Chapter Text
Jabba’s palace was a bustling, ever-moving machine reeking of incense and sweat dropped in what would otherwise appear as a wasteland of desert plains and hills. Its uniquely remote quality was almost certainly a large part of its appeal, making it the perfect place for the rich and the powerful and the seedy to gamble and strike deals and entertain themselves at all hours of the day and night. The palace itself blended into the sand and mountains, carved into a labyrinth of emerging towers out of stone, like perhaps, if one really wanted to, they could pretend it wasn’t there at all.
Though slavery was illegal throughout the Republic, it was where the most slaves were bought and sold per capita. The entire galaxy knew that Jabba held court not just for Tatooine, but for most of the Outer Rim, a true King of thugs and shadows. A stone palace in the desert with two suns seemed strange in that way. With the downright obscene amount of money and connections he had, it was easy, if not beneficial, for the Core Worlds to turn a blind eye.
Shane Hollander was the King’s most favored bounty hunter. Ilya Rozanov was his favorite dancing boy.
Ilya knew Shane felt that returning here was more of a punishment than a reward. He didn’t like to gamble or socialize. He had little he liked to buy or trade beyond weapons, real estate, and decent food. He wanted to be able to do his job, get paid, keep to himself, and go his own way. Being a Mandalorian got him out of most things, if he wanted, but still, appearances were necessary. Bounty hunters had no need for friends– it wouldn’t be particularly wise to try, and you would do better at a betting table, anyway– but alliances made for less paranoia among the rabble.
Shane Hollander had not been seen in Jabba’s court in more than eight months, now. Ilya knew how gossip spread like wildfire– whispers of imprisonment, even death. The infamous Mandalorian of Jabba’s court, finally taken down by some rogue. Ilya knew better than to listen to such rumours. Still. He couldn’t help but worry. He always did when Shane was away.
And so when heads turned, Ilya’s did, too, and relief and elation washed over him to see Shane standing in the court’s hall one sudden afternoon. Ilya nearly shook with excitement when he realized. What terrible politics that would bring, if Jabba’s favorite slave were to forget himself and show real favor to the galaxy’s most notorious outlaw.
When Shane’s gaze was directed towards the King, where Ilya sat at the Hutt’s feet, Ilya offered a hint of a smile and prayed that the holonet did not read much into it beyond surprise and politeness or perhaps a bet won.
The rumors, of course, were only that. There were logistical issues and the hit had to be put on pause for a time. But it was done. And the Mandalorian had returned to Tatooine. Once the formalities were through and payment was promised with the court as witness, Ilya had his part to play. It would almost be fun if it weren’t so mortifying, which was saying something, he supposed, as a slave who canoodled with half the court more than half naked most days.
Ilya first kissed Jabba’s cheek, then his ring, bowing deeply. And he descended the steps into the belly of the court, his chains rattling, all eyes on him in an unusual fashion– for this was an unusual arrangement. Ilya was long ago made the King’s favorite, by luck, by curse, by fate.
Five years ago, Shane put to stop a plot against Jabba’s life. Along with many accolades and riches and accommodations came one more token of gratitude. What better symbol could the King with the galaxy’s greatest export of slaves have to give than his very favorite dancing boy?
Ilya kissed the ground at Shane’s feet. A fine welcome, and a grand gesture, to be sure. The hall was a cavernous place filled with constant conversation and entertainment. Dozens of slaves served food and drink, served their attention, served their bodies according to the greed of even more guests. It was scrubbed clean of the filth that lingered in the early hours of the morning once all had finally retired for sleep just to be ruined anew a short few hours later, over and over again for generations.
Ilya didn’t mind the act of it, didn’t mind honoring the man as much as he minded what it showed about himself. He knew very well that he was meat; he would rather not be reminded that he was a political tool to boot. Someone or something to be traded for the right act. He didn’t know how long he had until Jabba would be tired of him. If he were only demoted, of course he would be happy. But if he had to leave the palace– if he were sold away to a stranger– to even think of it was impossible. Ilya could not leave the palace. He wouldn’t.
Of course, he could never let that shameful fear show.
Ilya accepted Shane’s outstretched arm when he rose. Together they left the court for the Mandalorian’s chambers, a gaudily furnished living space like all else the Hutt King loved. Silver and gold and fine fabrics were plenty nice to distract from the mundanity of the desert, but Ilya got the impression Shane had sleeker tastes more fitting to the cities he spent his time in.
In the sitting room Shane settled on the chaise of rich velvet and removed his helmet, his dark hair beneath sweat-damp and plastered to his forehead. Ilya watched from the doorway, unsure of what to do with his arms, feeling unusually awkward. It had been a long time. What if Shane had decided he didn’t like him after all?
But Shane flashed him a winning smile, Ilya’s stomach somersaulting at the sight of him. “It’s very nice to see you,” Shane said, and Ilya took courage to step closer.
“You as well, sir,” Ilya replied. Then, tentatively, as Shane removed his gloves, “I missed you.”
Shane’s eyes were warm when he met Ilya’s again.
“I missed you, too.”
Ilya smiled widely, lowered himself easily to his knees to undo the man’s bootstraps without another word.
“You don’t have to do that,” Shane said as he did each time.
“I want to,” Ilya said.
Once his boots and socks were removed, Ilya kissed the tops of both feet. Raising his head once more, he suppressed a shiver at the intensity in Shane’s gaze as he watched on.
“I’m not very clean,” Shane half-apologized, half-protested.
“I don’t mind,” Ilya said, “I miss the desert, too.” The grit of the sand and the slick, heavy scent of sweat and dirt trapped in Shane’s boots– it was a strange comfort. Maybe it shouldn’t have been a comfort at all, but it was.
Ilya was born on a farm to a young slave. He was raised to be a farmhand under the Tatooine suns before he was sold to Jabba for much-needed credits. He’s been lucky to see a glimpse of the dunes over the palace walls in fifteen years, nevermind stand and sweat in the desert plains.
Shane seemed to consider him as he worked to rid himself of the remainder of his armour down to his thermals. Ilya didn’t mistake the way his eyes dragged over his skin.
“Did you always wear so little, or have I just forgotten?”
Ilya gave a short, surprised laugh in response. Anyone else might be offended by the Mandalorian’s tone, but he understood Shane’s odd sense of humor and lingering religious sensibilities, as much as it may as well have been his way of flirting.
“I’d have worn far less had I known you’d be arriving today,” Ilya retorted, knowing how to tease him right back, much to the scandal of the religious man.
“Don’t tell me that. You’re barely covered as it is. If I had things my way, you’d be dressed in far more.”
“You mean to say you like to imagine me with more clothing on than I have?”
Shane fixed him with a meaningful look.
“Sometimes, yes.”
“Hm. And what would you dress me in? Only to take it off again and have your way with me, of course? Or would you have me while I still wore it?”
Shane’s gaze was steady, though his cheeks tinged pink.
“You shouldn’t be so crass,” he said.
“Or what, sir?” Ilya challenged.
“You know I hate it,” Shane ignored his question.
“I only enjoy teasing you.”
“So I've noticed,” Shane sighed, though an amused grin escapes him, “Let me remove your binds?” He gestured to Ilya’s cuffs.
“Please, sir,” Ilya said, sobering. Shane dug in his pockets for the key and shifted to sit on the ground with him, their knees overlapping.
“You know you don’t have to call me that,” Shane said as he took Ilya’s left wrist in his hands. Ilya was so tongue-tied by the simple touch that he struggled to answer in a timely fashion.
“Force of habit, I suppose,” he said self-consciously, “But don’t you like it?”
“I like it much better when you say my name,” Shane replied, and the first shackle was undone. They’ve had similar conversations before. There were several unusual things about the ways of the Mandalorian, some of which were easier to adjust to than others. Addressing each other, slave and freeman, by name– Ilya liked it. It felt exciting, special. But it came quite unnaturally to him still.
“Shane,” Ilya attempted as his right wrist was attended to, “How long will you be staying?”
“About three months’ time.”
Ilya’s eyebrows rose.
“You’ll finally have a real vacation.”
“I will,” Shane agreed fondly. Not long-suffering. Ilya thought he might buzz out of his skin. Shane still wanted to be with him. Shane wasn’t going to leave him early.
Ilya’s wrists now free, Shane cradled his left foot, drew his thumb across the pad of it, a tickling, intimate touch. Ilya had more than half a mind to press his heel against Shane’s length through his clothing, to say something sultry and clever that would make Shane want to kiss him senseless and beg for him right here on the floor.
He stopped himself. Or something stopped him. Like a barrier had suddenly gone up in his head, his nerve endings. Not now, not today, he found himself thinking desperately. Oh, fuck. Ilya began to spiral as it hit him, reality crashing into fantasy, his mind drifting. What if Shane wanted him tonight? What would he say? Could he say anything? Could he even handle a kiss? Ilya didn’t get like this often. Especially not with Shane. Why was he feeling this way now? His skin was prickling in all the wrong ways.
The Mandalorian did not typically want to fuck the first night, for some weird religious reason, he was sure. But it had been so long, what if– and Ilya usually relished in getting to take Shane to bed, but–
“Hey,” Shane said gently, and Ilya found that his shackles were gone, “Are you alright?” Ilya returned to himself, eyes widening slightly when he met Shane’s once more, “You went far away.”
“Yeah,” Ilya said quickly. “Yeah, sorry. I think I’m just, not really feeling my best today.”
“I’m sorry,” Shane said, and Ilya was always in awe of his patience, how a man like him could be so kind so easily, “Can I get your collar for you?”
Ilya nodded and lifted his chin, presenting his neck. Shane’s hand fell tender and steady against his jaw, and Ilya searched his eyes as he concentrated on unlocking the clasp. He looked content, but Ilya could see the apprehension behind his eyes. He was afraid of what he might find beneath the ring of metal.
When Shane’s fingers brushed against the bared skin, Ilya’s eyes slipped shut. His throat was unmarred, this time.
“I’m glad to see you like this,” Shane said softly, meaning unharmed and free of restraints, “I always worry for you while I’m away,” he confessed then, and Ilya’s stomach flipped.
“I worry about you, too, you know,” Ilya said, eyes flying open.
“You shouldn’t. I’m quite familiar with the job by now,” Shane said with a wry smile.
“I could say the same for myself.”
“That’s different, Ilya.”
“Is it?”
Shane looked at him, visibly biting back words.
“How have you been?” he settled on, and Ilya knew what he was really asking.
“Okay,” Ilya answered honestly. It was only a coincidence that it was the same answer he always gave, even though it seemed most days lately he felt he was losing his grip on how to handle the old Hutt’s temper and the increasingly growing demands of the guests he served. Realized a moment later that this was the time to tell Shane before he gave up all resolve later, ducking his head. “Actually, um. I’m– I’m feeling. Not myself. Today. I don’t know if– I mean– I’m sorry.” to his great shame, tears pricked at his eyes and his throat constricted around the words. He had never come close to crying in front of Shane before. Not once. Why was this happening now?
“Hey, no, it’s okay,” Shane said, cradling his cheek, “Don’t apologize. I get it. I get it. We don’t have to do anything. We won’t. It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry,” Ilya repeated, wetly, stupidly.
“It’s okay,” Shane soothed, “Don’t be sorry.”
Ilya nodded. Sniffed.
“Thank you.”
Shane pet his hair. Ilya closed his eyes against the sensation. It felt nice.
“Shower with me?” Shane asked, because that was their routine, but Ilya knew it was a real question. He nodded again, offered a small smile. This, he could do. He liked their routine. He liked to see Shane, the strong, smooth lines of him, soft and wet and pink under the warm spray. He knew Shane liked to look, too. They only looked. Ilya flinched, once, involuntary, minute, when Shane’s hand brushed too close to his back in reaching for something, and that was that. They lounged together, now dry and half-naked, indulging themselves on a supper of fruits and cheeses and chilled tea and catching up on the goings-on of their worlds since they’d last held each other’s company. Ilya relaxed a bit, then, when the silences and ebbs and flows between them came easy again and he could forget himself. Ilya had waited for Shane for eight months and it was like he had never left. He slept better than he felt he had in years, that night, just at Shane’s side. Nothing more expected of him.
The day after Shane returned to Tatooine an unexpected monsoon swept over the mountains. It was a peculiar, almost momentous day, for rain came once every five years or so, sometimes much longer. Most took it for a good omen. Ilya certainly did. Shane and Ilya squeezed into the open-aired courtyard alongside all the others who weren’t afraid of getting wet. By chance or maybe by the reputation of Shane Hollander, they were able to find a spot under Ilya’s favorite, old, half-dead tree. He used to sneak out here and watch the stars with Svetlana and Sasha when the day’s work was done, when they were younger and could afford to do that sort of thing because slightly less was expected of children. Ilya sat between Shane’s legs, reclined with his back against the other man’s chest. Secretly, he enjoyed preening like this in front of guests perhaps more than he should have. He liked to feel kept. He liked being excused from others’ company and attention. He liked the reminder that Shane’s reputation protected him in ways even in his absence.
The old tree didn’t grant them any coverage, but that wasn’t really the point of it anyway. The point was to feel the warm rain from the sky soak through your hair and skin and clothes until you remembered what life could be like. The noise of the palace and its inhabitants around them never stopped, but that wasn’t the point, either.
“I’ve never seen rain on this planet before,” Shane said, which only further cemented a private inkling in Ilya’s head.
“If you weren’t here, I’d be called to help collect the rain with everyone else,” Ilya said, meaning the rest of the servants. A part of him was genuinely torn up about it. He was happy to spend the exceptional day with Shane almost just as much as he longed for the established routine occasion of spending the day getting to do the same rare thing with everyone else. “I’ve collected rain four times in my life. But I only remember three.” Twice with his mother. Twice with Svetlana and Sasha and the others.
“You collected rain when you were a baby?” Shane asked, a funny expression crossing his face.
“So my mother said. I suspect she did most of the work for me. But there were very few of us on the farm, so, it would not surprise me if I was put to work then. Everyone works when it rains.”
Shane went quiet.
“You never talk about the farm,” he said eventually, “Or your mother.”
“You read my records,” Ilya shrugged, not a question. Of course Shane had. Shane was thorough in everything he did. “Maybe the rain makes me nostalgic. Special day, ah? Special memories. Even the ones I don’t remember.”
“All there was to read was the date you were sold, from whom,” Shane said, and Ilya knew that wasn’t quite true.
His records had his mother’s name, and her mother’s name, the men they had belonged to. No one knew, not on paper, anyway, the name who came before that or where she had come from, who had bought and sold that woman from whom. The lineage was only written down in an attempt to prevent inbreeding.
Approximate years of birth and death. Ilya knew when he was born, could guess when his mother was where her memory had been fuzzy on the matter.
They also held the date he was promoted from laborer to dancing boy. It was the only distinction that would matter, really, in the event he was ever sold again. Children were worth more than adults in credits– more potential. Dancing slaves were worth more than laborers. A higher profit return on average, coveted and traded between the wealthy.
But yes, there was truth to what Shane said. All that really mattered now was when and where Ilya had come from. He was the only one left of his family.
“The one rain I remember with my mother,” Ilya found himself saying, “It is my favorite day, I think. She told me about the planet she had been born and raised on, I can’t remember the name now. But it had, has more water and green than I could imagine, she said. More people, even. She missed it. I’ve seen pictures, now, of planets like that. We didn’t have that kind of technology on the farm.”
“Do you miss the farm?” Shane asked, curious. The question surprised Ilya. He shook his head, a sharp instinct.
“No. No, it was not a good place to be.” Shane’s silence indicated he was waiting for something more. “Too remote,” Ilya gritted out, trying his best to keep the images that came to mind at bay, “Too small. No one to look out for you. No way to get help.”
“Is that… why your mother died?” Shane asked carefully, noting the tricky spot he had walked into. Ilya wished they were talking about anything else.
“No,” Ilya said, closing his eyes and leaning his head back, “She killed herself because of what our master was doing to us. A terrible thing.” Ilya didn’t know if he meant that what she had done was a terrible crime or what He had done to them was terrible or if what it meant for Ilya afterwards was terrible.
“I’m sorry,” Shane said simply, holding him close.
“Nothing for you to be sorry about,” Ilya said reflexively. He felt Shane nod behind him in understanding, felt the puff of his breath in protest against his hair.
“Still,” he said. Paused. “Is it better here? Or the same?” Ilya didn’t know how he had let Shane get to asking these kinds of questions, questions one shouldn’t ask. He had no choice but to answer. He always answered Shane.
“I miss her. But it is better, yes. Or maybe it’s also easier to be grown, I don’t know. Yes, there are ways it is better. Much better. You make it better, too.”
Shane hummed and squeezed him tighter for a moment. Left a kiss in his hair. The awful experience of vulnerability passed. The rain continued to fall.
“If you could go anywhere in the galaxy,” Shane said, later in bed, and Ilya felt lighter, “Where would you go?”
“A dangerous question,” Ilya quipped, no bite.
“Humor me?” Shane pleaded, pouting just a little. Ilya kissed him for it. His mouth was sweet.
“Anywhere you went,” he said, sincere. Shane laughed, a bright thing.
“You’re a sap. Or you’re only trying to butter me up.”
“Can’t it be both?”
Shane kissed him for it, and the stupid questions were almost forgotten.
Days passed. Things were fine. Better than fine. Ilya lived in a blissful state, really. He could put all his attention on Shane and nothing else like this, and Shane would return it each time. The ceaseless din of the palace and the expectations that would return in full force when Shane left him again fell away. Ilya was happy, he thought. This was what it meant to be happy. Three months. Three months. He had three months of this. Less than that, now. Then he would wait for it again. Forever.
But something was bothering Shane. He could tell. The tiny furrow of his brow. The incessant tapping of his fingers. He looked ready to speak, but he didn’t.
“Is everything alright?” Ilya asked over their breakfast table, a hand on Shane’s knee. He always ate well with Shane. Shane smiled tightly, an unnatural expression. It made Ilya want to panic.
“There’s something I need to speak with you about.”
Ilya’s head spun, his stomach dropping. He had done something wrong. He had gotten too comfortable, he offended Shane.
“You aren’t in any trouble,” Shane said, because the dread he felt must have shown on his face, “Just– I need you to be completely honest with me. Please. Not that you aren’t usually, it’s just– please.”
“Okay,” Ilya said, blinking, feeling a little, a lot, like he was maybe about to die.
“I think I’m hurting you,” Shane said slowly.
“What?” Ilya said, dumbfounded, his hand carefully retreating from Shane. Like if he leaned back, he could see something clearer, “You’re not.”
Shane looked at him for a long time. Ilya was quite possibly floating away.
“I mean,” Shane continued, “This isn’t fair to you. Of course it isn’t. It’s– I’m an idiot. I really care about you. I really, really care about you, gods. But you were given to me. And so I have you. And I knew from the beginning that this was wrong, that it was a temptation. I’m under no delusion I’m a good man. But–”
“You are the best man I know,” Ilya interrupted, because he could not stop himself, “Shane. You did not touch me for two years. You asked nothing of me. It was me who came on to you. We agreed– we agreed this was something we both wanted. Is this not– do you not want me anymore?”
“Of course I still want you,” Shane stared, “I’m only saying, I understand. If you want a break. If we need to renegotiate something, because I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You think I am a temptation?” Ilya asked lowly. Shane shook his head, grimacing.
“No, no. I don’t. That came out wrong. I mean– I want to be better. For you. And I can’t stop thinking that if I were a better man, I would have said no to Jabba. Or I would have freed you by now.”
Ilya recoiled as if he had been slapped.
“You think you should have refused a King’s gift, or done something equally impossible?” he demanded, incredulous.
“It’s far from impossible to free a slave, even one of Jabba’s–”
“And where would I go if you freed me? To the street? To another whorehouse? Picked up by more slavers? I am branded, the whole galaxy has seen holograms of me in my Master’s court, in beds– if you want to do that to me, I would rather you kill me–” Ilya’s voice was rising, his breathing coming heavy.
“Of course not,” Shane interjected, eyes widening, “I would make sure you were taken care of, wherever you wanted to go.”
“I don’t want to go anywhere,” Ilya said desperately, and his vision was blurry, "I want to stay here.” His hands were in tight fists in his own lap. There was no maybe about it. Ilya was dying, he was sure of it, his heart in his throat.
“So you’re content with this arrangement? One you have no say over? Even when you’re clearly hurt?” Shane prodded, accused.
“I am not hurt,” Ilya argued vehemently, “And you do give me a say, don’t act like that. You treat me like an equal and I am so grateful for it. I don’t want anything else.”
“But you are hurt,” Shane insisted, “You were upset when I returned. And I understand, I’m not angry with you. I’m just concerned. I just want you to tell me the truth about how you feel.”
“You think I was upset with you?” Ilya asked, “That was not anything. It is just– something that happens sometimes. It has never happened with you before that day, lucky me. But it has nothing to do with you. It’s just me, and my body, or my head, or whatever. I deal with it. You are kind to me. It passes. It is not anything. Sometimes I will be upset in that way, yes. If that is too much for you– I don’t know what to say. Maybe I am not what you want, then.”
“Ilya, no,” Shane said sharply, took a deep breath, “Okay. So it wasn’t me. Maybe I didn’t hurt you, but you are hurting, sometimes. You should be able to talk to me about it.”
“What if I don’t want to talk about it?” Ilya threw his hands up, helpless. He suddenly had the urge to stand and run and hide somewhere. He didn’t want to talk about it, he didn’t.
“Okay,” Shane nodded slowly, his tone calming, “That’s okay. But if you ever want to. You can. We can.” He laid a hand out across the table. Not expecting. Just offering to Ilya. Maybe it was instinct, habit, maybe it was more of a gesture than anything.
“So you do not want a break?” Ilya pressed.
“Do you?” Shane countered.
“No,” Ilya said immediately.
“Then I don’t, either,” Shane said, softening.
Their days continued like usual. And Ilya was happy again.