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Ilya still reaches for Shane in bed.
It happens in that quiet space between sleep and consciousness, when instinct takes over. His hand drifts across cool sheets, searching for the non-exsistent warmth. As if his soul knows that he fucked up.
Three months ago, Ilya made the gravest mistake of his very misfortunate life. He let the best thing that had ever happened to him walk away, and he has regretted it every single day since.
“This isn’t working for me anymore.”
The lie had tasted bitter on his tongue. He can still see the way Shane’s slender eyes filled with unshed tears, the way his mouth parted slightly as if he might argue or beg but didn’t, breaking Ilya’s own heart in real time.
Ilya shakes the image from his mind.
The truth was never that it wasn’t working.
The truth was that he was scared.
Scared of Shane. Scared of them. Scared of who he became with him.
With Shane, he wasn’t just Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov, player, tough guy, someone to hide your partner from. Now he was a lover. Someone soft. Someone whose heart fluttered at the thought of another man’s smile. Someone who whispered “beautiful” into his sweaty skin after sex, who traced the freckles on his cheek, who kept photos on his phone in a folder labelled boring ❤️.
He wasn’t supposed to be like that.
A year of whatever that was a relationship- miracle had turned him into someone’s boyfriend. Into a man in love. And Ilya knew all too well what happened to the people he loved.
They left,
his mom, Russia, or the concept of family.
He’d let his friends into his head.
“This isn’t like you, man.”
“What happened to you?”
“Whipped.”
They never meant it cruelly. It was always said with a grin, a shove to the shoulder, teasing sportsmanship. But the words infiltrated his mind. They planted doubt. And like an absolute idiot, he let them convince him that loving Shane meant losing himself.
So he ended it.
What a fucking idiot.
And now he’s here, notebook in front of him, tear-stained Cyrillic staring back. A plan to get his man back.
Because if there’s one thing Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov has always been good at, it’s fighting for what he wants.
And he doesn’t lose.
Step 1: Don’t Shoot the Messenger
Ilya drafts message after message, refining every word he plans to send to Shane. He’s never been a perfectionist like Shane, never cared enough, but now he has something to lose. He’s not ready to send it yet, but the plan is clear in his head: tell Shane how he feels, give him the space and time to process it, then, when the moment feels right, ask to meet in person.
Ilya tries to find it within himself to be vulnerable, not wanting his bullshit emotional unintelligence to ruin it like always. He wants to sound steady, mature, certain. For once, he is determined not to rush, not to overwhelm, not to sabotage them with impulsiveness.
But like so many of Ilya’s plans, it begins to unravel after one too many vodkas. The carefully edited drafts blur together. Confidence tips into recklessness.
Shane
Fucking freckls
freckles*
I miss
U
U rSo boring
(3) Missed Calls
Picc up
Sweeetheart
U better niot be fucking Other guys
Want u back
u the besss thiNg inmy life
I loveU Always
maybe from firsst time i saw u
million memories
Ilya please.
Thanks u forThose
Stop it, you can’t do this.
whatever happens I am wuth u safe in
uR heart
i believe it
PleaSe shane
Let me come home
Read Yesterday
(1) Missed Calls
Okay I was drunk last night.
I meant it though.
Let's talk.
Shane?
I can see you reading this.
Undelivered
What was wrong with him? Now Shane would never take him seriously. He probably thought he was messing around again, the way he had for most of their goddamn relationship. But he wasn’t. Not this time. He had never been so devoted to anything, let alone anyone.
All he needed was the chance to prove it.
Step 2: Did I Mention I’m Sorry?
Ilya knew Shane was mad. His usually submissive sweetheart- soft-voiced, patient, always the first to fold was now ignoring him completely. No texts. No calls. Nothing.
So now Ilya had to beg, something the tall Russian has never done before.
First, he sent flowers. A bouquet of lilies, one lily for every month they’d been together. A blue ribbon note attached “Remember that day in Montreal” referring to the night we took a trip up to Shane’s family's cottage and Ilya made him come three times in one hour. He’d stood in the florist, counting carefully, ignoring the way his chest tightened with each stem added. It felt symbolic. Romantic. Like something out of a film.
They were sent back the next day.
Ouch.
Next, he sent a stuffed puck with beady little eyes and a tiny smile. Tucked into its ribbon was a note that read, pwease forgive us. He’d debated the spelling for a full five minutes before deciding desperation suited him.
Shane kept that one.
Ilya clung to that detail like it was oxygen. That had to mean something.
Emboldened, he escalated. A six-pack of ginger ale, Shane’s favourite, and a gift card to that disgusting healthy restaurant he loved, the one where everything tasted like shit and grass. This time, Ilya delivered it in person. He placed the bag neatly at Shane’s door and then hid around the corner like the lovesick fool he was.
When Shane stepped out, Ilya’s breath caught.
He looked different. His hair was longer now, tied up in a small man bun. It made his cheekbones sharper. His eyes though looked hollow. Shadowed. Like sleep hadn’t been visiting much.
Shane glanced at the bag. Picked it up.
And dropped both straight into the trash.
Okay. Not forgiven yet.
Weeks of silence stretched thin. Ilya grew tired of not finally being with him.
So, he brought the only thing he had left.
Himself.
Shane opened the door to find Ilya standing there, arms empty, heart bare.
They locked eyes.
Shane immediately tried to close the door.
Ilya reacted on instinct, slipping his hand against the wood and gently keeping it open.
“Hey! you look, hey-” Ilya fumbled, words tangling over themselves.
“What are you doing here?” Shane asked flatly.
The lack of warmth made Ilya’s heart tremble. The rejection was obvious. Deserved. But obvious.
“Okay, um, I have come here to-” He swallowed. Here goes nothing.
Ilya dropped to his knees.
The hardwood pressed sharply against him. Humility burned hot across his cheeks, but he forced himself to focus on Shane, who now looked absolutely horrified.
“What? No. Get up,” Shane demanded.
“No, no, this is right grovelling position. I Google it,” Ilya insisted quickly.
“I fucked up. I broke us. I am so sorry. Take me back please.”
Shane stared at him like he’d grown two heads before stepping forward and hauling him back up by the biceps.
“Stand up, Ilya. What the fuck?”
His hands were warm. Firm. Familiar. And then they were gone just as quickly, like the contact burned.
“What? I am apologizing,” Ilya shot back, confused and a little frustrated that Shane couldn’t see how serious he was. How wrecked he was.
“You don’t get to come back into my life and be loud and think that makes it okay that you broke my heart, Ilyusha.”
The old pet name slipped so effortlessly from Shane’s lips that Ilya could’ve sworn his heart grew three sizes in his chest.
“I know. I know. Fuck, this is coming out all wrong, okay? What can I do? Please?” Ilya pleaded.
Shane really looked at him through his red-rimmed, glassy eyes. Water pooling but never falling, which Ilya is sure Shane thinks he's playing off, as long as a tear doesn't shed he's fine. “You can let me go.”
The words tore through Ilya like Shane had reached into his chest, wrapped a fist around his heart, and ripped it out.
Before Ilya could get a word out, the door shut.
He stood there staring at the brass numbers 1221 on Shane’s door. Angry tears gather then fall.
Fuck.
Step three: Three’s a Crowd
After a week of walking a begrudging Shane home, begrudging meaning Ilya trying and failing to keep up while Shane dodged him through crowds, and showing up every afternoon at his office at LilyJane Inc. with lunch that Shane always throws in the trash (though once he did, reluctantly, drink the ginger ale, progress), Ilya found himself standing in the dim hallway outside Shane’s apartment.
He told himself he was not waiting. He was simply… there.
The stairwell door creaked open.
Shane walked up first, laughing softly at something the man beside him had said. The guy was tall, broad-shouldered, effortlessly handsome, like some catalogue model come to life. Probably named Chad or something equally as obnoxious. The sight hit him in the chest so hard he now understood why murder existed.
Shane smiled at the man, warmly. Not the soft, private smile he used to reserve for Ilya, but something close. Close enough.
Then Shane saw him.
The smile dropped.
The other guy’s eyes ping-ponged between them, confusion dawning.
Ilya meant to say something calm. Casual. Mature.
Instead: “Who the fuck is this dude?”
The words stormed out of him.
Shane inhaled slowly, like he was dealing with a misbehaving child. “A friend, Miles. Not that that’s your business.”
Deadpan. Cold.
“Uh… I can come back,” Miles offered awkwardly.
“Leave,” Ilya snapped immediately.
“No,” Shane said at the same time.
Ilya’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. Russian anger burned hot and stupid in his veins. He stepped closer to Miles, puffing out his chest, straightening to emphasise the pathetic one-inch height advantage he had.
Petty. But it was something.
Before he could crowd any further, Shane’s hand pressed flat against his stomach, holding him back.
The contact froze him.
What the fuck is he protecting? This guy?
“I’m the boyfriend-” Ilya began.
“Ex,” Shane cut in sharply.
They had never even had the official boyfriend talk when they were together. But damn it. Ilya had been. He is. In every way that matters.
“We are getting back together,” Ilya continues.
“No, we’re not.”
“So you need to back off,” Ilya finished, eyes locked on Miles.
“Seriously, Ilya!” Shane scolded.
“I’m going to go,” Miles muttered, already retreating down the stairs before Shane could stop him.
Then there was just the two of them.
Shane’s hand was still on Ilya’s stomach. Their faces were only a few feet apart. If Ilya leaned forward, he could breathe in that stupid, familiar scent, fresh ginger and clean linen. It hit him all at once, and his heart began pounding for an entirely different reason.
Shane looked furious. Truly furious. His eyes were bright, jaw tight.
“I missed-” Ilya tried.
“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?” Shane’s voice cracked despite himself.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. You can’t just- I’m my own person, Rozanov.”
The last name landed harder than it should.
“You shouldn’t be with a guy like that,” Ilya snapped.
“And why not?”
“Because you’re mine!”
Silence.
The words hung between them, ugly and exposed. They both stared at each other, as if the confession had physically stunned them.
Shane swallowed. “That’s the thing. I was yours. And yet you threw it all away.”
His voice trembled, barely, like the words burned through him.
Ilya wanted to argue. To grab him. To kiss him. To shout that it had all been a mistake, that he had been an idiot, that he would burn the world down to fix it.
But he couldn’t move.
He was rooted to the spot, paralysed by the damage he’d done. God, why was he such a fuck up?
Slowly, he reached out.
“Go fuck yourself, Roz,” Shane said hoarsely.
He shoulder-checked Ilya as he stepped past him and unlocked the apartment door.
The door shut, with finality cutting off any further conversation.
Ilya’s hand dropped uselessly back to his side.
Step 4: Mile High Club
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Shane all but yells when he sees the curly-haired Russian stepping onto the plane.
Ilya’s face lights up in an unapologetic smile as he drops into the seat next to him, like he belongs there. The nerve of this guy.
“That is what you say after running away,” Ilya replies with a cocky grin.
“I’m not running away. I’m visiting my parents.” Shane refuses to look too impressed, refuses to think about the fact that Ilya is apparently flying across a border for him.
“Yes, but you do not tell me,” Ilya insists.
“You’re not my keeper.”
“Perhaps not, but you should still let your lover know when you are leaving.”
“Ew, gross. We’re not lovers, asshole.” Shane’s frustration spikes, and not just because Ilya looks ridiculously good in that tight V-neck.
“You’re not staying with us,” Shane adds quickly.
“I stay at hotel. Though Yuna and David love me.” Ilya shrugs.
Ilya mentioning his parents does nothing good for Shane’s chest. “Not anymore. You dumped me.”
That isn’t even true. Yuna and David still bring Ilya up all the time, asking when they’re getting back together. Shane never has it in him to be honest about it. Maybe he doesn’t want to face that reality either.
Ilya makes a ridiculous duck-faced pout and lets his head drop onto Shane’s shoulder. “Mmm, but did you miss me?” he asks in a faux-teasing tone, though his eyes shine with something serious.
“No,” Shane replies in French, pulling his shoulder out from under him.
Ilya lets out a long, dramatic moan at the loss of contact. “You are so boring, Hollander,” he complains, tossing his mop of curls as he glances toward the bathroom.
Then he elbows Shane. “Hey. How about we join the mile high club?” he asks, wiggling his obnoxiously perfectly shaped eyebrows.
“Fuck off, asshole,” Shane mutters.
He jams his headphones on and turns up his Hockey Hall of Fame audiobook, drowning out the hum of the flight and the boy with ocean eyes sitting far too close on his right.
When the flight lands, Ilya jumps up before the seatbelt sign even dings off. He reaches for Shane’s luggage. The only thing Ilya himself seems to have brought is a worn duffle bag slung over one shoulder.
“I can carry my own bag,” Shane insists, already reaching for the handle.
He’s ignored.
For a second, Shane considers mentioning Ilya’s bruised ribs, the ones he’d mentioned in passing the last time he insisted on walking Shane home. But he swallows the words. It’s not his business anymore.
“Do you not have, like, a job?” Shane asks as they walk through the terminal.
“I took time off. Romantic of me, huh?” Ilya says, turning his head toward him.
Shane pointedly dodges his eyes.
Then they step outside.
And the worst possible thing happens.
Shane’s mom is standing by the curb, holding up a handmade sign that reads Shane Hollander in big block letters.
Fuck.
“Ilya!” she yells across the lot, waving in enthusiastic little flaps.
There goes Shane’s carefully crafted they hate you lie.
Judging by the smug look Ilya shoots him, he knows it too. Before he jogs over and wraps Yuna in a crushing bear hug like he’s the favourite son.
Which, frankly, he is.
By the time Shane reaches them, they’re already mid-laugh.
“Hey, Mom. I told you I’d Uber,” Shane says politely, accepting her one-armed side hug.
“Why Uber when you have a perfectly good mom to drive you, huh? And good thing I came, or I wouldn’t have seen Ilya!”
“So good to see you, Miss H,” Ilya says, all charm.
“Nonsense. It’s Yuna, you know that,” she insists, patting his cheek.
Shane clears his throat. “Okay, well, it’s been a long flight from Boston. I’m sure Ilya’s got someplace to be-”
“No, I don’t,” Ilya cuts in with a shrug.
Yuna lights up like Christmas morning. “Perfect! You are staying with us. No exceptions. I’m making pasta tonight.”
She loops an arm over Ilya’s shoulder. He immediately slings one around her back in return, grinning down at her.
Shane is left trailing a step behind.
“Mom-” he tries, aiming to stop what is surely his impending doom.
But the protest dies in his throat.
Instead, something softer takes its place. Butterflies, annoyingly enough, crowd out the irritation in his stomach. He watches the way Ilya leans into Yuna’s affection so easily, so naturally. Watches the way his mom beams at him.
After everything Ilya went through with his family in Russia, Shane had wanted nothing more than for him to find a home here, with them.
And Shane guesses he still does.
Step 5: Your Ass is Grass
Ilya gets to stay with the Hollanders for the entire week because Yuna would not hear of anything else. If it were up to her, he would have moved in permanently. Shane, however, had his qualms. But what Mrs. Hollander says goes. He did however lay some ground rules after Ilya spent the better part of the first day trailing him around the cottage like a lost puppy.
“We’re not back together. We’re not even friends,” Shane said coldly, an adorable crease forming between his eyebrows.
“But we could be,” Ilya suggested, hopeful as ever.
“Ilya, you dumped me so you could fuck other people.” Shane crossed his arms, freckles standing out starkly against the blush. He aimed for anger and instead hit hurt.
“That is not- no,” Ilya insists. Look he had tried, at first. Truly. But no man or woman had been able to get the boring Canadian with a weak backhand out of his mind.
Shane gave him a very clear I don’t believe you look and walked back to his room, shutting the door with a thud behind him.
It had been a long couple of days of Shane ignoring and avoiding him around the cottage. Ilya filled the time playing board games with Yuna and David, laughing too loudly, trying not to feel guilty for monopolizing Shane’s parents. He could have come out and hung with us, Ilya thought bitterly. No one was stopping him.
Sometimes Ilya would go swim in the lake, floating on his back and staring up at the sky, remembering the last time he and Shane had been there together, sunburnt shoulders, stolen kisses off the dock, Shane’s laughter as Ilya splashed him.
Now, Ilya stood in the guest bathroom, drying off after a long, cold shower. Seeing Shane earlier in tight cargo shorts was sexier than it should have been, but he was on a two-and-a-half-month dry spell, and apparently his standards had narrowed to “Canadian in shorts.”
A towel hung around his shoulders. Nothing was secured around his waist.
His heart kicked into overdrive when the bathroom door swung open.
“Oh- fuck, I’m sorry!” Shane yelped, instantly half-covering his eyes like he had not seen Ilya’s dick a thousand times before.
Shane started to step back out and shut the door, but then he froze.
Through the mirror, he caught sight of something on Ilya’s lower half. His eyes stilled. Questioning if he should get his glasses, then readjusted. As if the marking might rearrange itself into something else.
It did not.
Clear as day, across Ilya’s right ass cheek, circled in a inked heart, were the words:
Shane Hollander.
Ilya followed his gaze in the mirror and swore under his breath. “Fuck- fuck.” He fumbled for the towel, before wrapping it properly around his hips.
Shane looked genuinely speechless. Worldless. His freckles went bright red as his eyes snapped back up.
Ilya panicked shouting “get out” and bolting forward, slamming the door shut between them.
Holy shit.
Ten minutes later, after a minor panic attack he’s really going to leave me now and several frantic texts to Svetlana, Ilya emerged fully dressed and deeply embarrassed.
Shane was leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, expression haunted.
“About that-” Ilya began.
“What the hell was that?” Shane snapped in a harsh whisper, glancing toward the living room as if his parents might materialize out of thin air. “Your ass? What could you possibly have been thinking?”
Ilya bristled, frustration flaring under the embarrassment. What exactly was so bad about it?
“I was thinking vodka tastes good,” he said defensively. Then, softer but no less blunt, “And I love you.”
Silence fell heavy between them.
Both of them reeled.
I love you.
The words Ilya had sent over text weeks ago, but never in person. Never sober. Never like this.
Though he had thought them a million times.
“I told you this is not some impulsive thing for me,” Ilya continued, voice hoarse. “I miss you. Us.” He gestured helplessly between them.
Shane squeezed his eyes shut, willing back the tears. His shoulders lifted in a small, pained shrug.
“I need- I can’t do this right now.”
“Okay,” Ilya said quietly, eyes sad but sincere. “I can wait.”
Shane turned softly and walked down the hallway, disappearing around the corner.
Ilya’s heart felt heavier as he watched him go.
But not as shattered.
Step 6: You called
They had been back in Boston for about a week, and things were better.
Shane no longer bolted at the mere sight of him. He even ate the lunches Ilya brought to his cubicle, which felt monumental. And when Ilya spammed him throughout the day with what he considered hilarious anecdotes or deeply charming stories, Shane replied. Granted, they were usually one-word responses, but compared to his previous silence, it was an upgrade. A significant one.
So yes, things were good. Slow, fragile, but good.
Then the call came at 2 a.m.
Ilya was asleep, dreaming of freckles and Canadian wolf birds, when his phone began to ring. On the third buzz, he squinted at the screen with bleary eyes.
Shane.
He answered immediately, worried the call might drop before he could.
“Ilyaaaa,” Shane slurred in greeting, Ilya could feel himself smile at this.
“Shane. You are drunk,” Ilya said, making no attempt to hide the fondness in his voice.
“Nooo… okay, yes.” Shane replies giddy, then shifts into a pouty tone. “Come get me?”
Ilya was already out of bed.
The house was difficult to find with Shane’s wasted babbling serving as directions, but eventually Ilya managed. He pulled up and checked the address again.
“Are you sure I can walk in?” he asked for the third time.
“Yes, yes. Hurry.”
Ilya stepped out of his black Cayman, “a poor man’s Porsche,” as Shane liked to tease and jogged up to the house. He let himself inside, following the noise until he reached the kitchen.
There he was.
Shane lay sprawled across Pike’s lap, on the dirty tiled floor, sweaty, beet-red, and unfairly beautiful. A sharp twist of jealousy flared in Ilya’s chest, quick and hot, but he swallowed it down.
Shane’s eyes lit up the moment he saw him.
“Come hereee,” he demanded, reaching out clumsily.
Ilya shushed him softly and took his hand. “Better?”
“Yes,” Shane murmured, a soft smile curving his lips.
“Is this your boyfriend, Shane?” some French guy asked from across the kitchen.
“No. He’s mean.” Shane pouted.
Ilya winced at the stubborn words but couldn’t stop the small smile that followed. Even after nearly two months of patient wooing, Shane still refused to admit they are getting back together.
“yet,” Ilya said carefully, “we are not together. Yet.” He emphasized the last word.
A chorus of exaggerated “ooohs” erupted from the small crowd of friends. Everyone except Pike, who blew a loud raspberry.
Shane immediately scrambled off Pike’s lap and buried his burning face in Ilya’s chest.
“Okay, okay. I bring boyfriend home now,” Ilya announced, steadying Shane as he stood.
The room booed at the loss of their drunkest entertainment.
Shane’s arms slid around Ilya’s waist, clinging to him without hesitation. Ilya’s heart fluttered stupidly at the contact.
Pike pointed accusingly. “Is that a blush, Rozanov?”
“No. Russians do not do this,” Ilya shot back dryly.
He guided Shane carefully out of the house, one protective hand firm around his waist. Shane insisted on saying goodbye to every single person at the party.
By the time Ilya managed to buckle him into the passenger seat, Shane was already asleep, cheeks squished against the leather.
Ilya leaned over once he settled into the driver’s seat and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.
“спокойной ночи, любимый” Ilya whispered.
By the time they reached Shane’s apartment, he stirred awake, noticeably more sober
“Should I walk you up?” Ilya asked.
Shane shook his head lightly. “No need. I’m better.” He studied Ilya’s face as though searching for something.
“Make sure you drink lots of water. Is good for hangover. And take Advil,” Ilya instructed calmly.
But Shane was still looking at him.
Ilya was about to ask what was wrong when Shane leaned forward and kissed him.
The kiss started soft, but it turned into anything but. Slow and filthy. Shane reaches down and cups Ilya's cock through his pants making the Russian moan.
After a long, breathless minute, Shane pulled back.
“Come in?” he asked, hopeful.
Ilya dropped his forehead against the steering wheel with a quiet thud.
“God, I want to. You have no idea, моя любовь. But you are drunk.”
Shane let out a quiet laugh. “I’m mostly sober now,” he argued, leaning to try and catch Ilya’s eyes over the wheel.
Ilya turned his head, cheek still pressed awkwardly against the steering wheel.
“No. I am gentleman tonight. I ravish you when you have sober mind,” he promised, finally lifting his head.
A soft, steady beat passed between them.
“Good night, Ilya,” Shane said gently before stepping out of the car.
“Good night, Shane,” Ilya replied just as soft.
He waited, watching until Shane made it safely inside before finally driving away
…and taking a very cold shower.
Step 7: Marry that Boy
It had been three very good days since that conversation in his car. No, he hadn’t ravished him yet, but considering Shane’s subtle blushes and soft smiles, Ilya didn’t think he would mind. Shane had even started seeking him out on purpose: texting for updates about his day, walking toward him first instead of waiting to be approached or running away. Small things. Huge things.
Which was why Ilya decided it was time to activate the final part of his plan.
He had been putting it off, waiting until he felt no, knew that Shane had let him back into his heart. He didn’t want Shane to feel conflicted. He didn’t want this to look like a desperate bid for forgiveness. Ilya wasn’t doing this to fix something broken. He was doing it because he wanted to.
Still, as he struck the first match, he was only slightly scared shitless.
He filled the living room with dozens of candles, an outrageous fire hazard, but it was in the name of love, and scattered rose petals across the floor. He placed multiple rose centerpieces on the wooden end tables. The entire place looked like a florist had exploded. He checked his reflection in the darkened window, adjusted his button down, then texted Shane:
Come over. Wear something nice.
Shane responded with a single red heart.
Very promising.
Ilya paced, dragging a hand through his hair. He was nervous, before reminding himself sternly that Russians did not panic over feelings.
He was going to say yes. He will say yes.
At exactly 7:00 p.m., there was a knock at the door. Just like his perfectly punctual autistic boy,
“Come in!” he called, quickly wiping his palms on his dress trousers.
The door opened, and Shane stepped into a flowery candlelit mirage. His eyes adjusted slowly, landing on Ilya standing in the centre of it all, smiling blonde curls reflecting in the soft gold light.
Shane shut the door behind him.
“What is this?” Shane asked cautiously.
“I am redecorating,” Ilya said, deadpan.
Ilya stepped forward before his courage could evaporate and took Shane’s hands, soft and warm in his own calloused ones. Shane felt a strange fluttering in his stomach, like he was on the precipice of something enormous but couldn’t yet see it.
“Can you get to the point? I’m kind of crawling out of my skin here,” Shane admitted. It wasn’t that Ilya wasn’t romantic, he was, but this? This was excessive even for him.
“I want to start by saying I love you so much,” Ilya said.
Shane’s heart promptly stopped.
“Oh my God. You’re not breaking up with me again, are you?” Shane’s eyes went wide.
“No,” Ilya answered immediately, almost offended. “Because that would be really mean.” Ilya shushed him gently and pulled him closer. “No. I am not breaking up with you. The opposite, actually.”
He took a deep breath.
Then he stepped back.
Then he dropped to one knee.
Shane’s brain fully short-circuited.
Ilya pulled a small velvet box from his pocket and opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was a black ring with a gold exterior, simple but striking.
“Holy shit,” Shane whispered.
Ilya chose to interpret that as encouragement.
“Will you, Shane Hollander, marry me, so I can get Canadian citizenship?”
Shane let out a broken, laugh. “Fuck off, asshole,” he cried, pushing lightly at Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya rocked but stayed on his knee, sobering immediately.
He reached for Shane’s hand again. Shane gave it to him without hesitation.
“Will you marry me,” Ilya tried again, voice rougher now, “because I am so embarrassingly in love with you, and I want you more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time?”
Ilya thought it was important to note the difference between wanting and needing. In his darkest moments, it felt like both. But he chose Shane. Not because Shane was good for him, though he was, so heart-achingly good, but because Ilya couldn’t picture a universe where his heart wasn’t tied irrevocably to this Canadian boy.
Shane’s vision blurred with tears. He could barely see the ring anymore, but he could hear it in Ilya’s voice.
“You fucking asshole,” Shane whispered again,
“Sweetheart, that is insult, not answer,” Ilya said softly.
“Yes,” Shane choked out, nodding so vigorously. His eyes and cheeks, both red. “Yes.”
Ilya surged to his feet and crushed him into a hug, kissing every freckle he could find, his nose, his chin, and finally his mouth. Shane clung to him, breathing him in, pressing his face into his favourite place, the warm crevice of Ilya’s neck.
“This is insane,” Shane said breathlessly. “We’ve never even been official.”
“When you know, you know,” Ilya replied, heart suddenly calm and certain.
Shane pulled back just enough to look at him. “Give me the ring.”
So Ilya did, sliding the Cyrillic engraved band onto Shane’s finger. It fit perfectly. Shane admired it, still holding Ilya close with one arm.
“Do I buy you one?” Shane asked, eyes shining.
“I see matching one online,” Ilya admitted. “Did not want to buy until sure.”
Shane stared at him. “You really thought I’d say no?”
Ilya shrugged, small. The most uncertain Shane’s ever seen him. “Did not want to assume.”
Shane grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him in. “Get the fucking ring,” he murmured, before sealing his mouth over Ilya’s in a life altering kiss.