t like and leaves most of it untouched. Their belongings spread through the house, and Shane’s disappear.

With an almighty heave, Ilya wrestles the cat’s psyche elsewhere, redirecting it to the quiet of Shane’s living room. He takes a shuddering inhale as Pork’s awareness returns to the present, swallowing convulsively around the bitter sensation of animal panic, and neither speak for the next few minutes. Ilya uses them to purge his brain of the urge to locate each and every man or woman that has ever tried to change Shane Hollander, and run them over repeatedly with his car.

They arrive wanting him, Pork says eventually, no trace of murder in his voice - if anything, he sounds tired. Then they want him different. Ilya glances at the stairs. He’s seen Shane’s uncertainty before and assumed it was shyness, just an unfortunate lack of confidence that Ilya would be delighted (and honoured) to correct through sustained praise and regular access to his cock - it had never occurred to him that Shane might have been trained into it.

“They were unkind to him?”

They liked him. Pork unsheathes his claws. They liked him until they knew him.

Anger, for the first time not directed at the tissue sample on the cat tree, flares hot and sudden in his stomach. “And Shane changed because he wanted them to stay.”

Yes.

“But they left.”

Yes.

Pork carefully extends just one singular tendril of his memory to show him Shane carrying his bed back into the bedroom and apologising profusely while he does it, though Pork had never blamed him. There’s one memory tangled in it, more of an afterthought carrying the scent of many animals in unision beneath disinfectant, and a familiar voice murmurs to Pork as capable hands examine one of his paws.

Ilya’s suspicion arrives like a plague sent directly from the heavens. “Who is this person?”

The healer was not cruel to him.

“The vet, yes?”

Pork, beginning to sense something has needled at Ilya, pursues it without hesitation. Rose.

For a moment, Ilya’s completely unable to make sense of the diabolical knowledge that is Rose Landry having dated Shane Hollander. The realisation descends upon him in trumpets and fire. Somewhere, the seventh seal breaks and seas boil. Stars fall from the heavens, and every inexplicable instinct he’s ever had regarding that woman is vindicated in the space of a blink, his soul having recognised an ancient enemy before possessing the evidence to tarnish her with.

Rose may have kissed Shane. Rose may have slept in the bed upstairs, her veterinary vet hands roaming freely over a body Ilya hasn’t yet been permitted to see. Ilya has allowed those same hands to examine Anya. He has thanked her, and worse still, in a moment of drunken weakness, he’d left a positive review.

“When?”

Pork’s silence is malicious.

“How long ago?” Ilya presses, balling his hands into fists. “How long were they together? Did she live here?”

She stayed.

“In his bed?”

Yes.

Ilya presses a hand to his chest, convinced something is ripping free from inside it.

“Was she unkind to him?”

No.

“Did she ask him to change?”

No.

“Did she move your bed?”

No.

“Did she steal money?”

Pork blinks.

“Commit fraud? Prescribe medication with reckless disregard for dosage?” She would cuddle him.

This is so vastly worse that he has to put his head between his knees. Ilya has nowhere to place his hatred except upon the unforgivable fact Rose has had Shane already and apparently treated him well while doing so.

“Why did she leave?”

There’s no bitterness in the memory Pork gives him, of Rose sitting on the kitchen floor with tears on her face, Pork leaning against her knee while Shane cries quietly across from her. They speak gently and nobody is blamed, because compatibility cannot be faked and it doesn’t mean a lack of love. When she leaves, she bends to press her forehead against Pork’s and tells him to look after Shane.

He had almost liked her. Ilya, on the other hand, hopes the practice burns down. Only when empty, he amends, because he isn’t a monster. “I am different,” he says eventually, still not quite convinced he’s recovered.

They all believed this.

“I would never ask him to change.”

Pork’s eyes meet his. You began by changing what he believed. Ilya’s mouth has gone dry. Above them, Shane’s voice continues through the ceiling, patient and apologetic. “I know what I did. I - I will tell him.” I do not believe you.

“I will,” Ilya says quickly, “I will tell him. I will not make him choose between us.”

You will not be here long enough.

“You do not know this.”

I know what you are.

Ilya holds his gaze. “Then watch me.”

I am watching.

Footsteps sound before he can respond, and Pork’s attention shifts away -Shane returns to find them sitting several feet apart in ominous silence he clearly mistakes as pleasant if his smile is anything to go by, turning to where Ilya sits with both hands folded in his lap and Pork staring at him hard enough it's a miracle he doesn’t catch fire. “Sorry about that,” Shane starts, “Everything’s always a Grade A emergency at this place. Anyway, sorry - how are you two getting along?”

“Extremely well,” Ilya says.

Pork shows him his own body decomposing beneath the patio. “We understand each other much better.”

“Good,” Shane says cheerfully. “Dinner’s ready.” He disappears into the kitchen, and Pork’s vision of the patio expands to include several thriving tomato plants nourished by Ilya’s remains. “Tomatoes are not good for cats,” he snaps under his breath, standing to follow the smell of food.

They are for my beloved.

Pork jumps down from the tree and reaches the kitchen first, winding around Shane’s ankles as he carries a heavy ceramic dish towards the table. Its edges are bubbling, and the rich red sauce is flecked with what (in his very limited experience) might be basil - there’s no cheese on top, which is unusual but not the end of the world, Shane may prefer adding it at the table considering he mentioned quite a specific diet. Better yet it could be inside, concealed in a gorgeous party of cholesterol. Ilya can smell garlic, and in that moment the only thing on earth he’s willing to put in his mouth beyond Shane Hollander is Shane Hollander’s delicious lasagne. “This looks beautiful,” he says with complete sincerity, beaming down the scattering of herbs Shane is carefully distributing on the top layer. “Thanks,” he says cheerfully. “Rose sent me the recipe ages ago.”

The benevolent universe Ilya believed himself to inhabit immediately withdraws its kindness.

“Rose.”

“Yeah, my ex,” Shane sets about cutting the lasagne into portions, unaware that Ilya has already received this information from the witness beneath his chair. “She owns the veterinary practice near here.” Ilya tries very hard to feign polite interest. “The veterinarian.”

“You know her?”

“No.”

Pork’s teeth find the hard bone of Ilya’s ankle through his jeans, and he jolts.

“I know - ow - of the practice,” Ilya says hastily, his voice cracking as he sends a blind kick into the space Pork had just been beneath the table. “It is nearby.”

“Right,” Shane glances at him. “She actually mentioned an Australian Shepherd recently.”

There are thousands of Australian Shepherds in the country - entire populations of them, free in the world without any connection to Ilya or his many visits to Rose Landry’s practice.

“She sees a lot of Australian Shepherds,” he says slowly, terror beginning to coil in his gut.

Shane shrugs with the spatula. “Apparently this one has a very distinctive owner.”

Ilya might just vomit. “Many people are distinctive.”

“That’s what I thought,” the other man hums above the clink of plates.

On a normal evening, Ilya might investigate this - it's pertinent he knows why his nemesis was discussing attractive dog owners with the man whose naked body she has already enjoyed, but unfortunately Shane places his serving on the table and every other crisis is eclipsed by dinner. The lasagne holds its shape suspiciously well - too well, and he peers at the layers dreading what he might find. They’re noticeably thicker than pasta, a purply brown at the edges - surely not. He’s still trying to identify them when Shane picks up a small tub and begins sprinkling flaky yellow fish food across the top with a spoon.

Ilya seizes, snaking a hand up to catch his wrist before his dinner becomes fit for an aquarium. “What are you doing?”

Shane’s mouth twitches again. “Adding nutritional yeast?”

“Why?”

The flakes continue falling between them, raining down like tears upon his plate.

“For the cheesy flavour.”

“You are feeding me fish food, Shane.”

Shane laughs, making a pretty poor attempt to pull his hand free while Ilya protects his dinner with his life. “It isn’t fish food -”

“It looks exactly like food for a goldfish! I am not a carp, Shane -”

“It’s nutritional yeast - surely you know what nutritional yeast is?” Ilya has never encountered it in his life - he looks at the tub again, hoping either that it might impart some wisdom or for an indication Shane is joking, but the label confirms it contains inactive yeast fortified with several B vitamins, of which he’s almost certainly deficient. “Yes,” he says slowly, releasing him. “I did not see the container. I of course have heard of nutrient yeast.”

“Nutritional yeast. Oh, also, there’s eggplant in here.” Ilya nudges the nearest layer with his fork, trying to conceal his misery at the wet substitute.

“Aubergine,” Shane adds.

“I know what eggplant is.”

“I don’t really eat pasta, and I figured you wouldn’t mind considering -” Shane gestures vaguely in the direction of Ilya’s fraudulent identity. “It seemed like something you’d like.”

“I am an enjoyer of eggplant.”

“The filling’s lentil mince, and I made the ricotta from tofu.” Every new ingredient is an assault - Ilya stares down at the plate that had promised him meat, pasta, and cheese less than a minute ago. Rose Landry sent Shane the instructions for this. She has fucked him and now, from a location not distant enough, is continuing to interfere with Ilya’s happiness. Rose Landry will pay for this.

“It took ages,” Shane admits, sitting opposite him. “I’ve never made the ricotta before.”

The pride beneath his nerves is unmistakable, and Ilya could cry. “It looks wonderful,” he lies, ignoring Pork’s bubbling delight. Eat it.

Ilya cuts through the first piece and the eggplant slips from his fork, falling back into the sauce with a wet splat that forces him to pursue it through the lentils. When he finally gets the entire construction into his mouth, he discovers the tofu ricotta is cold in the centre, and his body makes a forceful and entirely involuntary attempt to reject it. He suppresses the gag through strength of character alone, chewing as quickly as he can without appearing frantic (or hungry enough that Shane offers him more, god forbid). The eggplant could genuinely be already partially digested, and still, Shane waits.

Ilya swallows hard.

“Well?”

He hopes his eyes aren’t watering. “Delicious.” Pork shows him vomiting into Shane’s kitchen bin. The other man grins. “Really?”

“Very.”

The second bite is worse because he knows what’s coming now, chewing while breathing carefully through his nose and fixing his gaze on Shane’s face as a source of strength. It almost works, because Shane is very beautiful. There’s a tiny streak of tomato sauce near the other man’s wrist that Ilya would happily lick away if doing so didn’t risk regurgitating lentils directly in his lap.

“How long have you been vegan?” Shane asks, raising an eyebrow. Ilya pauses with his fork embedded in the aubergine. “Many years.”

“How many?”

“Several.”

“More than five?”

“I think so, probably.”

Shane’s eyes remain fixed on him, and as if the meal couldn't possibly get any worse, he can feel the telltale warmth as Pork shifts closer to his ankles again.

I pissed in your food.

This is blatantly not true (or at least he very much hopes), not that he’d be able to detect it when the entire meal could have been brought up from the bottom of a landfill. “Quiet, Porkie.”

A soft hiss drifts from beneath the table, and Shane blinks, confused. “Everything okay?”

Ilya takes a third bite to prevent further questioning, though this creates a separate problem when a clump of yeast cements itself to the roof of his mouth. He reaches for his water and drinks half the glass before forcing himself to slow.

Shane watches him over the rim of his own. “What do you miss most?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“No.”

“Not even occasionally?”

“I am very committed.”

“To animals.”

“Yes.”

You will die doing what you love.

Shane nods, apparently impressed. “I’ve heard cheese is the hardest thing for most people to give up.”

Ilya would probably kill everyone in this room for a cheeseburger. “I do not miss cheese”

“What about pizza?”

“I have forgotten it.”

“Cheesecake?”

“Meaningless.”

“Mac and cheese?”

“Food for children.”

“Lasagne?”

Ilya looks down at the steaming insult on his plate. “This is lasagne.”

“Yes,” he says, his mouth trembling. “It is.”

Ilya takes another forkful, no longer bothering to include every layer, and across from him Shane eats without difficulty. He even appears to enjoy it, which Ilya finds extremely concerning in a husband but something he would probably consider mediation for - separate meals could be healthy, maybe.

“So you don’t miss any animal products,” Shane continues. Ilya has a lentil stuck in his teeth. “Correct.”

“And you’ve been vegan for more than five years, but you’ve never used nutritional yeast?”

Ilya lowers his fork, but Shane’s expression remains pleasant. Innocent, even. “I do not cook.”

“Ever?”

“I am very busy.”

“What do you eat?”

“Food.”

“What kind?”

“Vegan food, Shane.”

He laughs again, reaching for the tub. “Do you want more of this?”

“No.”

Shane pauses with one hand around the fish food. “You don’t like it?”

“I do not want to become greedy.”

“You can have as much as you want, I bought a huge bag. I only transferred some into this because it’s easier.”

Somewhere in Shane’s kitchen is enough nutritional yeast to bury him alive. “I can send some home with you.”

Ilya, having freed the lentil successfully, chipmunks it in his cheek to avoid swallowing. “Please do not.”

Shane grins. “Why not?”

“I - I have some already.”

“I thought you didn’t know what it was?”

“I said I recognised it.”

“After I told you.”

Did you leave your shovel at home? Pork’s consciousness is viciously entertained. You are burying yourself. “I have a different brand,” Ilya says with a sniff. “It looks less like fish food.”

“Ah,” Shane sets it down, still smiling to himself - Ilya returns to the lasagne and forces down another bite, clinging to the knowledge that the meal cannot last forever. Soon, Judas will appear and condemn him to crucifixion, which is a fate he’d be willing to accept if it means he never has to choke down tofu ricotta again. Eventually there will be no more aubergine and the lentils will end. He will tell Shane the truth and possibly be thrown from the house, after which he can locate the nearest cheeseburger and consume it in the street through his tears. Shane gestures towards the dish. “Do you want another piece?” Ilya looks at him in horror. There’s far too much food for one person, and Shane had cooked all of it for him, following Rose’s recipe and purchasing obscene quantities of fish flakes because he thought it would make Ilya happy, so his heart and stomach reach opposing conclusions. “Yes,” he hears himself say.

Pork closes his eyes, overcome by joy as the second serving lands with a splat. He considers confessing immediately, if only so Shane might stop feeding him, but Shane returns the dish to the centre of the table and looks at him with such delighted expectation that Ilya cuts off another corner instead.

“Are animals always there?” Shane asks eventually, his head cocked to the side.

Ilya glances mutinously beneath the table. “Unfortunately.”

“No, I mean in your head. All the time?”

The question is a strange one - most people ask what animals say about them, rarely what it’s like to hear them. “If they are close enough - distance changes things, and it depends on the animal. How strongly they feel something, you know?”

Shane has leaned to rest his chin on his hands, and it's the sweetest thing he's ever fucking seen. “Can you choose not to listen?”

“Ah, not really. Headphones help, even though it is not really sound in the way you hear it.” Ilya pushes a lentil beneath a strip of aubergine and abandons them both. “It is more difficult if something addresses me directly, or if an animal is hurt.”

“What about insects?”

“Worse.”

Shane’s lips part. “Really?”

“There are many more of them.”

“I know there are more of them - I just didn’t know if they had as much to say.”

“Usually no, but this does not make them quiet,” he thinks of the ants beneath his kitchen window, sending the same alarm through thousands of bodies whenever Anya’s water spills near the wall. “There is a spider in your bathroom that very much appreciates your showers.” Awe flashes openly across Shane’s face. “So actual silence must feel strange.”

“I rarely get it, but yes,” Ilya says, considering the few places he’s experienced it. “At first it feels peaceful, but then it feels like something has died.”

Shane’s attention is soft, without the avid disbelief Ilya sometimes encounters or the pity he dislikes even more. “Can you hear Anya all the time?”

“If she is close.”

“Doesn’t that get exhausting?”

Ilya traces the edge of his plate with his thumb. “Anya has never felt like noise.”

“Is she as articulate as Pork?”

“Much more.”

I will articulate you.

“Anya has spent years being understood,” Ilya says. “Animals do not organise information as we do, but communication is like a muscle. If they learn someone will listen, they attempt more, and their feelings are easier to separate. They begin asking questions they would not otherwise know how to form.”

Shane scans the kitchen for the cat currently trailing a spidery paw along Ilya’s shoe. “So he might get better at it too?”

“Terrifying thought.”

I already possess everything required to destroy you. “He says no improvement is necessary.”

Shane smiles. “He would.”

Shane asks whether animals have accents like people do (yes) and if animals understand photographs (sometimes), listening raptly to every answer as though none of it is the strangest thing he’s ever heard in his life. In return, Ilya learns Shane works for some scrappy athletics startup and prepares most of his meals on Sundays.

“I don’t like being caught off guard,” Shane murmurs, setting his fork down beside his empty plate. “If I know what’s happening, I’m fine. If plans change suddenly, I get -”

He makes a jerky, frustrated gesture at his own chest. “Unsettled,” Ilya supplies.

“Yeah. Some people find it a bit much.”

Ilya smiles. “I like plans.”

Shane glances up. “You rang the bell exactly at seven - I saw you checking the time.”

“You saw this?” Ilya coughs, smacking his own chest in surprise. “I was checking the window.”

“Why?”

The flush has returned to Shane’s cheeks. “To see if you were here. I just mean, I get anxious if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“You can tell me.”

“What?”

“All of it. What time, what will happen,” Ilya shrugs. “I do not mind details.”

Shane studies him, perhaps waiting for the joke that doesn’t come. “I have a lot of details.”

“Good.”

When Ilya next looks down the cat is watching him, which should probably make the final stretch of lasagne easier to endure, knowing Pork has witnessed the entire conversation and found nothing objectionable feels more like he’s won the lottery. Instead, Pork waits until Ilya swallows (a generous word for how he has to coax it down) another mouthful before showing him a fresh slice from the dish.

Ilya pushes his plate away, resisting the urge to beg. “I am finished.”

“You barely ate the second piece,” Shane says, frowning. “I am full of nutrition.”

The statement is indisputable, considering he’s currently making an active attempt to avoid thinking about how his digestion is going to handle the onslaught.

Shane begins gathering the plates, but Ilya reaches for them first. “I will help.”

“You don’t have to.”

“You cooked.”

“I have a dishwasher.”

“And I have hands.”

Shane gives him an odd smile, then surrenders the plates. “Fine, can you bring the lasagne over? The dish is probably still hot.” It is, which Ilya discovers when his fingers brush it - he snatches his hand back and Pork’s satisfaction brushes against him. Burn. “It is warm,” Ilya corrects, reaching for the tea towel beside it as Shane carries the plates to the counter. He wraps his now protected hand around the dish, and behind him Pork slips silently from beneath the table. The remains of the lasagne is heavier than he’d originally thought it would be, presumably the horrible density of health food, so he’s forced to carry it against his chest to avoid tilting the remaining contents onto his shirt. “Where do you want this?”

“Counter’s fine,” Shane crouches in front of the oven, and Ilya’s viscerally dismayed to see the crease between the other man’s eyebrows has returned in full force. “I forgot about dessert.”

He opens the door, and a wave of heat along with the smell of cinnamon clouds up into the kitchen from where what looks like a crumble-less apple crumble sits sticky and congealed within it. It makes sense, as Pork has foretold, that Ilya will die here with his stomach packed with enough fibre to preserve him until morning. He adjusts his grip on the dish, and Pork moves again - the cat’s intention reaches Ilya only just before his body does, honed in on the backs of Ilya’s ankles while his hands remain occupied.

Into the fire.

A paw hooks around the leg of his jeans and Ilya jerks instinctively to untangle himself, his weight toppling as the dish slides in his hands and the open oven fills his peripheral vision.

“Ah, fuck -”

An arm wrenches him sideways and Ilya loses the dish, which lands on the counter with a crack that sends lentils and sauce over the tiles, but Shane keeps hauling until Ilya’s back connects with his chest and they stagger together against the cupboard. Panting like he’s run a mile, Ilya sees again the glowing insides of the oven looming inches from his face, but Shane’s forearm is wrapped around him and he can feel every firm inch of his body pressed along his own, so prosecuting the culprit is postponed before he’s even consciously done it.

“Are you okay?” Shane breathes against his neck. “I -” Ilya might be hard, actually. “Yes.”

“Did you burn yourself?”

“No.”

“Your hands?”

“They are fine.”

Shane turns him within his arms, checking anyway - he examines both palms before his hands return to Ilya’s waist, patting along his sides as though third degree burns might have appeared beneath his shirt without damaging the linen.

Ilya permits the inspection. He would permit considerably more.

“You didn’t hit the oven?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Shane meets his eyes after a moment, still breathing hard - their faces are suddenly close enough that Ilya can see the darker ring around his irises and that god damned tiny freckle on the tip of his nose. Behind them, Pork’s horror arrives in a cold rush.

This was not the intended result. Unhand him. Ilya twists to look over his shoulder, grinning at where Pork stands beside the abandoned tea towel - his pupils have swallowed almost the entirety of his eyes, and maintaining eye contact, Ilya slowly places both hands on Shane’s shoulders.

Shane follows his gaze. “Did Pork get under your feet?” Pork shows Ilya the oven again, outraged, followed by the smell of burning hair.

“No,” Ilya says, still smiling. “It was an accident.”

“That’s some accident - you nearly fell into an open oven.” Shane’s hands remain steady at his waist, and Ilya’s remain on Shane’s shoulders, and though neither appears capable of identifying a reason for this he’s sure as hell not about to be the one that pulls away first. “You caught me,” Ilya says eventually.

“Yeah.”

“Very quickly.”

“I saw you falling.”

“Still, good reflexes.”

Shane flushes. “Thanks.”

His gaze drops to Ilya’s mouth and stays there for just one miraculous second, but it’s enough. Ilya can sense the involuntary twitch in the other man’s fingers against him, and he leans closer before he can think himself out of it.

Pork screams, and Shane startles hard enough to release him. “Pork!” Shane turns towards the cat, his cheeks bright red. “What is wrong with you?”

Everything.

“You could’ve seriously hurt him, accident or not,” Shane points towards the living room, gravely serious. “Out. Stay out of the kitchen.” Pork stares at him. This cannot be happening. “Go.”

He looks to Ilya for support, which is an extraordinary misjudgement, because Ilya only gives him a goading wave. “You heard him.” I was protecting him.

“From what?”

You.

Shane frowns. “What did he say?”

“He is very sorry.”

Pork’s fury swells until it almost makes Ilya dizzy, before the cat stalks from the kitchen with his naked tail held rigid behind him. “Stay out,” Shane repeats. “I love you, but that was not a safe choice.” Pork disappears into the hall seething, and they abandon the last hurrah of the lasagne where it fell. Shane closes the oven and moves the crumble(?) onto the counter, insisting once more on checking Ilya’s hands before allowing him out of the kitchen with two glasses of ginger ale. The cat has planted himself on the back of the sofa, radiating disapproval as Shane settles at one end and Ilya takes the other. The distance between them now is nothing short of respectable, but Pork still watches it. Shane turns his glass slowly between his hands. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“That text you sent from the cemetery.”

Ilya’s pulse quickens before he even knows which part Shane means, because there’d been several messages and he’s working very hard not to get ahead of himself. “What about it?”

“When you said beauty was common in your household.” Pork’s head rotates towards them.

Ilya takes a careful drink. “It is.”

“And I said I noticed.”

“Yes.”

Shane’s turned salmon. “That was deliberate.” For several seconds, Ilya can only stare at him. “I knew it.”

“Did you?”

“No,” he chuckles, the sound humiliatingly breathy. “I have wondered every day.”

“Every day?”

“I thought you meant Anya at first. Or I thought you might have accidentally replied to the wrong message.”

“I didn’t.”

Joy simmers and his cup overfloweth, or whatever the poets say. Even narrowly avoiding a fiery demise can’t possibly diminish the shyness plain on Shane’s face. “You knew what I meant?”

Ilya clears his throat. “I mean, I hoped.”

“I wasn’t sure if I was being too obvious.”

“You were not obvious enough, Shane. I almost died.” There is still time.

“I rewrote that message about six times,” Shane groans, dropping his head into his hands, though Ilya can see his cheeks rise behind them. “I couldn’t work out whether asking how you were would be inappropriate.”

“So you wanted to?”

Shane peeks out from behind his fingers. “Yeah.”

“What were the other versions? Tell me right now.”

“I don’t remember,” Shane extends his leg to kick at him. “Don't bully me.”

“You remember all of them,” Ilya grins.

“I’m not telling you.”

“I will ask Pork.”

Pork shows him the patio, but it’s little more than a ripple in the ocean as they smile at each other - the respectable distance across the sofa begins to feel far less respectable than it had moments ago, and Ilya is suddenly exceedingly aware that Shane has left his foot exactly where it’d fallen, just inches from his shin.

“Tonight - tonight kind of stopped feeling like an appointment at some point. I think.”

Ilya deserves a fucking medal for how neutral he keeps his face. “Was this a problem?”

“No,” Shane wets his lips. “I think I was hoping it would.” Ilya has dreamed this exact outcome often enough to have developed several witty responses, all of which are about as available as the International Space Station to him now - no, now he can only stare as Shane sets his glass down, wiping his damp against his jeans before forcing his eyes back up. “Ilya?”

“Yes.”

He huffs. “I haven’t asked anything yet.”

“You can.”

Shane laughs under his breath, and the sound goes straight through him. “Can I kiss you?”

Ilya’s entire body locks. He can’t breathe, but fuck breathing. Fuck anything that isn’t getting those lips on his at this very moment, and fuck anything that isn’t exploring how Shane Hollander tastes. “I think I might go back in the oven if you do not kiss me right now.”

It’s apparently all the permission Shane needs to shuffle closer, closing the remaining gap before hesitating again - Ilya feels like he’s floating somewhere above his own body as he lifts a hand to the side of Shane’s neck, feeling the unsteady beat of his pulse beneath his thumb.

Their mouths meet softly, with Shane’s so careful it hurts, and only the sweetness of ginger ale between them is enough to confirm this is actually happening, that Ilya hasn't slipped into some lucid dream from which he’s about to wake up with wet boxers. Shane kisses him again, and all trace of uncertainty has gone - his hand fists in Ilya’s shirt and pulls him closer, his mouth opening beneath him, and weeks of unbearable restraint collapse all at once. Ilya cannot contain it any more, surging forwards to cup his jaw and angling Shane’s face where he wants it, licking into his mouth with a groan he’s got no hope of ever muffling.

Shane makes a quiet sound in answer, and every thought leaves Ilya’s head. He kisses him harder, slipping a hand into Shane’s hair while the other finds his waist. The other man’s shirt has ridden up enough to expose skin, and Ilya drags his thumb over it, revelling in how the muscle tightens beneath his touch.

Stop.

Ilya ignores Pork completely as Shane’s fingers spread over his thigh. The touch is hesitant all over again, but when he offers out another moan of encouragement it travels upwards and grips hard enough at his hip to erase any remaining doubt - Ilya moves into him.

Stop this.

Shane gives his curls an experimental tug and the sofa creaks beneath them as Ilya crowds closer - Shane gives ground willingly, so beautifully, still pawing desperately at his hip. Ilya kisses the corner of his mouth, his jaw, between his eyes, his cheeks, then returns when Shane turns after him, chasing his lips with a quiet whine that sends him into fucking orbit. Pork retreats from the back cushion with a burst of indignant anger. Separate.

They lose whatever remained of their balance. Shane’s shoulder hits the cushions and he pulls Ilya with him, landing on his back with Ilya braced on his forearms above him - there’s a second in which they both stop, breathing hard, Shane’s lips wet beneath Ilya’s.

“Okay?” Ilya croaks.

Shane nods, already reaching for him. “Yeah - fuck.” Ilya bends to kiss him again and the other man’s legs part around him, allowing him to settle between them, and the first contact of their bodies rips a ragged gasp from deep in his chest. Shane feels it - he has to, even through two pairs of jeans, and the knowledge sends a desperate, humiliating rush through Ilya’s stomach. His preventative work earlier has achieved absolutely nothing, but when Shane pulls him down by the waist and rolls his own hips upwards, the friction almost finishes him off for good.

“Fuck,” Ilya pants into his mouth. “Fuck.”

The sound must be praise enough because Shane does it again and Ilya drives forward, grinding his cock against Shane’s through the barrier of denim - his head tips back, exposing his flushed throat, and Ilya (who is only human, affter all) mouths shamelessly beneath Shane’s jaw as the hands on his waist urge him into another slow and filthy roll. He’s going to come in his jeans.

He’s twenty five years old and has jerked off less than three hours ago, and he’s seconds from emptying himself into his underwear because Shane Hollander has now put both hands on his ass.

“Shane,” he groans, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Yeah, baby?”

Ilya lifts his head to look at him, losing any remaining interest in surviving with his pride intact, because the next grind has the man mewling into his ear and his own cock throbs in response, every muscle drawing tight until he’s right on the edge, pleasure sparking like lightning through his abdomen and -

A terrible, terrible sound erupts beside them.

At first Ilya, in his current state, suspects a nearby air raid siren has gone off. Shane jolts beneath him, almost toppling them both - when they turn towards the source of it, Pork is on the floor with his back arched and his jaws open.

Get off him. Get off him. Get off him.

“Pork,” Shane yelps. “Jesus Christ!”

The cat yowls again, and furious, Ilya snaps his head to look at him. “We are busy.”

Shane grins. “I think he knows.”

Pork screams again.

“Oh my god,” Shane's head thunks back against the cushion. “He’s not going to stop.”

Ilya sets off on his quest to return his tongue to Shane’s mouth. “He will tire.”

I will summon the neighbours.

“You could come upstairs and, you know,” Shane mumbles, suddenly awkward despite the erection pressed firmly against Ilya’s thigh. “If you want. I want you to, obviously.”

Ilya has never wanted anything more.

“I want,” he says, stooping to kiss him again. He wants to close the bedroom door and push him down into the sheets, and spend several hours proving that even the criminal excuse for a lasagne hasn’t permanently damaged his stamina. His hand slips beneath Shane’s shirt, splaying over the firm plane of muscle he’s going to lick in just mere minutes. You began by changing what he believed.

Ilya freezes, and with every ounce of restraint available to him, drags his mouth away. “But I cannot.”

Shane goes rigid beneath him, and Ilya watches uncertainty barge want right out of the way, sees him begin rearranging the past several minutes into something he did wrong.

Ilya pushes himself upright. “Not because I do not want this.”

“Okay.”

“No, Shane,” he climbs off him before his body can overrule what remains of his conscience (which is embarrassingly little at this point), sitting beside him with his cock still painfully trapped in his jeans. “I want to so much you have no idea.”

Shane fidgets with the button of his shirt. “I think I have some idea.”

“More than this.”

An unwilling smile pulls at his mouth. “Okay.”

“But I cannot go upstairs with you yet.”

“Yet?”

The hope in that single word very nearly ends any attempt at moral conduct, but he grips his own knees in order to keep both hands somewhere safe. “There are things I have to explain first.”

Pork has stopped yowling, but he remains on the floor with his body gathered beneath him. Ilya’s heart is thundering - he’d rehearsed the confession in his bathroom plenty, but none of those versions had included Shane kissed stupid underneath him with the offer of escalation on the table.

“There are things you believe about me that are not true,” he says softly, hating himself more by the minute.

Shane’s gaze doesn't falter. “Okay.”

“Things I have lied about.” God, it sounds worse out loud. “And I need to tell you before we do anything else.”

He waits for hurt or confusion, but Shane only nods. “Okay.” Ilya frowns. “Okay?”

“Tell me.”

The calmness unsettles him, but this must simply be who he is - kind enough to let Ilya finish destroying everything before deciding what to do with the debris.

Ilya draws a steadying breath just as his phone rings. He snatches it from his pocket, sees Sasha’s name, and rejects the call without hesitation. “Sorry.”

Shane glances at the screen as it goes dark. “It’s okay, carry on.”

“I need to say this before I lose my nerve -”

The phone rings again, and Ilya silences it so vehemently that he can see his own thumbprint left on the screen. Sasha has no respect for personal boundaries or the delicate moment preceding a confession. Whatever he wants can wait until Ilya has successfully decimated his own future. Sasha :

Call me.

Ilya turns the phone face down, but it vibrates against his thigh. Sasha :

This concerns your kitchen and Miroslav.

Mostly Miroslav.

He is in your walls x

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Ilya mutters.

“You look upset.”

“I am always upset when Sasha communicates.” Ilya shoves the phone beneath his leg. “It is not important. What I was saying -” The third call begins and Ilya stares incredulously at Sasha’s name, considering all the available punishments for whatever has occurred -electrocution feels appropriate, particularly if Miroslav is currently close enough to Ilya’s wiring to arrange it himself.

“You should answer,” Shane says.

“I should not.”

“What if something’s wrong?”

“Something is always wrong.”

The phone continues ringing, and this time Ilya answers if only to have an outlet to his fury. “What have you done?”

“Before you get upset,” Sasha says from the other end of the line, “all four ferrets are technically still inside your home.”

“What does technically mean?”

“Miroslav is currently inspecting your insulation.”

Ilya stands like he’s been zapped himself. “You were supposed to feed Anya, Sashka!”

“I fed Anya.”

“Then why is there a ferret inside my wall?”

“No comment.”

Shane, who’s evidently heard this and pretending he hasn’t, coughs into his hand with a telltale smile.

Ilya turns away. “Remove him.”

“I would love to. Unfortunately, I don’t know where he is.”

“You allowed him to disappear?”

“He didn’t disappear - I watched him squeeze behind the kitchen kickboard.”

“And you did nothing?”

“I attempted to catch him, but I suppose he disagreed. I’m not the one that can speak to animals.”

A suspicious clatter travels through the phone, followed by Sasha swearing and what sounds like Anya barking. “What was that?”

“Natalya has breached containment.”

Ilya grips the bridge of his nose for dear life. “Sasha.”

“She’s contained again.”

“What is Anya doing?”

“Staring at the cabinets and sniffing. As dogs do.”

“She knows where he is.”

“Excellent. Perhaps you should’ve taught her verbal English instead of psychic communication. Ah, he’s moving again.” The kitchen wall contains all the electrical wiring and routes leading deeper into the apartment building that Ilya has never had reason to consider before, because he’s not a ferret. Miroslav, meanwhile, possesses the survival instincts of a scarf, so the situation is a dire one. “Turn off the dishwasher,” Ilya hisses. “Turn everything off.”

“Already done. I’ve switched it off at the wall, and I’m keeping the other three in their carrier.”

“Can you remove the kickboard?”

“Probably, but if I start dismantling things without knowing where he is -fuck, I don't want to hurt him.”

For once, Sasha’s voice has lost its amusement, and Ilya looks miserably over at Shane.

“How quickly can you get here?” Sasha prompts. Ilya closes his eyes.

“Go,” Shane whispers, nudging him with his knee. “Go get him out.” The injustice of it all threatens to overwhelm him. “I was not inventing this,” he says tremulously. “I am not making an excuse because you asked me upstairs.”

“I know.”

“I was going to tell you.”

“I know.”

“You may not want me afterwards.”

Shane studies him for a moment, calm enough that Ilya’s stomach twists into another knot. “I think that’s my decision.”

“I will get the bus,” he says, because there’s absolutely nothing safe or sane he can reply to that with.

“No, you can’t. It’ll take too long.”

Shane already has his phone out, and Ilya watches him order a taxi before he can hope to object, checking the registration twice. “Seven minutes. I’ll wait outside with you.”

“You do not have to.”

“I know.”

Ilya looks at him helplessly. “Shane.”

Shane inches closer, and for a moment Ilya thinks he’s going to offer a polite goodbye or perhaps repeat the hand shaking incident, but instead he catches him by his shirt again and kisses him.

“Go rescue Miroslav,” Shane murmurs against his lips. Ilya waits for the ground to swallow him whole. “He does not deserve rescue.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“No,” Ilya says bitterly. “Unfortunately.”

Shane smiles pulls himself upright to trot into the kitchen, no doubt to collect a bag of fish food for Ilya to absolutely not toss in the nearest bin on his way home. The moment his back is turned, Pork advances from the stairs.

Saved by vermin.

Ilya glares down at him. “Ferrets are mustelids.” Leave.

“I know what your beloved tastes like.”

Pork’s pupils flood black.

Your final meal before execution.

“I will return.”

The cat gathers himself, but Shane comes back before he can launch a full scale attack, tucking a bag of flakes into Ilya's reluctant palm with a grin. “Ready?”

“No.”

“Your car’s here.”

“I will tell you,” he says quietly, scuffing his feet when Shane’s expression softens.

“I know.”

Pork appears between his ankles, and Ilya closes the door on the beginning of a scream.

Chapter 6: only you (and everyone else)

Chapter Notes

bad miroslav x

the song playing during ilya’s confession is the one and only ‘only

you’ by yazoo

also next chapter we shall see both anya vs pork and the return of one

of our favourite feathered friends <333

To Ilya’s great displeasure, the taxi driver keeps looking at his mouth. The first time could be accidental, sure, but the second happens while Ilya is attempting to fasten his shirt into something a touch more modest, succeeding only in spraying nutritional yeast into every crevice of his Lexus. As the earthy smell of it settles across the back seat like a noxious gas, Ilya’s dangerously close to tears. It’s unfair, spitefully, bitterly unfair, and equal parts ridiculous. If you’d told him six months ago he’d be within seconds of ejaculating fully clothed on a client’s sofa after choking down at least twelve of his five a day, he’d have told you to get out of his house, you’ve got the wrong man.

Sadly there’s no Uber option for that, and at any rate he’s hyper aware of the visibility of his nipples. Buttoning up his shirt should be a simple task -or it would be had his hands not been so unsteady, and the taxi takes a pothole every time he thinks he’s managed it, so he’s forced to give up. Shane’s mouth is still everywhere, he can taste it every time he licks his lower lip. His hair is a lost cause, and his jeans are incredibly uncomfortable.

He’d been so close. Mutinous, Ilya stares out of the window as the taxi turns onto his road, watching the apartment building approach - the dark windows of his reveal nothing, but there’s no smoke at least, or fire engines, which he’s counting as a small mercy worth a minor gratitude or two. He’s reserving judgement though, considering Miroslav could be chewing through his wiring at this very moment, unaware that electrocution is one of the very few experiences from which Sasha’s affection cannot revive him. “Have a good one,” the driver says as they pull up, still eyeing Ilya through the mirror.

Ilya climbs out without answering, resolving to tip him later, the moment he’s not considering laying face down in the road. This might be the world’s saddest walk of shame - Ilya has had many of those, and still doesn’t think it compares to how he feels trudging down the corridor towards his door -he hasn’t even had sex and still looks freshly fucked, clutching the yeast in his fist with every intention of shoving it down Sasha’s stupid throat for being so irresponsible.

It’s a fleeting fantasy, as Miroslav, unsurprisingly, is having the loudest best day of his life.

Warm tunnel.

The thought is blurred behind layers of brick and plaster, but Sasha must’ve turned everything off for him to be able to hear the little thing at all, so the risk of an untimely death via arc flash has unquestionably reduced. Good dark. I will fit and sit.

Ilya grimaces as a stuffy pressure spreads around his ribs, Miroslav coiling himself into whatever cursed space he’s found amongst the insulation. House inside house for Miroslav. Yes.

“Good,” Ilya mutters, shoving the door open until it slams against the wall of his hallway. “Maybe house inside house will digest you.” He has all of a second to brace for the ferrets before it hits him. They don’t communicate like Anya at all, opting for full scale verbal assault with no regard whatsoever for the general structure of a conversation. One alone is just about manageable, but four together feels like somebody has dropped a box of fireworks into his temporal lobes - Miroslav remains the strongest despite being hidden from sight, his pleasure radiating from the kitchen in warm pulses that make him feel a little ill.

Pipe for Miroslav. Move deeper?

“No,” Ilya says firmly, kicking off his shoes. “Do not move deeper.” There’s no indication Miroslav hears him, which is probably for the best -he’d move deeper out of sheer demand avoidance and suspicion Ilya may be hiding something in need of exposing in the inside of his walls. Katerina’s anxiety reaches him next, needling to the extent Ilya has to take a steadying breath through his nose.

Miroslav is gone. Natalya has also been gone, then came back, then gone again. Isaak smells something outside. There is dust. Sasha is angry. The door is closed. Miroslav is gone. He has been eaten. Gone gone gone -“He is not gone,” Ilya calls, eager to interrupt her spiralling before it rises to fever pitch. “He is only in my wall, do not panic.” The scratching from his living room stops abruptly, and Ilya makes it just a few steps towards the armchair before Isaak’s awareness locks onto him like a police dog having detected cocaine.

Ilya, new smell. New male.

The thoughts surge through him alongside the remembered trace of Shane, ginger ale, the heat of his mouth. Ilya freezes, though this doesn’t deter Isaak - Isaak cannot be deterred, much like a solar eclipse, or the Duolingo owl. (Ilya would know, he’s rather behind on his High Valyrian). New male touched you.

Ilya lifts a finger in warning, but Sasha emerges from the kitchen before he can verbalise something suitable - his sleeves are rolled primly up to his elbows, and there’s a dusty streak across his cheekbone that ordinarily he’d have poked fun at, but today his fury evaporates any trace of humour. “Finally,” Sasha says, stepping aside. “Your son is feral.” Ilya is actively trying to explode him with his eyes. “He is not my son.”

“Interesting, you’re usually so committed to shared custody.”

“No.”

Sasha grins. “Deadbeat.”

Ilya gets as far as the coat rack before Isaak attaches himself to the cuff of his jeans, rising onto his hind legs with his tiny pink nose working furiously, following the scent upwards and collecting every intimate trace Ilya had failed to consider before coming home. You rubbed mouths?

Ilya tries to shake him loose. “Get off.”

Isaak clings harder. You rubbed mouths. New male has ferrets? “He does not -”

Sasha, having deftly avoided the advances of his most sociable companion, twists to look back at them over his shoulder. “What?”

“Nothing,” Ilya says, kicking his foot in a feeble attempt to free himself -Isaak’s boneless body vibrates with interest and before Ilya can stop him, the ferret receives a short but no less humiliating flash of Shane stretched out on the sofa, his cheeks flushed with his thighs locked around Ilya’s hips. You wanted more.

“Yes,” Ilya hisses, bending to prise the sharp, needlelike claws from the denim. “We have all wanted things. You want to lick the shower drain, but I do not announce it.”

Gleeful, Isaak slips from his hands and shoots off down the hallway, carrying his discovery with him. New male! Mouths!

“Isaak,” Ilya snaps. “I will have you euthanised -” Sasha frowns, poking his head around the kitchen door frame. “You’re not allowed to threaten my children.”

“You brought them here when I specifically said not to!”

“And you used to wash my shirts with the dog bed when I specifically said not to, but here we are.”

Beyond the onslaught of ferret senses, the apartment itself is different - he can smell Sasha, though whether that’s through the animals or his ungodly amount of Dior Sauvage he isn’t sure. The lamp beside the armchair has been left on (battery powered, thank god) but the remainder is dim, shadowy as the sun sets. Ordinarily Anya would be conducting a thorough interrogation of every person, place, animal, and thing he’s encountered since leaving her, but instead her awareness sits firmly in his bedroom, withdrawn and miserable.

They’re everywhere, she tells him, producing an indignant image of Natalya manifesting like spectre beneath her tail, despite Anya never having seen her approach.

“I know, Anechka,” Ilya says, hardly needing to project his voice. “Stay there and I will remove them.”

She offers him the security of the space beneath his bed, quiet now she’s been able to nudge the door closed. Please do. Katerina appears from the back of the sofa before he can so much as formulate a plan, leaping from it to circle the carrier before backing away and down towards the bathroom. Her thoughts are frantic, fluttering in his chest.

Miroslav missing. Natalya missing. Natalya -

Katerina spots her sister in the kitchen doorway. Natalya here again. Miroslav missing.

“He is not missing,” Ilya repeats, more gently this time. “I can hear him.” Where?

“Inside the wall.”

This does nothing to help - Katerina’s anxiety spikes so sharply that Ilya shudders, grimacing as she attempts to scale his leg. He scoops her up before she can reach his thigh, holding her warm, writhing body against his chest.

“He is safe,” Ilya murmurs, though this feels optimistic considering Miroslav’s prior list of convictions. “He is not hurt.” Trapped.

“No. He likes it.”

Miroslav’s satisfaction swells in confirmation. Good house for Miroslav. Katerina twists to where Natalya has planted herself on the table. She’s unnervingly still, as she often is, her dark eyes fixed on the kitchen kickboard as though she’s waiting for it to hatch. Of the four, Natalya has always possessed the most patience, though this patience is eerie and well suited for something like the Blair Witch Project rather than any normal animal Ilya’s ever met. She’s also the only one of them Sasha hadn’t paid the equivalent of a mortgage deposit for from some pedigree ferret breeder (Ilya had laughed so hard on discovering that was even a thing that he’d choked on his own saliva). No, Natalya had appeared to the man in a dream (a wheelie bin outside a Home Bargains), and the first time they’d met, Ilya had asked what on earth she’d been doing in there. Natalya had simply informed him she was waiting for Sasha.

Inside, she tells him when Ilya approaches. “I know, that is the problem.”

Miroslav shifts in the dark. I will eat the house fur. Bad taste. Swearing, Ilya wades through the impression of a ferret nose poking through what’s almost certainly his insulation, attempting to establish position. Miroslav knows nothing of plumbing or the National Grid - his map is made entirely from sensation, the place Sasha’s hand had nearly reached him, colder air behind him, a toasty section where the brickwork is thicker, and something metallic smelling ahead. There’s no pain in him beyond the tickle in his face, and unsurprisingly, no awareness at all that he’s done anything wrong.

Miroslav is happy.

“Yes, I am sure you are,” Ilya grinds out, scrubbing at his face when his own nose starts to prickle - the last thing he needs is a psychic fibreglass experience, so he sets the struggling Katerina beside Natalya and steps fully into the kitchen.

Sasha’s flat on his back on the floor in work trousers that absolutely require dry cleaning, one tanned arm shoved into the gap where the kickboard’s already been pulled mostly free. He’d come straight from the restaurant, most likely - there’s a small burn on his wrist, and the shirt is the one he wears beneath his chef whites, soft enough from years of washing that Ilya remembers exactly how it feels between his fingers. Once, years ago, he’d unbuttoned that shirt with his teeth against the door of this apartment while both of them were too drunk to manage anything productive with the key -now, Sasha has his cheek pressed to Ilya’s kitchen floor and is attempting to coax a ferret from beneath his dishwasher. How times change. “Miroslav,” Sasha says into the gap, in the same silky tone he’s used (apparently) successfully on half of Rose Landry’s practice. “Papa has salmon.”

Papa lies to Miroslav.

Ilya leans a shoulder against the fridge. “He knows you do not.” Sasha jerks at the sound of his voice, scooting further forwards. “I have salmon at home, Ilya. Now isn’t the time for semantics - you tell him I’ll drive home and get it, if he doesn’t believe me.”

“No.”

“Why not?” Sasha turns just enough to glare at him. “That’s the whole reason I called you away from your little appointment.” The word is a match, igniting every curdling injustice still within him at being torn from the sanctity of Shane Hollander’s arms - Ilya looks down at himself, and his cock gives one final miserable twitch inside his jeans, apparently moved by the memory. Murder sweeps through Ilya’s mind with a meditative finality, and he rounds on the man on his floor in utter fury. “You,” Ilya hisses, stooping to point just inches away from Sasha’s nose. “You have blocked my cock.”

Sasha’s mouth falls open, but he gathers himself quick enough to withdraw his arm from its thorough examination of the underside of his appliances. “Cockblocked?”

“Yes!”

“Ilya,” he pushes himself upright, and with great satisfaction Ilya clocks the red mark on his cheek from the tile. More concerningly, however, is how the other man’s eyes have brightened in such vicious interest that Ilya briefly considers putting him inside the wall too. “Were you getting laid?” Incredulous, Ilya outstretches his arms before he really does attempt it. “You knew who I was with!”

“I knew you were charging him to spend time with his cat, because you’re to be married next summer, or whatever.”

Sasha’s gaze performs its usual scan - nobody’s ever looked at him with quite the same efficiency, taking in the uneven buttons and the untucked linen, the front of Ilya’s jeans and undoubtedly the final traces of an erection that had, up until recently, been making a desperate attempt to elongate itself in order to reach down the street and back to Shane’s house. His eyes hover over the abandoned bag of nutritional yeast in the hallway, and he raises an eyebrow.

Ilya balls his hands into fists. “Do not ask.”

For once in his life, Sasha doesn’t (likely because he doesn’t need to, but Ilya’s pride won’t allow him the loss). “You were getting laid.”

“Until your son entered my walls,” Ilya says, defeated. Sasha shrugs. “He’s not my biological son.”

“You are a very bad father.”

“Thank you,” Sasha says, brushing dust from his shoulder. “I’m sure your review will mean a great deal to social services. Can you locate him now?” Ilya would prefer to spend another few minutes detailing each of Sasha’s parental failures, but Miroslav has started moving again, and the resulting tickle of insulation brushes so vividly along Ilya’s nose that he sneezes. Sasha looks alarmed. “Was that him?”

“No, this was me.”

“I know you sneezed, idiot. I meant did he move?” Sasha rolls his eyes, meandering a few steps away to rest against the counter. There’s a miniscule tremor in his hands that Ilya suspects has less to do with the awkward angle he’d been lying at than he wants him to believe. For all the other man’s faults (considerable and varied), Sasha does love the ferrets with an intensity bordering on concerning - every cough earns them an examination and once after Katerina sneezed seven times in an hour, he’d phoned Landry close to crying himself sick until they agreed to see her. All things considered, Miroslav being somewhere Sasha can’t reach him must be a specific circle of hell, and this would ordinarily bring Ilya joy if that hell wasn’t his own kitchen.

Scowling, Ilya lowers himself onto the floor beside the gap, his knees protesting. There’s nothing but darkness in the gap beneath the dishwasher, no sign of his newest tenant.

“Miroslav,” Ilya calls, reaching. “Where are you?”

Miroslav has discovered the back of the kitchen. The answer is attached to an impression of more darkness and the sensation of his body fitting somewhere it has no earthly business fitting, stretched along a tight channel with his spine curved around something solid. “There is no back of the kitchen. Come out.”

There is. You have never seen it.

Ilya closes his eyes, allowing the ferret’s awareness to settle over his own. It’s an appalling place to inhabit - there’s dust inside his nose and glassy fibres itching where they catch in the soft fur of his stomach, and something smooth rests alongside him, warm enough that Miroslav has pressed a paw against it with appreciation. Near his face, he can detect some sort of bitter smelling pipe.

“I believe he is behind the dishwasher,” Ilya says eventually. Sasha stares pointedly down at the place he’d last seen Miroslav vanish. “What gave it away?”

“Do not be sarcastic while I am trying to save your son.”

“Our son, according to the custody agreement you invented -” Ilya sets his chin. “I have renounced him.”

“You can’t renounce a child because he interrupted your blowjob.”

“I was not giving a blowjob!”

Sasha’s smile is wicked. “Receiving?”

“No.”

“Then what exactly have I interrupted?”

Ilya glares up at him. “If you continue asking questions, I will leave him there.”

From behind the cabinet, Miroslav offers no objection. I live here now. God forbid. “You do not.”

Good house here. Thank you Ilya.

If Ilya really concentrates, he can just about detect a gentle vibration of some kind - for a moment he mistakes it for the dishwasher despite Sasha having switched it off, and he feels Miroslav press himself into it. “The fridge.”

“What about it?”

“He can feel it through the floor.”

Sasha glances at it, bemused. “The fridge is only over there.”

“Yes, thank you, I can see.” Ilya’s consciousness brushes against Miroslav’s again, searching through the disorganised pleasures of dust. “There is a warm pipe beside him.”

Sasha crouches. “Under the sink?”

“Maybe. It has water inside.”

“Hot water feed,” Sasha mutters, gesturing towards the cupboard udner the basin. “That runs behind the dishwasher before it reaches the -” Ilya watches as he raps his knuckles along the edge of the cabinet, moving slowly from right to left. The sound reaches him twice, first through his own ears and then from inside Miroslav’s as a duller beat from somewhere to his side.

Sound.

“Yes - where?”

Miroslav ponders this. There.

This is not especially helpful. “Sasha, again.”

He knocks further along the board.

Other side.

“Go back.”

“Ilya, I’m not participating in a fucking seance. Just tell me where.”

“He organises directions according to his face,” Ilya grinds out. “His face is pointing towards a pipe. I do not know which direction it is in.” Sasha does appear capable of swallowing back a catty remark, because he dutifully taps the cabinet again, this time closer to the dishwasher -Miroslav’s attention flickers. Beside me. “There.” Ilya points. “Your hand is to his left.”

“How far?”

“I am asking.”

Sasha knocks twice in the same place.

Close hand. My papa.

Relief begins to pool warm in his chest. “Probably twenty centimetres.”

“Probably?”

“He does not use the metric system, Sasha.”

Sasha nudges him with his shoe. “Does he use imperial?” Before Ilya can take a swipe at him Miroslav shifts again, forcing himself deeper around the pipe. There is more kitchen.

“There is not,” Ilya reasons, as calmly as he can. “There is only dangerous electricity and neighbour apartments.”

Who is neighbour?

“Somebody who will have pest control remove you from the wall.” Miroslav pauses, considering this through the hazy delight of his expedition. New friend?

“No, Miroslav. Death.”

It doesn’t deter him as much as Ilya might’ve hoped, though the comfort of the pipe seems to win out over further exploration - Miroslav settles his chin across it and sighs, the release of his body bleeding through Ilya’s until his own shoulders begin to unknot themselves. Sasha lowers himself beside him. “Well?”

“He is comfortable.”

“Wonderful. Can you ask him to come out?”

Ilya turns his head - they’re close enough that he can see dust settled in Sasha’s eyelashes. “I hope he remains in there until your hair goes grey.” Sasha smiles sweetly. “You’ve seen to that already.”

“I did not cause your premature ageing,” Ilya says, despite the fact there’s not a singular silvery strand he can detect, even from this close. “No, it must’ve been the ferrets.”

There’s every possibility they could bicker like this until Miroslav reaches old age and dies peacefully inside Ilya’s wall, so he claps a hand directly over Sasha’s face and shoves him away. “Remove the other kickboard.” Sasha licks at his palm, cackling when Ilya rips his hand back. “I tried, the clips are stuck at the other end.”

“Then pull harder,” Ilya glares, scrubbing his hand down his jeans. “Wow, I hadn’t thought of that.”

The next kickboard comes away after several minutes of swearing, releasing without warning and sending Sasha sprawling backwards - Isaak appears from the hallway, suitably engaged. Noise! “No,” Ilya warns.

Isaak advances anyway, slinking forward to clamber up Sasha’s trouser leg before disappearing beneath the untucked hem of his shirt. Sasha’s cheeks flush. “Isaak, not now.”

Isaak’s head emerges through his collar, paws braced against Sasha’s chest and his whiskers tickling beneath his jaw. He has no interest in the rescue, apparently confident Miroslav has either transcended his earthly form or will return when he becomes bored - instead, his attention locks onto Ilya again, suitably confident in his papa’s protection. Mouth.

Ilya thinks he’d make quite a nice coat lining. “No -” Isaak transfers himself to Sasha’s shoulder, stretching his entire body towards him. Let me smell him.

“No!”

You enjoyed him.

“Be silent.”

His mouth was inside yours.

Affronted, Ilya rears back like distance might help. “Sasha, control your fiend.”

Sasha, who can’t understand a word Isaak is saying, clenches his jaw. “Don’t speak to him like that, Ilya. Do you have to be so abrasive?”

“He is discussing my private life!”

Isaak almost falls from Sasha’s shoulder in his effort to reach Ilya’s face, correcting his balance by driving every claw into his shirt. New male tastes sweet.

Ilya jerks backwards. “You do not know what he tastes like.” Isaak leans closer, delighted by the confirmation. You know. “That is enough.”

“Stop arguing with my ferret,” Sasha says, attempting to unhook Isaak from his clothes. “You sound insane.”

“I am arguing because he is a pervert -” The other man only shrugs. “You slept with me for four years.”

“Exactly,” Ilya says under his breath. “I recognise one.” Sasha succeeds in lifting Isaak, but the ferret transforms into something infinitely longer, sliding through his hands until his back feet find the floor. The moment he’s released, he bolts towards Ilya again - he blocks him with the discarded kickboard, desperate now. “Focus on Miroslav!” Isaak tries to climb it. Perhaps he found new male. “Shane does not live inside a dishwasher.”

Something in Sasha’s face flickers. “You’re on first name terms now?” Ilya realises his mistake too late. “We have been on first name terms.”

“You referred to him as Mr Hollander up until yesterday, even during telling me where you’re going to renew your vows.”

“This is professional respect,” Ilya plasters what’s hopefully a convincing smile on his face (it isn’t).

“Was your cock professionally in his ass?”

“It was not in his ass!”

Isaak chirps in delight. It nearly was. Ilya drops the board on top of him, knowing full well how this game goes -Isaak flattens beneath it and pops out from the other side, entirely unbothered. He’s about to launch into a furious lecture when Katerina darts through the gap left beneath the cabinets - Ilya lunges without thinking, catching her around the middle before her front half can vanish into the darkness. Her claws scrabble against the tile as she stretches towards Miroslav, distress prickling hot through Ilya’s chest. Miroslav! “He is fine,” Ilya grunts, trying to pull her backwards, but Katerina only lengthens with every centimetre he gains.

I will find him.

“No, one ferret inside the wall is sufficient.”

Miroslav, I am coming.

From within, Miroslav lifts his head. Kat? Yes! Where are you?

My house.

Katerina abruptly stops struggling - Ilya’s relief lasts until her interest replaces the panic entirely and she pushes forward all over again. I will see. I am coming to Miroslav’s house.

“No!” He pulls hard enough that she comes free in a sudden rush of fur, landing against his chest while he rolls onto his back. “You will not see -there is nothing to see.”

House inside house, Miroslav tells her. Katerina wriggles in his grip. Are we moving here now? “We are not moving into my dishwasher,” Ilya pleads as Sasha takes her from him, tucking her securely beneath his arm despite her increasingly elaborate attempts to slide out through his elbow. “Put her in the carrier.”

“She escapes the carrier!”

“They all escape because somebody keeps opening it.” Both of them turn towards Natalya - she remains on the table, perfectly still beside Ilya’s neglected vase of daffodil bulbs (that might honestly just be spring onions, and at this point he’s too afraid to check). Her eyes are fixed on the space above Sasha’s head, though there’s nothing visible he can detect there and giving no indication she’s noticed their accusation, although Ilya can feel the slow, strange hum of her attention resting on all of them simultaneously.

“You released them,” he says.

Natalya looks at him. We wished to leave. Sasha narrows his eyes. “What did she say?”

“That she is guilty.”

Natalya lowers her head, peering through the table as though she can see something moving beneath it. He went where the house meets ocean. Ilya hesitates. “Behind the dishwasher?”

Yes.

“You could have confirmed this earlier.”

You did not ask me.

He stares at her, and Natalya stares serenely back. Unlike the others, her thoughts are never a scatter of whatever she’s doing at that exact moment, preferring to keep pockets of knowledge to herself, gathered through sounds nobody else notices and scents she’s in no hurry to pursue. It’s unsurprising she’s known exactly where Miroslav is for most of the rescue, though she possesses no discernable supernatural ability beyond being a ferret (Ilya wouldn’t stake money on it, however), and she just simply hadn’t considered this worth volunteering.

Ilya frowns. “You are very unsettling.”

Natalya’s nose twitches. Thank you. Sasha deposits Katerina inside the carrier and secures the door using one of Ilya’s discarded charging cables, wrapping it through the bars, though it isn’t a permanent solution.

“Keep Isaak away from the gap,” he says, stepping over the fallen kickboard.

Ilya crosses his arms. “You keep him away.”

“He’s listening to you.”

“He has never listened to me in his life!”

Isaak, having become bored with Ilya’s defensive manoeuvres, is now inside Sasha’s trouser leg. Papa has leg for me. Extracting him requires Sasha to unfasten his trousers and reach down inside them, an indignity Ilya watches with petty satisfaction until the ferret finally appears headfirst at Sasha’s waistband, blinking. Dark tunnel, he announces, pleased with himself. The other man sets him in the carrier beside Katerina, and sets about inspecting the brackets fastening the dishwasher beneath the countertop -Ilya watches over his shoulder while Sasha removes the first screw, placing it carefully in an empty bottle cap so they aren’t lost.

“I’m going to ease it forward,” he says. “Tell me if Miroslav moves.”

“He will move.”

Sasha grips the edges of the dishwasher and pulls - the rubber feet squeal along the floor and Ilya feels it through Miroslav first in a gust of cooler air. Miroslav’s house is moving.

“Not house,” Ilya says, closing his eyes in an attempt to focus. “Remain where you are.”

The darkness around Miroslav begins to diminish, and the bitterness of the pipe becomes stronger near his face as Sasha pulls again, much slower this time, and the appliance creeps further out from beneath the counter. Miroslav’s attention lurches. Opening. “Stop.”

Sasha freezes in place. “What?”

“He is directly behind it now - you will crush him if you pull at the wrong angle.”

“I’m not pulling at an angle,” Sasha mutters, but he’s paled slightly. “You are always crooked. Your morals, Sashka.” Ignoring this, Sasha lowers himself beside the widened gap and reaches an arm into the darkness. “Miroslav?”

A dark nose materialises behind one of the hoses before disappearing again. “No,” Ilya says. “Come back.”

Sasha crouches beside him, squinting. “I saw him.”

“Congratulations.”

“Can you get him?”

“He will bite.”

“He doesn’t bite!”

Ilya leans to reach across where Sasha’s twisted himself against the dishwasher, but Miroslav retreats as soon as his fingertips approach, pushing himself back between the pipe and the wall. The dishwasher can’t move any further without disconnecting the water feed, and behind it there’s enough loose insulation to make every inch of Ilya’s skin itch in sympathy.

“Come out,” he says.

No.

“You cannot remain.”

I can.

“Sasha will pull you out by force.”

“Gladly,” Sasha nods - occasionally they can still coparent. Ilya tries persuasion, not sensing any particular inclination to agree. “Katerina is upset.”

She found me.

“This is not helping,” Ilya mutters.

“What does he want?”

“Nothing,” Ilya says, helpless. “He has achieved everything he wants - he is surrounded by dirt, and causing problems.”

Sasha sits back on his heels, careful not to jostle the dishwasher. “So, you when we climbed Ben Nevis?”

Ilya ignores him and reaches again, receiving an immediate flash of teeth before he can close his hand around anything. “We need food.”

“The duck.”

Anya’s attention stirs from the bedroom. My duck? Sasha, you’re on thin ice.

Sasha retrieves a brown paper bag from the pocket of his jacket, left hanging over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Anya recognises the sound immediately, and her outrage travels through the apartment with enough force to make Ilya wince.

He brought that for me!

“You are hiding,” Ilya calls, sending up a silent prayer that they’re not about to spend the rest of the night arguing - he hates arguing with Anya. “Emergency tax, and I will buy more.”

You are a weak man, Ilya Rozanov.

Fair enough. “Focus on your television.”

Sasha rummages inside it, and the smell spreads through the kitchen - it’s flavoured mildly (Ilya had ensured this) and cured without salt, usually served with a pretentious Picasso of purees and shaved egg yolk Ilya had once said resembles his toenail clippings, but regardless every ferret reacts at once. Isaak abandons his attempt to chew through the charging cable and throws himself against the carrier door, and Katerina’s anxiety vanishes beneath sudden hunger. Even Natalya, still sitting on the table, turns her head - Miroslav goes rigid.

Duck. Papa’s duck?

“Yes,” Ilya says, taking a piece from Sasha. “Very special. Your papa is not entirely useless - he can make duck.”

Mine?

“If you come out.”

Mine first?

“Miroslav, nobody else is inside the wall. What do you think?” There’s a long silence as Ilya holds the strip closer to the gap, allowing the smell to drift behind the dishwasher. Miroslav follows it, his body squeezing carefully around the pipe - first his hindquarters appear, round and dusty, backing towards them with no apparent awareness of how vulnerable this makes him. His rear feet feel for the edge of the cabinet, his claws scraping over the floor.

Sasha reaches, but Ilya yanks him back, shaking his head no. “He will go forward if you touch.”

Miroslav reverses another few steps, and from here Ilya can see the tiny pieces of insulation clinging to his tail - somewhat resembling a very itchy feather duster, he pauses with half his body exposed. Duck now. “Come further.”

Miroslav has come.

“Not enough.”

Enough for duck.

Ilya moves it away, and Miroslav backs out with such speed that he lands directly in Sasha’s lap, twists upright and snatches the duck from Ilya’s fingers before either of them can secure him. He hits the floor chewing in a cloud of dust, his eyes bright with triumph. Sasha catches him with both hands. “You absolute little shit -” Miroslav chews faster, completely unconcerned. There was a house inside house.

“Yes,” Ilya says. “We have discussed, and you could have died inside it.” Miroslav swallows the remaining piece of duck, wriggling free from Sasha’s hands to bolt directly back towards the exposed gap. “Oh no you don’t -”

Ilya throws himself sideways, his forearm blocking the opening just before Miroslav’s head reaches it and the ferret collides with his wrist, rebounding and attempting to climb over. My house. “It is my house!”

Sasha grabs for him, but Miroslav takes advantage of the chaos to make another attempt - the other man gets him by the hips this time, hauling him backwards while Miroslav stretches towards the gap with both front paws. House!

“You’ve lost house privileges,” Sasha tells him through gritted teeth. Ilya shoves the kickboard across the opening before he can try again, holding it in place with his knee. “Put him in the carrier.” The moment Miroslav hits the floor beside it, Katerina begins screaming -her relief unfurls through Ilya with such strength that his knees wobble as she presses herself against the bars, poking her nose through the gap until Sasha unwinds the cable and she can scruff him properly. Miroslav. Bad place. Bad Miroslav. You are a bad Miroslav.

He twists away with a whimper. Good place. You were gone.

I was in my house.

Bad house.

House inside -

Bad Miroslav!

Her scolding arrives with a fury too great for her small frame, each burst of it accompanied by another inspection. Miroslav has no injuries beyond some pinkness around his nose and enough insulation in his fur to qualify him for an Energy Performance Certificate, but Katerina continues until she’s satisfied every limb remains attached. Her relief falters when she scents him properly, and Ilya’s stomach drops out from inside him -Miroslav’s familiar smell is muddied by grime and a fibreglass tang, and Katerina backs away with her nose wrinkled, confusion creeping into the space where panic had been.

Wrong smell.

“It is still him,” Ilya says quickly. “Be nice to your brother, yes?” House smell.

“Yes.”

She sniffs again, then sneezes. Are we moving here now? “No,” Ilya says. “None of you are moving here. You have a perfectly good home at your papa’s evil mansion.”

Sasha rolls his eyes, but when Katerina begins grooming her brother’s face with tiny licks, his face softens enough that it's completely unconvincing. Isaak rattles the carrier door. I also want to move. “You are not invited,” Ilya tells him, never meaning it more. New male lives here? Mouth male?

“Stop calling him this.”

Sasha glances down at the lightest ferret, scritching his quivering face. “What’s he saying?”

“He wants duck.”

“Give him some.”

Ilya would rather die. “He does not deserve it.” Sasha pulls another strip from the packet and pushes it through the bars, where Isaak seizes it and turns his back on Ilya without another word. “I hate the way you raise them,” Ilya mutters. “They are criminals. Isaak steals my underwear.”

“He likes the smell,” Sasha says pleasantly, double looping the cable for good measure. “Where’s Natalya?”

They turn in unison - the table is empty. It takes Ilya a moment to notice, because Natalya’s absence rarely feels like one - she has an uncanny talent in withdrawing into stillness so completely that his awareness passes over her in the same way a person might overlook an old coat hanging on the back of a door, unless he’s really concentrating on her, only realising later that he doesn’t own that coat and it has eyes.

He scans the kitchen but there’s nothing beneath the chairs or thankfully, around the dishwasher.

Isaak cocks his head. She has taken the yellow dust. Ilya stops. “What?”

The yellow dust.

They find Natalya halfway beneath the armchair with the bag of nutritional yeast clamped between her teeth - she’s walking backwards as she attempts to drag it into the darkness, and a thin trail of flakes doesn’t make her particularly difficult to track.

Mine now, she says, her tail shivering in excitement. “Yes,” Ilya says, not bothering to contain his delight. “Keep it.”

Sasha reaches past him and snatches the bag from her mouth - Natalya doesn’t resist, disappearing the remainder of the way beneath the armchair and leaving Sasha holding the battered bag against his chest. “Ferrets can’t eat yeast.”

Ilya shrugs. “Neither can I.”

“You ate two servings of it pretending you're the fucking mayor of Greenpeace,” Sasha snaps. “Does Mr Hollander’s come have to be vegan certified before you swallow?”

Several responses present themselves without possessing the aggression this question deserves, so he settles for the much simpler solution of violence -Sasha, unfortunately having known him well enough to anticipate this, stuffs the yeast behind his back and sidesteps him, laughing as Ilya catches nothing but but his sleeve.

“You are jealous,” Ilya accuses, reaching around him. “Of Shane?”

“Of my sustainable lifestyle -”

“You’ve had so many bacon sandwiches in my bed that I’m never getting the smell off the sheets -” Sasha holds the bag above his head now, which might’ve been an effective strategy if Ilya weren’t slightly taller. They grapple for it and he almost gets it, but Sasha shoves his cold hand inside the open front of his shirt and Ilya recoils with a yelp. “Your hands are freezing! Fuck, Sasha -”

“Poor baby.”

Ilya makes to grab at him again. “I will break every finger -”

“You’ll need them if you ever want me to feed Anya while you’re off making heart eyes at a client again.”

From inside the carrier, Miroslav perks up. Again.

“No,” Ilya says, and Katerina, still attempting to lick insulation from the side of her brother’s face, wholeheartedly agrees. “Whatever you’re saying, that’s enough out of you,” Sasha leans to double check the cable before returning the yeast to Ilya. “Put it somewhere Natalya can’t reach.”

“This place does not exist.”

“Then throw it away.”

Ilya clutches the bag, absurdly protective. “Shane bought this for me.”

“How thoughtful of him.”

Ilya shoulders past him to shove the bag into a cupboard beside several baking trays he’s never used - it’s already damaged beyond repair, so he traps it beneath a Le Creuset that had last seen active service when Sveta attempted to teach him how to make a coq au vin. He’d been responsible for chopping the onions, cut himself, and spent the remainder of the evening watching her cook from the sofa. Sasha doesn’t seem to care, setting about counting the ferrets again - there are still four, and though Natalya’s whereabouts are unknown, Ilya can just about hear her murmuring to herself from somewhere cosy down the hall.

It takes ten minutes or so to restore the dishwasher to its rightful place and the kickboards follow, though the clip Sasha had allegedly been unable to release now won’t stay attached, so Ilya ends up on his stomach holding one side in place while Sasha batters the other with the heel of his palm. They count the ferrets again before moving the carrier to the cooler end of the hallway - Isaak, Katerina, and Miroslav remain safely within it, and somehow in the argument over whether the dishwasher is too far back, Natalya has returned herself to it (apparently capable of phasing through the door) and is sleeping in a silvery lump near the back. Ilya’s never going to understand how she does that.

The bedroom door creaks, and Ilya almost startles at Anya’s voice as she cranes her neck out to peer at them. Are they contained?

“Yes,” Ilya promises, relieved there’s no duck related sulking (at least for now).

All of them?

He kneels beside the carrier. “Isaak, Katerina, Miroslav, Natalya. You are safe to emerge.”

Anya pushes the door wider, venturing into the hallway. Tell Sasha to put them in the car.

“They are not leaving yet.”

Why?

“Kitchen is contaminated.”

Anya turns to Sasha before inspecting the dust on the floor, and does (thankfully) appear to reach a reasonable conclusion - she approaches him with her body slinking low solely to indicate the depth and injury of the other man’s betrayal, pressing her nose to the back of his dusty hand. You gave my duck away.

Sasha scratches her beneath the chin. “Hello, sweetheart.” No, I don’t think you appreciate how serious this is. My duck, Sasha. “He used it for a good reason,” Ilya tells her, dragging the hoover towards the kitchen.

I’m going to remember this.

The hoover destroys any possibility of conversation for the next several minutes - Ilya works his way from the kitchen outwards to remove all evidence of Miroslav’s adventure and Natalya’s attempted robbery, while Sasha wipes down the dishwasher and the floor beneath it. By the time the apartment no longer looks like a B&Q, the fury that carried Ilya home has started to wear thin, just a little. It leaves him tired more than anything, overfull and acutely conscious that if Sasha hadn’t called, Ilya might presently be inside Shane Hollander instead of vacuuming fibreglass from beneath his own dining table.

This realisation nearly reignites him, but they dump themselves in the living room after a final count, leaving the dishwasher restored and the kickboards (mostly) aligned - Sasha’s phone has vibrated several times on the table since they started cleaning, and when it does so again he glances at the screen, types a swift reply, and turns it face down again. “You have work,” Ilya says, not particularly needing to interpret the look on his face.

Sasha lifts his shoulders. “They’ve survived without me before.”

“Who is cooking?”

“My sous chef.”

“Are they good?”

“She’s excellent,” he says with a nod, not reaching for his jacket. That’s all the encouragement Ilya really needs to retrieve the bottle of Barolo Sasha gave him for his twenty fourth birthday with explicit instructions not to waste it - Ilya had agreed at the time, then promptly forgotten the bottle existed behind several cheaper reds and a Christmas Baileys likely older than Anya.

Sasha, drawn in by the premise of alcohol, seems to sense this with great pleasure. “You’re opening that?”

“You have destroyed my kitchen,” Ilya twists the corkscrew into the bottle. “I am pouring this into your eyes.”

“Waste of a good vintage.”

Ilya pours into two glasses, and pours them badly (it isn’t his fault he’s more accustomed to Rachmaninoff or whatever Sauvignon the corner shop sells at 2 for £12) - sediment from the cork fills the first of them so he keeps it, passing Sasha the clear second glass without comment. Sasha deposits himself onto the sofa sighing just loud enough that it begins to grate, and Anya opts to occupy the space between his knees, her body tilted so she can continue monitoring the carrier.

Sasha takes his first sip. “So.”

“No.”

“How far did you get?”

“You sicken me,” Ilya mutters through the grit of sediment. “Shane asked me to go upstairs with him.”

Sasha’s face does something extraordinary. “And you left?”

“Yes, because you cannot control your children.”

“What did he say?”

“He said I could come upstairs - this was quite straightforward.”

“No, before that.”

“He said he wanted me.”

Sasha studies him across the living room, taking in whatever evidence remains after the journey home and impromptu destruction of his kitchen. “And you said no?”

“I said yes first - then I remembered I had to tell him. You know he dated Rose fucking Landry?”

“You stopped before sleeping with him,” he says slowly, his free hand frozen in Anya’s fur, who also happens to have turned to stone, glancing warily in between them. “Hang on, he knows Rose?” Ilya frowns. He’d expected mockery, perhaps a suggestion he hire legal counsel before he’s sued, but the look on his face is uncharacteristically strained. “Yes - have you damaged your hearing inside my dishwasher?” The other man glances at his phone again, almost absently, and had it been anyone else Ilya wouldn’t have noticed. Unfortunately for Sasha, Ilya had spent years committing every variation of his dishonesty to memory, and his bullshit senses are tingling.

“What?”Ilya prompts, when he receives nothing back. Not for the first time, he ponders upon the morality of hiring an Etsy witch that can turn him into a frog or something, if only just to get a (likely traumatising) glimpse into his brain. “Why is your face like that?”

“Just Luca,” Sasha says, waving him off with a shitty attempt at a convincing smile. “Jealous again?”

He rolls his eyes. “Are you in love with him, or does Landry need to warn Commission of Public Health that you are on the prowl once more?” Sasha takes another drink. “Don’t be disgusting.” This means yes, or as close to yes as Sasha ever comes without being held at literal gunpoint. “You have told him about me?”

“I tell everyone about you - it’s how I warn the community,” Sasha takes his phone from the table and pockets it. “I should go home.”

“Yes.”

Neither of them move, and Anya reaches to settle her chin across Ilya’s thigh with her eyes closed. The carrier has gone quiet now that the ferrets have exhausted themselves, and unsurprisingly Sasha shifts only to pour himself more wine.

“I thought you had to leave,” Ilya mutters, gracefully allowing the top up of his own glass.

“I’m only staying in case you want to fuck.”

That hadn’t been anywhere near an actual pass at getting into his pants, so Ilya doesn’t really feel the need to explain that he’s so committed to Shane Hollander that his cock has already memorised every bump and ridge of the mouth it hasn’t even been inside yet. “I do not.”

“Then I’ll finish this glass and go.”

Ilya flicks a piece of cork at him, but it falls short and lands on the rug. They watch a show about octopuses without speaking for a while, watching tentacles unscrew a jar to reach a crab, and Isaak wakes long enough to press his face to the bars, captivated. Ilya translates nothing he says and Sasha doesn’t ask, he only drinks his wine and stays through to the end of the episode and half of the next. By the time he stands, the bottle is empty and Ilya’s head is blissfully fuzzy.

“You cannot drive,” he says. “You should order a car. Shane ordered me a car, did you know?”

“I already did,” Sasha frowns at his own attempt to zip his jacket up, but does manage it eventually. “A car, fuck. That’s basically a ring.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, solemn. “I hope Luca discovers you have given him rabies. Tell him I said hello.”

“He’ll be thrilled by your concern. I hope Shane serves that lasagne at your wedding.”

Ilya smiles as he opens the door for him. “Don’t come back.” The other man lifts the carrier, peering dazedly out at the night through the complex window to where a scuffed BMW idles on the other side of the road. “I’d rather die. Text me tomorrow.”

Ilya slams the door directly in his face and laughs the entire way to bed.

•————•

By the time Shane appears at the end of the path, Ilya has already considered chucking the boom box in a hedge on several occasions - he doesn’t, because he’d still have to carry the cards home again and Anya had watched him write them with deep concern, so he can’t prove her right so soon. She’d (very sensibly) suggested he simply explain himself with his mouth, but Ilya had informed her that his mouth was exactly where the trouble started, and can’t be trusted beyond what he’d like to do with it should Shane not run screaming from the cemetary. The plan had seemed ,uch more reasonable last night, after the wine - he’d text Shane to ask if he could meet him here (amongst the graves was a tactical decision, because it’d be very easy to simply throw himself in one if it doesn't go the way he planned), and Shane had agreed without demanding an explanation. Neutral territory, Ilya had thought, nice and quiet and far away enough from the Stomach Strangler to allow him to produce at least one single honest sentence.

Ilya has dressed for the occasion. His suit is a steel grey and he’s careful to keep the stack of white cards close his chest. The boom box he’d retrieved from the nearest Oxfam waits patiently on the bench behind him - it works, and Ilya knows this because he’s tested it twice, and each time the opening of “Only You” has travelled across the graves with such startling volume that he’s had to wrestle the controls down before it quite literally wakes the dead.

A crow watches him from the branch of a nearby yew. Ilya has been trying not to listen to it, but the bird’s interest is difficult to ignore now Shane is approaching. Large male displays. “No,” Ilya says under his breath, distracted.

The crow lowers its head to inspect the cards and lingers over the absence of anything else. No food or bright thing? Poor display. Honestly a little offended at such quick judgement, he turns his head to frown at it. “This is not a courtship. Not yet, anyway.” Mate comes.

Ilya’s stomach lurches - Shane (because he’s not an idiot) is wearing in jeans and that soft, sunshiney sweater he’s seen in his wardrobe, and for a few merciful seconds his expression contains only the appropriate confusion at having been summoned to a graveyard on a Friday afternoon. Ilya can pinpoint the exact moment he notices the suit, his eyes darting to the boom box, before widening on the stack of cards. He turns a pretty shade of crimson before he’s even blinked.

“What are you doing?”

Ilya attempts a smile. “I asked you to meet me, because I need to tell you something. Some things.”

Shane’s gaze flicks to the bench again, taking in the rigid set of his shoulders - even the tips of his ears are red. “Why are you dressed like that? You look like an undertaker.”

Ouch, but okay. Ilya tries not to take that too hard. “This is a serious conversation.”

“Okay,” Shane says cautiously. “Why does a serious conversation need music?”

Ilya bends and presses play before his nerves can explode into smithereens and he ends up telling Shane he’s been to the moon - the tape hisses, and trusty Alison Moyet, who has not once let him down thus far, follows the opening notes of the song Ilya has felt in his heart even from an early age. Shane gapes at him. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Ilya, turn it off -”

“It has barely started!” Ilya’s hands are sweating, but if he stops now Shane will ask questions, and if Shane asks questions Ilya will answer them terribly - the cards are the only part of the plan he trusts. They cannot panic and lie, nor can they ask Shane his opinion on reverse cowboy, and most importantly they’ve been written in permanent marker. He raises the first one.

PLEASE ALLOW ME TO FINISH

Shane’s shaking his head frantically. “Ilya -”

THIS WILL BE EASIER IF YOU DO NOT SPEAK “It really won’t.”

Ilya huffs. “You are speaking already.”

“Yes,” Shane says desperately, holding both hands up between them like he’s physically fending it off. “You’ve brought me to a cemetery and started playing Yazoo at me -”

“There is context coming,” Ilya assures him, gravely moving the second card to the back of the stack. The wind has picked up now, but he tightens his grip and presents the next.

PORK DOES NOT LIKE ME

Shane’s mouth is doing something very strange - it could be shock, Ilya supposes, considering how firmly he’d applied himself to the lie. It could easily also be upset, which only has his pulse thump harder. HE HAS NEVER LIKED ME

“Ilya, can you please put those down?”

“No.”

“Then can we at least go somewhere else? I’m literally begging you, I think there’s mourners here -”

IN FACT HE HATES ME

Shane glances desperately over his shoulder at a woman kneeling beside a grave, who’s stopped her listless arranging of hydrangeas and is looking directly at them. Along the path, a man and a young child have paused, not even attempting to disguise their curiousity.

“People are watching,” Shane hisses, his eyebrows climbing higher and higher into his hairline.

Ilya isn’t particularly concerned by this - if his committment to radical honesty truly has begun, he may as well be honest with the world too. Still, it seems to matter to Shane, so he gives a reassuring wave with his free hand. “They will think we are filming something, do not worry.”

“With what camera?” Shane rubs a hand over his burning face. “Ilya, it looks like you’re fucking proposing.” Ilya falters, bemused. The woman beside the grave meets his eye and offers him a small, encouraging smile.

“Oh,” he says.

“Yes. Oh.”

The crow caws above them, vindicated. Mate display. “I am not proposing,” Ilya tells him, unsure how anyone could possibly have reached that conclusion when he’s being so very brave about coming clean.

“Great - could you maybe tell everybody else?”

“It would be premature,” Ilya says, pretty sure that’s what a normal person would say. “Not impossible, obviously - I have given some thought to where we would live, but you should not worry, I would not choose anything without consulting you, and there is no need for an enormous wedding. Shane, I believe, like Lana, that when you know you know. You find your person, and everything makes sense, and I think you are my -” Every drop of blood has drained from Shane’s face. “Stop - stop. Literally do not say another word right now -”

The woman beside the grave has leaned forwards, her eyes bright. “What? Why?”

The other man’s voice is barely more than a pained wheeze. “You’re proposing to me!”

“No,” Ilya frowns, trying to retrace the conversation only to discover he had, in fact, been about to produce a ring he doesn’t have from his back pocket. “Ah, sorry. I became distracted.”

“You became -”

“This is a confession,” he says firmly, raising the next card before Shane can pursue it. “Not a proposal.”

I LIED BECAUSE I WANTED ANOTHER APPOINTMENT Whatever Shane had been about to say vanishes, and although his face remains tomato red, there’s an attention beneath his horror - Ilya notices and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

“I see,” Shane says slowly, having to raise his voice a little above the chorus.

Ilya points meaningfully towards the second card now buried somewhere at the back of the stack.

“Right,” Shane mutters. “God forbid I interrupt the process.” Ilya moves to the next card, but the wind takes it sailing over Shane’s shoulder, skimming the grass before fluttering down against the base of a nearby headstone.

BECAUSE I WANTED TO SEE YOU

Shane turns to look at it, incredulous. “Leave it.”

“No,” Ilya says, already peering over at it. “This is a very important one.”

“I think its contribution has been made -”

“Please retrieve it,” Ilya says, as pleasantly as he possibly can.

“What? You retrieve it.”

“If I move, I may run away.”

For several seconds Shane just stands there with his shoulders pulled up to his ears, but the card remains displayed to half the cemetery - with a look that might actually be venomous enough to set him on fire, Shane marches towards the grave to yank it free from a cluster of dandelion leaves, and Ilya shuffles to the next card while he’s gone.

I AM ALSO NOT VEGAN

The boom box chooses that moment to lose it, and Alison abandons him with a splutter as the speakers grind, then stop completely. The silence that follows is mutinous, and Shane points at it with an accusing finger. “Did it die?”

Ilya is going to take a hatchet to it the moment he gets home. “I believe so.”

“Good.”

“It is not good - there was intended to be music beneath all cards. I had planned it.”

“Ilya, I can’t emphasise enough how much worse that would be,” Shane returns the runaway card to him with a pained look, holding it against Ilya’s chest until he’s forced to take hold of it.

THE RSPCA DOES NOT KNOW ME

Shane inhales sharply in what he assumes is an attempt to remain calm. “I would really like you to stop now.”

“There are three remaining,” Ilya’s fumbles as he moves the card behind the stack, speeding up now he’s beginning to discover the limits of the other man’s patience.

HAYDEN PIKE IS TERRIBLE

I LIED ABOUT LIKING HIM

“That needed two lines?”

“He is very terrible. I am sorry to be the one to inform you of this, Shane, but this one needed to be unambiguous.”

“Well, thank god,” Shane grinds out. “Everything else has been so restrained, after all.”

His hands are trembling now.

PORK CANNOT PLAY MONOPOLY

Shane stares. “What?”

“He cannot.”

“That’s the worst one yet.”

The woman tending the grave gathers her empty wrappers and heads back towards the path, giving him another gentle smile as she passes - Shane watches her go, utterly resigned as Ilya lifts the final card. YOUR LASAGNE CAUSED GREAT GASTROINTESTINAL HARM Something in Shane’s jaw ticks. “You ate two portions.”

“I did not want to upset you,” he mumbles, ready for the ground to open beneath him and swallow him whole.

“And this is better?”

“No,” Ilya admits, heat creeping across his own cheeks. “This is much worse.”

“Please stop making a scene and talk to me,” Shane says, softer now their audience is dispersing and Yazoo isn’t wailing at full volume. “Just talk -you don’t need any of this.”

“I did need it.”

“Well, it’s over. You used all the cards, so you’re going to have to.” This is a fucking catastrophe. Ilya looks blankly down at the stack as if another page might have appeared beneath the final one, offering a concluding statement capable of moving him safely into coherent remorse. He hadn’t planned this far (this is Sasha’s fault, he decides, for ever buying him the Barolo in the first place) - without the words waiting in his hands, he’s never been more painfully aware of the fact he’s got nothing left to defend himself with.

“Ilya,” Shane prompts, crossing his arms.

“Pork threatened me at the first appointment,” he says quietly, shame trickling cold down his spine. “When you were in the kitchen. He told me to leave and I should have told you then, but you were so pleased when I said we had formed a connection, and I had already - I mean, he had not formed anything. He hated me on first sight - I knew this.” Shane’s eyebrows furrow, understandably confused that his precious Porkie could be anything but sweet. Ilya itches to tell him he would rather babysit Pennywise than Pork Hollander, but he swallows it. “He threatened you?”

“Yes, many times.” Ilya clears his throat. “I represented this as affection because I wanted another appointment. I knew if I said he did not need me, there was no reason for you to invite me back, so every time you asked whether another session would help I told you yes. It did not help him. There was no treatment, really. Mostly we argue.”

“What do you mean, you argue?”

Ilya shrugs, miserable. “He wanted me gone, and I wanted to remain. He threatened to tell you and I knew you could not hear him, so I let you believe the opposite. He urinated in my shoes.”

“Ilya -”

“Then yesterday,” he says swiftly, staring very hard at his feet. “The oven. This was deliberate - he was kind enough to explain his intention beforehand.”

Shane says nothing, and Ilya searches his silence for mercy. “I lied about veganism because you had bought food for me,” he continues, too far gone to stop now. “You were pleased you had found things I could eat, so correcting you felt cruel. RSPCA was panic - I wanted you to think I was good with animals, although evidence against this already walks your hallways.”

PORK DOES NOT LIKE ME crinkles in the wind. “I had many opportunities. Every time you thanked me, I could have told you. When you trusted me to stay in your home, when you worried about him - I lied, or I told you only enough truth to prevent you asking again.” To Ilya’s sheer terror, his eyes have started to sting. “On the sofa, I wanted to go upstairs with you,” he says. “I wanted it enough that I nearly did. Stopping was the first honest decision I managed to make with you, and even then I did not explain. I left you there and arranged this because I was afraid I would become selfish again.” The breeze takes the card, and he watches it soar off the bench and up into the air.

“I lied because I wanted you - then you were happy Pork trusted someone, and I did not want to take this from you.”

When Shane reaches to dab underneath his eyes, something in Ilya shatters entirely - this is much, much worse than anger. Anger he can withstand (probably), but making him cry fills him with the very sense of dread he’d had standing in his kitchen, informing him about the wrongful loss of his grandmother.

“I am sorry,” he says quickly, his voice pitchy with panic. “I know sorry does not make this better, and I do not expect you to forgive me. I will refund every appointment, obviously, and you do not need to speak to me again. I will send money and you can block me, or I can block you first if this makes it easier, although this may injure me beyond repair, so maybe you should -”

Shane doubles over at the waist.

Ilya stops breathing. “Please do not be sick -”

Fresh terror sinks through him - he actually is going to have to fund a one way ticket to the moon now he’s broken Shane Hollander. Pork will be delighted to learn he’s left the planet, so perhaps that’s a reasonable price he has to pay for the harm he’s caused. Ilya takes an uncertain step forwards. “I will go,” he promises. “You do not have to look at me.” Shane lifts his head, and what Ilya sees there makes no sense at all. There aren’t any tears - his eyes are dry, and he’s smiling. Grinning. Ilya stares at him. “Are you having - Shane, are you okay?”

“I’m just fucking with you,” Shane chuckles, straightening up and carefully resituating his sweater across his shoulders. “Now, was that so hard?”

“I - what?”

The other man rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling, a deliciously soft twitch either side of his lips that does very little to calm his racing heart. “Ilya, I know.”

“You know what?”

“You’re not vegan.”

Ilya, for once in his life, is stunned into singular syllables. “Ah.” For what truly feels like hours, this appears to be the only response he’s capable of. Shane is supposed to be receiving terrible information, not providing it, and Ilya wishes he’d had the foresight to write a ‘the love of my life is evil and it turns me on’ card just so he’s got something a bit more substantial to say.

“You knew.”

Shane nods, still catching his breath from a bout of very genuine laughter. “Yeah, I knew.”

“Before today?”

“Yes.”

Shane covers his mouth, which Ilya finds unnecessarily unkind considering what that mouth had been doing to him the previous evening, but he manages to drag himself under control. “You cooked lasagne for me.”

“I did,” he says cheerfully. “Don't forget the nutritional yeast.” Ilya could never, but it doesn’t fix the current problem at hand - he’s halfway through trying to figure out if a chicken wing could’ve fallen out of his pocket at Shane’s house, perhaps a sausage, before surrendering to the realisation he has no fucking clue how he could prove that. “How did you know?”

“Rose told me.”

The relief that had been starting to bloom warm behind his ribs is forcibly ripped from him, and begins to crawl to the nearest free plot to bury itself. “Rose.”

“Yeah.”

“Landry?”

“How many Roses do you know?”

“One too many,” Ilya mutters, glancing reflexively around the cemetery as though that terrible woman might be concealed behind a headstone, watching the success of her operation through binoculars. “Why would Rose know what I eat?”

“She heard it from someone else,” Shane cocks his head, his face impossibly merry for the dire news spilling forth from his lips. “She also said you’ve never volunteered for the RSPCA in your life.” Ilya’s hands ball into fists. “She cannot possibly know this. Shane, she is a very judgemental person, and -”

“No, but Luca knows.”

“Luca,” Ilya echoes, beginning to feel like he’s watching a two lane pile up in slow motion.

“You know, Luca Haas? He works at Rose’s practice.”

“Luca Haas.”

Shane watches him for a moment, quite possibly weighing how much pleasure he should take in what comes next. “Sasha told him.” The guillotine is released. Metaphorical, of course - Ilya hasn’t built a physical one for his ex boyfriend just yet, but there’s bound to be a YouTube tutorial somewhere. “Sasha told Luca about me.” Another breeze whips through the cemetery, carrying one of the cards (the gastrointestinal distress one) until it nudges Ilya’s ankle - Shane traps it flat beneath his shoe before it can escape. “He said you were pretending to be vegan for a man you liked, and that the man had a really angry sphynx cat.”

“Pork is,” Ilya has to take a deep breath to avoid the next part triggering a gag. “He has a very distinctive personality. This cat could be anybody.”

“Sure,” Shane clicks his tongue, unbothered. “He also said you’d been mauled while cat sitting and kept inventing extra sessions so you could keep going back.”

Ilya is outraged. Outraged. “I did not tell him this!”

“You definitely told him enough to get there.”

“I tell Sasha many things in confidence.”

Shane beams at him. “I heard we’re having a July wedding?” This brings Ilya up short. In retrospect, he should perhaps have considered that Landry’s evil influence is enough to corrupt the innocent faced nurse (even if Sasha had got to him first), and that he might recognise the name of an animal who has almost certainly accrued a substantial internal file. Luca Haas will pay, at some point after justice has been served to all others involved following Sasha’s imminent execution. “I am open to August,” Ilya says testily, snatching the card from his shoe. Something in the other man’s face softens a tiny bit, though he’s still very clearly trying to look stern in between his laughter. “Luca knew Pork was registered at the practice, and when Sasha described you, he realised the guy you were doing all this for was probably Rose’s ex.”

“Because I am Russian? That is vastly -”

“No,” Shane cuts in, gentler this time. “Because you’re Ilya Rozanov.” He waves this off. “Very common name. There are many.”

“Not like you.”

This is momentarily distracting, though Ilya can’t decide whether it’s presumptious to be flattered. “And Luca told Rose.”

“Who connected the tall Russian man with the Australian Shepherd she already knew, Anya, the pet psychic I’d hired, and the person I apparently hadn’t stopped talking about,” Shane scuffs his shoe, flushing again. “Anyway, she said there couldn’t possibly be two of you.”

“I do not like her.”

“She likes you.”

“She has ruined my life. Everyone knew?”

“Not everyone,” Shane says, now fidgeting with his own sleeve. Ilya can’t possibly accept this to be as simple. “Name one person.”

“You.”

Shane seems to enjoy this answer, because Ilya watches the satisfaction spread across his face in real time and experiences a sudden attraction so inappropriate to the moment that he might ask Pork to finish the oven job. “You are horrible, Shane Hollander. A very bad boy.”

“We’re well matched, then -”

“The recipe,” Ilya blurts, the sheer comprehension of Landry’s crimes dropping on him like a bucket of cold water. “You said Rose sent this to you.”

Shane shrugs, but he’s about as good of a liar as Ilya, apparently. “She sends me recipes sometimes.”

“Why this recipe?”

“It had good reviews.”

“You and Rose searched for it.”

“No.”

“Shane.”

“We searched for a few.”

Amid the betrayal, the lasagne swims behind his eyelids - browned deceptively well across the top with the sauce well made enough to smell as good as it did, then the layer of wallpaper paste in the middle so far from ricotta it may as well have been chewing gum.

“You fed me this on purpose,” he says slowly. “You said it was delicious!”

“You knew it was not.”

“I thought it might be okay,” Shane says, though his eyes are shining again. “It had four and a half stars -”

Unnacceptable. “You found the worst highly rated vegan lasagne.”

“You chose to eat seconds.”

“You watched every mouthful!” Ilya’s voice has risen in sheer disbelief. “How could I not, when your big deer eyes look at me like this!”

“I couldn’t believe you were still going,” Shane has to wipe at his eyes for real this time, his smile so wide that Ilya, despite himself, can’t help but return it. “I might’ve put the tofu layer in late - I’m so surprised it held its shape. I just wanted to see whether you’d say something.” Ilya gasps. “I could have contracted an illness.”

“It was tofu, not raw chicken. My mum eats it raw all the time -”

“You looked proud!” Ilya presses his hand to his chest, no longer certain whether the nausea he feels is fresh. “I thought you had tried very hard.”

“I did try hard - cooking something unevenly on purpose is more difficult than you’d think.”

This is monstrous. Shane Hollander is monstrous, and unfortunately Ilya is rock hard. If anything, this level of sabotage probably means they should marry sooner, or else his scheming might spread to smuggling a Linda McCartney burger into the food truck Ilya’s got open as a catering option for July. He’ll have to check if they’re available next week. “Was the kiss part of it?” Ilya hears himself say, startled himself at the question.

“No.”

Ilya searches his face. “You did not kiss me to test something?”

“No,” Shane says softly. “I kissed you because I wanted to.”

“And upstairs?”

“I wanted you upstairs. Me and Miroslav need to have a chat, I think.” Ilya doesn’t dispute this - if anything he’s quite happy to encourage it later. “You knew Pork does not like me?”

“I suspected it.”

“Why?”

“Because I came home from the sleep study and you looked like you’d been put in a Vitamix. Oh, and when Pork suddenly couldn’t move, the second you threatened him with more bonding sessions he made a miraculous recovery.”

Ilya glares. “He feared rehabilitation.”

“I’ve never once seen him be affectionate with you, not like he is with me, and all of your explanations kept getting weirder.” Shane says it sweetly enough to take the sting from it. “I’m anxious, Ilya - I’m not stupid.”

“I have never thought you stupid.”

“No, you thought I was oblivious. That’s it, isn’t it?” Ilya starts to deny it but can’t. “Not - not maliciously.”

“I knew something was off - I didn’t know what Pork was saying, obviously, or exactly how bad it had got,” Shane’s eyes find the bite marks no longer visible on his forearm underneath the suit. “I was watching him. He was furious, but he was eating, sleeping better, using the litter tray, acting normal whenever you weren’t there. If I thought he was actually unsafe, I wouldn’t have left you alone with him.”

“Pork was not unsafe.”

“I know. You were, apparently.”

“Why did you continue the appointments?”

Shane considers this without reaching for an easy answer. “I liked you, even when it became pretty obvious you were pretending to be whoever you thought I wanted.”

Ilya grimaces. “So everything was a test.”

“No, dinner was a test - a petty one. The rest was me liking you back.”

“I could have continued forever.”

“I was starting to realise that.”

“And you would have kept inviting me?”

“I don’t know.” Shane nibbles his lip. “Probably not forever, but I’m never letting you forget that you ate that lasagne -”

“I will be having my lawyer contact you -”

“But Pork isn’t funny.”

“No,” Ilya whispers. “No, I know this.”

“I hired you because I wanted to understand him. You told me you could translate what he was thinking, and I trusted that what you told me was real- I couldn’t ask Pork whether you were telling me the truth.”

“I know.”

“You knew I couldn’t.”

“Yes.”

There’s nothing he can cram in after it but the solution available to him. “I will refund you,” he says. “Every appointment that was unnecessary.” Shane raises an eyebrow. “Okay.”

“And if Pork needs genuine support, now or later, I will help without charging. You would not have to see me - Rose could be present, or somebody else you trust -”

“Ilya -”

“If you want no more contact, I will respect this,” Ilya's chest hurts. “I will not ask Sasha to interfere, although after today he is unlikely to survive long enough. You can decide.”

Shane’s gaze settles on BECAUSE I WANTED TO SEE YOU. “Hang on, I’m not saying I never want to spend time with you again.”

“No?”

“No, and I don’t want a refund for everything - some of what you told me was useful.”

“Then I will calculate only the fraud percentage.” Despite himself, Shane’s smiling again. “We’ll work that out later. Look, people usually like me at first.”

This seems to him like an abrupt change in subject, but he knows better than to interrupt now. “Of course.”

“They think the stress thing is cute for a while, or they like feeling needed, I guess. Eventually it gets annoying,” Shane shrugs, but his face has lost its humour. “They say it’s difficult, I’m difficult.”

Anger suckerpunches any remaining trace of relief from Ilya without a second’s warning. “Who?”

“That isn’t the point.”

“I would like names.”

“No,” Shane gives him a look. “See, this is exactly the kind of thing you need to stop saying if you want me to believe you’re capable of normal boundaries.”

Ilya holds his tongue, deciding against explaining there’s nothing abnormal about wanting a concise list of people to defeat. “Continue.”

“Thank you. I think what I'm trying to say is that what you did was different- not better, but different.”

“I understand,” Ilya says, fighting for his life to prevent the delight from spreading across his face.

“No, you don’t. You’re already looking pleased.” Ilya dutifully rearranges his mouth.

“You didn’t look at me and start making a list of things you wanted me to change,” Shane says. “You just decided you were the problem. Just to clarify, that’s dishonest and totally messed up, and you can’t keep doing it.”

“I will not. I do not want you to like somebody who does not exist.” Shane studies him. “Good. I don’t love that you invented a whole new personality -”

“This is flattering, yes?”

“No, it’s insane.”

“But a little flattering,” Ilya tries, feeling his own smile even before Shane returns it.

“A little. Anyway, when did you last eat?”

The hotdog stand is still in its usual place near the bus stop, the same one Ilya haunts at every given opportunity between appointments, and the smell of frying onions and the garlic butter they spread on their rolls has his mouth watering before they’ve even approached close enough to see the menu - Ilya doesn’t need to, but Shane hesitates as he scans it, his eyes bouncing from the sausages on the grill to the churning blue and pink slushee machine whirring away in the back like he’s just been presented with a decomposing rat. The vendor, not one Ilya’s seen before, takes one look at Ilya’s suit and the boom box Shane’s carrying and wisely decides not to ask. “What can I get you?”

“One hotdog please,” Ilya tells him, very seriously. “Meat.” The man pauses with his tongs above the grill. “Yeah?”

“It must be meat.”

“Uh - they all are.”

“Good, and chips.”

Shane orders a water (very brave) and a grilled chicken burger without mayo, claiming he isn’t hungry, though he does steal six of Ilya’s chips before they’ve even so much as crossed the road - Ilya moves the carton out of reach but it’s futile, and when the other man reaches for another he catches his wrist only to kiss the inside of it and surrender them. “Take them. I have lost everything else today.”

Shane doesn’t appear to have an argument with this, taking the carton and balancing it on the saddest bun he’s ever seen in his life. “I mean, you found out I like you, so I'm sure you’ll recover.”

Ilya bites into the hotdog, and it might be the best thing he’s ever eaten despite his shaking hands having gone a bit too hard with the mustard. He closes his eyes and allows meat, salt and carbohydrate (or whatever Kenji López said) to repair his interest in remaining alive.

“How is it?”

“Delicious,” Ilya says around a mouthful. “This time I mean it.” This seems to please him, which has Ilya take another bite far too quickly and burn the roof of his mouth. “Tell me something I don't know.”

“I had never heard of nutritional yeast,” he swallows, swiping a stray drop of mustard from his trousers. “And I am a Gemini - not the bad kind.” Shane picks at another chip. “Jury’s still out on that one, but I’m glad you -y’know. Like me.”

“I have wanted you since you first opened the front door,” Ilya says, the copious plastic cheese having made an honest (too honest) man of him. “The cropped top? That might have been a…”

“A what?”

He smiles, dissembling his burger until he’s apparently reassured enough that no mayonnaise has teleported inside it. “A strategic decision - I saw your photo, you know. On your website.”

The hotdog becomes fucking impossible to swallow - Ilya works through it with effort, staring out at the next bus as it hisses past. “You can answer the door naked next time, then.”

“I don’t think I can date someone Pork doesn’t like.” This is jarring enough that he stops chewing entirely, swallowing the mouthful before it threatens to turn on him. “He is your family. I would say the same about Anya.”

The crease between his eyebrows is unbearable. “You’re not going to argue?”

“No.”

“Or tell me Pork secretly approves?”

His appetite wanes, and he balaces the paper plate on his knees. “He does not - he would prefer you fitted me with concrete shoes and threw me into the Thames, so I will not make you choose. I told him this and meant it.”

“I didn’t say we were giving up,” Shane reaches to grab his elbow before he can stand, and his fingers brush ever so briefly against the sensitive skin of his (un-mauled) forearm. “I said I can’t date someone Pork doesn’t like -that just means we need a plan.”

“A plan.”

Shane remains maddeningly composed. “Operation Hamnesty.” Ilya stares at him. “I am listening.” (so is his jugular, and every other body part the chipolata has ever made an attempt on) “We get Pork to tolerate you. Ideally like you, eventually, but I think tolerating is a realistic first goal.”

“You propose rehabilitation?”

“With rules. You’re not alone with him, you don’t antagonise him -”

“He antagonises me!”

“You’re the adult,” Shane sighs. “Pork always gets an exit, and you tell me exactly what he says, even if it’s awful - I decide whether his actual behaviour matches your translation.”

Ilya crosses his arms, offended. “This system is heavily weighted towards Pork.”

“You can say no.”

He could - Shane’s proposal requires Ilya to submit to an animal he has tasted the grotesque velvety underside of, and yet it’s probably his only chance. “I am saying yes.”

Shane nods, like (humiliatingly) there had never been much doubt. “Good. We can try the first controlled interaction tomorrow.”

“So soon?”

“It’s Basil’s birthday.”

Ilya waits for this to become relevant. “Please wish him well, and my condolences to him for his terrible human.”

“Hayden’s throwing him a party. It was supposed to be at his place, but his grill broke, so now everyone’s coming to mine.”

“Pork does not like Basil,” Ilya says, fresh terror curling inside him. “It’s Basil’s birthday, so Pork will have to deal with it.”

“Who is everyone?”

“Hayden, Rose -”

“No.”

“You can bring Anya,” Shane adds before Ilya can begin outlining Hayden’s shortcomings. “I want to meet her, and if Pork sees you with an animal who genuinely likes you, maybe that’ll help.”

The idea is sensible enough, but Ilya is horribly aware Anya is fully prepared for war - and unlikely to listen to his pleas for a white flag. “You do not know what you are inviting.”

“She’s friendly, isn't she?”

“She is -” Ilya trails off, searching for a suitable adjective. “She is protective.”

“So is Pork.”

“Yes, and look how well this has gone.”

Shane carries the dead boom box the entire walk back to Ilya’s apartment block despite several attempts to take it from him, and Anya’s awareness reaches him the second she hears their footsteps on the corridor leading up to his door.

Hello, Shane.

Ilya sighs. “Hello, Anechka.”

“Can she hear us?” Shane peers at the door, though there’s no sound behind it for him.

“Yes.”

Did you confess?

Ilya sends her an impression of a muzzle, but predictably she only scoffs at this and Shane, unaware, leans to place a careful kiss to the corner of his mouth before he turns away.

Chapter 7: love and other blunt instruments

Chapter Notes

a hyuuuuge thank you to the super talented Nouveau_potatoes for the

fic cover !! linked at the bottom of this chapter, he looks so very

innocent i love his lil face :’) <333

I’m a girl who is going to be ok (i’m on annual leave til thursday) so i

had a fabulous time ignoring all adult responsibilities and whipping

this up, i promise cockblocking ilya isn’t on the plans for the next

chapter ok x as always love u all and i appreciate each and every one

of you xoxo

Pork isn’t waiting on the other side of the front door as he’d expected, though Ilya can feel him before he’s even lifted his hand to knock, a concentrated mass of fury much like an infected haemorrhoid - he winces as he shifts the bottle of chicken wine under his arm to avoid dropping it. There’s something different about it today, having been so used to Pork’s quick moving anger flinging itself towards his vulnerable areas, but this appears to be spread across several sources. Worse still, he knows Anya is here, and whatever Shane has told him in preparation clearly hasn’t improved his mood in the slightest.

Beside him, Anya sniffs at the letterbox. You still should’ve let me dye my fur.

Ilya has to resist the urge to roll his eyes - he’s been trying to drop this particular argument all day, but in her typical fashion, she hasn’t yet let it go. “Where am I meant to find fur dye in lesbian flag with two hours notice, Anechka? Honestly.”

She sniffs again, unbothered. You’re the one with a phone, Ilya. And thumbs, as you keep reminding me.

“Will you focus?”

I am focused, you focus.

He sighs - it’s going to be one of those days. “Listen - be nice to Pork. We are using our gentle words today. Gentle paws, too.” Is Pork being held to the same standard?

There’s a scuffle of feet from inside that makes them both jolt, and Ilya seizes the wine with renewed vigour. “You promised to behave -” Anya pricks her ears as Shane fumbles with the lock on the other side. You’re so nervous it’s making me feel sick - out of the two of us I’d say I’m behaving the best.

This is technically true on both counts, though Ilya’s taken enough Pepto Bismol that he’s sure he’ll start sweating it, and doesn’t think the absence of a confirmed kill should qualify her for praise just yet. She’d spent most of the journey making promises not to approach Pork unless he invites her to (which he won’t), and her agreement had concluded with a sincerity she’s never possessed in her life, so it’s dealer’s choice really. When the door finally opens, Shane is stood behind it in an artfully ragged black tee and the most slutty cotton shorts Ilya’s ever seen in his life - he hadn’t been aware LoveHoney had started selling male lingerie, but if those shorts are anything to go by Ilya’s luck has finally returned to him. They cut off just above his knee, and it’s all he can do not to start weeping at the little glimpses of bare chest he can see through the holes in the other man’s shirt. Good god, Anya mutters. Bend him over here, why don’t you? He hasn’t got time to hush her, because the insidious tang in the air gives a lurch he can feel in his chest - Pork is positioned on the hall table with his tail wrapped tightly around himself like a nude Faberge egg, and the elevation puts him roughly level with Ilya’s stomach (coincidentally where he keeps all his vital organs). The cat’s ears have disappeared against his skull and his eyes are entirely black, which is a great start - more concerningly still, every muscle beneath his velvety skin is gathered for an attack Shane had assured him he’s asked him not to make. The hatred that reaches Ilya is visceral enough that he swallows reflexively around it. You brought a soldier. Coward.

“Good afternoon,” Ilya says carefully.

Pork’s enormous pupils pulse. It will not be. “Hi,” Shane says, looking eagerly between them - he’s nervous, which Ilya had expected, but there’s a determination in his face all the same. “Come in. Or - wait, maybe don’t yet.”

Anya is wagging so hard her hindquarters sway. Hello, Shane. You’re exactly how I pictured you, because Ilya’s shown me at least a thousand times.

Ilya clears his throat. “Anya says hello.”

Shane smiles, dropping into a crouch so abruptly his knees crack and reaching out a hand. “Hi, Anya, it’s really nice to meet you. Wait - sorry, I should’ve asked to pet you. Oh my god, I’m sorry. Can I - hang on, is stroking you without consent like, offensive, or something -?” He has to laugh at the sheer horror on Shane’s face as he snatches his hand back - Anya’s delight is palpable as she nudges at him, making her total lack of objection clear. You’re lovely. What did you do in a past life to end up with a cat like that?

“You are fine,” Ilya chuckles despite himself. “You cannot offend Anya, she has lived with me long enough she is immune.”

“Thank god,” Shane says, carding a careful hand through the silky ruff around her chest. “Okay - I explained everything to him last night.”

“Operation Hamnesty.”

“I didn’t call it that,” Shane grimaces, letting Anya investigate his armpit. “I know he probably didn’t understand all of it, but I thought he should hear it from me.”

I understood every word, Pork assures him with ice cold clarity. Your schemes were described at length.

Ilya glances at him - it would be very easy to soften this and easier still to give Shane something reassuring about Pork appreciating the effort, but that would be a lie. Lies are bad, Ilya has learned over the space of twenty four hours, and he’s determined to become best in class at the Rozanov School of Radical Honesty. “He understood.”

Shane’s eyes dart towards Pork. “All of it?”

“Yes.”

“Right, that’s good - I think. I told him you’re going to translate honestly from now on, even if he says something you don’t want me to hear.” Pork doesn’t blink. I cannot protect you from what you will hear, my beloved.

“I also told him nobody’s going to force him to touch you or be touched by you, and he’ll always have somewhere he can leave - you’re not going to be alone together,” Shane continues, oblivious. “And I told him Anya’s a guest. She won’t chase him or go into his spaces, but he isn’t allowed to attack her.”

Anya sits without being asked, though her eyes haven’t left Pork. I wouldn’t chase him.

“I know,” Ilya says quickly, pleased.

I wouldn’t need to - I can run much faster.

“Anechka.”

She closes her mouth, and Shane blinks down at her. “What did she say?”

“That she understands.”

It isn’t an entirely honest translation, and Pork’s disgust shoves at Ilya’s awareness until his stomach contracts. You have lasted one whole minute -an extraordinary tenure.

Ilya flushes. “And that she can run faster than him.”

“Okay,” Shane winces, but doesn’t stop his soft patting of her head. “Please- uh, please don’t demonstrate that, though.”

I’ll do my best.

Pork finds his feet on the table. My beloved described the terms of my occupation.

Ilya inclines his head. “Thank you, Pork.”

Do not thank me as if I have done this for you. “He says he hasn’t done it for me,” Ilya says, though it’s not exactly like they’d need the Hubble telescope to spot that.

Shane’s face creases. “I know, Porkie.”

Pork’s ears peel from his skull at the name, but the pressure of his anger doesn’t ease - when Shane opens the door fully and steps aside, the cat stays exactly where he is. You may admit the mercenary. “Anya,” Ilya says, feeling distinctly like he’s walking into a trap. “You first.”

Try it, Nosferatu. Anya saunters past the table without a care in the world, and Pork’s claws unsheath forcefully enough for Ilya to feel the intent behind them, but he doesn’t strike - only once Anya is safely beside Shane does Ilya follow her in. The door closes behind him, removing the only easy escape (though he’s not opposed to diving out the window if needed), and Pork remains on the table while Anya investigates Shane’s shins - he looks so blatantly delighted when she leans into it that Ilya almost, almost forgets the wrinkled landmine within swiping distance. Even so, he takes advantage of the distraction to set the wine safely on the kitchen table - the bottle had looked fun in the shop, and sounds suitably French to assure him it isn’t just grape juice, but he dithers by it anyway unsure whether Shane a) hates chickens, b) hates wine, c) hates this specific wine, or d) a secret fourth option that might still condemn him.

He gets over it eventually, shuffling back to where Pork is watching Anya, and Anya is watching Pork. The stalemate is a silent one, though something has already started to pass between them if the oppressive weight in Ilya’s forehead is anything to go by, building behind his eyes as they reach for one another. Shane looks between them. “Are they talking?”

“Not yet.”

Some things don’t need words, Anya grouches. Shane frowns. “What are they doing, then?”

“Background checks,” Ilya tells him, catching pieces of what he can identify within Anya’s consciousness because she doesn’t bother concealing them, barrelling an onslaught of memories at the cat so fast it reminds him of those flick books for children - the first time Ilya brought her home and spent all night sitting on the kitchen floor until she wasn’t afraid to pass him in the doorway, the warmth of his back against hers in bed, blood matted on a fox’s coat and Ilya kneeling in the road to gently stroke its stiff body, moving it somewhere to rest with dignity, the sound of him and Sasha full belly laughing from the sofa in the middle of the night, Ilya crying into her fur the time he’d accidentally stepped on a snail, Svetlana kissing his cheek and swearing she’ll never leave him, and Anya’s own certainty that Ilya would come home to her no matter what, because that’s always been the person he is (contrary to the recent segue into insanity). “Do not show him this,” Ilya mutters, blinking hard. This conversation no longer concerns you.

“It very much does concern me, when I am the subject you are showing.” Anya glances back at him, turning her back. Stop listening, then. “I cannot.”

“Is something wrong?” Shane asks, his eyes wide. “No” he huffs. “She has simply informed me the conversation no longer concerns me.”

Shane bites the inside of his cheek, failing to hide his amusement. “Maybe you should respect her privacy.”

“They are inside my head!”

“That sounds difficult.”

“You are enjoying this -”

He’s interrupted by Pork hopping down from the table and onto the stairs, descending one at a time - this forces Anya to turn to keep him in view, but she doesn’t retreat. Her tail has stopped wagging, though her ears relaxed enough that Pork can’t reasonably (or unreasonably, as is his way) interpret her as a threat. He reaches the hallway floor and circles at a distance, placing each bare foot with very deliberate care. Up close, the difference between them is jarring - Anya, even to a seasoned dog hater, still looks like an animal a reasonable person might choose to have in their home. Pork, on the other hand, resembles the sort of thing one might receive after requesting their appendix back following emergency surgery - he makes a complete circuit, drawing himself up on his toes. You brought him here.

Anya’s awareness grows colder. Shane invited us. You know what he did.

The dog follows, drawing Ilya into it whether he wants to be there or not. I know what he did. I also know he told Shane when continuing to lie would’ve been considerably easier for him.

Pork stops behind her. He deceived my beloved.

Yes, she says, the fur on her hackles stiff but not raised. I was furious too -he’s an idiot.

Something in Pork’s horrid internal register flickers at this, but Ilya crosses his arms. “That is unfair.”

Anya ignores him, but Shane (who doesn’t appear to have breathed since they came in) gestures wildly with his hands. “What? What is it?”

“She is discussing my conduct.”

“Oh,” he muses, his eyes bright. “Continue, then.” Pork continues his circuit and when his attention pushes outwards again, it carries Shane with it and straight behind Ilya’s eyelids. Pork is younger at first, his body small and huddled into the discarded shirt Shane had dropped on the floor, listening to two people laughing above him. The person beside Shane likes him, likes the careful messages and all his questions, likes how Shane remembers everything he says and notices the smallest change in his voice. Later, the same voice hardens when Shane asks whether a door has been locked just the once, and Pork can smell his hurt as if he’d been struck. Another delights in Shane for checking he’s arrived home safely, until one night he sighs on the phone before answering. Pork shows her the withdrawals with great emphasis on a hand removed from Shane’s knee or somebody texting while Shane is still speaking, and between them the one constant has been Pork, Pork even when he was too young to understand every word.

Anya’s tail droops.

Pork, perhaps vindicated by her dismay, marches onwards. In the next he’s splayed across Shane’s chest in bed, feeling it rise beneath him then stop. He waits and waits, stretching far beyond whatever his body knows to expect, and his panic soars hot and cloying until Shane drags in a spluttering breath hard enough to wake himself - other nights Pork paws at his face or yowls, guarding something he didn’t yet understand and Shane didn’t yet know was happening.

Next is his recollection of Ilya, appearing inside the memory with a smile as he assures Shane he wants him to return. Shane’s relief is trusting and entirely defenceless without a second source he can ask, and Pork’s own horror swells within the realisation he’s watching his beloved walk into something he cannot protect him from.

The pressure behind Ilya’s eyes is painful. “Enough, Pork. I know what I did.”

Far too late.

“Probably, yes.”

“Ilya?” Shane steps closer, his eyebrows furrowed. “What’s he saying?”

“He is showing Anya why he does not trust me.” Anya glances up at the simmering guilt in his voice, and Shane’s eyes settle on the cat. “Oh.”

“He has good evidence,” he murmurs, giving Anya a tiny nod to continue. Pork inches closer to her, having allowed every piece of it to ripple outward without shielding Ilya from any of it.

You’re right not to trust him yet, she says eventually. But you’re wrong to assume he intends to change Shane.

They all intend nothing at first.

“I am standing right here,” Ilya cuts in, “I -”

Anya boofs at him - the audacity. Butt out, Pinnocchio. Shane watches her look pointedly away from Ilya and raises his eyebrows. “Did she tell you to shut up?”

“Not in these words, but yes.”

“Fair.”

Ilya gives him a wounded look before turning back to the animals - Pork now sits several feet from her. They all want something. Of course they do.

He wants Shane, and he will begin by removing the difficult pieces. Anya’s confusion is abrupt and genuine - she falters, taking a second or two to gather herself. Why would he do that? To make him easier to possess. None ever care whether my beloved possesses himself, first.

I’ve lived in Ilya’s head for years, she gives a tentative thump of her tail, which (unsurprisingly) isn’t returned. He doesn’t want Shane easy - if anything, he finds the opposite attractive. You should see his ex. “Anechka, this is private -”

No, your jerking off schedule is private, and I’m happy to cover that if you carry on interrupting.

He stares at the back of her head in horror, never more grateful Shane can’t hear any of it. “I am revoking your access to the - to Pork.”

“You can’t ban her from talking to Pork,” Shane points out, very fairly. “You do not know what she is saying,” Ilya rounds on him, betrayed. “She is giving away all my secrets.”

Shane only shrugs. “No, but he does.”

Pork’s eyes haven’t left Anya, nor have they contracted into something less Mothman-esque, but the contempt still reaching Ilya has developed a new twist to it he doesn’t know how to place. He wants the fear?

He wants all of him, Anya pauses, considering. He’s great at reassurance -you should’ve seen the speech he gave me when I had to get my Parvo vaccination. I wasn’t even scared, he just needed to be useful in some way. “This sounds worse when you say it.”

He could still hurt him. Pork’s tail lashes. He already has. Yes.

He will lie again.

Probably, but he’ll try not to.

“Anya!” Ilya appeals to Shane again, as if he might be able to save him. “I am being attacked.”

“What’s she saying?”

“That confidence takes time,” Anya gives him a backwards glance so unimpressed he corrects himself before Pork can chime in. “And she said I will probably lie again.”

Pork’s satisfaction sits like lead in Ilya’s stomach - Shane smiles at him, but he’s barely got a moment to ground himself with another look at those shorts before Anya’s attention shifts all over again. Ilya feels the cemetery as she plucks the memory from his head, the cards beneath his fingers, Shane saying he couldn’t date someone Pork didn’t like. She doesn’t linger on the terrible effort and what it cost him to consider removing himself from Shane’s life, nor does she need to as Pork examines it. He would have left him alone, Anya says. It would’ve broken his heart, and he would still have gone.

Pork looks at Shane, who remains unable to see any of what has passed between them but apparently understands he’s under consideration now - a fierce affection flashes across the other man’s face, so earnest it makes Ilya’s stomach hurt. “Hi, buddy.”

My beloved.

Ilya can feel the first flickering of hope within Anya as some of the firmness in her voice chips away. You’re allowed to hate him. I do.

You’re not allowed to kill him.

The cat gives a silent hiss. You do not determine what is permitted in my home.

No, Shane does. Anya’s plumed tail goes stiff. And Shane invited him. Disgust floods the hallway, so concentrated that Ilya can taste something bitter at the back of his throat - Pork holds her gaze for a touch longer before turning away, passing Shane close enough his bare flank brushes against his ankle before heading back towards the stairs, climbing with his tail held high and never once looking back. Anya watches him go without following.

Shane exhales hard. “Was that good?”

Ilya can still feel him upstairs, radiating a revulsion that could strip paint through the ceiling, but the fact he’s withdrawn from a conflict voluntarily for what may be the first time in recorded history is enough to make his heart sing.

“Spectacular,” Ilya says, grinning.

•————•

By the time the doorbell rings, Shane’s fired up the grill and Pork has reappeared, though miraculously hasn’t made an attempt to throw Ilya onto it. Basil requires no introduction whatsoever, considering he can feel the wordless joy crashing through every nerve - even Anya blinks at it, slowing her part in the procession towards the front door.

“Basil’s here,” Shane says as if there was any mistaking it, reaching for the lock. Pork appears to have other ideas and overtakes him, winding between his ankles to position himself on the mat. “Buddy, move. You’re going to get hit by the door.”

Pork doesn’t. My beloved should leave it closed. “It is his birthday,” Ilya reminds him (even if he does agree a tiny, tiny bit). He has had others.

After a very polite scuffle, Hayden Pike is revealed. He’s beneath enough party decorations to suggest Basil’s turning ninety, and there’s several neon paper hats crushed beneath his arm that Ilya categorically won't be wearing. Ilya’s distracted from his scathing assessment at the sight of the woman beside him, however, and for a moment all he can do is stare incredulously at her - Hayden’s girlfriend is hot. Not hotter than Shane, obviously, but hot enough that he’s beginning to wonder whether Pike keeps her trapped in his basement or pays her to accompany him - yes, that must be it. Or maybe her family owes Pike a debt of some kind, which is even more concerning -Ilya’s mouth opens to ask her whether her parents sold her to Hayden Pike when Basil interrupts.

Friend! You!

His entire body convulses with delight, his thick tail whipping the woman’s legs - Ilya just manages to brace himself before Hayden is ungracefully towed through the doorway behind him. The Labrador’s shoulders crash into his thighs as he skids across the floor, banging between Ilya and Shane with no regard whatsoever for the man clinging to his lead for dear life. “Hello,” Hayden wheezes. “Lovely to see you again.”

“Yes.”

Pork!

The Pork in question has retreated several feet into the hall, horrified. Do not approach me.

Pork Pork Pork -

“Basil,” the woman says, taking the lead from her feeble captor - she doesn’t yank him back or raise her voice, she just waits until his front paws return to the floor with total authority. “You know he hates that. He’s not feeling friendly.”

“He never is,” Hayden says, having caught his breath enough for him to commit a crime worthy of keelhauling - as he passes, he plants a wet kiss on Shane’s cheek with a grin. “That’s sort of his thing.” Pork’s fury spikes. So does Ilya’s.

“He understood you,” Ilya mutters.

“Sorry, Pork.”

Your apologies are worthless.

“He does not accept,” Ilya says, warmed by the solidarity. Hayden Pike, jailer of this pretty woman and kisser of Shane, is second in the guillotine queue. He really should start sourcing some local timber. The woman’s mouth twitches, though she has the decency to disguise it by crouching beside Basil and unclipping his lead - she glances at Anya next. “Is she happy to say hello?”

“Yes, though Basil must not jump on her,” Ilya says, dropping his voice. “Has anyone outside of this relationship with Pike seen you recently?” She appears not to have heard the last part, though he isn’t about to press now that Shane’s just given his shoulder a squeeze as he disappears after Hayden. “He’ll try, but she’s allowed to tell him to piss off. Basil, gentle.” Anya braces to receive him. You’re enormous.

Birthday, Basil tells her, bounding to close the distance between them. Yes, many happy returns.

“This is Jackie,” Hayden’s head pops back out from the kitchen, still attached to his body for now. “My girlfriend.” Jackie holds out her hand. “Hi. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“From Shane?”

“Mostly from Hayden, so I’ve applied the appropriate amount of disbelief.” Fuck, he likes her instantly. “You received independent legal advice before entering into this relationship?”

“No, but I probably should’ve,” she chuckles as they drift towards the kitchen, leaving Basil in Anya’s very capable hands (paws?). Disturbingly, Shane has Pork cradled in his arms like a newborn - the effort required to despise this amount of visitors appears taxing even for him, though he’s managing it enough to glower at Ilya from the safety of those strong biceps. He returns to Jackie again, still troubled - she’s even prettier close up, and his head spins with the implications. She’s dressed casually enough, though nothing about her clothing offers evidence either way, and Ilya scans every inch of visible skin for some sign of a chip. “Do you have free access to your passport?”

Across the kitchen Shane’s jaw drops open, but Jackie only grins. “Yes.”

“Bank account?”

Hayden’s head snaps up. “What -”

“Yes, did you want to see the app?”

“Phone nobody monitors?”

She fishes her mobile out of her pocket and waves it in front of him. “Full battery, too.”

Ilya studies her face for any sign she’s been trained to respond this way -Jackie looks straight back with mild interest, apparently content to see how far he’ll take it, and his respect for her rises even as the case against Hayden begins to weaken. “What about your parents? They know where you are?” Hayden clears his throat. “Are you checking whether I’m, what, holding my own girlfriend hostage?”

“Exactly,” Ilya waves him off, distracted. “Forgive me, Jackie. I realise you cannot say otherwise with him present.”

Aghast, Shane makes to set Pork down. “Oh my god - Jackie, wasn’t it you that asked Hayden out first?”

“Yes,” she shoots him a wink. “I’d have gone grey if I’d waited for him to summon the courage to do it.”

This is persuasive but not conclusive, though Ilya lets the matter rest temporarily before Shane’s scowl can deepen any further - he’s not a monster.

“He also has a really good ass,” Jackie adds, and both Ilya and Shane glance over before they can help it.

“One out of ten,” Ilya says through gritted teeth. “Hey!” Hayden turns to give them a better view until Jackie catches the back of his shirt and hauls him towards the back door. “Grill’s on - off you go.”

He goes without argument, and Shane gives Ilya an attempt at a stern head shake before he makes to follow, but he can see the amusement lurking underneath it anyway - Pork pursues him. Stay with me.

“He has taken two steps away,” Ilya says, watching Anya wander back into the kitchen with Basil close behind, his nose disappearing periodically into the fur around her tail. She graciously tolerates this a few times before whirling on her heels to swipe at his snout.

Personal space.

Every muscle in Basil’s body freezes. Friend touch Basil. Outside, Shane and Hayden are already bickering about the best order to grill - there’s an ease to Shane now, no tension at all around his eyes as he dodges Pike’s attempt to pinch him with the barbecue tongs, laughing. It makes Ilya smile - then it’s straight back to business. Jackie clocks the beginning of his next approach and redirects him towards a plush birthday cake she’s taken from one of the bags.

He volleys it towards Basil, who appears only to notice when it bounces off his skull. “Did Hayden buy you expensive gifts early in the relationship?”

“No,” she says cheerfully, starting to sort the party hats into order. “Be honest with me, Jackie - did he purchase you?”

“You know,” Jackie lowers her voice into an exaggerated whisper, “sometimes people willingly date men you don’t personally fancy.”

“I understand this. I do not understand your application.” She tips her head back when she laughs and Ilya likes her all over again, an irritation compounded when she reaches for Hayden as he passes by with a tray of raw burgers, hooking two fingers through a belt loop at the back of his (very ugly) shorts. Hayden leans down to kiss her cheek before resuming his game of poking Shane with every spatula available to him. “Have you considered,” she says, watching him go, “that I might just have questionable taste?”

Ilya nods solemnly. “This is the strongest explanation so far.”

Before he can investigate whether Hayden possesses copious family money enough to lure her in, Pork’s insidious awareness hones in on the house, more specifically the front door. The healer. Another. Ilya’s own internal register turns similarly poisonous. “Landry has arrived.”

“Be nice,” Shane calls over his shoulder - it’s unclear which of them he’s addressing, so Ilya chooses to assume Pork.

After a moment or two Rose emerges beside a young man Ilya recognises in his soul if not his immediate memory, each of them carrying several bags. She spots him with uncanny speed, and Ilya does not like the look of sheer glee on her face one bit. “Well, you’re still here.”

“You appear disappointed,” he says stiffly. “Why?”

“From what Shane told me yesterday, I thought Pork might’ve buried you beneath the patio by now.”

The healer, Pork approaches, winding his way around her ankles like a snake - the betrayal Ilya feels when the cat gives her a contented chirp is like a slap in the face. Rose crouches and offers her knuckles, allowing Pork to rub his face against them before she scratches beneath his chin. He closes his bulbous eyes, and rage consumes Ilya entirely. “He likes this?” Ilya demands. “She puts thermometers in him!”

“Not recently,” Rose’s eyes are sparkling.

“And still he forgives!”

Pork opens an eye. She cared for my beloved. Oh, this is so much worse than a thermometer. She’s kissed Shane. She has presumably seen every part of him without the obstruction of those maddening shorts, probably touched those same parts with the horrible veterinary hands now stroking his cat, but before he detonates the man next to her steps forward, drawing Ilya’s glare onto himself. “Hi, I’m Luca.”

“I know who you are,” he mutters, reluctantly meeting his eyes. Luca grimaces. “Yeah. I thought you would. I’m really sorry.” Ilya intends to make him work considerably harder than this - anyone capable of surviving Sasha (and more concerningly opting to continue doing so) must deserve it in some way. “You repeated private information -very unprofessional.”

“I did - Sasha was complaining and I realised who he meant, then I told Rose without thinking. I shouldn’t have. I already apologised to Sasha, but it was your business, so I wanted to apologise to you too.” Ilya stares at him, fighting for his life not to soften too prematurely - those wide, innocent brown eyes are making that very difficult indeed. “I am planning to kill Sasha.”

Luca nods sympathetically. “He said you might. I’d rather you avoid his face, but you do what you’ve got to do.”

He fixes Luca Haas with the coldest look he can produce, only for the man to put the bags down and pull him into a hug. Ilya goes rigid - this is awful. Dreadful. This is heinous, a violation - he, Ilya Rozanov, being cuddled like he’s just an angry toddler -

“Thank you for helping Miroslav,” Luca says, muffled against his shirt. “Sasha told me he was really scared he’d lost him.”

“He should not leave ferrets unattended,” he says primly, frantically trying to calculate whether pushing him away would be cruel - instead, he finds with rising panic that somehow, somehow, he’s hugging Luca right back. “I know.”

Ilya narrows his eyes. “You agree too easily.”

“I live with him and four ferrets part time. I know exactly what he’s like.”

“Part time?”

Luca, still face down in Ilya’s chest, doesn’t appear particularly inclined to pull away. “I stay over a lot, his house is much nicer than mine. My flat has damp, and half the time the heating doesn’t work.” Well, that simply won’t do. Ilya releases him to reach for his phone, fully intending on asking Sasha whether he’s aware he’s the world’s shittest boyfriend, but Anya approaches before he can unlock his screen. So this is laundry basket Luca.

Luca’s eyes brighten. “Does she know who I am?”

“She knows Miroslav watched you kiss Sasha from laundry basket.”

“Oh my god,” he covers his face with his hands. “He told her that?”

“Miroslav tells everybody everything.”

Rose, having finished caressing the gargoyle, decides to subject them to her poor attempt at humour. “It runs in the family.” Ilya’s wrath resurrects itself like a phoenix. “Nobody asked you.” She smiles sweetly. “Just trying to help.”

“Sasha said the ferrets are a lot for her sometimes,” Luca hums, waving to Anya. “Is she okay now?”

Ilya has prepared several cutting remarks, but none of them survive the concern in his voice. “She is fine.”

“Was she frightened?”

Anya sniffs Luca’s sleeve. I think we should bring this one home. “She was overstimulated,” Ilya says, ignoring her. “Not frightened.”

“Poor thing - if she needs somewhere quiet today, I can sit with her. Or I can keep Basil away.”

There it goes - the final load bearing section of Ilya’s hostility collapses into rubble. Sure, he intends to remind him of his sins at irregular intervals for the next decade (presuming Sasha doesn’t put him in the grave before then), but execution now feels a little bit disproportionate. “Fine,” Ilya says. “You are provisionally forgiven.”

“Thank you, I think.”

Rose laughs, taking one of the bags towards the kitchen without asking where anything belongs - Ilya tracks her through the window, watching her place a disgusting salad in the fridge and open the correct cupboard for a serving bowl. When she trots back outside to set it on Shane’s outdoor table, Ilya jabs a finger at her. “How did you know this?” She glances over her shoulder. “Know what?”

“Where Shane keeps bowls.”

“I stayed here most nights.”

Shane makes a sound of warning. “Rose, don’t wind him up.”

“What?” She smiles again, quirking an eyebrow. “He already knows. You moved the wine glasses?”

“I needed that shelf,” Shane says, batting Hayden away from a tub of potato salad he’s already set out.

Rose sits, scanning Ilya’s face. “Do you want me to stop talking about all the intimate knowledge I have of Shane’s home?”

“Yes,” he says, vehement.

“Okay,” she shrugs. “I’ll avoid mentioning his body too.” Ilya rears back. “Nobody was discussing this!”

“No, but your eyes keep going to his shorts whenever you remember I’ve seen him naked.”

Shane goes scarlet, and even Jackie covers her mouth with her hand. “I have not -” Ilya starts, though there’s no way he can deny it without blatantly lying. “This is unrelated, and you should not assume I am jealous.”

“I don’t.”

“Good, because -”

“I know you are.”

Rose Landry is going directly beneath the guillotine. She remains alive only because Shane calls for him before Ilya can pull YouTube up, and by the time he reaches the grill he’s managed to fix his face into something less incensed - Shane works the coals with such innate confidence his anger has all but disappeared completely, watching as he catches a slice of cheese on the back of the spatula before it can drip through the grates. It’s torture -Ilya’s already accepted Shane could serve him roadkill on a bin lid and he’d probably ask for seconds (if the lasagne was anything to go by), but he hadn’t been anywhere near as prepared for proper cooking as he should be. “You’re staring,” Shane says mildly, though the telltale flush in his cheeks has returned. “Keep it in your pants, Rozanov.”

“I am ensuring Hayden does not interfere,” he manages, though Hayden is currently wearing two party hats and allowing Basil to drink from his cupped hands, nowhere near the grill.

Shane only hums, and when he bends to inspect some charring chicken skewers Ilya catches another flash of chest through his shirt. Does Shane have a TV I can hide behind, Anya groans, giving him a pointed jab to the temporal lobes from the other end of the garden. It’s the middle of the afternoon.

Ilya presents her with the image of cooked chicken as appeasement, but doesn’t wait for a response - Shane’s fiddling with a plate now, laying lettuce and a squirt of mustard on top of a pucklike patty so visibly absent of animal matter it may as well apply for a B Corp certification. There are peas in it, honest to god actual peas he can see with the naked eye, and Ilya watches in mounting dread as Shane closes the bun and holds it towards him.

“Here, this one’s yours.”

He’s going to cry.

Shane frowns. “What?”

“What -” Ilya has to clear his throat and try again. “What is this?”

“Your burger.”

“This is not a burger.”

“It is - it’s a veggie burger, I got it from Ocado. Garden Greens, I think the packet said, so I thought you’d like it.”

His stomach lurches - yesterday’s confession appears to have been erased by carbon monoxide from the grill, and with rising fear he realises he hasn’t brought the cards with him to do it all over again. “Why would you think this?”

“You’re vegan?”

Ilya stares at him, and Shane stares back.

“Shane,” he says, very carefully. “I do not want vegetable burger.”

“No?”

“No.”

“But I made it for you.”

Shane may as well have shot him in the heart with one of those bullets that explode upon entry. It’s only when the other man’s lips begin to curl into a smile that Ilya understands the terrible truth of it, having forgotten the one fact he must remain aware of at all times - Shane Hollander is a very bad boy.

“You are fucking with me again!”

Shane only lasts another few seconds before breaking and he turns, laughing, to retrieve a second plate he’d concealed behind the grill. The burger on it is thick and covered in melted cheese, leaking actual, unmistakable beef fat into the bottom of the bun. “One hundred percent meat - the veggie one’s Rose’s, who actually is a vegetarian.”

“Give it to Pork,” he mutters, smiling back despite himself. As it happens, Shane can cook - Ilya’s beginning to wonder whether it’s rude to have a groom cater his own wedding, because he’s eaten so many chicken skewers he’ll be tasting garlic for days and has every intention of taking the leftovers home. He’s placated so thoroughly by the sheer quantity of meat that he’s quite happy to read Basil’s birthday cards to him and translate his responses (‘friend paper’, if you were wondering) - he doesn’t even mind indulging Luca’s thousand questions about the animals he works with, or the fact Hayden’s trying to balance a hat between the dog’s ears. Pork haunts the underside of Shane’s chair, having not spoken a single word the entire meal.

Shane nudges his elbow. “Can you help me get more ice?” Ilya glances at the cooler beside his feet, still very obviously full of ice. “Yes.”

“Emergency ice?” Jackie raises an eyebrow. “In case all the ice we already have goes missing?”

Shane shoots her a sheepish smile, making for the house without defending himself - Ilya follows with far less shame, resisting the urge to glance back until they reach the kitchen door. When he does, Jackie raises her drink at him, and he grins.

It’s much quieter inside, protected from the full force of the animals but no less aware of them - Ilya watches Shane open the freezer and stare into the drawer without reaching for anything. “Are you okay?” He frowns - he’s having the fucking time of his life. “Why would I not be?”

“I don’t know - there’s a lot of people, and Pork’s been glaring at you for hours.” Shane looks back over his shoulder. “I wanted to check.”

“I am overwhelmed,” Ilya says softly.

Shane slams the freezer shut, his eyes wide. “Bad overwhelmed?”

“No,” he rubs his fingertips together, dislodging a grain of salt left from the tortilla chips and salsa. “I think good - this is unfamiliar. It appears Pork is considering Anya’s very strong argument.”

“That sounds positive.”

“It is very positive,” Ilya watches his shoulders relax a little, feeling suddenly, horribly unsure of himself. “Are you pleased with me?” The words are more exposed than he’d intended and sound stupid enough that he cringes, already beginning to take them back - Shane crosses the kitchen before he can and plants himself within reaching distance. “Yeah,” he says. “I am.”

His hand closes around Ilya’s belt and pushes - the counter bumps Ilya across the lower back as Shane kisses him with all the certainty in the world, fisting the front of his shirt with both hands hard enough that he can feel every flex of his fingers. It’s glorious enough that he allows himself to be dragged down into it at first, tasting smoke and the sweetness of the other man’s tongue while weeks of frustration roil hot beneath his skin -when Shane attempts another impatient pull of his belt, however, he catches him by the jaw and breaks them apart.

Shane presses closer. “What?”

“Show me.”

Ilya turns them before he can, walking him backwards into the counter. The hitch in his breathing confirms Shane understands long before Ilya bends to take his mouth again, careful to angle his head where he wants it and licking slowly between his lips, keeping him pinned there whenever he tries to surge closer. Shane huffs and paws at his belt again, but Ilya only draws back far enough to let their mouths brush.

“Patient,” he murmurs.

“I’ve been patient,” Shane mutters, fumbling with the leather. “All fucking afternoon.”

Ilya smiles against his lips. “Now you want me to take care of you?” Something helplessly eager flashes across the other man’s face before he hides it beneath a scowl - Ilya kisses that too, then the corner of his mouth and the sulking line of his jaw, hauling him onto the countertop before he can even hope to protest at the indignity of being lifted. The thump of his body makes something in the sink rattle, but Shane’s legs part around him as he crowds close enough that the thin fabric of those godforsaken shorts leaves no ambiguity whatsoever about how pleased he is. Ilya’s cock hardens so rapidly it’s dizzying, and because he’s just a mortal with a living sex drive and a beautiful man wrapped around him, he rolls his hips forward.

“Is this what you wanted?” Ilya breathes, drinking in the little whimper the stern voice earns him.

“Yeah, fuck.”

“Yes, what?”

Shane’s eyes snap to his, his pupils completely blown. “Yes, Ilya.”

“Fuck,” Ilya breathes, already half out of his mind. “This is okay?”

Shane nods, clawing at him. “Get closer.”

“I am inside your body now, practically.”

“Closer.”

Ilya presses forward until they're completely flush, slipping a hand under hem of his shirt to skate across the other man’s firm stomach. He grins when he finds one nipple with his thumb - Shane jolts, and the next sound he makes into Ilya’s mouth is considerably less composed than the last, so he circles it again. “Sensitive?”

“Shut up,” he breathes - Ilya pinches him, and Shane’s head falls backwards with a gasp. “Fuck.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Shane, wicked and sneaky bad boy that he is, is making a solid pass at distracting him by mouthing at the sensitive skin beneath his ear. “Didn’t say anything.”

“No, you told me to shut up,” Ilya coasts his hand lower, skimming the waistband of his shorts. “Maybe I should.”

Shane swallows hard, practically climbing under his skin. “Please, please touch me.”

The request is obedient, and if you ask Ilya, very reasonable. Shane’s just moaned straight into his mouth, so what else is he supposed to do? Granted there are people at a proximity one might consider ‘nearby’ and any one of them could open the door and have to get cool with a lot of things real quick, but Ilya (after a very thorough second’s consideration) decides he doesn’t have a single fuck to give.

“I’ve been thinking about this all afternoon,” Shane whispers. Ilya, benevolent lover that he is, dips his hand into his shorts and wraps it around the thick cock he finds there, squeezing hard enough that Shane’s eyelids flutter shut. “About me touching you?”

“About you losing patience and dragging me inside. Want you to bend me over this counter and fuck me until I can’t stand up straight, and I’ve been thinking about it since you walked through the door.” Every sensible thought inside Ilya’s skull packs a bag and leaves - outside somebody laughs, and inside, within his body, Ilya is ascending to the heavens. “You have been hiding a very dirty mouth from me, Shane Hollander.”

“Maybe you just haven’t been asking the right questions,” Shane mumbles, giving his hips an experimental jerk into Ilya’s fist. “Fuck.” Ilya obliges, working at a pace that (as far as he can tell) won’t send the other man into orbit just yet - he nips at his neck as Shane writhes, holding him in place with little more than his teeth at this point, the primal need to mark him rising with enough force that Ilya truly almost surrenders to it until he can bring himself to stop sucking at his skin. “Why did you stop?” Shane’s panting now, offering his neck all over again and making such gorgeous sounds with each firm stroke of his hand that for the second time (not much, but it’s weird it’s happened twice) Ilya’s half convinced he’s close to blowing completely untouched again. “Everybody will see,” he gasps, grinding his own length hard against the countertop without missing a single beat with his hand. “Let them.”

Ilya blinks. “You have become possessed.”

Shane’s cock gives a needy pulse in his palm, and his answering thrusts are growing erratic already - a fact Ilya would like to print out and put on a t shirt. “You liked me better when I was nervous?”

“No,” he grins with another roll of his hips. “I like this very much. This may kill me.”

His mouth finds Ilya’s ear. “Want you to put me on my knees and fuck my face until I cry.”

Jesus fucking Christ. Ilya picks up the pace, the words hooking straight into whatever part of him was already drowning, tightening his fist and dragging it firmly over the head until Shane’s breath chokes beside his ear. “You want me to use your mouth?”

“Yeah,” he gasps, his hands clawing at Ilya’s back. “Want you to hold my head still and make me take it.”

If he didn’t know better, Ilya might think he actually has died and gone to heaven - Shane Hollander, begging to be fucked at a Labrador’s birthday party, nearly brings him to his knees. He slows instead, sweeping his thumb across his leaking tip - this time Shane makes a noise so loud Ilya has to catch his mouth in another kiss.

“So responsive,” he soothes, letting the sounds sink into him. “You can be quiet?”

“Definitely can’t,” Shane says, wriggling to chase the sensitivity. “And you continue asking me to fuck you in the kitchen? Very poor judgement -”

“Maybe I don’t care if they know.”

“They already know,” Ilya glances towards the garden with a grin. “Jackie knew before we came inside.”

“Then stop worrying.”

“I am not worried,” he twists his hand and watches Shane’s head thunk back into the cupboard behind him, his lips opening around a helpless moan. “I am trying to protect what remains of your reputation.” Shane’s eyes squeeze shut. “Don’t have one anymore.”

“No,” Ilya agrees, leaning to kiss the corner of his mouth. “You have ruined it.”

Shane laughs, though it chokes off when he resumes the faster rhythm all over again, the muscles beneath Ilya’s other hand trembling with the strain of holding himself still. He’s closer than Ilya expected, his cock pulsing in his grip and the discovery fills him with such violent satisfaction he wants to draw it out for hours, wants to learn exactly how Shane’s body warns him before it gives in and how long he can keep him balanced there, but undoubtedly neither of them possesses the self control required for that kind of research right now.

“Look at me, Shane.”

Shane does, though his eyes are unfocused - Ilya only just manages to appreciate the sight properly when panic skitters across it. “Wait -”

“What?”

“My shorts,” Shane mumbles. “Fuck, I’m going to - take them off. Pull them down, I don’t want to come in them.”

The concern is so thoroughly Shane that Ilya beams, diligently withdrawing his hand to secure Shane’s hips before he can get himself tangled. “Easy,” he says, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Lift.” Shane braces, raising himself from the counter while Ilya yanks them down- they catch beneath his ass, unsurprising considering Shane’s attempt to help through increasingly frantic bucks of his hips until Ilya grabs his thigh to still him.

“Stop moving.”

“M’ close,” he whines. “Hurry up.”

“I know,” Ilya says. “I know, дорогой. Hold still.”

Shane freezes, which is enough for him to pull everything properly over his hips and down to the middle of his thighs - his cock springs free, flushed and wet against his stomach, and Ilya takes one an incredibly appreciative moment to look before closing his hand around him again. “There,” he murmurs. “Nothing on your shorts, yes? All is fine.” Shane thrashes as he resumes the same pace, but the Crease of Worry has returned - it’s all Ilya can do not to lean forward and lick it. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I would never,” he says, meaning every word - he catches him by the hair and drags him into another kiss, and whatever relief Shane has gained from protecting the shorts explodes into an urgent need as his hips drive forwards, fucking Ilya’s fist without shame now there’s nothing in the way. “Please,” Shane gasps.

“Mm, no. I am enjoying this too much.”

“Ilya -”

“Use your dirty mouth properly.”

The glare Shane gives him would be more effective if his cock weren’t twitching desperately in Ilya’s hand. “Please make me come, wanna come, want you to make me -”

“Better,” Ilya kisses him slowly, controlling every stroke now rather than indulging him and letting him chase it - the other man clings to him, no longer attempting speech, and the sight of him coming apart like this hits Ilya with enough force that his own cock throbs painfully against the counter.

“Ilya, fuck, I’m -”

“Not yet.”

Shane cries out, wounded, going rigid in his arms as Ilya eases the pressure just enough to keep him there. “Please -”

“Look at me.”

“I can’t -”

Ilya palms the back of his neck and pulls their foreheads together, forcing Shane’s attention to settle despite the involuntary twitching of his hips. “You can. Eyes here.”

Shane finds him, furious and wet eyed - fucking beautiful. Ilya rewards him with another firm stroke followed by another, mesmerised with how they register so openly on his face.

“Good boy,” he whispers. “Now you can come.” His mouth falls open against Ilya’s as his whole body jerks, his cock pulsing hard and spilling hot across his fist and knuckles - Ilya works him through it without slowing, holding him upright when he slumps and swallowing every ruined sound he makes, only easing his grip when Shane shudders away from the sensitivity and collapses with his face buried against his neck. Ilya strokes his clean hand along his spine - it’s possibly the worst act of generosity he’s ever committed because he’s so hard his heartbeat appears to have relocated into his cock, but he’d do it a hundred times over. And probably another time after that just to be sure. “You are okay?”

Shane nods in his arms. “Yeah. You’re not - your cock’s drilling a hole in my stomach.”

“Do not say hole to me,” Ilya groans, kissing the top of his head. “I will live.”

“No, you won’t.”

Before Ilya can tell him that this is his own fault for looking like that, Shane slides from the counter and drops to his knees.

“What are you doing?” Ilya says, bewildered.

Shane smiles, no longer quite so dazed. “Returning the favour.” Ilya makes a strangled sound as his belt buckle jingles free, and the zip of his jeans is deafening in the quiet kitchen - Shane pushes his jeans and boxers down far enough to free him and every remaining concern regarding Hayden Pike, Rose Landry, and even Pork Hollander leaves the building when those warm fingers close around the base of his cock. “Fuck,” he exhales hard, leaning to brace both hands on the countertop. “Sensitive?”

The confidence in the other man’s voice has his knees shaking, but he does his absolute fucking best to restore at least some sense of authority. “Do not start.”

Shane gives him a deliberately small kitten lick, but it still has every muscle in Ilya’s stomach clenching hard. “Or what?”

Doing his utmost to look firm, he tangles a hand in Shane's hair, tilting his head back until he can make eye contact again. “You wanted me to hold you still, yes?”

The challenge in Shane’s eyes bleeds into need. “Yeah.”

“Hands behind your back. So confident you can take me, but we will see.” Shane releases him, obediently folding both hands behind himself as he kneels between Ilya’s feet. Ilya has to resist the urge to clutch at his chest, appropriately concerned at whatever the fuck is happening to his heart right now.

“Good boy,” Ilya murmurs, sweeping his tip over the other man’s wet lower lip. “Such a good boy for me now you cannot hide behind all your brave words.”

Shane opens his mouth just as there’s a shatter of glass outside.

“That’s probably fine,” Shane says hesitantly, clearly returning his attention to the task (or cock) at hand - until Pork’s terrible yowling rises above the sound of scraping chairs.

There’s no pain Ilya can detect, not even any panic, really - Anya feels fine if not a little startled, Basil hasn’t even noticed, and the cat feels just as vile as he always does. Ilya, stood here with his cock little more than an inch away from Pork’s dad’s mouth, shoves every distraction out of the way until Jackie calls Shane's name.

“Pork,” Shane whimpers, already stumbling to his feet. “Fuck, I’m so sorry- he sounds stressed -”

“That th - Pork is fine. I would feel it if he was hurt.”

“I’m so sorry -”

Ilya’s cock is crying. “Jackie is competent, Luca has medical training. Rose and Hayden are expendable, do not worry -”

“Later,” Shane breathes, pained. “I promse I’ll finish this later. It’s just -Pork.”

He waves a jerky hand, anxious all over again - Ilya (never more aware of how much he loathes ‘just Pork’) softens at such speed it’s genuinely alarming, tucking himself away to press a gentle kiss to the Forehead Crease™ before releasing him again. “I will wash my hand and be out in a moment. Do not worry, мой хороший мальчик.”

•————•

The glass has already been swept away by the time he emerges - it had belonged to Rose (which improves matters somewhat) and according to Jackie, Pork had climbed onto the table, stared directly through the kitchen window and pushed it right over the edge of the outdoor table. Nobody else appears to find the sequence suspicious, but Ilya knows better.

Shane is crouched beside Pork checking his paws for glass, and Pork accepts the inspection pleasantly enough - Ilya tosses the dustpan and brush he’d located beside the still full cooler and glares. Pork slow blinks at Shane, so Ilya (the mature and kind hearted adult that he is) imagines turning him into a disgusting handbag. Pork imagines Shane discovering his body - normal service has resumed, then.

Luca makes quick work of counting all other paws for injuries and Basil discovers a piece of burger somebody dropped beneath the table, wiping the event from his mind like it had never been there at all, however the more astute among them (read: Anya) lingers beside Jackie’s chair refusing to look him in the eye. At a birthday party? Really? “There was no time to think of this,” he mumbles, the moment enough attention is diverted elsewhere.

There was plenty of time before he -

“Enough.”

Jackie glances up. “Is she telling you off?”

“Constantly.”

Anya turns her head away. Somebody has to. Ilya sits, painfully conscious of what remains very, very unresolved in his jeans - unfortunately Pork is not blind or stupid, and his attention travels slowly up to Ilya’s face, carrying the full rancid weight of his understanding. More concerningly still, there’s no yowl or immediate retaliation - he only rises to his feet and advances towards him. This in itself is horrifying, considering Pork hasn’t yet approached him voluntarily unless he’s targeting exposed skin, and he instinctively drops a hand towards his lap to protect what categorically can’t be damaged if he’s to have any hope of restoring blood flow elsewhere.

We must discuss my beloved.

Ilya’s heart thuds. “What about him?”

Privately.

Anya’s head whips in their direction. You can speak here. The terms are for him.

“What terms?”

Not before the dog.

Anya’s lips twitch in anger. I have a name, you goblin -Pork’s ears flicker, but otherwise he retains complete, terrifying composure. The dog is not included.

Bewildered and against every survival instinct he possesses begging him not to accompany Pork anywhere secluded, Ilya shuffles forward on his chair. “You have tried to murder me several times.” From over where he’s scrubbing the cooling grill, Shane glances over. “What’s happening?”

“He would like to speak privately.”

Shane’s expression changes immediately. “With you? Alone?” He can say whatever he needs to say here, Anya’s annoyance flashes hot inside him, dulled only by an uncharacteristic anxiety he rarely feels from her.

“I agree,” Ilya assures her - Pork, on the other hand, takes one look at Shane and performs the most sinister metamorphosis Ilya has ever witnessed. He sits, curling his tail politely around his feet and concealing whatever weaponry may remain attached to them, settling his triangular face into an expression so harmless that he no longer looks like himself at all - Shane watches uncertainly as the cat shifts closer to Ilya’s shoe and with a painstaking gentleness an entity like him should not possess, and places one paw on the leather.

Ilya stops breathing completely - even their least violent contact had involved urine, and now he can feel the weight of his cloven hoof toes just inches from his own. Maybe, just maybe, he’d listened to Anya - the bubbling hope that rises through him is borderline volcanic, and he smiles before he can hope to stop it. Operation Hamnesty: a raging success. Anya doesn’t share his optimism. This is how people die in documentaries. Pork’s paw flexes. I will conduct myself appropriately. “He says he’ll behave,” Ilya translates, still smiling. “Exactly that?”

“Not exactly. He says he will conduct himself appropriately.” Shane nibbles his lip. “He’s definitely being polite?”

“Extremely,” Ilya says, nodding. “It is unsettling, but yes.” The other man drops into a crouch beside them, running a hand along the cat's bony spine. “You don’t get to hurt him.”

Pork gives him one slow blink. My beloved distrusts me. “He is worried,” Ilya corrects gently.

“I’m serious, Porkie.”

I know.

“Five minutes,” Shane says, “and you be nice too, Ilya. If Pork starts acting weird, shout me.”

“Shane, I am considerably larger than him.”

“He nearly put you in the oven!”

Pork removes his paw and stands, the loss of its weight leaving Ilya’s shoe strangely cold - he crosses the patio without looking back and slips through the open back door, pausing only to check Ilya’s following and continues through the hallway with his tail held up, before turning into the living room. The noise from the garden has faded from here, though Anya’s disapproval still nips at the edges of Ilya’s awareness - Pork appears satisfied by the separation and leaps onto the arm of the sofa, watching Ilya close the door. “There, we are private.”

Pork sits, the picture of diplomacy. If my beloved becomes unhappy, will you leave?

“Yes.”

Even if you do not agree.

“Yes.”

Even if he chooses me.

Ilya frowns. “You are his family. I would never ask him to choose otherwise.”

Pork searches him, and Ilya presents the memory himself this time, the pain of acceptance and the cards in his hands, the horrible twisting in his stomach he prepared to say goodbye.

You would return.

“Not unless he asked.”

You would wait for him to ask?

“Yes,” Ilya admits. “Probably forever, but this is not same as returning.” Pork considers this with gravity, and this in itself is basically a peace treaty. Do you intend to change him?

“No,” Ilya perches on the edge of the sofa, keeping his hands where the cat can see them. “I do not want easier Shane.”

You want him afraid.

“I do not want him afraid,” he says, moderating his voice before it becomes defensive. “I want him to trust me when he is afraid - this is different.” Pork’s tail flicks, and Ilya continues swiftly on before the opening he’s presented with is lost.

“He does not have to become less anxious for me - he can ask a question ten times and I will answer ten times. Perhaps by eleven I might find a different way of phrasing the answer, but I will still answer.” He will apologise.

“Then I will tell him there is nothing to apologise for.” He will believe he is difficult.

“And I will tell him he is wrong.”

Every time?

“Every time.”

Pork falls silent amd through him, Ilya catches the gentlest impression of Shane asleep with his hands curled beneath his cheek, and Pork pressed along his ribs listening to each breath.

“There will be mistakes,” Ilya says as evenly as he can. “I cannot promise I will never upset him, but I will not hide them from him. And I will not ask you to hide them either.”

This appears to matter, because the cat’s ears swivel in his direction. There is one final condition.

Ilya’s heartbeat gives a leap so embarrassing he’s grateful Anya is outside. “What condition?”

The dog remains too close.

“She is in the garden.”

She listens.

This is probably true, though Anya’s connection has faded enough that Ilya can no longer distinguish her words, just a hum of general concern - Pork drops from the chair and heads towards the kitchen, pausing in the doorway with the expectation Ilya will follow. He does, watching Pork jump onto the counter and the top of the fridge before stretching towards the cupboards. His back feet scramble against the slippery surface and after a moment of kicking, he hauls himself onto the top of them. Ilya crosses his arms. “What are you doing?”

I will not discuss my terms from the floor.

This is almost certainly nonsense, but he isn’t about to argue - Pork slinks along the top of the cupboards, passing a ceramic chicken and a heavy granite mortar Shane can’t have used in years. “What is the condition?” Come closer.

“I hear you fine.”

I will see your face when you answer.

He takes a cautious step towards the counter, stopping beneath him - the angle leaves Ilya staring mostly at the saggy skin between his front legs. “Better?”

Closer.

“There is nowhere closer unless I climb.”

Below me.

Ilya shifts another step until the edge of the counter presses against his thighs. This must simply be how Pork conducts serious negotiations, having apparently never respected ordinary social convention, and expecting him to begin now because Ilya wants to marry his father would be unreasonable. You will never place yourself between us, and you will not speak for me falsely.

“No,” he says, earnest.

You will not -

The thought gives way to a series of flashing images Ilya understands only when the pestle has already tipped over the edge, his own skull - cracking. “Pork -”

Ilya throws himself sideways - the granite pestle misses his head but clocks his shoulder hard, pain sparking down his arm as it hits the floor and rolls away. Above him, Pork turns to flee the scene. “You motherfucker!”

He lunges onto the counter like an orca beaching itself for a seal, catching Pork around his stomach before he can reach the fridge, hauling him bodily from the top of the cupboard. The cat twists violently, all four paws attaching themselves to his shirt while his teeth gnash at his collar. Release me.

“You tried to kill me! Again, Pork!”

You moved.

“This does not make it better!”

Pork climbs him, hooking beneath his arm to bury his face in Ilya’s hair - he whirls, staggering away from the counter and trying to peel him free without giving the bald butcher access to his throat. You failed the final condition.

“There was no condition,” Ilya hisses, scrabbling at wrinkle after wrinkle. You survived, Pork grabs a mouthful of curls and pulls. Ilya yelps and they careen into the kitchen table, sending a chair skidding across the floor. The fangs release his hair only to fasten into the front of his shirt, each limb spread across his chest.

“You will stop!”

You first.

The kitchen door opens and Hayden steps inside with two empty bottles in one hand, his mouth already forming the beginning of some question before he processes the sight of the two of them, breathing hard - nobody moves, and Ilya doesn’t need to be the human kind of psychic to clock the look of sheer astonishment on the other man’s face as he starts backing towards the door. “Should I get Shane?”

“No,” Ilya spits.

No, Pork echoes.

The answer comes so naturally that it takes him a second to realise this very reflex has created every problem now holding Pork against his chest, already searching for an explanation that won’t worry Shane or destroy the budding relationship between them - he could put the pestle away easily enough and threaten Pike into silence. Pork would support it, and for once they’d be in perfect agreement.

That isn’t Hamnesty, though - Ilya closes his eyes. “Yes, get Shane.” Time seems to slow despite the fact Shane materialises in what must only be about thirty seconds. Ilya’s attempts to untangle his naked clinger have only relocated him and made them both sweat, and when the other man appears in the doorway he goes so pale that the ache in his shoulder stops mattering at all. “What the fuck?”

Ilya’s instincts supply a variety of increasingly stupid excuses (ranging from ‘we were just having a cuddle’ to ‘I fell and Pork caught me’), but he dismisses them all with great reluctance, taking a deep breath as the cat flails again. “Pork asked whether I would leave if you became unhappy and whether I intend to change you - I answered honestly. He did not like this, so there was a pestle related incident. It hit my shoulder, then I grabbed him before he could escape.”

Pork’s fury simmers just barely below the surface. You assaulted me. “He says I assaulted him.”

“You’re holding him in the air,” Hayden says warily, gesturing to where he does indeed now have Pork held out at arm’s length like a deflated hot air balloon.

“He is attached to me,” Ilya snaps. “You do not know anything.”

“I’m not taking sides, I didn’t see the pestle thing,” Hayden raises both hands. “When I came in, it was already on the floor and these two were doing - whatever this is. Ilya had hold of him and Pork was scratching, and they were both yelling.”

“Pork was not yelling,” Ilya mutters. “I was yelling.” Shane crosses the kitchen with his jaw set. “Let him go.”

“He will flee.”

“He can’t go anywhere. Close the door, Hayden.” It clicks shut as Shane begins carefully detaching him, starting with the claws caught in the skin of Ilya’s wrist and working around each limb as the cat attempts to preserve his hold. “No claws.”

At the severity of his tone, Pork freezes - it’s the first genuinely smart thing he’s done since birth as Shane frees the final paw and lowers him to the floor. The aggressor remains unsecured. “I am not -”

Shane whips around so fast Ilya abruptly shuts his mouth. “Your shoulder.”

“It is fine,” he waves it off. “Glancing blow.”

“Let me see.”

Frightened into obedience by the look on his face, Ilya gingerly pushes his shirt down for Shane to inspect - his fingers are gentle as they skate across the reddened skin and muscle, guiding the joint into a gentle roll that does ache a little, but he’s being very brave about it. “Can you lift your arm?”

Ilya raises it above his head and stifles a wince. “That hurts, doesn't it?”

“Only a little.”

“How little?”

“Less than being hit in the head.”

Shane gives him a look of such disdain that Ilya withers under it -apparently humour is firmly off the table right now. “You should ice it - I can get Rose. She might know whether -”

“She is an animal doctor,” he mutters, opting not to add the ‘and my mortal enemy’.

“She still knows more about injuries than you do.”

Pork’s eyes never leave Shane’s hands - his satisfaction at the successful hit has already waned, obscured and muddied by the tension steadily building through his beloved’s body, but he remains entirely without remorse. The pestle was poorly aimed.

“He says his aim was poor,” Ilya grinds out.

Shane’s fingers stop, and the cat realises too late that this hasn’t improved his position.

“Hayden,” Shane says softly, “can you give us a minute?”

“Gladly,” Hayden sets the bottles on the counter and edges around them, pausing beside Ilya. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you weren’t pestle-d to death, even if it did kinda look like you were trying to accordion his cat.”

“He has a flexible spine.”

Pork’s anger follows him out and when the door closes again, Shane gets down on the floor nest to him - he keeps himself tucked behind the nearest chair leg, but gone is the vicious confidence with which he so often conducts himself with. My beloved? “That was so dangerous, Pork. You could’ve seriously hurt Ilya, and no excuse you could possibly have would make that okay,” Shane says, deadly serious. “I told you the rules. Nobody was going to force you to touch him, you’d always have somewhere to leave, and you weren’t going to be alone together unless I knew about it. I trusted you to speak to him because you asked politely.”

Pork stares down at his own paws.

“You tricked both of us - that isn’t how I raised you.” The sheer gravity of Shane’s displeasure sends a swell of vindication through Ilya - finally he can see the scale of depravity he’s been working against, and finally the white flag of a ceasefire might fly above the Hollander household yet. He’s halfway to smiling when Pork’s indignation cracks. He doesn’t regret the pestle (not remotely) but Shane’s anger, to him at least, has started to mean something else as an old fear rears its ugly head. The cat can no longer separate you did something wrong from my beloved no longer wants me, and the chair, the kitchen, and even Ilya himself blur into an anxiety of Shane turning away and closing the bedroom door, leaving Pork on the other side.

“I’m really disappointed in you,” Shane says quietly, his eyes wide and wet. Pork flinches, and Ilya’s satisfaction dies entirely. “Shane -”

“I need him to understand,” the other man mumbles, clearly no happier than the cat.

“He understands.”

“He tried to drop a pestle on your head -”

“I am aware, it was my head.” Ilya rolls his arm again, ignoring the protest in his shoulder. “He remains convinced this was excellent idea, but he understands you are angry. Now he is afraid this means you do not love him.”

Pork’s head snaps towards him. Do not -“That is all I will say about it,” he adds quickly, before the cat can exceed his murder attempt hattrick. “But this part is important.” Shane’s eyebrows knit together. “Porkie…”

Pork continues to lurk under the chair.

“No, buddy - come here,” the other man puts his hand flat on the floor without trying to grab. “I’m angry, but I still love you. I’m always going to love you. That doesn’t mean you can drop things on people, but both things can be true at the same time.”

The cat inches forward to sniff tentatively at Shane’s knuckles - his distress remains but it’s stopped growing, only just contained. My beloved remains mine.

“Yes,” Ilya says, glancing between them. “He says you remain his.”

“Always,” he strokes gently between Pork’s batlike ears when he creeps closer. “But Ilya’s allowed to be here too. You don’t have to like him yet, but you cannot hurt him.”

The pestle was not heavy enough to kill him.

Ilya sighs. “He would like to clarify the pestle was probably non fatal. He is feeling much better.”

Pork emerges fully to settle beside Shane’s knee, leaning against him while maintaining direct, (and continuously unapologetic) eye contact with Ilya. With the danger of genuine heartbreak passed, the worry in his face has eased somewhat. “Private meetings are done. You don’t get to lure Ilya into rooms anymore, and if you want to say something to him, you do it where I can see you.”

This is surveillance.

“He objects to surveillance,” Ilya says with a shrug. “Too bad. And Ilya, you don’t follow him alone either.”

“I had permission!”

“You had five minutes to talk, and then he tried to kill you.” He frowns. “At very end.”

“You’re impossible,” Shane shakes his head, letting Pork curl around his shin. “Literally impossible.”

“This is what you like.”

Shane doesn’t appear to deny it.

•————•

The party (somehow) survives both the attempted murder and its aftermath- the indomitable human spirit truly is a marvel to him. Pork remains ‘resting’ inside by Shane’s instruction, appearing only periodically behind the glass of the back door, and for a while Ilya manages perfectly well. His shoulder aches beneath the ice Shane had insisted on wrapping in a tea towel, but there’s more food and Luca had wanted to hear about Thomas the tortoise - Basil also receives a new tennis ball, and Ilya’s pretty sure he could be holidaying at Point Nemo and still be able to hear the joy this brings him.

Ball. Birthday ball. Mine. Hayden gave. Jackie held. Mine now. Ball. “Yes,” Ilya says, watching it roll along the grass. “What a lucky boy you are.”

Get it?

“You are closer.”

Friend gets it.

Ilya bends to retrieve the ball and loses it within seconds when Basil snatches it from his hand. Across the garden Anya (who has informed Ilya that they will be having A Talk the moment they get home) is monitoring the exchange - her attention keeps opening and closing around him, checking each source of movement before returning to make sure Ilya remains where she left him. Still fine? “Yes,” he tells her, tossing the ball again.

Your shoulder hurts.

“It has been struck by a rock, Anechka. So would yours.”

A sparrow in the hedge has found a piece of burger bun but can’t lift it, broadcasting her location, and a trail of ants move through the grass carrying pieces of potato salad in opposite directions, arguing over which route leads home. Something smaller still is dying inside a web beneath the fence, its panic little more than a repetitive pulse of move, move, move, and a fly has discovered the tray of leftover meat beside the grill. Food.

Hayden swats it away.

Danger hand!

Jackie and Rose are talking about somebody Ilya hasn’t met, Luca asks whether reptiles dream (yes), and Hayden materialises with a new bottle of wine, the cap clattering onto the table with a rattle he can feel behind his eyes. Basil drops the ball into his lap again. Throw. “I have thrown,” Ilya murmurs.

Again.

Pork’s irritation surges from inside, and Anya turns towards the door. Stop shouting.

You are not involved, the cat snaps. I’m involved when you’re giving him a migraine. Ilya presses his fingers to his temple - grill smoke still drifts in the air and somebody scrapes their chair over the patio with a horrible creak. The conversation has divided all over again, except now Hayden’s participating in all of them and Rose keeps laughing - Shane passes behind him with a can of ginger ale and leans to trail his hand across Ilya’s undamaged shoulder. “You good?”

“Perfect.”

Shane smiles and squeezes before moving away as Basil drops the ball. Again.

A blackbird lands on the fence and begins wittering about a worm. Someone then asks him a question (Rose, possibly) and he finds with dismay that he knows the words individually, but can’t keep hold of them for long enough to arrange a proper answer. Anya’s awareness nudges very calmly against his. You’re full.

“I ate many skewers.”

I didn’t mean food.

He stares very hard at Basil’s mouth around the tennis ball. “I am fine.” You can’t hear Rose.

“Thank god. I am free at last.”

Ilya, what is she saying?

Ilya tries to confirm - her evil lips are moving across the table, but all he receives is a bee locating Shane’s petunias. “I don’t know.” Go somewhere quiet.

“I cannot leave,” he says under his breath. “This is a party.” It isn’t your party - lie if you have to. Go down by the cypress, she tells him. Sit down. I’ll keep everyone here.

“Anechka -”

Go.

She noses firmly at his wrist, dislodging the tennis ball when Basil attempts to return it yet again - Ilya jerkily finds his feet, and Shane cocks his head from the other end of the table. “You okay?”

“Ah, I -” he hesitates, before settling on the truth. “I need a little quiet.”

“Okay,” Shane says, calm as anything. “Take as long as you need, I’ll be here.”

Hayden half rises from his chair. “Do you want -”

“No,” Shane gently cuts in. “Let him go.”

Nobody asks another question - Jackie takes the ball before Basil can follow him and Ilya deposits himself behind the gnarled old cypress, just far enough away that he’s no longer wading through a wall of sound. Pressing his hands to his eyes, he makes a solid effort to breathe through it, waiting for his consciousness to unknot itself. Still, even here, there’s something else - this one is familiar though muddied, and he lowers his hands to scan the branches. At first he finds nothing but green until one of the lower branches quivers and two enormous black eyes emerge from the shadows. The owl is perched barely higher than Ilya’s shoulder, his dappled body ruffled exactly as it had been the first night. He doesn’t have a rat this time, though given the afternoon Ilya’s had this may be fortunate, and when the bird swivels his head recognition clears away some of the fog around him. You made the call.

Ilya swallows hard. “Yes. It was terrible.”

And it was answered?

“Eventually - first he made me eat vegan lasagne. Very bad, imagine rat made of grass.”

I catch my food honestly.

“Yes, I remember. You were extremely self righteous about this.” A breeze whispers through the cypress and the owl adjusts his talons, though it seems to take more effort than it should. The one you wanted remains in the hollow.

“He does,” Ilya says, glancing back at Shane through the gaps in the branches, smiling as he gathers empty bottles from the table. “For now.” You told him everything.

“Yes.”

Then your flight is true.

“With many conditions,” Ilya huffs, though he can’t keep the humour from his voice. “I think he would like you very much.” The owl’s feathers puff around his face in a way Ilya chooses to interpret as fondness. In the distance Basil discovers yet more spillage beneath the table and sends a burst of birthday crumb directly through Ilya’s skull, and the owl turns towards it.

“And yours?” Ilya prompts. “Your mate still returns?” She returns.

“You told her about your wing?”

She knew. She allowed me time to tell her.

Ilya smiles again, and the owl’s focus warms around the memory of the brush of feathers along a branch. The anxiety Ilya remembers is absent now, the bright road but a bump in a life that has continued despite it. “And the young male?”

He has taken the churchyard.

“With your female?”

No, a loud female from beyond the water.

“Good,” Ilya says sincerely. “I am pleased the adultery has resolved itself.” He had no claim.

The owl shifts again, and this time he wobbles before he recovers - the movement wipes the smile from Ilya’s face and he extends his already aching awareness carefully, trying to look beneath the muffling of exhaustion without forcing his way into anything the bird hasn’t offered him. He finds none of the panic of injury or flash of impact, just a deep weariness and thirst he can feel in his own throat. “You are unwell?” I am tired.

Ilya edges closer. The owl doesn’t compress his feathers, and when he reaches slowly towards him there’s none of the struggle under unfamiliar hands. “Let me look at you.”

You are not a healer.

“No, but unfortunately I know one.” Ilya suppresses the urge to cringe away as those sharp talons close around his forearm, the owl stepping into him and resting against his chest as though they’ve done this a hundred times before - he weighs almost nothing despite the size of him. “You would have taken my fingers last time.”

You had not made the call.

“Ah, so honesty earns owl privileges,” he muses, adjusting. Up close he can see the dullness in his feathers, his age betraying him now in the light of day - his beak is worn, and there’s a multitude of pins around his face and neck that haven’t yet unfurled themselves, nor does he seem to have tried to groom them himself.

The owl’s shame is a throbbing melancholy, and Ilya dutifully doesn’t press it. I have held this territory through many winters. I have hunted in rain that drove the younger ones into their hollows.

“I know.”

I am old, not helpless.

“I know,” Ilya repeats softly. “You are also dehydrated.”

Calling Rose over is agonising. He considers Jackie, who appears competent enough despite her choice in men, and Luca, who possesses training but by association to Sasha may make him prone to an emotional breakdown of some kind - in the end he turns towards the patio and finds Landry already watching him, setting down her drink without a joke. She approaches slowly, and Shane takes one reflexive step after her - Ilya gives him the smallest shake of his head and he retreats. Landry peers at the bird in his arms. “Is that an owl?”

“Yes, obviously.”

Her eyes widen. “Did he fly down to you? Any impact or bleeding?”

“No, the wing is old injury, and it always rests like this.” Ilya instinctively wraps his other arm across the owl’s back when she steps closer. “Do not take him. He will allow you to examine him while I hold him, I think.” Rose pauses, and to her credit there’s no trace of wounded pride - she just nods, shifting until she can see clearly. “Okay, you’ve got him. Keep his wings tucked where they are and tell me if he wants me to stop.” You may start.

Ilya relays this, watching her hover over his eyes before asking him to encourage the owl to open his beak.

“His membranes look dry,” she murmurs. “Can I feel his keel?” The healer asks correctly.

“Yes.”

Rose’s careful fingers disappear into the feathers of his chest, moving towards his abdomen. The owl makes no effort to escape, and when she gently extends the damaged wing he gives Ilya the familiar flash of wire and terror beneath a towel.

“Old injury,” Ilya says. “Be careful near the joint.”

“I can feel the change,” Rose says, keeping her voice low. “Nothing feels newly displaced. Ask whether it hurts more than usual.”

“Does it?”

No. It aches when the air is wet.

“He says no - old pain, worse in wet weather. He also says your bedside manner is poor.”

This isn’t true, and she knows it. “Heart’s a little fast from what I can feel with my fingers, but not in a crazy way.”

“He is old,” Ilya supplies.

“He is,” she agrees, examining the bird’s feet. “And tired. He’s a little thin and definitely dehydrated, but I’m not seeing anything overly concerning. Has hunting been difficult?”

The owl’s head turns towards the road beyond the houses. The small ones remain deep beneath the ground, and the wing tires sooner. “He has struggled to hunt - his old injury tires before he does.” Rose nods. “He needs somewhere dark and quiet, and a chance to rest. Fluids if he’ll accept them, then observation - ideally I’d want a wildlife rehabilitator to assess him properly if he doesn’t improve quickly.” At the idea of leaving, the owl’s body flattens, searching for a call that could come while he is gone. I will not be taken beyond my hollow. “He will not agree to transport,” Ilya translates, fully prepared for combat should she try and take him from his arms.

Rose glances between them. “Ilya -”

“He understands what you mean. He has been handled before, after the wire, and he knows transport may help him.” Ilya strokes his thumb along the owl’s back, feeling him settle. “But his mate returns here, and he must be able to hear her. He will accept darkness and quiet within the territory, but he does not want to be removed from it unless his condition worsens.”

“Shane has a shed.”

Ilya turns him towards the wood panelled building concealed beyond the cypress. My hollow remains around it. “Yes.”

“And if he can’t perch later or his breathing changes, he lets us reconsider transport,” Rose says, already moving towards it. “That part isn’t optional.” Ilya raises an eyebrow at the bird. “You heard her.” I will consider her terms.

•————•

The shed is dim even with the door open, and once Rose has moved a collection of empty plant pots from one corner Ilya lowers the owl onto the soft picnic blanket they’d folded there - Shane (having been summoned by the sight of Ilya and Rose wrestling with the shed lock) has produced a dish from under the potting bench and rinsed it with the hose, filling it while Rose locates a cardboard box that can be turned on its side for somewhere darker to retreat. Ilya presides over all of this from the doorway with his arms crossed, prepared to intervene should anybody suddenly be seized by the urge to dine and dash with a tawny owl.

The owl does drink once they’ve retreated to a respectful distance, scooting backwards into the box with his mottled tail just visible. His awareness is still tired, but the relief beneath it is unmistakable in the support of darkness and solid ground.

Rose peers through the shed’s small window. “Does this open?” Shane reaches past her and fumbles with the latch, which appears to have rusted itself into retirement sometime around the invention of the iPhone -after several attempts he swings it out towards the garden and cool evening air drifts inside.

“His mate can come through,” Ilya says, leaning to widen it as much as he can.

“You’re sure she will?” Rose takes the other side of the window, helping him prop it open on some spare wedges of an Amazon box. “Does she look after him?”

The owl pokes his head from his hideout. She returns. “He is sure.”

She seems to accept this, taking another quick survey of the setup before giving Ilya a detailed set of instructions he already knows (followed by several he doesn’t, not that he’d admit that) and making him promise to call if he deteriorates. It earns her a temporary reprieve from the guillotine, though the naked Shane offences remain outstanding and unlikely to expire any time soon - once she’s gone, Shane lingers by a bag of compost before stopping beside the box. His hands disappear into the pockets of his (still very slutty) shorts and he rocks forward onto his toes, studying the feathered face watching them from inside it. “Hi.” The owl blinks.

“Shane says hello,” Ilya tells him.

I know this human.

“You do?”

Not as I know you, but my home is above his hollow. He has heard me before.

Ilya turns to Shane. “He says he knows you. He has called from the cypress before.”

“I knew it,” Shane whispers, his whole face lighting up. “I’ve heard him at night a few times, but whenever I looked outside I couldn’t see anything.” He did not answer.

“He says you did not answer.”

Shane’s smile falls. “Was I supposed to?”

“No, I think he is criticising your manners,” Ilya grins, the bird’s comfort already beginning to bleed into his own tired body. “I didn’t know you were talking to me,” Shane protests, conscious to address the owl directly - Ilya might just love him for that. “Sorry.” The bird studies him, his eyes moving around Shane’s face. The one you wanted.

“I - he knows who you are, Shane.”

“What did he say?”

There are still moments when lying comes to him as easily as breathing even now, but this isn’t that, simply because Ilya won’t let it be. “He says you are the one I wanted.”

Shane’s eyes widen.

The one who answered.

“And the one who answered,” Ilya adds softly. Shane’s fingers twitch at his side, close enough that Ilya could catch them with very little effort, but the owl is watching so he settles for knocking their knuckles gently together instead.

“Tell him he can stay here as long as he needs,” Shane murmurs. “If he likes it, I’ll leave the window open for good.”

Ilya relays this, and the owl’s feathers lift around his face. This is my territory.

“He says it was his shed first, technically.”

“Right,” Shane nods gravely. “Of course it was.”

“He permits you to continue using it.”

“How generous.”

The sudden quiet following everyone making wine drunk goodbyes feels like Ilya’s stepped into a hot bath after a day in the snow - the grill’s finally stopped smoking, and Anya finishes her avian inspection to sit beside Shane the moment he comes within reach, leaning against his leg. “She loves you,” Ilya hums, pleased. “Though she likes Sasha also, so her judgement is biased.”

Shane rolls his eyes and god, he can’t wait to make that attitude disappear -preferably fully naked without an interruption this time. “How's the shoulder?”

“Attached.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I - look.” Ilya lifts his arm above his head, pushing through the stiffness. “Perfectly operational.”

Shane winces on his behalf. “It’s already bruising.”

“I have been through worse.”

“Recently, yeah,” Shane says, gesturing up at where Pork’s now glowering from the gym window upstairs. “Mostly in this house. Look, you should probably stay - it’s getting late now.”

Ilya has no inclination to point out there’s still at least two buses running that could ferry him back home, or the fact he’s in fact not a teenager with a curfew (though Sveta may disagree) - instead, he keeps his face very, very normal. He thinks, anyway. “For my shoulder?”

“No, for the owl - Rose said somebody needs to monitor him, and you’re the only person who can tell what he’s feeling.” Shane glances back at the shed. “You can sleep in my room.”

Anya, already half asleep at Shane’s feet, cracks one eye open. As long as I have somewhere Pork-free to sleep, knock yourselves out. “Anya agrees, providing she has somewhere Pork cannot enter.”

“She can have the living room,” Shane says with a shrug. “The door closes, and Pork mostly sleeps upstairs with me anyway.” Ilya looks between them, once again worshipping at the altar of good fortune. “Then the professional consensus is that I must share your bed.” Shane grins. “Is Anya the professional?”

“Obviously. She has managed my care for many years.” With minimal success.

“She does not need to qualify every statement.” He chuckles, his hand hovering around Ilya’s shoulder. “I meant sleep, though. You’re hurt.”

Categorically, wholeheartedly not. Ilya catches his wrist to pull him closer. “I can move my arm.”

“That doesn’t mean you should.”

“I can close my hand,” he continues, demonstrating around Shane’s hip and feeling the other man’s breath hitch. “I can lift you, if required, though after earlier I think you will spend considerable time on your knees - this is what NHS Symptom Checker tells me will heal me.”

“You cannot be serious -”

“Shane,” Ilya murmurs, skating his thumb along the other man’s waistband, “I have never been more serious in my life. Research states orgasms are very good for granite pestle to the shoulder injuries, as is making you explain, in great detail, exactly how you wanted me to fuck you.” The smile playing around Shane’s lips goes straight to his stomach. “Alright, guess you’d better strap in, Rozanov.” Beside them, Anya gags and scrambles towards the house, her paws skidding across the patio in her effort to escape before he can continue.

Chapter 8: small beloved

Chapter Notes

i found writing this chapter really hard for some reason?? so apologies

if it’s a lil disjointed, i kept coming back to it also mr cliff marleau in

denim booty shorts is SO self indulgent i hope you enjoy the mental

image as much as i did ↕

as always love you all xoxo

Shane’s thighs are shaking, though he’s apparently unaware of this. Ilya, who might’ve died during Pork’s first suffocation attempt and is now living out some sort of incredibly vivid lucid dream during his final moments against the cat’s bellybutton, has transcended. Transfixed, if you will, on Shane’s utter determination to ride him into the mattress. It’s morning if the light through the curtains is anything to go by, exposing the full extent of what they’ve done to the bed - the duvet’s on the other side of the room, and Shane’s meticulously organised bedside table is scattered with empty condom wrappers and a bottle of lube run down to the last final pumps, most of which is currently dripping down his cock towards his ass. They’d slept at some point (he thinks), though he’s not sure for how long - the moon had come out, and Shane Hollander’s transformation into an insatiable succubus had begun, therefore Ilya’s fate was sealed. “Slow down,” Ilya murmurs, flexing his hands around the other man’s waist.

“I am going slow,” Shane says, or at least that’s what he assumes he says, because his voice is barely more than a gasp at this point, shot through from overuse and the repeated introduction of Ilya’s cock to the back of his throat.

“You will rip it off,” he shifts over, canting his hips up to give Shane the angle he’s so unashamedly chasing. “Then what will you do? Would be very sad for you to find a new psychic to -”

He never gets to finish that sentence, because Shane is a cruel, cruel lover. The other man grinds forward hard, smiling like butter wouldn’t melt, and his vision sparks all over again. “What was that? I didn’t hear you.” Ilya chokes, resisting (for the hundreth time, he’d like the record to show) flipping them both over and putting him through the mattress. “You - this is not slow -”

Forget his own funeral - first, Ilya needs to hold a wake for his cock. In memoriam, a very solemn affair with a slideshow to some Tracy Chapman, at which he’ll make a poignant and moving speech to share that it went out doing what it loves most - Shane Hollander. He’ll pencil it in after his 11am executions. Gone is the man fretting over Porkie and the state of his shorts, and in his place is, to his delight, is a bottomless hole pit with a mouth that would make angels weep, and a rabid desire to see just how many times Ilya can come without ejaculating dust.

“Whatcha say, baby?” Shane folds forward until they’re flush again, mouthing mindless kisses against his sweat sheened chest. “You arguing?” Nope. Ilya would never. “I am only - fuck - admiring your stamina.”

“You gonna complain the whole time?”

He grins at the crack in the other man’s voice, having committed to memory exactly how he sounds when he’s close - it had been a very serious piece of research that didn’t at all involve Ilya edging him to the point of sobbing delirium just a few hours ago. “Do I look unhappy?” Shane finds his lips again. “You look tired.”

“I have been awake all night satisfying a very demanding man.”

“You woke me up last time,” he very fairly points out. “Maybe I’ve been satisfying a very demanding cock.”

He can’t argue with this, so instead he bucks his hips, mesmerised as Shane whines into his mouth - his shoulder still throbs, but all things considered it’s difficult to care. They’re both littered with bruises (it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that Shane’s a biter, like father like son), and Ilya truly can’t understand how he was ever expected to live without this. He’d had a lasagne shaped inkling or two that Shane might not be as innocent as he appears on first glance, but this is so vastly beyond anything he’d been prepared for that the first thing he’s doing when he’s home is hitting up Reddit (r/relationshipadvice: My (M25) not-boyfriend-yet-but-sex-demon (M25) has mistaken my cock for a Peloton. How do I explain it requires charging?).

He’s also considering calling NHS 111 on both of their behalfs, because Shane has almost certainly exceeded his daily allowance of dick, and Ilya hasn’t ejaculated anything with visible mass since 4am. Shane whimpers into his collarbone, starting to twitch, and Ilya wrestles back good sense to spread his hand across the other man’s damp lower back, easing him into a slow roll. “Good boy, all the way down.” He sinks until their hips meet and his mouth falls open, though Ilya gives him no time to adjust before holding him there. “Do not move.”

“Why?” Shane pants, his pupils blown wide.

“Because I said.”

“You’re moving, that’s cheating!”

Ilya smiles, keeping him pinned as he drives up with painstaking slowness, steady enough to feel every change in Shane’s body as he takes it - he could become addicted to this with terrifying ease, and the tight, wet heat clamped around his cock is fucking dizzying. “You can move now - I just wanted to see if you would listen.”

Shane doesn’t require further encouragement, deteriorating at great speed when Ilya reaches between them and wraps a hand around his cock, his hips stuttering as he tries to ride into both sensations at once. Ilya slows his hand until he finds the pace he wants, stroking from base to tip and swirling his thumb through the slick there with far more control than he was aware he possessed.

“Oh, fuck,” Shane shudders, writhing. “Like that.”

“Yes, дорогой, you can take it for me.”

“No, don’t -” the other man’s hand flies out to grab his wrist when Ilya eases the pressure, then blinks at his own fingers before releasing him again. “Sorry.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “What are you sorry for? You can grab me.”

“With your bad shoulder -”

“This is the other arm.”

“I know, but if I pull it might move the other one.” Affection swells within him, and Ilya turns his hand under Shane’s to link their fingers together, using the grip to yank him forward and down onto his chest again. “There, now you cannot pull anything.” Shane’s hips jerk forwards. “You’ve got lube on your fingers.”

“Yes,” Ilya’s close now, gritting his teeth as every muscle in his stomach snaps tight. “There has been lube involved.”

“Don’t touch the pillow with that hand.”

Jesus Christ. “Shane, you have my cock inside your body.”

“That doesn’t mean I want silicone lube on the pillowcase, it doesn’t come out properly - wipe your hand on the towel?”

The little tremor in Shane’s voice is enough for him to swallow any argument, and Ilya forces himself back down to earth just enough to locate the towel that’s migrated somewhere under his thigh, trapped beyond any hope of retrieval without dislodging them both. He considers the logistics for a second before deciding pulling out would be a grief he’s not yet ready to experience, regardless of whether he’ll need an ambulance by the time they're done. “I will buy a new pillowcase.”

“It’s part of a set,” Shane mutters into his neck, still having a hell of a time deciding whether to fuck forward into Ilya’s fist, or work backwards to spear himself deeper.

“Ебать - then I will buy the set.” Shane’s lips part, likely to explain the immense difficulty of replacing this particular bedding, but Ilya tightens his fingers around his cock until it pulses. “Better?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, abandoning the pillow to pick up the pace again. “Fuck, yeah.”

Shane keeps returning to to the same angle, rolling his hips until Ilya can feel the exact moment he hits where he needs it most - he lets him enjoy it for a while, content to guide and watch him use his body to get himself off, but when Shane’s grinds grow increasinly urgent he slows him into a stop. “Lean forward.”

He does, and his first thrust makes him cry out - Ilya settles into a steady rhythm without (thankfully) requiring his shoulder at all. “That’s it. You wanted me to do work, yes?”

Shane nods, desperate. “Yeah - fuck me.”

“Nicely, or I pull out.” This is a filthy lie, but he figures this one is allowed considering the circumstances.

“Please, please fuck me.”

“Better.”

Shane’s forehead thuds against his, squeezing his eyes shut. “Want to come.”

“You argued with me,” Ilya feigns a shrug with his un-Porked shoulder. “Needy boy. How many times have I let you come so far?”

“You like that,” he whines, hardly audible above the wet slap of skin. “Wanna again. Please, please -”

Unfortunately he does like that - Ilya smiles against his mouth, but isn’t quite prepared to let him off so easy this time. “Very confident in the light of day.”

Shane bears down around him, and whatever smartass reply he intended disappears into an answering groan, working him in time with each of his thrusts until the other man’s body locks above him. “Okay, fine, fine. Let me hear you, котенок -”

“Wait, the towel -”

“I have you,” Ilya twists his wrist, turning Shane’s cock against his stomach. “Look at me. Look at me and come.” Shane goes rigid, spilling hot across Ilya’s stomach as his cock pulses, and the tightening around him nearly finishes Ilya at the same time. He holds himself back just enough to work him through it, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth as Shane’s body clenches so hard around him that his own cock throbs in answer. “Fuck -”

“There, there,” Ilya wheezes, trailing helplessly off as Shane circles his hips, rattling so hard he can hardly bear the stimulation. “Want to know I made you come,” Shane mumbles, each word slow and syrupy. “Want to feel you -”

That does it - Ilya hauls him down and holds him there, his release tearing through him with such force he’s pretty sure he’s making sounds he’s never made or heard in his life. It could be Shane’s name or it could be a recital of an IKEA assembly manual, but either way they collapse in unison, gasping as if they’ve run a marathon despite the fact Ilya hasn’t left his back in nearly thirty minutes. He’s not sure how long it is before his cock makes an exhausted (and slightly terrified) retreat from Shane’s body of its own accord, and he strokes a lazy hand down his spine to counteract the inevitable whimper of loss from him that makes him just want to put it straight back again.

“That was five,” Shane says eventually. “Or was it six?”

“Five. Do not ask me for a sixth, Hollander - I think Pork would find my death by sex very unsatisfying.”

The other man huffs a laugh, and Ilya closes his eyes as he feels him settle again. He’s sore everywhere now, but it’s not enough to make him want to move. He’d happily remain here until all of them die of natural causes and Anya learns to operate Deliveroo, and as if summoned, her awareness creeps up through the floor from the living room. Are you awake? Ilya keeps his eyes closed, but the rush of love he feels for her is enough to make them sting behind their lids - she sounds like she’s only just woken herself, foggy and faraway with sleep. “Yes, I will be down soon. How did you sleep?”

Wonderfully. Shane’s sofa is orthopedic, I think. Shane lifts his head. “Was that Anya?”

“She approves of your sofa.”

It’s better than ours.

“Go back to sleep, Anechka.”

Excuse you - the door’s closed, I need to pee, it’s breakfast time, and the clock doesn’t stop just because you’ve been ridden into the sunrise. Ilya winces. “Pork is outside the door. Listen, I am coming down - do not punch the messenger.”

It’s shoot the messenger, and I don’t have thumbs. One day you’ll remember that.

With great dismay, Ilya gives his consciousness a tentative flex outward to where Pork’s presence lurks like a peach toned poltergeist on the landing. He hasn’t scratched or yowled (which Ilya considers an extraordinary act of composure), though his restraint doesn’t extend as far as pretending not to know exactly what’s happened inside. You. You have imprisoned my beloved.

He must flinch or give some involuntary indication that the cat’s reign of terror has survived a new day, because Shane groans, muffled against his bare skin. “Pork?”

“He believes I have imprisoned you.”

Shane frowns. “You’re the one underneath me.” Ilya listens to Pork absorb this information and immediately regrets passing it on. You have coupled.

“Yes, thank you,” Ilya calls, fighting for his life to keep the strain of fear from his voice. “Do not go fishing for razor clams and be surprised when your fingers - or, paws - get cut, Pork. You do not need to look at this.” Shane’s face disappears into his neck, and Pork withdraws with enough revulsion that nausea lurches in his own stomach - still, this would be a spectacular outcome if Ilya didn’t also feel the distant stir of the owl in the shed, followed by an unfamiliar brush that must be his mate beside him, and Anya has set about communicating her hunger with increasingly vivid images of the leftover chicken skewers, slamming them one by one into his hippocampus.

“We have to get up,” he mutters, making no attempt whatsoever to do so. “Yeah, probably.”

Tragically, getting up means confronting not only the household as a whole but the consequences of whatever harm they’ve done to their bodies - Ilya gives gravely serious consideration to pretending he’s fallen back asleep, but Shane reaches carefully between them and begins the slippery process of peeling off the condom and retrieving the towel. “Nothing on the sheets,” Ilya says, strangely proud that his own ass had trapped Shane’s very precious Egyptian cotton towel exactly where it needed to be to prevent catastropic damage to the mattress. “You are welcome.”

Shane drops the towel over his face and he snatches it away with a yelp, fully prepared to tackle him until Anya gives a pointed bark from downstairs.

“Our children need us,” Shane grins. “Come on, before Pork finds any more reasons to hate you.”

Ilya clutches his chest, feigning great offence. “Pork and I are in our redemption arc - enemies to - to able to sit in the same room.”

“I’m sure there’s a tag for that somewhere,” Shane rolls his eyes, but the smile Ilya wants to drink still twitches at his lips as he swings both legs over the side of the bed. This appears to be a bit premature, as he wobbles like a newborn foal before he manages to plant his feet properly. Ilya beams at the sight. “You cannot stand up straight.”

“Shut up.”

“You specifically requested this. What was it you said? ‘Ilya, please fuck -’”

“I remember, thanks,” he hisses, snatching a clean pair of boxers from the drawers by the window. “Come on.”

•————•

To his delight, the owl seems to have recovered from last night even better than Ilya has - he’s upright when he eases the shed door open, and there’s what used to be a vole clutched between his talons. Ilya elects against informing Shane there’s now rodent spread across his picnic blanket, checking instead that there’s enough water before unceremoniously dumping himself a few feet away. Every muscle aches, and it’s a monumental effort not to convey this to his feathered friend. “Your mate brought this?”

The owl looks down at what’s left of his breakfast. She brought two. “Very good.”

She is an excellent hunter.

“I have never doubted her.”

This pleases him - Ilya can feel the warm swell of pride behind his ribs, some of the fatigue that had frightened him so much dissipating with each crunch and crack of the vole’s thin bones. Suitably relieved, he fishes around for his phone and lets sheer instinct alone guide him towards the electronic boil on his ass that is Rose Landry’s contact.

he is standing and has eaten two voles

Rose replies in less than five seconds. Ilya suspects this is because she’s not only hateful but incredibly lazy, and must’ve left all the veterinary work to poor Luca - he adds this to her list of crimes.

Rose 😡

Send me a video of him moving.

i have described it

your greed is sickening

Rose 😡

Video

do you not have an anal thermometer to utilise Nevertheless, Ilya records a few clips of the owl (after some coaxing) shuffling across the shed floor.

he says you should leave vet

and move to atlantic ocean

yo ho all hands

The typing bubble appears and disappears a few times before his phone pings again.

Rose 😡

He looks so much brighter and steadier! Keep him quiet and monitored for now, but that’s really encouraging. Keep me posted. P.S. You first 😊

Despite having this communicated by his worst enemy, Ilya’s relief is visceral. The bird’s head swivels in his direction, and the fondness that bubbles up within him is intolerable. He nudges the owl very gently with his foot. “Do not look at me like that - she started it.” Back inside, Shane has (as his extensive research tells him) a CPAP sat on the kitchen table. Predictably the other man’s nose is buried in the instruction manual with Anya at his feet, and at first the prickling discomfort in the air is so hard to push through that Ilya can’t tell at first who it’s coming from - the mystery doesn’t last for long, though, with Pork surveying the table and emanating such roiling anxiety he can practically see it coming off him.

The cat doesn’t grace Ilya with eye contact as he approaches, but his tail flicks only the once when he pulls out a chair. It may not work. “No,” Ilya says, carefully running his finger along the ridged tubing. “It will.”

Shane glances up. “He okay?”

I hate it. Pork pauses. But I am pleased it is here. “He hates it, but he is happy you have it,” Ilya translates, ignoring Anya’s incredibly conspicuous attempt to place herself between him and the cat. “Yeah, well, same.”

Shane lifts the mask to his face, fumbling with the straps - without thinking Ilya leans to untwist one, folding it flat just above his ear. It doesn’t cover much, but the change in Pork is consuming, a sharp and reflexive recoil followed by a confused inspection of Shane’s face every available angle. He pads along the table, so low that his soft stomach brushes the wood. Wrong. Ilya had expected something like this, but not quite the ferocity with which the stress manifests. “It is still him, look -”

No.

“What’s wrong?” Shane’s eyebrows furrow above the mask, and his voice is muffled from behind it. “What is it?”

He grimaces, choosing his next words with care. “He thinks the mask changes how you look. He will get used to it.” From under the table, Anya shifts, uncomfortable. This is where you tell him something nice, Ilya.

“I personally think you look beautiful. Taking care of your body is very sexy -”

Like an oversized, overpink slug, Pork creeps forwards to sniff the silicone. It smells wrong.

Shane connects the hose and switches the machine on, and as air begins to shuttle through the tubing Pork flattens himself against the table. Turn it off.

“He does not like the noise,” Ilya says, casting the cat a poisonous look the second Shane switches it off to pull it free again. “Though he is being a baby about it, it may take some time to become normal to him.” Not him.

When he sets the mask down the panic in Pork begins to ebb, replaced by a stabbing guilt - this is a new development, considering twenty four hours ago Ilya hadn’t known he possessed a soul, let alone the capability for remorse.

I have made him feel bad.

Anya huffs. You have a spectacular talent for it. “I’m still here, buddy,” Shane murmurs, none the wiser. I know now. Pork glances towards the machine again. It will protect him? “Yes,” Ilya supplies.

His guilt compounds, oppressive and thick and bleeding inwards until Ilya can all but taste it. I cannot sleep there. “Shane can move the hose. Run it above the pillow, maybe.” It will still touch me. He will still sound wrong. Pork’s misery is choking, and in utter desperation, the idea presents itself to Ilya on a silver platter, just advancing from genius to inevitability when the dulcet tones of a Slack Huddle begin from Shane’s laptop in the living room. He jolts like he’s been hit (understandable). “Fuck, that scared me.” Ilya frowns, turning towards the sound - it’s irritating enough that he’s half tempted to dunk the laptop into the ocean alongside Landry. “What?”

“Something’s gone wrong with a launch we’re supposed to set live on Monday,” Shane mutters, already moving. “I told them only to contact me if someone’s fucked it up, and I knew they would.”

Ilya has no clue what’s being launched, but can infer enough since Shane looks ready to crawl inside the laptop and throttle somebody, so he tries for his sweetest voice - he wants to get that mask situated properly, otherwise he’ll have to figure out a plausible way he can sneak under the other man’s bed to check it at 3am. “Can they not wait?”

“Not really. They generally know not to bug me unless something’s on fire, so that’s great.” Shane catches Pork, who’s slinking towards the living room with justifiable intent, relocating him beside the CPAP. “I was going to spend today getting him used to that. I don’t want his first experience of it to be tonight.”

“I can do this,” Ilya hears himself say, talking over the choir of guardian angels preparing to welcome his soul to purgatory. Ilya, Anya snaps. There’s no way -He cuts her off, wincing. “I had a better idea anyway. I will take him to Build-A-Bear.”

At this, Shane’s mouth drops open. “You want to take my cat to Build-A-Bear.”

“We may not select a bear. Perhaps another creature, I do not know. But if this is where one builds it, yes.”

“Sorry,” Shane blinks, already halfway out the kitchen door. “Let me rephrase. Why do you want to take my cat to Build-A-Bear?”

“I wish to spoil him,” Ilya waves a hand. “To, you know. Comfort him, if he takes time to adjust to your machine.”

Pork’s head snaps in his direction. I do not want to build a creature. “You do not know this - you are a cat.”

Shane hasn’t yet closed his mouth. “You’re not taking Pork anywhere by yourself - he hit you with a fucking pestle yesterday.”

“It was not a successful attack.”

“You’re still bruised!”

Ilya touches his shoulder, which only makes the mistake of confirming Shane’s point. “Then somebody else can come.”

“Who?”

“Cliff.”

“Who’s Cliff? Is he a responsible adult?”

“He is my friend.” Ilya’s thumb hovers above the call button on his phone. “He is very kind.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“He owns two dogs.”

Anya lifts her head. Octavia literally cannot see me like this. I’ll let Pork at you if you bring her over here - my fur’s a mess. Shane stares at him. “That’s the recommendation?” Why must we locate a bear? Pork’s bulging eyes have resumed their frequent eclipse (Bonnie Tyler would be proud) - though his apprehension isn’t entirely a rejection. I care little for them, unless one is consuming you. Ilya ignores him, and Cliff answers on the second ring with a muffled crash. “Hey, man.”

“Are you busy?”

“Depends what you need. Anyway, this dude on Hinge, right - he goes guess what, and I say -”

Shane’s eyebrows are making a spectacular migration into his hairline, so Ilya raises his voice far beyond reasonable volume to drown out however the fuck he was about to finish that sentence. “I require you to supervise me and a cat at Build-A-Bear.”

“Sure. Right now?”

Ilya frowns. “You do not have questions?”

“Should I?”

“No, this is good. Come to the address I am sending you.” Anya’s distaste prickles. I’ll stay here, for the record. “Anya is staying behind for -” he trails off, peering under the table. “For fur trouble. Do not bring Octavia and Margot.”

Cliff might just be on the toilet, because there’s a flush and the sound of a door handle creaking. “No worries, whatever.”

“She can stay with me if she wants,” Shane says, his smile hesitant but still enough that he wants to lick it. “She’s good company, even if we can’t talk.”

He’s about to sit in front of that thing until his eyes dry out, Anya adds. I’ll supervise.

“She would like to spend time with you,” Ilya says softly, ignoring the clamour of Cliff banging around his house on the other end of the line. Shane’s cheeks go so deliciously pink that he has to plant his feet to avoid crossing the room to kiss them. “Pork stays in the carrier while you’re travelling. His harness stays on, and Cliff stays with you the entire time. I won’t be able to concentrate otherwise.”

“Yes.”

“And you text me when you arrive and before you leave. If Pork wants to go early, you come straight back, no trying to push through it. Okay?”

Ilya nods solemnly.

“No antagonising him.”

No antagonising me.

His jaw clenches. “This rule must apply equally.”

“It does - you tell me exactly what he said when you get back, and Pork doesn’t attempt to injure you.”

Pork gives no indication he accepts this.

“Pork,” Shane prompts. “Deal?”

Fine.

Ilya studies him, still attempting to push past the knot of resentment lodged in the cat’s rancid psyche. “He agrees.”

Shane fetches the still ringing laptop, muttering to himself as he fires off a message with such force Ilya doesn’t need to see it to imagine what it contains - the Huddle abruptly cuts off, and the other man stomps to locate the carrier.

Anya, showing no inclination to move from her station, provides Ilya with the incredibly unpleasant image of Pork choking him with the stuffing machine.

•————•

Cliff arrives twenty minutes later in a jarring combination of the smartest shirt Ilya’s ever seen, and alarmingly revealing denim booty shorts. He greets Shane with a dazzling smile he usually only ever uses on his landlord or women over the age of sixty five, ducking through the doorway to crush Ilya against his chest, whacking him cheerfully on the back. “Careful,” Ilya wheezes, trying to wriggle away. “I have been injured.” Cliff pulls back only to plant a needlessly loud smooch between his eyes. “By the cat?”

“Yes, obviously.”

“Cool,” the other man releases him, unperturbed, before he all but launches himself towards Shane. “You must be Shane - Ilya hasn’t shut up about you-”

“Marleau -”

“I see what he means about your ass, though.” Cliff sticks out his hand. “I’m Cliff. Might be best man at the wedding, if Sveta doesn’t have me disappeared first.”

Shane blinks. “Uh - right. Thanks for doing this.”

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it - personally I’m hoping Pork tries something with a lethal weapon next. Sure, a good old fashioned mauling is classic, but wouldn’t it be funny if -”

“Do not give him ideas,” Ilya snaps. “You are chaperoning only.” Cliff grins. “Yeah, I know. Chaperoning - has Pork told you you’re not his real dad yet?”

Pork emerges at the sound of his name, making for Shane’s ankles. I will not go with this loud man.

“Oh my god, look at you,” Cliff lowers himself into a crouch, completely unaware that this gives Ilya (and by proxy Shane, who’s pointedly staring very hard at the hallway table) a 4K panoramic shot of his ass cheeks. “You’re beautiful, little man.”

It’s delivered with such sincerity that Ilya’s teeth start to ache - Pork stares at him, then approaches.

I will go with this loud man.

Ilya watches, utterly betrayed as Cliff holds out his hand. “Can I say hi?” You have a strong jaw. Your build is pleasant to the eye. Pork sniffs Cliff’s fingers, permitting a scratch under his chin without so much as a polite second of hesitation.

“What the fuck?” Ilya appeals to Shane, so affronted by the exchange that indignant heat has already started to spread across his cheeks. “He hates only me? Pork, Cliff has many infectious diseases -” You are the only disease in this household.

“He’s so soft,” Cliff whispers, risking an ever so gentle rub to the cat’s bony spine. “I thought he’d feel different. He likes me?” Ilya is fucking fuming. “No, he is gathering your scent for later crimes, yes? Pork, you are plotting? Scheming, perhaps?”

I like him. He is very handsome.

“He is wearing Jessica Simpson Daisy Dukes!” Cliff beams at him. “You noticed?”

Pork begins to purr as the other man continues his worship, untroubled by Ilya’s rising blood pressure. Shane clears his throat, making a polite (but shit) attempt at concealing his smile. “I’ll grab the carrier.”

“No need, I brought the stroller,” Cliff says, still stroking away. “It’s in the car.”

Shane’s forehead creases. “What stroller?”

“Oh, one time back in Uni, we -”

“No, thank you,” Ilya grinds out. “Silence from you.” Apparently this isn’t enough to deter him, because he fetches it at borderline superhuman speed, wheeling the rattly old thing into the hallway with such a shit eating smile that Ilya’s itching to run him over with it. The stroller (though ancient and unlikely to withstand speeds above 2mph) has high sides with a sun shield that pulls down over the flat base, and Shane circles it with growing approval. “You could clip Pork’s harness to the handle.”

“Sure,” Cliff hums, plucking half a cigarette butt from the bag rack and stuffing it into his short pocket. “We could take him to Peppa Pig World after, it’s only down the road.”

There’s a moment of silence in which Shane turns to Ilya, no doubt searching for a laugh or some sign Cliff’s only joking - he finds none, and Ilya pinches the bridge of his nose with a silent prayer. “No Peppa Pig. They would mistake Pork for one of the attractions.” You would not survive the journey. Pork approaches the stroller with far more caution than he’d offered Cliff, peering over the side before recoiling. And I will not enter this prison.

Cliff crouches beside him again, and god, Ilya really shouldn’t be subject to such torment. “You can look first, my dude. Bet we could pick you up a nice lady cat in this sick ride - or, any cat. Whatever floats your boat.” Suffering. Pork advances into it, and when Cliff straightens the frame he can survey the hallway from somewhere close to Shane’s waist. This is my chariot?

“Yes, Pork,” Ilya mutters. “Towed by four horsemen of the apocalypse -” The cat sits on his haunches. Towed by you. Shane sets about harnessing him up, which is objectively one of the most ridiculous things Ilya’s ever seen - you simply cannot leash the balding Antichrist, nor can you tether somethng not of this world to the mortal plane of existance. Still, he stoops to look through the mesh, eyeing the cat as he licks his paw. “You okay in there, buddy?” I am comfortable. Ilya must push me.

“No,” Ilya bites, crossing his arms.

Cliff takes hold of the stroller. “What did he say?”

“Nothing relevant.”

Push me, Ilya. Push me or I will scream.

“He would like me to push,” Ilya says through gritted teeth. “Awesome,” Cliff shrugs, handing it over. “I want to take him for a spin later, though.”

You may, once Ilya’s body is fatally weary.

“Text when you get there,” Shane calls after them, already retreating towards his laptop.

“I will.”

“And Cliff - you understand Pork’s actually hurt him before?”

“Yeah,” he says, trotting after Rosemary’s Baby and his unwilling driver. “If he attacks again, I’ll pick Ilya up.”

Ilya glares. “Why would you pick me up?”

“So Pork can’t reach you.”

“Pick up the cat!”

Shane laughs, and from the safety of the kitchen, Anya’s apprehension flickers into careful affection.

•————•

Ilya has called ahead, because he’s not a monster. Yes, Pork is a cat, and yes, he’ll remain harnessed inside an enclosed stroller made for human children at all times. No, he doesn’t have a known history of aggression towards members of the public, just one person, who may or may not live to return to his husband to be after what’s now starting to feel like an entry into Dumb Ways To Die.

It doesn’t appear to help matters - two young women at the Build-A-Bear counter take in the stroller like Jigsaw himself has just pedalled into the shop (a valid concern), but Ilya’s come too far to show fear now. “I called.” The younger of the two recovers first - she can’t be older than nineteen, and stapled to her apron is a glossy nametag that reads SIMONE. Ilya hopes SIMONE feels more prepared than she looks. “The cat?”

“Pork Hollander,” Cliff appears to consider high fiving her, but thinks better of it at the last second. “He’s here to build a friend.” Pork surveys the walls of hanging skins. They have been slaughtered. “They were never alive,” Ilya says under his breath, giving the stroller wheel a kick.

Empty bodies.

“That is why we are here.”

Simone’s smile falters. “Sorry?”

“He is very happy to be here,” Ilya says quickly. “Where do we begin?” She directs them towards the display of unstuffed animals, maintaining just enough professionalism when Ilya pushes the sun shield back that she doesn’t run screaming for the break room. Cliff points to a soft green frog. “This one?”

It is diseased.

“He does not like it.”

“Fair.” Cliff returns it to the display. “The eyes are kind of fucked.”

Ilya finds a black bear with a gravely serious expression and brings it to the stroller. “This is a nice bear.”

Pork examines it. Its head is round. “You have not even considered it!”

It is ugly, like you.

Ilya shoves the bear back amongst its (very much not ugly) family, just as Cliff presents the cat with a fluffy golden retriever. “Look at this guy -looks like AirPod, or whatever.”

“Air Bud,” Ilya mutters. “And Pork does not like dogs -” I like the Air Pod, Pork’s interest piques. You are a very smart man. Spite bubbling hot in his stomach, he stalks towards the next shelf and seizes an armful of the creatures, presenting them one by one with increasing determination. The unicorn is declined (I do not know this animal), a red panda hissed at (too furry), and an axolotl Ilya’s actually quite fond of receives such a violent reaction (primordial creature) that he stumbles on his haste to put it back again. Cliff, on the other hand, emerges from his elbow deep exploration of the plush buckets with a dark grey rabbit clutched in his fist. Its ears are long and floppy, and there’s something distinctly worried about its mouth, even when empty. “This guy,” Cliff dangles it in front of the stroller. “Tell me this doesn’t have Shane’s whole vibe - cute face, looks like he knows his way around a Google Meet.”

Him, Pork says simply.

Ilya’s knuckles whiten around the stroller handle, inhaling deeply before he shoves it so hard it rolls all the way out into the car park (and in front of the next moving Range Rover). “You have rejected all of my ideas!” Your ideas are stupid.

Oblivious, Cliff tucks the rabbit under his arm. “Nah, I totally see it. He’s bunny Shane.”

Yes.

Ilya stalks towards the sound station with Pork in tow before Cliff’s joy earns him a smack - his dark cloud of anger doesn’t last for long though, because his phone vibrates and the love of his life’s name lights up the screen.

Shane ❤

Hope this is okay. I sound awful, it’s gotten so much worse. [VOICE NOTE - 32s]

This might fix him.

“Hey, Porkie. I love you, buddy. I know today’s been weird, but I’ll be here when you get home. I’m never gonna leave you, okay? I love you.” Shane’s voice is almost completely destroyed, and Cliff turns slowly towards him with his eyebrows raised. “Dude, you did that? He didn’t sound that bad earlier.”

“He has had a long meeting,” he says, knowing full well the root cause remains tucked safely in his pants (and out of swiping range). “You cannot prove anything.”

Pork’s disgust reaches him, as it always does, with a tidal wave of wordless threat - it’s dulled under the rush of Shane’s voice though, the familiar cadence travelling through the speaker and settling some of the tension gathered inside him. Again.

Ilya plays it again, not about to argue.

I would like the rabbit.

“He would like the rabbit.”

Cliff’s face softens. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

Simone, almost certainly not being paid what she should be, helps them transfer the recording at the Hear Me station, holding a tiny sound insert to his phone while Shane’s message plays for a third time - she tests it afterwards, and his voice emerges crackled but unmistakable. Inside him, Pork’s enormous eyes fix on Simone. Put it inside him. “D’you want to try for a better recording?” Simone says, horribly unaware she’s one more delay away from exsanguination. “It’s a bit grainy.” Pork’s flanks bunch underneath him, and Ilya steps quickly forwards with both hands raised. “Fine - it is fine. Inside the rabbit, please.”

“What about a heartbeat?” Cliff asks, pointing towards the cutesy display beside the station. “He should have one.”

“Well sure,” she smiles, activating one of the little speakers next - it gives a dull, steady thump in her palm.

Not Shane.

Ilya tilts his head. “No, but it may still be comforting.” Pork considers it. It may enter the rabbit. “He would like the heartbeat.”

“This is beautiful,” Cliff says, dabbing at his eyes. The stuffing machine roars into life, and predictably Pork sends Ilya a vivid impression of his body entering the pipe feet first, coming out the other side as a compact cube of meat. As he’s grown quite significantly as a person recently, Ilya doesn’t return it with the image of a spatchcocked cat, opting instead to watch the rabbit take shape - once it looks less like taxidermy gone horribly wrong, Simone holds it up. “We’re ready for the heart ceremony.”

She holds out a small red fabric heart, and Cliff takes it with both hands. “Does Pork get one? He can touch it with his paw, or something.” Pork retreats. No.

“He does not want to participate.”

Simone glances uncertainly between them. “Wow - I mean, alright. We could just touch it to his…carrier?”

“No,” Ilya shakes his head. “He said no.”

Cliff shrugs, unruffled. “We’ll do it for him.”

Twenty five year old Ilya Rozanov rubs the satin heart between his palms until it’s warm, and Cliff attacks his with much greater enthusiasm - they press the hearts to their foreheads so Shanebunny will be clever, against their cheeks so he’ll always have smiles, then their stomachs so he’ll never be hungry. When they rub the hearts against their knees so he’ll always be there when Pork needs him, Cliff bends so low his ass cheeks make a near successful attempt to divide and conquer, and Simone averts her eyes. Ilya doesn’t possess her restraint, however, because he’s so sick of it he resolves to determine how much ass needs to be visible before Cliff can get arrested. “Now hold it close, make a wish, and give it a kiss,” she says, finishing her impromptu inspection of the stuffing tube the second it’s safe to do so. Cliff squeezes his eyes shut. “I wish Pork stops trying to kill Ilya.”

“You said it aloud,” Ilya smacks his own forehead. “Now it will not come true.”

“Shit. Can I have another heart?”

“No.”

Ilya keeps his own wish (the lakefront he’s been looking at for July remains available) safely inside his head and touches his lips to the fabric. Selecting clothing is nowhere near as simple - Pork, much like an uglier human infant, appears to be getting crankier the longer they fuck around with different outfits, and Ilya has no desire at all to test the strength of the harness.

Cliff holds up a plain white tee. “Crop it.”

This is acceptable.

Ilya’s mouth falls open. “You cannot be serious.”

“That’s how he looked when you met him, right?” Cliff tucks the tee under, just above the rabbit’s stomach. “Now it really is Shane.”

“It has no trousers!”

“Neither did Shane for most of last night, judging from the state of you.” Simone turns away to rearrange a display of tiny shoes, and suitably encouraged, Cliff adds jeans, a hoodie, a pair of miniature white Converse, and some running shorts. Pork approves each selection without even the mildest objection - he even permits a plastic laptop until Ilya reminds him he’s expected to sleep beside the finished result, which might poke him. No small computer.

Cliff returns it regretfully once this is relayed. “Maybe a little book?” Yes.

“Of course,” Ilya grouches. “Shall we give him power of attorney too?” They settle on a miniature brown book with blank pages, soft enough not to injure Pork if he rolls onto it, and carry the completed rabbit to the naming station, where Simone is much paler than she’d been fifteen minutes ago. “Got any ideas?”

Small Beloved.

“Small Beloved,” Ilya repeats.

“And the surname?”

Ilya doesn’t wait for a supplication. “Hollander.” Yes. Good idea, Cliff.

“Fuck off.”

Simone glances up sharply. “Sorry?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

The certificate emerges declaring SMALL BELOVED HOLLANDER, born under the supervision of two grown men and a cat, and Cliff carries him back to the stroller to lower him beside Pork like a newborn. Pork sniffs at its ears, touching an experimental paw to the rabbit’s chest, where the heartbeat and recording begin.

“Hey, Porkie. I love you, buddy.”

Pork’s mouth opens on a soft mewling creak, settling against Small Beloved’s side with his naked cheek resting beneath the rabbit’s chin. My smaller beloved.

Ilya’s throat goes so tight he has to turn away before the knot of emotion can transfer itself to the cat’s consciousness - he needn’t have bothered, because the trouble starts all over again as they wheel out of Build-A-Bear and pass John Lewis, where a woman clocks the stroller with a gasp. “Oh my god, what is that? Is it sick?”

Pork’s indignance arrives before Ilya’s even worked out what she’s said, curdling somewhere behind his sternum - it doesn’t knock first, blooming there the way his own pulse does, except this one tastes like copper and isn’t his.

The woman’s already got her phone half out of her bag, her face twisted. “Can I get a picture? It’s just so - ugly.”

Ilya’s body makes the decision on his behalf, and he wrenches the stroller handle around so fast the wheels squeak against the shopping centre tile. “Do not photograph him.”

“I was only -”

“You do not touch him either,” he snaps, far too pissed to be regretful. “He is not a photo opportunity.”

Cliff arrives at his shoulder at a dead sprint, armed with nothing more than a Twix and a bag of cheese and onion crisps he’s pilfered from the vending machine. “Yeah - he’s not - he’s actually got a medical thing, technically, you wouldn’t understand it.”

Ilya’s jaw twitches. “He does not have a medical thing.”

“Hey, I’m helping!”

The woman lowers her phone, still peering under the sun shield. “It’s just a cat -”

“He is not just anything.” Ilya can feel Pork’s tail lashing against the mesh, and underneath the outrage sits something else that doesn’t quite make sense to him yet.

You have called me worse.

“That is different,” he hisses, rounding on the stranger all over again and completely past caring that his voice has climbed right up towards a publicly unacceptable register. “He is my - my son, and you do not get to speak to my son this way.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Cliff blinks. “Your son.”

“No - I did not mean it like -”

“You said son.”

I am not his son. Pork’s rejection lands like a smack in the face, hard enough that Ilya actually flinches, but it doesn’t carry its usual poison. He is not my father.

“Figure of speech.”

I refuse you.

Ilya points accusingly at him, jabbing his finger into the side of the stroller. “And I rebuke you.”

The woman’s already backing towards Marks and Spencer, muttering to herself - Ilya watches her go with his pulse still hammering, ignoring Cliff’s incredibly unhelpful pass at getting him to take a bite of the chocolate. Shane wasn’t here, Pork curls back against Small Beloved, shoving the ache in his chest so far down that Ilya can no longer reach it without actively trying to. No one to perform for.

“I was not performing, you ignorant, sundried -” I know.

Ilya’s knees lock, but he has no time to contemplate what on earth the cat could mean by that, because the 6’4 toddler beside him is currently trying to tow them towards the nearest Nando’s with entirely undisguised hope. “Chicken butterfly with PERi chips, or does dad need a minute?”

“I will tell them to spit in yours,” Ilya muses, his attention still catching on the soft edges of the cat’s.

“Noted, Papa Rozanov.”

“Cliff -”

“Should we call Shane? Tell him congratulations, the paternity results are in-”

“I am going to leave you both here.”

“You wouldn’t leave your firstborn, don’t prove Sasha right,” Cliff nudges the stroller towards the smell of chicken, unaware of the patricide now currently being contemplated a foot to his left. “This is a beautiful day for our family.”

“There is no family!”

“Tell that to your son - rough morning for you, pal.” I am not his son.

•————•

The journey back (somehow) passes without an attempt on Ilya’s life - they do indeed stop at Nando’s, but only long enough for them to collect and eat most of it at the bus stop. He’d ordered Pork one of their Plain-ish chicken thighs in an attempt to disperse some of the awkwardness hanging around the stroller, which he rejects until Cliff offers it, then descends on it like he’s not had a proper meal in years.

Shane opens the door before Ilya can ring the bell, the laptop balanced precariously against his hip. “You’re back.”

His voice has deteriorated even further, rough enough that Ilya almost feels bad - almost. He looks worse than he had when they left too, but the smile that appears when he cranes his neck into the stroller is like sunshine. “Hey, buddy. Did you have a good time?”

Pork pushes against the mesh, distinctly (and disgustingly) embryonic. My beloved, I have suffered.

“Yes, he had wonderful time,” Ilya says firmly. “He is full of chicken.” Shane reaches to unclip the harness. “Sounds about right.” Behind him, Anya appears from the living room with sleep still clinging to her thoughts, though her relief is a tonic the minute she scans over him. You’ve come back with the same number of limbs.

“Yes,” he tells her, giving himself a quick check over just in case. Did you play nicely?

Before he can answer, Cliff lifts Small Beloved from the stroller with the most serious face he can muster. “Congratulations, Shane. It’s a boy.” Shane looks, bewildered, from the rabbit to Ilya. “Small Beloved Hollander,” Cliff continues, turning him in a full 360. “Takes after his dad.”

“You made me into a Build-A-Bear?” Shane takes the rabbit by one of its long ears, examining the crudely cropped tee.

“Build-A-Rabbit, technically.” Cliff leans in, lowering his voice into a stage whisper. “Ilya made a wish on its heart. Probably about getting you pregnant.”

Ilya hauls the front door open. “Leave.”

“I’m going.” Cliff bends to offer Pork a final scratch, which is accepted with enough grace to sting. “Be good for Papa and Dad, and Big Uncle -”

“No.”

“Big Brother?”

“Worse.”

Cliff huffs, grinning. “Cool, non biologically related friend Cliff will see you soon.”

Large Cliff, Pork bows his head. Return soon. Ilya winces as the other man claps him square on the shoulder. “Proud of you, man. Defending your kid, surviving Build-A-Bear. Huge day.”

“Get out,” Ilya shoves at the empty stroller until he’s forced to take it. “Goodbye.”

“Text me about the christening.”

Ilya closes the door on him while he’s still talking. Cliff continues through the wood for another few seconds, before his voice finally recedes down the garden path - Shane’s still inspecting Small Beloved, having untucked the tee to cover him fully again. “Defending your kid?”

“Ah, a misunderstanding.”

“You called Pork your son?”

“A woman insulted him.”

Shane’s tiredness disappears into cold fury. “What woman?”

“It is dealt with,” Ilya says, manoeuvring him into the living room by the shoulders, before he sets about hunting her through Westfield. “She tried to photograph him and called him ugly, so I explained very calmly this was not permitted.”

Anya’s consciousness brushes against the memory before he can prevent it, and her hackles lift. Only we can call him ugly. Disinterested, Pork turns away. You are visually unremarkable. The other man’s eyes shimmer. “You stood up for him?”

“Yes,” Ilya’s cheeks heat. “I am allowed to call him names because we have an established relationship of mutual hostility - a stranger does not.” I am not a kitten, Pork glowers at him from the sofa. Your protection is not needed.

“You are not needed -” Ilya cuts himself off at the sharp lift of Shane’s eyebrows, slapping what he hopes is a regretful smile across his face. “Ah, sorry. Sorry. Pork, I still do not like to think of you insulted.”

You insult me.

Anya places herself between them with a sigh. Have you been bickering all day?

“We have not. Go sit down, there is more.”

Shane obeys without argument, setting his laptop down without so much as a backwards glance - Pork leaps up beside him, and Ilya gestures for him to sit the rabbit between them. The other man studies it properly now, tracing his thumb over the jeans. “Why does it have my wardrobe?”

“He rejected my suggestions, but approved everything Cliff chose because he finds Cliff handsome.”

His mouth twitches. “Pork has eyes.”

Ilya’s going to pretend he didn’t hear that. Pork begins washing his paw, refusing to look at Small Beloved now there’s an audience - the rabbit sits directly beside his wormlike tail, close enough that the tip of one floppy ear rests against it, but he shifts just far enough away to break the contact. “The rabbit is for your CPAP.”

“My CPAP?”

“Pork is frightened by the mask, we know this - he understands it will protect you, but understanding does not make it familiar. He also worries the hose will touch him.”

Shane plucks a piece of lint from behind the cat’s ear. “I’m so sorry, Porkie.”

Do not pity me. You must be well.

“I thought something that looks and sounds like you may help him adjust,” Ilya says quickly, not trusting his own unsteady emotions enough to translate that. “Small Beloved has a heartbeat inside him, and this.” He reaches across and presses the rabbit’s chest.

“Hey, Porkie. I love you, buddy. I know today’s been weird, but I’ll be here when you get home. I’m never gonna leave you, okay? I love you.” The recording is grainy through all the stuffing, but his entire face turns red before the message has even finished. “Oh my god.” Pork’s head lifts despite himself, and Ilya presses again. “Hey, Porkie. I love you, buddy -”

“Don’t play it again!” Shane lunges across the sofa and snags Ilya’s wrist, laughing through a grimace. “Jesus Christ, I sound awful.”

“You sent it!”

“I sent it for Pork, not for you to put inside a rabbit!”

“You sent it to me,” Ilya shrugs, pausing only to kiss the inside of the other man’s arm. “This is not a legally binding condition.”

“I thought you’d play it to him or something -” Pork’s attention has fixed on the rabbit. Again. “He would like it again.”

Shane covers his face. “No, he wouldn’t.”

Again.

“He is very firm.”

He keeps his hands over his eyes as the recording plays all over again -Pork pretends to resume washing, though the same greasy patch of his ankle receives a flurry of identical licks while Shane’s voice fills the living room. Anya’s head tilts at the speaker, affection moving through her in a gentle wash. He really does sound terrible. He’s lovely. Ilya stifles a grin. “Now I will have to buy Anya one of you, also.”

“Thanks, Anya, I think.” Shane lowers his hands only when the recording ends, still flushed so deeply it’s spread all the way under the collar of his shirt. His gaze lingers on Small Beloved, following the stitching around his worried mouth. “So when Pork can’t sleep beside me, he has this.”

“Yes.”

“With my voice.”

“And heart.”

Ilya sets off the heartbeat and Pork’s ears flick towards the sound - he doesn’t move closer to it, but his hindleg comes to rest less than an inch from Small Beloved’s shoe.

Shane swallows hard. “And you two did this together?” I did nothing with him.

“I mostly pushed his chariot,” Ilya mumbles, suddenly shy. “That is all.” The softness in Shane’s face turns unbearable - he reaches down to coddle Pork, but the cat ducks under his hand and relocates himself to the opposite end of the sofa. I do not require comfort. “I care,” Ilya says quietly, part hoping Shane won’t hear it. “About you, and you care about him. So.”

When he speaks again, Shane’s voice is little more than a whisper. “I’m a really lucky guy.”

Pork turns his back on all three of them, presenting the room with the wrinkled expanse of his back - Small Beloved’s heartbeat continues for several seconds before slowing to silence.

“See if he’ll lie with him,” Shane nudges the rabbit closer. “You think?”

“He will not while we are looking,” Ilya leans forward anyway, stupid with hope. “Pork.”

No.

“Small Beloved is waiting.”

I have no knowledge of him.

“You chose him.”

I have never seen that rabbit before in my life. Shane watches the unsuccessful attempt with a chuckle. “Maybe give him some privacy.”

Ilya fixes his attention on the blank television, Shane closes his eyes, and Anya turns pointedly towards the kitchen, and the cat’s disgruntled yowl doesn’t need a psychic to translate at all - still, they wait. “He knows,” Shane whispers.

“Of course he knows,” Ilya whispers back. “He is evil, not stupid.” And you are both.

Anya sighs, climbing to her feet. This is pathetic. She pads into the kitchen, and Ilya stands to follow, gesturing for Shane to do the same - they stop just beyond the doorway, crowding without hesitation to peer through the gap in the door, Anya wedging her nose between his legs. Pork stubbornly remains at the other end of the sofa. “You’re still looking,” Shane breathes against Ilya’s ear. “So are you.”

The cat turns his head towards the doorway, and all three of them jerk out of sight. The retreat might be more convincing if Shane hadn’t yawned loud enough to wake the dead - Ilya frowns, stroking a careful hand through the other man’s mussed hair. “You are very tired.”

“I’m fine,” Shane bats him away, yawning. “Don’t make that face.”

“I am not making a face, because you are not going to argue with me. You are going to bed.”

“Seven,” Shane says, like Ilya’s suggested he take to his bed at noon. “It’s seven in the evening.”

“Yes.”

“I’m a fully grown adult - children go to bed at seven.” Ilya waves his hand towards the living room, where Pork remains determinedly unaware of Small Beloved’s existence. “You have made your views on my parenting clear already.”

“I’m not going to bed.”

Anya licks at his hand. He didn’t nap. His brain is soup - leek and potato, if I had to guess.

“You are soup.” He latches his arms around Shane’s waist before he can retreat back into the living room, steering him into the kitchen. “First you will eat.”

“I ate earlier.”

“When?”

“I - I had a protein bar.”

“Today?”

“Yes.”

Shane sits, watching Ilya mangle a banana into the last (sickening) dregs of Greek yoghurt from the fridge. He pours a glass of water and sets that down too, chucking two slices of something called ‘Jason’s Grains and Seeds Ciabattin’ into the toaster.

“What are you doing?”

“Food - it is not my fault you own nothing that can become dinner without cooking.”

He wrinkles his nose. “There’s food in the freezer.”

“Yes, and much of it has vegetables hidden inside. I have suffered enough today.” Waiting on the toast, Ilya retrieves the laptop from where Shane abandoned, ignoring the notifications flashing on the screen. “This is finished also.”

“No, leave that open, I need to check they’ve pushed the fix. I need to make sure -”

Ilya closes it.

“Ilya, you can’t just shut my work down!”

“I did,” he shrugs. “Very easy.”

Shane reaches for the laptop, but Anya sidles between his chair and the table before he can stand fully, planting herself directly across his feet. Good girl, Ilya tells her silently, twirling one of her ears between his fingers.

She leans into his palm. You owe me so much fast food. Shane glances between them, displeased. “Are you two conspiring?”

“Yes. If Monday cannot survive eight hours without Shane Hollander, then it will die as it deserves - it has ruined your face.” The other man raises his eyebrows.

“Not ruined,” he corrects. “Made it tired. Your face remains beautiful.”

The fight drains from him with every mouthful, and by the time he finishes the yoghurt there’s enough colour back in his cheeks that Ilya stops trying to figure out whether he should locate whoever responsible for the launch issues and stuff Pork up their trouser leg.

“Happy?” Shane grumbles around a bite of toast. “Not yet - bathroom.”

“You’re not serious? I know how to get ready for bed.”

“Then this will be easy for you,” he sing songs, whisking the empty glass to the sink and carrying the CPAP upstairs without a backwards glance - like the smell of death and decay, Pork follows close behind (abandoning Small Beloved on the sofa, where none of them are supposed to know he’s been moved a good few inches closer to his heated bed), and Shane trudges a few steps behind.

“The clinic already showed me how to set it up.”

“Good,” Ilya plops himself on the end of the bed. “You can show me.” Pork coils himself at the very end of the bed as Shane reassembles the machine, keeping himself as far from both Ilya and the hose as possible -the bedside table (no longer as terrifying now Ilya knows exactly what’s in it) has already been cleared, and Ilya plugs the CPAP into the socket before checking the cable as Shane fits the humidifier into place, opening the instruction booklet to the page he’d folded earlier. Pork creeps closer. It smells like the healer. Ilya would really rather not associate Rose Landry’s heinous scent with the sanctuary of Shane’s bed, but he fixes his face and presses onwards anyway. “The clinic - he thinks the smell is similar.”

“Probably the plastic.” Shane holds the mask out towards him, keeping his hand very still. “You want to have a look?”

Pork elongates his neck (gross) without moving his feet. Wrong. “He says it changes your smell.”

Shane nods, but the crease between his eyebrows has made itself known to Ilya’s heart. “Yeah, it probably will for a while.” When he eventually climbs into bed and warily places the mask over his face, Ilya can’t help but check over the straps again - Shane gives him a filthy look through the plastic, but does allow him to slip his finger under the it to check it isn’t pinching the bridge of his nose before stepping back to inspect the arrangement as a whole. “Too tight?”

“No.”

“Can you breathe?”

“Yes, I can breathe.”

Pork has flattened himself into a sentient strawberry crepe near Shane’s feet, fixed on his face. This will help him. This will help him. This will -“It will help him,” Ilya murmurs, far gentler than he intends. “Look at his eyes, yes?”

Shane, unable to hear the sour panic roiling inside his cat, stretches to rest his hand on the duvet where Pork can see it. “I’m right here, Porkie.” The mask has eaten his mouth? The mouth he uses to kiss me? “It has not eaten anything,” Ilya points, letting the cat’s attention follow. “His mouth is behind it.”

“What did he say?”

“He thinks the mask has eaten your mouth.”

Shane’s muffled laugh makes Pork startle hard, returning to his liquid form once again.

“That noise bothers him,” Ilya muses. “Speak again.”

“Hey, buddy.”

Pork’s satellites rotate. Again.

“He wants you to keep talking.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Anything.”

Shane thumbs the duvet. “I don’t know, I had a weird day. My cat went to Build-A-Bear without me and came back with a tiny version of myself, which is probably something I should’ve anticipated when I hired an animal psychic who’s now - now kinda important to me.” Pork creeps a near invisible step closer.

“And now said psychic is putting me to bed at seven because I can’t say no to him when he looks at me - well, like that.”

“Yes,” Ilya grins, running his hand up the other man’s shin. “Continue.”

“He’s also incredibly bossy.”

It will move.

“No, and it will not fall,” Ilya reasons. “It is secure, see?” You do not know. It may crush me.

Shane shuffles upright again. “I’m assuming he’s worried about the hose?”

“He thinks it will fall on him.”

Shane pats the free space near his hip. “He can sleep on the other side.” Pork ponders the route, stalking along the edge of the bed to inspect Shane’s legs and the gap near his shoulder. The air touches me. “It will. This place may not work.”

Shane shifts onto his side, directing the airflow away. “What about now?” Pork approaches again, stopping when it ghosts over his whiskers. Still wrong.

“He still dislikes it.”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to sleep here tonight, buddy - we can get used to it together, whenever you’re ready.”

Pork stress surges hot and tender in his throat. If I leave, he may stop. “The machine will continue if you leave,” Ilya assures him, meaning every word (for once). “He will not turn it off.”

How will I know?

“You will hear it.”

This miraculously seems to settle him enough that he’s not directly in fear of his life - rather than dwell on it, he tugs the duvet up and over Shane, rearranging those fucking pillows and dithering over the seal of the mask to triple check it won’t spontaneously strangle him overnight. Shane takes a halfhearted swipe at his hand. “You’re fussing, and I told you I wouldn’t sleep this early.”

“You do not have to sleep,” Ilya says, now yanking the curtains shut. “Just close your eyes and remain horizontal.”

“That’s sleeping, Ilya -” Shane might have continued arguing had he not yawned again, and this time his eyes remain closed. “Comfortable?” Ilya peers at him, suppressing a flinch as Pork leaps down from the bed and disappears downstairs. “Too warm?”

“No.”

“More pillow?”

“Fine.”

“Mask?”

“Fine.”

“Water?”

“Seriously?”

“Beside you,” he says, placing a fresh glass at a safe distance from the machine. “If you wake. I will call you in the morning.” Dismay flashes across Shane’s face. “You’re leaving?”

“When you are asleep - Anya is waiting.”

“I’m not even tired.”

His voice trails off, and less than five minutes later his fingers slip from around Ilya’s wrist - he waits, counting each breath, before he pads as quietly as he can from the room. The landing is empty when he pulls the bedroom door to, Anya’s consciousness blurred as she dozes under the kitchen table, and Pork’s ominous pulsating having migrated back to the living room. He takes the stairs with great care, pausing in the doorway to peer over at the sofa.

Small Beloved has been dragged from where they’d left him, flat on his back - the cat stands over the rabbit with his head down and both front paws sunk into its soft stomach, pushing up and down in a slow rhythm. “Hey, Porkie. I love you, buddy.”

Pork mewls.

“I know today’s been weird, but I’ll be here when you get home.” Grinning, Ilya lets his shoulder knock into the door frame as he leans against it. “Ah. I thought I could smell somebody making biscuits.” The cat whips around so violently his back foot activates the heartbeat, and the steady thump fills the room. I was testing him. You may have hidden something unsavoury within him.

He arches an eyebrow. “Of course.”

He is defective.

“I will notify the manufacturer, though you do not seem too concerned by this.”

Pork steps clear of Small Beloved, radiating irritation and wrapping his tail tightly around his feet. You know nothing of what you saw. “I saw a thorough safety inspection,” he says, keeping his voice as low as he can. “What were you making? Shortbread? Chocolate chip?” You will not tell him.

“No.”

Or your mercenary.

“I will not tell Anya.”

Pork watches him, clearly searching for a trick. “I mean it,” Ilya murmurs. “Small Beloved belongs to you. What you do with him is private, though you have delighted me by baking so soon.” I hope you are cursed to live forever, and must watch every person and thing you love perish, whilst you wander the earth alone for eternity. Pork lowers himself beside the rabbit again, but now the heartbeat has trailed off it leaves the room so quiet that the thrum of the CPAP drifts through the ceiling.

Curiously, the threat doesn’t arrive with as much venom as they usually do, though Ilya isn’t about to press it. “I am going home, Anya is tired.” The cat’s attention stays stubbornly fixed on the machine. I know how to watch over him.

“I know. You always have.”

Pork’s triangular head turns towards him.

“You kept him breathing before anyone knew he needed help.” Ilya pushes off the door frame. “I trust you.”

I do not need your trust.

“No, but you have it. With all things Shane related, that is.” The machine may fail.

“Then you wake him, and he will call me.”

I know him better than you.

“Yes,” Ilya tilts his head, backing away. “You do - but do you truly think this means I cannot learn him with you?”

Silence ticks by in a long stretch before it becomes evident the cat has no intention of answering. Fair enough.

“He will call me if you wake him,” he repeats instead. “Any time. I will come back at midnight if I must.”

Pork begins washing his chest. This would not be necessary. “Good.”

But the machine must be assessed tomorrow.

Ilya hesitates.

Its sound may change during the night, or change his breathing in a way I do not recognise.

“Shane can tell me whether it worked,” he reasons. “He can tell me this himself, with human words.”

My beloved cannot tell you what I hear.

“No,” Ilya says slowly. “Only you can do this.” Therefore you will need my report.

“I see.”

Tomorrow.

“Would eleven be acceptable?”

Nine.

He grimaces, his own exhaustion already threatening to strike him down where he stands. “Ten.”

Pork pauses, already creeping back towards Small Beloved. Nine thirty. “Fine, nine thirty.” Ilya glances at the kitchen. “I will return to assess the machine. Not to see you.”

I have no wish to see you.

“This is mutual.”

Get out of my sight.

Ilya does, stopping only because the dangerous beast that is hope might just have resurrected itself in his heart. “Goodnight, Pork.” I hope you are hit by a bus on your walk home.

Chuckling, he drifts back into the kitchen, giving Anya a gentle rub on the shoulder to rouse her. “Anechka, we are going home.”

Chapter 9: what use are hands?

Chapter Notes

sorry for the delay, work has had me by the THROAT this week

so, this chapter is probably the ‘taken seriously’ part of the crack - it’s

not really very happy, but ilya rozanov versus the monster that is grief

did need to happen in order for us to reach our happy ending, and I

find as in real life, it’s usually one thing that breaks the dam and

releases the flood

ofc feel free to skip this one if the below warnings aren’t your thing <3

- pet death / euthanasia

- grief, both immediate and historic

- lil bit of a breakdown

you can click the russian to translate it (thank u mackerel_cheese for

the tutorial)

for those who may prefer to opt out of this one, I’ve also popped a

very brief and non graphic spoiler in the end notes should you wanna

read that instead

love u all xoxo

See the end of the chapter for more notes

At half past nine, Ilya rings the bell. He’d thought about arriving just one minute late if only to piss off the resident lychee, but that would mean arriving one minute late for his husband too, which isn’t really the basis on which a healthy marriage is formed.

You have arrived, Pork says from somewhere inside, presenting the image of him beneath enormous tyres, having evidently watched the same episode of Ice Road Truckers he had last night, though he’s pretty sure only one of them was deepthroating a double quarter pounder with cheese (extra pickles).

“Yes,” he tells the door, incredibly proud of his own restraint not to point this out.

The machine requires assessment.

“This is why I am here.”

Pork offers nothing further, and this in itself is disconcerting enough that he shuffles on the front step as Shane opens the door, dressed, though not long ago from the general look of him. That damned strap has marked the skin near his ear, and he’s regrettably not chosen to bring out those shorts again, but he’s still Michelangelo’s David even if he were clad in a beekeeping suit.

“Nine thirty,” he smiles, stepping back to let him in. “I thought he might’ve negotiated you down.”

Ilya huffs. “He attempted nine.”

He gets as far as closing the door before Shane’s on him, and the axis of the earth corrects itself, the choir begins to sing an orchestral arrangement of Hotel Room Service, and the taste of him floods his mouth like nectar. It’s a much better greeting than the one he received from the bollock, even when Shane draws back before Ilya can crowd him straight up the stairs. “I’ve got morning breath,” he grimaces, moving instead towards the living room.

“I have survived worse things in this house.” Ilya opts not to add that he’s talking more about the lasagne than Pork’s attempt at Hansel and Gretel-ing him. “I would love your breath even if you had been eating from the bottom of Pike’s horrid bin.”

“Gross, Ilya,” Shane tries and fails to look stern, which triggers the urge to ruffle his hair so fiercely Ilya has to consciously keep his hands at his sides. “And Pork can hear you.”

“Good. Did you sleep?”

He nods, bright eyed. “Yeah, hard. I don’t remember waking up at all - I had alarms set and didn’t hear either of them, and Pork only woke me up about ten minutes ago by standing on my chest.” This is your fault.

Affronted, Ilya stalks through the threshold to point a finger in his general vicinity. “You were the one to suggest this early.”

“I feel pretty good,” Shane says quickly, smothering whatever aggrieved response the cat shoots back at the same time. “A little like I’ve been sedated, but pretty good.”

Ilya reaches to cup his cheek. “Good.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you want, balloons?”

Shane grins, pressing a swift kiss to his palm before dumping himself on the sofa. “Yeah, and maybe a really nice smoothie.”

“Milkshake. Whipped cream and chocolate syrup I can lick off -”

“Smoothie.”

Ilya settles next to him, watching him carefully set the CPAP on the arm of the sofa. “Fine. Smoothie with whipped cream and syrup I can lick off -”

“Huh, that’s weird.” Shane’s frowning, gesturing over to where Small Beloved now rests on the lower platform of the cat tree, directly below where Pork presides on the very top of it. “The me-rabbit moved.” He follows his hand, and finds the cat staring back at him, a warning in his eyes. He was obstructing the sofa. Ilya relays this, and the crease between the other man’s eyes deepens. “So Pork moved him?”

I did not - Small Beloved moved itself, because it is inhabited by Ilya’s foul personality.

“He denies this,” he mutters.

Next Small Beloved will be inviting himself in and telling me he has Michael Jackson’s telephone number.

“Michael Jackson is dead, Pork.”

The cat blinks. Is he?

“This is the answer he provides me,” Ilya waves him off, returning his attention back to Shane.

“Right, no idea how he got there, then.”

There is no reason to discuss it further.

He keeps that to himself. “I believe he is ready to report.” My beloved continued breathing, and the tube did not descend the stairs to approach me.

“You stayed breathing,” Ilya says, busying himself for only a minute to suppress the image of strangling Pork with it. “And he is satisfied the machine will stay where it is.”

Shane leans forward. “Anything else?”

It prevented the stops, so I will tolerate it.

“Pork says it can stay.”

I said I will tolerate it, the cat’s tail flicks, and Ilya feels his consciousness creep just an inch or so down, confirming Small Beloved hasn’t fled the scene. Permission is not required like it is for you. “He wishes to clarify this is not approval.”

“I wouldn’t dream of getting carried away,” Shane grins, settling back into the cushions. “Thanks for keeping an ear out, Porkie.” I always will.

Ilya’s itching to find something to needle this with, but bizarrely all appears quiet on the western front - the cat has coiled himself into a ball, radiating only his baseline hatred, and there’s no evidence to suggest the ceiling is about to cave in above Ilya’s head, or that there’s something planted beneath his sofa cushion. Suspicious, he shifts towards Shane, making sure to keep him in view. “You are groggy?”

The other man shrugs. “A little, but I’ll adjust - are you staying for a bit?”

“I had hoped to,” he says, waiting for the familiar throb of hatred from across the room. “If you are okay to entertain.” Shane grins, his face brighter already - he nudges him with his foot, and Ilya snags his ankle with a triumphant yank, drawing him down the sofa by it. Shane yelps, helpless with laughter and about to twist away when Ilya’s phone begins to ring. It’s strange enough to stop him, because Sveta would be working and he has a set tone for clients so as not to miss them - he falters, dropping Shane’s ankle gently down into his lap to fish it out. Confusion fades into the usual incandescent rage at Sasha’s ability to sniff out every single time Ilya might just be enjoying himself, like some kind of perverse fucking bat signal, and he lifts the phone to his ear with a string of Russian he absolutely cannot translate into English in front of delicate ears (Pork) already prepared.

“Ты совсем ебанутый? Саша -” Shane flinches, and Ilya lowers his voice with a grimace. “If Miroslav is behind my dishwasher again, turn it on this time.”

“Ilya?”

His anger drains away so fast he hardly remembers it was there at all. “What is it?”

There’s a muffled sound on the other end of the line, something he vaguely recognises as the sound of the carrier thunking down. “Something’s wrong with Natalya.”

Ilya sits up. “Where are you?”

“At home,” Sasha’s voice is strained, muttering to who he assumes is Isaak before focusing again. “She’s awake, but she won’t move properly. She tries, and then she just - she can’t.”

“She is conscious?”

The other man sucks in a sharp breath, and something clatters in the background. “Yes, she’s looking at me. I called Landry, she said bring her in now.”

Ilya’s on his feet now, moving to locate his shoes. “I need you,” Sasha says quietly. “I don’t know how to help her - I can’t understand what she’s saying.”

“I am coming,” Ilya swears as his shoulder collides with the bannister, Shane trailing after him. “I will meet you there - do not wait for me, leave now.”

“Okay.”

One of them disconnects the call, but he can hardly tell who, patting his pockets and finding everything present with the addition of one of Anya’s half eaten yak chews. “Natalya is sick.”

“The ferret, right?” Shane nibbles his lip, his eyebrows furrowed. “Will -can you let me know she’s alright? After?”

“Of course, I will call you after.” he leans to press a firm kiss to the crease between his eyes, and then he’s out the door and down the street fast enough his shins begin to burn.

•————•

Sasha’s car is already outside the emergency entrance when Ilya reaches it, abandoned and parked so badly he might as well have just crashed there -the passenger door is wide open, and the other man is crouched beside it with his hand shoved through the carrier bars. He doesn’t look up until Ilya is almost beside him, having run the last leg of the journey guided by his North Star (hatred for the woman inside, tempered only by the fact she’s about to have an opportunity to demonstrate her practise isn’t just an elaborate money laundering scheme.)

“She’s breathing faster,” he says, all but folding himself in half to see inside it. “She wasn’t breathing this hard at home.”

Ilya drops to his knees on the pavement, shoving the bite of gravel away and wrestling his head clear enough to open it up to the little animal inside. The carrier’s wedged in the footwell, nestled in blankets and enough of Sasha’s clothes that there isn’t much plastic left uncovered, and within it Natalya lays in more, her silvery body curled around his wrist like a furry bracelet. Her sides are heaving, and she doesn’t lift her head when Ilya extends the gentlest of communications he can (little more than a nudge, brushing her awareness with his), she doesn’t so much as twitch. He can feel it now, a creeping cold inside him, though her body under his fingers is warm. It runs through her with no clear place of origin, and the more he examines it the more his chest contracts under a weight, every breath ending too soon. She knows Sasha’s hand, Ilya can sense his wrist against his own face - ordinarily that would disgust him, but today he’s never been gladder that she can feel him there, knowing the familiar smell, a flickering want to remain curled against it without being lifted, touched, turned, or carried anywhere else. When Sasha shifts his wrist, a pang of frustration with none of its usual speed rolls through her and extinguishes itself.

“Natalya,” Ilya says, circling her mind for some, any, sign of an entrypoint he can reach her through. “It is me.”

“What’s she saying?” Sasha’s head whips up to look at him, and any historic desire he might have to pretend at hating him falls from Ilya and drains away through his feet. Sasha’s face is wrought, pale, and the fingernails on the hand he keeps compulsively pushing through his hair have been bitten to shreds.

“Nothing clearly,” he says slowly. “But -”

“Nothing?” Sasha’s shaking his head. “Ilya, how can there be nothing?” Ilya searches again and comes up empty, pressing a palm to his chest in a futile attempt to shift some of the heaviness there, still gathering - there’s no panic, and for that he’s fucking thankful, because right now the constriction is getting harder and harder to breathe through. “She knows we are touching her. She - she is cold, or feels cold, and there is heaviness here. Her breathing feels too small.”

Sasha stares at him. “Is she frightened?”

“She is confused. Stop moving your hand.”

“I was checking she could feel it!”

“She can,” he says gently. “Leave it where it was.” Sasha slips his wrist back under Natalya’s chin - she doesn’t move towards him, but her dampened agitation eases when his fingers stop disturbing the blanket, her attention withdrawing back into the softness she’s cushioned on.

“Is she in pain?”

Again, Ilya tests for it through himself - he scans his legs, arms, stomach, extending as far as he can possibly go until his temples throb with the effort of it. “I do not think so - pressure, perhaps, but she cannot separate it for me.”

“But what’s wrong with her?”

“Sashka, I do not know.”

He shakes his head again, returning back to the carrier. His shirt’s been buttoned completely wrong, and beside his feet sits a shopping bag with a folder and several sheets of paper protruding from the top - there’s another blanket rolled around the handle and the tub he keeps their dried treats in, and he seems to sense Ilya looking because he clears his throat before he speaks again. “She wouldn’t eat, not the paste either. I brought everything in case she changes her mind.”

“Bring the records,” Ilya concedes, “leave the food.”

“They might keep her overnight.”

“Then they will have food, yes? What time did she become unwell?”

“I don’t know - she was asleep when I got up, but she sleeps late sometimes so I left her. I thought she was ignoring me because - because yesterday was claw clipping day.” His voice cracks and he reaches for the bag instead, yanking the folder free. “I wrote everything down. She didn’t finish all her breakfast last Tuesday, and a few weeks ago she slept in the wardrobe for most of the afternoon. She made a strange sound on Friday, but Luca thought it was just - wait, it’s in here.”

The folder itself is thicker than his forearm, with each receipt and test result in a clear sleeve, the newer pages marked with tabs - behind it is a notebook and some sheets with Sasha’s unnecessarily looping handwriting. He makes a solid attempt at flicking through them all one handed, and fumbles. “Sasha.”

“She’s been drinking more,” he waves him off, snatching the pages back to balance them on his knee. “Maybe - I couldn’t decide if it was actually more, so I measured out one of those Evian bottles, but then Miroslav tipped it over and -”

“Sasha -” Ilya takes the papers from him without much of a fight, before they end up across the car park. “Rose needs what happened today first, then you will give her the rest when Natalya is inside.”

“What if one of those things matters?”

He closes the folder and tucks it securely back into the bag. “Pick up the carrier, but keep it flat.”

Sasha white knuckles the handle, but Ilya stops him before he can lift her all the way and adjusting so they can support it between them without tilting Natalya into the side. It jostles a little, and an aching discomfort ripples through her.

He must make some level of face at that, because the other man searches his face with such intensity he can’t possibly be looking where he’s going. “Is she getting worse?”

“I cannot tell while we are carrying her.”

The practice is bright, but mercifully empty - Ilya hates it here enough without having to listen to the unsettled murmurings of Landry’s overnight patients beyond the surgery walls. The receptionist stands when she sees the carrier, and that alone is enough to twist Ilya’s stomach, though he tries his utmost to conceal that from Natalya - if she’s even listening to him. “Rose is expecting you - let me tell her you’re here.”

“Hang on,” Sasha jolts, and if he weren’t preoccupied with the carrier he’d half expect him to have started chasing after her. “Listen - her breathing’s faster since I called - she’s conscious, but she can’t stand properly. I have her full records, do you need -”

“Rose will be out as soon as she can, just bear with me a second.”

“Wait -”

She doesn’t, and though there’s plenty of empty chairs around, Sasha lowers himself directly onto the floor instead with the carrier between his knees. Ilya isn’t sure whether Rose Landry treats her floor with some kind of acid (perhaps spewed from her treasonous mouth) but he braves it anyway, looping his fingers around the carrier bars. Natalya objects when he touches her again, a tired flare against his hand, so he stops at the edge of the blanket.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“Why are you apologising?”

“I moved the blanket.”

Sasha bends double to inspect it. “Is she uncomfortable? Should I take some of this out? I put my jumper in because she sleeps in it, but it might be too warm in here. Is she hot now?”

He tests this just as diligently, without argument. “No - do not change anything. She wants your smell.”

“She said that?”

“She does not need to - she wants to stay.”

“She’s always been quieter, but what if she was tired? I should’ve noticed if she was tired,” Sasha says, after a minute or two of uncomfortable silence. “Can you ask her where it hurts?”

Ilya’s suddenly finding it very hard to meet his eyes. “I have.”

“Ask again.”

He shifts closer, lowering his voice. “Natalya, where is the bad feeling?” There’s a strange quiet now - granted she’d always had an eerie hush about her, but now it sounds more like empty space. Ilya’s next breath catches in his throat before he forces it in, and he stifles a grimace. “It is her chest, I think. I can feel pressure that will not move, but I cannot tell you why.”

“But Rose will?”

“Rose will examine her.”

Sasha returns his gaze to Natalya, stroking his thumb along the blanket just in front of her motionless nose. “Is she scared now?”

“She does not understand what is happening,” Ilya says softly, reaching the only conclusion her lack of observation in their surroundings gives him. “But I do not think frightened.”

The clock above the reception desk ticks, and Ilya counts a full ninety seconds before Sasha speaks again. “Does she still know I’m here?” Ilya looks at his hand, the only part of the carrier she isn’t slipping away from. “Yes, she knows you are here.”

The consultation room door swishes open, and a third voice comes soft but in no way neutral. “Natalya?”

For the first time, Ilya meets Rose Landry’s eyes and wants to vomit for another reason entirely. She doesn’t wait for either of them to stand before crossing the reception, taking the carrier from between Sasha’s knees and placing it carefully on the nearest counter. There’s a stethoscope already looped around her neck, and when Sasha springs up beside her with the folder clutched to his chest she holds her hand out without looking away from Natalya.

“Give me a second.”

Sasha shuts his mouth so abruptly his teeth click together, and Ilya stands slower with Natalya’s weight still lodged beneath his sternum, both following in silence when Rose carries her into the consultation room. “Put the records there,” she tells Sasha, nodding towards the desk in the corner. “Ilya, I need exactly what you can feel. Start with her breathing, if you can.”

For once, he doesn't balk at the direct address. “It is too shallow. She feels cold, but her body is warm, and there is pressure across her chest.”

“Pain?”

He shakes his head. “I cannot tell. She is confused, I think, and moving makes the pressure worse.”

Rose opens the carrier door slowly, slipping two hands under the blanket rather than trying to pull Natalya free by herself - the contact sends another soft blur of annoyance through Ilya and an unease as stable floor falls away, and he grips the edge of the table until she settles again. “She does not want to be handled,” he says uselessly. “I can imagine - I’m going to do as little as possible,” she tucks the stethoscope into her ears and ghosts it across the ferret’s body, moving it towards her back. “Has she coughed?”

Sasha snatches the folder open, scattering a loose sheet across the consultation room. “She made a sound on Friday, but Luca said that was probably -”

“Today, Sasha.”

He falls silent again, shaking his head.

“Any vomiting or known injuries?”

Sasha’s still shaking, and she accepts this as an answer enough. “I’d like to pop her on some oxygen - her heart rate’s very high, and I’m afraid her lungs don’t sound especially clear.”

“What does that mean?”

Rose considers this for a moment. “The oxygen will help reduce some of the discomfort, and it’ll give me a better chance to scan her chest.” She sets about wiping down the table, which Ilya very nearly likes her for -the movement is normal enough that she might be treating any animal for something unserious, and Sasha fixates on it all the way up until she disappears momentarily out back, returning with a tiny mask and machine Ilya doesn’t watch her assemble. The rush of it against his own nose makes him flinch, and he grinds his teeth as it does very little to bring Natalya back into earshot. He tests her, nudging as firmly as he dares, to be met with nothing but a tired and wordless acknowledgement that she can still hear him.

Sasha’s biting the nails of his other hand now, apparently totally unaware he’s even doing it until Ilya reaches across to lower his fingers away from his face. “Can she breathe now?”

Rose turns to him. “It should help a little.”

“Should? Scan her now.”

“I want to wait until I know for sure,” she says, clearly choosing her words very carefully. “Ilya?”

Ilya would normally rather remove his own tongue than assist her in winning an argument, particularly one involving Sasha, but Natalya’s breaths leave no real room for obstinacy. “She - I think she is still struggling.”

“I don’t want to take her away from the oxygen unless I have to,” she muses, glancing over at her computer. “But I suppose I could do a quick ultrasound here.”

Ilya eyes her. “We can stay?”

“If you’re quiet.”

His ass finds chair when she points at it, towing Sasha with him as she works. Neither interrupt, staring at a screen filled with black and grey that makes absolutely no sense beyond resembling some smudges, and still the little ferret gives him nothing beyond a distant longing for Sasha’s wrist she can’t quite verbalise.

After what could be ten minutes or an hour, Rose sets the probe aside, and Sasha rockets forward in his seat, too fast for Ilya to catch him. “Well?”

She crosses the room and clicks the lock on the door shut, and Ilya knows before she even opens her mouth, knows what she’s about to say as he feels it, swallowing down gasp after gasp as Natalya curls limp over her Papa’s jumper. “Her heart is enlarged, and it’s struggling to beat properly. She’s got a lot of fluid in her lungs, and -”

“So drain the fluid,” Sasha snaps. “You’re a vet, aren’t you?”

“It isn’t sitting in a way I can remove -”

“She’s tiny!” Sasha’s hand flies out, and Ilya catches it in his before it hits the wall. “She’s tiny, so it can’t be much. Use a fucking microscope if you have to.”

“Sasha,” Rose finally turns to face them. “To me, at least, this looks like advanced cardiomyopathy - acute heart failure. I’m so sorry, but I need you to understand what I’m seeing.”

Ilya’s stomach lurches. “She has had check ups.”

“And there was nothing obvious then - ferrets hide lethargy, and Natalya was already unusually quiet. We also don’t know how old she is -” Sasha’s back to shaking his head again. “She isn’t old.”

“We don’t know that.”

The other man turns, appealing to Ilya, waiting for him to contradict her or to locate Natalya’s age from within her strange collection of places and smells she carried before the wheelie bin he found her in, but even now, her life doesn’t exist to her in years. Anya’s does, measured differently and by different brain systems that make their own sense of it, but to a ferret they measure in Papa, in a cake that means nothing yet won’t hurt their stomach, family, warmth. Ilya searches anyway, just in case he’s wrong, and finds only a dimming pulse of Katerina, Miroslav, Isaak, Papa. “I cannot tell,” he says eventually, never more aware of his own failure. Sasha stumbles to his feet to start pacing - a nervous habit he’s always had (and perhaps might eventually bond with Shane over), stalking the room that’s never felt as cramped as it does today. “Fine, then we treat the heart failure - you’ve managed something like this before? Drugs?” Rose nods, but her eyes flick back to Ilya anyway. “So we start those, and if it doesn’t work we’ll take her somewhere else. I can pay whatever, it’s no problem,” Sasha’s already fumbling for his phone, though it takes a few tries for FaceID to unlock it. “Where’s Luca? He hasn’t read my texts - he’ll know.”

“Luca’s in surgery,” Rose says, paler now. “Listen - transporting her in this condition could -”

Sasha doesn’t let her finish. “Then they send someone here, to you.”

“They don’t have a mobile cardiology unit -”

“I’ll pay for one.”

“Sashka,” Ilya tentatively approaches, one hand outstretched until it comes to rest on his shoulder. “She is telling you there is not one to pay for.”

“Shut up, Ilya,” Sasha wrenches away, buckling over Natalya’s weary coil. “So, what? You just fucking give up?”

He’s crying now, Ilya can tell, and fighting every second of it - he’s gone so rigid he could be made of stone, alternating his hands to swipe furious at each eye, the other touching the ferret’s cheek with the very tip of his index finger, the only soul in the room who doesn’t know what they’re arguing about.

She’s so tired. Tired enough his eyes ache trying to interpret her, until she presents him with the simplest, most base of all images - it’s more a need than communication, a longing from the primal part of her brain for quiet and the crook of Sasha’s neck where his scent is strongest, his fingers carding through pale fur. Under that, if he really examines it, is the need for breathing to stop being so hard. Though Natalya’s eyes are open, Ilya receives nothing of what she sees any more, only the jerky firing of her neurons in a whispered plea for it all to quieten. “Extremely unlikely isn’t impossible,” Sasha’s saying, having continued participating in a conversation he hadn’t heard. “Why won’t you try?”

“She’s struggling,” Rose murmurs, blinking so hard Ilya’s starting to believe she actually does possess an emotion or two - guilt stabs and twists, and morphs into something he might have to fix later. “If you tell me you want it, I’ll call every single contact I know, and do absolutely everything I can. But Sasha, you’ve got to think about what’s kindest -”

“Does she know I’m here?”

Ilya links their hands together, gritting his teeth until he tastes blood. Grief’s a funny thing, it resurfaces like a Great White whenever you think you’re just doggy paddling, treading water, and before you know it you’ve been bitten in half and bleeding, drowning without so much as a polite nod to the somatosensory cortex to expect it. Ilya feels like he’s swallowing saltwater. “She knows you are with her.”

“Tell me what she wants.”

The words are bloody and forced through teeth clenched so hard they twist into a cadence he hardly recognises. Still, he reaches, reaches and reaches and sets out every possible answer for Natalya but the one he already knows she’ll give, laying pathways so simple and easy that her attention need only to catch on them to pick something different, dulling words and images into feelings she can latch to and select anything, anything else. Natalya meets him there in the memory of a loud voice that shouts at everything but her, a soft touch picking trash from her fur, laughter and dried duck and a love that writes down the things she can’t because love is patient and love is kind, it keeps no record of wrongs and it always protects, trusts, hopes, perseveres -

Ilya’s eyes burn. “Sashenka, she just wants you.”

A sound comes from him, wounded and so awful he half wants to turn away from it. Natalya huffs a strained breath, but with trembling hands he reaches to gather her up against his chest, like Ilya’s seen him do so many times before. “She’ll always have me - stop her hurting, then.” The silence that follows deafens him, even if he can hear a starling warbling on the practice roof about how long it’s taking for her flock to arrive from their migration. Ilya keeps every muscle in his face very still, watching Rose’s change - she gives a moment and a space to take it back, but when Sasha settles her against him and Natalya’s satisfaction sinks into the meeting of every one of her needs but air in her lungs, there’s nothing but the vet’s quick work in not drawing it out.

“She can stay right there with you,” she says quietly. “I need room to be able to reach her properly, but I won’t take her away.” The other man nods, and still Ilya can’t feel any kind of protest from the ferret, just a slow and syrupy comprehension she has no interest in fighting against. Sasha’s hands are still shaking, and ever so slowly Ilya forces himself closer - the act itself is understandable, it’s the after. After comes absence, a hole in a chest he himself has never quite known how to fill, and not for want of trying. He’s tried, tried hard to fix up a landlord special in the spaces love leaves behind, and it leaves him feeling vastly underqualified as to how he might plaster over Sasha’s now that Rose is opening drawers and flicking a tiny bottle with her finger. “Tell him what happens,” he hears himself say instead. “Explain.” Rose only nods, avoiding looking over to where Sasha’s murmuring into soft fur. “I’ll give her a sedative first - she’ll be sleepy, and when I’m certain she can’t feel anything, I’ll - it’ll be over.” Sasha lifts his head. “How long?”

“A few minutes, usually. Her circulation isn’t great, so it might be slower, but she won’t feel it. She might move a little, but it’ll be reflex, not a sign she’s in any pain.”

“And I can hold her through it?”

Ilya blinks, scrubbing his face before either of them can detect weakness, the pain in his chest now hardly to do with the stiffness in Natalya’s. “All of it,” Rose says.

She doesn’t approach, and Sasha’s own leaking eyes find his. “Does she know?”

It’s an impossible question just as much as it’s an awful one, and even now Ilya dives for an answer, pushing every scrap he has outwards until he feels her there, as cold as she has been yet settled, comforted without the unneeded spilling humans tend to give when they’re afraid. Natalya feels none of it now, and of this much he’s certain - he lowers himself beside them, and drops his head onto the other man’s shoulder to see her whiskered face. “She knows you are holding her, and that is all she wants.”

“Is she scared now?”

“No. She is tired, and she wants you not to move.” Sasha freezes, locking so suddenly that Ilya almost bites through his own cheek. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You tell her,” Ilya manages. “Tell her everything.” The noise he makes could be a sob until he chokes it, through a force Ilya recognises even as he slips into Russian, a rare occurrence that takes them both back to boys, boys in the cold and clinging to each other for anything that meant they didn’t have to feel it.

“Вот так, Наташенька. Папа здесь. Папа тебя держит. Не бойся, моя девочка. Тебе больше не надо держаться, слышишь? Можно отдохнуть. (That’s it, Natashenka. Papa’s here. Papa’s holding you. Don’t be afraid, my girl. You don’t have to hold on anymore, do you hear me? You can rest.)” Sasha cuts off, and Ilya feels her feel it, feels her absorb words that don’t really need a language assigned beyond the emphasis behind them. “Ты у папы самая лучшая. Самая-самая. Спасибо, что ты у меня есть, маленькая. Я тебя так люблю. Больше всего. Теперь можно спать, Наташенька. Папа рядом. Я никуда не уйду. (You’re Papa’s very best girl. The very, very best. Thank you for being in my life, little one. I love you so much. More than anything. You can sleep now, Papa’s right here. I’m not going anywhere.)”

In return, Ilya feels her answer in the echo of a memory, carried home in the inside of Sasha’s coat, still stinking of bin and car exhausts, and he has to bow his head with his hand clenched so tightly in a fist that he can feel his nails bite into his palm.

“Natalya,” he says eventually, shifting back as Rose takes half an incredibly slow step towards them, fuelled by an urgency to at least make her understand if nothing else. “Your Papa is holding you, and I am beside him.”

Nothing comes, so Ilya tries again through imagery alone this time, but only when Sasha’s murmuring her name just behind her tiny ear does her awareness stir.

I waited for my Papa.

“You did.”

And my Papa came.

A hot tear escapes the flood he’s fighting back, but he rubs it away before Sasha can see it. “She says she waited for you, then you came.” Rose turns away, jerky and fiddling with something neither of them can see. “Of course I came,” Sasha’s voice is shattered, barely more than a whisper. “I’m right here, маленькая моя. (my little one.) I have you.” She’s kneeling now, her own eyes wet and doing their absolute best not to show it. She waits for a nod, and the nod comes, and then the sedative comes, and then Sasha’s breaking comes. Ilya gathers up every piece of himself and smashes them back into something, someone, that might resemble a coherent person as the bundle in the other man’s arms slumps, wrapping his own around Sasha’s shoulder to anchor him in before he flies away in a riptide he can’t hope to swim against. Sasha’s free hand finds his, and bears down until Ilya’s knuckles crack, and still he keeps talking. “Вот так, Наташенька. Умница моя. Спи, маленькая. Папа рядом. Теперь не больно. Больше ничего не болит. Я присмотрю за Катериной, Исааком и Мирославом, обещаю. Ты не беспокойся. Прости папу. Я не смог тебя вылечить. Я так хотел, Наташенька. Я правда старался. Ты была такой хорошей девочкой. Самой лучшей. Я тебя люблю. Я всегда буду тебя любить. Если тебе нужно идти, иди, маленькая моя. Папа не будет сердиться. (That’s it, Natashenka. That’s my good girl. Sleep, little one. Papa’s right here. It doesn’t hurt now. Nothing hurts anymore. I’ll look after Katerina, Isaak, and Miroslav, I promise. Don’t you worry. Forgive Papa. I couldn’t make you better. I wanted to so badly, Natalya, I really tried. You were such a good girl. The very best. I love you. I’ll always love you. If you need to go, go, little one. Papa won’t be angry.)”

The words mean everything and nothing, barbed wire that latches and catches so horribly in Ilya’s brain that he can’t do anything but force himself to watch because Sasha needs him to watch, even as the sting of the next needle reaches him through Natalya’s exhausted body, enough that his hand flexes against Sasha’s shoulder.

Warm.

“She is warm now,” Ilya whispers.

The other man chokes, dipping his head into the meagre privacy of his own arms where he cradles her. “Yes, baby, you’re warm now.” My Papa.

Ilya pushes and pushes and fucking pushes until the swell inside him becomes a trickle he can deal with later. “She is glad you are with her, Sasha.”

Sasha doesn’t answer, nor does he expect him to, his shoulders shaking so hard it’s a miracle he doesn’t collapse sideways into either Ilya’s waiting arm or the cold floor on the other side. Ilya pushes outwards one last time, summoning and asking and if he’s honest with himself he’s pleading, but Natalya gives no response to her name but a final impression of Sasha’s wrist beneath her nose, a pulse point she tried her hardest to match and couldn’t.

Home. I am home with Papa.

Her fear, what little of it might have lingered in the edges Ilya hadn’t the fortitude himself to explore, evaporates and in its place sits the solution of love - how it sits waiting when true, maybe doesn’t repair, but numbs what really fucking hurts until it hurts just a bit less. “There we go,” Rose’s voice has taken on a cadence he’s never heard, pained enough that he believes her sadness without challenge. “She’s sleeping.”

Sasha slips, and Ilya doesn’t look to feel him nod - he doesn’t need to. The other man trembles like a leaf in the wind, and he knows without confirming the slow creep of artificial cold Natalya can’t feel, even as it moves through him - his own heart gives a confused thud against the wall of his chest, aching but beating until the ferret’s own stops with them both bent over her, now wrapped like a burrito in the undershirt Sasha wears at the restaurant.

“Your Papa is here,” Ilya tells her, in case the rapidly fuzzing connection between them breaks before he can assure her one last time. “You are a good girl. The goodest girl, Natalya. You hear me?” Natalya doesn’t race to fill the gaps between her own heartbeats now - they stretch and tick, and stupidly Ilya thinks of Pork, waiting and waiting for Shane to take a breath not promised to either of them, until the acrid and dreadful stillness of death wraps one tiny ferret in his arms and carries her very carefully away from the two men that had loved her the most.

Rose doesn’t scramble to check her pulse - Sasha feels the moment her body falls limp, and by proxy Ilya absorbs it through him for once, a sob he can’t stifle escaping as pressurised air through clenched jaw. He pulls him closer and Sasha comes, though Ilya isn’t present enough to have done so with conscious thought - he’s reaching and asking, questioning and touching and doing everything he can to confirm before Rose has to -Natalya? He offers her the sensation of Sasha’s arms again, and receives nothing.

He outstretches again, even as Sasha’s composure collapses, just to give him an answer he doesn’t have to hear out loud. Rose seems to understand this and takes a quick step backwards, focusing on her laptop despite the fact two of them in the room are aware of a heart that has stopped. The dregs of Natalya’s physical pressure drains away, and Ilya can both breathe again and surrender himself to the familiar suffocation of loss, the weight behind his ribs moving somewhere else instead. “Natalya,” Sasha mumbles, to nothing at all. “Oh, my girl.” There’s a short period in which several things happen in his periphery, and Rose might be talking despite the fact neither are listening to her, but when the confirmation comes verbally this time from the woman with the stethoscope the screaming part of Ilya’s brain shuts off like a flicked switch. He makes arrangements over the sound of sobbing, or he thinks he does -Natalya had no obvious preference for cremation or burial, and perhaps that too is his fault, considering he’d never thought to ask her. “What’s she saying?” Sasha asks into the crook of his neck when Rose leaves the room. “Tell me what she’s saying.”

Ilya glances down at Natalya, resting under their joined hands, and almost catches himself bloody on the steel plating he’s assembling inside his chest. “She is not saying anything any more, Sashka.”

•————•

The other man clutches the carrier the whole drive back to his, and Ilya’s made no attempt to take it from him, havign leant over to buckle his seatbelt himself and slid into the driver’s side without comment. He’s not driven Sasha’s stupid Mercedes in at least a year, and Ilya applies himself to it with utter concentration (crashing it into a ditch isn’t going to improve things) -they do make it back in one piece, and Ilya’s just unlocking the door when Sasha speaks for the first time.

“Isaak.”

The ferret in question is already chattering as they round the hallway, but Ilya’s focus is split in so many different directions it takes him a moment to focus on who’s saying what under the scrabble of paws on dark wood flooring he’d once mocked for every claw mark that shows on them - now Ilya doesn’t think that’s such a bad thing.

“Katerina,” Sasha murmurs, carrier still in hand. “Miroslav.” Papa, Miroslav pauses his robbery of some drying linguine from where it hangs on the countertop to appraise them, a strand hanging over his little face like a fringe. Kat, you can come out now. There’s a flurry of relief from her, emerging from underneath the blanket laid over the back of the sofa. I was so worried - so worried -

Ilya shuts the door with a quiet click, and Sasha begins to count them all over again - this time he gets no further than Miroslav as Isaak reaches him at last, clambering ungracefully up his trouser leg, and it seems to jolt him back into reality enough that the carrier drops from his hand and crashes, empty, to the floor.

Katerina is the first to notice this, nosing through its contents with such confusion it tangles Ilya up in it, her sharp mind hurtling straight for the worst (and correct) conclusion. Natalya gone. “Yes,” Ilya mumbles, tracking her as she emerges and flees for the other man’s ankles. She stretches up for him, searching, and doesn’t find anything beyond her own rising horror at the absence.

Natalya gone?

“Yes, Kat.”

When back?

He hesitates, and this is enough to draw Sasha’s attention to him -realisation dawns, and it takes him a few tries to say anything of coherence. “Tell her.”

Miroslav inches closer, uncharactistically cautious with the linguine long forgotten. Bad feeling.

His sister doesn’t answer, bolting for the underside of the sofa, circling the carrier before vanishing in a brown blur towards the stairs, her voice reaching pitch as she searches. Natalya. Natalya gone. Natalya inside? Isaak lifts his head, presenting Ilya with the image of Sasha’s car.

“No, Isaak. Miroslav -” he reaches down to collect him, bracing against the increasing agitation whirling around Kat’s small body as she pops back up again, already tunnelling her way under the rug. He scoops her up too (against significant protest), and sets them both down on the nearest armchair, just as Sasha begins to sob. “You - you must listen to me now -”

“Tell them,” Sasha’s face is buried in Isaak, who’s frozen so still he could pass for just a really lifelike stuffed toy, bewilderment already bleeding into sour terror. “Tell them.”

“Sit down, Sasha.”

Slowly, Ilya eases him down and makes no comment when Sasha takes him with him, his hands fisted in the front of his shirt - it takes an adjustment to get his stiff limbs to unlock themselves, but eventually in a knot of fur and skin, each of them have something solid underneath them. “Natalya became very sick,” he says, trailing off as he reaches for any other way to explain it. Ilya finds nothing, all over again. “Her body could not breathe - it stopped working.”

The sounds coming from Sasha, now slumped uselessly against his shoulder, are so familiar they terrify him - he could blink and find them at 12, staring down at his mother’s coffin with numb fingers intertwined and all the childish rage that no amount of denial or pleading can restore the reason for them.

Ilya moves the hand not already wrapped around him to cup the back of his neck, already suturing his own internal bleeding until he’s no longer as likely to drown in the flood. “She is not in the carrier, and she is not hiding in the house.”

Natalya gone, gone, gone, gone -

“She has gone somewhere you cannot follow.” He’s always fucking hated that phrase - it’s too finalistic when somewhere implies a location, addressless though it is, but there’s nothing better to give them.

Isaak wriggles free, rigid with his glossy hackles bristling. Back soon? “She cannot come back, Isaak.”

“She waited for me,” Sasha chokes, making to wrench backwards - Ilya holds him fast against him, so he doesn’t have to see Katerina leap from the sofa and charge for the front door with every intention of throwing herself against it until it splinters. “She was in that bin, and she waited for me - she told you that. You said she knew I’d come.”

“Yes,” Ilya risks a soothing pet to the back of his head, but it does nothing to calm him.

“I should’ve known how old she was.”

“You could not -”

“I should have!” Sasha thrashes, fighting and folding into the touch all the same. It startles Miroslav into a panic of his own, lancing straight through Ilya’s forehead as he pries the other man’s hands down from clawing at his own face. “I knew everything else, I’ve got every weight, every appointment, every fucking thing they’ve ever eaten written down, and I don’t even know when she was born.”

“Ты должна дышать, Саша. Ты сама себя душишь - (You must breathe, Sasha. You are choking yourself -)”

“She was always so still - I thought that was just her -”

“It was her,” Ilya says, over the thud thud thud of Kat’s battle with the door. “She was quiet before she was ill - you did not invent this.”

“Too late,” he moans, shuddering until he buckles all over again. “I can’t, can’t do this -”

Papa?

“You are doing it, Sasha. You already are.”

Isaak falters, one paw lifted in the air above Sasha’s leg, fixed on Ilya’s hand as it rubs slow circles around his shoulders. I come to you? “Come,” Ilya nods, and it’s all the encouragement he needs to worm his way up Sasha’s chest and back to his neck again, tiny pink tongue lapping at the tears he can reach.

Miroslav comes, his brother whispers, tentatively burrowing into the crevice between their bodies. Kat comes?

No.

Her fury is consuming, unfamiliar and rolling like boiling water in his stomach as she abandons the door and begins to gnaw at the plastic of the carrier, spitting flakes of it that scatter and clink across the floor.

No.

Ilya isn’t sure how long they stay like that, clinging to each other with Katerina’s methodical destruction of her sister’s absence, but eventually the buzzing from Sasha’s phone grows impossible to ignore. He tries, at first, and Sasha doesn’t appear to hear it at all - when the next call comes after a flurry of texts, Ilya clicks his tongue and pulls it from the other man’s pocket. “Do you want me to check?”

“Turn it off.”

“It might be Luca.”

When Sasha makes no noise of dissent, Ilya gently extracts his other hand and punches in the code (6666 - Ilya himself had set it as that a few years ago, and he must’ve appreciated the irony to have kept it this long). Luca’s name fills the screen amongst a multitude of missed calls. L. Haas

Out of surgery. My fingers are numb.

Want me to cook tonight? Should be finishing up soon. Back by popular demand: Me (Don’t ignore me, asshole) Requesting just a crumb of attention

Fine. Suck your own dick.

Fuck.

Rose just told me.

I’m so, so sorry. Where are you?

I’ll call you.

Sasha?

Please tell me you’re not alone right now?

I’m coming now.

Driving. Be there soon.

The last message is less than a minute old, and Ilya’s thumbs are moving on autopilot.

I am with him

this is ilya

do not speed, be very careful on the road, but come fast

Sasha’s crying again as he returns his phone to him, and Ilya’s skin crawls -his lungs haven’t quite caught up to the fact they’re not filling with liquid, and each full breath is a manual affair that never really calms the part of his brain asking for more. He flexes his hands, does every possible fucking thing he can think of to dodge the stink of grief hanging in the room - it hasn’t fully registered in the ferrets yet, Natalya’s scent still fresh and so everywhere it’s hard for them to align it with the loss, and for that he’s (selfishly) thankful. It’s only when Sasha pulls back enough to look him in the eye that he realises he’s started to shake.

“Are you -” Sasha doesn’t finish the sentence. Ilya doesn’t ask him to. “I am fine.”

“You’re a fucking liar.”

A key turns in the lock. “Luca is here.”

“Stop acting like she wasn’t yours too.”

Ilya’s attempt at extracting himself to put some (platonic and innocent, but still) distance between them falters. “I am not acting.”

Sasha’s face wrenches as Luca stumbles inside, already fighting with his shoe in his haste to reach him. “You’re always fucking acting.” He blinks. “Sasha -”

“I’m here - Sash? Where are you? Bedroom?”

“You did this when Irina died,” the other man mutters, scrubbing at his raw eyes. “And your father, to the point I think you believe yourself -”

“Stop talking.”

Luca rounds the corner. “Sash?”

“You work so hard at convincing everyone you’re totally fine, you’ve forgotten that fine people don’t have to fake it.” Ilya opens his mouth and finds nothing in it he can use, opting instead to catalogue the uncertainty flash across Luca’s face as he skids to a halt, glancing between them. “Are you fighting? Please don’t be fighting.”

“I have not forgotten,” Ilya says softly.

“Sure,” Sasha squeezes his hand and forces himself upright. “You just only remember when there’s nobody around to see.” Luca appears to have rediscovered his motor control at last, because he’s moving again, stopping just short of Sasha.

“She died.”

“I know,” he murmurs, reaching to cup Sasha’s face. “I know, baby.” There’s no awkwardness as the three of them settle again - Ilya sits on the floor with his back against the sofa as Isaak and Miroslav attach themselves to Sasha, who’s laid flat on it with his head in Luca’s lap, his words gradually growing less and less distinct as he tells him for the hundredth time he can prevent this from happening again if he just starts keeping better records. Luca babies him, lets him run himself in circles in a way Ilya never would’ve entertained - hell would freeze over before he’d have any interest in allowing Sasha to dissect himself in this way. Luca, on the other hand, seems to be actively creating space for the other man to bleed into. It doesn’t make sense to Ilya at all, when a bandage and refusal to think about it again solves things much faster.

Still, every time Sasha’s breath hitches and a sob replaces a word, though now growing further and further apart as he talks, Luca simply leans down to kiss his forehead. He doesn’t tell him to calm down or breathe through it- he listens until Sasha doesn’t appear to have anything else to say, and falls into silence shortly followed by sleep.

Ilya eyes the steady rise and fall of his chest with mounting suspicion. “He is asleep?”

Luca follows his gaze and nods, careful not to jostle him. “Yeah - this happens sometimes, when he’s upset.”

“I have never heard Sasha talk for so long in my life.” Ilya frowns. “Upset?”

The other man’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “He worries himself sick about you, just as much as the ferrets. Don’t tell him I told you -”

“Ah, yes, you do enjoy secret things -”

“But Ilya, he’d spent so many years stressing about you that he’d forgotten his own childhood sucked as well.” Luca hesitates, scanning his face for any sign of offence. “He found it really hard, at first, talking about his feelings - but now he doesn’t hate communicating them quite so much.” Ilya doesn’t need to be psychic to sense where this is going. “So he cries until he passes out?”

“He tells me what’s wrong while it’s actually happening.”

“I do talk about things,” he snaps, louder than he’d meant to, though Sasha doesn’t stir.

Luca cards his hand through the other man’s hair. “How are you feeling about Natalya? I know she meant a lot to you, too.”

“I am fine.”

To his credit, Luca doesn’t so much as raise an eyebrow. Instead he thanks him for being there as Ilya makes for the front door, and promises he’ll update him on Sasha in the morning as his gaze sweeps the darkening living room. His eyes linger on the three sleeping forms, counting Isaak, Katerina, and Miroslav - he doesn’t look at the carrier as he leaves, closing the door on all of it.

•————•

It’s almost nine when he gets home and informs Anya that Natalya has died, the words robotic and dredged up from somewhere apparently attached to a gaping wound, because they make a solid attempt at remaining in his mouth. She doesn’t rush to sniff at him, but she doesn’t pretend not to notice his rattling knees either, her ears flattening as she organises her shock, tucking it to the side for later.

This isn’t your fault, Ilya.

He ignores her, marching past to start opening kitchen cupboards in no particular order. She trails behind, nudging at his hand every few steps - he ignores this too. “I must feed you.”

Are you listening to me?

He can’t find the fucking quail’s eggs. Where’s her cod liver oil, again? It’s not your fault.

Rather than battle with the packet of dried salmon skin he can never seal properly, Ilya locates Anya’s probiotics instead and dumps them in the bowl alongside her biscuits. “Do you want sardines or sprats tonight?” Anya’s tail tucks between her legs. Don’t shut me out, Ilya. You need to hear me on this -

“I will fetch your sardines.”

Ilya stalks to the cupboards again, pausing only to remember his phone exists in physical form as it vibrates - he sets it on the counter and stares at it.

baby luca

I’ve managed to get him into bed, ferrets are still asleep. I’ll look after him.

Please, please text me if there’s anything I can do for you, Ilya. He dismisses it.

Shane ❤

How is she?

Ilya? Everything okay?

Rose just text me. Say the word and I’ll come over. I’m really sorry.

Ilya yanks the cupboard open, and sat under the Le Creuset is a chewed bag of nutritional yeast.

Nothing but the memory of Natalya answers him when he rips it free, yellow flakes scattering the countertop. There’d been nothing after his mama, either, and having loved her and survived his father, he’d still lost them both all the same.

Ilya -

He’s on the floor in little more than a blink, knees cracking as he curls into himself, clutching the bag in his fist - he needs more hands, needs to hold his chest together and wipe the water on his face away and to stop whatever that horrible wailing sound is and strangle it until it stops, needs to figure out what’s upsetting Anya so much, because she’s whining like he’s never heard her whine before, forcing her way under his free arm to staunch a flow he can’t see with his eyes.

Not your fault, she pleads, her words devolving into a simplicity she hasn’t possessed since the first few months of knowing her. Not your fault, not your fault, it isn’t your fault -

It is, he wants to tell her, shoving the idea of it in her direction anyway. It is, because what use are hands if not to hold and keep, and what use is a brain that never learns, keeps returning to the shoe that kicks it over and over again.

Anya’s distress is potent, cloying and mixing with his own until they’re one and the same. No, no, not your fault. “It is,” he sobs, “it is, everything I touch -”

You didn’t love them and make them die!

Ilya throws every piece of evidence at her, ripping each and every infected memory from his head and barrelling them in her direction - the dog’s consciousness seizes them with her teeth.

You’re wrong. Wrong.

“My fault -”

Am I dying?

That throws him off just enough to suck in a heaving breath. “Do not say this.”

You love me?

He nods, mute in her fur even as it bubbles up and surges out of him and into her, sunshine on warm fur, weight in his bed, a body he reaches for instinctively, half of his soul and guardian of both pieces. I’m still here.

Ilya can’t bring himself to say the for now. Stop loving me, Anya’s shivering under his hands, but she’s recovered enough that the more familiar ground of frustration begins to flutter in the gaps left by ebbing fear. Go on, stop, if that’s going to keep me here forever. “I cannot,” he croaks, flinching as his phone buzzes from somewhere above. “I could never.”

Then it doesn’t change anything.

“It might.”

Then it’s braver to try, isn’t it?

He says nothing for a long time, stroking one of her ears between his thumb and finger until their heartbeats sync and he’s no longer leaking from his traitorous eyes. Brave or not, Ilya doesn’t know, but he does pick up his phone.

Shane ❤

I’m still awake, if you need anything.

can i come over

with anya

The door’s unlocked.

Let yourself in.

He takes nothing but the dog and his keys, but before he sets his phone down he swipes again, and navigates to Svetlana before he can stop himself.

a therapist without fleas

find one

The typing bubble appears before he can delete it and blame something else.

Okay, солнышко.

•————•

It seems strangely fitting, in some ways, that their marital home Shane’s house becomes the place he both starts and ends the day, considering Ilya absolutely isn’t counting the half awake trudge he’d made to arrive on Pork’s terms that morning.

Exhaustion wears so heavy he may well be made of lead as Shane wordlessly tows him into the living room, placing him on the sofa with gentle hands, and Ilya lets himself be handled. His eyes catch on a new blanket, folded on the floor on the opposite end of the room to the cat tree -the other man follows it, and lifts his chin.

“It’s no big deal,” Shane says quietly. “Dunelm were having a soft furnishings sale, and I thought Anya might like it - that’s all.” Ilya has to tear his eyes away and stare at his feet before they spill over anew, though he can feel Anya’s tentative inspection of it anyway, sniffing a few times before all but collapsing on the plush fabric. I do like it - is this Merino wool?

He doesn’t have the energy to translate this, bracing himself as he waits for the descent of unclothed Bellerophon - the house is quiet of him and his malice, but considering the time Ilya finds it reasonable to suggest he’s sleeping, and doesn’t press the matter further. Small Beloved is just as absent, but when Shane sets himself close enough that their thighs brush, Anya lifts her head again.

I’m going to get a drink.

She’s on her feet and padding from the living room when Ilya cranes his neck over the sofa arm. “Anechka?”

Yes?

“I love you.”

The words stick and feel strange, so rarely communicated when it’s something they give to each other by feel alone, and she pauses before gathering enough of herself to thump her tail. My brave boy. With that she’s gone, and Ilya’s left to Shane, who’s making a genuinely impressive effort at not staring - he knows he must look an absolute state if the discomfort and sting of raw skin around his eyes is anything to go by, and there’s still a slowly drying wet patch on his shirt from where he’d held Sasha against it. The impulse to fix at least something small seizes him and Ilya runs a hand through his hair, only for his fingers to snag on tangled curls.

Shane doesn’t let him flounder. “How’s Sasha?”

“Luca is with him.”

“Is he okay?”

“No.”

The other man nods. “Makes sense.”

“He will be,” Ilya adds, hating himself for it - it’s probably biologically impossible to remain at peak misery forever without either adapting or dying, but it’s still a fucking poor comfort. “But not now.”

“No,” he says. “Probably not now.”

The sound of Anya drinking from Pork’s fountain drifts through, lapping with an impressive (and appreciated) determination to drown them out in the name of privacy. She finishes fast enough to suggest she hadn’t actually been thirsty at all, and sets about exploring Shane’s washing machine.

“I have to tell you what happened,” Ilya says abruptly. “I -”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know this,” he glances at him, jogging his knee up and down. “Let me speak before I run from it.”

Shane closes his mouth, and Ilya shifts his attention to his hands. There’s crescent marks bitten into his palms from the practise, and Sasha’s grip’s left red smudges not yet faded. He opens and closes them, lets Shane take one, and starts somewhere near the end - the beginning feels lifetimes away. “Natalya was not frightened,” he manages. “She knew Sasha was with her, and this was what she wanted.”

Silence again. Horrified, Ilya grows painfully aware that this is the part where he’s meant to find more words.

“She calls - called him Papa. They all do, this is who he is to them. A long time ago, Natalya waited for him, and he came.” Ilya swallows. “He took her home from a bin - do not ask me why, because I do not know - and he became home instead.”

“I get that, I think.”

“Yes.”

He pulls his hand free without really thinking about it - Shane allows it, and Ilya swears under his breath, putting it right back again before he throws up. “I - I felt everything stop. In me, too.”

Shane’s thumb brushes over his sore knuckles. “I knew I would, and I knew still I would not walk away and leave them alone.” Ilya touches his free palm to his chest. “I felt this stop, and there was nothing after. Sasha asked what she was saying, and I could not give him anything. I kept reaching, even when I knew she was dead.”

He breaks off but more comes, surging up and out of his mouth at a speed so fast he can hardly tell what he’s saying at all. “I kept asking her, like maybe she just had not heard me, but this was stupid-”

“No, not stupid.”

“She was very small, not even two pounds. This should not be enough to -” Ilya gestures furiously down at himself, breaking under the weight of an animal he can carry in one palm. “I have seen animals die before. I have helped people when this happens, and I am very good at it.” Shane presses closer, close enough Ilya can drop his forehead onto his shoulder and hide, which he does. “I bet you are.”

“I asked Sveta to find me a therapist.”

The other man’s slightly sharper breath is the only indication Ilya can catch that this is good news, though it feels like being flayed alive to him. “Okay.”

He waits until he can’t. “I have agreed to therapy, Shane.”

“Yeah, I heard you.”

“And?”

Shane’s fingers find a tangle in his hair, working it gently free. “And I think if I told you how proud I am of you for that, you’d freak the fuck out and book an Elvis impersonator instead.”

Despite everything, he huffs a laugh at that. “Yes, as long as Heartbreak Hotel does not have fleas.”

“Huh?”

“Do not worry,” Ilya settles further into him, sinking into his chest as strong, careful arms wrap around shaking shoulders. “Can I stay?”

He presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Yeah, obviously. I was going to ask you to, anyway.”

“Not only tonight.”

“What?”

That’s a good question - Ilya has to locate whatever the fuck he might mean by that himself. It’d made much more sense before he’d said it, but now all useful context has disappeared on him. “I do mean tonight. I would like to stay tonight.”

He can feel Shane’s frown against his hair. “Okay?”

“But not only.”

At this, the other man eases his head back up to look him in the eye, bemused. “Are you asking to move in?”

Don’t you dare, Anya warns from the kitchen. “No,” Ilya grimaces - at least he doesn’t think he is. “Not today.”

“Good, because I’m not cheating on my CPAP with you.” Ilya might’ve laughed at this, had the full, incomprehensible scale of where he’d been going with this detonate on his tongue before he can chop it into something a bit more digestible - a crumb, perhaps. “I want you to be my boyfriend.”

Didn’t see that one coming.

“Are -” Shane’s staring at him, his lips moving without sound for a solid ten seconds. “I - thought I was?”

Or that one - you really are perfect for each other. Ilya jerks upright. “Since when?”

“Since…since the lasagne? Ilya, I was wearing half a fucking tuxedo -”

“Tuxedo does not mean this!” Ilya’s brain keeps rebooting, but somewhere within it the DVD logo does in fact hit the corner. “You fed me vegetables, and your cat tried to cook me!”

“Oh.”

“We have been? We are?”

Some of the flush in Shane’s face drains away. “I mean, are you sure? You don’t have to decide anything tonight, after -”

“I still want.”

The coast of the other man’s hand on his back is soothing, and void of rejection enough that he soldiers on.

“I am frightened, frightened even when a ferret was not. I think of the people I love, and I cannot breathe now this list has grown so long, but I do not love you because I am frightened.”

Shane, a very clever man, doesn’t interrupt.

“I will love you until you do something unforgiveable, like die, though probably even then.” Ilya’s voice cracks, but he’s come too far to stop now. “Still, you must not do this. Please try very hard not to do this.”

“I will.”

He kisses him then, wet cheeked and desperate for somewhere to put the rest of it, broken only by a whispered I love you too he swallows for safekeeping.

“I’m going to run you a bath,” Shane murmurs into his mouth, breathing hard. “Then you’re going to come to bed, and I’m going to stroke your hair until you sleep, and then in the morning you’re going to check on yourself before you check on anyone else.”

Ilya tries to hide his stinging eyes but Shane won’t let him, catching him by the chin before he can duck his head, kissing him on the tip of the nose. “I’ll be right back.”

Ilya listens to his footsteps overhead and the muffled roar of the taps for a while. There’s no one left to talk to now Anya’s own exhaustion has lulled her into sleep underneath what feels like Shane’s kitchen table, and the last few fibres of resistance snap free.

He drops his head into his hands and stops trying to fight against it, giving way so gracelessly he doesn’t bother trying to quieten his cries, trusting through desperation if nothing else that the man upstairs will pull him from the water before he goes under.

Curiously, it isn’t Shane that finds him first - Pork creeps from the media cabinet with his stomach rubbing, sluglike, against the floor. Ilya feels him the moment the static abates, and does nothing to save himself. It seems fitting that he, Ilya Rozanov, dies sobbing thirteen years of unshed tears at the hands of his boyfriend’s hairless cat. He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes instead, preserving what little dignity he has left by at least hiding his face, and waits for the strike.

Pork says nothing, and curls at his feet.

Chapter End Notes

spoilers

Chapter 10: change, yes

Chapter Notes

I’m beyond emotional reading all your comments on the last chapter,

hugging you all and getting to learn about your pets and people is very

much an honour I feel very grateful for <3

this chapter contains:

- a brief glimpse into ilya’s first therapy session and mindset

- pet memorial

- themes of grief (but they’re no longer eating them alive - I know this

is subjective but my intention writing it is to show slow recovery)

I know people (read: sasha) are behaving badly here, but I will say I

based this on my own experience and how it really can change your

whole ass mindset - really I just wanted to write it realistically I think,

and that means including the hard stuff too AND we have sasha and

ilya healings, sasha and shane healings, and pork looming over the

next chapter

but also!!! cottage pending, love you all xoxo

ps: russian is click to translate

Mango knows.

Ilya knows Mango knows - the goldfish isn’t exactly subtle, having spent the last ten minutes swimming straight into the side of his tank in his desperation to reach him, frantic circle after circle of his (quite marvellous piece of aquatic real estate) plastic castle and dodging the drift of some soggy looking plants. Ilya doesn’t deliberately speak to many fish on account that their pallium is a logistical nightmare to wade through, and their endless signal prediction tends to jump five steps ahead before he’s even finished his sentence, but still it’s not the distinction between species that has him grinding his teeth.

Svetlana, beloved light of his life, his closest friend, has weaponised his own bullshit against him, and for that she’s going to receive…a sternly worded text, or something. She’s too fucking smart for her own good - a goldfish is not a flea. A flea would be easy to dismiss, easier still to ignore (even if it’s very rude to do so) and keep the full weight of the ability he’d never asked for in the first place hidden. No, Sveta would have ensured any therapist he went to ensures some kind of conscious animal present until he has no choice but to disclose. Mango, though resembling little more than a wet cheese ball, may as well be the entirety of Noah’s Ark. You hear Mango.

Ilya stares at him, desperate to keep his face impassive. You hear. You hear me.

He projects him a warning in its simplest form, the image of his puckering lips closing, and realises the fatal error in less than a second. Man hears Mango! Man hears Mango! Mango hears man, hearing together! Man hears -

Across in the other armchair, Galina waits. She must be very good at waiting indeed, because he hasn’t said a word in fifteen minutes beyond his own name and a hopefully polite declination of a drink. Man. Hello man. Mango is here, do not worry. Mango is here for you -Ilya’s eye twitches.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Galina says, and there’s a flat amusement in it he might’ve found fun to poke at if he doesn’t have to hate her on principle. “Do you want -”

“I speak with animals.”

She doesn’t move the pen poised over the notebook in her lap, and nothing observable changes in her face, but the pause before she speaks again confirms the derailment has indeed struck the track. Her mouth opens and closes, and Ilya can seeher next question before she says it. “Are you taking medication of any kind?”

“No,” he mutters.

“Have you taken any recently?”

“No.”

“Has a doctor ever prescribed you any kind of treatment at all?” Ilya seizes the opportunity for a diversion, giving her the sweetest smile he can manage. “I had chlamydia once. Would you like to hear about this?” His plan is foiled immediately when she has the audacity to write this down without so much as a blink. “Tell me what you mean by ‘speak with’.”

“I mean exactly this,” he waves a resentful hand in Mango’s direction. “They communicate, and I understand them. Google me.”

“I prefer to hear who my clients are from themselves. Communicate through behaviour?”

Tell Galina Mango says hello. Tell her. Tell her right now. If there’s one thing Ilya can’t hate this woman for, it’s her fishkeeping abilities - she clearly hasn’t presumed goldfish need a bowl and feeding once a day to thrive, because Mango’s tank is a veritable palace that stretches at least five feet along the wall, and the hum of the filtration unit sends a flurry of bubbles the fish pauses to play with in between yelling at Ilya. The castle is undoubtedly the central focus, but there’s also a large arch of driftwood wedged between the greenery - he’d probably quite like to live there, if he was a fish, and if Galina wasn’t so terribly nosy. “It is not proper sound, if this is what you mean. I cannot hear them with my ears,” Ilya taps his temple, resentful. “I hear them in my head. Thoughts, too, and some physical sensation. It depends.”

She studies him, that fucking pen hovering again. “Do the animals ever tell you to hurt yourself, or someone else?”

“If I make them very angry, sure,” Galina sits up at this, so Ilya simply speeds up before she can bonk him over the head with the DSM-5. “But not often. The cat who most frequently threatens to kill me intends to do this himself.”

“And this is a cat you’re certain is real?”

Affronted, he wrenches a sleeve up and jams his arm out where she can see it, exposing the last traces of the (thankfully) healed assault Pork’s claws had left on his skin. Galina’s eyes widen.

“No - no.” Ilya’s desperate now, already scrolling his phone to the photo he’d taken of Shane and Pork just the other day. It doesn’t help - he’d sworn Pork had been visible, if not in the physical then in demonic aura alone, but all Ilya can see of him on screen is perhaps the smallest curl of naked tail behind Shane’s legs. “My boyfriend’s cat. Pork Hollander. He is real - I did question if maybe he was some kind of supernatural creature at first, such as Chupacabra who wears turtleneck, but he is a cat. A real one - I will call Shane now, and you can speak to him -”

“Ilya,” she’s still writing, but has the presence of mind to stop his spiral of despair before it can sweep him into collecting Pork by his rancid hamlike scruff and depositing him in her lap. “Okay, a real cat. I’m hearing you.”

“I’m not crazy,” he hisses, the sudden and unwelcome stinging in his eyes so infuriating that he twists in his chair like a child, staring at the carpet instead. “There is nothing wrong with me.”

“Is that what you think I was implying?”

Galina writes Mango. Man write Mango?

“She is not writing about you,” Ilya snaps at him, finding nothing better to do.

She seems content to abandon the question, and sets her pen down. “What’s he saying?”

Man has eye water? Mango did this?

Ilya reflexively scrubs at them, glancing a the clock. Twenty nine minutes remain, and it’s becoming increasingly and unfortunately clear Galina doesn’t intend on letting them play eye contact chicken for the rest of the session - she shifts forward in her chair and he shifts back in his, she pushes a bowl of fidget toys towards him on the side table and he turns in the other direction, but when Galina nudges the box of tissues towards him instead, Ilya shoves it back so hard it topples right off the other side. Calm as anything, she retrieves it from the floor and sets them back again. “You do not believe me.”

“Call it reasonable interest. Curiosity in something I can verify, that might help me help you.”

“I do not need help,” he says, sat on his ass in the office of a woman specialising in childhood wounds and loss because he’s needed help for so long ‘not currently having a trauma response’ counts as a good day. Galina hello. Food hand now?

With a sigh, he drops his chin onto his hands. “He tells me you feed him.” She raises an eyebrow. “Most people would infer that.” Hand in bad water. Moves? Castle moves, yes. Mango projects him a blurry image of what might be either a block of cheese or a sponge, though considering it appears to be scrubbing at the tank glass, he can reasonably assume the latter. Mango move it back. “You cleaned his tank recently - he tells me the castle moved.”

“Yesterday, but this could also be inferred.”

“Mango,” Ilya grits out, resolving to upgrade Sveta from a shitty text to a shitty voicemail instead. “Tell me something Galina only does when she is alone. Something I would not know.”

Galina takes off chest holder -

“Not that - no,” he says quickly, redirecting the fish’s attention with a swift point of his consciousness elsewhere. “Something different.” It’s clear Mango’s thinking hard (as hard as a goldfish possibly can, anyway) and Ilya almost feels bad for being an ass to him when, cautiously, he’s presented with an image of skin and words. He squints at it for a second or two until it sharpens into a woman’s ankle, letting the words inked on it flicker into full focus.

“Ah.”

Galina frowns, looking from the tank and back to where he’s smiling despite himself. “What?”

Says what?

Ilya crosses his arms, now in no hurry at all. “You know, not the mindset for responsible therapist to have. Very bad.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You have a tattoo, yes?”

Galina holds out her wrist, where a delicately tattooed fern curls around it. “You could’ve just seen it.”

Gotcha. Ilya sits back, his smile wicked. “You know I did not mean this one.”

Says what, man? Says what? Words say what? He takes every single scrap of pleasure from watching her pale slightly, reaching for the cuff of her jeans to pull them up. He doesn’t technically have to look to see what she’s got hidden there, but he does, because it’s a sweet victory to see her expose, in thick black lettering, the LIVE FAST DIE YOUNG tattooed on her ankle exactly where Mango had shown him it would be.

“Galina wishes to die young,” he announces, stifling a wince at the explosion of outrage this ignites in his round, orange body. No, Galina, bad Galina. No die. Young? No. But no die. Alive or no Mango food. No Mango friend. No.

“I went through a James Dean phase in my twenties,” Galina says, her mouth twitching. “And I assure you that mentality is no longer my current experience, or I wouldn’t be sat here talking to you.” Ilya tears his attention from the fish, now currently trying to eat his gravel. “Current experience?”

“That way of thinking used to be mine. Driving a fast car at high speed is great fun, as long as you intend on hitting the brakes before you end up dead.”

He suddenly can’t look at her. “And you did this? The brakes?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

His stomach gives a lurch that has nothing to do with Mango’s incessant babbling, and Ilya finds he can’t answer her, because the answer is yes and he knows what’s coming, grappling around for his own answer when that ‘yes’ doesn’t arrive as easily as it should.

Galina clears her throat. “Are you in a fast car, Ilya?”

“I am in Fiat 500 of despair,” he croaks, snatching a tissue in one fist before he can psych himself out of it. “And it has been modified to travel at the speed of light, but I cannot find the brakes.”

“Do you want to find them?”

He clicks his jaw shut.

“There isn’t a wrong answer to this -”

“I do not know.”

The admission drifts between them, drawn up from somewhere between his mama and feeling Russian snow on his face, many years later, twisted in the realisation that nothing and everything has changed at the same time. If Galina pities him, she certainly doesn’t show it, and it’s the kindest possible thing she could conceal from him. “Do you think you might let me help you decide?”

“You cannot get in my Fiat, Galina. You would tell me off for running a red light and say this is because my father never read me a bedtime story.”

“Did he ever?”

“No.” Ilya breathes through his nose, kicking the realisation down until he can squash it back into its box again. “No, he did not.”

“Okay.”

“Natalya died.”

Oh god, the words are out on their own, spilling past teeth he’s actively grinding to dust in his mouth, and Ilya can see it all over again - fur which, in a blink, changes to hair that never had the chance to go that silver. He sniffs, and follows Mango’s next expedition under the driftwood. “Natalya? Was this an animal?”

“Yes, my - she was part mine, and part someone I - well, I do not really like him, but I also do. He must never know this, but yes. She was a ferret, and she died.”

“I’m really sorry.”

Ilya nods - he appreciates this is the correct thing to say, even if it fixes nothing. “Sasha blames himself. He did not know how old she was, because he rescued her and she has always been quiet.” Galina considers this a moment. “What happened after Natalya died?”

“I drove Sasha home,” he shrugs. “The other ferrets did not understand, but I explained this as best as I could. Sasha’s boyfriend came over and he fell asleep, so I left them together.”

“No - what happened to you, after?”

He blinks, bemused. “I have just told you.”

“No, you told me about Sasha and his boyfriend. What happened to you?” He very quickly recentres the clock - eleven minutes to go. “I went home.”

“And?”

“Fed Anya. She is my friend, and she is a dog.” When she only raises her eyebrows in silent prompt, he sighs, searching for anything he can offer up to satisfy her.

“I then explained Natalya to her, also. But mostly she needed to be fed.”

“What did you need for yourself?”

“I needed to tell Shane - I promised him I would give him an update.” She shakes her head. “That isn’t something you needed for yourself. For example, did you need to clear your head? Cry? Did you need a hug?”

“I wanted Shane,” he says quietly, after some time. “This was what I needed, I think.”

He’s dimly aware of the clock ticking, though it takes him a while to register they’ve sailed straight past the end of the appointment until he stumbles to his feet, skin crawling.

“I will go now.”

Mango knows more, the fish, apparently realising he doesn’t intend to stay fused to the chair until he decays, drifts back to the glass. Galina sings. Mouth sounds, tell her this?

She doesn’t argue, setting the notebook down. “Are you planning to come back next time?”

“No,” Ilya fumbles blindly for the door. “No, thank you, this was quite enough. I am cured.”

“I thought you said nothing was wrong?”

“There is not.”

He’s already halfway down the corridor when her voice follows him out. “See you next week, Ilya.”

•————•

Against every instinct shouting how bad of an idea it is, Ilya’s still holding the bag of nutritional yeast when Luca opens the door - at some point during the walk from the Uber Shane had made a valiant attempt at coaxing it into the bag he’s carrying, though Ilya had refused. The bag is a courtesy, filled with a bottle of ‘nice wine’ chosen by the man that doesn’t drink, and Ilya, the man that’s quite content with off brand Buzzballs, trusts this is probably the case because Shane would have researched it until his eyeballs fell out if he’d objected. There’s a card in there too, hidden - Ilya agonised over this, but ultimately if Sasha (which he almost certainly won’t) doesn’t want to hear it, he might at a later date want to read it. He might even have the grace to ignore the spatters Ilya had tried so hard to scrub away that the whole damn thing had almost ripped.

“Hey, guys,” Luca says, stepping aside to let them in. He looks tired, but is polite enough to present them with a smile they can use to ignore it.

“Thanks for coming.”

Shane toes off his shoes and elbows Ilya until he does the same, though he’s always really loved traipsing mud up and down Sasha’s stupid, expensive hallway. “We wouldn’t miss it, and, uh - thank you for letting me come. How’s Sasha?”

“Cooking.”

Shane, having no possible context to understand why Ilya’s just winced so violently he’s made a very odd noise, jolts at the sound of it. “What?” Ilya’s already trying to peer around Luca to catch a glimpse of the kitchen, from which heat and the smell of Cognac and garlic are rolling out like noxious fumes - more concerningly still, being someone who can identify the scent of Sasha’s olive tapenade in his fucking sleep, he can just about spot an entire side of cod basking under a blanket of tarragon. He falters -Sasha doesn’t cook at home. Sure, he could, being unnaturally good at it in every way possible (he swears this is a talent curated just to fuck with him), but he doesn’t. Sasha brings home leftovers from the restaurant, or uses his fancy meal delivery services probably cheffed up by angels who know how to use a sous vide considering the cost of them, but Sasha does not cook at home. He’d once described it as bringing his boyfriend to his husband’s birthday party, and Ilya now thinks he has a pretty good idea of whatever that was meant to mean at the time.

“He started at five,” Luca says, translating the horror spreading across Ilya’s face in real time.

“In the morning?”

“He hasn’t slept.”

There isn’t really much he can say to that, but Shane’s the first to recover, offering him out the bag. “There’s wine in there. I didn’t know if anyone would want it, but -”

“I will,” Ilya says, already marching towards the kitchen to where - Jesus Christ, Sasha’s now tucking a platter of tiny tiramisus into the fridge. “You’re not drinking the memorial wine before the memorial,” Shane mutters, trotting after him.

Ilya’s just about convinced himself that the wine might be essential to his survival of the evening, when Shane swears and something clatters - he whirls back around, an arm flying out to catch the other man and rescue him from whatever he’s just tripped over, and -

Luca has the good sense to cough, having likely seen it coming, to conceal most of the noise. The carrier still sits in the hallway, Katerina’s chew marks having not managed to erase what it means to still be sitting there, after all.

“Oh my god,” Shane wheezes, already crimson. “I’m so sorry. I’m -”

“Hush,” Ilya says, stepping closer to right him again. “It is fine. Sasha’s house has always been giant Saw trap and he has always been Jigsaw, big mean clown puppet. It is not your fault - you are fine.” Completely unable to prevent himself, his gaze drops to where Luca’s covertly nudged it a little further out of their direct path. Sasha’s jumper and all the blankets remain untouched, and Natalya remains in the air around it despite having never been further away.

Natalya? Isaak’s head pops from an alarmingly large silver bowl of scraps with a potato peel stuck to the side of his face. “Me,” Ilya tells him, turning from it. “Us.”

Katerina pushes past him, sniffing all the way along the skirting board - he’s expecting an onslaught of questions from her the most, but she simply checks the carrier’s newest location, ducks to peer inside it, and darts back down towards the bedroom without acknowledging any of them. Not there, Miroslav supplies, having materialised at Luca’s ankle. Shane dithers, unsure all over again as the other man scoops him up in a boneless coil. “Hello - um. Which one is this?”

“Miroslav,” Ilya says, reaching to scratch his ear as the ferret begins winding his way up to Luca’s shoulders. “You have been a good boy?” Yes, Miroslav says, quietly enough that he immediately regrets asking. “He wants the quiche,” Luca offers him out to Shane with one hand, even as he backs away with wide eyes - he gives him an insistent little shake, oblivious to that particular strain of Shane Discomfort. “I’ve told him he can’t have it, but considering he keeps staring at it, I’m guessing he doesn’t believe me.”

Ask Papa?

“We are not asking Papa,” Ilya intercepts, collecting the furry body and plopping him down again. “We are being kind to Papa.” The ferret slinks towards the kitchen, projecting Sasha’s location with total confidence, while somewhere upstairs he can feel Katerina doing the opposite - Ilya’s pretty sure she’s in the wardrobe now, snuffling around amongst a mixture of Sasha’s whites. Her confusion is bitter on the back of his tongue, and Ilya really needs that wine now. Smells here.

“I know, Kat,” he says softly, though he’s not sure she can hear him. Shane’s fallen quiet beside him as they round the corner, having arrived at the correct conclusion that Ilya doesn’t need to translate whatever’s been said. The living room as they pass through it has been stripped of anything recognisably Sasha’s (his collection of children’s tears, his pitchfork, his -okay, maybe now isn’t the time) and replaced instead by photographs in sleek black frames. Some are of Natalya alone, others of her entangled, caught in a pile of her siblings like living spaghetti, and surprise flickers when he catches a few of himself, too. The one propped against a bucket of ice isn’t one he was aware had been taken, but recognises his own younger face all the same - he’s asleep with Anya at his feet, Natalya sat on the arm of the chair, staring down at him.

On the other side of it sits a paw print, one Rose had hand delivered just the day before - the disk of white clay is no larger than his palm, and the print is within it no larger than the nail of his little finger. Ilya turns away from this as well, slipping his arm around Shane’s waist to steer him swiftly past. The next thing Ilya can bring himself to focus on is the kitchen table, Sasha moving around it in his periphery. It’s laden, even for four grown men - it doesn’t need a full exam to see the extent of the work. There’s an enormous ceramic of dauphinois resting on the side, he can smell roast chicken but can’t see it, and the other man is currently bent double, piping rillettes into small ramekins with such surgical concentration he seems genuinely surprised to see them there when Luca rests a hand on the small of his back. “You came.”

“You asked me to,” Ilya says, woefully insufficient as he takes him in - the bags under Sasha’s eyes look like bruises, and when they settle on Shane, he needs no ability at all to tell how this is going to go. “Sashka, this is -”

“Yes, it is,” he says slowly, making no attempt to conceal the open appraisal. “Hello, Shane.”

Shane doesn’t offer his hand - a restraint Ilya intends to reward thoroughly should they make it out the other side. “I’m really sorry about Natalya.” Tension crackles through the air and dies away again, and Ilya stiffens as the other man resumes his assembly of the ramekins. “Thank you.”

“And thanks for having me.”

“Only because he wanted you here.”

Luca takes the piping bag full of salmon straight out of his hand. “Shall we-”

“She was really beautiful,” Shane soldiers on, either unaware or stubborn enough to to at least attempt to bond with a man now ignoring every sign of his existence in favour of examining a remoulade he’s pulled out of thin air. “Ilya showed me some photos this morning. And told me some stories -”

“You never met her,” Sasha says, fishing out a strand of celeriac that clearly doesn’t pass his inspection.

“No, I -”

“Sasha,” Ilya warns, trying very hard to keep his voice polite. “Don’t take this out on him. I won’t let you.”

“You don’t have to pretend you came for her, then,” Sasha says, running an absent hand along Isaak’s spine as the ferret approaches, nerves fizzing and popping like sour Pepsi in his gut.

“I’m not,” Shane’s eyebrows draw together, but he meets the stony gaze waiting for him anyway. “I came because Ilya asked me to.” The other man returns to his methodical dissection of the remoulade. “I’m aware.”

Luca’s still holding the piping bag - he catches Ilya’s eye from across the room and gives a tiny shake of his head, insulting really, when Ilya’s resisted every thunderous impulse to shoulder check his ex into the cod. His own anger flares, directionless really considering Luca’s committed no crime but care, and Sasha for all his faults isn’t malicious without reason. Maybe they can stroke each other’s hair or something later, but he has no such luck himself when the look Shane quickly masks guts him. Ilya takes a deep breath and tries to focus. “You should sit.”

“I’m busy,” Sasha crosses to the oven to check on the largest chicken he’s ever seen in his life, spatchcocked and golden, spilling half the Amazon rainforest from beneath buttery sizzling skin. It’s dripping on a grill tray above what appears to be yet another side, one Ilya only identifies as fondant potatoes when the other man moves to stab it at great force with the fancy meat thermometer Ilya had bought him a few Christmases ago. The walls rattle as Sasha all but throws it back inside, slamming the oven door.

Shane startles, chewing his lip. “There’s quite a lot of food here. You’re really talented. What if we -”

“I haven’t finished.”

Luca sighs and does a far better job of hiding it than Ilya, who has to clutch at the nearest tray of crostini before he can serve Sasha’s insides as dessert -fuck the tiramisu. Isaak has hopped down now, chasing his Papa’s shins as he works, but only ever gets as far as extending his paws to climb up before Sasha moves away again. Ilya leans down to pick him up himself, swallowing around the ferret’s rising distress - it reminds him of bile. Papa?

“He wants you, Sashka. Hold him for a minute.”

“I need my hands,” he mutters, wrenching some chives from the fridge and setting about chopping them so fast the knife is just a blur. “You want rillettes without chives? Be serious.”

Papa…Isaak’s dismay peaks, writhing in Ilya’s arms in an attempt to reach him and narrowly avoiding falling straight into a tupperware of leftover tarragon sauce in the process. Papa comes to Isaak? Please? The rejection, perceived or simply set aside for later, is a stone in him that Ilya feels through his own stomach. “He is frightened.” Several things happen in quick succession - Sasha snatches the ferret to cradle him against his chest, letting the knife clatter across the countertop, and Isaak’s misery softens into a warmth, a thud of familiar heartbeat, contentment mangled only through the one thing here nobody can fix, and Sasha blurts a simple, horrible “so am I.”

Shane averts his eyes and begins to pick up the scattered chives one by one, and Luca sets the piping bag down where he’s been squeezing it so hard the seam must’ve been seconds away from exploding and painting the ceiling with fish.

“I’m going to start bringing some of the food through,” the other man says softly. “We should probably start, when you’re ready.” Sasha brushes his chin against the top of Isaak’s head, uncharacteristically scratchy with stubble. “We’re already late.”

Luca leaves without argument, taking just four of the ramekins with him and leaving the eight sat there on the table, passing close enough to press a quick kiss to the other man’s shoulder, which is locked so dangerously high it’s almost touching his ear. Shane, sensing an action that might repair, takes the stack of serving dishes and follows him without meeting anyone’s eye. He watches him go, but the stricken look on Sasha’s face as their audience falls away is enough that Ilya just presses his lips together and takes the candle from the very centre instead, retreating towards the sofa. It’s beautifully dressed, tapering and almost as long as his forearm, the outer cream wax studded with snowdrops that could’ve been colour matched to Natalya’s fur, rosemary, and hawthorn. Ilya can recite their meanings by heart considering Sasha had sent him at least twenty different Etsy shops when selecting one, and the sweetheart of a chandler they’d decided on, Kip, had sent several revisions through before even asking for a penny. He sets it in the provided holder that matches all the photo frames, and after a minute Sasha stalks through with Isaak tucked securely under his arm and the quiche in his free hand. Instinctively Ilya moves to relieve him of it, urgently considering Miroslav is creeping close enough to get underfoot at the promise of egg and cheese, but the other man pivots on his heel to dodge his reaching hand. “Fuss over your client, Ilya - I don’t need babysitting.”

Like he’s wading through thick fog, Ilya just about registers Luca lurching to his feet like he’s been electrocuted, and Shane calmly clearing a quiche sized space though there’s not a possibility on earth that he hasn’t heard. Copper floods his mouth, and only then does Ilya realise the inside of his cheek is caught between his teeth. “Enough - he is not my client, and you know this.”

“Not today?”

“Not ever again.”

“Tricky adjustment for you both, I suppose.”

Luca starts towards him. “Sash, come on -”

“What?” The quiche hits the table with a thunk he feels in his chest, and Sasha notches Isaak higher to nestle him close. “I’m only asking - does this count as an appointment, or does he only pay when the cat’s around?”

“I do not charge my boyfriend for -”

Shane’s hand finds his, and he must be the one shaking because Shane certainly isn’t, his palm warm and steady. “Ilya, it’s fine.” Sasha doesn’t miss this, arching an eyebrow. “That’s sweet - so no audience needed for good deeds these days, or is this one an exception?” Fine, he’d been expecting worse - at least that one’s aimed at him. With a series of jerky movements that don’t require him to release Shane’s hand, Ilya gently relocates Miroslav from under the table and gestures to the armchair. “Sit down, Sasha.”

“Stop telling me to sit.”

“Then fall down,” Ilya snaps. “I do not care.”

Luca, clearly very aware this is derailing at speed, fumbles to click the lighter on before either of them can continue. It takes a few tries for the candle to light, a hazy floral scent filling the room when it does, and Sasha collects Miroslav against his free shoulder before reaching to push the nearest photograph of Natalya away from it.

“You don’t want it lit?”

Instinctively, Sasha searches for a third, then a fourth furry body to gather up.

Natalya gone, Katerina whispers, having returned from upstairs to complete another scan of the carrier.

“She hated fire,” Sasha bites, blessedly oblivious to Kat’s fresh lance of grief. “You know that. Move the photos away.” Ilya glances at Luca’s face, searching for any sign of upset - he finds nothing but a soft sadness as he moves to oblige, echoed in a dreadful guilt from Sasha’s before he crushes it again.

Katerina wanders closer, allowing herself only the outskirts of their orbit. Kat, Miroslav, Isaak.

“Yes,” Ilya says under his breath, watching Sasha redo each and every change Luca’s made to the arrangement of photos despite the fact they end up largely the same.

Natalya when?

Never, he wants to say, if only to grasp it himself. He can smell the ferret’s lingering scent in his own nostrils through her siblings and finds he can’t -Shane must sense a disturbance in the force (beyond Sasha) because his thumb coasts across Ilya’s knuckles, grounding enough that’s he’s able to offer Kat the image of rest, mingled with a suggestion she settles her tired little body somewhere soft.

She ignores him and makes back for the carrier. Again. I will check again. “I found her in a bin,” Sasha says suddenly, making all three of them jolt. Ilya warily settles, towing Shane down with him on the sofa only once he’s sure Sasha isn’t going to explode them with his eyes for sitting down when there’s still a seven course meal waiting in the kitchen. Alarmingly, the other man isn’t looking at either of them at all - he’s blinking hard but fixed on Luca, who’s trailing an absent pattern on his forearm. Isaak’s agreement is conclusive. Bin. Bin food, Miroslav adds. Maybe.

“I always wondered where she came from,” he continues, letting Katerina’s next loop of the living room pass between his ankles without making an attempt to restrain her. “She’d never tell Ilya, so he couldn’t tell me. I think- think she was probably trying to protect me from knowing how soon I’d lose her.”

Sasha’s breath catches, and Isaak begins a careful tunnel beneath his shirt and up to his chin.

“She loved you,” Shane says, and for a moment Ilya fears the worst - Sasha only nods, opening his top button to allow the ferret through. Kat, Isaak, Miroslav -

“Big mistake,” Ilya offers out familiar ground, and can see the exact moment Sasha’s about to latch onto it like a raft in the middle of the ocean when Katerina veers so sharply towards the edge of the living room table that she knocks it, and the candle shivers in its holder. The other man’s hand shoots out to steady it, and that’s all it takes to detonate Kat’s panic - it explodes in a firework that makes Ilya gasp, the force of it clearing right through him as she flattens into a pancake, her tiny chest heaving. Sorry. Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry -Ilya lunges for her before she can start trying to dig her way through the floor, each word sharp as a knife in his skull as she lands in the crook of his elbow, already moving. The ferret bolts the second her paws touch down, burrowing straight under his arm and onto Shane’s lap - he recoils instinctively but Kat, having no clue who’s body she’s fighting against, gives up entirely the second Shane’s hands wrap around her middle to prevent her flying straight back towards the flame. She goes limp, a wet noodle in his grip, and the living room freezes. You, Katerina whimpers, her head hanging low. Touching me. “Hello,” Shane says in almost perfect unison. “You know, I check things too. I like numbers.”

Sasha goes rigid, and Luca stoops to murmur something in his ear. Ilya on the other hand can only stare as pattern recognition works wordless between man and ferret, an unspoken I see you crossing the gap from his boyfriend to Kat, and her nose stops its furious twitching to crane her neck until she can see him. There is three. Natalya gone. “Maths isn’t mathing in your head?” Shane very cautiously sets her down on his knee, retracting his hands. It takes him far longer than Ilya to realise Katerina has no intention of fleeing, and his fingers flex at his sides. “I get it. I hate it when that happens.”

Ilya doesn’t step in, nor does he make any move to intervene as Luca clears his throat and segues them onward. “Natalya watched me for months before she ever let me near her. I remember the - Sash, you’ll know - the night we were watching that shitty scary film -”

“Blair Witch,” Ilya says, on autopilot and still watching out of the corner of his eye.

Itchy skin, Katerina tells Shane. Natalya gone, and it hurts my skin. “No, Click,” Luca says quietly. “With Adam Sandler.” Ilya’s head is throbbing.

Shane offers Kat the back of his hand, fidgeting so hard with the other that it’s plainly clear he’s expecting a bite and offering skin anyway. “I don’t know what you’re saying - or if you’re saying anything, actually. Sorry for assuming. But I hope you understand that there’s no shame in doing some maths, if it helps. ‘Til maybe one day you won’t need to count any more, and Sasha seems like a real good dad to let you cope how you need to.” Papa, Miroslav corrects, lifting his head. But Kat, Change is right -“Shane,” Ilya says, near choking on the stab of guilt as Miroslav retreats back into Sasha’s arms. “His name is Shane.”

Shane. Miroslav tastes it, his attention already drifting back to the quiche. Shane is right.

“I was desperate to piss,” Luca says slowly, eyeing them even as his hand moves up to brush against Sasha’s cheek. “But Natalya fell asleep on me, and I was so scared to move because I thought she’d never do it again if I woke her up.”

“She would’ve,” Sasha turns his face away, and even Katerina looks up from her reluctant exploration of Shane’s wrist. “You were always so gentle with her.”

It registers in Ilya gradually, and it should probably hurt - logistically he knows Sasha isn’t insinuating that he himself wasn’t, but there’s something strange, mirrorlike, about falling in love and watching the one constant in your life do the same with someone else. Sometimes Ilya feels planetary, like he and Sasha might always be drawn into each other’s gravitational pull, but now it settles like dusk on that one lakefront in the realisation that maybe choosing to stay in that magnetism speaks of courage. Courage to step out of the constrictive chrysalis of boyhood together, each bearing the same injury in different places, and part before moth and butterfly notice their differences enough to form swords from them. Luca’s hand works a soothing pattern into Sasha’s scalp, and Ilya settles his arm around Shane’s waist, folding him into his side. A rush of steady warmth, release of a slow moving creek, unfurls as Shane shuffles over to meet him there. The fuck ass oven timer blares, and Katerina bolts from where she’d settled, just for a minute, in the hammock of Shane’s hold. Sasha swears under his breath, Russian or English Ilya doesn’t catch it, but it’s Shane who finds his feet first.

“I’ll get it,” he says, brushing off his shorts and shooting Ilya a hopeful smile. “The chicken, right? I’ll get it out for you.” Inexplicably, Ilya thinks of Anya. The thought is cosy and lasts all of a second before reality returns at the force of a freight. “You don’t need to play house just because you’re anxious, Shane,” Sasha snaps, taking both ferrets with him as he stands. “You have your own home for that.”

Before he can so much as think about it, Ilya’s hand closes around the back of Sasha’s neck and they’re up - he’s not pulling, or at least he doesn’t think he is, but Miroslav drops into Luca’s waiting arms and Isaak a second later, relinquished only when Sasha twists to try and shake him off. It’s a feeble attempt for sure, considering Ilya’s applying no pressure whatsoever and Sasha could simply duck out and away, but regardless he lets himself be steered far enough and into the bedroom that all Ilya can hear is the uneven gasp of the other man’s breath.

The moment the door slams, he rounds on him - every vicious thing surging up in defence of Shane has indeed survived their short trip into privacy, and though Sasha’s face is drawn and tight, Ilya wrestles away any immunity this might give him before it wins. Instead he stabs a finger back at the door, horrified to find it still trembling.

“You will not speak to him this way.”

Sasha scoffs, but his eyes are wet. “He’s a stranger - he didn’t know her, and he doesn’t know the others. Fuck whoever you want, Ilya, I really don’t care, but don’t bring your latest conquest into something that has nothing to do with him.”

“Fuck you,” he snarls. “He has never been that, and you know this -”

“I only said yes because I felt sorry for you third wheeling,” Sasha takes a step forwards, his voice cracking as each syllable starts to blur into the next. “If I’d known he was going to cosplay PayPal’s fucking friends and family-”

Ilya has to consciously lower his voice before he screams. “Then he is cosplaying it far better than you right now. What, you think snapping at your boyfriend and bullying mine will bring Natalya back?” The other man reels backwards, and Ilya considers retracting it - Sasha’s face is dangerously close to collapsing in on itself, and the only indignity worse than looking like you’ve cried is when there’s people around to perceive it, but he doesn’t. Ilya can’t, because he’s been brave. He’d asked for help, sat through it without throwing himself out the window of Galina’s office, and even as he stands with his chest heaving he realises he’s due a fucking gold medal in acknowledging his own needs, by the fact Shane’s here at all. Still, his restraint wavers as Sasha swipes at his cheeks. “You will apologise,” he says quietly. “To Shane, and that sweet man waiting for you out there, once things are no longer so raw -”

“I’m sorry, Ilya.”

Ilya shakes his head. “Not to me.”

“You always were such a fucking masochist,” Sasha mutters, giving up on windscreen wiping his own face to study his.

The words might be true, in another life - Ilya hardly feels like he’s living his own, these days. In that, there’s just a man who’d left a client’s house and never returned, but here there’s freckles and warm hands and the big green smoothie of uncertainty blended with excitement to find out what happens next.

“Not any more,” Ilya says, unsurprised that the fingers he’s just touched to his cheek come away wet. “Sashka, you are allowed to hate everything today, but you have to hate everything. You cannot hate only Shane because you know he will stand there and take it, since you are hurting.”

“I don’t hate him.”

“No?”

“You need him.”

No truer sentence has ever been spoken. Ilya glances at the bed he used to wake in, tangled in a man happy to pretend that wasn’t the closest either of them would allow another person to get, and wonders if his mama would be proud of them both - once, perhaps, she’d finished laughing at how they’d ended up here in the first place.

“I cannot do everything alone any more,” he whispers, wishing he fucking could and be done with it all. “I do not want to, and Shane has never made me feel like -” Ilya trails off, searching for the pedal. “Like I have to.”

“Did I make you feel like that?”

Ilya doesn’t have an answer readily available, nor a magic 8 ball that might provide something more concrete than reply hazy, try again. “We were terrible for each other.”

Sasha’s knees fail him, and he slumps hard onto the edge of the bed. “But good, too.”

“Yes,” Ilya tentatively settles beside him. “Good, too.”

“She should be here.”

He wants to shake him, drag him back out to Shane and preside over an apology so comprehensive it would take a hundred pens to transcribe it, but insted he slips an arm around the other man’s shoulder and pulls him close. “She is not.”

They remain relatively upright through spite alone, Ilya supposes, neither willing to fall apart so completely it might count as a victory for the other. Silence ticks, though he can just about to hear the murmur of Luca and Shane’s voices from the living room.

“I wrote down the time she died,” Sasha says eventually. “The time, and everything that - that happened.”

Ilya twists to look at him properly. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I got as far as writing when Kat stopped checking the carrier, but I had to cross it out when she started again.”

“You do not need to keep a record of this.”

“I know,” he says, settling his hands on his knees. “But if I stop, isn’t that agreeing there’s nothing else to do?”

Ilya knows the construction of this trap well enough to recognise the view from inside its jaws - he shoves the stone in his chest aside for just a second, a second enough to allow him to breathe again. “And what if there is nothing?”

“Then -” Sasha reaches the same conclusion he does only a moment later. “Then we did everything right, and she still died.”

“Yes.”

“I miss her.”

He bows his head. “I miss her also.”

“I think I love Luca, too. In case you hadn’t noticed.” The tension shudders and gives, and to his own utter surprise Ilya hears himself laugh. “I will call Childline - you do not deserve him.” Sasha slaps at his shoulder, but there’s a tiny, fragile smile twitching at the corner of his lips that hadn’t been there before. “Does he deserve me?”

“You are not all bad,” Ilya mumbles. “You have a lot of money, and you can cook. You are very ugly, and have terrible taste in cars, but you are not all bad.”

“I shouldn’t have said that to Shane.”

“No. I will make you pay for this, but not today - maybe feed you through your garlic press.”

Sasha sniffs, and wipes his face with his sleeve. “You bought me that.”

“Then it has come full circle.”

A very quiet knock interrupts whatever the other man was about to say, and they spring apart at such speed Ilya’s elbow cracks against the wardrobe, and Sasha all but slides straight off the mattress. The door opens a few inches, and Shane peers around it with Katerina settled in his arms again -she’s sleeping now, her awareness little more than a distant glow in Ilya’s periphery, her whiskers still. “Sorry, I just - is everything okay? The shouting stopped, so we thought maybe you’d -” Killed each other remains unspoken and not entirely out of place, and Ilya straightens with as much dignity as he can possibly muster considering he feels like he’s been dragged behind wild horses for a mile or two (over broken glass) - Shane’s eyes linger on his, cataloguing exactly what he can feel there until he blinks it away.

“Yes,” Ilya says, sending an aimless kick to Sasha’s ankle that the other man returns five times harder. “He became hysterical - I was forced to restrain him. He is highly unstable.”

Sasha rolls his eyes. “You attacked me without provocation.”

“Your presence provokes me,” Ilya crosses the distance to Shane, thumbing carefully across one cheek - there’s no residual hurt he can spot in his face, but it would be a crime not to check anyway. “Do not worry, Shane. I will finish the job later.”

The door opens further and Luca curses as he’s revealed, hovering just behind Shane’s shoulder with Miroslav and Isaak hanging from each hand. “We weren’t eavesdropping, I swear!”

“This is what you’ve chosen,” Sasha says solemnly, catching Shane’s eye. “There’s still time to escape.”

Shane glances sideways at Luca. “We’ve formed a support group - I think we’ll be alright.”

Still here, Miroslav says as they float back into the living room single file, scampering out of reach. Papa food still here. Miroslav did not take. Ilya hasn’t got the heart to tell him he can see, even from here, the tiniest nibble taken from the quiche crust - it’s an honourable level of restraint considering not long ago he’d have used the whole thing as an egg jacuzzi, so instead he watches Sasha’s attention linger over the candle where the wax around the higher snowdrops has softened. Shane reaches one handed to shift a photograph out of reach of drips without really thinking about it, one of the group in an Easter basket, Natalya the only ferret not blurred by motion.

“That took a few attempts,” Sasha tells him, and Shane startles. “None of them would stay in the basket - Natalya was the only one who sat where I put her.”

I stay, Isaak insists, now inside his shirt despite Ilya not having seen him transferred over.

“Isaak disputes this,” Ilya says. “You have offended him.” Shane leans closer to examine her, squashed between her siblings. “Did she always like them being on top of her?”

“Usually - she liked the weight, I think. Or maybe she just liked knowing they were all there without having to check.”

Kat sleeps on Change. Miroslav has resumed his expedition towards the quiche, so blatantly unsubtle that none of them really need to correct him. Isaak Papa, Miroslav here. Natalya gone.

“Yes,” Ilya says softly. “Natalya gone, but our hearts remember, yes?” Hearts.

Beside him, Kat shifts in Shane’s arms, and the other man shoots him an agonised look. “Should I wake her up now?”

Ilya opens his mouth - the little ferret needs sleep if the bodily exhaustion in her is anything to go by, but he swallows his own answer and inclines his head towards Sasha instead. Sasha takes his time, not appearing to miss the careful way Shane supports her hindquarters so she isn’t dangling from him, and makes to reach towards her before stopping himself. “Let her sleep,” he says, easing himself into the armchair still wearing Isaak and shifting until Luca gets the message and perches, flushing, on his knee. “She’s been up most of the night, and then I started cooking, so.” Shane nods quickly, letting Ilya guide him backwards onto the sofa without argument. “’Kay, I won’t, like, move suddenly or anything.” There doesn’t seem to be much left to say now they’re all sat there, watching the candle flicker and spit as the rosemary begins to burn away. Ilya fixes on the photo with him in it, Anya below and Natalya above, keeping watch over something he’d in truth never realised was quite so vulnerable. “She was very patient with me.”

“Natalya was patient with everyone but Rose,” Luca chuckles. “God - Ilya, what was it she used to say?”

“That Rose stole her blood,” he huffs under his breath. “Very smart ferret. Good judge of character.”

The quiet settles again, until Sasha loses the ability to look any of them in the eye. “Thank you for coming - all of you.”

The candle burns on, and the chicken now sits cooling under foil at the far end of the table - it’s the sight of some glossy kind of butter sauce starting to congeal around the potatoes under it that finally starts the other man into motion again, keeping Isaak cradled to his chest while he reaches for a knife with the other. Luca snags his wrist mid air before he can grab it. “Let me hold him.”

“No, he’s settled,” Sasha says, though Isaak’s quite literally trying to climb into his mouth. “Just hold the chicken still.”

He does, bracing the tray while he saws at it with none of his usual finesse -Ilya’s eyes widen and he shifts Shane incrementally back with his own body as the knife flashes again, sending a spray of juice shooting straight out of the breast. The slice Sasha achieves is ragged and he braces for the inevitable explosion, intending if anything to go out brave and shield his boyfriend from chicken shrapnel, but the other man only cuts another, thinner this time.

“Nobody’s hungry,” Luca says carefully. “You don’t have to serve it all now.”

“It’ll be dry if we leave it, and the dauphinois needs eating warm.”

“I am hungry - I will eat it.” Ilya reaches for the plate Sasha deposits the slices on, but gets his hand swiped away for the trouble. “That’s Shane’s.”

He withdraws obediently enough because that pleases him, but the logistical challenge remains. “He cannot eat all this while holding Kat.”

“Feed him then, don’t be shit.”

Shane, who’s staring at the thick wedge of quiche Luca’s just added alongside the rapidly growing pool of sauce with polite concern, says nothing as Sasha dumps a second (and completely unnecessary) serving of dauphinois beside at least £20 worth of cod, the plate now heaped and steaming.

“He already has potatoes,” Ilya tries, collecting a spoonful of chicken and sauce to post it through Shane’s open mouth. “I have none!” Shane splutters, and Ilya realises he’s probably not as used to deepthroating 3000 calories of cream sauce as he is, wincing as he makes the next spoon significantly smaller. Sasha clicks his tongue, making a great show of setting a singular fondant potato on the nearest plate and shoving it across to him, though he makes no attempt to stop Ilya from reaching for the next slab of meat.

Miroslav perks. Mine?

“No,” Ilya says around a mouthful, carefully airplaning a more modest piece of quiche through Shane’s lips.

Small mine?

Luca sneaks him another piece of crust as Sasha serves himself last, opting for just a tiny piece of fish and a spoonful of tapenade he (even now) can’t resist turning into an artful smear across the plate. Ilya ruins it without a moment’s hesitation, splattering a corner of dauphinois onto it in a tidal wave of cream.

“Hey -”

“Eat it,” he mutters. “If I must feed you also, I will remove your tonsils.” The wine Shane bought is opened, but when his boyfriend chews the next delivery of quiche and a scatter of crumbs rain down on his sleeping charge, the forehead crease appears so suddenly Ilya’s chest wrenches just looking at him.

“I got pastry on her,” Shane whispers, horrified. The ceiling doesn’t collapse, nor does Sasha have a coronary - Ilya leans over to gently pick it from her fur, and the ferret doesn’t so much as stir. “Relax, Милый - she will not bite your nipples -” Luca waves his fork in the air. “She’s never been around Shane’s nipples, though - we can’t exclude the possibility.”

“Stop talking about my boyfriend’s nipples.”

Sasha, realising they’re veering further still from a civilised conversation at his ferret’s wake, sets about topping up glasses. “Or have you considered not talking about nipples at all?”

Nipples, Miroslav echoes.

Ilya, having no hope of translating this without laughing himself sick, presses his lips together and dunks a crostini unceremoniously in the remainder of the sauce - he offers it out to Shane first who shakes his head, looking slightly nauseous now he’s 90% dairy and cognac, though Sasha doesn’t miss the way Shane’s remoulade remains in a pile where the quiche had been. “You don’t like it?”

Shane pales. “I’ve not tried it yet, to be fair.”

Ilya hesitates, trying to interpret whether the tiny downturned twitch of his boyfriend’s lips means please god don’t feed me that or I am open to the concept of putting that in my mouth.

“I make my own mayonnaise,” Sasha says offhandedly, “but there’s plenty of rillettes left if you want those instead.”

It turns out Shane has a rather fierce love of salmon, because he clears two in the same time it’d taken him to eat a single fondant potato, and Luca quietly slips a third over to him when returning to the dauphinois has him turning green. Food, however, is swiftly forgotten when Katerina stirs at the clink of a spoon, stretching herself out with a yawn - Ilya feels her consciousness thick and muddy, dulled with sleep, and she cracks open one eye to study Shane for a moment.

Change, she murmurs, tucking herself back under his arm. Change, yes.

•————•

Reaching Ilya’s front door without spilling anything is a shining example of the indomitable human spirit - weighed down with a bag each of enough leftovers that could (genuinely) cater a wedding (ideally theirs), they just about manage the stairs wine warm and full, having argued over which of them got the honour of paying the Uber and made up only when Ilya had kissed the scowl straight off Shane’s face.

Ilya also hadn’t glossed over the fact that Sasha had given Shane all of the remaining rillettes, or how his own bag is so full of chicken he could probably reconstitute it and have it fly away relatively recognisable as a bird, and though their goodbyes had taken on a sober but no less meaningful truce of some kind, some of the weight still lodged in Ilya’s chest has cleared enough he can, if he squints, start to see sunlight at the other end.

His keys jangle, and Anya’s attention zeroes in like a homing pigeon. Talk to me - are you okay? Unharmed? Has Shane fled screaming for the hills? “One moment,” Ilya murmurs, setting the bag down at his feet. The stairwell isn’t quiet, filled with the urgent whispering of a mouse conducting a thorough inspection of a trap and thankfully deciding against risking it, before he has to bang on the walls in warning. Shane glances between him and the door. “You okay?” Ilya really, really thinks about telling him yes. It’s old instinct that surges up to affirm yep, of course, nothing can ever possibly be wrong because I can’t ever be hurt, I’m invincible, Shane did you know how invincible I am because -

“No,” he says, staring at his keys. “But less bad, probably.”

“Okay. I can work with either answer.”

He glances sideways at him, waiting for an interview that doesn’t come - if the shoe was on the other foot he’s not too proud to admit he’d have a thousand questions and far less restraint about it. “Not too much?”

“Never.” Shane steps closer to run a gentle hand across Ilya’s chest. “Listen, I was thinking about this weekend.”

“What about it?”

Whatever it is must be of some significance, because even in the evening gloom he can spot the telltale flare of pink cheeks. “My family has this cottage a couple hours out - I mean, properly in the countryside. Whole other postcode.”

Anya’s curiosity simmers, and he can feel the effort it takes her not to interrupt.

“I thought we could go for a few days, if you wanted.” Ilya wants. Ilya’s also had a few glasses of wine, and is finding it tricky to process the concept. “A cottage?”

“Yeah,” Shane’s scuffing his shoe now, smiling down at the floor. “The WiFi’s pretty shit, but there’s a huge garden for Anya. I figure it doesn’t matter if the fence is a bit old, because she’s not going to, like, run off or anything. Wait - to make it really clear, I’m inviting both of you.” You’re allowed to just invite me, Shane.

“Anechka,” Ilya mutters, tilting his head as the promise of beautiful, almost holy possibility presents itself to him. “How secluded is this cottage?”

“Why?”

“Might neighbours report sounds?”

Anya’s disgust prickles, but Shane only huffs, trying very hard to look affronted. “There’s another cottage about a mile from ours, so I doubt they’d hear much of anything.”

Promising. Ilya reaches for him then, fisting the jacket he’d draped across Shane’s shoulders the second they’d stepped outside and enjoying the stumble as he tows in into his arms. The other man tastes like tiramisu, sweet and warm and so soft his body takes the wheel, crowding him into the wall until he opens and (Ilya’s never going to survive Shane Hollander) hitches one leg up for him to catch against his hip. Shane’s fingers slip straight up and under his shirt, splaying hot against the small of his back. “Few days, you said?” Ilya breathes into his mouth. “How many nights?”

“We could have a week, maybe even two,” Shane whimpers as he’s driven back again with a grind, friction sparking everywhere it matters most, even fully clothed. “Fuck a few days, I’ve got annual leave left.”

Ilya slides his thigh up between waiting legs. “I will ask my boss.”

“You’re your own boss.”

“Exactly. He says I can go.”

Shane laughs, and it echoes and bounces from the high ceilings like stepping towards a roaring fire, walking in from the snow. “You could come inside, for a little.”

The other man shakes his head, pained. “I got that fucking pet camera you sent me, and Pork’s set off fifteen different alerts in the last hour alone.”

1. Motion detected: Offal is walking past your camera

2. Motion detected: Small Beloved is being kneaded into Custard Creams

in view of your camera

3. Motion detected: Your camera is being mutilated by a Farrow & Ball

No. CC8 nectarine

That’s as far as Ilya gets before Shane breaks off, panting. “There’s one thing about the cottage -”

“If you are about to confess there is no bed, I will bring one.”

“Pork’s coming.”

Like a backwards phoenix, Ilya’s excitement never quite emerges from the ashes. “Why?”

“Ilya,” Shane frowns. “I’m not leaving him alone, especially if we’re staying for a week or so.”

“He would love to be alone - Pork has not yet been shown the dark web, there are many activities he could -”

“You might actually get some quiet,” the other man says, pressing a soft kiss into his shoulder. “There’ll still be animals - I don’t know, bugs and shit, but they won’t all be crammed into city space. And Pork’s finally stopped pissing on your side of the sofa now, so I think he knows not to fuck with you at the moment.”

The ancient fire safety notice on the opposite wall is peeling, and outside a fox cub is calling for her mother so loudly Ilya can hear her from all the way down the street, and it still doesn’t quite compare to the maelstrom of affection and a strange, wary shyness that whirls around in his brain at the sheer thought of being perceived enough to plan over. “You don’t have to talk about anything if you don’t want to,” Shane continues. “You can sleep all day if that’s what you feel like, and I can show Anya around the lake. Pork has a harness, so.”

“A harness?”

“I’m serious, Ilya. I’m not trying to make you forget - I just thought you might want a place to go where you don’t have to work everything out for everyone.”

We’re going, Anya tells him from inside. “We’re going,” Ilya translates.

“Yeah?” Shane brightens, already tapping on his phone - there’s a whoosh of something forwarded. “I can pick you up Saturday morning, or maybe Friday night, or -”

“You can stay with me Friday night, then we leave Saturday. Bring Pork -unless you do not wish to, which is fine with me, by the way. I have not yet introduced you to my bed.” Ilya swallows down Shane’s shy little okay, drinking it like honey.

“I’ll see you soon,” Shane collects his bag, beaming. “Sooner than soon.”

He pauses halfway down the first step, and it’s all he can do not to run and drag him back. “Sooner than soon?”

Ilya smiles - it feels strange on his face, but not even a little out of place. “I am coming to the cottage.”

Chapter 11: emergency contact

Chapter Notes

welcome back crackfic I’ve missed you x

ilya’s bathroom time = denied

also i have never seen a singular loon in the uk EVER but i’m

choosing to believe that the RSPB wouldn’t lie to me (I was going to

make ilya 1v1 a goose but decided he’s been through enough tbh)

love you alllll xoxo

Shane wasn’t lying (not that he ever would, considering he’s not Ilya) - the cottage really is quiet. He’s thankful for it, having spent the best part of the drive trying to goad Pork into carpool karaoke - unsurprisingly the cat hadn’t appreciated his rendition of Uptown Funk, and had only contributed to state I will uptown fuck you up when he’d transitioned into Macklemore without missing a beat.

I spy…Anya’s paws crunch on gravel as she hops from the car, letting Ilya close it behind her. Something beginning with…M. “We are here now, we do not need to play again -” Shane’s up 18 points, I’m not letting him win. M, Ilya. Misery, Pork offers, refusing to look at either of them from his incredibly undignified position within a pink polka dot travel carrier. Now you want to play? Where was that energy when Ilya’s R was roadkill? Much more up your alley -

Their bickering fades away within the pleasant cavern of his head, interspersed only with the occasional soft whisperings of a butterfly as it drifts towards an immaculately maintained bed of pastel foxgloves. Ilya might’ve spent this time looking around, or appreciating the sprawling view of the Hollander cottage offered out to him on all sides, but the view that matters the most is the one he’s fixed on now - Shane bent so deeply into the boot of the car that his ass cheeks might just split the denim they’re clad in.

His hands twitch, itching to grab those hips and thrust into him from behind, but starting off their first holiday with a concussion likely isn’t a grand idea. Instead, he leans against the car to appreciate the view from above, unable to suppress a smile as Shane mutters and swears at whatever’s rolled so far back. It’s amusing, blissful, even, until the other man emerges with his mouth set in a grim line. “Ilya.”

Distracted, Ilya cranes his neck to restore the sight of those strong thighs. “Yes, моя любовь?”

“Would you like to explain why there’s a Clone A Cock kit in the boot of my car?”

No thanks, Anya flees for the lawn, busying herself with absorbing literally anything else instead - he feels the moment she locates an old scent trail from a fox, hoovering up the jigsaw of smells in a blur of rabbit, deer, badger, frog, mouse, hedgehog -

“This is a gift for you,” Ilya says slowly, gesturing at the box in Shane’s hand. “You nearly fucked mine off last time, so I have bought you a decoy. I had nothing left to ejaculate but hopes and dreams -” His frown deepens, paired with the beginnings of a pout Ilya’s quickly learning means they’re veering towards his favourite thing ever - a Shane sulk. Ideally one that includes an indignant little stomp of his foot, or cold shoulder that lasts all of five seconds before Ilya can kiss it out of him again. “I don’t want a silicone one, I want yours.” Delighted, Ilya gathers him in his arms. “And you will have it, many times. But I do not want your hole to get lonely while I use your mouth, you see?” Shane might be seeing, as although his scowl hasn’t budged, there’s a teeny tiny flicker in the corner of his mouth as he hides his face in Ilya’s chest. “Depends what colour it is.”

“Special edition glow in the dark. I paid extra.” Whatever protest he might make ends up swallowed when Pork begins circling inside the carrier, his irritation sour on the back of Ilya’s tongue, so Shane thunks the box pointedly back into the boot before withdrawing to haul him out. The cottage itself is much larger than the other man had made it sound, old enough he can spot an ancient cast iron bell pull fixed into the stone beside the front door, and the vast expanse of lake stretches so far out that the trees on the other side look no bigger than the length of his little finger. There’s still very little between his ears (in the way of animals, not brain, thank you) beyond a collection of gnats skimming the water far enough away it isn’t fully consuming and he exhales hard, letting himself absorb Anya’s contented exploration of the hedgerow instead. The cat already has his horrid little harness tied snug against his prunelike body, and Shane sets him down at his feet. “There you go, Porkie. Feel better?”

I hate it - almost as much as I hate your selection in mate. Ilya does think he’s grown quite significantly as a person recently, but he can’t resist making things worse just a bit, as a treat. “You must stay close to your Beloved, Pork. Many foxes waiting to snap you up.” Pork’s pupils narrow to reptilian slits, though he does spare the hedge a glance. You do not command me here. “Quit scaring him,” Shane huffs, watching him take a few stiff steps around his ankles before approaching the carrier again. Small Beloved remains.

“He does not need to come,” Ilya says, pointing at the rabbit so Shane can attempt to follow along. “He is stuffed - he will not be offended.”

He has never seen this territory. The cat peers up at Shane, giving Ilya merely a distasteful view of his waxy shoulders. The other man does seem to understand, handing the harness lead to Ilya and stooping to retrieve Small Beloved, tucking him under one arm.

“Thought you’d be happy he likes him after all,” he grins, setting off the voicebox (having grown extensively accustomed to the sound of his own blowjob ruined voice). “It’s sweet.”

“Perhaps they can share a room.”

Pork lifts the rabbit by the back of his tee and sets about dragging him towards the porch, Small Beloved’s head bouncing over the cobbles. I will show him my estate.

Ilya opens his mouth but thinks better of it, following as Anya completes her loop and presents him with a comprehensive download confirming every creature that’s ever passed across Shane’s garden since the 1960s, her tail plumed over her back. Leave me here when it’s time to go home. I have everything I need.

Her joy simmers behind his ribs, rich and enough that some of the tension he’d stuffed there in favour of processing it twinges as it eases. “You would not miss me?”

I would, but I can miss you from my lakeside property. He smiles, shaking his head as Shane slips his free arm around his shoulders. “Quieter than the city?”

“Much,” Ilya murmurs, giving his consciousness a testing flex outwards and detecting nothing but the subtle thrum of insects going about their daily business, and a squirrel nesting in one of the nearer trees. “I can still hear them, but they are not stacked on top of each other. Not compressed, like home.”

“Good.” Shane gives him a squeeze, directing them towards the front step. “Wait ‘til you see the bath - it’s got feet.”

He grins. “All baths should have feet. How else would they move?”

“I don’t know why I bother telling you anything.” Ilya collects the last suitcase, still smiling, just as something calls from across the water in a long, melodic cry that echoes as the bird calls again, louder this time. Shane whirls around with his keys half out of his pocket, and his face is so lit up with unrestrained happiness that Ilya’s about to ask what the fuck’s so exciting about loons when the other man cups both hands around his mouth and calls back. He can be struck by the uncanny, bordering on fluent way Shane imitates the bird’s tone another time - right now there’s more pressing concerns, and Ilya recoils. “Shane!”

Shane turns, delighted. “There’s always loons here in autumn - I thought maybe we’d come a bit too early to see them, but I guess not. Wait, what’s wrong with your face -”

Ilya casts a desperate look over to where the black and white bird is now fixated on Shane, already moving from the opposite bank to approach. “You are saying horrible things!”

He blinks, bewildered and glancing between the loon, Pork at their feet, and Ilya’s face. “I was?”

“You called her,” Ilya lowers his voice to barely more than a whisper. “You called her a shitbitch motherfucker.”

“You’re not serious.” Shane hesitates, but when Ilya doesn’t relieve him of it with a ‘surprise, haha, just joking!’ every drop of blood drains from his face, replaced by sheer panic. “I did? Oh my god - I didn’t know, I was only- help me apologise!”

Grimacing, Ilya extends outwards towards the loon, expecting fury - instead he finds it much closer than it had been when it called, its consciousness a firm wedge of interest (quichelike, if you will) that drives prickling into his skull. Worse still, the incredible linguistic talent of an insult delivered with, as the bird perceives it, immense enthusiasm has morphed beyond offence and into something else - mother. Ilya has no time at all to convey this accurately to Shane, who’s now staring helplessly out at the water, unaware they’re due an impending kidnapping. He settles for sharing simply what he knows in his heart. “She is coming.”

“Where?” Shane squints, still agonised. “Oh, I see it - there.” He follows the direction of his finger to the sleek black head slicing through the otherwise calm lake, closing the distance at speed. The bird’s attention has shifted from Shane now, latched on the cat underfoot with concerning focus.

Chick.

“Shane -”

Sick. Sick, bald chick.

“Ilya?”

Mine.

“Oh no,” he whispers, already shaking his head as surge after surge of maternal recognition slams through him, urgent and fierce - it rattles behind his eyes until he whirls away, staggering blindly backwards and towing Pork along by the harness with him.

Unhand me, the cat snaps. Fool -

The loon keeps coming. No feathers. Water now. “Get Pork inside,” Ilya tries the lock out of desperation alone, like Shane Hollander of all people might leave a Grade II Listed Building wide open for three quarters of the year. “Your keys, Shane. Quick.” The other man’s brow furrows, which ordinarily might trigger a round of cute aggression so vicious they’d never make it off the front step at all, but Ilya has no desire at all to test out the Brubacher Edge Sharpness Scale on the kitchen knife protruding from the loon’s flat head, having seen quite enough puncture wounds from the very creature he’s now (for some reason) attempting to protect. “Why?”

“The shitbitch motherfucker thinks he is her child - or, her bald chick -”

“Pork?”

Ilya throws his hands up in the air. “How many other bald chicks do you see?”

Chick, the loon insists, surfacing from beneath the water even closer, those terrible red eyes fixed on the cat. My bald chick. “Okay, buddy,” Shane’s still laughing, having clearly not grasped the severity of the situation at hand. “Holiday’s cancelled - your mum’s here.” Anya’s head pops up from the hedgerow, having no doubt detected the visceral terror ripping through Ilya as the loon makes straight for them, a feathered B-2 Spirit moving at such speed panic curdles in his gut. Why does she think Pork’s her chick?

“Because Shane called her a shitbitch motherfucker in bird,” Ilya whimpers, watching the man in question fumble with his keys, “Shane, hurry, this is an emergency -”

“I didn’t know that’s what I was saying!”

I am incarcerated, Pork grouches, winding around Shane’s ankles. I am the son of my beloved - I do not know this bird.

“Explain this from inside,” Ilya hisses, snatching up Small Beloved as Anya trots closer, eyeing the bird with not nearly enough urgency. “Anechka, assist me. You have herding instincts.”

The only thing I’ve ever herded is your stupid ass towards my food bowl, she mutters, hopping up and onto the step beside Shane. I’m funemployed -And I will not be shut away because a confused bird has mistaken me for an infant. Pork’s indignance flares hot, avoiding Ilya’s attempt to grab him with more agility than he’d ever suspected he could possess. “She is not confused, she is very certain,” Ilya grits his teeth, lunging until his fingers touch salmon velour and -

The loon erupts from the water at the very bottom of Shane’s lawn, water slicking from her glossy feathers, her wings spread. Ilya jolts at the resounding flurry of chick, chick, chick, releasing such an emphatic string of Russian that Shane yelps, his keys slipping straight through his fingers. “Anya, do something,” Ilya pleads, watching his traitorous dog bolt through the gap first, the second Shane wrenches the door ajar. He lurches through after her with Pork’s harness lead wrapped so tightly around his wrist that the cat might just succeed in removing his hand without even having to try -Shane follows, and the door slams shut as the four of them collapse into a panting rat king of man and beast, the loon hammering on the other side of the door with her beak.

Pork’s fury is the first thing Ilya’s able to locate amidst the adrenaline. You assaulted me.

Incredulous, Ilya extracts himself from somewhere around Shane’s knees and rounds on him. “That bird is twice your size, and she believes you came from her body - you are fucking welcome, by the way!” Anya, now safely stationed on a blanketed nook under a wide window at the other end of a room Ilya hasn’t yet had the presence of mind to even fucking glance at, presses her muzzle to the glass until it fogs. I love it here. Marry him, sunshine - I never want to leave.

“You are a very bad influence,” he snaps, watching the cat shake off each paw individually, sending flecks of dirt across the floor. Pork’s outrage blooms all over again when Shane kneels beside the suitcase to pluck out four tiny socks, dark blue with red lobsters stitched in a seafood chevron. “Your walking boots, buddy. I know you don’t like wet grass.”

I hate all grass. I hate the wind that moves across it, and the soil it grows from. My heated bed is at home, and I hate the lake, and I hate the smells. Most of all, I hate Ilya -

Ilya interrupts with a translation before he can finish that sentence (plausible deniability), shoving Small Beloved out at him. “Here. Give him a tour of the places you hate the most.”

I will introduce him to your face.

Shane, seemingly unperturbed by the monochrome missile currently pecking at his very old, likely rot susceptible cottage door, begins hauling their cases into a vast beamed living room - the sofa is burnished old leather, wrapping around a fireplace Ilya can still smell smoke within. There’s horse brasses on near enough every wall, along with a few Constable paintings studded where there’s space around the brickwork, and books line wonky shelves in no particular order - he spots a battered copy Brambly Hedge tucked against a newer volume of Great Expectations, supported on the other side by something called ‘Entangled Life: How Fungi Make Our Worlds, Change Our Minds & Shape Our Futures’. There’s also an embroidered cushion that reads do more of your favourite things, and fuck, Ilya intends to.

He’s just considering whether their children would find it rude should he make an excuse to drag Shane by the hair into wherever the main bedroom is (ideally close, because what’s already arising behind his jeans has no intention of being polite) when Anya sneezes - it’s not something she makes a habit of after so long of using her voice, more a reflexive, distinctly canine outward expression of the joy he can feel fizzing inside her and by proxy his own self, and when Ilya turns to smile at her she’s already wagging her tail.

Octavia would love the natural light. Ilya, she’d love it - she always tells me she chills easily, but there’s so much sun here.

“Ah.”

Anya’s ears flatten. What?

He has to fight to keep his expression neutral - he’s obviously known long enough that Cliff Marleau may yet become family through their dogs alone, but with equal measure he’s also entirely unable to resist the siren song of a crush, whether his or his soulmate’s. “Imagining Octavia in the sun? Must I go behind the television for you?”

Grow up, she mutters, turning back to the window - but Ilya doesn’t miss the soaring hope in her chest, nor the completely involuntary image of them both basking together, Octavia’s sleek fur shining, all angular as is the way of a Doberman in contrast to Anya’s thick mosaic merle and stocky frame. Did I judge you about Shane?

“Repeatedly.”

Well, that’s different.

Ilya doesn’t have the heart to tease her further, and relinquishes her attention so she can continue imagining in relative privacy, traipsing after Shane as he situates Pork on a floral armchair and unhooks his harness. “I’ll take out bags up,” Shane calls, brushing a thumb over Pork’s bony head as he passes. “Kitchen’s through there, help yourself. Oh - don’t open the door under the stairs, it sticks and I forgot the fucking WD40.” Naturally, Ilya opens it the second the other man’s feet sound on the stairs. The door does indeed stick, and he has to brace to force it into compliance -there’s nothing particularly exciting behind it, mostly full with a stack of garden chairs and a hoover, but what does catch his attention is the series of pencil lines on the frame of the door itself, ascending from around waist to shoulder height.

He crouches, running his finger along the lowest and working his way up. Someone’s written my big boy under one of the middle lines, and further up is a neatly pencilled i dont sluch slouch >:( - smiling, Ilya fishes out his phone and takes a swift photo.

“Disobedience,” Shane tsks from directly behind him, and Ilya yelps, narrowly avoiding headbutting the wall in his retreat. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing,” he says, clawing at his chest. “Блядь, we must get you a collar. With a big bell on it.”

The other man cocks his head, already smiling. “Maybe. Give me your phone.”

“No, you will delete baby Shane from me -”

Shane reaches for it but Ilya twists away, holding it high above their heads as they barrel into the living room - his attention fixes next on the collection of framed photos on the shelf above the fireplace, and Ilya dives for them with Shane scrabbling at his shoulder. The first he grabs is unmistakeably of his future husband at maybe twelve or thirteen, made almost entirely of elbows and knees, grinning beside the lake - sunlight shines off his braces, and his swimming shorts are stained with suncream. “Oh, Shane -”

He wriggles around Ilya’s other side to snatch it, laughing. “Put that down!”

“Look at your little face,” Ilya whispers, mesmerised even as he zooms into the wild spikes of dark hair gelled to oblivion, snapping another quick photo before Shane can rip it from his hands. “Who did this to you?”

“My mum - she’d had a few glasses of wine. Delete that!” He relinquishes it to move onto the next item of interest, a laminated pen license dated from when Shane must’ve been around seven, but the other man makes a strangled sound and hooks his foot around his ankle, sending them both stumbling sideways. Giggling (giggling, what the fuck’s happening to him?), Ilya takes Shane with him as they bounce from it, landing in an ungraceful heap on the rug - he bucks underneath him, still making a desperate attempt at seizing the phone, until Ilya manages to snag his wrists and pin them high above his head.

“Caught you,” he breathes, staring down into pupils far too blown to be genuine protest.

Shane’s still laughing, fisting a hand in the back of his shirt. “You’re cheating.”

“How?”

“I don’t know - you’re heavier.”

“Ah,” Ilya drops his head, nibbling along the line of Shane’s jaw. “Pen license and big strong top, yes? All your dreams come true.”

“Fuck you,” Shane huffs, turning his head to give him better access. “Get off me.”

He raises an eyebrow, glancing down to the hardness growing between their flush bodies. “You are sure?”

The other man’s mouth twitches, easing his hips up and into a gentle roll that has Ilya momentarily dazed - then Shane goes boneless, taking the advantage to scramble out from under him with a victorious shout. “No,” Ilya grumbles, grabbing for his ankle and falling short. “Come back to me.”

Shane makes a futile attempt at tucking himself into his waistband as he heads for the stairs. “I’m unpacking, and so should you. Look, even Pork’s settling in -”

Ilya follows his gaze to the cat, now perching his horrible behind on the windowsill opposite the nook, glaring out at the water. Small Beloved wishes to return home.

He’s about to suggest Small Beloved do some box breathing exercises when he notices something black at the very bottom of the window - at first it resembles nothing more than a stick rising from the flowerbed below, only this time it keeps coming, the loon’s head emerging from the other side of the glass until she’s fully at eye level with the oblivious cat. Chick inside.

Pork shrieks, falling backwards and onto the carpet with a fleshy thump -his shock whistles through Ilya hard enough he shudders, before replacing itself into the more familiar ground of total, consuming fury. I hate this place.

The bird’s beak taps the glass. Mother sees chick. Ilya lunges for the curtains and tugs them together just as Shane’s head pops over the bannister. “Did you drop something?”

“No - the loon has returned. Pork is very frightened -” I am not.

Shane frowns, edging close enough to peek through the tiny gap in the middle of the curtains and jerking back when he’s met by one red, beady eye. “Jesus Christ - is that definitely the same one?” Chick hidden, she pecks again. Baby. Bald baby. “Yes.”

“I thought you meant she’d got confused for a second - she actually thinks he’s, what? A baby loon?”

The cat’s horror spikes as Ilya nods. “She thinks he has just hatched, because he has no feathers. I do see the similarity.” Shane presses his lips together before Pork can clock the way his shoulders are shaking. “Sorry - I know it’s serious, I really do, but he’s a cat. This is literally insane.”

Come. The tapping resumes from further along this time. Come water, baby. Mother show.

“No,” Ilya calls, moving away. “Baby is busy.” Ilya, Anya warns from the nook, but the second misunderstanding of the day has already flourished at great speed in her birdy brain. Baby sick?

“No! Healthy baby, very strong baby. Very busy with -” he glances desperately at his surroundings. “Tidying his nest.” Pork gives a warning hiss. Do not call me baby. Mother tidy. Baby too little, no tidy. Mother do. Ilya can feel the exact moment Pork’s (incredibly) fragile patience evaporates entirely - he leaps for the safety of Small Beloved, now tucked neatly inside a fleecy igloo beside the coffee table, burrowing with nauseating outrage until nothing beyond one furious eye and the rabbit’s soft ears remain visible.

•————•

By lunchtime, Shane’s changed. The cropped white tee is his first offence, clinging across his chest, but it’s the shorts that deliver the fatal blow, the shorts so sinful that the full view of his knees has Ilya forgetting he’s standing in a kitchen at all. He has the loaf of bread and a jug of milk crushed in each hand when Shane catches him staring, so blatantly there’s no hope of pretending otherwise.

“Better,” he shrugs, popping the carton of eggs back into the fridge. “Jeans were getting uncomfortable.”

Ilya’s about to tell him something else is getting uncomfortable, and does he perhaps have a large Faraday box they can tempt Anya and Pork into knocking about the cottage, but the other man only turns away to bend at the waist for no conceivable reason at all. By small miracle Ilya doesn’t drop anything, turning sharply back to the hob. You’re looking at the reflection in the toaster, Anya says, padding past them to collect the eggshells Shane’s placed in her new bowl by the door. Not subtle at all.

“Hush.”

Shane straightens up, but makes no attempt to right how the tee’s now caught under his arm, exposing even more of his firm stomach than it should. “Everything okay?”

Ilya waves a hand, seizing a whisk. “Anya is thinking of Octavia, that is all.”

I am now.

The other man hums, passing close enough in his quest for the sink that he brushes directly against Ilya’s front despite there being a rather enormous kitchen around them to walk through. “Sorry.” So it’s war, then - ordinarily Ilya would be delighted to present himself as a willing sacrifice, but Shane’s chosen such obvious weaponry he can’t possibly surrender straight away. No, there are rules to these things, and a respect shown for the hunt - plus, Shane’s commitment to being a little shit is working so well he’d only be insulting himself if he caved this early on. Instead, he wrenches his attention back to the pan, pushing the eggs around with a wooden spoon.

He’s bending over again.

“I know,” Ilya mutters. “You do not need to tell me this.” Anya crunches on the next shell, not even bothering to conceal her amusement. Presenting, if you will.

“I’ll get the plates,” Shane says sweetly, pausing to peer down at the eggs Ilya’s mangling into microscopic pieces. “They’re in the cupboard behind you.”

He moves aside with gritted teeth.

“No, the one underneath.”

Ilya shifts back again, offering up enough room for him to access every single item within the kitchen ten times over - predictably he crowds close anyway, brushing a lingering hand along his rigid shoulders before dropping into such a perfect arch that Ilya has to swallow a hiss before he yanks those shorts down and -

“There we go,” Shane’s upright again, smiling serenely as he sets two plates down on the counter. “What? You look weird.”

“You are bending over every five seconds,” he grits out, his cock already working on drilling a hole through his jeans in a bid for freedom. “Maybe you’re just standing wherever I need to go.” Ilya’s about to point out that the shit eating grin on Shane’s face is making that a far less believable argument than he’d like, but the other man has somehow plated up in 0.5 seconds and is already darting towards the living room where Pork’s looming presence demands the return of social distancing once more.

The curtains have stayed closed, and the television’s been set (aptly) to Escape To The Country, just a low murmur as Shane pats one side of the sofa - he’d laid out a selection of blankets there once Anya had chosen the ones she wanted most, and there’s already a cold can of Coke sat on the table ahead of it.

“Sit down,” Shane clicks his fingers, the sharp snap settling molten in his gut. “You’re meant to be relaxing.”

His bravery really is admirable. Ilya sits anyway, schooling his face into something as neutral as he can possibly force, and makes it halfway through the first bite of egg before he blinks and the plate’s been taken straight out of his hands again. “Shane -”

“Sorry, you’re meant to be taking it easy!” Shane slaps at his own forehead, already slinking an arm around his shoulders. “My boyfriend needs looking after.”

Ilya stares at him, reaching around in search of his plate. “Your boyfriend is hungry -”

He’s cut off by a square of toast and egg posted straight through his open mouth, and Shane jerks the fork away before he can swipe at it. “I’ll feed you, baby.”

This is revolting, Pork snaps, stalking from the igloo and making for the stairs with Small Beloved clutched in his heinous jaws. Open the window. I wish for the loon to take me.

Ilya would honestly fucking love to, but comprehension breaks within him at the satisfied smile Shane doesn’t wipe away quickly enough at the sight of him chewing, and understands in an instant. Love, a likely unreasonable amount of it to boot, eclipses the need for eggs (they’d started tasting too much like eggs anyway) and he settles back against the cushions. “Thank you, дорогой. You are being such a good boy for me.” Anya’s already following Pork up the stairs, but her protests are lost in the disappointment now radiating from Shane’s face, frowning with such dismay that Ilya truly, truly ruins it and breaks to kiss him. Luckily he doesn’t have to wrestle with it for long because Shane’s mouth is on his first, demanding and hot and still tasting vaguely of the green juice he’d had in the car. The certainty of it is lethal - Ilya’s cock swells, shifting to haul him bodily into his lap, but Shane doesn’t come. No, instead Shane sits back, returning his attention into cutting Ilya’s lunch into precise squares. “C’mon, let’s eat. Here, open up, here comes the plane -”

•————•

Shane MegaBrat Hollander is the most fun Ilya’s had in years. Maybe the most fun anyone’s had in centuries, actually, and ever will again - like the Yellowstone volcano, Shane MegaBrat Hollander also simply has no idea what he’s prancing over, what’s simmering just underfoot with every pretty pirouetting attempt he makes at driving Ilya insane. He watches him with an indulgent smile never far from his face, observing every crime as they grow increasingly desperate, from telling him the bed’s antique so they can’t do anything ‘too rough’ on it, to slipping Ilya’s own finger into his mouth to lick off some invisible sauce that in truth remains still sealed in the fridge. That one nearly gets him, the urge to press down on Shane’s tongue and tow him closer by the jaw a delicious one, but like any reasonable prosecutor Ilya waits to collect all evidence before declaring his sentencing on the other man’s ass.

It’s only when Anya is released back into the garden that evening (after a thorough check that the loon isn’t waiting behind the door) that Shane appears from the bathroom and suggests they walk off dinner around the lake - in principle the request seems innocent enough, and the idea might even be quite nice had he not then disappeared and reemerged carrying Pork, the cat wedged into a sling at his chest. The sight’s so overwhelmingly stupid that at first Ilya thinks this is probaly just another attempt at winding him up, until he scarcely needs to flex his consciousness to detect the bitter edge of Pork’s.

I am being removed from my territory, the cat mutters, placated only when Shane presses a kiss between his ears.

“What’s he saying?”

Ilya blinks at the naked head glowering from just under the other man’s chin, and suddenly hates the expedition a little less. “He wishes to remain here.”

“We won’t be long,” Shane reasons, making for the door. “You can’t stay inside all day.”

Whatever he might counter that with is lost to the sight of Anya galloping up and down the lawn in the fading orange glow, her brain busy enough that the increasing thrum of crickets in the greenery doesn’t bother him at first -there’s hundreds of them, each repetitive chirp bubbling soft in the unoccupied corners of his brain. The dog doubles back in a wide circle, her eyes bright. There’s frogs further down, sunshine. Just watch things don’t get too loud.

“I am fine,” he tells her, struck by the dawning realisation that that might actually be true, at least a little bit. He reaches for Shane’s hand, locking their fingers together. “You may look, but do not eat.” Anya shakes, her fur puffing. I’ve never eaten a frog, but it can’t be any worse than your cooking.

I agree, Pork snaps, and Ilya’s just about to point out he’s never so much as tried his cooking (read: moving kebab from styrofoam box to plate) when there’s a ripple from the lake, the surfacing of another soul he recognises with primal unease.

“For the sake of every living fuck -”

Shane startles. “I’m sorry?”

Land man has chick. Mother’s chick.

“Loon,” he grimaces, stepping between Shane and the lake with Anya at his heel. “She feels you have stolen her chick.”

Bemused, the other man cradles the bundle at his chest closer. “I haven’t stolen him -”

You have relocated me without consent, Pork points out, very unhelpfully. “She sees you carrying him like a baby. Put him down, this may help.” Shane does attempt this, extracting the cat and stooping until Pork’s paws hover just over the damp grass - even more unhelpfully, he retracts all four limbs until he resembles little more than a suspiciously pink potato, wriggling around until he can cling to Shane’s jacket with a miserable mewl of protest. “Fuck - I can’t -”

The loon pops up closer this time, and Ilya feels Anya stiffen. “Pork, touch the ground. You must.”

No. You are not my real father - you have no authority upon me. Chick needs mother. Come water.

“He does not need you,” Ilya points at her in warning, shoving every available impression of mammal towards her in the sensations of milk and fur, though admittedly he fails at that particular hurdle where Pork is concerned. “He is a cat. He was always been bald, and he cannot live on water.”

She slows, fixed on Shane’s frantic attempts to disembark him from his arms. Chick sick. No feathers!

“No, I have explained this. Not sick, ugly -”

Both Pork and Shane’s heads whip in his direction, equally aghast. “Ilya!”

“Healthy,” he pleads, already beginning to shepherd them back from the waterline. “I mean healthy. A healthy, unusual mammal.” Bring chick.

Ilya shudders, momentarily lost in the visceral uptick in her distress - Anya knocks into his knee and reconnects vocal chords to brain enough for him to try again. “He is fully grown - this is an adult cat. He has a home and - and onemaybetwo fathers. He does not need your assistance.” One, Pork’s rotten awareness gives his a shove. One father. My beloved. “You are not helping!” Ilya whirls on him, though Shane only cuddles him closer, pressing his mouth to the grim wrinkle between the cat’s satellites. “Shane, please.”

“Uh -” Shane starts, painfully polite as he locates the loon much closer than she had been a moment ago. “He can’t come with you. Sorry, but he’s kind of mine, and I love him, so.”

Land man confuses chick.

Ilya opens his mouth.

You have chick. Give.

“No,” he snaps, easing them backwards further still. “He is not available for adoption - he would drown, and we do not want this.” Anya glances uncertainly between them. I don’t think she’s listening. “She is listening. She is just very stupid.”

Chick held. Chick calls -

I have not called for you, Pork seethes, huddling further into Shane’s chest before firing off an image so violent even Ilya winces, which is a spectacular feat considering their history. At great speed, the cat presents claws in black feathers and a red eye rolling as he erases her, leaving what remains of the body floating face down amongst the reeds. She doesn’t appear to notice or care. Chick distress. Mother comes. “No,” Ilya yelps, scruffing Shane and dragging him backwards. “No, he is threatening to kill you - very graphic! This is rejection -” The loon dives, and she’s gone. He doesn’t wait to see her pop back up again, setting such a recordbreaking power walk that Anya has to break into a trot to keep up, twisting every few steps to look back at the water. Pork remains rigid in Shane’s arms, his intent souring into uncharacteristic unease as the cottage finally comes back into view - there’s almost no light left now, just a hanging lantern on the porch that sends a warm flicker across the stone as the other man yanks it wide. Ilya sends Anya through first, followed by Pork volleying down the hallway of his own accord, having finally grasped the danger at hand.

Ilya turns on the front step, staring back towards the near black lakewater, but he can’t see her now - Shane clicks the door shut, brushing his knuckles along Ilya’s shoulder. “You coming inside?”

He should, really. The rising cacophony of crickets is making it difficult for him to locate the shitbitch motherfucker, their chorus a soft hum that muddies much else, and still. The air is cool, and the quiet lap of water at the banks is a rare treat - better yet, Shane’s so close he can sense him without looking, and the swathes of stars overhead are clear enough he wants nothing more than to map them in the other man’s eyes. “Soon,” he says quietly, leaning to kiss him without much thought. Shane melts into his arms, and everything falls away as they stumble back against the doorframe - Ilya lifts a hand to cradle his cheek, sweeping his tongue along his lower lip before catching it gently between his teeth. “You,” Shane whispers into his mouth. “Ilya, you mean fucking everything, everything -”

The crack in his voice is enough for him to open his eyes, preparing to watch what’s surely going to be such a beautiful declaration of love that they’ll both cry, both cling to each other and produce matching engagement rings and say ‘I didn’t know you were proposing too!’ in unison, after which they’ll somehow make it upstairs and fuck about it until sunrise. Instead Ilya pulls back, lashes fluttering, and all he can see is red. Chick.

The loon’s head dangles between them like feathered mistletoe, her glittering eye not even a full inch from his own. He screams, ripping away and taking Shane with him, staggering backwards as the other man searches blindly over his shoulder. “What? Fuck - what is it? Is someone there?” With a shaking finger Ilya points upwards, to where the bird’s now retreated back into the roof gutter. That seems to be all it takes to inspire basic survival instinct, because Shane bolts for the door with Ilya’s hand still intertwined in his - when they collapse on the other side, he has the audacity to laugh.

Incredulous, Ilya heaves in a breath and steadies his thundering heart. “This is not funny - do not laugh!”

“I’m trying not to,” Shane wheezes, clutching at his stomach as the loon begins her tapping at the door. “I’m sorry, I just - your face -” He claps a hand over the other man’s mouth, which is successful for about ten seconds before laughter erupts all over again, but it makes it significantly less far than the first. Ilya’s moving, taking Shane with him as they make the sharp turn around the corner.

“Are we going upstairs?” Shane peers hopefully up at him as they march towards the stairs. “Should I check under the bed first? She might’ve laid eggs up there -”

“Loons do not lay eggs under beds.”

“You sound real sure for someone that didn’t know they can get up onto a roof -”

Ilya’s jaw ticks, but he holds his tongue.

“- and I’d be worried you might chuck me in the lake for that, but then you’d have to go near her, so.”

“Shane.”

The other man beams, letting Ilya steer them up and over the final step, pausing only to reorient himself before making for the bedroom. “I wasn’t laughing at you - it was sympathetic. I felt bad.” Ilya kicks the door shut behind them as they cross the threshold and holds him there, savouring the flutter of Shane’s pulse under his palm. He could kiss him now, and wants to so bad that his mouth floods - he swallows reflexively around it and presses closer. “You have had your fun - maybe too much fun, and your boyfriend has been very patient because he loves you, and is very weak to these shorts.”

He pretends to consider this. “I see. What do you think he’s going to do?”

“He’s going to stop letting you get away with it,” Ilya murmurs, swallowing Shane’s finally with his lips as he rolls his hips forwards. “Take your clothes off.”

Shane releases him reluctantly, stripping just the tee and setting it carefully down on the drawers. His bare chest is flushed and he’s breathing just hard enough to betray himself, but he doesn’t make to remove the shorts. “All.”

“You said clothes. My shirt’s clothes.”

It could genuinely be possible that he’s never loved anyone more - it’s also possible that love and the urge to choke him silent with his cock share more neurological pathways than moderrn psychiatry has identified yet. Ilya’s fingers flex at his sides. “On your knees, then.” To his surprise Shane obeys that, his eyes lingering on the straining fly of Ilya’s jeans now he’s eye level with it. Still, he looks far too pleased with himself, so Ilya undoes his belt slowly - his hands aren’t quite as steady as he’d like by the time he frees himself, and the first rush of evening air against his already slick head forces him to suck in a breath. Shane tilts his head, the smallest smile still playing around his lips. Ilya gathers a careful fistful of his hair. “You think you have won?”

“I think you’ve been hard all day -”

“Open your mouth.”

The heat of the other man’s tongue ghosts over his tip before he lets him have it, taking him with unashamed greed with his tongue swirling along his shaft much the same way as he’d treated his finger earlier - Ilya has to lock his knees as he leans to draw him further towards his throat, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows when Ilya’s fist blocks him from bottoming out. It eases somewhat when he pulls out to trace his lips with his cock and feeds him an inch more than before, and Shane hollows his cheeks in a (terrifyingly effective) try at taking him deeper still - Ilya almost lets him, fending off each tightening ripple of his abdomen until he can’t any more, pulling out completely.

Shane follows, chasing it until Ilya catches him by the chin and tilts his head up. “You keep trying to take - very used to getting what you want, I think. Do I spoil you, котёнок?”

“No -” the other man shakes his head, but the motion’s already jerky. “I just want to make you come -”

“I know, and this is why I am not letting you.” The glare that earns him is fucking delicious, maintained through spite alone even as Ilya slips his cock back between those wet lips, unable to tear his eyes away from how Shane’s throat flutters around each slow inch and the urge to thrust into it begins to throb in his hips. Ilya’s hand tightens in his hair entirely by accident, and Shane moans around him - the vibration is enough that he swears, thunking his head back against the wall, but this is a monumental mistake. Sensing weakness, Shane surges forward to take him so far back his nose presses against Ilya’s twitching stomach - hot, damp heat and the tight resistance of a waiting throat closes around him, and all thought becomes nothing more than the Windows screensaver before he’s able to regain the upper hand again. He wrenches away, panting. “Cheat.” Shane’s eyes are streaming. “You liked it.”

“I will like many things you are not getting yet,” Ilya releases his hair and steps back - even one more pass of that tongue would end him. “Stand up. Shorts off.”

He rises with a wobble, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Shane doesn’t argue, and it’s only when he bends to collect his shorts from the floor that Ilya understands why.

The screensaver is back, because there’s a plug in Shane Hollander’s ass, a pretty diamond gem sat between his cheeks that catches every single bit of evening light and throws it back at him, dappling the carpet. “Shane.”

The other man glances over his shoulder, painfully nonchalant. “Yeah?” Fuck this. Ilya catches him by the waist and tugs him back into his arms, his free hand finding the base before he can think to stop himself - Shane’s body jolts with a gasp when he presses it deeper, already starting to wriggle. “When?”

“Before the walk -”

“You put this inside yourself before we went out?” Shane’s forehead thuds against his collarbone. “I thought we might - fuck, Ilya -”

He twists the plug slowly, and the rest of whatever defence he was about to attempt breaks into a moan. “You thought we might what?”

“You know.”

“No,” Ilya says softly, rotating it abruptly back the other way just to make him squirm. “Loon scared all smarts from me. I am very stupid now.” He does squirm. Beautifully. “I thought you might fuck me.” His cock throbs at that, easing the plug out enough that the widest flare begins to stretch - Shane’s body fights the loss, and when he pushes the plug firmly back in his knees buckle.

“Only thought?” Ilya fucks him with it again, as slowly as his self control will possibly allow. “This was a casual possibility? Perhaps after our nice walk we would play Scrabble, or perhaps I fuck you?”

“Ilya, please -”

“Please what?”

He spins the plug between his fingers, unreasonably pleased when Shane clamps down around it, his hips rocking helplessly forwards even as he’s held tight. “Take it out.”

“You put it in,” he shrugs. “Maybe it stays.”

“No -” wide eyed, Shane reaches to claw at Ilya’s wrist. “Please take it out and fuck me.”

Ilya eases it straight back to the widest point again, keeping him stretched open and trembling despite the fact his own restraint is rapidly deserting him, each pulse of his cock begging to abandon the game and get inside him- he might, had Shane not spent the day offering up just this, his voice now empty of every possible provocation and so, so sweet. “Say it properly.”

“Fuck me,” Shane gasps, already trying to escape the shallow push of the plug as it slips back inside him. “Please, please - need you instead, needed you all day, please just fucking do it -”

He buries it to the hilt again and he whimpers into Ilya’s chest, allowing his face to be turned just enough for a kiss that muffles a cry as he removes it for real this time. “Bed. On your stomach.”

Ilya gives himself a second to admire the way Shane all but crawls along the mattress, his back arched so beautifully he’s hardly thinking when he steps forward to deliver a sharp smack to the curve of his ass, and the cry that rips out of the other man is so pitchy that remaining even remotely upright himself becomes far, far harder than it had been a moment ago. “You like this?”

“Yeah,” Shane mumbles, turning instinctively towards his hand. The bed gives a creak of warning as Ilya follows him down, admiring the faint pink print he’d left before reaching for the very helpfully placed bottle of lube sat on the bedside table. “Like it.”

“Bed is an antique, you said?” Ilya tears open a condom with his teeth. “I will be very gentle -”

“No, fuck the bed -”

He cuts off when Ilya presses two slick but not particularly gentle fingers into his stretched hole, testing how the eager muscle provides near enough no resistance at all as it clenches around them - his own cock is begging him now, angry and flushed even as he withdraws to notch it against Shane, who’s waiting so very impatiently. “You are sore?” He shakes his head, furious. “Want you.”

The first thrust takes him almost entirely to the hilt, Ilya’s lungs seizing at the wet drag with his hands clamped tight around Shane’s hips - the heat of him grips so tight he can’t remember any reason he shouldn’t simply drive into him and give him what he’s asking for, a broken chant of fuck me, fuck me, fuck me that stops only when he does, slamming home hard enough to shove them both up the mattress and knock the bedframe against the wall. Pleasure cracks through him, forcing just enough presence of mind to tug Shane’s hand away from where it’s creeping under himself. “No touching.”

“I wasn’t -” Shane hides his face in the duvet. “Wouldn’t -” The urgency already unravelling inside him overcomes the need to hear Shane lie, and Ilya sets a pace he can just about survive as the impact twisted in every slap of skin burns molten at the base of his spine - the other man pushes backwards in a desperate attempt to spear himself deeper, wordless sounds falling from him as he fists both hands in the sheets and holds on for dear life.

Ilya bends until his chest presses against Shane’s damp back, keeping him there. “You wanted this? All day, all the teasing?”

Shane clenches around him, too perfectly timed to be anything but deliberate. “Need you -”

His thrusts falter as the tightness pulls a groan straight from his chest, mouthing aimlessly at the other man’s shoulder. “Bad boy.”

“You like me bad,” Shane whimpers. “Like me bad, right?”

“I love you bad.” Ilya bites the quivering muscle there for emphasis, tasting the salt of sweat. “This does not mean I let you come.” Shane grinds down against the mattress anyway - this could just about pass for accidental, if he hadn’t done it again just a second later. “’M not touching.”

Whatever precious loophole he thinks he’s found dies a death when Ilya’s hips snap forward again, and he cries out - the sound rings in his ears, blissfully sweet and cracked as the next drive gifts him another, then another, wordless even as Shane’s gasps and whines blur together enough that the last dregs of Ilya’s control fray away with them. “More,” he whimpers, still valiantly trying to push back against him. “Harder.”

There’s no composure to protect now, the frame ramming the wall as Ilya straightens, every muscle in his body burning in effort to not blow until the man he’s breaking has remembered that stupid games win stupid prizes -well, not stupid. Prizes that currently have him writhing senseless and babbling each time Ilya slams home, gritting his teeth. He wants to stay here, buried in him forever, wants to drag this out until Shane’s come so hard he’ll never scrub the taste of him from his tongue. “Do not come,” Ilya pants, the strain in his voice rendering it near unrecognisable.

“Not,” Shane shakes his head again, his eyes squeezed shut. “Not doing that.”

Ilya almost smiles at the attempt - Shane’s entire body is shaking underneath him, wound so tight he’s grinding all over again, entirely involuntary. He adjusts to deny him the angle but Shane twists, pressing the heel of his foot into the base of his cock and letting Ilya do the work in pushing him against it. Clever little shit.

“Shane -”

Shane’s release rips out of him before he can finish the half assed admonishment, sobbing against the duvet as he spills trapped between it and his own stomach - he’s incoherent now, and Ilya absorbs each fierce ripple through him until he has no choice but to stop, frozen and buried deep before it sweeps him up and away with it. “No,” he whispers, broken and already moving to spear himself all over again. “Don’t stop. Fuck me. Fuck me, Ilya -”

He’s going to die here - physically incapable of declining, it takes Ilya just a few more ragged thrusts before he’s coming with a shuddering groan half muffled against Shane’s shoulder, every last scrap of tension surging forward until he’s certain he’s filled the fucking condom and then some, brain so clouded with pleasure that his first stupid thought is shit, he’s going to get him pregnant and -

“I love you,” Shane whispers as he collapses. “I love you so fucking much.” Ilya shivers, easing them both onto their sides before he smothers him. “Я тебя - I love you. I love you, милый. I love you.”

•————•

Anya has a date.

Unfortunately for her, it isn’t Octavia, and unfortunately for Ilya, it’s Shane. It’s difficult to dispute considering Shane’s put on a smart shirt and Anya’s been periodically checking beyond the curtains for any sign of rain - it’d been Shane’s idea for some human to canine bonding, though, and the blatant attempt to build a relationship with her does make Ilya soften (even if he’s being abandoned on the sofa).

“I’ll get coffee,” Shane’s telling her, checking his hair in the reflection of the oven for the hundredth time. “And breakfast, probably - there’s this cafe in the village that does sausage links, but I don’t know if they’ll let you inside. If they don’t, we’ll just find somewhere else, yeah?” Anya’s tail thuds, trying and failing to not look quite so touched. Your Shane knows I like sausages.

“He also knows water is wet,” Ilya mutters, cradling the coffee Shane had made him before announcing his devious intentions - to whisk his dog away and ply her with a greasy spoon to win favour he absolutely already has. The other man glances over. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“I wasn’t talking to you anyway,” he smiles sweetly, returning his attention to Anya and crouching so they’re eye level. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, obviously. I get it must be annoying that you understand me, but I don’t know what you’re saying - I guess if you need something, you’ll have to show me. Bark, I guess? Shit - is asking you to bark rude?” I’ve done worse for less.

“It is fine,” Ilya says, suppressing a smile in effort to maintain his sulk. “She wants to go. She loves you.”

Anya gives the pocket Shane’s wallet resides in a pointed nudge. And you’re paying.

Unaware of her extortion, Shane opens the front door with a final check of his hair. “Ready?”

She leaves without a backwards glance, and Ilya makes a great show of catching the kiss Shane blows to him as he follows after her. “Traitors.” You’re only jealous because he asked me first, she calls back, watching through the window as they disappear down the path, Shane continuing whatever he’s saying without slowing his stride. Ilya has no more than a minute to enjoy the peace before their wrinkled overlord descends the stairs with Small Beloved in tow. He’s in a foul mood (fouler than usual, anyway), considering Shane had required Ilya to freedive around his hateful limbic system before even broaching the concept of leaving them alone again - he’d found no trace of homicidal intent beyond what usually lurks in the cat’s subconscious, and threatened only when Ilya presented him with a vivid impression of Battersea Dogs & Cats Home did that change, though Ilya had gracefully retreated before it escalated. I require fresh air.

He takes a slow sip of coffee. “No.”

Pork turns his head, fixing one bulging eye somewhere above his head. The grass has dried.

This is true - crisp sunlight spills across the lawn, glittering over what he can see of the lake from here. There’s no ominous black shape bobbing on the water, and nor can he detect anything waiting by the nearest window -still he checks the rest anyway, moving from each pane of glass to the next until the cat’s impatience knocks against him.

You may not keep me inside because you are frightened. “I am not frightened,” Ilya huffs, sending a mental apology to a ladybird on the foxgloves he’s just startled by pushing outwards a touch too hard. “I am very brave.”

Very brave or otherwise, he still confirms twice that the garden remains loonless when he opens the back door, holding Pork back with his foot while he sticks his head out to scan visually as well. There’s a family of woodlice under the bark of the closest flowerbed and a mouse somewhere by the trees, but nothing seems particularly interested in the cat currently considering sinking his teeth into Ilya’s ankle.

You are wasting my air, Pork’s tail lashes, making an attempt at ducking out and under. Release me.

“This is wishful thinking,” Ilya says under his breath, clipping the longline onto Pork’s harness before allowing him through and securing it to the garden table. It’s a good spot - the cat can’t reach the waterline, and from here he can sit comfortably enough in the sun while he observes him. “There. Enjoy your air.”

Pork creeps out and onto the grass, testing it with a single paw before deeming it tolerable enough to inch further out - he makes it as far as a warm patch of sunlight on the bank before lowering his hideous body down onto it. Go away.

Ilya blinks. “I must supervise you -”

I requested access to my garden - your presence is no longer required. Frowning, he glances up at the meagre cloud cover and pulls out his phone, navigating to the Met Office - UV index medium to low. Good, because the thought of rubbing SPF 50 into the cat’s crevices makes him shudder. “The loon -”

Pork stretches out, basking. The bird is absent. Ilya dumps himself in one of the chairs anyway, giving the longline a suspicious tug - it holds firm, even as Pork turns to pretend he isn’t being watched, leaving him to the chatter of everything else. Unlike Anya and Shane, Ilya has to wait for his breakfast (a crime he’ll complain about until they return bearing enough bacon to overcome the betrayal), and suddenly the idea of coffee on an empty stomach has stopped being a good one. He ignores it. Pork’s only just settled and the lake is quiet, and he has no intention of letting shitbitch motherfucker stage an amphibious assault the second his back is turned. His body vehemently disagrees, so Ilya fixates on counting the table’s woodgrain until the urge to flee for the bathroom subsides.

Ilya.

God, the humiliation. “It is nothing.”

Must I show you to the litterbox?

“You have to come inside,” he grinds out, standing and already making to undo the longline. “We can come back out after -” Pork unsheathes his claws. I will survive your absence. “You say this, but I cannot trust her not to arrive to breastfeed you -” Go.

Ilya really has to, faced with no choice but to check the water one last time as he backs away, or explain to Shane why he’s sweating quite so ferociously when he returns. “You will shout if you see her?” Very well.

The cat’s generalised annoyance follows him back into the cottage, which is decent enough reassurance as he makes for the downstairs toilet, leaving the door wide open. He can still feel Pork without really having to try, so sitting to take care of the urgency is the logical next step. Pulling up Candy Crush on his phone is the next - he’s been stuck on the same fucking level since before Natalya died (and likely explains why each and every failed attempt pisses him off so much), and the colourful grid of sweets only preserve his last piece of ordinary irritation like an insect in amber. This time, however, once he’s flushed and now leaning forward on his knees to survey his likelihood of success, the game has arranged the wrapped candies more generously than it ever has before.

He swipes as they explode, quickly aligning some of the stripes to clear away more, close enough to victory that he can taste it. Ilya stares at the singular remaining jelly, preparing to move his thumb, grinning at his own skill -

Ilya!

The cry is so shattered with terror that it takes him a moment to process the sound of his own name - Ilya lurches to his feet and his phone clatters across the floor, wrenching both feet out of the jeans still gathered around his ankles in his haste to run towards it, kicking them aside. Utterly void of hesitation, he flies back through the cottage with everything below the hem of his shirt exposed to God and whichever Hollander ancestor built the place with this many windows.

Found chick.

Ilya careens around the corner and through the open door without second thought to his cock windmilling in the breeze. “Pork!” Mother has chick, the loon affirms. Water now. At full sprint, Ilya clears the patio and launches himself across the lawn to where the bird as Pork by the harness, hauling him backwards towards the lake - the cat has all four paws scrabbling for purchase, claws ripping through the grass as he slides further with each determined wrench of the loon’s head.

The longline pulls taut, and Pork screams.

“I am here,” Ilya crashes onto the grass bare kneed to grab him, locking both arms around his middle as the bird pulls backwards again. The sheer maternal strength in it drags Pork halfway out of his grip again, his claws catching on whatever he can reach - ground, Ilya’s forearms, the shirt he’s suddenly trying to climb inside, his hands. “Let go of him!” Bad man. Bad man steals baby.

Her anger boils over, wings beating in an explosive flurry with that terrible beak clacking dangerously close to skin - Ilya doubles forward to curl over the cat as the loon’s thoughts decimate everything else, huge and red and howling through his head as she lunges to trap the harness between her bill again.

Give chick!

Ilya, Pork whimpers. Save me -

“I have you,” he gasps, blindly feeling for the clip that releases him as the cat thrashes, making every attempt to climb him. “Stop moving, Pork - stop, I cannot -”

The bird jerks them back again, and Pork’s yowl cuts right through him -Ilya abandons any preservation of dignity as he finally locates the clip and tears at it, twisting, and for a hideous second or two all three of them are attached until the cat’s legs pull free. The win is short lived because in his sudden freedom, Pork propels himself forward and all eighteen claws sink home.

“Fuck,” Ilya cries, his eyes smarting. “Pork - wait -” There appears to be no waiting available to the cat, who scrambles straight over his shoulder to wrap himself around his neck like a jellied python -despite his fancy new set of puncture wounds, Ilya can feel Pork’s heart hammering through his skin, panic all consuming as he stumbles to his feet. The loon drops the harness. Bad man steals baby! He clamps Pork to his chest and runs. Ilya’s certain the daggers attached to his paws have hit an artery, remaining lodged in him even as the longline wraps around his ankle and almost sends them face first into the grass, but he kicks free and reaches the door just as the sound of furious wings flap behind him.

Chick!

Ilya throws them inside and spins, slamming the door so hard it’s a miracle every window doesn’t shatter on impact - the bird hits the other side in an impact of beak and body, but he staggers back with a hand cupping Pork’s hindquarters.

“We are inside,” he chokes, leaning over the back of the sofa to suck in a shaking breath. “She cannot have you.”

Pork’s grip doesn’t release, still splayed directly across his chest with both forelegs dug firmly into the muscle of each shoulder. Wincing, he tries to slip two fingers beneath the back leg currently rearranging his pancreas, but the little body fastened to him is trembling so hard he can’t pry them apart even if he carried on his attempts to. You took too long. He might be more offended if the cat’s voice wasn’t so quiet. “I came as soon as you called.”

I was abducted, Pork swallows, shifting only to hitch himself higher. You planned this.

“Pork,” Ilya says, as patiently as he possibly can. “I was on the toilet. If I wished for you to be taken, I would not have become naked Liam Neeson to retrieve you.”

He gives the cat a careful tug in order to lower him towards the sofa, but manages only an inch before Pork pings straight back against his chest, clinging so hard he has to inhale through his teeth. “Okay. Okay, I will not put you down.”

Pork says nothing, and there’s unfortunately no sensible way to dress himself with a 12lb plucked turkey attached to him. Summoning the memory of the first and only time he’s ever held a human infant, he shifts the cat into the crook of his elbow and gives him an experimental jig up and down.

“I need trousers. Release me a little, yes?”

I will not.

“You are cutting holes into me.”

It must be the leftover adrenaline, because he swears there’s a vivid flash of guilt before it’s squashed again - regardless Pork offers no response but the most minute adjustment of his claws. Though this is marginally less painful, it’s also pretty clear they won’t be leaving his body any time soon - with a sigh, Ilya edges back towards the bathroom. His jeans and boxers remain where he’d left them, so he sets about untangling them with one foot, but Pork’s ears twitch against his chin when the loon taps against the window and a tremor runs from his shoulders all the way to the end of his spindly tail.

“She is outside,” he says, easing the denim away. “You are inside. The door is shut, and she cannot open it.”

She had me.

“And now I have you.”

Uneasy silence settles again, and Ilya’s victorious in stepping into his boxers, pondering on how the hell he’s going to pull them up. The cat’s nose is cold where it’s buried under his ear, and unsurprisingly that’s when the love of his life chooses to rejoin them, the front door creaking as it swings open.

“Ебать -” Ilya’s cheeks burn, twisting away and achieving absolutely nothing but presenting Shane with a different angle as he steps inside with Anya at his heel, two takeaway coffees and a paper bag in his arms. “Shane-”

“What the fuck?” Shane’s stopped so suddenly he can physically hear the coffee sloshing in the cups, his eyes wide as saucers as he looks from Pork, cradled in Ilya’s arms, to his bare ass on full display, grass stains all the way up to his thighs. “You - why are you naked?”

“Your son was kidnapped while I was - in the bathroom.” At the sound of Shane’s voice, Pork finally lifts his head - with a croaking mewl, he extends one bony leg in his direction, just beginning to peel away from Ilya’s chest until the fucking bird pecks at the glass again. Chick!

Pork recoils, burrowing straight back into his neck. Shane sets the coffees down and chucks the bag onto the table with much less care. “Let me see him.”

My beloved may inspect me, Pork tells Ilya’s neck, remaining still but for the occasion shiver that ripples through him as Shane runs gentle hands down his spine.

“Oh, buddy,” Shane’s own lip wobbles, which is so vastly intolerable that Ilya’s already wondering if Sasha might know how to cook loon. The other man’s palm hovers over an ever so slightly red mark on the cat’s back. “Did she get you here?”

Pork tilts his head just enough to peer tremulously up at him. I am grievously wounded. Beloved, I do not know how long I have left, so I would like to tell you -

“He is fine,” Ilya mutters, detecting no physical pain beyond the lingering fear. “She took him by the harness and meant to take him into the water. I got to him first.”

Anya hesitates, half up on the sofa. She actually caught him? “She had him halfway across the garden,” Ilya says, wheezing as the cat’s claws dig further at the memory.

I see.

“Anechka -”

The dog turns abruptly away from him to fixate on the breakfast bag, but he doesn’t need to look her in the eye to feel the amusement already spilling out of her, even as she desperately tries to contain it. It’s horrible, she tries, forcing her tail between her legs. I’m horrified. “You are a liar.”

Anya chokes on a whine, ducking her head between her paws. I’m sorry, I know he was scared, but you’ve got to think about this from her perspective- she finally gets her baby, and she’s foiled by - by -Ilya’s nudity does not diminish his bravery, Pork snaps, seeming only then to realise the compliment - the cat returns, furious, to muttering into Ilya’s chest. She is laughing at me.

“She is very sorry,” Ilya assures him, not even halfway to convincing. “She is just overcome with relief.”

Now who’s the liar?

Shane retreats, suitably calmed by the fact nobody here but Ilya is bleeding, turning his attention to the forearm not currently supporting his cat with similar vigour. “I’ve got some antiseptic upstairs, give me one second -”

“He called for me.”

Pork goes rigid all over again. You were my last resort. “He said my name,” Ilya murmurs. “Just my name.” Shane’s eyes flick up to meet his, bright.

There was no one else to call.

“He could have shouted anything, any insult, and I still would have come. He did not.”

The other man blinks a few times, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth before disappearing upstairs with a smile. Custody of Pork Hollander’s satellites, wobbly regions, and comfort remains Ilya’s responsibility for the remainder of the day, even as he eats his bacon sandwich with such gusto that Pork cops some melted Lurpak to the head. More concerningly still, the cat doesn’t complain beyond an irritated pulse quickly eclipsed by interest in the bacon fat Anya had refused, nestling further into his lap so tightly they may as well share a nervous system.

When Ilya returns to the bathroom (Candy Crush is a cruel mistress), Pork stations himself just behind the door. When Ilya extracts himself to pepper kisses all along the back of Shane’s neck as he settles with a book on the sofa, Pork winds so firmly around his ankles that he’d almost certainly receive a manslaughter charge if Ilya were to trip. By late afternoon, the cat has surrendered to sleep against his thigh, Small Beloved cushioned under his chin.

I am guarding you, Pork mumbles, borderline docile as he drifts. That is all. “Yes,” Ilya says solemnly, already gesturing silently to Shane to look with a grin so wide it’s a miracle the cat can’t hear it in his voice. “Do not let me escape.”

•————•

Ilya has no idea what time it is when they take to the sofa, full of Shane’s unreasonably good ginger braised beef (Ilya’s consumed so much mash he could probably go the next decade without looking at another potato) - the windows are black, and the logs behind the grate alight with a roaring fire that bathes his bare feet in warmth. He could stay here forever, wants to, even, with the comforting smells of smoke and old timber wrapping around them better than a blanket ever could.

Pork has taken to Ilya’s chest once again, splayed with his bare cheek against his sternum and breathing so deeply that Ilya by proxy has started to mirror it. Anya’s at his feet, so close he can just about feel long grass whipping against her stomach as she runs through it in dreams, something (someone) keeping pace at her side - he very carefully leaves the identity of that companion alone, though Anya’s paws twitch when the definitelynotadoberman races ahead and her sleeping mind surges after her it.

“I’m gonna shower,” Shane murmurs, lifting his head from Ilya’s shoulder and setting his book aside. “You staying down here?”

“For now,” Ilya says softly, leaning to kiss the very tip of his nose. “I will miss you until then.”

The other man grins, easing himself up. “Such a sap.” Ilya doesn’t dispute this, blowing him a kiss as he disappears upstairs. The room’s so warm, and the day so strange and soft that he allows himself a minute to rest his eyes, losing himself in distant dreams of his own and the weight of the cat on his chest.

It could be ten minutes or ten years when he just about registers the scrape of metal on stone and the clunk of a poker, footsteps nearby that Ilya recognises through sound alone, only waking properly when Shane’s thumb brushes across his cheek.

“Hey, baby,” Shane whispers, shuffling over so he’s in view of the eyelid Ilya cracks open. His hair’s damp, and he can just about make out Snoopy peeking out of the pocket of his pyjamas. “Come to bed. I’ll move Pork.” Foggy with sleep, Ilya glances down at the near unconscious cat still spread across his middle, and the top of Anya’s head just visible beyond the sofa cushion. The fire guard has been moved over now, and the flames hardly more than a gentle pulsing ember as it fades - moonlight’s taken over now, and the cottage is silver and blue.

“Stay here,” he mumbles, lifting his arm.

“I need my CPAP -”

“Bring it.”

Shane smells like grapefruit again. “You want to sleep down here?” He can only really manage a nod as his eyes slip shut again, listening to the other man’s steady feet on the stairs, humming quietly to himself. At some point in the night, Ilya wakes to the hushed sound of air moving and Shane tucked under his arm - the weight on top of him has changed slightly, and he can just about make out the cat’s watchful eyes fixed on the mask, his caution likely the cause of rousing him. It followed us. Ilya strokes his hand through Shane’s hair. “It protects him.” Yes.

“You can move,” he says as quietly as he possibly can. “You will not wake him if you wish to sleep on him. Or, Small Beloved is only on the chair.” Pork’s silence ticks by, before he tucks himself back into a haughty ball on Ilya’s chest with his eyes closed.

I do not require Small Beloved tonight.

Chapter 12: all roads lead home

Chapter Notes

I had an absolute MARE writing this chapter bc I originally planned

for it to be something else then decided I hated it and changed my

mind x

I hope that doesn’t come across in this one, and as always thank you

all for sticking around I appreciate each and every one of you <3333 Rather than recover as a family from the clutches of shitbitch motherfucker, Shane’s off for a run.

Ilya had offered a comprehensive list of alternatives, all of which would have certainly elevated his pulse without requiring him to vacate the premises, but Shane had finished lacing his trainers and kissed him with enough affection to make his heart sing and his cock hard, and informed Anya they were going out before Ilya could do anything about either of those. The traitor had sprung to her feet as Shane located his keys, the promise of racing him for a new personal best overcoming any urge to fake the desire to stay inside.

Shane’s phone sits charging by the kettle, and Pork remains buried in the bedroom with Small Beloved, his consciousness as testy as ever in the wake of yesterday’s panic. He’d surfaced for breakfast (and appears to be some kind of immortal entity incapable of death), so Ilya isn’t overly concerned -even less so considering the cat had entrusted him with one simple, strict instruction to guard and defend the ground floor from maternal invasion by all means necessary. Ilya does actually intend to follow that, his cock having no interest in exposure to the great outdoors for at least the next year.

The cottage is quiet, blissfully so as he sprawls across the sofa. There’s enough coffee to keep him going through another ice age, and the living room still smells of wood smoke - he’s just debating whether getting up to add another log to the fire would boost his comfort further when the bell rings. He swears, setting his mug down just as Pork jolts awake upstairs.

Intruders.

“Yes, I will banish them,” Ilya mutters, wiping his hands on his jeans and giving his awareness a cautious flex outwards. There’s no sign of Anya, so it can’t be Shane coming back for his phone - delivery, maybe. He glances out at the lake beyond the back door and suppresses a shudder - it’s remote enough out here that anything could happen. An axe wielding madman could chop him up into tiny pieces and nobody would have any idea until ‘local man who speaks to animals turned into a jigsaw puzzle by armed strangers’ starts appearing in the village newspaper. They remain, Pork adds, ever helpful. “I am aware,” he says, hesitating in the hallway as the bell rings again -whoever’s on the other side is persistent enough that he abandons any possibility of waiting for them to leave, checking the nearest window instead. There’s nothing but the very edge of a car he doesn’t recognise, and he can’t move any closer without revealing himself to the mysterious caller. “Fuck.”

Ilya opens the door a centimetre at a time, craning his neck to peek around into the gap until he’s certain he’s not about to become a headline - a woman stands on the front step with a few canvas bags looped over her shoulder and a bottle of wine clutched in each hand. Behind her, there’s an older man with a sack of what looks like chopped firewood in his arms, and he’s got a suspiciously full toolbox at his feet.

“Ilya!” The woman’s face brightens, and he has just enough time to wonder whether they’ve met and he’s actively disgracing himself by forgetting when she steps forward to embrace him. “Lovely to meet you.” Ilya goes rigid, trapped with his foot still wedged in the door. She’s shorter than him, and the very top of her head brushes his chin - this doesn’t seem to bother her as she squeezes him like they’ve been separated for fucking years, maybe their entire lives, and he’s just wondering whether she’s part python when she pulls back to beam at him.

“Hello,” he says carefully, determining the swiftest way to figure out whether he’s a) hit his head recently, or b) his gift has developed horribly and perhaps these are owners of the cottage from the 1800s, a pair of Hollander ancestors stuck in limbo that he’s now responsible for guiding into the light.

The woman gives him no time to mull it over, thrusting the wine into his hands. “Can you take these?”

Dazed, he cradles the bottles to his chest - they feel very real, for ghosts. The glass is cold, and he’s pretty sure wine from the 1800s wouldn’t have a peeling ‘Waitrose Blueprint’ label, but who knows what trapped spirits come up with these days. She hands the bags to him next, and something audibly covered in foil crinkles inside, releasing a rich scent of cooked meat.

“You are -” Ilya starts, truly having no clue how to finish that sentence as she walks straight past him and into the cottage. He turns as much as he possibly can, watching her disappear towards the kitchen without invitation. “I’ve brought far too much food,” she chatters on. “Some of it can go in the freezer, I suppose.”

He gapes until the sound of cupboards opening drowns her out, before remembering the man armed with a chisel or five remains on the step. “Morning,” he says, entirely pleasant as he adjusts his grip on the logs. “I - good morning.”

Ilya waits for literally anything else - a name, ideally, but at this point he’d settle for a simple yes or no to ‘are you going to murder me and my hairless stepson’, he’s not fussy.

The man raises an eyebrow. “Mind if I squeeze past?”

“Ah, I -”

For whatever reason, Ilya finds himself stepping aside. If the stranger’s accomplice is already rummaging around Shane’s kitchen, he can’t see the harm in letting the other one in as well - if anything they’ll get the job done quicker. Unlike the woman, this man stops to wipe his shoes on the doormat- removing all traces of DNA perhaps, avoiding tracking dirt inside so forensics won’t be able to link him to the scene of the crime later on. “Thanks for holding all that,” he says, toeing them off and placing them tidily beside Shane’s wellies.

Ilya stares at him. “You are welcome.”

Then he’s gone, disappearing after his companion without another word, leaving Ilya stood by the open door with his arms full. He could make a run for it - surrounded by fields and forest, sure, but he’s confident enough he could bolt and reach the village before either of the burglars catch up to him. Ilya’s halfway to planning the route when Pork’s bony little face swims in his mind’s eye, rancid but innocent of any inkling as to what the intruders may have in store for him. He lifts a foot to flee, then stops on the threshold. If this is to be Pork’s fate, Ilya won’t (can’t, irritatingly) abandon him to it alone.

Gritting his teeth, he heads for the kitchen - the woman’s already shoulder deep in the fridge and shifting Shane’s milk to one side, rearranging both the leftover pasta they’d had last night and some now wilting basil out of the way with her other hand. The second he sets the bags down she descends on them, hauling a covered ceramic out to set it on the cleared shelf. To Ilya’s surprise, Shane’s phone remains untouched as it had been, and his laptop still sits on the table unharmed. It’s not as reassuring as it should be - he’s seen LOST enough times to recognise the signs of a long con.

The woman collects the wine where he’s deposited it, still smiling. “So, how are you? Are you having a nice time?”

Ilya blinks at her. “I am - well, thank you. Are you -”

“I’ll crack on,” the man says cheerfully, taking his tools toward the living room. “Don’t mind me.”

“Never.” She unwraps the next ceramic, a smaller one this time, and Ilya just about catches sight of what looks like shredded short rib before she sets it down again. Her vantage point is almost certainly a strategic one - the stairs are in full view to his right, and Ilya takes the smallest step to one side until he’s blocking them. “Sweetheart, where’s Shane?” To his horror, she sets about selecting a chopping board and a large serrated knife from the block - for now, at least, she seems content to use this only on the loaf of sourdough she’s brought with her. At the mention of Shane, however, Ilya’s blood runs cold. “He is out. You know, he is very strong -” She beams. “He certainly is! So, Anya’s gone with him?” Ilya’s stomach lurches. “Yes - she is highly protective. She enjoys biting.”

“Well, I’d still love to meet her. She’s beautiful, really - that coat. We found your website, and how you described your bond with her is so lovely.” He tracks her as she retrieves the mustard from the fridge door and sets about spreading it onto the bread, replacing it without missing a beat. Ilya shuffles a step forwards to relocate the heavy cast iron pan they’d used for eggs that morning from the drying rack, inching it behind his back. “You looked me up.”

“Of course. For what it’s worth, you come across very well - it’s clear you care a lot for the animals.”

Ilya has no suitable response prepared to offer a stalker, so instead he tilts his head in something that isn’t actively antagonistic and opts for monitoring her progress with the knife. She’s comfortable with a blade, that much is clear - he has to resist the urge to flinch each time she waves it as she talks. The man, on the other hand, has relocated himself to the cupboard under the stairs.

“Still doing it, then,” he chuckles, giving the handle a yank until it sticks. Bemused, Ilya glances between them. “You know this door?”

“It’s been doing it on and off for years -” he pauses, retrieving a can of WD40 from his tool bag. “I loosened the hinge last time, but you know how old wood is.”

Ilya does not, in fact, know how old wood is - he does know however that the issue at hand is far worse than he’d anticipated. This isn’t just a one off break in, it’s been a collection of them. These two must’ve scoped out the property thoroughly over the years to have learned so much about the place, and the thought is so sinister that the hairs on his arms stand on end - poor Shane, unaware that his fortress of solitude has been violated so awfully by criminals. Of course he’d be texting Shane right now not to return for his safety (and to perhaps call the police), if Shane hadn’t left his phone and other assorted valuables scattered around the cottage. Maybe that’s why the two selected it - easy reward. The can hisses as the stranger applies it to the handle first.

“You have repaired it before?”

“Sure have,” he says pleasantly. “God, Yuna, how many times have I been at this door?”

Yuna - interesting. Ilya files this slip of the tongue away, should he survive long enough to fill out a police report. “Hundreds, I expect. I think it likes to stick just to mess with you.”

She gives Ilya a conspiratorial wink as Pork’s attention drifts down from upstairs. Ilya, they remain within the territory. “I am working on it,” he says as quietly as he can, creeping back towards the cast iron. He’s never hit anyone before, even less so with a weapon, but to protect Shane (and the spatchcocked squab currently in their bed) he knows he has to try.

“Come and eat while it’s warm,” Yuna calls, setting a brick of a beef sandwich down on the living room table, alongside a packet of crisps she’s apparently produced from nowhere.

The escape route remains clear but for Ilya himself, and - well, it makes no sense for them to poison him with short rib when she’d just had a 10 inch knife in her hands. It smells good at any rate, and he takes his first bite during a monumental lapse in judgement. The meat melts on his tongue, and it takes him a hot minute to remember he should care about potential death by sandwich.

Satisfied, the woman pulls back and settles far too comfortably on Shane’s sofa. “Did you both sleep well? The temperature really dropped last night.” Ilya peels a clump of sourdough from the roof of his mouth, alarmed all over again. “Both?”

“If Shane hasn’t got them out yet, there’s extra blankets in storage under the bed,” Yuna says, smiling. “Though I suppose he won’t have - he’s always slept hot.”

He shivers. So she knows where they sleep, knows where to find Pork should he make the wrong move, and leave Shane to discover they’ve both been made into lampshades. Has she been standing over the bed, watching them at night like that woman from Paranormal Activity? Nausea surges through him, and he has to chew his next mouthful carefully to avoid choking on it.

“How’s that upstairs window?” The man’s standing now, plonking the WD40 back into the bag. “Shutting properly now? I can take a look, but I’ll leave it for now if Pork’s asleep.”

Ilya seizes the nearest candle holder and stuffs it under his shirt, already moving (with his plate) to the foot of the stairs. “Pork requires rest.”

“Poor little chap,” he says, frowning in such a convincing display of empathy that Ilya’s fingers tighten on the makeshift weapon. “He’s had quite the fright, hasn’t he?”

Reeling with the knowledge that they must’ve been watching from the bushes during the loon attack (and therefore the fact his killers have seen his cock), Ilya sets down his plate with his free hand.

“You know this cat very well,” Ilya says slowly, recoiling as the man passes close enough to brush his shoulder.

“All his life,” Yuna chimes in, now setting a vase full of cut foxgloves and grasses on the windowsill. “We were there when he was born.” Impossible - Pork Hollander was not born. Pork has presided over the dawn of man, a primordial spirit haunting the ether since Tiktaalik took its first unsteady steps on land, and will haunt it long after the earth fades to dust. He’s about to point this out when she turns back to face him. “Eat that before it goes cold, sweetheart.”

For reasons utterly beyond him, Ilya takes another bite.

•————•

It could be either an hour or six months before the front door opens and Shane materialises, Anya trotting beside him too thoroughly absorbed with the scent of beef to acknowledge she’s just walked directly into her own demise. Ilya, who’d somehow been coerced into helping Yuna wash up, whirls around at the sound of keys with his mouth already open around a mix of run for your life and Shane please help, these intruders are making me do housework - he gets as far as one measly syllable before his eyes catch on his face.

Shane stops short, glancing from the pair to Ilya, lingering on the lump under his shirt before moving away again. “Mum? Dad? You’re here already?”

Ilya has no time at all to process the words as the woman clicks her tongue, drying her hands on the nearest tea towel. “When have we ever been late? You knew we were coming.”

“Later,” Shane says, shrugging off his hoodie and folding it carefully over the back of the armchair. “I said dinner -”

Yuna takes a few steps forwards to kiss him between the eyes. “And I said we were down this way anyway, so we can stop off a bit earlier. You’d know that if you checked your phone more.”

“You left it,” Ilya croaks, pointing one shaking finger to where it still sits by the kettle. “Your phone is here.”

“Ah, shit.” Shane grimaces, hugging her back. “Sorry guys - Ilya, these are my parents.”

He forces what he truly hopes is a convincing smile onto his face, his cheeks aching. “Yes.”

Shane’s own smile fades. “You okay?”

Ilya isn’t actually sure how to answer that question. He stares, blank, as Yuna pulls four mugs from the cupboard and begins to assemble them - two tea, two coffee, though Ilya (as far as he’s aware) hasn’t yet told her how he takes his. She seems to know anyway, pottering about in the kitchen they’ve been in hundreds of times like she has indeed been in it as such. The candle holder, having now migrated cold against bare skin under his armpit, starts to burn.

“I am -” he coughs, tasting mustard. “I am very well. This is a wonderful day.”

Anya, ever astute, sniffs a trail up his shin. He doesn’t need to look at her to detect exactly what she’s examining - the tang of bodily fear drying in his pores, and an anxiety ebbing so fast it leaves its own identifiable echo as it leaves him. Oh my god.

He gives her an urgent shake of his head as Shane’s father (markedly not a WD40 wielding serial killer) ruffles his son’s hair. You thought they were intruders? Ilya - is that Shane’s fucking candlestick under your shirt?

“Candle holder,” he mutters, because that makes all the difference.

Were you going to batter them to death before or after the beef sandwich? Shane, sensing a disturbance in the force, extracts himself from his father’s love to fix him with a strange look. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Ilya says quickly. “Anya is overjoyed to meet your creators -” Her tail thumps. Creators.

Ilya clears his throat. “Parents. As am I - it is a lovely surprise. Very surprising surprise, but lovely.”

Before anyone in the room can contribute further to his humiliation, Pork begins his descent down the stairs. The cat’s mind is fuzzed with sleep, and contains not even an ounce of apprehension - Ilya would go as far as to say the fucker feels satisfied. Content, even, as he surveys them from halfway down.

Grandmother. Grandfather. A pleasure.

Ilya spins in his direction so sharply his neck cracks. “You knew?” They brought forth my Beloved, Pork says, approaching to worm his way around Yuna’s shins. Of course I know them. The betrayal is searing, and Ilya has to make a conscious effort not to present the cat with an impression of a much more creative use for the candle holder.

“He knows mum and dad, yeah,” Shane interjects, his eyebrows climbing higher by the second. “Course he does. Did he not tell you?”

“You let me think -” he cuts himself off, shooting Shane the most benign smile he can possibly manage before stalking towards Pork and dropping his voice into a whisper. “I would have killed for you -” You were instructed to defend the ground floor - I saw no reason to interfere with a rare display of competence.

Yuna bends to stroke his flat head, and he rewards her with a long, creaking mewl. “There’s our brave little soldier. How are you feeling, Porkie?” Grandmother understands my suffering.

Aghast, Ilya makes to correct him - he doesn’t get as far as considering what he might say, though, as the candle holder slips from under his arm and clatters across the floor. For a moment all four of them stare at it, skittering so far out of reach he’s got no hope of concealing what it is or where it had come from, and Shane seems to comprehend first. “Ilya?”

“Shane.”

“Why was that under your shirt?”

It’s a perfectly valid question, but one he has no answer to that isn’t admitting far too much in front of people he’d ideally quite like to impress, now the fight or flight urge has subsided. Ilya’s mouth opens and closes, heat flaring across his cheeks.

“Oh my god,” Shane whispers. “You didn’t know who they were.” Shane’s father makes a very strange sound into his fist, busying himself with his tool bag.

“They knew my name,” Ilya says desperately, completely unable to look in Yuna’s direction. “They hugged me - I was beginning to believe you had mentioned them and I had forgotten, and this is very rude to admit when your mother has filled me with beef -”

The other man steps around Anya, bewildered. “You guys didn’t introduce yourselves?”

“We thought you’d told him!” Yuna, still fussing a hand down Pork’s bony spine, grins - it’s so Shanelike Ilya can’t quite believe he’d not worked it out sooner. “You said you had -”

“I said I would -”

“That generally means you then do it, Shane.” He scrubs his hands over his face. “Jesus - alright, god. I’m so sorry Ilya, I thought - anyway. I did mean to ask if you’d be okay with them coming for dinner, but I guess I never got the chance. What on earth did you think was happening?”

A really, really polite home invasion, Anya supplies, shifting to cover the candle holder with her fluffy hindquarters.

Ilya ignores her. “Mr and Mrs Hollander, I -”

“David, son,” he claps him on the shoulder and Ilya jolts. “Not here to bludgeon you with the logs, but I sure would like to have a drink with you later, if you’re up for it.”

Something very strange passes over him at the word (son, not bludgeon) -Ilya can’t actually remember the last time he’d been called that, nor can he remember the last time he’d actually enjoyed hearing it. Still, the promise of something alcoholic is so viscerally curative that he finds himself nodding with vigour. “Yes, of course.”

There’s no dwelling on it - David simply nods, and retrieves a paper from one of the bags still on the counter. Shane inches closer, shyer than Ilya’s seen him in a while - he’s ever so slightly pink, and glances surreptitiously at his mother before taking Ilya’s hand. “You thought they were robbing the place, didn’t you?”

“I was confused,” he mumbles. “They bring things - burglars generally remove things. I thought perhaps the car had limited space, and they simply intended on exchanging their goods of lesser value.”

“And you stayed?”

Ilya frowns. “Pork was upstairs - I could not safely retrieve him.” Next time remove some clothes, the cat says, on the move again - the very tip of his tail curls against Ilya’s knee for a second as he passes. You have far greater success the less you wear.

He disappears before Ilya can respond, but Yuna beckons him over towards a freshly made black coffee with two sugars - she must be a witch, because it’s both perfect and steaming hot though he hadn’t heard the kettle boil. “David wants to get a few odd jobs done before dinner, and I need someone tall for the top cupboards later.”

Ilya accepts it gratefully, glancing back at Shane - it’s either an invitation or involvement by proximity alone, and he dithers for a moment between distinguishing the two. Either way, she’s already turned to collect a tupperware of batteries from above the old fridge, handing it to David as he approaches to collect his tea.

“Smoke alarms first,” he says, offering Ilya a folded step stool. “Would you mind? My knees, you see.”

Wordlessly, Ilya takes it.

“Thanks, son.”

That word again - it’s not unpleasant this time around, washing over him as he gives Shane’s hand a squeeze and follows, trailing after him with the stool - Anya’s awareness gives his a nudge, but she largely leaves it alone, knowing better than to probe. A comfortable hum of conversation picks up behind him as Ilya drifts towards where David’s now pointing at the ceiling. He takes the hint, setting it down and climbing up to peer at the alarm overhead.

“How’s the weather up there?”

Ilya laughs despite himself, taking off the front to pop out the batteries. “Very sunny. I will apply SPF.”

David reaches up with their replacements and he slots them in, ducking to make sure the light has resumed its flashing as he reassembles it. Pork’s head pokes around the corner just as he presses the test button, however, and the cat shrieks and all four paws leave the floor. Ilya has attacked me! From somewhere in the living room he feels Anya sigh. By making sure none of us burn alive - how dare he.

They work in companiable silence for some time - the upstairs alarms also need their batteries changing, and Ilya feels no need to rush to fill the silence. David hums to himself occasionally, and it’s mostly tuneless until they meander across to the bedroom window - Ilya freezes as the notes grow increasingly familiar. “Shane has told you?” The other man glances up, a screwdriver between his teeth as he wrestles with the stubborn latch. “Told me what?”

“About the cemetery.”

David’s eyes widen. “What about a cemetery?” This time Ilya’s smile takes over his face entirely. “Nothing. You like Yazoo?”

“Love ‘em,” he says. “Upstairs At Eric’s is one of the greats. Think we can refit the lock? Might stop it pinging open in the middle of the night.” Ilya nods, solemnly turning back to the window - in truth he hadn’t noticed there being much of an issue with it, but if its refusal to close all the way has been bugging Shane, fixing it is the very least he can do. He traces a finger along the sash. “I believe so - I think it is best you do it, though.” David shakes his head, handing him the screwdriver after a courtesy wipe down. “You’ll be fine, no stress. Unscrew it right there -” He does just that, and the first comes free easily enough. The second however requires a touch more pressure, and as Ilya adjusts the angle the screwdriver slips the thread, scraping a line through the paint and sending a scatter of flakes drifting to the floor. Horrified, he rears back in panic. “Sorry - sorry. I will paint it again -”

“All good.” David isn’t even looking at it, kicking the flakes aside with one foot. “Give it another whirl, you almost had it.”

Ilya blinks. “But the paint -”

“What about it?”

“I scratched it.”

“This cottage has survived Shane learning to walk - you have absolutely nothing to worry about, alright?”

Ilya studies him. There’s no simmering anger he can detect behind the slightly confused furrow of the other man’s brow, and he’s not yelling either- he hasn’t demanded to know why he’s incapable of using a fucking screwdriver, or spared the scratch any more than a cursory glance. He makes a mental note to ask Galina next week why his heart feels like it’s about to jump right out of his mouth anyway.

“Okay,” he says slowly, flexing his fingers before returning to the latch. This time he gets the second screw out without issue, and they make the remaining adjustments without any further comment, listening to Yuna’s cheerful banging of pots and pans from downstairs. When they’re done, David tests it for himself. “Much better - nice job.”

“It was very simple,” Ilya murmurs, suddenly quite unable to appreciate how the window shuts without argument.

“Still, you helped me out.” David shrugs, shouldering the tool bag again. “Thank you. You’ve got real good attention to detail.” Делать из мухи слона, Grigori would say. You are making an elephant out of a fly, Ilya. Always obsessing over things that do not matter. Ilya holds his tongue, and by the time they return downstairs Shane is elbow deep in his spice rack, Yuna absorbed in emptying out the cupboards at the other end of the kitchen - Anya (decidedly not a lover of biting) has seated herself within range, crunching the odd piece of dried pasta that falls from the various packets Yuna’s binning.

“There you are,” Shane brightens at the sight. “Window fixed?”

“Ilya fixed it,” David tells him, setting the bag down. “I mostly held things.”

“Yeah?”

Ilya clears his throat. “It was no big deal -”

“Your coffee’s there,” Yuna nudges it towards him with her finger. “I just reheated it.”

The contents of the mug are exactly as they’d been before, except this time it sits on a dish patterned with little blue birds, laden with a selection of biscuits. She plucks a fleck of paint from his shoulder as she passes, gone before he can even really process she’s done it, to reclaim a jar of cumin Shane’s apparently placed in the wrong pile. “We’re keeping that.” Shane scowls. “It’s going to expire soon!”

“Then we’d best find you some cumin heavy recipes,” she singsongs, laughing as he sniffs it and sneezes hard enough to startle Pork from his hiding spot in the igloo. “Put it back.”

“Sorry, mum,” he grins, catching her by the shoulders. “No you’re not -”

“No,” Shane kisses her on the cheek. “But I love you.” Ilya watches like he’s taken a day trip to a zoo on Mars. He’s so baffled by it that he takes a second or two to notice Yuna’s deposited a pack of green lentils in his hands, and even then he can’t really bring himself to do anything with it until she gives it a gentle tap. “Ilya, you’re with me -anything expired is out, but worth checking the dried goods. They’re often a lot more robust than their dates might suggest.” He takes his assigned position without argument, still mulling over the fact Yuna and David have been here for a few hours now and nobody’s shouting- there’s laughter when Shane drops a shaker of sea salt, and a volley of applause when Anya catches a singular fusilli Ilya throws to her in mid air. It’s so normal Ilya hardly notices the sky outside beginning to fade from cool grey to orange as they work, dusting a can of tinned tomatoes before replacing it on the shelf.

Yuna hands him the next. “You cook much?”

“Ah, no,” Ilya admits. “I am not very good. My - an old friend I lived with for some time did try to teach me, but my food never tasted how I remembered it to.”

She nods, taking a quick step back to appraise their handiwork. “How you remembered it - do you mean Russian food?”

“Mostly, yes. Not only, but yes.”

“What’s your favourite?”

He can’t remember the last time he was asked that - it catches him off guard, and Ilya moves along to the coconut milk. “Golubtsi is very good. My mama made them with beef and pork.”

At first Ilya’s fairly sure Yuna isn’t going to go there. Most people wouldn’t, taking the past tense for what it is and leaving it where he parks it. Yuna Hollander isn’t most people, though, and she meets his avoidant eyes without pity. “Shane mentioned she was very young. I suppose that means you were, too.”

“Yes,” Ilya turns the can in his hand. “She would have loved Shane. Maybe Pork not so much, but she may have been able to look past his obvious flaws.”

She nods, passing him a clean cloth. “Pop that dirty one in the washing machine, sweetheart.”

Whatever he hadn’t realised was spearing him somewhere in the general vicinity of his heart doesn’t sting quite so much as she chatters on. Yuna, like her son, has questions overflowing fast enough it’s all he can do to catch them - she asks what his favourite animal to work with is (dogs, though he has grown rather fond of horses despite not speaking to them as often), and if he’d be willing to come over one afternoon, as there’s a family of starlings nesting in her gutter who warble a little too loud in the early hours of the morning - she’d rather not evict them (something about appreciating single mothers), and Ilya of course had agreed with great enthusiasm. She’s so thorough that he doesn’t realise until he’s already answering ‘do you have a recipe for golubtsi’ in that no, he doesn’t, but here’s how you can translate this Cyrillic recipe blog and actually scratch that, he’ll translate it for her, let’s exchange numbers and he’ll -There’s a thunk from outside - David’s started whittling the logs down, and Shane’s joined him. Strangely, there’s been no warning of any kind that Ilya’s been able to identify. He’d expected one, been braced for one even before he’d ever known Shane had intended to introduce him to his parents. Perhaps warning is too strong a word, but something. A hint or disembodied reminder that Ilya’s been granted access to something precious and should behave accordingly. There’s been nothing but, when he’d told the story, an admonishment aimed at Shane for insulting the resident waterfowl. It’s easy. Stupidly so, actually - day turns to dark and Ilya realises he’s not been tracking time at all, not eager for the in laws to leave like he’s seen in so many sitcoms before. It’s after dinner (the richest, most decadent stroganoff with wild rice and the remainder of the sourdough - he’d even eaten the mushrooms) that he faces the opposite predicament. Shane’s sipping a Peroni, and David’s broken out a bottle of Russian Standard from the freezer. Yuna, in her defence, did set out with every intention of preparing a light white wine spritz, only to declare the tonic water flat (it isn’t) and pour herself a straight glass instead. Anya’s dreaming, and Pork has appointed himself guardian of Shane’s lap. The fire crackles, and Ilya feels suddenly, horribly reluctant to let any of it go. He starts, pushing himself upright at the dining room table. “We should play a game, no?”

Shane’s cheeks are deliciously red. “A game?”

“A game.”

“There’s always Monopoly,” David says, already on his feet and moving towards the bookcase, where an old box similar to the one at Shane’s sits atop Cluedo and Mouse Trap.

“God, no,” Shane says. “Too soon.”

He ignores that, retrieving it and setting it directly in the middle of the table. Pork, from his secure vantage point, eyes it with rising interest. This is Ilya’s fraudulent distraction.

“It is not,” he snaps, shifting his vodka out of the firing zone. “This is a good game - if you had not attacked me, perhaps I would have taught you.” Explain.

“You purchase land, and when someone enters it they must pay you.” Pork’s pupils expand. I will play.

“Did -” Shane swallows a mouthful of beer, shifting the box’s elastic band out of the way. “Sorry - are you teaching my cat how to play this for real?” Ilya shrugs. “I mean - the premise aligns with his existing interests.” From beside him, Anya stands and cranes her neck just enough to look at the board. Ilya can feel her answer before she tells him anything at all, nudging his hand until he scratches behind her ear before she retreats again. I’m pretty happy to sit this one out, sunshine.

“Coward,” Ilya grins, returning to watch the painstaking process of Pork selecting a token. The cat’s attention considers the boot (showing him a graphic image of that boot kicking him in the ass) but ultimately settles on the battleship - Ilya snags it and sets it on Go. “Pork has chosen military force.”

Small Beloved will also require a vessel.

“Small Beloved cannot play.”

Pork’s satellites flatten. I will control his assets. Shane, having grown accustomed to witnessing conversations in which only one half is audible, has already picked the penguin. Yuna and David, on the other hand, are staring so openly at him that Ilya flushes as he counts out their first £1500. The cat doesn’t appear to care - he extends a paw, and pulls the notes closer.

“Hey,” Shane frowns. “You can’t hide notes, buddy. I’m the banker, so you’ve got to listen to me.”

Ilya feels his outrage in his teeth. The bank has conducted an illegal seizure.

David does eventually locate the dice, and by that time Yuna (the rubber duck) rolls, Shane’s feet are twined in his under the table and Pork hasn’t said a word about it - he keeps his eyes fixed on his grandmother’s roll, tracking each turn with comprehension growing at an impressive speed. He does, however, refuse to attempt a roll himself, permitting Ilya to scatter the dice - it’s an honour, and he moves the battleship to Pentonville Road to purchase it under strict instruction. The deed is placed in front of Small Beloved, and Pork spends the rest of the first board lap fuming. Claim it, he snaps as Shane lands on Pall Mall. I saw it first. “Shane reached it first -”

Everything I see belongs to me.

Oblivious to the budding arson attempt opposite him, Shane pays, and Pork’s own rent payment manages to restore some of his enthusiasm. It’s David that lands on it next, and when he hands over the £8 its clear to anyone with eyes that it pleases the cat enormously - he gives a rattling, drawn out purr, which only grows louder the second Ilya himself lands on it moments later.

You have entered my territory.

Ilya huffs. “Yes, I know this.”

You must pay.

“Here,” he mutters, handing over a ten (interest rates or whatever - it has nothing to do with the threat that his small intestine will be used to decorate the cottage perimeter) - it’s all going swimmingly until the first genuine dispute. Pork lands on the Electric Company after David’s bought it, and no amount of pleading has him willing to pay. He offers to refrain from removing fingers in exchange, but it’s only when Shane busts out the Stern Voice that they’re able to move on - even so, Pork emits a low growl as each note passes across the table, cut off only when his grandfather moves them out of his direct sight.

“You are still wealthy,” Ilya assures him, grinning. “And you own Pentonville Road.”

I must own all roads. How else will I control movement into my territory? “Try buying places before the rest of us,” Shane says once he’s translated this, leaning over to run his thumb under the cat’s cheek. “Come on, I believe in you.”

Pork lands in jail not long after. He takes this about as well as you can imagine - his battleship’s hardly even touched the square before his horror floods Ilya’s mouth, and he grimaces. I have committed no crime. In solidarity Yuna’s duck follows him there, wincing at each of Ilya’s attempts to keep the ship there and avoid Pork’s claws at the same of time. “He - Pork! Ow! He regards this as unlawful detention -”

“He can pay fifty,” Shane says, the corner of his mouth twitching. My Beloved bribes me.

“Or he can wait, like the rest of us have to.”

The bank imprisons citizens and sells freedom.

“You own plenty!” Ilya cradles his sore hand to his chest, scowling. “You were very supportive of the bank ten minutes ago!” They just about manage to prevent the board from descending into complete chaos over the next hour, and Ilya learns two very important things:

1. David Hollander has the ability to teleport, because no matter how

much Ilya drinks, his glass never falls below halfway.

2. Shane Hollander is a competitive beast of a man, and he’s going to

spend the night making him pay for how delighted he looks every time Ilya pays up.

“Speaking of property,” Yuna hums, pinching at Shane’s flushed cheek. “Have you decided which of yours you’re keeping?” Ilya’s pretty sure he could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows. “You mean -”

“Yours, or Shane’s? I was assuming Shane’s, because he has the garden -but he tells me your flat’s very lovely, so.”

Shane’s eyebrows have all but disappeared into his hairline. “Mum!” He stares down at the paper money in his hands, waiting for the panic to arrive - it isn’t hard to picture what it might look like, Ilya’s flannels (very tidily) arranged in Shane’s wardrobe, or Anya’s bed replacing the blanket he’d bought her in his living room. The owl as a nighttime companion on the days he can’t sleep, and even Pork, in a way - it’s funny (tender as a bruise, but funny) how things change.

“We don’t live together,” Shane continues, his eyes flicking from hers to check Ilya’s face. “Wait - you thought -”

He trails off, and when it’s clear he isn’t about to finish the sentence Yuna clears her throat, setting her wine down. “Sorry, sweetheart. I thought you did.”

David knocks his knee into Ilya’s under the table. “I think we thought, since you said he lets himself in, that - you know. Maybe you just hadn’t announced anything yet.”

“He does, but -” Shane falters again. “But -”

“But that is all,” Ilya finishes.

Yuna pops a house on Regent Street. “My mistake. Now, does anyone want to make me an offer for Fleet Street?”

I will give grandmother Kings Cross and permission to leave the territory alive.

They recover quickly when Ilya faithfully relays this, and she shakes her head. “No deal.”

Pork’s tail lashes. Tell her negotiations have concluded, and hostilities will resume.

Ilya does, and Yuna thanks him for the warning. Unfortunately for the cat, his empire only survives another two rounds - he joyfully collects rent from Shane and somehow secures Marylebone, but when Pork lands on Oxford Street David’s houses sit there now worth far more than his remaining equity.

“Sorry, Pork,” David shoots him an apologetic smile. “That’s £1100, please.”

The very pink, very angry landlord appeals to Ilya. Move me back. “I cannot.”

You moved me too far.

Ilya rolls his eyes. “You rolled eight, Pork.”

Seven.

“Eight,” he says under his breath, not content to allow him the last word as he counts out the cat’s money, then counts it again to the same outcome. In a moment of desperation he mortgages what he can, but the total still falls short - Pork follows along as best as he can, but not even the concealed capital within Small Beloved can change his fate. “We cannot accept vengeance as currency - you owe grandfather more than what you have.” Yuna, ridden with guilt, nudges Shane with her elbow. “We could let him off.”

Pork recoils. I require no mercy.

“He refuses preferential treatment,” Ilya confirms, taking a long sip of vodka.

“Is he sure?”

Pay him.

“You are bankrupt,” Ilya says gently, turning Pentonville face down. “There is nothing left to mortgage.”

You have concealed something. Pork’s despair is so overwhelming that Ilya feels it in his own chest, mourning stations that are no longer his to defend. Predictably it doesn’t take long for the grief to mutate, gathering heat like a pyroclastic flow as the cat rounds on him. You. Ilya gapes at him. “Me?”

You have destroyed me. You are responsible for moving my ship onto grandfather’s fortress.

“Pork,” Shane warns, holding out a finger having likely detected where the cat’s unsheathed claws are leading. “Don’t even think about it. Gentle paws and gentle words, please.”

With a reproachful creak, Pork inches closer. My flawless campaign has been destroyed by deliberate mistranslation, false imprisonment, legal tender ignorance, and the withholding of resources -“This is my fault,” Ilya tells Shane, trying his absolute best to suppress a smile lest the cat decide execution a valid sentencing. Shane, red with effort, grits his teeth and forces his face neutral. “I see.” May every home you enter reject you, and may your money turn to ash. May your descendants rent forever.

“And he is very angry about it.”

Pork steps straight onto the board, scattering David’s houses (accidentally, for the jury) as he marches directly into Ilya’s lap - his claws, still very much out and very much sharp, snag in his jeans as he curls into a ball, radiating enough rage to boil the vodka remaining in Ilya’s glass. Momentarily stunned, Ilya glances down at him. “You are sitting on me. Pork - you know this is me, yes?”

My other properties have been repossessed.

Across the table, all traces of laughter in Shane’s face have vanished, leaving it achingly soft as he hands over the dice. “It’s your roll, baby.” Pork shifts. Purchase the next territory - grandfather must fall. “He intends to continue through me,” Ilya warns, rolling them. “And David- I am very sorry, but he will devote all my remaining assets to destroying you.”

David grins. “He’s welcome to try.”

•————•

Yuna wins just after eleven, and Pork (satisfied enough by his grandfather’s downfall) supervises the return of every piece to the box from the throne of Ilya’s lap. Shane collects the empty glasses and steps very carefully over Anya, who’s sleeping so deeply that the rattling of the tokens elicits absolutely nothing but a tiny twitch of her back paw.

“We should get going,” she murmurs, bending to plant a kiss on the very top of Shane’s head. “I’ll call an Uber.”

Shane wrinkles his nose. “Do they even come this far out?”

“Of course they do - it’s the countryside, not Jupiter.” He rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue further, making for the hallway and trailing his fingers along the back of Ilya’s shoulder as he goes. David sets about covering the remaining stroganoff, and Ilya points to what he can see of their car in the cottage driveway. “You will come back for it tomorrow?”

“We sure will,” he nods, nestling the vodka back in the freezer. “Some time in the morning, I think.”

“Fourteen minutes,” Yuna calls.

“You could -” Ilya cuts off, certain he’s already gone tomato red. “If you would like.”

David frowns. “I’m not sure what you’re asking, son.”

“The morning -”

“What about the morning?” Shane pops back up on his other side, stroking his thumb just underneath Ilya’s ear.

“In the morning, you could -” Ilya grits his teeth and forces the rest out before he swallows it. “You could both come for breakfast. With Shane and I - in the village.”

“Lovely,” Yuna says, clapping her hands together. “Half nine?” His face is burning. “Yes.”

“We can take Anya - I checked when we last went, and they let her inside,” Shane smiles. “They do a mean eggs benedict, dad.”

They chatter for some time as they meander down towards the front door, stopping only for each of them to fold Ilya into a hug first, followed by Shane. Yuna tousles his curls, and he flushes all over again. “Thank you for dinner, both of you.”

“You brought most of it,” Shane grumbles, ducking his head when she turns her attention on him.

“I didn’t cook it.” She kisses both of their cheeks and pulls back to brush off his shoulders. “Half nine, and bring your phone this time.”

“Mum -”

“Then I won’t have to arrive early and terrify your boyfriend.” David’s watching for the car through the window, and Ilya just glimpses headlights in the dark in his periphery as he places his hand on his shoulder. “Window should be alright overnight - if it starts opening again, we’ll have another look tomorrow.”

“I think it will hold,” Ilya says quietly.

“So do I - and you’re welcome here whenever, by the way. Whether Shane’s remembered to warn you we’re coming or not.” He glances back at Shane, who’s become suddenly very interested in his own bare feet. “I am?”

“Course you are,” David says, shrugging on his coat. “Though maybe leave the candle holder where it is next time - even if I do appreciate your commitment to protecting the place.”

There’s a crunch of tyres on stone as the Uber pulls in, idling by the front door - Yuna checks she’s still got her handbag (she has), and David, for some reason, double checks he’s wearing his shoes (he is). Their goodbyes carry all the way out until the car doors close them in, and even then there’s an attempt at waving that gets harder and harder to see as they pull away, leaving them shoulder to shoulder in the crisp night air.

“You invited them to breakfast,” Shane says softly, closing the door with a click.

“Yes.”

“Because you wanted to?”

Ilya accepts the arms around his neck and bends to kiss him. “I wanted to.” His phone vibrates before Shane can say anything else, and he fishes it out -the screen lights up the dim hallway, and they both peer at it. Yuna (Shane’s Mum) has added you to Hollander Family Fun 😎 The typing bubble bursts to life before he’s even fully registered what that says.

Yuna (Shane’s Mum)

Rematch tomorrow xx

David (Shane’s Dad)

Yuna (Shane’s Mum)

Can’t wait for breakfast!!

@Ilya What do you think of this one? https://vikalinka.com/cabbage-

rolls-golubtsi

David (Shane’s Dad)

Shane ❤

Sorry, have I been replaced?

David (Shane’s Dad)

A startled laugh leaves Ilya, and he has no desire at all to contain it - Shane leans into him, warm and still smelling ever so slightly of grapefruit (Ilya’s starting to develop a Pavlovian response to citrus), as a photo appears next. Yuna (Shane’s Mum)

Lovely pic of the three of you ❤ We’ll have to get one with Anya in it tomorrow. I want it for my desk. It’s not one he knew was taken - it must’ve occurred some time after Pork’s declaration of war, because the cat’s sat firmly on his lap and Ilya has his head cocked towards him, apparently listening intently to whatever he’s saying. David’s moved, probably to fetch more vodka, so Shane alone fills the other side of the shot. He’s sat forwards with his chin resting on his hands, watching Ilya with such gentle, deep affection that Ilya’s eyes start to burn the second he clocks it. Blinking hard, he shakes his head and forces his thumbs to move. “Your parents are very nice.”

thank you for adding me

The typing bubble appears again, but he stuffs his phone back into his pocket before anything can tip him right over the edge. Instead, Ilya pulls Shane in by the belt until their chests bump together, taking in a full inhalation of his hair before he trusts himself to speak again. Shane beats him to it, his arms tightening around his neck. “Would you?”

“Would I what?”

“Live with me. Fuck -” Shane jolts, but makes no move to detach himself. “And Anya, obviously. Sorry, I obviously mean Anya too. And I’m not, like, asking you to pack tonight and give up your flat tomorrow, or anything. But- would you? Will you?”

It takes Ilya a hot minute to remember how to breathe, even here against the crown of Shane’s head. He pulls back just enough to search his face, scanning for a lip twitch or any sign that what he’s hearing doesn’t align with the words coming out of his boyfriend’s mouth - he finds none. Shane’s eyes keep avoiding his, darting anywhere else until they’re fixed for so long on the light switch that Ilya turns to it too, bemused. “You do not have to cave to peer pressure,” Ilya tries, but the humour falls flat on its face. “I do not think she was being serious.”

“I’m being serious.”

That’s much harder to ignore. Shane’s hands slip down over his biceps, and from the table Anya lifts her head, foggy but roused no doubt by the biblical flood of adrenaline currently ripping apart every sensible thought left in Ilya’s brain. Her consciousness is little more than muddled shapes at first, but they rapidly focus into comprehension, meeting his surge of emotion with a swell of her own that asks nothing of him but honesty. “I know Mum kind of put her foot in it,” Shane murmurs into his collarbone. “But I’ve been thinking about it all night - longer, actually. She said it and I just, you know, realised we’re heading there anyway. Realised I want it - with you.”

Ilya swallows, his mouth so dry he has to try it again to restore even a drop of moisture. “Want what?”

He huffs. “All of it. And Ilya - it doesn’t have to be mine we move to. I know the garden’s there or whatever, but I read some really cool articles about how beneficial catios are in apartment buildings last week, and -anyway. We could find somewhere else together, if you wanted to -”

“Shane -”

“- I just mean a home. Sure, Rightmove is a pain in the ass, but we’d figure it out. You have a client base here, so that takes priority considering I work remotely, so I figure we could -”

“Shane -”

“- we could find a home, for all four of us. Together.” Five, Pork corrects very quietly from the living room. Small Beloved resides with us.

“Five,” Ilya croaks. “Rabbit.”

Shane’s eyes are enormous, wide and wet in the dark. “Five, then. We could even convert my gym into a home consult room, if you wanted - I’m always running, or doing my yoga outside, anyway. I never fucking use it, so it doesn’t matter. What matters is that both of you are there.”

“Anya sheds,” Ilya mumbles.

“I know that - her fur’s in my washing machine.”

“She requires at least two episodes of Desperate Housewives a day for enrichment -”

“I love that show.”

“I do not cook.”

“Forget it, I’m out.” Shane’s smiling now, pressing a flurry of quick kisses along his chest. “Ilya, I want you with me. Wherever we settle on, I want a home with you.”

Whatever lingering sleep remains in Anya dissolves, though she doesn’t interrupt. Curiously, neither does Pork. Humour deserts Ilya entirely, and once again the vision swims behind his eyelids fresh - though this time he doesn’t want or need to reach for an answer different to the one already on his tongue.

“I am already home with you.”

Shane falters. “You are?”

“You are mine, and I am yours.” Ilya strokes the back of his knuckles along Shane’s cheek, revelling in the way the other man turns into his touch. “All we must do is pick a roof to be ours under.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Shane exhales, his breath hot and unsteady against his neck. “We don’t have to rush - keep your flat as long as you need.”

“I do not need it,” Ilya says, his voice hardly more than a whisper. “I need you.”

“And if mine doesn’t feel like yours, we’ll find somewhere else.”

“It already does.”

Shane might actually be trying to climb under his skin. “It is. Always has been, I think, from the minute you walked in the door and started telling me my cat was your soulmate.”

Ilya smiles. “Maybe my gift was trying to tell me all along that his person was.”

Or that you are just a filthy liar, Pork mutters from his new residence of the armchair.

“That too.”

“We’re going to live together,” Shane whispers, pulling him closer to kiss him properly this time - he drinks the relieved sound that escapes Ilya with hunger, and he blinks and they’re laughing, laughing into each other’s mouths even as the friction already building between them mounts. “We’re moving in.”

Ilya nips at his jaw, nibbling all the way up to his ear and walking them backwards until they emerge back into the lamplit living room. “Now, please.”

“I was going to say we’ll work out the practical stuff -” It breaks off into a gasp when Ilya’s hands travel down, foreplay be damned- ordinarily he’d be very interested in the art that is taking Shane Hollander apart with his tongue, but tonight urgency has the wheel and he grinds against him, catching the next sound in his own mouth. “Fuck - you’re hard -”

“You asked me to build a life with you,” Ilya chokes, already steering him towards the stairs.

“That did it?”

God, his cheeks hurt. “You said washing machine. Was all it took -”

“Why’re your clothes still on?” Shane’s already shedding his, breaking the kiss only to rip his shirt up and over his head. “Off. Take them off.”

“I love you, Anechka,” Ilya calls, fumbling with his belt. “Pork -” Go away.

“I -”

The cat curls himself into a tighter ball. I have grown accustomed to your presence.

That’s good enough for him, and Ilya volleys him a vague and half formed promise of smoked salmon brought back from the village tomorrow as they stumble up the stairs, so tangled together it’s a miracle neither of them manage a concussion.

Your belongings will remain out of my quarters, Pork adds. Though I may permit you if you ask.

Even better. Ilya swears as he catches Shane’s face in his hands, kissing him hard enough they both careen into the bedroom door. “Ask me again.”

Your belongings will remain -

“Not you,” he says softly, though he has every intention of hearing the cat’s terms later on. “You, Shane. Ask me again.”

Shane shudders against him. “Will you move in with me?”

“Yes,” Ilya murmurs into his mouth, kicking the door shut and freeing himself of his jeans. “I love you, I love you, I love you -”

“I love you -”

“Clothes off?”

“Clothes off.”

Chapter 13: here to stay

Chapter Notes

we’re nearly there 😭

before I get all emotional, I’m so so so honoured that the very talented

Kninjaknitter is working on a podfic!! it’s attached at the end of this

chapter, and it’s SO good <333

this is technically the final ‘present day’ chapter - chapter 14 is

epilogue style, and I can confirm the return of some familiar faces!!

as always, thank you so much for coming along on this ride, kisses

xoxo

Shane’s moving plan, if Ilya had to guess, has used at least thirty trees worth of paper - he’s also been carrying it around since six in the morning, so Ilya’s managed little more than a cursory glance at it in as many hours. He doesn’t really need to study it anyway, because Shane seems perfectly content to simply bark orders at him instead - his sweet, kind, gentle boyfriend’s been replaced by a robot issuing commands like ‘Ilya, don’t put the winter clothes in with the fucking cutlery!’ and ‘not there, no, not there either - Jesus Christ, give it here!’ at 100 decibels. “The sheets are in box six,” he’s saying, crouching to tape another label to an already thoroughly labelled box. “But the duvets themselves are in nine -any soft furnishings will always be in a box that’s a multiple of three, so three, six, nine, twelve - Ilya, are you listening to me?” Ilya is, but he’s also staring dismally at the contents (or lack thereof) of his very empty, newly scrubbed fridge. “I am listening - did you pack my McDonalds? What is the multiple for McMuffin box?”

“I threw them out,” Shane wrinkles his nose. “That stuff isn’t safe to eat the next day. Actually, it’s probably not safe to eat at all -”

“You threw out my McMuffin,” Ilya mumbles, closing it again. “The nuggets?”

“Oh, Anya looked like she wanted those. She had them with breakfast.”

“I wanted them with breakfast.”

Shane, who isn’t entirely heartless, has the good grace to look at least a little apologetic - he releases the schedule from his clutches (of one hand, anyway) to rub a pacifying circle into his shoulder, kissing the corner of his mouth. “We’ll order a takeaway tonight, yeah? Remember I was telling you about that Thai place down the road?”

Mollified at the promise of khao kha moo, he closes his mouth and nods. “I have forgiven you.”

“Anyway - don’t open box eleven until you get to mine. I’ve packed all your electronics in there, and I don’t want to risk the bubblewrap coming loose.”

“I will try to contain myself.”

Shane sets about noting something else down as Anya, who’s spent most of the morning drifting between rooms as their life disappears into cardboard, licks his knuckles as she passes. You’re remarkably calm. Ilya takes a second to verify this, surprised to find it true. His heart isn’t racing, even when the other man begins an inspection on the staining around the skirting boards, and he’s not sweating. It’s normal - as normal as moving into your boyfriend’s place after several near death experiences ever could be. He’d expected it to feel at least a little strange, saying goodbye to a home he’d built for himself with bloody hands, surrounded by memories and echoes he can almost hear out loud. Ilya tilts his head, glancing at the dent in the wall by the sofa. That had been almost five Christmases ago, from when he and Sasha were playing a drunken, improvised game of rugby with a strawberry trifle - Sasha had slipped, almost put his head straight through the plaster, and covered them both in custard and whipped cream. Ilya (after establishing he wasn’t concussed enough to warrant a hospital trip) had laughed himself sick.

In the other direction, there’s a collection of tiny nibbles in the wood of the front door - Miroslav had been in his oak era, and Natalya had materialised to tell him off so gently the ferret hadn’t realised he was being scolded until much later that week. Ilya smiles, shifting to study the scuffs from Anya’s claws where she’d circle every night at his feet by the armchair. He might have more time to dwell on this if a horn hadn’t blared from downstairs - they make it to the window just as a hire van mounts the curb, and Cliff (who concerningly has neither hand on the wheel) waves from the driver’s seat with a cigarette hanging from his lips and a Doberman riding passenger side. Somehow, he does get it in park, and barrels through the front door moments later in leather trousers so tight Ilya can, quite literally, see both testicles - he’s opted to pair them with a black satin vest, ankle boots, and what Ilya thinks is some kind of heavy silver necklace. “Did Berghain not let you in,” Ilya says slowly, keeping his eyes firmly above waist height. “Or -”

Shane frowns. “Why are you wearing a day collar?”

“A what?”

Cliff raises a hand to finger the O ring. “Oh, this? Guy off Hinge gave it to me.”

There’s times in Ilya’s life, like this one, that he doubts his own fluency in English - bemused, he turns to Shane. “What is a day collar?”

“You know,” Shane gestures, and predictably the knowledge doesn’t magically impart itself in his brain. “It’s usually a kink thing - for people playing with a power dynamic. Lots of symbolism.” Even more confused, he appeals to Cliff. “So a stranger gave you a collar?” The other man grins. “He’s not a stranger.”

“What is his name?”

“Joss? Jake? Something like that - I know his surname.”

“You do not know his first name!”

“It’s definitely got a J in it - anyway, doesn’t matter. He cried after, started telling me about Stonehenge or some shit, so I’m not going to see him again.” Cliff claps him cheerfully on the arm, already distracted. “Shane! Sick flip flops, dude. Are they the ones you wear at the pool to stop getting verrucas?”

Shane looks down at his Birkenstocks. “Uh - no?”

“Nice, nice. Put me on to those later, yeah?”

Octavia, at his heel and apparently undisturbed by her father’s attire, hasn’t spared any of them a glance. Her consciousness has always been distinct to Ilya - unlike Margot’s dreamy, colourful imagination, Octavia is sharp, near surgical in her assessment of her surroundings. Ilya gets along with her well enough, but she makes very little effort to adjust her tolerance to bullshit, and he often suspects she’d forget he existed if he wasn’t the keeper of -well, who knows what they are to each other. At any rate, Octavia’s attention lasers on Anya, who’s currently creeping closer at a very modest 0.00001mph and pretending she isn’t.

Your coat is beautiful today, Octavia’s nose twitches, stopping close enough that she’d just need to dip her head to touch it. The light is really catching the silver.

Anya goes rigid, a heady mix of delight and panic surging through her with such force Ilya almost chokes on it. Oh - it’s - thank you. Yours is - very short.

The Doberman’s long tail gives a lazy sweep. You smell good, too. I went outside earlier - rain. It was raining. At some point this week, it was raining - thank you.

“Are you well?” Ilya asks sweetly, bracing as Anya’s brain bashes his with the smug, sensory confirmation of just how delicious his chicken nuggets had been.

Show me your home, she murmurs, her amber eyes meeting blue until every coherent thought drains from his dog entirely. I want to see where you slept. Thanks, you too. Anya cringes and pivots, narrowly avoiding walking straight into the table. Home, yes. I can - there’s the armchair, but - I also sleep in the bedroom. Ilya’s bedroom is…over…there. Ilya grins as they retreat down the hall. “Remember, Anechka, you cannot marry someone who does not know you are courting them!” She shoots him a vicious look over her shoulder before they disappear, and Cliff raises an eyebrow, turning to him with a grave expression. “I’m not ready to be a granddad just yet.”

“Sorry,” Shane cuts in, borderline vibrating now. “Did you get everything I sent you?”

“Sure did - I also got us all Meal Deals, but I ate two. Sorry - the third is mostly intact, I think, but I did give Octavia the boiled eggs.” Ilya’s interest piques. “What is the third one?”

“Sausage, bacon, and egg triple.”

Thank god.

“Wait, no, I ate that one - my bad. There’s a falafel bowl thing, and I got Shane a pot of apples and grapes. I know you like that shit, my man.” Cliff Marleau is going to die in seven days.

“Great, thanks,” Shane nods, his nose buried in his paperwork. “That van looks bigger than the one I sent you, though.”

“It is, they upgraded me. It’ll fit more stuff.”

The forehead crease makes itself known. “That isn’t the point.”

“It is fine, дорогой,” Ilya soothes, thumbing it away. “We can still put objects inside until there are no more objects.” Hayden and Jackie arrive at the exact moment Shane opens his mouth to disagree, and Ilya makes a mental note to update the flat’s buyers that their lovely new home has now been irreparably tainted by the human equivalent of what one might cough up after a tonsillectomy. His beautiful, intelligent girlfriend hasn’t yet tired of the HB pencil, however, as she doesn’t appear to have cried recently, and she lets Hayden’s hand go before she wraps her arms around Ilya’s shoulders.

“Hello, chicken,” she murmurs into his shirt. “Big day for you.” Ilya glowers at Hayden over the top of her head. “You know I offered you this flat for free, yes? You can still change your mind if you wish to escape-”

She pulls back, grinning. “Hayden’s just booked us an all inclusive holiday to Rhodes, so I think I’ll hold off on breaking up with him for now.” Shane’s eyes slip sideways at this - they’d both known this well before she did, considering Hayden had shown up on the doorstep the night they’d been watching some new series about gay hockey, and told them he’d be proposing to her while they were away. The ring, admittedly, is fucking beautiful - a sleek moss agate solitaire Hayden had custom made by a jeweller from Jackie’s hometown in Romania. That said, he’d immediately ruined it the second he’d shared his first draft at a proposal speech, which began (and has since been aggressively corrected by Shane) with ‘Jackie, I’ve put a lot of things inside you over the years -’ “It is not too late for an anonymous tip to air traffic control,” Ilya mutters, but it’s halfhearted as he finally clocks why the parasite’s been so quiet -Hayden’s staring at Cliff, and hasn’t yet discovered the decency of closing his mouth. “Or poison. There are mushrooms in Shane’s garden.” Oblivious, Shane relinquishes a page of his plan and holds it out. “I’ve divided everything into teams.”

“Hayden can go with Cliff,” Jackie says, studying it. The Hayden in question can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the collar. “I can?”

“Sure, babe.”

Cliff nods solemnly. “Ace - you good? You’ve gone kinda red.”

“I’m fine,” Hayden says, swallowing.

“Good,” Cliff gives his bicep a shameless squeeze. “We’re down for heavy lifting, as per the Hollander protocol.”

“He may not be strong enough,” Ilya warns, trailing after them as they start towards the dining chairs. “He is very weak, Marleau - a waif. His little arms will snap -”

“Fuck off,” Hayden mutters, twisting to look at Jackie over his shoulder, who’s contentedly tucking Shane’s fringe out of his face. The first hour proves Shane’s painstakingly detailed plans unnecessary, because Cliff demonstrates his total lack of respect for both order and authority - boxes migrate out and away, and the dogs reappear periodically. Anya’s conducting the tour at a glacial pace, though Octavia doesn’t feel tired of it, walking close enough that their sides brush every now and then. Each time, her thoughts send an uncharacteristically messy storm of emotions through Ilya, consumed mostly by the desperate and inexplicable need for her to locate the Kong octopus plush she’d disembowelled during her first week home.

She said my coat was beautiful, she hisses as they complete a lap of the slowly emptying living room, Octavia busying herself with surveying Jackie’s ankles. Do you think she meant all of it, or just the silver? Because I also have tan, black, and white -

“All of it,” Ilya murmurs. “You are beautiful.” I should’ve thanked her better - she must think I’m so immature.

Octavia returns, thinking no such thing. What are you discussing? Nothing.

“I was just reminding Anya of the time she saved my friend from a burning building,” Ilya tries. “She was -”

You have very few friends, Ilya, Octavia muses - there’s no malice in it, only her usual, blunt observation. I would have heard about it. Anya stomps on his foot before leading her away again.

•————•

By the afternoon, very little remains but the things Ilya doesn’t need to take. Shane has a sofa, has a dishwasher, has a rug and a coffee table and about five thousand cushions, though Cliff pauses at the ratty armchair. The other man had teased him for it, at the time - it really is a bit gross, embroidered by what must’ve been someone actively spinning in a centrifuge, and old enough it’s probably wanted in a museum somewhere. They’d uncovered it in an Oxfam, right at the very back sandwiched between a bin of Littlest Pet Shop figures and a suspiciously stained collection of porcelain dolls, and Ilya had wanted it so much he and Cliff spent an hour and a half trying to book a man with a van very much like the one it won’t be loaded into now. Cliff catches Hayden by the wrist before he can start lifting it. “Ilya - this coming?”

“No,” Ilya says. “We can leave it.”

From the other end of the room, Shane looks up with tape still between his teeth. “What?”

Ilya shrugs. “It will not suit your house. We can sell it, maybe, or put it in storage until I decide.”

“Our house,” Shane says, setting the roll down. “Listen -”

“It is very ugly, and very old.”

“Baby, you love that chair.”

He does, actually, but fitting into somewhere new rarely provisions for whether he prefers a creepy ass armchair from the 70s or a sleek two seater. “I can love it from storage.”

“But -” Shane shakes his head, bewildered. “Why would you do that?”

“Your living room is very nice.”

“Our, and here, look,” he reaches for his papers (which still haven’t ventured further than touching distance), “It’s going by the window - I moved the console yesterday. It’ll fit right by Anya’s new bed.” He blinks. “You measured it?”

“Of course I did - I had to know if it’d fit.”

“What if it did not?”

“Ilya - I’d just have moved something else?”

Shane’s already turned away to unplug the lamp, and Ilya stares at the chair until the patterned fabric starts to blur.

“Alright,” Cliff claps his hands, releasing Hayden. “You get that side, then.” Jackie, passing the doorway with a box of shoes, stops short. “Careful -Hayden, lift with your knees.”

“Sure,” he breathes, motionless as he fixes on the collar again. “You’re staring,” Cliff winks.

“Shut up. I’m looking at the - at the chair.”

“It’s down there.” Cliff bends, and the leather trousers squeak. “Like this, yeah? Don’t want you hurting yourself.”

It takes a good few hours to finalise the rest - with the armchair securely strapped into the van (thanks to Jackie, who has custody of the collective braincell today), Ilya has the time to retrieve Anya and take a final walkaround alone. They don’t linger - not every goodbye is a painful one, he’s learning, as they go.

“What do you think?” Ilya beams, scooping Anya higher against his chest. She’s so small, not yet filled out, though he’s in no rush for her to get any bigger. The rescue said they think she’s around a year old, 90% fluff, gangly and finally past her first timid few weeks where she hadn’t dared to initiate contact of any kind. He’s left the bedroom door wide open, grinning as the dog squirms in his arms. “Look, Anechka.”

He feels her attention shift, scanning the brand new king sized bed in the middle of the room. It’s not perfect, sure, but it’s bigger than his shitty double, and plenty spacious enough for them both on nights Sasha’s working late. You got the bed?

He plants a wet kiss behind her silky ear. “First invoice came back last week. I did not tell you, in case the whole thing failed - but, Anya, I could do this. I think I can.”

Of course you can, she says, scrambling down to sniff at the stiff, unused sheets. I told you, sunshine, you’re made for big things. It had been her idea, really - Ilya had never so much as thought about starting a business before. He’d agonised over it, for nights on end since she’d brought it up - there’s a lot more to it than arriving on someone’s doorstep with the promise he can talk to animals for real (and hasn’t just had an obscene amount of edibles). Pricing, tax returns, website hosting, incorporation, god, he can’t even list them without wanting to throw himself out the window. But as it happens, Sasha had known a guy who’d known a guy, and Cliff for some reason has so many Instagram followers that initial advertising hadn’t been a problem. And it’s working - really working. His first month had been booked so fully that he’d consumed an ungodly number of Greggs sausage rolls between appointments, but his overdraft has equally stopped becoming just a bit of banter between himself and Natwest - it’s paid in full, with some to spare.

Ilya sweeps his hand over the duvet. “Now we can both fit, you see?” I’m seeing, and I can’t wait to give you a paw to the kidney at 1am. Anya hops up onto it, moving towards the pillows. But you’re still worried. His smile flickers. “Anechka - what if -”

She waits.

“What if there are animals I cannot fix?” Ilya grits his teeth. “What if it hurts?”

Anya’s ears flatten. And what if it does? “I do not follow.”

You hearing it doesn’t make the hurt happen - you’re helping, Ilya. “Not if I cannot fix it.”

You didn’t fix me. Anya curls her hindquarters under herself, her eyes bright. You found me.

Ilya’s eyes sting. “And if the hurt follows me home?” Then you tell me, and I’ll carry it with you.

“Remember the day I got this?” Ilya threads his fingers into her ruff of soft fur.

I remember. You chose the worst mattress.

He chuckles, patting it one last time just to hear the springs creak. “You are ready?”

She doesn’t really need to answer, contentment thrumming through her every time her thoughts divert from the conversation, but she wanders closer and gives the headboard a sniff anyway. I think we both are. “Yes, I think so too.” Ilya takes one last look before pulling the door shut, and together they lock up for the last time, heading out to the van. The drive to Shane’s (theirs, now, to be technical about it) feels longer than it ever has, and Ilya lets himself in first - Shane must think he’s at genuine risk of swallowing his house keys because he’d had several sets of spares cut, all of which now reside on the new keyring Sveta had sent him as a moving present. It’s a loon, made with air dry clay and glazed shiny -hilarious, truly. He steps through into the hallway, and is entirely unsurprised to find Pork waiting in the hallway with Small Beloved propped beside him. He’s dressed in a white cable knit dotted with yellow ducks, but Ilya knows better than to underestimate the fit - the cat’s malevolence appears to directly correlate to how unassuming his clothing is these days, so he gives him a wide berth.

You have returned.

“Yes,” he says, making an attempt to edge around him. “Can you move?” I am assessing you.

“You may assess me later, when we are not paying by the hour for a van -” Shane pops up behind him with the first of the boxes (number one, Ilya’s collection of flannels), shuffling past with far less difficulty. “I figured he wouldn’t love today - it’s okay, buddy. It’s just Ilya’s stuff.” You may place it in the shed.

“The shed belongs to the owl,” Ilya mutters. “And he likes me much more than he likes you.”

Pork advances, sniffing at the corner of the box now Shane’s set it down. Open this.

“Not yet.”

Contraband.

“Is he pissed you’re moving in?” Shane shepherds them into the living room to clear the way for Jackie, currently ushering Hayden in with a wooden spoon.

There’s no clear answer to this - if he squints, there’s a hum of anxiety bouncing about the cat’s brain, maybe a sprinkle of irritation here and a dash of his baseline hatred, seasoned with just enough disgust that it takes Ilya a moment to sift through the cause of it. Pork gives him a long look, then turns his back on them both.

“Probably, yes,” Ilya says, jolting as Cliff emerges backwards through the living room door, his arms full.

“Where’d you want this?”

Any trace of malice Pork might currently be brewing is eclipsed at the sound of his voice, and he approaches with a creak, his attention travelling slowly over every inch of leather until Ilya feels faintly sick. Large Cliff. Cliff peers around the box. “Is that my boy?”

Pork rubs his cheek against his trousers, and the resulting squeak as flesh meets shiny, patent clad shin is so repulsive that even Shane has to turn away, consulting his plan despite the fact they’ve all made it here in one piece (minus Cliff’s testicles, which might’ve lost blood supply and fallen off somewhere around Olympic Park).

Magnificent, Pork purrs, his admiration so tangible Ilya himself is finding it difficult to resist the urge to sneak a look. Your hips are suited to bring forth many offspring.

“He is admiring your physique,” Ilya grinds out, sending a silent plea out to Anya that she leave Octavia’s ears alone and help dilute some of the godawful appreciation bubbling out of the cat. Cliff gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. “Thanks, little man. Your primordial pouch is looking real good today.”

You may touch it.

“No, thank you,” Ilya starts, all but throwing himself back out into the hallway to where Hayden’s carrying half of his dismantled bookcase (and the spider that lives under it, though Hayden doesn’t yet know that) up the stairs.

•————•

“So, wardrobe’s done,” Shane runs a hand through his hair, looking alarmingly composed considering the rest of them are sweating and red faced. “The bathroom drawers are sorted, and I’ve put a load of stuff in the airing cupboard, so you’ve got space for all your things.”

“This is enough,” Ilya says quickly, resisting the urge to dunk his head under the cold water tap.

“Don’t be silly - we haven’t unpacked everything yet.” Shane moves towards the small collection of remaining boxes, and Pork, who’s been watching every single item as it emerges, decides simultaneously that it is indeed enough. He erupts forwards with a yowl, leaping for the box at such speed Shane yelps and snatches his hand away. No more -

“Pork!”

Ilya lunges before the cat can shred the box to ribbons, hauling him back by the jumper. “I thought we were past this, no?” Pork ducks, shooting from the box and pinging off the sink to plant himself on one of the newly empty shelves instead. No. “What is wrong, then? Talk to me, and please get off my shelf.” This shelf is mine.

Ilya inhales, summoning every ounce of patience he has left. “What do you use it for? I am happy to share with you.”

He opens his mouth on a silent hiss and says nothing, wedging himself further against the wall.

“Come on, Porkie,” Shane murmurs. “Ilya needs that. You two have been getting along so well recently -”

His objects may use another.

“Which one can I use?”

Pork’s pupils expand until Ilya can see his own face reflecting in them. The one in the kitchen, beneath the cupboard.

Ilya crosses his arms. “That is where the pestle is stored - I am not falling for that again.”

The cat’s foul mood continues, predictably, for the rest of the day. Progress is slow, made slower still by the fact Hayden assembles the bookcase in the en suite for reasons beyond all of them present, and has to take it apart again just to fit it back through the door - the dogs largely keep to themselves (possibly something to do with the increasingly vile aura emanating from Pork), and even Cliff can’t lull him out of it for longer than a few minutes at a time.

It reaches its peak when Ilya and Shane manoeuvre the armchair inside -they manage this with minimal injury, though Hayden has turned and remained scarlet since Cliff moved him out of the way by his hips, and Pork abandons Anya’s new bed to examine each wooden leg with revulsion. This is unclean.

“It came from a charity shop,” Ilya wheezes, still bent double over it. “Not Chernobyl.”

It smells of many dead people.

Cursing, Ilya snatches Small Beloved from the floor (and makes a conceived effort not to throttle the stuffing out of him at the same time), brandishing it at the cat. “Your accomplice must require a new supervisory position now the room has changed, yes? Come and choose where he should reside.”

The offer works better than he’d anticipated, because Pork’s descent into incandescent rage does waver, and he trots pleasantly enough at Ilya’s ankles without severing them as they locate a new perch for the rabbit. Eventually they settle on the console’s new position beside the media cabinet. He is overseeing the invasion. “Pork,” Ilya whispers the second the others are occupied in an animated debate over the finale of The Good Place. “You are upset.” I am not, he snaps, stalking away to retrieve a pair of Shane’s socks in his mouth and depositing it onto his heated bed, along with his growing collection (a spatula, Shane’s jar of italian herbs, an ancient copy of a National Geographic magazine, and one wool glove). You are just stupid. “You are taking all of Shane’s things.”

I am preserving the territory. Pork’s triangular head swivels as Jackie passes with a collection of old books Shane’s cleared out. Stop her. Ilya frowns. “They are being donated. Shane does not wish to keep them -” His things are leaving.

“Yes.”

Yours are spreading.

The cat’s unease wins, and Ilya clears his throat around the lump of it he can feel there. Very, very slowly, he extends his knuckles to Pork’s wrinkled nose. “Smell me.”

No.

“Yes,” he says softly. “You know me. You know who I am.”

You are a hateful, horrible - Pork breaks off, regathering himself to try again. You are -

Ilya shakes his head. “It is fine, I can tell you. You are my friend, and I know my friend does not like change. I do not, either, really, but a very important ferret once told me change, yes. We could try this together.” No.

“You want me to leave?”

Pork hesitates. No.

“Will you harm me if I stay?”

This would distress my Beloved.

“Then we are aligned, it looks like.” Ilya very carefully runs his hand along the back of the cat’s jumper. “I will not make him small for me, I promise you this.”

Get out of my sight, Pork mutters, stretching to allow him better access to his back.

Grinning, Ilya stoops to fuss the available sections of flesh, and doesn’t gag once. He’s marvelling over the fact trying this six months ago would’ve resulted in spontaneous amputation when he notices just how quiet the house is around them - Anya and Octavia are outside with Jackie, Shane is humming softly to himself in the kitchen as he arranges Ilya’s mugs beside his, but there’s absolutely nothing from the other two. As far as he’s aware they’d been tasked to start dismantling the gym equipment, but even as he pauses to listen, there’s no clank of weights or any sign at all that they’re actually helping. Shane’s yoga mat has made it to the bottom of the stairs, but that seems a pretty shit return for two grown men supposedly labouring to clear an already small room.

It makes complete sense that Pike’s laziness would’ve corrupted Cliff, though for the loudest man Ilya knows, the silence does grow unsettling. He straightens up and gives the cat’s spine a final pat. “I believe they are struggling.”

Good.

“Yes, but if they die up there we may be haunted. Like Murder House.” Pork yawns, and there’s not a singular ripple of concern Ilya can detect in him - he leaves him to guard his hoard and heads for the stairs. Even more worrying is the fact there’s no answer when Ilya calls Cliff’s name, just a muffled thud from the room followed by a breathy noise that very much could be the agonal gasp of someone trapped underneath a rowing machine. He shoves the door open, and -

Nobody’s being crushed by gym equipment, per say. Hayden’s against the wall by the window, though against doesn’t (in his opinion) accurately express the force Cliff’s using to hold him there - his knee’s planted between Hayden’s thighs, and their hips are pressed so close Jesus would need a crowbar to make room for himself between them. One of Hayden’s wrists is pinned high above his head, but this doesn’t seem overly necessary considering his other hand has a fistful of satin vest and is making no attempt whatsoever at pushing him away.

Worse still, they’re kissing. That might not be the right word either, not when they seem to be fighting over who gets to swallow who whole first -Cliff pulls a sound out of the other man that Ilya’s going to hear on his death bed, before breaking away just enough to reinforce where his wrist goes. “Hands where I put them, yeah?”

“I - yeah.”

“Yeah what?”

Hayden swallows, chasing his mouth again. “Yeah, I’ve got it.”

“Fuck,” Cliff murmurs (unaware Ilya’s halfway through a myocardial infarction just feet away). “You’re so good for me.”

This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening - Ilya’s eyes try valiantly to conjure up literally any other kind of explanation, perhaps they tripped mouth first, or maybe in the space of an hour an ancient curse has been placed on Marleau and the only way to save himself is to lock lips with the nearest sack of shit. His eyes can’t, however, dispute the fact there’s grinding involved now - to his horror, this grinding has Hayden fucking Pike arching helplessly into Cliff’s arms. Ilya’s going to shove that moss agate solitaire so far up his cheating ass that it comes out of his mouth during the postmortem. “What the fuck?”

Hayden rips away with a gasp, banging his head (not hard enough) on the wall. Cliff, on the other hand, has the audacity to wave. “Oh - hey, Ilya. Making good progress.”

Red mist descends, and the ceiling of Shane’s home gym opens to plagues of locusts. The Thames turns to blood, and Ilya white knuckles the door handle before he rips it off and uses it as a projectile. “You are - he is -Jackie is downstairs!”

“Yeah,” Hayden says slowly, giving him a strange look. The lack of fucks given is so blatant Ilya finds himself winded, already planning how on earth he’ll explain to Jackie she’s not going to Rhodes, and her adulterous boyfriend is dead, there was a double homicide that he definitely didn’t have anything to do with, but also (for unrelated reasons) would she like to move to the mountains and live off grid with them for the rest of her life? It had to be done, you see, before Basil starts asking why he’s now got two Christmases -

“She is your girlfriend,” he hisses, jabbing a finger in his direction. “You remember her?”

Hayden’s eyes widen. “Oh - oh god - Ilya, this isn’t -”

“His tongue was in your mouth!”

“Dude, I think we need to have a chat,” Cliff says, in a voice that would probably sound quite reasonable if his trousers didn’t creak the second he pries himself away from Hayden’s crotch. “You’re missing one crucial bit of info.”

“You disgust me,” Ilya snaps, already moving away. “Jackie is good, and kind, and you have betrayed her.”

Ilya almost falls down the stairs in his haste to flee, blind with fury - he’d put Shane’s involvement with Pike down to a sentimental and grievous misfire of object permanence, though beyond Jackie he’d never anticipated anyone that aren’t his parents capable of enjoying Hayden’s presence (maybe not them, actually, because anyone unlucky enough to have birthed Hayden Pike surely would have released him into the wild at the first given opportunity). He finds Shane kneeling beside the last of the boxes, a photo frame in each hand - Ilya seizes him by the shoulders. “Hayden is kissing Cliff.”

Shane blinks up at him. “Okay?”

“No, Shane -” Ilya swallows his rising panic, resisting the urge to touch the back of his hand to Shane’s forehead - maybe he’s tired. “Kissing. They were kissing, and there were hip motions. Intentional hip motions, for sex things.”

The other man glances up at the ceiling. “Well, that didn’t take long.” Aghast, Ilya releases him like he’s been burned. “What?”

“I thought they’d at least clear the room first.” There’s no way. “You knew?”

“I mean, sure,” he shrugs. “I figured they were into each other - it wasn’t exactly subtle.”

“Jackie is your friend! She is unsuspecting -”

Shane’s eyebrows furrow. “What are you talking about?” Ilya stares at him - has he switched to Russian without realising? He doesn’t think so, considering Shane hasn’t yet said ‘you’re speaking Russian, Ilya’, but he can’t be too sure. “Shane, your oldest friend is committing adultery overhead, and you do not seem very concerned.”

“Hayden isn’t committing adultery,” Shane says. “They’re -”

“Cliff had him pinned like an insect!”

“God - right, I thought we’d been over this. They’re open - the relationship is open.” Shane takes hold of his hands before he can start shaking him. “Baby, they’re non monogamous. You’ve literally met Jackie’s girlfriend.” None of it makes sense - Ilya wracks his brain for any sort of recognition that might help him grasp it, and latches only on the evening a few weeks ago where Jackie had dropped over the extension lead she’d borrowed, accompanied by a woman called Samira who’d told Ilya she liked his necklace. “She - no.”

“Yeah.”

“Open,” Ilya echoes. “She knows?”

Shane grins. “She asked me to put Hayd and Cliff together.” Slowly, the nausea abates, and Ilya takes a shuddering breath before he keels over. “I see.”

“See what?” Jackie sticks her head around the door, a mug of what smells like coffee in her hand. “Jesus - you’re shaking.”

“Your boyfriend has his tongue inside Cliff Marleau,” Ilya says faintly, letting Shane steer him towards the sofa.

She hands him the mug with a sweet smile. “Nice, good for him.”

Ilya studies her face - there’s no devastation spreading across it, or the tiny flicker of a person trying to conceal their hurt. She just raises an eyebrow, clearly trying very hard not to laugh. “You are okay with this?”

“Sure,” Jackie says. “We’ve got rules, and he knows what they are. I like Cliff, too -”

“Please do not tell him this -”

“- and I trust Hayden the same way he trusts me. It’s all good, I promise.” It might be the coffee, but this does contribute some to reassuring him (not enough to undo the harm of Pike receiving the Cliff Marleau treatment -Ilya had tried that once when he and Sasha were on a break, and never again) - he pauses, but gets all of 0.5 seconds to reconcile this when the sound of footsteps echo from the hall. Cliff appears first, merrily squeaking all the way - his lips are wet, and Hayden trails behind him so red anyone that hadn’t seen what Ilya had would start searching for an EpiPen at great speed.

“’Sup,” Cliff says, dropping himself beside Ilya with a satisfied sigh. “Everything good?”

“Ilya’s discovered ethical non monogamy,” Jackie beams, collecting Hayden against her side and depositing him on Ilya’s shitty armchair - fuck, now he’s going to have to burn it. “Huge day for the Hollander Rozanov household.”

•————•

It’s just gone 7pm when the door closes behind the last of their incredibly inefficient movers (read: Cliff) - the gym remains half full, but in truth it’s nothing they can’t do between themselves in thirty minutes, and now the promise of the first night in his home is looming Ilya can’t bring himself to be pissed about it. What he is pissed about, however, is the fact Hayden asked for Cliff’s number in full view when he’s still recovering from hearing what sound he makes pressed against 2026’s International Mr Leather. Jackie had taken Cliff’s phone without breaking stride, adding both of theirs and handing it back, and nothing about the exchange is secretive enough for Ilya to find new cause for concern. Octavia’s goodbye is similarly brief, and though Ilya does try to give them some privacy, he can’t escape the flood of adrenaline coursing through both of them no matter how much he might want to. I want to see you again, she says, touching her nose to Anya’s cheek. Soon. Anya does seem to have recovered basic speech after a full day in the other dog’s presence, and she manages a complete sentence this time. I’m often available - I can be even more available.

Of course neither of them possess a Google Calendar or any real way of planning, so Ilya commits this to memory before leaving them to it until Octavia’s consciousness fades as the hire van disappears down the street. Even better, Shane’s found the Thai menu, and twenty minutes later they’re sitting cross legged on the sofa, Ilya’s khao kha moo steaming in his lap. Shane’s chosen khao man gai, and the second he serves the poached chicken, accompanied by rice, a clear soup and a cucumber and coriander salad, both Anya and Pork’s attentions laser in his direction. The cat hasn’t left Ilya’s armchair - Small Beloved remains guarding his collection of Shane’s belongings, and Pork produces a chirp of interest so void of any murderous intent that Ilya actually has to check it hasn’t come from the dog. “You have had your own dinner,” Ilya says, already tearing off a small piece of the chicken Shane’s deposited on his plate for him to try. I have finished it.

“Let me guess, he wants some?” Shane, around a mouthful of cucumber, waves his fork. “What’ve I told you about extortion?” The chicken may be brought to me.

With a sigh, Ilya extends his hand - Pork sniffs the chicken and clearly approves enough to ingest it, because when he grabs for it, his sharp canines sink into both the scrap and Ilya’s index finger.

“Fuck,” he yelps, jerking his hand away. “Ow -” Pork flattens so completely he’s little more than a puddle of strawberry milkshake, his alarm bitter and sticky in Ilya’s chest. I am sorry. Shane lowers his fork. “Did he bite you?”

“He -” Ilya studies the pinprick of blood welling on his skin, before wiping it on his jeans. “It is fine.”

Your finger moved into my teeth, Pork says quietly, gradually returning to the third dimension. Reckless.

“Yes, this was my mistake.” Ilya holds out a new piece of chicken, offering it out again. It takes the cat far longer to approach it this time, his nose twitching as he receives it with such care he drops it twice before finally securing it in his jaws. “There - no casualties this time.” I can bite you any time I like.

“You can try again tomorrow.”

Ilya returns to his pork (the kind currently soaking through his rice), and they eat in relative peace while Shane provides Anya her own portion. It’s only when he’s eaten enough that leaning forwards is really starting to test the strength of the denim that Shane abruptly pushes his own plate away and stands.

“Wait - I forgot -” he says, rummaging for a package down the side of the sofa. “I bought something.”

Picking a grain of rice from his teeth, Ilya frowns. “For moving?” Shane shakes his head, unwrapping a set of large buttons and setting them in a line on the rug. “For them - I ordered these before the cottage, but they only came yesterday.”

Ah, Anya’s tail thumps. I can see where this is going.

“Svetlana has these, right?” Shane points at the nearest, marked with a big YES sticker. “I know Pork and Anya don’t need them with you, but if you’re out working and they need something, I want them to be able to tell me.”

Ilya watches as NO, MORE, PLAY, OUTSIDE, FOOD, I LOVE YOU, ANYA, PORK, and HELP joins the rapidly growing collection. “Sveta also has a ‘fuck off’ button.”

Anya shuffles closer. That’s my favourite. “Show me,” Shane says, a shy smile playing around his lips as he shifts back to give her room. “If you want, that is.”

With a very pointed look, Anya extends a paw and presses FOOD. Please. “Good job,” Shane beams, offering her a stick of plain cucumber. She presses FOOD again before she’s even finished chewing. “Anechka,” Ilya says, holding out a finger in warning. “Do not take advantage of him -”

Anya ignores him completely, stepping between the buttons to touch her nose to SHANE (a button Ilya hadn’t even seen him add), FOOD, and I LOVE YOU. To his horror, Shane’s already melting, presenting her with more cucumber. “I love you too.”

“She is sandwiching a demand between affection - Anya, this is very manipulative!”

“We’ll get more buttons, obviously,” Shane’s saying, twirling her ear. “So if there’s anything specific you want for when Ilya isn’t here, you’ll have to tell him, okay?”

‘Unhand me’, Pork suggests, peering over the edge of the armchair. I would also like a ‘fool’ button, for Ilya.

PORK OUTSIDE.

Shane shakes his head. “Anya, he can’t go outside -” PORK OUTSIDE. PORK OUTSIDE. PORK OUTSIDE. PORK OUTSIDE. HELP.

“I do not disagree,” Ilya grumbles, intercepting her next paw with his foot. “But we cannot unleash him upon the outside world.” Terrible news. Anya drops herself beside Shane’s knees, licking cucumber juice from her muzzle. And I asked so nicely, as well. I will strip the silver from your fur -

“Okay,” Ilya stands, swiftly stepping between them. “That is enough sibling bonding, I think.”

He’s got no idea what time it is when they make it upstairs - the street outside is quiet but for the occasional murmur of the ginger cat down the road, and even the spider under the bookcase now sitting at the end of the hall doesn’t have much to say. Ilya’s just finished washing his face with something called a centella ampoule foam when he catches sight of his toothbrush in the ceramic pot beside Shane’s.

It’s such a tiny thing, and something he really should’ve expected - it isn’t like Shane was going to make him brush his teeth in the garden, but even so. There it is, with its frayed bristles (defeater of plaque, champion of brushing too hard), leaning against the other man’s like they’re straight out of that Colgate advert with the suave, honestly kind of sexy big brush. When he nudges his, Shane’s moves with it, and a very strange sound leaves his mouth before he can hope to swallow it. “Everything okay?” Shane appears in the mirror behind him, carrying the CPAP tank.

“It is beside yours,” Ilya croaks, pointing to the pot. “Well, yeah,” he says slowly. “Even our toothbrushes are in love.”

Shane seems entirely unaware he’s just delivered the killing blow, and Ilya’s eyes overfill at the speed of light, the dimly lit bathroom blurring into just an orange glow. “Oh my god - пожалуйста, come here.”

“What -”

No, there’s no time for any of that - Ilya’s going to die right here on the floor of the en suite if he can’t climb him like a tree at this very second. He catches him around the middle and lifts, and Shane grabs for the counter in a feeble attempt to twist away, considering he’s laughing so hard it vibrates all the way through the shoulder Ilya’s thrown him over. “You are coming with me.”

“Put me down,” Shane wriggles, breathless. “The fuck -”

“No, thank you. I do not think I will.”

“Ilya, the water -”

Fuck the water. Ilya chucks him on the mattress hard enough that Shane bounces - it buys him a second, and he snatches the tank to set it very carefully on the bedside table. Shane’s still laughing when Ilya chases him towards the headboard, trapping him under his own body and kissing the corner of his mouth.

Shane swats at his ass. “What’s gotten into you? There’s water everywhere.”

“My toothbrush lives here.”

“Well, yeah,” he murmurs into his mouth. “You live here.” He kisses him again - what else is he meant to do with that? Ilya catches his lower lip between his teeth as Shane’s hands slip up underneath his shirt, warm and splaying across his spine. The laughter fizzles away, fading into soft breath that could belong to either of them as Ilya moves along his jaw, nipping and tasting clean skin. Shane’s head knocks back against the pillows, and he can feel the exact moment the pulse he’s lapping at quickens.

“I love you,” Shane whispers.

“Stop this,” Ilya presses forwards, hiding his face in the crook of the other man’s neck - though he’s still able to yank Shane’s shirt up and over his stomach. “I am very vulnerable right now.”

Shane lifts, letting him strip it all the way off. “You pounced on me.”

“Yes, and I will do it again.” Ilya dips his head to snag his nipple between his lips, and that effectively ends any discussion - Shane gasps as he sucks, watching with his mouth open as he works down over the twitching plane of his stomach, licking into each slope of muscle he passes on the way. To his delight, Shane’s already eased his hips up before he even reaches his waistband. “So eager.”

“Can you blame me,” he huffs, gritting his teeth as his cock springs free and Ilya snatches it in his hand. “When you do shit like this?” Ilya’s half tempted to ask exactly what sort of shit he’s referring to, but ultimately decides a physical demonstration might be more beneficial for the both of them. He ducks, swirling his tongue around Shane’s tip and revelling in the way his abdomen clenches. He’s wet already, salty sweet -he has no interest in dragging it out as he shifts to take him further, following the vein on his shaft all the way down. Shane shudders, already squirming, and Ilya hollows his cheeks and sucks him all the way back up. “Ilya,” he breathes, fisting both hands in his hair. “Fuck -” When he glances up, Shane’s flushed, his mouth parted in rapt attention - he watches him work his way back down again, and this time when he pulls off he lifts his free hand to cover Shane’s, tightening them in his curls. “Use these.”

It takes Shane a moment to understand. “My hands?”

When his fingers give a cautious flex, Ilya rewards him by taking his cock again, his nose inches from Shane’s stomach. He’s so gentle it hurts more than pulling ever could, stroking through his hair like he’s going to break -Ilya breathes through his nose and relaxes his throat, and when the tip slips over the back of his tongue Shane’s hands jerk. “Oh god -”

Ilya holds himself still until the thighs around his head start to tremble, then draws back enough to speak again. “Move your hips, моя любовь.” Shane blinks down at him, dazed. “What?”

“These.” He brushes his thumb over the firm curve of Shane’s waist. “Move them. I know you now how to fuck - fuck my mouth, show me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Shane starts, trailing off again as Ilya spits, slicking him up again. He squeezes his eyes shut, and Ilya’s treated to a front row seat as he gives a tentative, slow roll that does little more than push past his lips.

“You will not,” he says around it, unable to tear his eyes from the other man’s face. “What, you think you are the only person who can take cock?” Shane shakes his head, focus already flickering hot - he slips a finger beside his cock, prising Ilya’s jaw wider. “I can fuck.” Ilya grins (as much as he possibly can with his mouth full). “Prove it.”

“Lie down.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” Shane straightens up, pausing only to brush his thumb across Ilya’s wet lower lip. The challenge in his voice goes right to his stomach, pooling hot - beaming, he allows himself to be guided backwards. Ilya’s half expecting a kiss when Shane’s palm finds his chest, pushing him flat before he can pull him down. “Down you go.”

“Ah, very firm -”

“You can keep talking if you want,” Shane says, totally conversational - it doesn’t at all match the wicked smile spreading across his face as he reaches for the zip of his jeans. “You haven’t got long, after all.” He has no time at all to consider what this might mean, because Shane both shoves his waistband down to expose him, and swings a leg over his face, his knees planted either side. Ilya stares up at his cock, mesmerised. Shane hasn’t lowered himself yet, but the tip of him ghosts his lips as he leans forward to take his own throbbing cock into his hand. “Better hold onto something, baby.”

That he can do - Ilya reaches up, sliding his palms along Shane’s firm thighs. If you’d have told him prior to that fateful first day in which he’d been verbally abused by a deflated water balloon made of skin that he’d be here right now, gazing upon what certainly has to be the most perfect length he’ll soon he swallowing like a python, Ilya would’ve asked for whatever it is you’ve baked into dessert. Now, each ripple of pleasure as Shane begins to work him serves as a reminder he’s alive - there’s air in his lungs, a song (in particular My Neck, My Back) in his heart, and nothing in the world he wants more than to open his mouth and -

Shane beats him to it, working carefully down and past his lips, encouraging Ilya to tilt his head just a little to smoothen the angle. For the second time in his life, Ilya’s close to suffocation - on this occasion he couldn’t care less. Here lies Ilya Rozanov, who briefly transcended his earthly form and died as an anaconda, jaw unhinged, doing what he loves most in the world.

With a soft hum of satisfaction, Ilya balances Shane’s weight in his tongue, drinking the other man’s shiver as he rolls his hips for the first time - it’s measured, testing for resistance and finding none. Ilya, unable to talk for obvious reasons, grips Shane’s ass and pulls him further down that way instead.

“God,” Shane whimpers, apparently suitably convinced he isn’t going to shatter like fine china, because the next grind of his hips gets him deep enough that Ilya can swallow around him. “Taking me so good, ‘s so good, Ilya -”

The praise sinks molten and way past where Shane’s spat again, moving his hand with a firm twist that has nothing to do with the pace he’s committed to fucking his face with, and Ilya hums as he bottoms out, blinking back the sting of tears - and fine, he’ll apologise for doubting. Shane Hollander can fuck, each fluid thrust so beautifully controlled that it’s all Ilya can do not to lose himself completely. He flattens his tongue further, letting it glide up his shaft - this earns him a moan, Shane’s fingers tightening around him as he takes a second to reorient, resuming with a much shorter, sharper rhythm that plucks Ilya from the physical and hurls him into the atmosphere. Shane’s hand stops, but his hips don’t, working faster, harder, deeper. “Gonna -”

Please, Ilya wants to tell him. Please, give me more of you. Give me as much of you you can spare and I will keep it safe, let me show you all the hollow places inside that you have filled with sunlight -“Ilya.” Shane stills, spilling hot over his tongue. “Ilya.” The other man is shaking, or maybe that’s him, or both of them - it doesn’t matter. Ilya swallows what he can and keeps what he can’t on his tongue as Shane withdraws, already mourning it as he shifts onto his side to crawl and cling to his chest. He should wipe his mouth, or do something about the way his eyes are still watering, but Ilya finds himself cupping Shane’s cheek instead, stroking the pad of his finger along his fluttering eyelids. “I am here,” he rasps, hardly audible. “I am here, and you are with me.”

“Always,” Shane says, his hand already sliding down to where he’s still painfully hard, leaking against his own stomach despite the maelstrom of emotion wreaking havoc between his ears. “Let me take care of this for you.”

Ilya shakes his head. “Can I fuck you?”

He watches in real time as plain want flashes across the other man’s face, before flickering into something duller. “I haven’t - you know. Haven’t prepped, or anything. Ilya, we’ve just had Thai -”

“I do not care.” Ilya eases them both upright - fucking or not, Shane still needs the CPAP refilling. “You can prep now, if you want. And if you do not, I will simply think of the very soft skin behind your knees and come untouched. Like a big grenade - bang. Close your eyes, Shane, I would not want for you to -”

“You’re such a freak,” Shane mumbles, smiling into his hands. “You don’t mind?”

He wrinkles his nose. “Why would I mind?”

“I don’t know, waiting around,” Shane says, leaning to thunk his forehead against Ilya’s shoulder. “And I guess it’s - it can be a thing, for some guys.”

“A thing.”

“Like, a turn off.”

If Ilya had a penny for every time he’d wanted to hunt every single one of Shane’s exes down and strangle them slowly with an enema tube, he’d have four hundred thousand pennies, which is perfect and means he’s now rich enough to afford a personal investigator to get the process started. He gives his cock a pointed look, so flushed it’s bordering on painful. “If it turns me on any more, it will fall off.”

“Right,” Shane nibbles his lip, his eyes bright. “I mean, I’d really rather it didn’t fall off -”

“We have Clone A Cock -”

“- but if you don’t mind, then I can totally - go and do that.”

“I will empty the dishwasher,” Ilya says solemnly. “Call me when you are ready. Or simply whisper hole three times in the mirror and I will appear behind you.”

“Ew,” Shane huffs, ducking his head to conceal a laugh. “Get out.” Ilya pulls on a pair of joggers someone must’ve unpacked earlier (and this in itself is a feat, considering he’s still so hard that one wrong move would alert Scotland Yard), blowing Shane a kiss before disappearing down the stairs. The hallway still smells faintly of galangal, and the only light available to him is the silver bath of moonlight through the open curtains. He can just about detect Anya in the living room, sound asleep, so he lightens his steps so as not to wake her. Ilya sticks his head around the door to see whether she’s claimed her new bed or the sofa, but the sudden creak of a floorboard underfoot startles Pork awake anyway. He’s still curled on the armchair, Small Beloved tucked under his chin, but his head snaps up at the sound. Where are you going? The apprehension tangled up in it catches Ilya off guard, and he falters -Pork’s eyes are wide in the dark, already searching past him. “I am not going anywhere,” he whispers, glancing cautiously at Anya’s sleeping form. “I am just emptying the dishwasher.” Pork says nothing as he pads into the kitchen, easing the appliance open as quietly as he possibly can. Cutlery clinks, and Ilya works in silence until the cat’s nerves ebb away, receding back into tired comfort. Ilya?

Frowning at the direct address, Ilya turns back towards the living room. “Yes?”

If you leave this home again, I will kill you.

Chapter 14: and all I ever knew, only you

Chapter Notes

I don’t even know quite how to sign this off, I’m writing this through a

big blurry screen right now

but thank you all so so much for every bit of love, every single kudo

and comment, like I really can’t put into words how much I appreciate

it - I have LOVED writing this fic and hearing how it’s brightened

days or stirred some healings (and prompted some CPAP usage!!) just

means the world to me <333

compulsory yazoo mention: I listened to the orchestral version of ‘only

you’ for inspiration - it is beautiful, and at first I thought whoa this is

so out of time with the lyrics and then I really listened to it. and I think

it fits x

(also aware it’s not a traditional love song but me and ms alison go

way back so it is now)

love you all ❤

They do have a July wedding, in the end.

Ilya wears black, and Shane is in white, white like the delphiniums he’d planted in the raised bed he and David had built last spring. The ceremony itself was a small affair, the after less so - or at least Ilya assumes. He’s currently missing it, because his husband has pulled him into the kitchen. His husband. You’d think after so long calling him that it might feel more natural, but the word sits on Ilya’s tongue so unfamiliar it could be High Valyrian for all he can make sense of it - he’s going to have to say it out loud, to people that won’t know or ever understand what Shane is to him, and if this is what happens to his chest every time he thinks it then he’s about to become very familiar with the inside of an ambulance. He might actually need to sit down.

“Only a minute,” Shane murmurs, though he’s already reaching around his neck.

He can just about hear the hum of conversation outside, taste the brine of blinis he’d eaten a modest amount of (lies) - there are people in the garden who’d be very happy to indulge conversations on how married Ilya is now, but they can wait. Ilya bends to kiss him, trailing his knuckles along Shane’s cheek and watching the ring glimmer in the light. It’s strange, made stranger still by the fact Ilya can feel it even when he’s not looking at it. Such a small thing, but it’s not really that small at all, is it? Shane’s hand had been shaking when he’d put it on his finger, trembling like a leaf in the wind, and that can’t ever be small. Yuna had cupped his face after, and she’d smelled like chamomile. Ilya had reverted, childlike and instinctively, to Russian when starting his vows - it had made sense at the time, to verbalise the way he’s devotion made flesh in the language flesh had made fate. It’d been perfect, then, watching the first flicker of comprehension in the other man’s face and understanding language might not matter at all.

Shane takes his wrist, lifting it to his lips. “Fits okay?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, though his voice is so fucked he has to clear his throat and try again. “Yes, it is beautiful.”

The stupid urge to ask if Shane means for him to keep it bubbles up and sticks in his throat. The ring isn’t going anywhere and he knows this logically enough, but he can’t visualise wearing it at dinner, or in bed. Can’t see himself taking the bins out in the morning with the evidence that despite everything, life had a plan after all.

“I love you,” he starts, his gaze dropping to where Shane’s matches his. “You are -”

Ilya.

Life has a plan and a sense of humour, then. Pork, who’s been skulking around the corners of the gazebo on his longline since the ceremony ended, emerges from the open back door still clipped to it. Ilya had been prepared for acts of aggression even with the tentative ceasefire still in place since the night after the proposal - Pork had knocked over a candle, and though (after Ilya’s very thorough interrogation) this was confirmed to be accidental, the cat had opted not to tell him either. It was only when Ilya spotted smoke curling up from the bottom of the curtains that the cat had opted to share they were around twenty minutes or so from being burned alive, and Shane, both predictably and unfairly, had scolded them both so thoroughly they’d stomped upstairs to sulk about it together. To his surprise, however, Pork’s radioactive distaste has settled - why he’s on his best behaviour today of all days he doesn’t know, but he isn’t about to question it.

“Yes?” Ilya glances down as Pork knocks his bony head into his shin. I must check him.

That’s something he should’ve expected. Pork, with one successful diagnosis of sleep apnoea down and ten seasons of Grey’s Anatomy under his belt (Ilya hasn’t the heart to tell him how Season 11 ends), has become something of a cardiologist now that Shane’s been doing all the good, pulse quickening things like talking about honeymoons, and blowing Ilya behind the shed ten minutes before the ceremony. Mandatory and completely unnecessary checks of Shane’s aorta and vena cava (both of them) have become a regular fixture of the Hollander Rozanov household, so push one of Epi, or whatever.

“Pork is worried,” Ilya says, meeting the other man’s knowing smile with one of his own. “It is time for Doctor Porkie’s rounds.”

“I see,” Shane’s voice is gravely serious as he scoops to pick the cat up, cradling him in one arm while offering Ilya the other. “So soon after the last?”

Pork shuffles closer to press one batlike ear against Shane’s chest, and Ilya takes his husband’s wrist again, locating his pulse point with practised ease. It is too fast.

It doesn’t take a doctor to figure out why, when Shane’s giving him that look over the top of the cat’s head, but Ilya resists the urge to point this out and schools his face into something solemn. “One hundred and eleven beats per minute. My diagnosis is happy, Pork - it will slow.” Too slow?

“No,” he says quickly. “No. We will check him again after the party, yes? Then you will see.”

Pork seems to accept this, languishing in his Beloved’s hold for a moment before allowing himself to be set down on the table. Very well. Ilya frowns, familiar offence rising as it always does. “My heart is also very fast - you do not wish to check me?”

If you were capable of death, your diet would have seen to it far sooner. “What’s he saying?”

Ilya grins, running a hand along the cat’s back until he creaks. He’s slightly (disturbingly) sticky from the special SPF he’d applied to him earlier, but he doesn’t care - UV’s high today. “I am well enough to continue our wedding, it seems.”

“Oh, good,” Shane sidles closer, planting a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’d hate to lose you on the first day - these suits were expensive.” You could bury Ilya in his, Pork suggests. It would much improve the cost per use.

Music starts beyond the door, and it takes him less than two seconds of the opening note to recognise the dulcet tones of the Bee Gees, and Cliff’s resounding holler. There’s also what sounds like a yelp of terror as someone’s dragged to dance, but he resolves to investigate that later. It’s cooler in here, and near enough every surface is laden with cards and flowers - he can feel Anya not far away, warm and sun soaked, and there’s a tiny white petal caught in Shane’s fringe. Ilya leaves it where it is.

“You are ready?”

“Yeah, baby.”

•————•

Whatever subtlety they’d been hoping for by slinking back into the garden unseen is abruptly ruined when Shane bonks his head on the string lights, and Basil spots Ilya. He’s got just enough warning to let go of Shane’s hand before the Labrador bulldozes his knees, his consciousness alight with such blistering joy Ilya can’t help but laugh as he’s swept backwards (thank god he’s not the one in white), narrowly avoiding taking out the easel with the seating plan on it.

Friend touch Basil.

“Yes, hello,” he wheezes, making the rookie mistake of stooping to fuss him- the dog’s skull connects cheerfully with his chin, and takes the opportunity to insert his tongue into Ilya’s ear while he’s counting all of his teeth. “God- Basil, I am touching you. You cannot possibly get any closer -” Basil withdraws his tongue from his eardrum. Touch. Across the lawn Hayden’s been pulled into a cursed sort of jive, and Cliff appears to be actively recruiting further victims - Ilya ducks behind Basil’s enormous frame and fusses him, suddenly not minding the saliva collecting on the shoulder of his suit so much. There’s not a single coherent thought behind Basil’s eyes now he’s being loved on - that is until he fixes on the cake now being marched out and onto one of the long tables bordering the grass.

Birthday.

Ilya blinks. “No - it is our wedding. Basil, do you know where you are?” Birthday wedding, the dog concludes. For Basil. “Sure, yes,” Ilya says, not sure he’s got the energy to argue. His joy swells with such force Ilya’s starting to feel a little drunk (completely unrelated to the courage champagne he’d started on this morning, and the courage beer and courage Ciroc throughout the day), and it’s enough that he doesn’t even see Jackie before she’s hauling him up.

“God, he never learns,” she says, licking her finger and wiping something that’s probably best left unsaid from his cheek. “Great job with the vows, by the way. I had no idea there was so many creative ways to work in a side monologue about Shane’s freckles.”

He smiles, very, very carefully giving her a twirl, because she’d assured him that morning that if he fucked up her hair Shane would be a widow by 10pm. “I feel very strongly about them.”

“I can tell. Do - shit, Hayden, get that out of his mouth!” Hayden, now free of the foxtrot, spins in their direction. “Fuck - Basil!” He lunges just as the dog swallows, retrieving only the damp corner of a place card bearing half his own name - Basil licks his lips. Good. “Not good,” Ilya tells him. “You have eaten where Hayden must sit.” Jackie’s already moving. “I can write another one.”

“You need not. He can stand, or there is Shane’s baby high chair in the shed-”

“I’ve still got a seat,” Hayden points over to the tables, at where for some reason beyond him, Yuna’s chosen to give him somewhere to fester. Cliff materialises behind him, cracking the other man on the ass so sharply that he squeaks - he’s managed a shirt for the occasion, though Ilya swears he’d caught a glimpse of something lacy underneath it when the sun fell just right. Nevertheless, Ilya wastes no time in averting his eyes at the horrors unfolding before him on his own wedding day - Jackie truly hadn’t been joking about her taste in men that fateful afternoon so long ago, but not even Ilya’s offer of funding her entry into the Witness Protection Programme could deter her from both agreeing to marry Pike, and allowing Cliff Marleau to enter her home permanently. When Cliff’s done exchanging tonsils with Hayden, he descends on her next, and she giggles. Suppressing a shudder, Ilya locates Shane at the speed of light - it isn’t hard when his husband’s glowing, glowing as he chatters animatedly to Anya and Octavia at the head table. Of course it’s rather one way, but maybe whatever he’s saying doesn’t need an answer. Ilya’s learned that sometimes that happens, too.

Friend needs gift, Basil says from beside him, jolting him enough that he turns unwillingly back to the scene at hand. The dog has an embroidered napkin now, nudging it into his hand - before Ilya can enquire into the nature of such a generous offer, Basil successfully deposits it in his grip and pants, pleased. Gift.

“Much appreciated,” Ilya pockets it, and it’s wet already. “We must leave the others where they are, though.”

Basil doesn’t appear willing to commit to this, but he does head for Margot next, who’s sprawled in the shade under the cypress. Not far to the right, Sasha’s sat on the grass with Luca, Katerina stretched across his thighs and a thin leash patterned with ladybirds clipped to his belt. Luca has the other two, though Isaak’s making an impressive attempt at climbing inside his shirt, and Miroslav is travelling suspiciously low to the ground in the opposite direction.

“Under your leg,” Sasha says.

Luca lifts his foot before the other leashes tangle, passing them over to free Isaak from under his elbow. Miroslav, on the other hand, has now discovered Ilya’s shoe.

Ilya, ground, he reports, his tiny nose twitching furiously as he investigates the soil.

“Good ground,” Ilya smiles, crouching to stroke him. “You are behaving?” There is ground.

That’s probably all the answer he’s going to get, and is about to tell Sasha he smells (he doesn’t) when Basil, having made a full loop of the garden, returns to him with a clump of dirt. His lips bulge around it, and Ilya himself can taste the grassy mulch in overwhelming detail as the dog presents this to him next. Better gift. “Basil -”

Touch.

Luckily he doesn’t get that far - Svetlana intercepts the gift with a spare dish, holding it well away from her dress. Basil’s interest grows, but she’s spent enough time around animals through Ilya that she must sense where he’s going with it, and she fixes him with her firmest voice. “No, I’m not eating it.”

Rose, who’d been speaking with Yuna by the champagne and had until now shown no particular inclination that the conversation was concluding, makes her way over with a fresh napkin. Ilya’s so far been very brave about the presence of the enemy on home turf, but he pales as Sveta has the audacity to smile at her and take it. Their fingers linger, and he’s starting to wonder whether they’ve had an accident with Yuna’s hot glue gun in order for his friend to remain attached to the woman who’s seen his husband naked, halfway to locating some acetone when Rose smiles at her, and the idea goes out the window.

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “Sveta?”

“I’ve got dirt on my dress,” she says, already moving to where everyone’s gathering for dinner. “You’re welcome.”

•————•

Shane looks up from the head table as he approaches, and the smile on his face almost stops Ilya in his tracks - his cheeks are a little red and he’s managed to keep his suit clean for the most part, but it’s the look in his eyes that threatens to disembowel him right here on the crisp white linens. Gone is the flighty darting back and forth he’s seen before, replaced by such bright steadiness that Ilya has the urge to kiss him, so he does. He tastes like cider, and he slips both hands into Ilya’s back pockets before seeming to realise this is quickly veering towards indecent in front of their very perceptive audience, pulling away just enough to sit down. “Hungry?”

“I could eat,” Ilya says, being very brave about withdrawing his gaze from Shane’s throat. In truth he’s forgotten quite a few things that don’t directly involve dragging his husband upstairs by the hair, and food is one of them -he’ll have to let go of Shane’s hand to use cutlery, for example, and Ilya might honestly prefer to be fed from Rose’s mouth like a baby bird than do that. “You are beautiful.”

“Good thing you locked me down, then,” he hums, scooting closer as David, on his other side, moves along to clear some room. It is, Ilya thinks, as he tilts his head to his own right to study the empty chair beside him. It’d been a nice touch, one he’d agonised over asking for -it had seemed silly, really, until Yuna had assured him everyone needs their Mama on their wedding day. Ilya runs his hand along the untouched seat cushion. She has her own place card, too, Irina Rozanova printed in a swirly font, like she might have just popped to the bathroom and be back any moment. It’s a nice thought, and Shane’s hand settles on his knee under the table.

While Yuna bustles around after a catering team she appears to be actively terrifying, Sasha materialises on Irina’s other side, and very determinedly looks at anything but him.

“You are on the family table,” Ilya says slowly, watching Isaak scramble out from his now untucked shirt.

“Yes,” Sasha shrugs, angling his head away from the gap between them. “Do you want me to go?”

“No,” he mumbles, shoving a carafe of water at him instead. He’d have relished watching Sasha swear and fumble to catch it before it spills, had Pork’s paw not extended from the tablecloth to pat him on the leg.

You are in my seat.

“You have not been allocated a seat,” Ilya pulls the fabric up, exposing where he’s gathered himself between Shane’s shoe and Anya, now spread out on her side and poised to collect any fallen crumbs. “You are a cat.” Though this fact is debatable in itself, Pork inches closer to examine his lap- Ilya shifts back enough to offer him a hand up, but the cat uses it only for balance as he climbs, planting one hard paw on his thigh as he ascends to face the other tables. The longline is trickier, and Ilya has to untangle it from the nearest candlestick before he feels safe enough to unclip him -Shane leans over to stroke his cheek.

“Hey, buddy - you can come over here if you want.” Soon. Pork rubs at his hand before he turns, inspecting the nearest basket of bread. What is this?

“A bread roll,” Ilya says. “What, you have never seen bread?” Open it.

With a huff, he tears open a warm granary and sets it down for him to sniff. The gazebo’s starting to smell good now - beyond the layers of flowers there’s a rich, herby note drifting out from the trays methodically being uncovered under close supervision. He can’t actually remember what they’d settled on, in the end, having left most of the menu planning to Shane while he focused on more of the mundane runnings of a wedding (including how to keep Hayden Pike ten feet away from him at all times). He’s just about to open his mouth and ask, when Sasha, having successfully extracted his mouth from Luca’s, kicks at his ankle. “Shane told you what you’re having?”

Ilya kicks him right back. “No, why?”

Sasha’s lips twitch. “Ah, he wanted it to be a surprise.”

That much makes sense - Shane knows he likes surprises, and the thought fills him with warmth as the covered rectangular dish currently being carried towards them comes closer still.

“It meant a lot to him, you know,” Sasha continues, depositing Kat in Luca’s waiting arms without even having to look. “He knows I’m much more French leaning, but I gave him some tips on making his own lasagne sheets this time around.”

Fear, like a lightning bolt from whichever plane of heaven his husband originally descended from, pierces Ilya right through the heart. His blood turns to ice, and the beautiful, perfect summer’s day he’d been plotting from the very moment Shane’s eyes first met his grows Baltic the nearer the dish gets.

“No,” Ilya whispers.

“Rose kept the recipe.”

This checks out - Rose Landry would never miss an opportunity to fuck with him. Sure, she might’ve only ever been sweet and kind to him, but Ilya doesn’t doubt the limits of her deception. He stares helplessly to where Rose is gesturing with her champagne flute as Sveta listens, raptly absorbed in whatever spell she’s casting on him now.

Shane turns back from David just as Ilya’s stomach gives a jolt of panic. He should be grateful, really - the gesture’s rooted in their history, after all, and maybe he’ll appreciate it once he’s exorcised it from his system and ingested enough Gaviscon to revive the lining of his stomach. The other man’s smile fades. “Ilya? What’s wrong?”

Ilya clutches for his hand. “Can I speak with you?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, glancing at the approaching meal. “Of course -”

“Alone - only for a moment.”

He leans forward, frowning so intolerably that Ilya fucking hates himself for it. “I can eat it. Дорогой, I will eat it for you, but is there perhaps a little chicken also? I ask as I do not want ulcers for our honeymoon -” Shane blinks. “What are you talking about?”

“- and I appreciate it, I do. Truly, this is a very sweet gesture, recreating out first meal,” Ilya takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what’s to come. “But please know that any faces I make are beyond my control. I will try, though, because I love you.”

“What - oh my god,” Shane sits up, looking past him to where Sasha’s now sipping calmly on his chardonnay. “Sasha, I was joking about serving the lasagne - I told you I was just kidding!”

Sasha grins. “Shouldn’t have missed our last Minecraft night, then.”

“I had a chest infection,” Shane mutters, clearly trying very hard to suppress a smile. “But now I’m going to fucking destroy your castle.” Any further Minecraft related posturing pauses as the dish touches down and a gorgeous, plaited beef wellington is revealed (that doesn’t appear to be filled with ricotta tofu) - Ilya could cry, and only partially because his husband’s just leaned in to kiss him again, his eyes soft and wide. “You’d really have eaten it?”

Ilya’s eyes catch on that tiny freckle on his nose. “I would do anything for you. I would -”

This.

“Pork, do not interrupt -”

This, Ilya.

The cat’s attention has lasered on the beef with such intent that Ilya’s own mouth fills in anticipation, and if what he can feel through Anya as Shane sneaks her a piece is anything to go by, it’s really fucking good. Still, Pork stares, supervising so closely as Ilya sets about cutting a piece from his slice that his bald chin touches the knife. “I am finding you a piece, god -” My serving.

“Yes, here,” he mutters, offering a piece of it out and watching Pork swallow it near enough whole. “You have had your tax - now let me eat.” I think I’m owed extra tax, Anya says from where she’s wedged between Shane’s legs. I’m bigger than he is. It’s hard to argue with her logic, but Ilya does in fact manage to consume most of it himself when Yuna gives the cat a stern look and he retreats, depositing himself in the beefless space beside him - though he’s careful not to displace Irina’s place card. It’s bordering on serene for some time, until just a few minutes after the first course, Hayden stands up. Whatever’s about to emerge from Pike is highly unlikely to improve the digestion of an honestly phenomenal amount of roast potatoes, but Shane’s hand is warm on his thigh and Jackie’s already passed him a sheet of paper that’s very unlikely to say ‘sit back down, Hayden’, so he bites his tongue -that only lasts until he opens his mouth. “Uh - hi. So, for anyone that doesn’t know me, I’m Shane’s best friend.”

“No.”

Hayden (to his credit) seems to have anticipated the likelihood of heckling, because he spins in Ilya’s direction and throws out a hand. “And that’s Ilya.”

Finding he can’t dispute that one, he sits back. Across from them, Cliff has his hand stretched behind Jackie’s chair and Ilya can’t bring himself to look, turning to gaze upon his husband instead.

“I’ve known Shane since college,” Hayden says. “And I met Ilya because my dog wouldn’t stop eating out of the bin - he said he was good at his job, really good, and I should book him. So I did, and what I hadn’t expected was to spend so much of the appointment being questioned about Shane.”

“I needed this information,” Ilya snaps, ignoring Shane’s quickly smothered grin beside him - the fork in his hand might be sharp enough to end proceedings, maybe.

Hayden might not be as stupid as he looks, because he shuffles backwards. “Once we’d established we weren’t together, Ilya got much better at doing his actual job.”

Shane’s laughing now, the traitor, and Ilya appeals to him with wide eyes. “He is slandering me on our wedding day. Our wedding day, Shane -”

“Anyway, he was very good with Basil,” Hayden ploughs on, oblivious. “Shane, I knew he wanted you the moment I first spoke to him, but I wasn’t sure you were there yet - you were still telling me how great he was with Pork, and I was thinking, yeah, okay, I’ve got that part. You had a lot of extra information about someone you’d only met once, and that’s when I realised it was way more mutual than you were letting on.”

“When you know, you know,” Shane says softly. “Or whatever the poets say.”

Ilya stares at him, and from under the table Anya stirs. Again, Lana Del Rey said that.

“I love Shane - he’s my family, and he always will be. I was always going to be interested in whoever came along,” Hayden gestures to Ilya with his glass. “But I’ve never met anyone who loves him so fiercely it’s fucking annoying. Sweet, but annoying, and I know it’s not a competition, but I feel really lucky to watch you keep proving you love him. Like - like you’ve got no intention of ever deciding you’ve loved him enough. You make my best friend so happy, Ilya, and I’m glad you found each other.” For the first time since the dark, dark day Hayden Pike graced him with his presence, Ilya has absolutely nothing to throw at him. There’s the fork in his hand, sure, but that feels a little harsh as Pike lifts his glass, the toast rippling around the tables, and Shane leans in to kiss him on the cheek. David, on the other hand, he’d at least been somewhat prepared for - Yuna had offered him a copy of his speech ahead of time, not wanting to catch him out, but Ilya had declined and deemed the warning enough to order both his eyes and mouth to behave. Still, as he stands and rests a hand on Shane’s shoulder, Ilya’s hit with the violent urge to either ask him to postpone whatever he’s about to say until next year, or silently beg Pork to try take him out again for old time’s sake.

“I’m proud of my boys,” David says after a moment. “Both of them. I’m proud of how you look after each other, and the home you’ve made here. It’s a good life you’re building, and I’m very happy I get to be a part of it.” Anya lays her head across his foot, and Ilya spends the next five minutes face to face with the realisation that there probably isn’t another shoe waiting to drop now, after all this time. Nor is there the Hat Man waiting around the corner to point and laugh before clicking his fingers to dissolve the love around him. Shane isn’t made of mist, and there’s no rug underfoot that can be pulled - David raises his glass and reality doesn’t splinter into a thousand pieces. Maybe the armoured plating around Ilya’s heart does, though, just a little bit.

Ilya’s almost alright as the other man steps around Shane to press a quick kiss to the top of their heads, and almost fine when he swallows a mouthful of champagne that makes an honest attempt at entering his lungs. He’s doing really well, actually, until Sasha rises from his seat next, and Ilya’s desperate head shaking has zero effect whatsoever on deterring him. There’s a flurry of movement as two out of the three ferrets plop onto the table, while Miroslav lurks somewhere close to Svetlana’s ankles. “First,” Sasha says, shooting him such a scathing look of disdain that he almost believes it. “If I’d have known Italian food would reduce the great Ilya Rozanov to tears, I’d have chosen a vastly different cuisine to specialise in.”

Ilya’s misguided hope that Sasha might be kind to him on his wedding day perishes in a ball of fire, but strangely the other man falls silent, thumbing his glass.

“I’ve been trying to decide what to say about you,” he continues eventually. “There’s a lot I could say, but most of it would likely have me escorted off the premises - Shane, I don’t fear many things in life, but your mother is categorically one of those.”

Yuna blows him a kiss, but Ilya loves her far too much to add her to the growing list of traitors in their midst.

“I’ve loved you many ways, Ilya, and I love you now so very differently, which is likely my only flaw. We’ve been very bad at loving each other, I understand that, but not all bad - I think what I’m trying to say is how very special it is to know you still, through all our seasons.” Shane nudges his elbow, and only then is Ilya able to tear his eyes from his empty plate, the leftover carrots blurring into an orange smudge. “You are embarrassing yourself,” he croaks, blinking hard. “I will vomit -”

“Silence from you,” Sasha says pleasantly, turning to Shane. “And you -I’m very happy Ilya’s choice in husband is something he’s not entirely shit at. You’re very anal about Minecraft, Shane, but I enjoy playing with you. You’re also endlessly patient - you have a ring on your finger to prove that -and you’re always willing to help me organise my ferret folders. Until he met you, I’d worry myself sick that Ilya might, I don’t know, walk into the Thames or something -”

“I will throw you into it, Sashka -”

“- but now I find myself worrying about what to cook us all when you visit, or worrying whether Luca or I working late might fuck up movie night that week -”

“With iron shoes -”

Sasha clears his throat, his gaze drifting to the collection of photographs on the opposite side of the gazebo - Natalya’s on there, bright eyed behind the glass. “And for what it’s worth, I - I feel very lucky to be here today, celebrating you both.”

He seems to conclude that as enough sincerity for the next fifty years (or his inevitable return to Tartarus, whichever comes first), because Sasha sits and abruptly turns to Luca, graciously ignoring the hot tear finally escaping to streak down Ilya’s cheek. He scrubs at it, furious, and leans over. “You hate cooking at home.”

The other man shrugs, snatching the nearest napkin and tossing it directly at his face. “I used to.”

•————•

Ilya, having recovered very gracefully in the arms of his husband, is just wondering whether Sasha might be willing to repeat any of that in private (he’d quite like to stuff the recording inside a Minion Build A Bear and torment him with it until the end of time) when Pork uncoils himself from Shane’s lap and climbs back onto the table.

The plates have gone, thankfully, and Cliff’s done the rounds with a fresh bottle of champagne - Ilya’s is approximately 0.0001 millilitres away from overflowing, so he takes a compulsory gulp before shifting aside. My turn.

Ilya licks the overspill from the back of his hand. “For what?” I must address the assembly.

The prospect is so concerning that he instinctively glances around to see if the registrar’s left yet - if a cat denounces a marriage, does it have to be annulled? Ilya doesn’t particularly want to find out, but equally he’d rather survive long enough to fold Shane into a pretzel later - Pork has very strong feelings about censorship, so he holds his tongue until his husband turns, looking between them. “Everything okay?”

“He wishes to make a speech,” Ilya says slowly, testing for any sign that he might’ve just misinterpreted those words in that very order - unfortunately the swell of affirmation in the cat’s chest disproves that theory as quickly as it had started. “I suppose I am required to translate.”

Shane smiles, soft and entirely unsuspicious. “Oh - yeah, sure, I guess. That’s so sweet, Porkie.”

Yes.

Yuna’s the first to notice what he suspects is a pending verbal evisceration, and touches her hand to David’s arm as Ilya shuffles to his feet. Conversation fades far too fast, and in mere seconds he finds himself tuxedo-d and preparing to speak on behalf of a hairless cat. “Pork would -” he trails off, categorically refusing to meet Jackie’s eyes before either of them dare to laugh. “Pork wishes to say some words.” From a chair Ilya’s very surprised hasn’t grown chicken legs and run off with her yet, Rose whispers something to Sveta. Pork doesn’t seem bothered by this, his enormous eyes sweeping across his audience before settling on Ilya’s.

You will repeat my declaration correctly.

“I was not planning on changing it -”

You have a remarkable history of doing so.

He scowls, but can’t really argue with that. “Go on, then.” The cat draws himself up to full height (which isn’t very significant, but even so) and begins at such force each word is a WWE Smackdown to his skull. Do not go gentle into that good night. Ilya repeats this, wincing.

Firmer. You are asking it, not telling it. Pork returns to his subjects. Old age should burn and rave at close of day -

“Pork, what is this?”

He opens his mouth in silent threat until Ilya translates that too, continuing only when he’s apparently satisfied with the delivery this time around.

Rage, rage, against the dying of the light.

“Rage, rage, against the dying of the light,” Ilya frowns, trying as hard as he possibly can to mimic the cat’s emphasis.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, because their words had forked no lightning they - pause here, Ilya - do not go gentle into that good night.

Just behind him, Shane claps a hand over his mouth. “Is that - no, it is. That’s Dylan Thomas -”

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright -“This is a poem,” Ilya hisses, his cheeks already starting to warm. “A poem, not a speech.”

Continue. Pork’s tail lashes. Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay.

He translates this verse under threat of a laceration or two, and somehow they do find a very odd rhythm - the cat doesn’t stop to criticise his delivery further, even when he fumbles over where he is and isn’t meant to stop for dramatic effect, and Pork’s emphasis only climbs higher as he twists to fix his gaze on Shane. It isn’t a poem Ilya’s familiar with, but understanding dawns the more he circles around what’s lurking just under the surface of Pork’s psyche in the rush of air, a dark bedroom, and he has to swallow before he can choke out the next line.

Pork tucks his head under Shane’s waiting hand, his love welling hot and consuming. And you, my father, there on the sad height, curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray -

The only thing that leaves him is a strangled sound. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light, the cat finishes, giving Ilya’s brain a pointed jab. The words, Ilya - my Beloved must hear them.

Ilya really, really tries - he gets as far as the first few words before he has to cut himself off again, and Pork’s frustration needles sharp in his stomach. Continue, Other Beloved. He must understand. “What?” Ilya whispers, blinking as the gazebo around them flickers out of focus.

Shane seems to detect some seismic event has just silently occurred directly in front of him, and he reaches for Ilya’s hand. “What did he say?” Turning to him is a mistake of such spectacular proportion that Ilya has to look away at speed - Shane’s eyes are wide and bordering on concerned, which ordinarily would require prompt and enthusiastic corrective action, but all he finds himself capable of doing is to gape helplessly at Pork, praying to whoever’ll listen that he doesn’t fall apart on his own fucking lawn.

“He called me Other Beloved,” he says quietly, more to his own feet than his husband as he sits down again.

Inconsequential, and you are delaying. Pork inspects his face with mounting irritation, those bulbous eyes tracking Ilya’s. After a moment in which he deems him unlikely to recover alone, the cat worms free from Shane and thuds gracelessly into his lap. For heaven’s sake - do you require assistance?

“Yes,” Ilya mumbles, bracing for impact as he very carefully circles his arms around Pork’s fleshy middle. In a moment of impulse (and madness), he bows his head, brushing his lips against the top of his hard little head. Funny, it’s not quite as testicle-like as he’d once thought, and Ilya sure knows his way around a testes or two. “Assist me, please.” Remove your mouth, or I will remove it for you. Pork makes no move to pull away though, and if he really concentrates, Ilya swears he can detect the quickest flash of something sweet before it’s smothered again.

Shane, watching the exchange with his mouth open, shuffles close enough to rest his head on Ilya’s shoulder. “Can you tell me, baby? What he wants me to understand?”

“He does not want you to stop. The poem - he is telling you -” Ilya inhales, but it’s shaky at best. “Before we knew, he kept calling, and you came back to him. He is trying to say you must always come back, Shane.”

“I’ll do my best, buddy,” the other man whispers. “I’ll always come back to both of you.”

Pork appears satisfied by this, his attention settling on Ilya again. And you will help me to make sure of it.

“I will.”

You will also wake, if I call.

“Yes.”

You will ensure the machine remains in service, and guard the territory when my Beloved is absent.

Ilya nods, his voice trembling. “I will, Pork.”

The mercenary will not approach me without prior warning. Anya sighs at his feet. I’ll remember that, the next occasion you want ‘texture time’ with my tail.

Slander -

“Okay,” Ilya says, scrubbing his face. “Okay, we are all in agreement.”

“Looks like we’re all in working order,” Shane grins, pointing to the rabbit (thank god Build A Bear sells tuxedos) in his own miniature seat by the water station. “Three Beloveds and their beloved supervising soldier.” You’ve always understood me so well, Anya says, her contentment fizzing and popping like the champagne in their glasses.

•————•

Ilya’s going to have to be very careful with this new information, he supposes, rubbing a thumb over Pork’s shoulder while Shane meanders back from the bathroom. Other Beloved is a title he’d quite like on the wall, or maybe even tattooed on his chest, somewhere he can easily access and point to the next time the cat tries evicting him over using tap water instead of filtered.

You are constricting me, Pork mutters from the cradle of his arms, not quite an emergency considering Ilya can feel him breathing just fine. Unhand me. “You are free to leave,” Ilya says, lifting away and grinning when he makes no move whatsoever to escape.

Shane runs his hand along his back as he makes for his seat, but Yuna pops up on the other side of the table with a tiny pot of beef carpaccio in one hand, effectively halting whatever attempt Ilya was about to make at hauling his husband onto the un-Porked side of his lap. “They’re ready when you are, boys.”

They turn in unison to the musicians - a cellist has set up on the furthest side of the gazebo, peering at her sheet music. Ilya had been so excited about her when they’d booked, but right now he’s not entirely sure he can trust his knees to hold out - walking around to socialise after the speeches had been fine and they’d carried him back to the chair well enough, but there’s no way of doing this part from the table unless Shane sits on him, and he can count on one hand at least two or three people (but mostly Shane’s not-dead grandmother) that might not be open to seeing where that goes.

It’s reassuring that Shane seems to need a minute to steel himself as well, but he’s clearly far more prepared than Ilya - he holds out his hand and sets his jaw, watching as he relocates Pork. “Dance with me?”

This isn’t optional, he’d been informed, and for a second he searches Shane’s face, scanning for any sign at all that he isn’t genuinely intending on having them slow dance in front of a group of people watching their every move, and oh god, what if he steps on Shane’s toes - Ilya finds only determination, and hands himself over before he makes a break for it down the A12.

“Follow my lead,” Shane murmurs as the music picks up, making for the centre of the rapidly forming circle around them. “Just - is this Shaggy?” Ilya, his heart hammering, doesn’t immediately recognise what he’s frowning at until his head swivels in the direction of the cellist, almost a full 360 of horror as the poor woman plays the first opening notes of something that definitely isn’t Yazoo - Ilya pales.

I like this song, Anya offers, settling beside Octavia. It Wasn’t Me is a really solid choice for a first dance.

“Hayden,” Ilya grinds out. “What have you done?” Pike’s beaming smile falls off his face so abruptly he’s left gaping instead, already shaking his head. “No, no, hang on a second - this isn’t the music I sent -”

The gorgeous orchestral rendition regarding a man fucking half the neighbourhood trails off, and the cellist glances uncertainly between them -Ilya makes a note to feel bad for her later, considering she’s done nothing to deserve being associated with Pike’s favourite subject (adultery), and he’d ask her to start literally anything else, even Wonderwall, but already Hayden’s beelining for the keyboard player with phone in hand. Ilya could probably cut the tension with the fork he’d like to put through Pike’s eyes, but it isn’t long before the other man clears his throat and scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I sent the wrong file.”

“What the -” Shane’s shoulder shakes against his arm, and it’s becoming much harder to maintain a reasonable level of outrage when he’s trying not to laugh, and looking so fucking good doing so that even Hayden of all people can’t kill the desire to drop to his knees. “Where’d you even find sheet music for that?”

“Cliff wanted to know if they could play it.”

Unsurprising - Cliff might actively be trying to penetrate Jackie at present, so Ilya turns his attention back to the matter at hand, breathing through his nose. Shane buries his face in his chest, and it’s only the slightest hint of grapefruit in his husband’s hair that prevents him from glaring at Hayden over the top of his head. The Hayden in question is currently being herded towards the living room printer with haste, and for the life of him Ilya can’t remember whether they’ve got enough fucking cyan. He doesn’t have to worry for long though, nor will he be surprised later on to discover Yuna Hollander really does think of everything - it’s alarmingly fast for the right pages reach the right people, and Ilya’s almost stopped wanting to hurt anyone. Shane’s rubbing his hand up and down his back, and he can just about feel the ring with every pass, the breeze soft and starting to cool as the cellist starts again in earnest. “You’ve got your song,” Shane murmurs, following when Ilya takes a tentative step to the side (is this how people dance?) and wrapping his arms around his waist.

Alison Moyet, soundtrack of his teenage bedroom and several emotional moments she definitely didn’t need to be present at, starts up from the speakers - someone’s isolated her voice, and when the cello swells underneath it the world doesn’t change on its axis. For that Ilya’s glad, because his husband is warm in his arms and they’re here, and Ilya loves him so much he can taste it - it’s sweet, thick on his tongue and so real and rich it actually reminds him of vanilla and raspberry. It makes complete sense their love would resemble something so decadent, but when Ilya risks spinning them slowly he’s beginning to wonder if he’s having a stroke of some kind, because he can really taste it now - it sticks to his teeth despite his mouth being empty, so potent he can…is that buttercream? Ilya blinks, focusing - buttercream. He hasn’t eaten anything since dinner, and more concerningly whoever is eating it appears to be surrounded by it, darkness on all sides as a small tongue that isn’t his laps with ferocious determination at the walls of sponge.

House for Miroslav.

“Ah, shit,” he mutters, spinning them back the other way just in time to see a nose appear from the icing of their wedding cake. The world slows around them (and not in the romantic way) as the rest of Miroslav’s face emerges from the bottom tier, his whiskers plastered against his face with such overwhelming joy Ilya recoils. “Sasha -”

Shane follows his gaze. “There’s no fucking way.”

“Sashka!”

The ferret takes another bite - his lead is tangled around the leg of the table and disappears right through the hole he’s dug himself on the other side, but Ilya can’t begin to imagine how he’s managed to get up there. He’s not even sure Miroslav knows, receiving only cake house and good with adamant conviction.

Sasha reaches the table at Mach 5, before Ilya’s even let go of Shane, and appears to carry Luca along with him in the shockwave because the other man’s beside him, scrambling for the end of the lead to yank Miroslav back and out of the tunnel he’s made for himself. Basil, on the other hand, hasn’t grasped the severity of the situation - he lifts his head from underneath Jackie’s chair, and the sugary slick in Ilya’s mouth becomes terrible, visceral need.

Friend, Basil announces, lunging with such force Jackie’s very nearly unseated as the chair erupts from underneath her. Long friend. Taste friend. “No,” Ilya yelps, bolting to block his path only for the Labrador to dart straight past him, a brown blur driven by base instinct alone. “Basil, do not- Jackie!”

Sasha gets hold of Miroslav just as Basil barrels into the table leg, hoisting his slippery body at arm’s length from his shirt - one might look at the ferret and reasonably presume he’s just a white chocolate Yule log dangling there in the other man’s hands, so covered in icing and crumbs that Ilya can’t pick out any distinguishing features beyond his little black eyes. A hush descends on the gazebo, and for a moment or two Miroslav’s tunnel remains exactly as it was prior to his eviction - he’s starting to think they can just cut around it when Basil spots the vanilla coated ferret, and is so overcome with desire that Ilya clutches at his own chest. Take.

In all fairness to him, Sasha makes a valiant attempt at lifting Miroslav out of reach - swearing so violently Ilya will almost certainly have to apologise to the elder Hollanders another day, he wrenches sideways only for Basil to follow, and Luca reaches for the cake. In years to come, even after many a spirited (read: intensely competitive, the source of several noise complaints) debate, Ilya will never know what gave way first - the tower of sponge topples, and Luca’s fingertips only just brush the board before it hits the floor.

Shane seizes his elbow before either of them trip over the explosion of what was promised to be a gorgeous layer of raspberry and lemon compote (Ilya will never know that as fact either, considering his investigative journalists are incredibly fucking biased), but it’s far too late. Basil has a mouthful of the top tier before he’s even blinked, and Ilya can taste so much of it he’ll be picking it out of his gustatory cortex for months. Cake for Basil.

Cake for Miroslav, the ferret counters, already writhing in his Papa’s grip. The movement sends several wet splatters of sponge across the grass. Papa, my house -

“He is fine,” Ilya steps forward, because Sasha in his inspection of his criminal son is bending him in so many different directions he’s starting to feel dizzy. “He is fine, Sashka, he is fine -”

“He’s got vanilla in his fucking ears!”

Shane fumbles for a napkin, but there’s a growing tension around his mouth that usually means he’s dangerously close to laughing until he cries, and when Ilya turns away for some respite before he joins in, he’s met with the sight of Hayden Pike currently performing the human Jaws of Life on Basil’s crumby snout, Cliff locked around his middle, and Jackie with her hand peeling the dog’s lips away from his teeth to scoop out what he’s got hoarded in there.

“Drop it, Bas,” Hayden pleads. “You’re gonna be shitting for days -” Jackie plants her feet, shovelling a wet handful of icing out next. “Drop it. Basil, I’m so serious right now - drop.” Ilya bites the inside of his cheek, already giving up on retaining any kind of composure when all ten of Pork’s front claws sink into the thin material of his trousers.

Other Beloved.

Bewildered, he glances down to where the cat’s trying his absolute best to scale him like a tree.

The territory has been breached - carry me above it. There’s no possible universe in which Ilya can say no, so he stoops to gather him against his chest, unclipping his harness. Pork settles begrudgingly against his chest, surveying Sasha’s futile attempts at wiping Miroslav off with his usual distaste before nudging Ilya’s focus to Basil. He has eaten this structure.

“He eats everything,” Ilya smiles, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But we maintain a civilised household, yes?” Pork offers him the impression of a monopoly board, so vivid he hardly senses the profound judgement simmering around it. You permitted his entry.

“Sorry, Pork.”

You will be. The cat folds himself tighter, flattening into a ball in his arms. At a later date -I wish to rest with you tonight. “Ah,” Ilya falters, watching Shane glow as he chatters away to Luca. “Later, maybe? Does eleven suit?”

Midnight.

“That is later, Pork.”

Pork’s claws slowly slip free all over again. Do not challenge my generosity, or I will withdraw it.

He presses his cheek to the cat’s head for as long as he can brave to, watching Shane - he’s smiling again, helping Luca to dab at the frosted ferret Sasha’s currently scolding, which would probably be more impactful if he wasn’t also punctuating each ‘cake isn’t good for you’ and ‘don’t scare me like that’ with a kiss to his slimy little forehead. Yuna straightens from where she’s evidently deemed the remaining tiers too ferreted to consume safely and claps her hands. “Right - could we bring the sheet cake out now, please?”

Shane beams. “You got another one?”

“It’s in the kitchen,” she says, stepping around Cctavia, who’s come to investigate all the noise. “I thought we might need it.” Ilya could fucking kiss her, and he probably will once she’s got everything in working order again. Miroslav, on the other hand, perks. Small house for Miroslav?

“No,” Ilya calls, grinning. “But your Papa would love a big cakey cuddle right now. Be sure to wipe your fur on his shirt.”

•————•

He does indeed kiss Yuna, then David, then Sveta, then Luca which by proxy covers Sasha (not Rose or Hayden, thank you very much), then Shane considerably less appropriately - his husband tastes like jam, and even though Ilya’s temples are starting to throb, his tongue makes it just past Shane’s tonsils before he has to admit defeat. You could go now, Anya says quietly from his heel. Take a few minutes. Ilya glances at Shane, who currently has his hand down the back of his belt- it’s a pretty distracting place for it, and he’d love to do everything he possibly can to encourage its expedition south, but Ilya fishes it out and holds it instead. “I would like some quiet, моя любовь.” Shane takes a second to scan his face, then nods. “Okay.”

“Only a little - down by the tree, maybe.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over his knuckles. “Want me to come?”

Ilya doesn’t think he could let go of Shane’s hand even if he wanted to, convinced they’re now fused and that’s simply how the rest of their married life will go, joined at the palm while their billions of capillaries work where they’re connected and that blood rushes, shining, through veins and arteries to the heart.

“Yes,” he says instead, which is far simpler than explaining any of that. “I want you to come.”

At the other end of the gazebo, removed from the thrum of music without sacrificing a good vantage point, Pork curls with Small Beloved on one of the platforms set out for him that morning.

I will remain, the cat says, giving them no more than a cursory look before tucking himself tighter into a ball.

Anya falls into step beside them as they duck out and away, sniffing the route to the cypress the same way she does every morning, passing the shed in a wide arc and settling where the branches are thickest. Shade pools there, a respite from the sun, and the smell of mulch and rain finally, finally eclipses some of the raspberry he can still detect if he squints. “Better?”

Ilya nods, squeezing his hand. “Much, thank you.” There’s still Labrador spit in his ear, so he supposes a little dirt doesn’t matter - he sits, back against the trunk, and to his delight Shane follows without so much as a frown. Even better, his head finds Ilya’s shoulder, and for a moment there’s only Anya inspecting a crunchy leaf and the whispered hum of teeny tiny red mites in the tree before it all quietens. You can scratch my neck if you’re looking for something to do, she says, even as Shane’s already carding his hand through her fur. The heat of the day’s gone now, as the minutes tick by and the sun slips out of reach, somewhere Ilya has no desire to follow. He’s warm enough, a weight on his finger that soothes as he runs it across his husband’s lower back, passing skin he’ll kiss later. Later can wait - now, to Ilya, is plenty good enough to bask in.

It’s only around ten minutes or so before he looks upwards - he doesn’t need to, but the bough overhead dips as the owl settles. Ilya smiles before the bird’s even finished securing his talons in the wood, letting the old ache wash over him, then wash away. He looks well, all things considered, as he shuffles slowly close enough to peer down at them with those enormous eyes.

“Hello,” Ilya says gently, guiding Shane’s chin up with two fingers until the other man sees him too.

Would you like some rat?

A laugh leaves him before he’s even explained why, and Ilya smiles as the tiny bundle held in the owl’s claws sways in the breeze. There’s no cold water in his socks this time around (which is a pretty big improvement), and he stares up in the waning light until his eyes focus.

“You have brought us a gift?”

The owl’s beak quivers. You have joined your calls. “He has brought this for our wedding,” he says, extracting his arm to wrap it around Shane’s shoulders. “A present.”

“Oh,” Shane blinks up at him, the flush of his cheeks detectable even in the shadow. “Thank you, that’s really kind.”

He lifts his feathers, for a second larger, dappled and every bit as beautiful as he must’ve been in his youth - he’s pleased, Ilya can tell, and the feeling spreads like warm water until every last dreg of evening chill has drained away.

“It is kind,” Ilya agrees. “Thank you - we have eaten, though. Maybe share it with your mate.”

He ponders this, his brain ticking over to acceptance before settling on their joined hands. You have made a nest, together. Memory is a strange beast, because Ilya swears he can hear the first song, the very start of one, all over again - a melody that doesn’t sound quite so haunting these days. Shane’s looking at him now, his hair mussed and Anya creeping between his thighs until she’s on his lap, so settled Ilya can barely hear her at all.

“Yes.”

You are happy, my friend.

“I am,” Ilya presses a kiss to his husband’s forehead. “Probably - no, not probably. More than I have ever been.”

A flurry of motion startles Anya from her drifting as a second owl descends, landing on the branch beside him in a flapping of wings - she shifts close, now larger than her mate, because time gives us the pleasure of change without punishing, sometimes, and he feels the closeness between them shiver and settle. The old bird makes room for her, and she dips her head to nibble along the pinfeathers he can’t reach either side of his beak. “How high can you fly?” Ilya asks, after a little while. One of the owl’s dark eyes opens. Above this tree. “Higher?”

There’s a cautious nudge of attention against his, tired but content, soft with love. When the wind allows. Why? Ilya looks between the branches, all the way up to where the sky’s slowly bleeding orange and red, clearing way for the moon. He finds it silly to ask now, but maybe he won’t always, and a maybe isn’t quite enough for him not to ask the things he wants to these days.

He clears his throat. “I have a message for someone.” Shane’s fingers pause at Anya’s ear, and the old owl tilts his head. For who? “My Mama,” Ilya says. “I would like to thank her - for all she gave me, and for all she gives me now.”

The owl takes a step closer on the branch, his mate following to warm the side of his bad wing.

“If you see her, on your travels, could you tell her?” I will make your call, when it is my time.

“Thank you,” he whispers, burying his face in his husband’s hair as Anya’s cold nose finds his wrist, her love so familiar he could never forget just how fucking much of it held him together to this very point. “Thank you for it all.”

The gazebo feels light years away now, a distant stretch of warm light and a pulse of music they’re far enough from for it not to needle, but even so, Pork’s voice drifts.

Beloveds.

Ilya swipes at his cheeks. “We are being summoned - Pork requires us.”

“That’s our boy,” Shane says, pressing a quick kiss to his temple. “Goodnight - uh - both of you. The shed is yours as long as you want it.” They find their feet slowly, but before they return to their family, Ilya turns to look over his shoulder. “And please tell her I am loved.” The owl bows his head.

You are so, so loved, Ilya.

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