Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Who moved the tree?”

Shane stood in the wings, headset clamped over his ears, staring at the Christmas tree centerpiece that had somehow migrated six feet upstage from where it belonged, where it had been this entire time. It was Monday morning, the first day of integration rehearsals, which meant no full-out yet, with only a narrow slip of time remaining before opening night. Company class had ended twenty minutes earlier. Calves were still warm from petit allegro, rosin tracked across the Marley in pale crescents, and the répétiteur was packing his marked score while the ballet master argued with wardrobe about missing buttons on the Act One jackets.

Buttons were manageable issues, and, thankfully, they’d been rehearsing for this production of The Nutcracker for six weeks now, even if the agreement for the Russian Bolshoi Ballet’s own principal dancer to come to guest and dance the titular role had taken an additional month to iron out.

He had, allegedly, arrived in Canada a week ago.

Shane had the confirmation email, the customs clearance, the signed housing paperwork. What he didn’t have was any actual contact with the man himself. No response to Shane’s three emails about rehearsal schedules. No callback to the two voicemails Shane had left. He was somewhere in the city, presumably sleeping off jetlag or exploring or doing whatever Russian ballet gods did when they weren’t answering their stage managers, and Shane’s blood pressure climbed higher with each passing day.

And now someone had moved the goddamn tree.

Despite the pretty baubles and bows and cranberry red ribbon that decorated it, the tree wasn’t decorative. It was motorized, counterweighted, and cued to the Sugar Plum transition, rising on a fixed count that had to clear the snow drop and the RCMP charge without clipping the lifts. Moving it meant recalibrating cues and clearance tolerances, and making three separate union calls. The Royal Winnipeg Ballet had a reputation to maintain—Canada’s most distinguished ballet company, despite what Toronto liked to claim—and Shane intended to keep that reputation intact.

Around him, dancers warmed up for the integration rehearsal, and his lighting designer was asking him a question through the headset that he couldn’t process because the tree was wrong, and no one moved set pieces without clearing it through him first.

“Shane?” The lighting designer’s voice crackled again. “Do you want me to hold the LX cue for the snow scene or—”

“Hold everything.” Shane clicked through to the stage crew channel. “Who authorized moving the tree?”

Static. Then: “Um. No one moved it?”

“It’s six feet upstage.”

“Shane, I’m looking at the spike marks right now. The tree is exactly where it’s supposed to be.”

Shane pulled his binder out from under his arm, flipping to the blocking page. His blocking page. The one he’d confirmed with Moscow three times via email, with measurements and photos, choreography, traffic, every spike mark, lift clearances written in margins, fake snow machine fall zones, even child wrangler pathways. Red tape for Act One, blue for Snow, glow tape marked for blackouts. He knew exactly where every Sugar Plum lift traveled in this house, where the Rat King’s tail nearly clipped the Parliament Hill crossover, where the RCMP sabres passed within inches of the children’s heads on the diagonal.

This was the boring stuff. But Shane Hollander was boring; he excelled at boring, just as he excelled at keeping dancers upright, lawsuits theoretical, and lackluster performances far away from his unimpeachable record. And—

“Excuse me.”

The voice came from directly behind him, close enough that Shane could feel the warmth of another body in the narrow space. He turned and found himself looking at a face that belonged in a museum, all sharp lines and pale eyes and the kind of bone structure that made photographers weep. The man wore ripped jeans and a leather jacket over a thin white shirt, his light brown hair carelessly mussed. He held a phone in one hand, and he was smiling.

“You are Shane Hollander, yes? The stage manager.” His accent was thick, Russian, and he pronounced Shane’s last name with too much weight on the first syllable, rolling the ‘r’ like a sugarplum on his tongue. “I am Ilya Rozanov.”

He said it like Shane might not know, which was ridiculous considering Shane had been the one coordinating his arrival for the past two months. Flights, accommodation, rehearsal schedules, even dietary requirements for the Ilya Rozanov, darling of Moscow, crown jewel principal male dancer for the Bolshoi Ballet, here guesting for the season.

Shane knew more about Rozanov’s logistics than he’d wanted to, and his being here wasn’t a surprise, but nowhere in those many exchanges with the Bolshoi Ballet had anyone mentioned that their principal dancer would be personally involving himself in technical staging… Because principal dancers didn’t do that. They showed up, they danced, they left the logistics to people whose job it was to handle logistics.

Ilya Rozanov. Whose face had been on the cover of Dance Magazine three times in the past year. Whose performances had critics reaching for words like “transformative” and “transcendent.” Standing in Shane’s wings, moving set pieces, causing problems.

“I know who you are,” Shane glowered, foot tapping. “What I don’t know is when you got the idea that you could rearrange things as you please?”

“It should please you, too. The tree,” Rozanov continued, gesturing toward the stage with his phone, “is better where it is now. In Moscow, we keep more depth for grand lifts. Bolshoi stages are wider. You need space to let the men travel. Also, sightlines from house left were shit.”

Shane couldn’t help but scoff. He’d spent two months coordinating this production while Rozanov was presumably sleeping through his emails in Moscow. “Better sightlines? Productions in Moscow must have incredibly forgiving audiences if they don’t mind half the corps disappearing into shadow during the party scene. No. The answer is no. The Bolshoi theatre is larger, and the audiences sit farther back. Your designers can afford depth like that, but in this house, house left loses the corps if I move that tree an inch. And our lighting plot was designed around the original positions. Unless Russian designers don’t bother accounting for ensemble visibility?”

Rozanov’s smile flickered.

Shane’s headset crackled with his lighting designer asking another question. He held up one finger to Rozanov and clicked through. “One moment. Don’t touch anything else yet.” Then back to Rozanov. “That aside, when did you even get here, Rozanov? Why haven’t you answered any calls or emails? I was starting to think that you died—ugh. Never mind. You are here, fine. You are here, and you’re here to dance. The production team agreed on this blocking two months ago.”

Agreed, meaning signed off by production, ballet masters, stage management, and three departments who never spoke to each other unless something had gone wrong.

“Yes.” Rozanov tilted his head, studying Shane with open curiosity. “And now that I am here to catch mistake, we do it better than bad agreement.”

“You can’t just change the staging without—”

“I can change anything I want.” Ilya’s smile widened. “Is my show.”

“It’s a co-production,” Shane said, keeping his tone level. “Which means half of it, is mine. And in my half, we don’t move set pieces without clearing it through stage management first. I don’t care if you’re Baryshnikov’s heir apparent.”

Rozanov’s smile widened. “Baryshnikov defected in 1974. Very old news.”

“The principle stands.”

“Ah, you have principles. Good to know, I was beginning to worry. I keep hearing how Winnipeg Ballet is very important. Very prestigious. First ballet company in all of Canada, so I have read.” Ilya stepped closer, and Shane had to resist the urge to step back. The wings were too narrow for this conversation, too narrow for the way Ilya seemed to take up more space than his body required. “Royal Winnipeg Ballet is several centuries younger than its older, wiser sibling in Russia. It is not your fault you, or even younger sibling New York City Ballet, have not yet learned these things, but we have. So when I say the tree is better six feet upstage, you should write it down in your...” He glanced at the binder under Shane’s arm. “Your very organized, obsessively bookmarked notebook. You carry this like Holy book. Do you kiss it before sleep?”

Shane’s jaw ached from clenching. He had forty-eight hours to integrate two companies that had rehearsed separately for months. He had lighting cues timed to the second, prop changes coordinated with costume changes, and a technical crew who needed clear, consistent information. What he did not have was time for a principal dancer with a god complex and a face that made Shane’s brain go temporarily offline.

“The tree stays where it was,” Shane said. He’d stage-managed collaborations with the National Ballet of Canada out of Toronto and coordinated two international tours in the past two years. He’d run productions at the Banff Centre and managed two sold-out international tours in the past two years, both in Paris and New York. If Rozanov was a master of his craft on stage, then Hollander was a master of his own behind it, knowing how to handle temperamental choreographers, union disputes, and opening night disasters.

He was obsessive enough, anxious enough, to worry about every detail until it polished to shine. What he didn’t handle was people making unilateral decisions about his production without consulting him first. The Bolshoi Ballet could send whoever they wanted, but their protocols ended where his began. “We designed the lighting plot around the original positions. Moving it means re-plotting every overhead special and re-timing cues locked to music and rechecking lift paths so no one decapitates a dancer on opening night. This is not how this works.”

“So re-plot them, shitty placement doesn’t work either, this is not how it is done in Moscow.” Rozanov shrugged, the leather jacket moving smoothly over his shoulders. “Is that difficult for you, Mr. Hollander? I am told Royal Ballet here is very competent; is two lights, maybe three. You have very good lighting designer, yes? He can fix in five minutes.”

“She,” Shane corrected automatically. “And it’s not five minutes, it’s—”

“Shane.” The lighting designer’s voice cut through his headset again. “I actually agree with him. The tree is blocking too much from house left in the current position. Want me to pull it upstage?”

Rozanov stood there, eyebrows raised, waiting.

“No,” Shane said into the headset. “We designed the plot around the original position. Moving it means recalculating every overhead special, re-timing cues locked to the music, and rechecking lift paths. That’s not happening three weeks before opening.”

“Even your designer says is good idea,” Rozanov pointed out.

Even if it was, Rozanov needed to learn that Shane wasn’t just here to execute his whims. It was true that stars got concessions; that was the reality of working in ballet. But there was a difference between accommodating artistic vision and letting someone treat his production like their personal playground.

“My designer doesn’t get to make that call alone, and neither do you. Changes now will bring budget overruns when we have to add rehearsal hours.” Shane clicked through to the stage crew channel. “Tree stays. Mark the original spike and move it back. Now. Maybe if you’d raised this idea a week ago, when you arrived, there might’ve been some wiggle room, but not this late in the game. And moving forward, I don’t care if you’re the Prince, the choreographer, or the ghost of Balanchine. You want to move something, you ask first.”

Rozanov’s smile sharpened. “So you are stubborn and boring. This will be very interesting three weeks. But I see. Mr. Business, Mr. Budget, likes to be asked nicely. I beg very pretty, Hollander, but only after first date. Also… I see bear in wardrobe. Large bear costume with fur and claws. Why is there bear? This is not Russian fairy tale. Is Nutcracker.”

Shane pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s a Canadian production. We have a bear in the party scene.”

“A bear.” Rozanov’s eyebrows climbed. “Dancing bear? Like circus?”

“Like a character at a Christmas party. The children love it.”

“Oh, because that is good reason. Put bear. Nobody asks why. Everyone claps. Hollander, children would love many things. Clowns. Fireworks. Supercar with machine gun. Does not mean we put them in Tchaikovsky.” Rozanov waved a hand. “But fine. You keep your bear. You keep your tree in wrong place. Very Canadian. Very... creative. I am learning so much.”

The way he said creative made it sound like an insult.

“Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Insufferable.”

Rozanov laughed, the sound low and entirely too pleased.

Deciding to be the bigger person, Shane did not flip him off and spent the rest of the morning avoiding Rozanov, which proved impossible in a theatre where the man seemed to occupy every room Shane entered. Twice in the costume shop. Once in the hallway outside the administrative offices. Each time, that same lazy smile, like Rozanov knew exactly what he was doing.

By the time the afternoon rehearsal started, Shane had reorganized his entire lighting plot and reworked three scene transitions. He’d also drunk two cups of coffee that now sat acidic in his stomach as he stood near the piano in studio three.

It was the largest rehearsal space in the building, and it stretched forty feet wall to wall, the sprung Marley floor scarred with decades of rosin and tape marks. Mirrors climbed one wall from baseboard to ceiling, reflecting the afternoon light that poured through the frosty windows. Barres lined the opposite wall in parallel rows. So, in other words… perfect for this practice of Grand Pas de Deux now that they had their eponymous Nutcracker in the building. Their usual principal, Dale, had retired at the end of last season after twenty years with RWB, and, really, after meeting Rozanov Shane’s opinion of him, and his expectations, had plummeted.

Until he started to warm up and dance.

Rose arrived in soft pink rehearsal wear, her dark hair secured in a tight bun that showed off the elegant line of her neck. She crossed to Rozanov and extended her hand. “Hi, my name is Rose. Your Sugar Plum.”

Rozanov took her hand and brought it to his lips, a gesture so theatrical Shane’s eyes nearly rolled into the back of his head. “Ilya Rozanov. But you know this already, I think.”

“Of course, your reputation precedes you, both bad and good.” Rose winked. “Try not to drop me.”

“I have never dropped partner in my life.” Rozanov placed a hand over his heart. “You insult me. I am only bad in the fun ways.”

“Good. Keeps you humble.” Rose moved to the barre to finish warming up, and Rozanov watched her with open appreciation.

“She is very beautiful,” he said to no one in particular. Then, louder: “And mean to me already. I love this.”

The Bolshoi Ballet and RWB shared the Petipa foundation, Ivanov’s original 1892 choreography formed the skeleton both companies built on, but decades of interpretation had layered over it. Bolshoi favored attack and amplitude, épaulement pushed hard into the space. RWB smoothed the phrasing, favoring continuity and musical softness over brute force. Rozanov slipped out of his jacket and into athletic wear, and within 30 minutes had already adapted his Russian-Style muscle memory to a large portion of RWB’s variations and syntax. He’d done it fast enough that Shane suspected he’d been studying video long before he arrived, but even beyond the technical prowess, it was the way he moved.

Dale had been technically immaculate, every line clean, every transition placed exactly where the ballet masters wanted it. Rozanov danced like the rules were a suggestion he’d already mastered and discarded, and he wanted to prove just how little he needed rules at all—especially to Shane.

Shane had spent seven years working with dancers. He’d been surrounded by attractive people his entire career—beautiful ballerinas, strong male dancers with the kind of bodies that photographers loved. He could appreciate aesthetics the way anyone could. He’d dated a few ballerinas over the years, gone on dates with people outside the ballet world who never understood why he’d choose tech week over dinner plans.

None of it had gone anywhere. The ballerinas were lovely but he’d felt nothing beyond friendly affection. The others didn’t get why he’d rather spend a Friday night in a lighting booth than at a bar. After a while, Shane stopped trying to figure out what was wrong with him and focused on what he was actually good at: running productions.

But… now it was hard not to focus on Rozanov rather than just running things. Rozanov who had proved himself to be an asshole within 30 seconds of meeting him, who didn’t look like the familiar RWB dancers.

He looked like he could break someone in half.

The thin white t-shirt he wore clung to his torso, damp with sweat, and outlined every shift of muscle as he moved. Rozanov was tall. His shoulders were broader than most dancers, built for partnering and lifts, and his arms had the defined bulk of someone who spent hours hoisting ballerinas overhead. When he held a penché arabesque, leg extended behind him in a perfect vertical line, his back arched and Shane could see the ladder of his spine, the muscular wings of his shoulder blades spreading.

There was nothing soft about him. Nothing delicate. Ballet as a whole was mocked sometimes for being effeminate, for being less than other sports, but it was hard to imagine anyone seeing Rozanov dance and coming to that conclusion. His thighs were thick with muscle that flexed and released with each jump, and his calves looked carved from marble with impressive definition. His rehearsal pants hung low on his hips, and Shane could see the V of his pelvis, the dark trail of hair below his navel disappearing into the waistband, the ridges of his obliques shifting as he transitioned into the next combination. A bead of sweat tracked down the side of his neck and Shane watched it slide over his collarbone before disappearing into the collar of his shirt, and…

… oh… no.

Rozanov spun—three rotations, four, five—and when he stopped, he was facing the mirror, panting lightly. Facing Shane’s reflection. Their eyes met, and Rozanov smiled without breaking the choreography, that cocky smirk that made Shane want to walk out of the studio and also stay exactly where he was. Rozanov shifted the angle of his body deliberately, turning just enough that Shane’s gaze had nowhere polite to go. He held the look through the mirror, unapologetic, like a challenge.

It had to be a dare, because Rozanov had to know.

He knew Shane was watching him, and he was enjoying it.

The bastard added a flourish that wasn’t in the choreography—leg extended past what the combination required, holding the arabesque while he turned his head to check Shane’s reflection in the mirror. Showing off. His arms swept overhead and Shane tracked the flex of his biceps, the way tendons stood out along his forearms as he held the pose. The studio filled with soundd—the pianist’s accompaniment, the ballet master’s corrections, and underneath it all, the controlled force of Rozanov’s breathing. Shane could hear when it changed, when Rozanov pushed through a difficult transition without letting his lungs betray the effort.

When Rozanov landed from the next jump, his shirt had ridden up slightly, exposing a strip of golden skin and the lower edge of his abs. He didn’t pull it down. He reached for his water bottle instead, and Shane watched his throat work as he drank, watched the way his fingers wrapped around the plastic, watched the small adjustment of his waistband that meant nothing and meant everything because Shane couldn’t stop cataloging these irrelevant details.

This was a problem. This was a massive problem.

He transitioned into the next sequence, and Shane, oh fuck, shit—

He’d been starting at Rozanov’s stomach for five full seconds without breathing.

This was a problem.

Rozanov attacked the choreography with an intensity that made the other dancers look tentative by comparison. He moved like he was daring gravity to try and hold him, daring the music to keep up, daring Shane to look away. His body was a weapon—controlled and dangerous and beautiful in a way that made Shane’s fingers tighten around his pen until his knuckles went white.

When Rozanov lifted Rose for the final sequence, his arms locked around her waist, and he hoisted her overhead and she arched back, arms extended, trusting him completely. Her legs formed a perfect split in the air. The muscles in Rozanov’s forearms corded, his shoulders bunched, and Shane could see the power in him plainly.

“Higher,” she said from above him.

“Bossy,” Rozanov replied, but he adjusted easily.

“You can take it,” Rose said, and when Rozanov lowered her, she was grinning.

“I like you very much,” Rozanov told her. “You are almost as stubborn as your stage manager.”

“Almost?” Rose laughed as she moved into the next sequence. “I taught him everything he knows.”

Their chemistry was immediate, not romantic, but the kind of partnership that made choreography sing. She was beautiful. So was he. Rose matched his energy, trading flourishes, pushing back when he showed off. When he added an extra rotation to a lift, she extended her line further to match his own flashier flow. When she landed, Rozanov was beaming.

“See, Hollander?” he called toward the mirror, toward Shane’s reflection. “This is how it should be. Partner who is not afraid to make change.”

Rose shot Shane an apologetic look, but she was still smiling as they kept going.

It was unfair how good he was. Shane had worked with technically perfect dancers before, Dale had been flawless, but this was different. Rozanov didn’t just execute the choreography; he made it look like he’d invented it. Made it look easy.

Which made Shane want to find something wrong with it all the more.

“Again,” the ballet master called, and they reset.

This time when they moved through the partnering sequence, Shane noticed how Rozanov adjusted his grip to accommodate Rose’s RWB training—smaller adjustments in hand placement, different timing on the promenade. He was learning her style even as he danced it.

Rose said something Shane couldn’t hear, and Rozanov snickered a laugh. She was easy with him in a way Shane couldn’t imagine being, teasing him between phrases, correcting his hand placement on her waist with a slap that made him mock-wince and pout like a child.

“You are very violent partner,” Rozanov complained, hardly sounding like he minded.

“You love it,” Rose replied, and reset for the next lift.

She was right. He did.

From the sidelines, Shane crossed his arms over his chest, head tilting to the side to watch more closely. There had to be something. A missed count, a sloppy transition, any small flaw he could point out later to prove that Rozanov wasn’t as untouchable as he thought.

But Rozanov only continued with his lift, hoisting her overhead like she weighed nothing. They moved, gracefully returning her to earth before sliding into the next leap, and when Rozanov’s feet hit the ground again, he turned toward the mirror—toward Shane—and winked.

That asshole!

Shane walked out of the studio before he did anything stupid, like keep watching, or worse: before he admitted that Rozanov might actually be worth the trouble he was causing.

Rozanov was transcendent when he danced, Shane could admit that, privately, while standing in the wings with his headset on and not in the same room as that show off. It was infuriating.

Shane himself had tried performing once, after years of lessons as a child and professional classes, and then a semester in college before he realized his brain worked better behind the scenes than in front of an audience. His mother had been disappointed in the shift—you’re happy just making other people look good? What about you?—but the control freak within him was better suited for this role backstage. He could read a space, anticipate problems, coordinate moving parts… but he didn’t have whatever made someone like Ilya so compelling to watch. Sometimes it felt like inadequacy, but more and more often Shane allowed himself the truth: it was just different wiring.

Which was fine. Shane liked his wiring. It meant he ran the tightest productions in Winnipeg, if not the whole of Canada, and stars like Ilya Rozanov needed people like him to make their brilliance actually happen on schedule.

But yes, Rozanov was infuriating.

So Shane kept himself busy as best he could, and avoided studio three.

“He’s something,” Jackie said during the break, appearing at Shane’s elbow with two coffees. She managed most of the costuming, and she’d stopped by the studio while her husband Hayden helped with the rigging of various lights and props backstage. “Very talented. Very pretty. Very aware of both those things.”

Shane accepted the coffee without looking away from his notes. “He’s a nightmare.”

“He’s been here four hours.”

“It’s been a long four hours.”

Jackie laughed. “I heard he arrived this morning and was looking for you immediately, and then during that practice, he was looking at you.”

“He keeps arguing with me.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.” She bumped his shoulder.

Shane didn’t dignify that with a response. He had a production to run.

The Keg on Main Street had a Monday special on sirloin that Hayden swore by, and Shane tended to trust his opinion on food, which was how he ended up in a booth with three people who actually understood why he looked like he’d aged a decade in four hours.

Hayden cut into his steak with the kind of aggression usually reserved for rigging particularly shitty, uncooperative equipment. “I’m telling you, the guy’s a nightmare. Showed up this morning and started moving shit around like he owns the place. My wiring? Fucked. My stacks of gear? Also fucked. Fuck that guy.”

“Swear jar, baby. And… I mean… He does kind of own the place,” Jackie said from beside her husband. She’d changed out of her work clothes into jeans and a sweater, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, and was lounging comfortably in their shitty vinyl booth. “He’s the star. That’s how it works, doesn’t it?”

“He moved the tree,” Shane said.

Rose Landry, sitting across from him, raised her wine glass. “To be fair, the sightlines could be better. I’ve been saying that for weeks.”

Shane pointed his fork at her. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am on your side.” Rose’s smile was warm, the one that made her a favorite with audiences since she’d joined RWB five years ago, the one that dazzled even before she stepped into her first arabesque. The same one that had Shane sort of, almost, not-quite-right in love with her. “But I also saw him dance. He’s incredible, Shane. Like, genuinely incredible.”

“He’s an asshole.”

“Again, those aren’t mutually exclusive,” Jackie said. She stole a fry from Hayden’s plate. “Talented people are often difficult. It’s part of the package.”

“The package can go back to Moscow,” Shane muttered.

Hayden laughed and raised his beer. “Amen to that. A few more weeks and he’s gone, though. We just have to survive until Christmas Eve, and then we never have to deal with his bullshit again.”

“Christmas cannot come soon enough.”

“Oh, also, Shane, he was asking about you,” Rose said.

Shane nearly choked on his own food. “What?”

“After rehearsal. He wanted to know how long you’d been with the company, what other productions you’d worked on.” Rose swirled her wine, watching him over the rim of her glass. “I think he’s impressed.”

“He has a funny way of showing it.”

“He’s Russian,” Jackie said, like that explained everything. “They’re direct. Confrontational. It doesn’t mean the same thing it would coming from someone Canadian.”

“It means he’s an asshole in Russian,” Hayden said. “He was on his phone during the whole party scene run-through, too. Like, we’re trying to time the toy soldier cues, and he’s just... scrolling.”

Rose snorted. “He was also very busy flirting with half the corps during breaks. I watched him work the room like he was collecting phone numbers for a scavenger hunt. I can’t say he’s interested in the show but he clearly has, ahem, interests if you know what I mean.”

Shane laughed despite himself. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as the conversation drifted to other topics: Jackie’s ongoing battle with the wardrobe department over missing buttons, Hayden’s plan to reorganize the fly system, their herd of children in RWB’s youth courses, Rose’s sister visiting from Toronto for opening night.

It was comfortable. Easy. These were his people.

“You look tired, Shane.” Rose said as they were finishing up. Her eyes were kind, concerned in the way only a real friend’s could be. “Are you sleeping?”

“What do you think?” Shane said, laughing. “You know my answer by now: I’ll sleep after the run for this production ends.”

“That’s weeks away.”

“Then I’ll be very well-rested in a few weeks. I’m thinking about hibernating for a month or two.”

Rose shook her head but didn’t push. She knew him well enough to recognize when he’d dug in.

They paid and headed out into the November cold, breath fogging in the air. Hayden and Jackie peeled off toward their car with promises to see him tomorrow. Rose lingered, pulling her coat tighter around herself.

“He’s going to be a handful,” she said.

Shane didn’t need to ask who she meant. “I know.”

“But he’s good for the production. You know that too.”

Shane did know. That was the problem.

Rose squeezed his arm. “Try not to kill him before opening night, okay? I need my Nutcracker alive. I get to be a star too if he’s here.”

“You are always a star. And no promises,” Shane said, smiling.

He watched her walk to her car, then headed to his own, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The heater took three tries to start, and by the time warm air finally blasted through the vents, his fingers were numb.

Just until Christmas Eve. He could survive until then.

Maybe.

Tuesday’s rehearsal moved to the stage, which meant Shane had less of an excuse to escape should a certain someone decide to… look… at him during dancing. He stood in the house with his headset on, watching the dancers mark through the party scene while the lighting designer adjusted levels overhead.

Rozanov arrived late, which seemed to be his standard operating procedure. He swept onto the stage in sweatpants and a tank top that showed off his arms, those ridiculous shoulders, and Shane refused to look at any of it. He had cues to call.

“From the top of the party scene,” Shane said into the headset, and the music started.

For twenty minutes, everything ran smoothly. The dancers hit their marks, the lighting cues landed on time, and Shane started to think that maybe today wouldn’t end with him fantasizing about strangling their star dancer with his own headset cord.

Then Rozanov stopped mid-choreography.

“Wait, wait.” He held up one hand, and the music cut off. “This entrance for Drosselmeyer, is wrong.”

Shane’s pen stilled on his cue sheet. “The entrance is exactly as blocked.”

“Yes, I know this.” Rozanov walked upstage, gesturing as he went. “He steps in from stage left, yes? But Drosselmeyer is magician, he should appear, not walk like normal person going to grocery store buying things for making tuna melt. He needs entrance from above, or through trap door, or at minimum from upstage center so lights can hide him until moment of reveal.”

“Rozanov,” Shane said, sounding exasperated, “we don’t have a trap door not time to build one into the stage.”

“Then fly him in.”

Fly him in? The fuck? Shane barked out a laugh and was just about to deliver the most satisfying fuck no of his career until he recalled: 2013. That season they’d done La Sylphide, and used wire rigging for the fairies to make them more ethereal… and much of that equipment and other items were here. A chance in the blocking yes, and he’d be a hypocrite for considering flinging a person in the air when he’d refused to move a tree but…

It did make for a frustratingly intriguing idea.

Shane clicked through to the stage crew. “Hayden, do we have the capacity to fly someone in for the Drosselmeyer entrance?”

A pause. Then Price’s voice cracked back:“I mean, yeah, we could rig a wire descent. But that’s a full day of rigging work and another day of safety rehearsals. You want to add that to the schedule? I can do it, man, but…”

Rozanov was watching Shane from the stage, waiting.

“No,” Shane said into the headset. Then louder, to Rozanov:“We’re not adding a fly system three weeks out. It’s… not a terrible idea, but again, we don’t have the time for that change while staying on schedule, so the blocking stands.”

“Is boring blocking.”

“It’s safe blocking that doesn’t require insurance waivers and union overtime to install the rigging last minute.”

Rozanov turned to the dancer playing Drosselmeyer, an older company member named Cliff who’d been with RWB for fifteen years. “Your entrance has no magic to it. You look like man who misses applause. What do you think?”

Cliff glanced between Rozanov and Shane, clearly aware he was being used as a pawn. Shane also knew the man well enough to know that he was an adrenaline junkie and would’ve loved being flung through the theatre. “I mean… I wouldn’t mind a more dramatic entrance.”

“See?” Rozanov spread his hands. “Even he knows.”

Shane came down the aisle and up the stage stairs. The other dancers had backed away, sensing a fight. Rose caught his eye from upstage and mouthed good luck before pretending to adjust her pointe shoes.

Rozanov stood center stage, still sweating from the previous run-through, his tank top clinging to his chest and shoulders. Shane walked toward him, closing the distance until he had to tilt his head back to meet Rozanov’s eyes. Rozanov didn’t step back or give him the space most people would, instead, he actually looked thrilled by the possibility of an altercation, and his plush lips spread into a crooked sort of snarling smile. Shane could smell his sweat, he could see the dampness at his hairline where curls stuck to his forehead.

“You can’t just change choreography because you think it lacks ‘magic,’” Shane said when he reached Rozanov. “This is a co-production. We’ve been over this already, these things have already been decided and last minute changes is not how RWB does things.”

“Yes, before I arrive to see how bad it is.” Rozanov stepped closer, and Shane became aware of how the stage lights made his eyes look almost gold. “You are afraid of change, I think. Everything must be exactly as you plan it, even when plan is shit.”

“I’m afraid of adding complexity that we don’t have time to execute safely.”

“Ugh. Attempt to have some imagination, Mr. Business. No rigging, fine. So we do simpler version.” Rozanov turned and walked upstage, and when he passed Shane, his hand landed on Shane’s shoulder firmly, moving him aside like a piece of furniture. The touch lasted less than a second, but Shane’s skin burned through his shirt where Rozanov’s palm had been. Rozanov’s long-legged strides ate up the distance to center stage. He positioned himself just behind where the Christmas tree stood. “Lights go dark here… during moment when children are sleeping?”

“For four counts,” Shane confirmed.

“Perfect. Drosselmeyer enters here during dark, gets into position behind tree, steps out in time with a coloured flash—magic—and then it is better than sad man wandering on stage.” Rozanov demonstrated, moving behind the tree and then stepping out to the side. The tree’s branches would hide him until the reveal. “Is simple. Is better, even you must see that. You add one cue to lighting sequence. Tell children to look stage right on cue so they are surprised when he appears stage left. Done.”

Shane hated that it would work.

He hated that Rozanov was right.

The solution was simple. Effective. Exactly the kind of staging choice that would’ve occurred to Shane himself if he hadn’t been so focused on following the agreed-upon plan. Which meant admitting Rozanov was right felt like admitting he’d been rigid.

Except...

“One condition,” Shane said. “You run it past the ballet master first. This is your idea, you clear it with her. I’m not doing your diplomacy.”

Rozanov’s smile faltered slightly. “You want me to ask nicely? This is your kink, yes?”

What a cheeky fucker.

“You said it was a better idea. Prove it.” Shane met his eyes. “If it’s really such an improvement, the ballet master will agree. Unless you’re worried she won’t?”

“Oh, she will. Just as you have now.” Rozanov smiled at him, lazy and smug. His gaze dropped to Shane’s mouth, to the frown Shane was sure he was wearing, lingered there for half a second, then flicked back up to meet Shane’s eyes. Shane caught it. Rozanov made sure he did. “See? Is not so hard to admit when I am right.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Oh, I think I will get very used to it.” Rozanov walked past him, bumping their shoulders on purpose in a blatant check. “You will bend for me many times, I think, before this production is over.”

Shane’s face heated and he sputtered, unable to form words fast enough. Rozanov had to know how that sounded.

The bastard was laughing as he walked away, already crossing to where Cliff and two corps dancers were standing. “You two. I have question—the RCMP officers in battle scene,” Rozanov said loudly enough for Shane to hear. “Why are there police? Police do not fight mice. Soldiers fight mice—toy soldiers. This is very strange Canadian thing… And you! Marlow!”

Cliffed head snapped up, “Uh, yeah, Roz?”

Roz? Were they friends now?

“Come. You show me where is good coffee in this city, and I tell you about trap door disaster from Mariinsky, maybe five years back.” Rozanov threw an arm around Cliff’s shoulders, steering him toward the exit. “Dancer fell through stage—flew down into basement like cartoon. No one died, but very close. Was on live television. Everyone love it.”

“Strip.”

Shane nearly dropped the costume list he’d been reading over. He looked up to find Rozanov standing in the middle of the costume shop, Jackie already circling him with her measuring tape in hand.

“My favorite part,” Rozanov said, setting down his water bottle. “I stand still, people poke me with sharp things. Very relaxing. At least you are very beautiful woman.”

Jackie only laughed and swatted his arm. “I am married, Mr. Rozanov.”

“No, no, call me Ilya, and run away with me.”

Another playful swat. “I said, strip, Mr. Rozanov.”

“Bossing me around will only make me love you more. I have warned you.” Rozanov grinned. He pulled his tank top off in one smooth motion.

He looked stunning. All at once, Shane was again astounded and irritated by how manly Rozanov was: the sharp edge of his jaw, the defined planes of his musculature. He was so tall and strongly proportioned and… god, they would’ve loved him in the Renaissance. People would’ve paid to have statues like this in their homes. And… oh? Shane’s eyes flicked to the hollow of this throat, noticing a gold crucifix. The chain caressed the base of Rozanov’s long neck, the cross resting comfortably on his broad chest.

Jackie stepped forward, all business. “Arms out.”

Rozanov complied, spreading his arms wide. His biceps flexed, and Shane tracked the movement, watching the way his chest expanded when he breathed, the definition in his obliques when he shifted his weight.

“Turn,” Jackie said.

Rozanov turned, and Shane saw the bare skin of his back. For a Russian, his skin was a lot more golden than it had any right to be. All of him was golden. There was a small mole just below his left shoulder blade. Shane looked back down at the costume list in his hands and pretended to read it. Really, there were so many other things to pretend to be interested in or looking at in here: bolts of tulle and silk lined the shelves along the back wall in neat rows organized by color, and two dress forms stood near the window wearing partially finished Sugar Plum variations…

And… then he could feel Rozanov looking at him.

Shane risked another glance over, and Rozanov caught his eye in the mirror across the room.

That crooked smile spread across his face, lazy and knowing. He shifted his stance slightly, shoulders rolling back, and Shane realized the bastard was posing.

“You are reading very intently, Hollander,” Rozanov said. “Should I flex more? Turn slower? I can make easier for you to... concentrate.”

Shane quickly turned his eyes to the floor. He had worked with hundreds of male and female dancers in his life, in fitting rooms and costume shops just like this one. People were naked all over the place backstage, especially for costume changes. It was just part of the ballet life. He had never looked at any of his cast before though. It was just... unthinkable.

“Fuck off, Rozanov.”

“Such language. And in front of my beloved Jackie.” Rozanov’s grin widened. “I am only trying to help. You were staring so hard, I thought maybe you needed better angle.”

Jackie snorted, looping the measuring tape around Rozanov’s chest. “Both of you behave. I have six more fittings today, and I don’t have time for this.”

“I am behaving perfectly,” Rozanov said, pouting. “Is Hollander who has problem.”

“You are my problem, Rozanov!”

Today’s rehearsal ran long.

Act 1 Scene 1’s party scene needed polish. The children kept missing their entrances. The orchestra had shown up an hour late because of traffic from a Jets game, and Rozanov was… Rozanov. By the time Shane called a break, his headset felt like it was crushing his skull and his throat was dry from calling cues. Dancers and back stage staff scattered to each and rest, and Shane lingered a moment to leave his things neatly organized before going to the break room to grab his own food… only to find Rozanov already there, sitting with Cliff and two other male dancers Shane recognized from the corps. They were speaking a mix of English and what sounded like terrible attempts at Russian phrases, Rozanov correcting their pronunciation between bites of his sandwich and laughing when Boodram, who was playing the Rat King, tried to say something that came out completely wrong.

“Wait, wait—how do you say ’good job’ again?” Boodram asked.

“Moodlets,” one of the other dancers attempted.

“No, no—blyat is more... here, watch my mouth—” Rozanov demonstrated.

“Blyat!”

Rozanov blinked, “Wow. You say that one perfect. No accent. Molodets is good, but clearly fuck excites you more.”

The table erupted in laughter.

Shane grabbed his food and left before anyone noticed him, eating on the go as he returned to the theatre. Technically eating in here was not allowed but… technically… no one here would give Shane of all people a hard time about it. He nibbled on a protein bar, standing in the house, ten rows back from the orchestra pit in the center section where the sight lines converged. His spot. The spot for him, really where he had the best view of all goings on inside the theatre.

RWB’s main theatre held just over 800 seats, the rows rising in a steep rake toward the back wall. It wasn’t as grand as Toronto’s Four Seasons Centre, but the intimacy worked in their favor. Audiences sat close enough to see sweat on the dancers’ faces, close enough to hear pointe shoes strike the stage. The proscenium arch framed the stage in dark wood and gilt that caught the work lights, and Shane could see clear across to the stage left wing from here, which was exactly why he knew Rozanov’s Drosselmeyer entrance would land wrong.

He finished the protein bar, crumpled the wrapper, and checked his watch. Five more minutes before he’d call everyone back. He headed down the aisle toward the stage, took the side stairs up, and cut through the wings to check the props table one more time. The break room chatter had died down—people were filtering back, stretching, retaping toes, adjusting costumes.

Shane was restacking the soldier props when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to grab his water bottle from where he’d left it on an equipment case, tilting his head back to drink. The cold hit his throat, and he closed his eyes for half a second of peace.

“Hollander. The snow machine.”

Shane choked. Water went down the wrong pipe and he coughed, eyes watering as he turned to find Rozanov standing two feet away, already invading his space. His lunch break was clearly over.

What was that wood? Fuck? Blyat.

“Ah—okay. What about it?” Shane managed once he could breathe again.

“Is in wrong place.” Rozanov gestured toward the stage. “Needs to be stage right, not stage left. Snow falls wrong direction for Clara’s entrance.”

Shane screwed the cap back on the water bottle. “The snow machine is exactly where it needs to be. We’ve been testing it for three weeks. The fall pattern is perfect.”

“For version you planned, maybe. But Russian version, Clara enters from opposite side.” A single caged work light overhead threw harsh shadows across Rozanov’s face. “So snow falls wrong way. She walks through nothing instead of snow falling around her like magic. Is less beautiful.”

The wings were narrow here, barely six feet deep before the brick exterior wall cut off any further retreat. Costume racks crowded one side, heavy with Act Two tutus wrapped in garment bags. The prop table took up the other side, cluttered with the toy soldiers’ rifles and the oversized pocket watch for Drosselmeyer. Everything stank like fog machine juice.

“We’re not doing the Russian version,” Shane said. His back hit the wall, and when he tried to shift sideways, a coiled cable dug into his spine. “Clara enters stage left. The snow machine stays where it is.”

“But why?” Rozanov spread his hands. “Is simple fix. Move machine, Clara enters other side, is better for everyone.”

“Because we blocked it stage left, and moving it puts snow under the Clara entrance track. Wet Marley, pointe shoes. I’m not breaking ankles for symmetry. And because the costume change happens stage right, and we’d have to move that too. Because the lighting plot is designed for stage left, and we don’t have time to re-plot every cue in that sequence. We’re not rebuilding the entire second act because you think it looks nicer the Russian way.”

“Is not about nice. Is about correct.” Rozanov’s eyes narrowed. He stepped closer as he spoke, and Shane realized the bastard was enjoying this. He invaded Shane’s space like he had every right to be there, and Shane had no right to be here at all. “You don’t understand because you are not performer. You sit in booth, you push buttons, you tell people where to stand. But you don’t feel the stage. You don’t know what works and what doesn’t.”

Shane’s fingers tightened around the water bottle until the plastic crackled.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’m not a performer. I’m the person who makes sure performers don’t break their ankles on wet Marley because some visiting star wanted prettier staging. I’m the person who knows this building’s fly system has a three-second delay that your ‘perfect Russian staging’ doesn’t account for. I’m the person who’s been here for seven years making sure every production runs safely, on time, and without lawsuits, perfectly every night, every season.”

He stepped closer, nearly chest to chest now, leaning up to hiss directly into his face. Rozanov’s eyebrows rose slightly but he didn’t back down—of course he didn’t, the bastard never did.

“You’ve performed on stages all over the world?” Shane seethed. “Great. I’ve run productions on this specific stage for longer than you’ve been a principal. So maybe before you lecture me about what I don’t know, consider that you don’t know a goddamn thing about running a theatre.”

For a fraction of a second, Rozanov’s eyebrows rose and his mouth parted slightly before his jaw set again. Surprise, maybe. Or—

“And you don’t know anything about me.”

He shoved past Rozanov, their shoulders colliding hard enough that Rozanov stumbled back, but Shane was already walking away, the water bottle still clenched in his fist. Behind him, he heard Rozanov call something—his name, maybe, or some comment he didn’t want to hear.

He didn’t stop until he reached the administrative hallway, where the theatrical chaos gave way to bureaucratic calm. Walls here were painted institutional beige instead of theatre black, lit by fluorescent panels that hummed overhead, and there weren’t any Russian dancers who could corner him to dissect his failures.

His hands were shaking.

He set the water bottle down on a desk and braced his palms against the edge, breathing through his nose until his heartbeat slowed.

There’d been a time where… maybe… if he’d pushed himself harder, made himself fit, if his wiring wasn’t wrong…

Shane shook his head. No, he thought, no, that bastard doesn’t know anything about me and I am good at this. I am. I am…

Rozanov didn’t know anything. He didn’t know about the auditions Shane had bombed in college, the sleepless nights of panic before a call, the pressure he was under from his mother despite her good intentions, that time he’d tripped and fallen and the crowd laughed. He had no idea what it was like to be different in more than one way, to be starry eyed and singled out for being ‘mixed’, like it was a dirty word when he introduced himself as half-Japanese in a world of only one color. Rozanov didn’t know about the panic attacks, the way Shane’s brain would go blank the second the lights came up now. He didn’t know that Shane had loved dancing right up until the moment he had to do it for other people, and then it had felt like drowning.

He didn’t know any of it. He didn’t know, and Shane didn’t care, he loved ballet, he loved himself, he…

Why did it still hurt?

He ran the cleanest Nutcracker in the country. And still, somehow, he was the invisible part of it.

The corps had been practicing the ice-pond hockey sequence for forty minutes when Shane heard the studio door slam open hard enough to rattle the mirrors.

“What is this?”

Shane didn’t need to turn around to know who’d just walked in. Rozanov’s accent rolled across the studio, warm and loud enough to make heads turn.

“It’s the hockey scene,” Shane said without looking up from his blocking notes.

“Hockey.” Rozanov said the word like it tasted rotten. “Tell me you did not put puck in my Nutcracker. This is ballet. Not... not sports. What is next, we add basketball? American football? Maybe monster trucks?”

“It’s Canadian,” Shane said. He clicked his pen and made a note about the formation spacing. “Hockey is part of our culture.”

And… more than that, it was a memory. Standing here even now, listening to the whrring of those plastic wheels as they rattled over the Marley always made him picture outdoor rinks and scraped knees and dads shoveling ice at dawn.

“We can sell hot dogs in the wings next. Drizzle with maple syrup. Buy one, get one grand jeté. Pike can put scoreboard over proscenium.”

“Shut up, Rozanov.”

But Rozanov did not, in fact, shut up.

“In Russia, we have culture too.” Rozanov’s footsteps crossed the studio floor. “We do not put it in middle of Nutcracker like... like commercial for Tim Hortons.”

Shane bit back a laugh. “Tim Hortons is also Canadian culture.”

“It is bad coffee because is not European coffee, not culture, and this is my point.”

On stage—well, on the studio floor marked with tape to simulate the stage—six corps dancers glided across the Marley on rollerblades, sticks in hand, passing a foam puck between them. The choreography was clever, actually, built like a divertissement, lines opening and closing around the puck, patterns clean enough to read from the house. A lead dancer executing a series of turns while maintaining balance on wheels, the others weaving around him in patterns that mimicked both hockey plays and classical formations. It still looked insane on wheels, and Shane loved everything about it.

It was also, Shane had to admit, a little ridiculous.

“Sveta, tebe nuzhno posmotret’ na eto der’mo,” Rozanov had his phone out, filming. Or was he on a video call with someone from home? The glow of the screen lit his face as he watched through the camera, tracking the dancers’ movements.

A tiny voice came out through the phone’s speakers: “Chto eto takoye, chert voz’mi? Podozhdite, eto zhe tak milo, chto eto?”

“They are on wheels,” Rozanov continued in English, gesturing wildly with his free hand, still filming. “This is ice skating, yes? So why not actual ice? Commit, Hollander. Flood the orchestra pit. Bring Zamboni. You can put real hockey rink in theatre. Make everyone very wet and cold and miserable like true Canadian experience—”

The lead dancer attempted a pirouette, only for their wheels to catch. He careened sideways, arms windmilling, headed straight for the pianist.

Shane’s hand shot out and grabbed Rozanov’s arm, yanking him backward at the last second as the dancer sailed past them and crashed into the wall with a thud that made the mirrors shake. Rozanov’s phone jerked in his hand, the video capturing the moment at a wild angle. The puck skittered across the floor and came to rest against Shane’s foot.

For a second, nobody moved.

Rozanov lowered his phone, thumb moving across the screen. Shane caught a glimpse of a woman, a face, before the call ended. Rozanov’s mouth twitched into a grin as he typed something back, then pocketed the phone. “You see? I arrive and immediately someone tries to die.”

Shane was still holding his arm. Rozanov’s bicep was warm and solid under his palm, and Shane could feel the muscle flex as Rozanov gestured with his other hand toward the dancer currently untangling himself from a folding chair.

“Careful,” Rozanov said softly. “You keep grabbing me like this, people will talk.”

He let go and stepped back.

“Are you okay?” Shane called to the dancer, who gave a shaky thumbs-up.

“This is what I am saying,” Rozanov said. “Is ballet. We do not need gimmicks. Tchaikovsky does not write music for hockey. Next you will tell me there is curling scene. Or... or lacrosse.”

“The audience loves it,” Shane said. “This show is for Canadians. For Winnipeggers. People who grew up skating on frozen ponds and playing street hockey. It’s fun. Stop being such a fun sucker.”

“What is fun sucker?” Rozanov repeated the words like Shane had suggested they perform the entire ballet in clown costumes. “You think I am... What is word... fun sucker?”

“Someone who ruins fun. Takes the joy out of things.”

“Ah.” Rozanov’s eyebrows rose. “But I am not this. I love fun. Sucking is always fun, no?”

Shane’s face heated. “That’s—that’s not what—”

“In Russia, we have saying: dazhe yozh poymot.” Rozanov pronounced each syllable slowly, like Shane was particularly dense. “‘Even hedgehog understands.’ Meaning is so obvious that even small animal with brain like walnut can see truth. And truth is: ballet is not hockey.”

“And yet,” Shane said blithely, “we’re doing it anyway.”

Rozanov stared at him. Then he laughed, and the sound was sharp as it bounced off the set pieces. “You are very stubborn, Hollander. You enjoy making me suffer. Stubborn and boring, and you have terrible taste. But I think...” He paused, and his gaze dropped briefly to where Shane had grabbed his arm moments ago. “I think maybe you are also little bit fun. Just very small amount. Like grain of salt.”

“Thanks,” Shane said flatly. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all week.”

“Week is not over yet.” Rozanov smiled. “Maybe tomorrow I say something nicer. If you behave.”

He walked away before Shane could respond, leaving Shane standing there with a foam hockey puck at his feet and the ghost of Rozanov’s body heat still warm against his palm.

Shane’s ladder hit the stage floor with a crash that made three dancers jump.

“Shit.” Hayden stared at the bent aluminum frame. One of the supports had buckled when he’d tried to extend it, the metal warping with a sound like a gunshot. “Yeah, fuck that, that’s not safe.”

“No shit.” Shane looked up at the catwalk fifteen feet overhead, then back at the ruined ladder. The Christmas tree’s counterweight mechanism had jammed during morning rehearsal, leaving the tree stuck at half-height. Without manual adjustment, the tree wouldn’t clear the snow drop for tonight’s run-through. “Don’t we have another one? The… uh… there’s a red one, I think.”

“Yep, I know the one. I’ll grab the spare from storage,” Hayden said. “Just give me twenty minutes to dig it out from behind the Swan Lake crap.”

“Thanks.” Shane pulled out his phone to check the rehearsal schedule, already calculating whether they could push the snow scene back—

“Is problem?”

Shane’s shoulders tensed. He didn’t need to look up to know who’d appeared behind him. Rozanov had a gift for materializing whenever Shane thought he’d get five minutes of peace.

“The ladder broke,” Hayden said, already heading toward the wings. “Be right back. Don’t kill each other and don’t do anything dumb.”

His footsteps faded, leaving Shane alone with Rozanov and the broken ladder between them. The house was empty, seats rising in the dark beyond the footlights, the open stage suddenly feeling too exposed.

Rozanov’s hair was still damp from the shower, curling at his temples. He’d changed into jeans and a thin sweater that clung to his chest and shoulders. “Why you need ladder?”

“The counterweight mechanism needs adjustment, and since it’s up there,” Shane gestured toward the catwalk, which was a narrow steel grate bolted above them that ran the length of the stage. “And it’s manual access only, I also need to get up there to fix it.”

Rozanov studied the setup, head tilting as he traced the rigging lines with his eyes. Then he looked at Shane. “How much you weigh?”

Shane’s stomach flipped. “No.”

“I have not said—”

“I know what you’re about to suggest. The answer is no.”

“I could lift you.” Rozanov stepped closer, close enough that Shane caught the clean scent of his soap. “Two minutes. Very simple. I lift Rose every day. I never drop her.”

“Rose is tiny, and I’m waiting for the ladder.”

“Because you do not trust me.” Rozanov’s mouth curved. “You think I will drop you on your head. Make big mess. Ruin your perfect schedule.”

“I think,” Shane said, “that there’s no reason to do something dangerous when I don’t have to.”

“Ah, yes. Mr. Safety. Mr. Protocol.” Rozanov moved around the broken ladder, closing the distance between them. “Always you must have permission, forms signed in triplicate, union representative present to watch you sneeze. You know what I think?”

“I don’t care what you think.”

“I think you are afraid of me.”

Shane scoffed. “I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of breaking my neck two weeks out from opening night.”

“That would make it easier for me to change things to the way they should be.” Rozanov was close now, close enough that Shane had to tilt his head back to meet his eyes. “But… no, I think. Even if you do not understand what it is to be on this stage and breathe it as the dancers do. They risk themselves every day for the art.”

“You’re delusional.”

“Am I?” Rozanov’s voice dropped lower. “I think you are coward. Come on, Hollander, have some balls. Let me lift you. Fix your problem. Unless you prefer to stand here and wait like good boy while Hayden brings ladder and does job for you. Let Hayden fix all the things, maybe. Why are you even here?”

Shane’s grip tightened on the wrench in his hand until the metal bit into his palm.

He had built his entire career on being the person who solved problems before anyone else noticed them. He belonged back here. He knew the timing, the weight limits, the margins where disaster lived. Every clean cue and seamless shift was proof that he wasn’t ornamental. He was necessary.

“Fine.” Shane said it too fast, the edge unmistakable. He stepped under the rigging and tilted his chin up at Ilya. “Lift me.”

Rozanov’s eyebrows rose. His gaze dragged over Shane, slow and assessing, like he was recalculating the situation on the fly. The corner of his mouth twitched. He clearly hadn’t expected Shane to take the bait. “You are sure?”

Shane pressed his tongue to the back of his grit teeth. “Yes. Come on already, before I change my mind.”

“Okay.” Rozanov rolled his shoulders, an athlete preparing for performance. He moved behind Shane, and Shane felt the heat of him even before Rozanov’s hands settled on his waist. Thumbs anchored at his lower back. Fingers curved around bone, not squeezing yet, just claiming position. Shane’s stomach tightened reflexively. “You will need to trust me.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“Have it your way. Makes it more exciting.” Rozanov’s fingers tightened. “On three. One—”

The floor dropped.

Shane sucked in a sharp breath as his boots cleared the stage. His balance went liquid for half a second, panic flaring before the grip at his waist locked him in place. Rozanov didn’t wobble or strain, and his hands were solid around his waist, thumbs pressing into his lower back, fingers spreading across his ribs. And—and for a bizarre second, all Shane could think of was what it had to look like, how could this look like Rozanov had during the Grand Pas de Deux with Rose since he was twice her weight and a full head taller and—

Focus, Shane.

“Higher,” Shane said, forcing his brain back to the task at hand, and reached out for the catwalk railing. “You need to lift me higher if I’m going to reach it.”

“Bossy.” Rozanov shifted his grip, lifting Shane another six inches. His hands slid up Shane’s ribcage, and Shane sucked in a breath as his fingers missed the railing.

“You are very tense,” Rozanov said from below him. “Relax. I will not drop you.”

“I’m not tense.”

“Your back is like iron. Also, you are holding your breath.” A pause. “Also, I can feel heartbeat through your shirt. Like little rabbit in there, kicking away. Uspokoysya, krolik.”

“Oh just stuff it already—”

Shane grabbed the catwalk railing and pulled himself up, getting his knees onto the platform. From up here, the stage shrank to a playing board, its dimensions foreshortened and strange. The Christmas tree looked absurd in its painted grandeur, a prop rather than the focal point it would become under stage lighting. Above him, the grid stretched into darkness—a maze of pipes and electrical conduit, lighting instruments hanging like sleeping bats. Beyond the tree he could see clear across to the opposite wing, could trace the diagonal of the RCMP entrance path in glow tape. Below, Rozanov stood directly beneath him in the spill of the work lights, looking up.

He could see the top of Rozanov’s head, and it was a thrilling change of their normal height difference. Looking down at him, rather than up, was a welcome change. And now that he was up here, he could actually fix the counterweight… which ended up being very simple: only a jammed pulley that needed persuading. Shane worked it free, testing the resistance until the tree descended smoothly.

“Is fixed?” Rozanov called up.

“Yeah.” Shane looked down and found Rozanov watching him, arms crossed over his chest.

“Good. Now come down.”

Shane hesitated. “How about I just wait for Hayden to come back with the ladder to come down?”

“How about I fuck your mother. Come on, Hollander. Jump. I will catch you.”

“I’m not jumping.”

“Why not? You let me lift you already. This is same thing, but backwards.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“No, is easier. Gravity does half the work.” Rozanov spread his arms. “Come. I promise not to let you break anything important.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“Is best I can offer.” Rozanov’s grin widened. “Unless you want to for Pike to rescue you like frightened cat in a tree. I will wait. I have all day. I will take pictures to share with the kids at practice so they can laugh too.”

Shane looked at the door where Hayden had vanished into, then back at Rozanov.

Fuck it.

“Do not let me die.” He swung his legs over the edge of the catwalk and dropped.

For one terrifying second, there was only air. Then Rozanov’s hands caught him, one arm hooking under his thighs, the other around his back, and suddenly Shane was cradled against Rozanov’s chest.

“See?” Rozanov’s face was inches from his own, and his breath was fanning over Shane’s cheek. “I told you. Very simple.”

Shane’s hands had fisted in Rozanov’s sweater, clinging and repulsed and… and…! Oh god, what must this look like right now? Held bridal style, close enough to kiss, holding onto him like a terrified koala in a eucalyptus tree. He was close enough to count Rozanov’s fucking eyelashes. If anyone walked in right now—

“You can put me down now!”

“Can I?” Rozanov didn’t move. “But you are so comfortable here. Like little bird in nest.”

“Rozanov—” Shane pushed, but it was all arms and no follow-through. His feet stayed planted. His body did not agree with his mouth. He was dizzy with the solid wall of Rozanov, how easily he was just holding him here, despite being nearly 90kg and almost six feet tall. “Put. Me. Down.”

“Ask me nicely, Mr. Hollander,” Rozanov said, dipping his head down even closer still, teasing. An inch, and their lips would touch. Rozanov’s fingers pressed into his ribs, his thigh. Every point of contact burned. “That is your kink, after all.”

Shane was sure his face must’ve been on fire. He wanted to strangle Rozanov. He wanted to close that last inch between their mouths and find out if Rozanov tasted as arrogant as he sounded. He wanted to flee the city, the country, and vanish into the ether to wherever there was a place without ballet. He… he wanted to be put down before his heart beat out of his chest, and before fucking Hayden came back and saw exactly how hard Shane was getting from being manhandled like this. God, what was wrong with him?

“... put… me down now, please, Rozanov.”

“As you wish.” Rozanov lowered him slowly, letting Shane’s body slide along his own until Shane’s feet touched the ground. Shane felt every inch of the descent—the flex of Rozanov’s arms, the friction of their bodies dragging together, the way his own thighs bracketed Rozanov’s hips for one brief, devastating moment. Even then, his hands lingered on Shane’s waist. “There. Safe and sound. No dropping. No breaking. I am very trustworthy, yes?”

Shane stepped back, and Rozanov’s hands fell away. His fingers were shaking slightly, and he shoved them in his pockets before Rozanov could notice.

Rozanov leaned against the nearby broken ladder, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Was that so terrible?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, he says.” Rozanov repeated the word like it tasted bitter. “I catch you like prince catches princess in fairy tale, and you say is yes, is terrible.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“That having my hands on you was far from terrible.”Rozanov pushed off the ladder and moved closer. “When I held you, you grabbed my shirt like you were afraid I might let go.” Rozanov’s eyes tracked across Shane’s face. “And right now, you are blushing.”

“I’m not—do you have to flirt with everything with legs?” Shane’s skin burned everywhere Rozanov’s eyes landed, and he took a step backwards to steal back what little space now that he could. Rabbit-heart indeed, and Rozanov was looking at him like a wolf now. “First Jackie, then Rose, now… this! Are you trying to fuck the entire corps?!”

“Entire RWB? No. Is too much work, even for me.” Rozanov admitted with a shrug. “I focus only on the pretty ones.”

The word pretty hit Shane like a fist to the gut, like missing a landing, like missing one of the steps on the stairs in the dark. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you look very pretty, all pink and distressed for me like this, Hollander. Should I try to fuck you?”

“You’re—”

“I am what? Arrogant? Pushy? Too direct?” Rozanov braced one hand against the tree beside Shane’s head. “All of these things are true. But you still have not answered question.”

Rozanov leaned in, his free hand coming up to cup Shane’s chin. His palm was still warm from Shane’s waist.

“I…”

“Shane?”

Rose’s voice carried from the wings, followed shortly by her light footsteps.

Rozanov pulled back smoothly, his hand dropping. By the time Rose appeared around the corner, he was standing at a respectful distance, examining the counterweight mechanism like that was all they’d been doing all along.

“There you are,” Rose said, slightly breathless. She carried a stack of costume pieces. “Jackie needs you to approve these button replacements. And—oh, hi Ilya.”

“Rose.” His voice was perfectly steady, his smile easy. “You are looking very beautiful today.”

“Charmer.” She rolled her eyes, then looked at Shane. “You okay? You look flushed.”

“I’m fine.” Shane’s voice came out almost normal. “There was… a problem with the tree. Rigging issue. It’s fixed now.”

“Well, Jackie’s in the costume shop when you’re free. No rush.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Yes, rush.

Shane didn’t give himself time to think. He didn’t give himself time to say anything to Rozanov. He turned and walked, fast enough that his badge bounced against his chest with the embarrassing little anxious job he was doing now, until the corridor swallowed him whole.

He was so fucked.