Chapter Text
The sun is setting at the cottage, reflecting off the giant windows, casting a golden glow throughout.
It would be a beautiful evening, in theory, but Ilya is unable to care, just can't relax.
First of all, because he's here alone, without Shane. And it's strange. It's something that's never happened before. To get in, he used his own set of keys, which Hollander gave him one evening, out of the blue, making that weird face he always makes when he's trying to be cool and nonchalant about something that's actually very important to him. So important that he is embarassed about his own eagerness.
Shane will join him, soon—very soon hopefully—because the loneliness, or more specifically, Shane's absence by his side, is intolerable.
Ilya takes a deep breath.
Fuck, he could use a cigarette.
The urge to smoke is so strong that the fingers of his right hand twitch, brandishing an imaginary cigarette. He feels ridiculous. There alone like an idiot. He doesn't know what to do.
Smoke, that's what he needs to do.
With a determined stride, he heads outside onto the patio.
The evening is cool. Perfect for smoking. His hand automatically reaches for his jeans pocket. Empty. Then he pats the pocket of the shirt he wore this morning and freezes, remembering its content.
His knees feel weak at the mere thought. Standing becomes an insurmountable task, and he decides to sit on the lounge chair nearby, resting his head in shaking hands.
It's dark when Shane parks the Range Rover outside the cottage, a smile curling his lips at the idea that Ilya got here before him and used his own keys to get in, the ones he'd casually left on the table one evening a while back, as if it were no big deal. As if he hadn't been looking for a damned loon-shaped keychain to attach to it for days.
He grabs his bag from the trunk and heads inside.
The entryway is dark, as is the living room.
"Ilya?" He calls.
The glass door is open, and the light, now on inside, partially illuminates the outside patio, as well as a familiar profile, albeit one bent over in a way he doesn't like at all.
"Ilya! Are you okay?"
Ilya is startled at the sound of his name being called. He turns sharply.
"You're here"
Shane is taken aback by the lack of a smile accompanying that phrase. Ilya knew Shane would arrive right at that hour. An alarm bell rings in Shane's head. Something's wrong. Something seriously wrong, since Ilya has been staring for several seconds at the shirt he's wearing, bought on impulse during a shopping spree with Rose, and he's not even making a joke about it.
"Everything alright?"
Shane takes Ilya's hands, still framing his face, and takes them in his. Shit, they're cold. And slightly trembling.
"How long have you been out here?"
"I- don't know," Ilya replies, his gaze unfocused. Shane panics, an Ilya who admits he doesn't know something is a new and shocking Ilya.
"Talk to me?" Fuck, Shane is doing a shitty job at discovering what the fuck is going on. Too many variables, combined with the element of surprise, aren't helping his brain stay calm. "What happened?"
Ilya stares into Shane's eyes. Apparently unable to articulate anything. Ilya's eyes have always seemed ridiculously huge and expressive to Shane, but tonight they're... kind of scary. They're brimming with intensity, but also with fear? Something unusual and disturbing.
Without looking away, Ilya pulls something dark and flat from his shirt pocket and shows it to him.
"Holy shit. Is it real?"
"No Hollander, it's black market. Of course it's real!!" Ilya tries to take back his brand-new Canadian passport from Shane, which was handed to him a few hours ago.
Shane holds the passport firmly and opens it delicately. It's so new the pages creak. "Nice photo, though."
"Thanks, I know." They both giggle like kids at the photo, which, admittedly, is a good one.
"How do you feel? To finally be a Canadian citizen?"
Ilya exhales forcefully, almost grunting.
English fails Ilya right now. It's too difficult to express his emotions, even in Russian. Relief, happiness. But also sadness, melancholy, a certain sense of shame at having somehow turned his back on his country. The word "Traitor," in Russian, echoes in his mind. And it sounds like his father's voice.
"I don't know, Shane, I don't know anything right now."
"It's okay. It's okay to have mixed feelings " Shane murmurs, handing him back the passport, before hugging him tightly. Ilya melts at the touch of Hollander's warm, solid body.
SAFE. Ilya has always felt safe in Shane's arms, but damn, he wasn't prepared for how safe he'd feel in his arms, with his new passport in his pocket.
It's exhilarating. It's life-changing. O
And if his father, wherever he is now, thinks he's a traitor to his country, so be it. It's not Ilya's fault that he loves Shane, and that the authorities in his country don't accept and punish all this. His heart aches for all queer people in Russia. And to the mix of already intense feelings he's experiencing, now he adds shame, the shame of being a privileged person who has the chance to live his life freely.
A shiver runs through him from head to toes.
"Let's go inside, you're freezing." Shane releases the embrace and drags him in the house. Ilya lets himself be manhandled. Anything, anything to avoid having to think, or make a decision whatsoever.
Together, they climb the few steps to the bedroom. Ilya barely realizes what's happening. His mind is too overwhelmed. He feels Shane's hands slip under his shirt, caressing his shoulders, and pulling off the garment. Reverently, Shane takes the passport, which he's still clutching stupidly, and after a look of confirmation, places it on the nightstand.
Ilya snorts. "It's so... blue. I wasn't expecting it. I thought it was red like ours."
Shane tries to appear very busy taking off Ilya's shoes to hide his perplexity to that nonsense babbling. Failing miserably, in the most endearing way possible.
In a sudden moment of clarity, Ilya is overwhelmed by the love he feels for Shane, who is folding his clothes with meticulous care. He loves that man. And Shane loves him back.
Ilya feels like the luckiest person in the world. And screw anyone who thinks there's anything wrong with any of this. He's officially a fucking Canadian citizen now.
"How about we take a hot shower? So you can warm up a bit?"
Shane tries to navigate this stormy sea of uncertainty as best he can. It's obvious that Ilya needs some kind of support right now, but since he's still unclear about the problem, he's forced to proceed tentatively.
Starting from the basics: what's cold warms up. What's hot cools down.
Ilya has let him undress him, without even a double entendre (concerning), and Shane finds him still and silent, just as he left him when he returns to the bedroom after turning on the shower (even more worrying). The first sound he hears him make is a pleasant hum of surprise when the jet of hot water hits Ilya.
Shane takes refuge in the reassuring and familiar ritual of showering together. They've done it a thousand times and they'll do it a thousand times again. Even though it's strange today, without having Ilya's hands caressing him, exploring him, teasing him. It doesn't matter if this time is a little different, Shane repeats to himself. His fingers massage the shampoo into Rozanov's curly hair with infinite care and tenderness, then guide his head under the water. Ilya's eyes are closed, his face unreadable. Shane curses internally, if only it were easier for him to read people, understand what's going on in their heads... Whatever.
After the hair, it's time to get busy washing Ilya's body. Shane pours a generous amount of cleanser onto the large, fat natural sponge he bought in a fit of self-indulgence. All in all, it's not a bad thing to have something between his hands and Rozanov's body, which never fails to reawaken his attention, especially when he's this close and this wet.
The shower water slides over his boyfriend's sculpted body (will the mere thought of calling him that not cause him to giggle hysterically? Let's hope not). The only difference, compared to usual, is the complete disinterest of Ilya's cock, which dangles indifferently between his legs.
Shane feels a little surprised, a little offended, and a lot worried. Whatever's buzzing around in Ilya's head is so important and all-encompassing that it completely overwhelms his usually vibrant and exuberant libido. This is absolutely no good. Especially considering that Shane's dick, au contraire, is very, very responsive to the proximity of Rozanov's naked, wet body. Shane turns his hips to avoid drawing attention to his groaning erection, lest he seem inappropriate and disrespectful in such a tense moment.
Shane gently pushes Ilya under the shower, and he lets himself be handled, docile, until every trace of suds is rinsed away. Shane quickly emerges from the shower, grabs two large towels, and wraps himself and then Ilya in them, drying him with tender movements.
Ilya's mind buzzes with a myriad of thoughts, conflicting emotions flying around in his skull like a flock of frightened birds. He can't focus on any of them; it's all just a loud, annoying, indistinct noise.
But from the fog of his mind, two solid, warm hands emerge, gently undressing him and pulling him to his feet. They drag him somewhere, he's not sure where. But it doesn't matter. They're Shane's hands, and so he knows they'll be the ones to catch him at the end of his free fall. He trusts Shane.
The jet of hot water splashing on his shoulders takes him by pleasant surprise. Shane has once again been able to understand what he needs before he even realizes it himself. God, Ilya loves this man so much it hurts, with his ridiculous (adorable) freckles, that is literally washing him because he can't even lift an arm, trapped as he is in this pathetic existential crisis.
And damn, it's not just his arm he can't raise. Apparently, his body is failing him, failing miserably at the one thing that's always come easy to him, almost more natural than breathing: enthusiastically demonstrating all the attraction he feels for Shane. Rationally, he knows it happens; it happens to everyone sooner or later. Maybe he should feel guilty, or ashamed. But it's as if his mind can't tune into a single emotion. It's all just noisy static.
Something brushes against his thigh, and he wouldn't have even noticed if Shane hadn't suddenly stiffened.
Oh, oh.
Well, if his cock isn't bothered, the same can't be said for Shane's. But being Shane, wonderful and respectful Shane, he tries to pretend nothing's happening, twisting his body in an unnatural way so as not to draw attention to his erection, which he then quickly hides by wrapping himself in a towel.
Shane's care is almost overwhelming. But it also has the power to ignite something in him from within.
Ilya opens his eyes and meets Shane's gaze.
Immediately, the background noise subsides and he is overwhelmed by desire. This violent, hot wave that hits him is made of lust, yes, but with a different hue. He wants Shane, he wants him now. Actually, no, he doesn't want him; he desperately needs him.
"Shane, please," he moans.
"I'm here, tell me what you need."
"You. I need you. Take me apart."