Archive of Our Own

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The restaurant looks out across the city, New York in the palm of his hand. Shane had asked for a private room, the biggest at the back, with the floor to ceiling windows offering a panoramic view, and just the mention of his name had sent the restaurant running for him. And he had been early, of course, early to his own reservation, but the maître d’ had still led him to the room with the perfectly set table with an easy smile but a pinch between her eyebrows. She had been briefed, or was simply aware, of who Shane was, and was acting accordingly. Most of the time, the name Hollander-Tayama is an annoyance more than anything. But there are times, when he needs a discreet room in an upscale restaurant within the next twenty-four hours, that it is—helpful. Sympathetic, if he had to call it anything.  

Shane checks his watch again. The gem-studded minute hand blinks back at him, innocent. It is not two yet, but barely, and annoyance already rears its head in his chest. 

The chance that Rozanov will be on time is virtually zero. If you are rich and influential enough, there are moments when time bends towards you, and lateness can be excused by virtue of your presence alone being the reason the meeting is happening. Ilya Rozanov, of Rozanov Group, takes that knowledge and almost makes a sport out of seeing how far he can take it. 

Especially since it’s such a sure-fire way to get underneath Shane’s skin. And there isn’t quite more than Rozanov likes doing than that. Hayden has told Shane multiple times that he simply should stop paying as much attention to the Russian man. 

If only it were so simple. 

At two past two, there is a knock on the door. Just late enough to chafe. Shane would bet that it was purposeful. The same woman from before sticks her head around the door. “Your guest is here, Mr. Hollander.”

“Oh, Mr. Hollander.” As always, Rozanov announces himself with little subtlety, shrugging out of his peacoat with a careless movement. “You sure know how to make the pretty girls call out your name.”

“This reads like two PM to you, Rozanov?” Shane can’t help but ask, ignoring everything the other just said. 

Rozanov pauses unspooling his cashmere scarf from around his neck to roll his eyes at Shane. He hands it to the maître d’, who disappears with a respectful nod. “Unclench,” he says, all of his perfectly white teeth on display as he grins at Shane. “You know how terrible traffic is around these parts.”

Shane gnashes on his teeth to avoid snapping something else scathing at Rozanov. As loathe as he is to admit it, he does need Rozanov for something. It would be best to attempt a vague truce for the time being. He gestures at the table. “Please, take a seat.”

“How wonderfully polite, as ever.” But Rozanov does sit down, picking up the recycled paper stock card delicately placed on his plate and running his eyes across the text. 

Ryo-san is Shane’s favourite Japanese restaurant in all of Manhattan. They only do tasting menus with dishes made from in-season ingredients. No added sugar. A perfectly balanced palate. Flavours in harmony. Rozanov is staring at the menu like it has personally offended him. Shane guesses he’s probably killed all of his tastebuds with the amount of cigarettes he smokes.

They still don’t really know how to interact with each other, Shane realises, dimly. At least outside of a bedroom, that is. It will have to change. Awkwardness hangs in the air like it is a physical object, a smog Shane has to squint through. At least Rozanov looks good—but then again, he always does. His curls are pushed out of his face, and the shirt he wears frames his broad shoulders perfectly. The golden cross he wears around his neck, Russian orthodox, with the extra bars, glints in the sunlight. It is really quite annoying that such a gorgeous body hides such an infuriating personality. Shane guesses that it is one of the reasons why people still put up with Rozanov. That, and his unfortunately sharp brain.

Tearing his gaze away, Shane blinks into the present again. “I ordered the four course option.” He sits down at his own seat so that he can look at the furrow between Rozanov’s eyebrows. “A light meal. I didn’t know if you already had lunch.”

“Joy.” Rozanov’s expression is deadpan.

If Shane is about to go through with this mad plan of his, Rozanov will have to learn to adapt. And the sashimi at this place is to die for. Even Rozanov will not be able to deny that.

He steeples his fingers in front of him so that he can hide the tremble of his palms. “I know it is quite out of the blue for me to call you here. So, thank you for coming at such short notice.” Even if Rozanov wants to be an asshole, Shane will not stoop down to that level. His mother raised a perfectly polite gentleman.

“Yes, tell me Hollander,” drawls Rozanov, doing his best to project an unaffected air, though the interest in his sharp blue gaze contradicts his tone. “What is so important that you had me run here less than twenty-four hours after you last texted me?”

With a deep breath, Shane looks Rozanov in the eyes. He says, “I need you to marry me.”

--

Ilya Rozanov is a fantastic lay. Shane was much younger and much stupider when he finds this out. 

He met him at a party. He didn’t even want to go, but Rose had. And so Shane went to the party. It was at some upscale apartment, empty and impersonal—owned by the type of person who believed that more wealth equaled less furniture. Shane remembers a view of the Hudson, smudged out greytones against the overcast sky. He remembers the hum of noise; people murmuring that Ilya Rozanov was present. They were all craning their necks to see him.

Honestly, Shane wasn’t sure why there was a kind of reverent surprise around Rozanov’s presence. As far as Shane knew, he was at every party worth their salt. The name Rozanov was either forced out between gritted teeth or moaned against the bedsheets. And this Rozanov—Ilya—had the biggest hand in creating that buzz around the name. Shane knew all the rumours: gorgeous, sly, smart as hell. He never had to win any games, because a dealer doesn’t play. And the house always cashes in at the end.

Even though he was tangentially aware of the existence of Ilya Rozanov, Shane hasn’t actually ever met him yet. The Hollanders are in real estate, the Rozanovs in private equity, and Ilya into fast cars, as far as Shane knows. And Shane didn’t go to parties. Little overlap.

Until this party. Apparently there was a guy there that Rose was interested in, and she didn’t want to meet him alone. Shane didn’t know what she’d been scared of, because all of the finance bros he knew would shake in their boots at the sight of a beautiful and strong woman like Rose Landry, but he was a good friend. So, he’d gone along.

And there, in the hum of that party, he was the only one not twisting his head around to catch a glimpse of the not-so-illusive Ilya Rozanov. It was just his luck that Rozanov had found him anyway.

After Rose had successfully flirted her way into the lap of some comb-over-ed guy, Shane snuck away into the kitchen. He found it surprisingly barren, only him, the row of way too overpriced liquor and a bottle of Moët in a bucket of melting ice slush. What a waste of absolutely disgusting champagne.

Shane was digging through one of the smart fridges (which: horrible inventions, why should your fridge ever need to text you?) for some ginger ale when somebody cleared their throat behind him. With a mildly disappointing Schweppes clutched between his fingers, he’d turned around to face his assailant.

And at least the rumours hadn’t been wrong about Ilya Rozanov’s beauty. Golden hair curled almost cherubic around a face with a strong jaw and piercing blue eyes. Pale skin broken up by almost strategically disarming moles, and pink lips with a pronounced cupid’s bow. Rozanov was as tall as Shane, but clearly with wider shoulders. Something Shane felt—fine about. He was leaning against the door frame, blocking the way into the kitchen. That was the only reason Shane noticed his shoulders at all.

“What are you doing here all alone?” Rozanov asked, the first words out of his mouth, and his Russian accent wrapped around the words almost seductively.

“Trying to figure out if this is an acceptable time to go home,” Shane said, honest.

Rozanov laughed, a full bellied thing. It didn’t sound like he was making fun of Shane. “I only just got here and you’re already running away? I can promise you that I don’t bite.”

“If you say ‘unless you ask’, I’m going to kick you in the balls.”

An expression of fake innocence bloomed on Rozanov’s face, and he’d he’d up his hands in defence. “Ilya.” He held one hand out at Shane. “Rozanov.”

Shane wrinkled his nose, looking down at the outstretched palm. “I know.”

For some reason, Rozanov looked amused at that. “You’re from the Hollanders, right? Shane?”

That Rozanov knew who he was, was surprising. Shane had fought not to show it on his face. “Why ask a question that you already know the answer to?” 

Rozanov’s grin only widened. 

Somehow, they ended up in a guest bedroom, locked at the mouth. Rozanov’s prepositioning had been lukewarm at best; the kind of half-hearted flirting that came from knowing that people would fall over for you no matter what you did. Shane had been unimpressed. To Rozanov, he was probably something to conquer. Straight-laced Shane Hollander who didn’t go to parties. But he was very beautiful indeed, and Shane had never hidden his homosexuality. He just didn’t advertise it either. Between heading home in an Uber and making out with Rozanov in a backroom, the former had honestly seemed more inviting. But Rose was always pushing Shane to live a little, whatever that might mean.

And so Rozanov had advanced on him and kissed him there, right up against the terrible fridge. The ginger ale had all but been forgotten in Shane’s hand. Rozanov had suggested going somewhere more private. Unfamiliar hunger in Shane’s chest had told him to say yes.

Shane didn’t go to parties with lube and condoms in his back pocket; Rozanov was clearly a whole different creature. When he unbuckled his belt so that Shane could stick his hand down his boxers, Shane hissed between his teeth. The rumours about Rozanov’s endowment, at least, were not exaggerated. 

“Not here,” he said. “Not with that. I want to be able to walk to my Uber tonight.”

Rozanov pulled back from where he was pressing his lips against Shane’s throat to wiggle his eyebrows at him. “I can satisfy you with a few fingers too, krasavchik. I think you would look incredible on your back.”

“Ugh. Don’t say satisfy.” 

He ended up on his back anyway. Rozanov had watched from the bed as Shane folded his clothes as he took them off—pants, shirt, boxers. His body was shaped like a marble statue. When Rozanov kneeled on the mattress, he curled his hand behind Shane’s head so that he could draw their mouths together. His mouth tasted faintly of cigarettes and something cold, probably vodka. The combination should not make Shane crave more. 

Warm hands pushed on his thighs so that they fell open and Rozanov could slide in between. Shane’s apprehension sat like a knot at the base of his throat. Slick fingers trailed down his thigh; a muscle there jumped. 

As soon as one finger slipped inside up to the first knuckle, Shane’s brain blanked out. Rozanov was careful, but the pad of his finger had a callused edge. Shane sobbed into his bicep as Rozanov dragged the finger back out, so slowly he could swear he felt every bump and ridge. Then he fucked it back in, all the way up to the base, and the sound that punched out of Shane was downright mortifying, a wanton thing. 

Opposite of Shane’s expectations, Rozanov was gentle with him. He talked the entire time, Russian and English mixing on his tongue, even though he did not expect Shane to reply. With how he was twisting his fingers, Shane didn’t think he would have been able to anyway. The Russian was probably dirtier than the fragments of English Shane caught. 

He seemed to catch when Shane got closer. “Are you going to come for me, Hollander?”

“Make me, Rozanov,” said Shane, never one to be outdone.

Rozanov kissing him was not what he had meant, but—gift horse and all that. He was a good kisser, if a bit sloppy. Licking across Shane’s mouth as if he expected to find nirvana behind the seam of Shane’s lips and making these breathy, satisfied noises. Underneath Rozanov’s frankly talented hands, one moving inside him and the other stroking his dick with loosely coordinated movements, it was honestly a wonder that Shane lasted as long as he did. 

Confession time: Shane came harder than he remembers ever having come before in his life. It remains a secret he will take to the grave with him, probably. Most definitely.

He tried making up for what must have been his own punch-drunk expression of pleasure by flipping Rozanov on his back and freeing his dick with practised movements. Rozanov had not been complaining when Shane swallowed him with one practised movement. In fact, he’d barely been able to do anything else but cling onto Shane and curse in a mixture of English and Russian. Shane was pretty sure that most of the traces of his own afterglow had disappeared by the time Rozanov spilled into his mouth.  

So, from that moment on, they met over and over. Shane told himself that it was a one-time thing, but then he would feel eyes in the back of his neck at whatever gala or gallery opening or rich-people-wank-fest he’d found himself at. And before he knew it, he’d be in a way too fancy bathroom with his pressed trousers around his ankles, Rozanov’s hand around his cock and Rozanov’s mouth pressed against his skin. And then a one-time thing, naturally, became a two, three, four-time thing. At which point Shane stopped counting. 

Sometimes they didn’t even meet at such events. Rozanov would send him an address and a room number for a hotel he didn’t even need, seeing as he had at least two apartments in the city alone. Which Shane knows because Rozanov has also invited him to both. The first time at the second apartment, memorably, Shane had sat on his dick with his hand safely notched around Rozanov’s throat. It had been a satisfying orgasm indeed.

But it’s not like Shane was at Rozanov’s beck and call, and neither is the opposite true. Sometimes, after Shane said no, not now, I’m busy, he would find pictures of Rozanov with pretty girls and boys on the internet. Both, if the fancy struck him. Not that Shane was looking for them, but the New York inner circle is only that big. Word goes around.

And so did Rozanov. Not that Shane cared, obviously. Being a notch on someone’s bedpost in return for mindblowing orgasms was a good rate of exchange.

It was easy, is what Shane told himself. Rozanov was a willing, gorgeous body, and he never pretended he wanted anything else from Shane than sex. As an added benefit, he was good at it too. Sex, that is. Really good. Sometimes, he would pin Shane against the sheets in such a way that Shane wondered if he ever had truly had sex before. Everything seemed to pale in comparison. Not that he would ever tell Rozanov that.

So it had gone for the last few years: Shane busy with work, but happy to release some stress from time to time. Rozanov hot and willing, with triumph hidden in the bright of his blue eyes.

There was no love between the two of them, though, and Shane did not fool himself into believing that there would be. Rozanov was no more than a really beautiful annoyance—always smoking inside even though it pissed Shane off, or maybe because of it, so confident with Shane even though half of the things they did made Shane blush up to his ears, moving through life like things bent towards him instead of the other way around (which they, much to Shane’s chagrin, often did). But that absence of any kind of affection was exactly what Shane needed from him.

Would need from him, too. It is only fair on both of them. 

--

“Excuse me?” To Rozanov’s merit, he does not shout the words. Instead, he says it with the calm acceptance of disbelief. “I think I must have heard you wrong. You said that you—”

“Want you to marry me, yes,” says Shane, impatiently.

Rozanov, in a clear contrast to his normal easy cockiness, seems to be struck dumb. He stares at Shane in something close to weighted silence, or as much as he can manage at least, his mouth opening and closing a few times as if he is searching for what to say. Before he manages to settle on one thing or the other, though, the door opens.

One of the restaurant’s waitresses slips inside, the drinks Shane had ordered beforehand placed neatly on a platter. She seems to be impervious to the weird mood hanging around the room, or is simply trained to pretend it does not exist. Once she offloads the glasses with a deferential nod, she leaves.

Good. Shane clears his throat and looks back at Rozanov, who seems to appear to have taken the time to collect himself again. 

“You do not seem like the type to joke about this,” says Rozanov, at last.

Shane shakes his head. “That is because I am not joking. I need to be wed. Soon.” 

Those words make Rozanov burst out into laughter, folding forward. The action seems to shock him as well, and he reaches up to wipe some tears from where they’d pooled along his lash line. “Only you would say to be wed, Shane Hollander. What do we live in—the eighteenth century?”

“We might as well be,” Shane grumbles. He leans back in his chair, more in defeat than relaxation. “My grandfather is near the end of his life. I want my due part of his inheritance. And for that, I need to be married.”

In the will that Tayama Yuto had written up, he had stated that, in case of his passing, his estate would be evenly split between every first and second degree relative. As a self-made man who had started his business in post-war Japan and had expanded into Northern America, it was a really sizable inheritance. Said will then went on to say this division would hold true for those, and only those, relatives who are married. 

The exact stating of the marriage-clause includes that it must be a “union that is beneficial to the family and her holdings, and must not have any preventable negative consequences.” There is no mention of what gender this potential marriage candidate must be. 

Shane knows this from the top of his head, because he has checked the wording of the document no less than six times since he first had gotten his hands on it.

Though he has no siblings, his cousins—all older than him—are married. The last wedding was just last year, at Castello Di Celsa in Siena, Tuscany. Three days under the Italian sun was not something Shane had hated, but it also had reminded him that he was the last one to tie the knot, to get the ball and chain, all of that jazz. And now Tayama Senior is dying, Shane is not married, and his family members circle him like vultures. 

They’ve never really liked him. He was always too boring, too empty, too busy chasing success they didn’t believe they needed anymore, too much the perfect grandson who came home to an empty, echoing apartment. Always so uptight, Shane Hollander, Canada-bred but New York’s Golden Boy. Surely he wouldn’t need that money anymore? Surely he would just stay hard working and lonely? In their eyes, he isn’t a threat at all. He might as well not exist. 

Rozanov laughs and the sound whistles between his teeth. “Huh,” he says. “You always find a way to surprise me, Hollander.” He looks at Shane, bright blue gaze assessing. He’s never looked down on Shane, and that by itself is a big part of why Shane considered going to him in the first place. 

“So will you do it?” asks Shane.

“Not so fast.” Rozanov holds up a hand. “I have a couple questions first. Ones that I expect you to answer honestly.”

Shane sits back with a huff. “Fine.”

“Let me see if I got this correct,” says Rozanov. “Your inheritance is tied to whether or not you are married, right?” He continues when Shane gives a sharp nod. “So, what’s in it for me?”

Ah, exactly the question Shane had expected from someone like Rozanov. “Good publicity. I know Rozanov Group has been unsteady since your father’s decline in health. Your brother is older and the logical heir, but he’s volatile. The investors don’t really like him because they think he will be unreliable. But you are the party boy, and even if you run laps around your brother with regards to your intelligence, the people who put money in your pockets want more than just that. They want something they can build on. A marriage speaks of a belief in longevity and stability, of thinking about the future. Plus, I have a lot of contacts, both in the city and outside of it. Who knows what might be helpful for you.” 

“Real estate contacts,” says Rozanov, pointed. 

Shane raises his eyebrows. “You think I came as far as I am because my network only extends as far as my niche?” 

The grin that twitches around the corners of Rozanov’s lips seems to be genuine. “Fuck, everyone quite underestimates you, hm, Hollander? Golden fucking boy but he’s secretly a demon.”

A shrug. “It can be helpful to be underestimated. People don’t think you’re a threat.”

Rozanov sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. When he releases it again to speak, a thin sheen of spit coats the skin. “Why ask me, though? You could have anyone. Ask the first boy you see on the street if they’d want to marry you and they’ll probably say yes. You have a whole city to choose from.”

“Yes,” says Shane. “But I need someone who doesn’t care about the marriage as more than a business transaction. Who won’t complain about the fact that I’m basically married to my job already. I need someone who is going to walk away after the year is up.” He looks Rozanov right in the eyes. “I need someone who won’t fall in love with me.”

Pensive silence descends over the two of them. Rozanov, at least, seems to be thinking about it seriously. “You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you?”

“I have. I—this is important to me.”

In the end, Rozanov says, “Okay.”

“Okay?” says Shane. His heart skips a beat in his chest. 

Rozanov dips his head, and when he looks again, there’s a spark in his eyes. Shane recognises the look—Rozanov wears it when he’s about to consider if he’s going to make Shane beg to come or cry from overstimulation. “Okay,” he repeats. “You want me to marry you? Ask me properly.”

“What,” Shane manages. 

Arm sweeping, Rozanov gestures to the floor next to him. “Get on one knee, Shane Hollander. Or maybe both knees. And ask me to marry you like how they do in those romantic movies.”

This time, it is Shane who is lost for words. “You are an asshole.”

“And you want something from me. Tick tock, Shane Hollander, time is running. Unless you want to be on your knees when the pretty lady comes to bring us our food?”

With gritted teeth, Shane lowers himself to his knees next to Rozanov’s chair. Going down on one knee almost seems too real, too true, and being on both knees next to Rozanov is somewhat familiar. He looks up and raises his chin proudly. “Marry me, Ilya Rozanov?”

“Shane Hollander,” says Rozanov, his smile revealing perfectly white teeth. “I do.”

--

“We have to discuss logistics,” Shane says, over their second course  of food. 

On the other side of the table, Rozanov is basically inhaling slices of sashimi. “You and your logistics,” he grumbles, cheeks bulging around the food in his mouth, totally not appreciating the fine umami flavours. “It’s a wedding, not a business merger.”

“It might as well be,” huffs Shane. “I’m not marrying you shotgun, asshole. That’s definitely going to raise some eyebrows, invite unwanted attention, and I really want to avoid all of that.” Especially if his family needs to believe the lie too. “Plus, everyone thinks we fucking hate each other. It needs to look believable from the outside too. That includes going on dates, being seen together, selling this idea that hate might turn into, um, love.” He stutters over the last few words, the back of his neck heating up. 

“Uh huh.” Rozanov raises his eyebrows. “You either have high expectations of yourself or low expectations of other people. Do you think you’re so irresistible that people wouldn’t be able to deny you?”

Shane hunches his shoulders, sending Rozanov a flat glare. “I don’t know, but I definitely didn’t want to have to find that out the hard way either.”

“Mm.” Rozanov finishes his plate and dabs at his mouth with the corner of the heavy table napkin, Japanese Kanji stitched on the corner of the fabric. “It was quite brave of you, Hollander. Suggesting this to me. What would you have done if I said no, and then told the press what you’re doing?”

Unable to help himself, Shane snorts. “Between the two of us, who do you think they would have believed? They’d just think you were slandering me.”

“Touche.” Eyes glinting with something close to delight, Rozanov leans back in his chair. “Do you want to discuss your, uh, logistics now, or can I catch up with you at a later time?” He raises his arm to check the time, a Vacheron Constantin strapped around his wrist. “I kind of had to squeeze this meeting in between two other commitments.” 

For a beat, Shane stares at him, and he can’t really pinpoint why the backs of his ears suddenly feel so hot. He waves a hand at Rozanov, kind of dismissive. “Of course. But you should think about what you want to see in this arrangement.” He sags down slightly, allowing himself that brief moment of fragmented composure. “Why don’t you take two days to sleep on it and think about—all of this? And then we’ll meet up somewhere. To really talk everything through.”

Rozanov gives him a small smile, which Shane can almost fool himself into thinking is real. “Sounds good, Hollander. I have your number, so it shouldn’t be a problem.” There is no doubt the tone of his voice is teasing. They’ve only sent each other dirty texts or addresses to meet up so far, plus a slew of Russian drunk texts from Rozanov that Shane hasn’t bothered to translate yet. 

Shaking hands suddenly seems . . . off, considering the topic discussed, but that is the way Shane finishes all of his meetings, and his body defaults to it before he can stop himself. Rozanov looks amused at the action, but does not leave Shane hanging. As he does, he pulls Shane closer.

“I don’t like a boring life, Hollander,” he murmurs, a smile teasing around his lips. “And I must admit, this is the most exciting thing that has happened to me in a long time. I will think on it for you, but let’s see where this goes, shall we?”

To hide his nervous heart, Shane gives him a sharp nod. “We shall.”

--

Shane takes the two business days to freak out about it. He’s actually busy too, which helps, in and out of meetings with a myriad of Hollander-Tayama Realty higher ups, managing various high-level contracts with high-stake clients, and doing a handful of preparatory viewings at apartments in TriBeCa. Normally, Shane would let one of his employees do the initial tasks, but it is his friend Rose who is looking for a new place. Shane would rather do everything himself, to ensure that everything is exactly to her and his liking. There are a few things that he is quite particular about.

Anyway—two business days. He works himself to the bone and then has his driver take him home, where he takes some time screaming into one of his decorative throw pillows. After that, he runs through his normal evening schedule: his workout, his meditation session, eating one of the containers of prepared food his mother’s chef makes him, and then some relaxation. He finishes the night by trying not to picture Rozanov’s face, fails both times, and then has the worst sleep he’s ever gotten in his life.

By the third morning, he meets sleep-thick eyes with himself in the mirror and decides that this is quite enough. He grabs his phone from where he’d been charging it on his nightstand and swipes to Rozanov’s contact. To his surprise, Rozanov is awake already. 

Shane: Do you own any Admirals merch?

Rozanov: ewww why would i own merch of sixth worst team in league?
Rozanov: also why do you ask?

Shane: My mum has a box at MSG. Let’s meet up there to discuss.
Shane: It’ll be private.
Shane: There is a game this Friday. Are you free?

Rozanov: you expect a lot from my schedule hollander
Rozanov: i could be free if you make it worth my time

Shane: You are not saying what you think I am saying, are you?

Rozanov: 🤷

Shane: Rozanov.

Rozanov: as far as im concerned it is still you that wants something from me
Rozanov: i thought about your rules btw

Shane: I’ll send you the details later. Are you at the office tomorrow? A car will pick you up.
↳ [Rozanov reacted with 😼]

And then he takes a moment to just center himself, running through his yoga breathing exercises. Fucking Rozanov still manages to rile him up even without him being here. Shane is not, has never been, weak. But it’s almost like he can hear the lilt in Rozanov’s voice, can see that damned smirk on his stupid face. And that somehow just messes him up. He doesn’t run half of his family’s company by himself at age twenty-nine because he shows the soft of his belly whenever things get tough. He perseveres. 

He tells himself that Rozanov does also need something from him. Because what Shane had laid out before had not been wrong. The handover of power within the Rozanov Group will happen in the near future. And if Shane could be so selfish, he’d rather do business in New York with Ilya fronting that company than fucking Alexei.

All hard feelings to the older Rozanov brother. 

Groaning, Shane scrubs his hands across his face, then stands from his bed again. His driver will be here in forty minutes to pick him up, and he’s still in his sleep shirt and boxers. By now, he’d be a protein smoothie deep and scrolling through his meetings for the day—which will be far too many, doubtlessly. This whole thing with Rozanov is fucking him over more than he’d like to admit, and he’s the only one to blame for being in this situation in the first place. 

Well actually, let’s pin it on Tayama Yuto. If he hadn’t added that stupid clause to his will, Shane would have been fine. He wouldn’t even be stressing out right now. 

Shane is still grumbling when he pulls his quarter zip over his head and smoothes it out with his palms. He has no time to drink his smoothie in his kitchen, which will probably leave him unsettled all day, but he does pack it in his work bag. There will be time to sip from it in the car as he is going through his emails.

New York traffic is horrible on a good day. Shane plans his day in such a way that he’s still early for his first meeting. Despite what he tells himself, and despite the way he sips on his smoothie throughout the car ride to pretend at a facsimile of normalcy, he feels unsettled for the rest of the day.

--

Rose Landry, one of Shane’s best friends and absolute woman of the century, Shane’s ride-or-die, has absolutely terrible timing. 

“It’s Thursday,” says Shane, staring at her flatly. He does not even know how she made it past the lobby and into the keycard-operated elevators, all the way up to his office. He’d almost jumped out of his skin when he saw her standing outside his door, easily flirting with Shane’s secretary.

To that, Rose just seems to vibrate in place a bit, tucking a strand of strawberry blonde hair behind her ear. She rolls her eyes. “Come on, Shane,” she groans. “It’s a gallery opening, not a club. Plus, I just know you’re going to love this artist—Kip recommended him to me.” When Shane still appears unmoved, she huffs. “Live a little, Shane Hollander.”

At those words, Shane almost flinches a little. He manages to control his reaction. “Fine then. I’ll stay for an hour.” He sighs out through his nose. “I should have never taken you as my client.”

She cheers and tugs him towards the elevators, pushing him inside with a palm between his shoulderblades when he resists a little bit. As the elevator descends, silent and perfect because Shane hates noisy elevators, she swipes on her phone. “I called Junghoon, by the way. He’s already parked out front.”

Shane sends her a look through narrowed eyes. “Why do you have my driver’s number?” 

“In case I need to kidnap you,” Rose replies, flatly, and then whacks him when he glares at her. She’s surprisingly strong for her size, though Shane guesses that’s what happens when you have a million older brothers. 

The car takes them to West Chelsea. Shane would love to be home and doing his pre-dinner workout right now, but he apparently is not yet resistant to the power of Rose Landry’s persuasive eyes. So he watches New York pass by through the car windows, slow as ever because of fucking traffic, and listens to Rose yap about the artist they’re about to see. Apparently, he’s a photographer who likes to capture “the usual in a way that makes it appear non-typical.” To Shane, that just sounds like a bunch of artsy buzzwords strung together, but Rose seems to be excited about it, so he keeps his thoughts to himself.

Junghoon offloads them in front of the gallery and tells them that he’ll be nearby if they want a pickup to go back home. Shane voices his thanks just as Rose slips out of the car with a flying kiss.

He leans into the front seat. “I need you to delete her number,” he says. “Or block her.”

“Sir,” says Junghoon, amused.

“I heard that!” shouts Rose, and pulls him out of the car by his belt loops. Not that Shane was going to tell Junghoon to drive away, because he’s not that kind of person. But he also doesn’t blame her for thinking that. He did briefly consider it.

There’s a line to get into the gallery, winding around the block, but apparently Rose is a friend of a friend. Shane catches a few narrow-eyed looks from the people waiting near the front of the line, but he’s really kind of reaching his limits of noise and human interaction already despite not being inside yet, so he can’t bring himself to care. There need to be benefits to being friends with someone as high profile as Rose.

Lucky for him, inside the gallery, the mood is a lot calmer. The walls are painted a neutral cream, small lamps scattered around to cast golden light around the slowly darkening rooms. Enough space is left between the blown up photographs so that the colours don’t turn into visual clutter, and some kind of piano piece is playing over a hidden stereo system.

“See?” says Rose, triumphant, when she notices the line of Shane’s shoulders relaxing. “Not too bad, right?”

“Not too bad,” he allows. 

For a while, they stroll past the photos. They are . . . okay. If a bit bland. Shane’s not an expert on aperture and shutter speed, so maybe there’s an entire process behind it, but the compositions are just not very exciting. He wouldn’t put his hand in the fire for this, but it also wouldn’t surprise him if this artist has some family member backing him up to be able to run this show. Not many people have their first show in a gallery as fancy as this. Maybe that’s just him being cynical, though.

“Oh, look!” says Rose, suddenly perking up, and hooks her hand through Shane’s elbow to drag him to the side. “It’s the artist that I wanted you to meet. Matéo, hi!” 

The last words are clearly not aimed at Shane, but instead at a man talking to an older woman a few paces away from them. At the call of his name he looks over at Shane and Rose, and a smile blooms on his handsome face when he spots them. He has a lot of teeth. They are too straight and white, in Shane’s professional opinion.

“Um, Rose,” Shane murmurs, desperately, as they draw closer. “What is this?”

She gives him a look from the corner of her eyes. “It’d be rude not to introduce yourself to the artist, Shane.”

The emphasis on his name makes him realise that Rose wants something from him. He’s never been the best at reading context clues, at deciphering tones and hidden meanings, but he does know Rose. And from the look in her eyes, she is putting down something that she really wants him to pick up.

“Miss Rose Landry!” says Matéo, as they draw closer. “I was worried if you were going to make it or not.”

“Just had to convince this one to come along,” says Rose, bumping her shoulder against Shane’s. “I don’t believe the two of you have had the fortune of meeting each other yet. Shane, this is Matéo Ramirez. And this is Shane Hollander. From Hollander-Tayama Realty? I think I’ve told you about him.”

Matéo holds out his hand. “You have mentioned him once or twice, yes.”

His hand is very soft, Shane notices. And from up close, his smile is even more blinding. “Good to meet you, Matéo,” he says, politely. “Your show is very impressive. And what a gorgeous venue.”

“Thank you,” says Matéo, with a laugh. “I was very lucky. My mother knows the owner.”

Ding ding ding. Shane just gives him a small nod, then considers his options for leaving this conversation as soon as possible. His work puts him at the maximum amount of small talk he can handle every single day, and that is only because his employees know what works best for him. He doesn’t think he’s a bad boss; he just likes to do things as productive as possible.

Rose gives him a nudge that probably translates to don’t be rude. She turns her attention back to Matéo, and for a minute, Shane can just stand there and disassociate as the conversation moves on around him even without his input. God bless Rose, who could probably charm a rock, and has no problem with keeping the mood up. He’s so lucky that he is transposed back into his body to hear Rose ask, “Are you seeing anyone right now, Matéo?”

“No, not right now.” Matéo rubs the back of his neck. “Pretty busy with the craft, you know?”

Rose laughs. “Oh, you should hear this one.” She looks at Shane. “Always blowing me off because he has some work thing or the other. You’d think he’s, basically, dating his job right now. I always tell him that he’s too charming to stay alone for so long.” 

Matéo raises his eyebrows. The skin on his forehead barely moves. “That so?” he murmurs, knowing.

All of a sudden, Shane realises exactly what Rose is trying here. He turns to Rose and frowns. “Can I just,” he says, pointing over his shoulder. “Talk to you there for a second?”

Confused, Rose looks at him. “What?” 

But he’s already pulling her away, and for once, she doesn’t put up too much of a fuss. “Rose,” Shane hisses between his teeth, as soon as he puts some distance between them and Matéo. “What are you doing?”

She bites on her lips and manages to look a vague cross between guilty and determined. “Introducing you to a nice artist friend . . .?” When he gives her a sharp look, she sighs, annoyed. “Look Shane, I don’t want you to be lonely forever! I know your work is important to you and I respect that, but no human is okay with being alone every single night. And Matéo is nice, single, and gay. He’s an artist! He’ll be busy too.”

It’s clear that she means it kindly, but. “I don’t need you to introduce me to anyone, Ms. Landry.”

“Why not? It’s not like you ever go anywhere by yourself.”

Thank you for that, Rose Landry. He swallows, crosses his fingers behind his back. Fuck, he really needs Rozanov to pull through on this one. Which is not something he ever thought he would say. “I—well, I  actually have someone already, so.” 

“What?” she gasps. “You! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s—” He can’t say that it’s new, because with his timeline, he’ll need to marry Rozanov within the next year, and she won’t believe him if he rushes into everything, but at the same time he can’t say too much yet, so, “—private?”

“Shane Hollander!” She looks ready to strangle him. “Why didn’t you tell me anything?” Then she frowns. “Wait, is he not out yet?”

Running a hand through his hair, Shane laughs. If only she knew. “No, it’s nothing, uh, quite like that. Listen, I don’t feel comfortable saying too much right now, but if he’s up for it, I can introduce you guys soon?”

“You better!” Scowling, she presses her pointy finger into his chest. “God, I can’t believe you allowed me to make a fool of myself like that.”

“No harm done,” says Shane, quickly, giving her a little side hug. Physical touch has always been her thing, and while Shane doesn’t often see the point, he does know her. “Listen, we’ll go back there, make some polite conversation, and then we can be out here within fifteen minutes. And I’ll take you to that taco place you like.”

“With the fish tacos?” she says, her voice small. “The spicy ones?”

Shane winces, then nods. “Fine, yes, whatever. We can get the spicy ones.”

Like the sun breaking through the clouds, her face brightens up again. It is a complete one-eighty from just seconds before. “You’re the best, Shane Hollander!” she sings, and then turns back to Matéo, who is watching them with a little furrow between his perfectly straight eyebrows. God, he’s really—too perfectly pretty. 

Turns out that Shane is a little more into a rough look. He gets a vision of golden curls falling in messy waves, a hint of coarse stubble against the sensitive inside of his thigh, and amused blue eyes peering up at him. Mortified, he quickly stamps out the memory, then joins Rose again. The conversation will be awkward, he knows, because there’s no way that Matéo didn’t realise what they were talking about, but it’ll just have to do. 

Shane can’t fuck this up.

--

The surprise on Rozanov’s face when he slips into the backseat and finds Shane already there, scrolling on his tablet, is absolutely priceless. Shane wished he was filming just so that he could have caught the brief look of stunned surprise on the other man’s face before he managed to smooth it out into something more palatable. “I thought you said a car would be here to pick me up, Hollander,” he says.

Shane gestures around him. “Does this not look like a car to you?”

“But you are here?” 

“Astute observation,” Shane says. “Really, I am overwhelmed by your attention to detail.” When the other man glares at him, he just shrugs. “It’s better for the environment to travel there together.” 

Rozanov manages an impressive scowl. “I don’t have—whatever. And don’t preach sustainability to me, Mr. Private Jet. I saw that you were in one for your trip to Italy.”

“First of all,” says Shane. “That is my mother’s private jet. And second of all, you saw that?”

“Hard to miss the photos on Instagram,” Rozanov says. “Though I wouldn’t have minded more pictures of you next to the pool.” He waggles his eyebrows, and seems to take a certain amount of glee from Shane’s stunned silence.

It is only when Junghoon offloads them in the private parking bay below the arena that Shane realises what Rozanov is wearing. He looks down at it and frowns. “Really? We are in New York.”

Proud, Rozanov smooths out the front of his Boston Bears hoodie. “Well, the Admirals are playing Boston, right? Nobody tells me I have to support the hometown team, especially not since they suck and the Raiders are so much better.”

Amused, Shane frowns at him. “You couldn’t have picked a better team to support, Rozanov? Something like Montreal, perhaps?”

Rozanov fake gags. Or, at least, Shane thinks it’s fake. “Nevermind. I’d rather wear Admirals merch.”

An attendant leads them up to the Hollander box. Rozanov immediately picks up one of the glasses of champagne that are waiting for them and takes a long swig. He looks around curiously. “I must confess, I didn’t know you were into hockey, Hollander.”

“Well, we didn’t do a lot of talking when we met up so far,” Shane points out, matter-of-factly. “And it wasn’t something that I could avoid. I played as a kid, and I was really good, but it just wasn’t something I could really see myself have a career in. Plus, my mum is a huge fan. She lived in Montreal for a while, hence my preference for the Metros.”

“Turns out that not everyone can be perfect,” says Rozanov. “Not even Shane Hollander.”

They take two of the seats at the top of the stadium as the players start filtering onto the ice for their warmups. Rozanov seems to hold a personal vendetta against Scott Hunter, ribbing his age and his play style, but is somehow delighted when Shane tells him that he is good friends with Scott’s boyfriend. Despite the fact that Shane hasn’t really spent very much time with Rozanov yet outside of toilet stalls and bedrooms shrouded in the falling dusk, right now there is a sort of ease in which they interact with each other. Hockey had been a good shout; Shane had heard from the grapevine that Rozanov is a fan. Every businessman worth their salt knows the way in which common ground facilitates goodwill.

“So,” says Rozanov, casually as anything, after the Boston Raiders have won the first face off and are passing the puck in the neutral zone. “Should we talk about your rules, then, Shane Hollander?”

“Really?” says Shane. “You want to go through with this?”

“You proposed to me, didn’t you.” It’s phrased like a question, but the intonation is flat. Rozanov’s eyes are almost mischievous. “And now you want to backtrack? You don’t strike me as a person to back down from a challenge.”

Shane snorts. “I don’t know if I would consider my life to be a ‘challenge’.” He puts air quotations around the word. “But why don’t you tell me what you thought of first.”

For a brief moment, Rozanov just stares at him. Shane wonders if there’s something on his face. The other man turns away just as the crowd downstairs roars. It seems like Scott Hunter has managed to put the puck behind the goalie.

“I think we should go on dates,” says Rozanov, at last. “If we’re about to announce our marriage, which I suppose you want to do pretty quickly, we should be seen out in public quite often. And, uh, hold hands and stuff. Maybe we should talk about moving in, or at least give the illusion that we moved in together.”

“Are those rules?” Shane asks, curious. “Those just seem like things that people  in a relationship do.” Not that he really knows about any of that, but he’s seen romantic movies. 

“Okay,” says Rozanov. “So what would you suggest as a rule?”

“I don’t know!” Shane throws up his hands, annoyed. “Like, if you want to hook up with someone, at least do it discreetly? I don’t want people to know that my fiance or husband or whatever is sneaking around behind my back.”

Rozanov actually pouts at that; it looks ridiculous. “What do you mean I’m marrying you, but I can’t even fuck my husband?”

“You,” says Shane, and then pauses, flushing. “What?”

“Come on, Hollander,” Rozanov purrs, leaning closer, so close that Shane can see the pores on the bridge of his nose and the long lashes framing his eyes. “You think I don’t want to take advantage of this situation?”

By now, Shane’s face must be the colour of a ripe tomato. “Advantage, huh?”

“I know you did not only pick me because of my cooking skills or ability to wow your parents.” Rozanov moves his eyebrows in an impressive manner. 

Shane frowns. “My mum hates the Rozanovs,” he says, pointed. “Mostly your father and your brother, though, but still.”

“Oh, she’s just going to be just delighted that I have snagged her little boy.” Rozanov leans back in his chair, his gaze seemingly focused back on the game again. It makes Shane realise that he hasn’t seen a single play yet, which is quite unusual for him. “But don’t worry. I will charm them all. By the time that I will put that ring around your pretty finger, I will have them wrapped around my finger too.”

--

Shane meets swollen eyes with himself in the mirror and sighs. Then he can’t help but laugh. “What are you doing, man?” he asks his reflection. There is no answer, but Shane figures that if anyone out there in the universe is watching over him, they must be having a hell of a time.

--

Yuna Hollander-Tayama is not a woman to be trifled with. Shane has seen her make grown men cry with just a look, make young men quiver in their boots with her words. She doesn’t take anything from anyone just lying down. 

Neither she nor any of her siblings were just handed a job at parent company Tayama. They all had to start at the bottom and work their way up or branch out. Hence why Hollander-Tayama Realty was born and quickly grew into one of Tayama’s most successful subsidiaries, with waiting list upon waiting list still filling up. There is not a asset class that is outside the scope of their business. And it was all because Yuna Tayama met David Hollander when they were both in Business School—who was the exact kind of nerd that her heart went ba-thump ba-thump for. As luck would have it, he liked her too, and between her fearlessness and his calm and collected demeanor, it was easy enough to fold different parts of New York into their business.

The only person to outlast Yuna Hollander’s infamous stubbornness, though, is also the reason for her hotly running blood, and that is none other than her own father Tayama Yuto. There is tough love between them, Shane knows; Yuto is happy that at least one of his three children decided to learn their language and pass it onto her child too. But his rules are close to his religion, and he won’t bend them for his favourite daughter either. 

At this moment, it is causing them to clash in that typical Tayama fashion: an absence of shouting matches, but quiet disapprovement instead, thinly-veiled threats exchanged through personal assistants and passive-aggressive lunch meetings in which not much is spoken but everything is said.

“He threatened to take me out of the will as well if I argue about it with him one more time,” she says, looking as worked up as Shane knows she gets. It is not super clear in her voice, but her body language is agitated, a lioness pacing the bars of her enclosure. “Like it’s not mostly me who is going to decide which care home he ends up in.” 

They’re in Hudson Yards to view a couple of apartments in a new residential tower that is going up for sale soon. Typically, Hollander-Tayama employs people to do this, but Yuna likes to do it by herself from time to time to keep herself sharp. Shane technically did not have space in his schedule to be here, but Yuna had his PA Georgie squeeze something in between two other meetings, so he had no choice but to tell Junghoon to drive him down here. Currently, golden afternoon sunlight slants in through the windows and Shane wishes that he could tilt his head back to bask in it for a little while.

For now, he places his hand on his mother’s wrist, squeezing gently. “It is okay, mum,” he says. “Best not to aggravate him too much.”

With a sigh, she runs a hand through her long hair. “I just don’t know why he cares so much about some kind of archaic belief. You work the hardest out of all of your cousins. Who cares whether you’re married or not?”

Shane grins, though he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Perhaps an argument as to why I need it least.”

“You know as well as I that that is not the only argument to be made here. Otosan should reward you instead of punishing you. You have so much life in front of you to find someone you want to marry; he shouldn’t be forcing your hand just because he wants to have all of his ducks in a row by the time he reaches whatever afterlife he ends up in.”

Shrugging, Shane turns away from her. “Who knows, maybe I’ll find a nice boy to settle down with before ojiisan kicks the bucket.”

Despite her earlier annoyed stoicness, Yuna snorts. “Yeah? Maybe you should find someone annoying as hell. That’ll teach him.”

If only she knew. Shane manages to bite down on the expression that is threatening to creep onto his face. There isn’t a reflective surface better than the tall windows in front of them, so Shane wouldn’t really know what it would have looked like, but he guesses that it would have been something close between wry amusement and worry. 

He checks his watch. “I have a lunch meeting with Kiran Desai that I’m probably already going to be late for. Will you be okay by yourself?”

“Yeah, of course.” Yuna laughs through her nose. “I don’t think either of us really looked at this place, but I also have to move on. I’ll get your father to send someone soon to write up a detailed report.” She reaches out and cups the side of his face, her long fingers spanning his cheek, her touch gentle. “Just keep your head up, Shane. I’m very proud of how far you’ve come so far. If your ojiisan does not see the same, that is his fault, not yours.” 

Ash in his mouth, Shane covers her hand with his own and leans into the touch. “Thank you, mum. It means a lot.”

They part downstairs, his mother already typing away on her phone. She calls out to him just as Junghoon pulls up to the curb. “Don’t think I’ll give up yet! Between me and otosan, we’ll see who is the one that is going to persevere.”

Shane breathes out a long breath as soon as he slides into the backseat. He’s going to have to move up the timeline with Rozanov—he can’t have the family split apart before he even makes it to his plan.

--

It turns out that it is very weird to have Rozanov in his house. Shane has always been very careful to keep that part of his life separate from his illicit hookups. But he figures that he might as well start introducing Rozanov to little parts of it, just to ease himself into the idea that the other man will soon be everywhere. Somehow, his apartment seemed like an easy place to start, mostly because he feels so comfortable here.

Somehow, it is nerve wracking to Shane to watch Rozanov just wander around. He knows the apartment is nice—he designed most of it together with his favourite interior designer, but it’s apparently something else to have Rozanov appraise it. Like there’s a tiny sliver of Shane that is quite eager to get Rozanov’s approval.

Rozanov finishes in the kitchen, one palm running along the granite counter tops, and stops in front of the large living room windows overlooking the New York skyline. Neon lights cut shadows across his sharp cheekbones and the full pout of his mouth. “So this is the place you want me to move into?” he says, at last, turning back to Shane. “I could do a lot worse.”

“You—” Shane clears his throat. “You wouldn’t mind moving in here?”

They haven’t really talked about it, but Shane did mention to Rozanov that this would be part of it: them starting to share parts of their life. All of their friends, family, and even people beyond that would be watching them, so they needed to keep up the act. 

Rozanov shrugs. “Mm, no. It’s nice enough here. Plus, it’s fun to change things up a little from time to time, right? Keeps life exciting.”

Shane can literally not think of anything worse than ‘changing things up a little’, but he’s not about to argue with Rozanov on this. He likes his space and his routines, and even if Rozanov is technically going to mess it all up, Shane figures it will only be for a year, maybe a year and a half at most. Arms crossed in front of his chest like a shield, he turns to Rozanov again. “Okay, we could arrange that. I know a lot of movers. They are very discreet.”

With a small smile on his face, Rozanov circles around him. “Discreet?” he says. “You can’t keep me hidden forever, Hollander. That kind of defeats the whole purpose of this whole thing.”

His heart racing, Shane swallows. It feels like he is a prey animal being cornered. Nervously, he takes one step back, then another. The cold glass of the window is against his back. “Isn’t all of this quite quick for you? Aren’t you—” Worried? Nervous? Scared?

Rozanov takes advantage of Shane tipping his head back against the window, his lips pressed to Shane’s Adam's apple. “Not really. Is just a bit of fun, right?”

“Fun,” Shane echoes, weakly. “I’m afraid that I’m not very fun . . .”

Teeth gently sink into his skin; Shane wonders if Rozanov can feel the nervous pitter-patter of his heartbeat below his mouth, taste the anticipation on his tongue. “You must be kidding me,” he murmurs, pulling back so that Shane can just barely feel his lips move. “This is the most fun I’ve had in years, Hollander.”

Shane sinks into the heady feeling with a moan. Rozanov sucks gently on his skin, but probably not hard enough to leave a mark. “Can I fuck you against these windows?”

“Not now,” says Shane, voice coming out thinly. “Not the first time here.”

“Mm okay.” Rozanov doesn’t sound too disappointed—in fact, if Shane was more clear-headed he’d almost say there’s glee in the other man’s voice. “Maybe another time, then. I’ll hold you to it.”

And then he slides his hands underneath Shane’s thighs, uses the leverage of the window behind him to lift him up. Like it’s muscle memory, Shane’s legs wrap around Rozanov’s middle, his arms curling around his broad shoulders. As Rozanov starts walking him, he huffs out a laugh against Rozanov’s cheek. 

“Do you even know where the bedroom is?”

Rozanov shrugs. “Trial and error. How many doors can there be in a house?”

Too fucking many, the answer turns out to be. Shane takes pity on him, because even though Rozanov does not look like is struggling with Shane’s weight and he seems to be enjoying the kisses Shane is trailing up the side of his neck, it cannot be too comfortable either. Rozanov does seem happy enough to see an actual bed, but that might also just be because of the boner Shane has felt pressing against his thigh for the last few minutes. 

As is familiar by now, Rozanov preps him with gentle touches and soft words, checking in on Shane after every finger he adds and trailing kisses down his shoulders and spine. And then he fucks Shane likes he means it, a hand between his shoulder blades pinning him to the bed as his hips relentlessly drive into Shane. 

Shane might honestly blank out from the pleasure of it. He hasn’t hooked up that much—or at all—outside of his trysts with Rozanov, because not only does Rozanov not lie when he says he has nine inches, he knows what to do with every single one. And Shane is, at his core, a very simple person in the bedroom. He wants to be pinned down, and he wants to be forced to take it. Two things that Rozanov is especially talented in, outside of being a huge asshole. 

“God, Hollander,” says Rozanov, and then a whole bunch of things in Russian. Shane never knows what it means, but if it’s anything as dirty as the English he spouts, Shane does not want to know. So he never asks. 

“Yeah,” Shane says, voice thick around his own arousal. “Yeah, Rozanov, give it to me—”

Which Rozanov does, with gusto. By the time he finishes in the condom with a shudder, his hand clamped down on Shane’s hip, Shane is already up to his second orgasm. It is a weak little spurt, more of a pointed statement than anything else, and Shane feels a bone-deep satiation. 

He rolls onto his side, giving Rozanov a look from underneath furrowed eyebrows. He hopes it looks at least a little bit fierce. “You know this was not the reason I invited you to my apartment, right?”

Rozanov gasps in faux-shock. “You did not booty call the booty call man?”

“Fuck!” Shane reaches over to slap him on the chest, and the sound of the smack actually echoes as Rozanov twitches in shocked pain. “Don’t be a fucking asshole. And either shower or get out of here. There’s a bathroom two doors to the left.”

“But your room has a walk-in,” says Rozanov, confused. 

Shane manages to drag himself into a sitting position despite the fact that everything below his waistline feels like it has been replaced by jelly. “Which I will be using, of course.”

“If you let me share your shower, I will eat you out,” Rozanov says, so quick that all of the words slur together in one franken-word. He blinks, as if gathering himself, then adds, like a promise: “Until you’re crying.”

“Well,” Shane says, thoughtfully. 

It is a fact of life that Rozanov is good with his mouth. Shane nearly waterboards himself on the shower water raining down as Rozanov kneels down behind him and parts Shane’s ass cheeks with careful hands. He also sets a new record for most orgasms in one night, but perhaps that was only to be expected. 

--

Waking up beside Rozanov is a peculiar thing. Mostly because Shane, against every single one of his expectations, has slept really well. He thought he’d be tossing and turning due to the new addition in his bed, but instead it felt like he put his head against the pillow and then picked it up eight hours later. He even feels all spritely and shit. 

Shane has about eighty-five guest rooms, so he really could have told Rozanov to take his pick. But by the time Shane had emerged from the bathroom after doing his entire skincare routine, because exquisite dick would not save him from the effects of aging, he found Rozanov sprawled underneath his sheets and already looking half asleep. And Shane was not about to head to another bedroom when he has a perfectly good one right here, so he’d gotten over the immediate annoyance rearing his head and slipped into the bed next to Rozanov. At least Rozanov had picked the side that Shane didn’t sleep on, so there hadn’t been that awkward sideways shuffle where they both made it to their spots. 

And what a weird thing—to have designated spots in a bed with Rozanov. Shane should have really thought about it more last night. Because during the night, both him and Rozanov had apparently migrated across the mattress. And no matter what Rose will tell anyone who ever asks about Shane when they’re both three cocktails deep, Shane is not a cuddler. 

He had expected Rozanov not to be one either. But perhaps that’s his own oversight, because he’s never stayed the night before, not once after they fucked. Rozanov had never suggested it, and though Shane wasn’t fluent in hook-up lingo, he knew that you didn’t typically stick around in the house of the guy you’ve been fucking. Not even after he’s made you beg for his dick. 

Shane’s muddled thoughts have clearly woken Rozanov up. He huffs against the top of Shane’s clavicle and then cracks open one eye. Apparently, during the night, he’d rejected every single one of Shane’s pillows and chosen Shane’s chest as a good place to rest his head instead. 

“Why are you awake, Hollander?” he slurs. “Is ass o’clock.”

“It’s eight-thirty,” Shane corrects him on a reflex. “And this is the longest I sleep, like ever. So you’re going to have to get used to it.”

Rozanov groans like he’s been clobbered over the head. Or like the world is ending. 

“Also,” Shane adds. “I have a standing brunch date with my friends every Saturday, so I have to get ready soon. I want to make it into town before traffic gets bad.”

“Is New York,” says Rozanov. “Traffic is always bad.” 

But he does let Shane escape from his clutches, albeit with world-weary sighs and repeated mutterings of missing out on morning sex. Shane cheerfully tells him that he should have woken up earlier if he wanted morning sex; Rozanov mutters something probably scathing in Russian. 

Shane offers to feed Rozanov, but the Russian man takes one look at the contents of Shane’s fridge and settles for a coffee, which Shane manages to pull from his way-too-fancy coffee machine after some trial and error. He is not distracted by the reflection of Rozanov’s bare chest in the polished front of the big machine. At least the thing finally has a use after taking up space on one of Shane’s large counters. He’ll have to thank his interior designer or whoever filled his kitchen with useless gadgets for the foresight later on. 

Rozanov announces that he is leaving before Shane can kick him out, which is good. Before he goes, he kisses Shane in the hallway, even allows Shane to grope him a little bit. He really does have a great ass, so it is only natural that Shane wants to indulge. When Rozanov pulls back, his eyes slide down Shane’s body—ruffled hair, spit-swollen lips, probably flushed cheeks—and smirks. He seems pleased with himself. Shane just rolls his eyes at him and kicks him to the curb. His heart is not beating an irregular rhythm in his chest.

--

Typically, Junghoon does not work on weekend days unless Shane has something particularly urgent he has to be at. His driver already makes too many hours during his regular working week. Shane is capable of taking an Uber. 

He’s the last one to arrive. Rose, Kip, and Elena are already seated at their usual booth in the back corner of the cafe. 

Kip spots Shane first, and he whistles as his eyebrows climb up to his hairline. “Damn, Shane, get it!”

Confused, Shane shrugs out of his coat and then hands it to the waitress. “What?”

Rose snorts, hiding her mouth behind her hand. “Did you even look in the mirror before you left, honey? You have a hickey the size of the state of Texas.” She points at the side of her neck, just below her jaw. “Someone mauled you?”

Fucking Rozanov. Shane curses the man and his entire bloodline. That must have been why he’d looked so damn pleased when he parted from Shane earlier this morning. An unspoken rule between them had been not to leave marks in places where people could see (Shane cannot be held accountable for how Rozanov’s back looks after a good night, but marks like that can at least be hidden underneath a shirt). Now that they are moving into—what, scrutiny?—it seems like Rozanov has started to care far less for conventions like that.

“I plead the fifth,” he says as he slides in the booth, grabbing the menu so that he can flip through it even though he always orders the same thing. 

“Uh, absolutely not,” says Rose, easily wrestling the laminated booklet out of Shane’s hands and pointing it at Shane threateningly. Shane does not doubt that she could probably kill him with it as well. “You’re going to give us all of the hot gossip. That is what brunch was invented for.”

The flush on Shane’s face is genuine. “I’m pretty sure brunch was invented as a placeholder meal between breakfast and lunch.”

Kip snorts. “You don’t have to say anything you don’t want, Shane. Unless you want to, of course.” And despite the superficial kindness of those words, his glittering eyes and the way he wraps his lips around the syllables, it is clear that he expects the latter. Shane feels like he is being pinned down between three hungry wolves and he is a medium-rare A5 wagyu steak.

“Fine,” he says, at last. “But you can’t tell anyone else until I have the go-ahead, okay?” They nod, almost creepily in sync, but they seem earnest, so Shane continues. “I—uh. I met someone.”

Elena gasps. “Like, last night? You dirty dog!”

“Um,” says Shane. “I mean, not necessarily? We’ve been hooking up for some time now, and it has turned into something, ah, more serious? Over the last few weeks. So that is where we are at right now.”

Silence descends over the table as the four others seem to chew on the words. 

Then Kip groans and tips her head back. “I owe Hayden five-hundred dollars.”

Shane manages to break through his embarrassment to glare at her. “You placed a bet on my relationship status?”

“Hayden argued that you’ve been looking a bit more glowy lately,” Kip says, gesturing with his hand. “So he theorised that you have a regular lay, or at least someone who can make you happy. I guess that neither of us considered that it could have been a relationship.”

Grumbling, Shane leans back. Luckily for them, a waitress appears before he can start cussing them out, so they all place their orders. Perhaps they should start having brunch at a spot that does not do bottomless mimosas, because Shane does not remember the last time he left without a headache, but this is also one of the few places where he just allows himself to let loose. Plus, they do an amazing egg-white omelet here.

After they are served their first round of mimosas and the waitress had given them all napkins and cutlery, Shane is unsurprised to find that the attention quickly shifts back to him again. He groans and takes a long swig from his glass, fingers neatly poised at the top of the long stem. “Can we not do this?”

“What else do you think we want to talk about?” says Elena. “This is the most exciting thing to happen to us since Kip started dating Scott!”

Grinning smugly, Kip twirls his engagement band around his ring finger.

Shane focuses on it without consciously deciding to do so. Previous late night googling had told him that Russians wear their engagement rings on their right hand, as opposed to the left, which is more typical in America. He shouldn’t really be thinking about this right now, but he can’t help picturing Rozanov with an engagement ring around his finger. Rozanov has thick fingers and bumpy knuckles; a dainty ring would not suit him. But perhaps something more straightforward, like David Yurman or Greenwich St. Jewelers might be more fitting—

Rose kicks him beneath the table, and he yelps, sending her a wounded look. “Woman! Your shoes are pointy.”

“You were day dreaming again,” she says, primly. “Anyways, spill the deets.”

Annoyed, Shane crosses his arms in front of his chest. “There are no deets.”

Elena boos. “Bullshit! We always give you all of our gossip too.”

“Which I have never asked for,” says Shane. “Not once.” He sighs and reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Listen, I was of course planning on telling you all about this, but not like this. Maybe—” He bites on his lip, takes a deep breath. “Kip, you have that engagement party coming up, right? Not that thing between close friends, but the bigger one. I would have to discuss it with him, but maybe I could introduce him to you all there?” Plus, Hayden would definitely be there with Jackie, so that would kill a lot of flies in one hit.

Wide-eyed, Kip reaches across the table and grabs Shane’s hand. “Shane Hollander, I will literally kick you out if you show up without him.” 

“A good way to not have to go to the party,” jokes Shane. When Kip makes a cross little noise, he holds up his free hand in a placating gesture. “Fine, fine. Like I said, I will have to discuss it with him first.” Not that going to a party would be a problem, seeing as it’s Rozanov. “But it could be nice. Fun.”

“You say fun like someone is pointing a gun at your head,” Rose says. “Anyway, I’m looking forward to meeting whoever convinced Shane to cheat on his one-true-love, which is, of course, his job. He must be someone special.”

Laughing, Elena raises her glass, which already has only one mouthful of cocktail left. “I’ll drink to that!”

Shane groans inwardly, but obediently picks up his glass when Rose sends him a pointed look. He thought he knew what he was getting himself into, and he had, naturally, factored in the existence of his friends. But making a plan for something and actually executing said plan are two whole different leagues. Shane just hopes that he can keep the lie up well enough to be believable. 

--

Shane: Did you seriously leave that fucking mark on purpose?

Rozanov: thought it would be an easy way to break the ice with your friends

Shane: You didn’t even know I was meeting them until this morning!!
Shane: What if I was meeting my parents instead?

Rozanov: you weren’t.

Shane: Rozanov.

Rozanov: then i tell you to wear a scarf. even if it would ruin all of my hard work 

Shane: Don’t do that again without running it by me first.

Rozanov: 🫡

--

Shane calls Rozanov on the way home from the office. It is a fruitless call, he knows, more of a last ditch effort than anything. Today felt like it had dragged on, just endless meetings with annoying clients and incompetent employees. While Shane knows that it is human to make mistakes, he would wish for his employees to spread out such instances across a couple of weeks, and not all accumulate them in one day. He feels bone tired, half sagging against the window and holding on only by virtue of the fact that he doesn’t want Junghoon see him break down, by the time that he presses his phone to his ear.

To his surprise, Rozanov picks up after a few rings. “Privet?”

“Rozanov?” says Shane, even though it can literally not be anyone else.

The tone of Rozanov’s voice changes immediately. “Ooh, if it isn’t my favourite husband. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Husband-to-be,” Shane corrects automatically, then sends a shifty glance at Junghoon from the corner of his eye. The driver seems not to have heard him, humming along to the Korean songs he plays across the Bluetooth connection as he drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “And also—favourite? Do you have many others?”

“Mm no.” Rozanov sounds completely full of himself. “But I like it when you are possessive of me, malyshka.”

Shane rolls his eyes, then sighs, angling his phone so that he is certain the sound carries across the receiver. “Anyway. Are you free for dinner tonight? I had a horrible day today and I would just love to run through our plan one more time to unwind.” Granted, it has been mostly Shane’s plan so far, but he hopes that Rozanov will also take some ownership if he refers to it as theirs.

A hum. “Tell me where to meet you.” 

“You didn’t tell me if you are free tonight yet.” 

There is some typing in the background. “I am now. Now tell me where to meet you, Hollander.”

So Shane rattles off an address—his father is best friends with the chef and a benefactor of the restaurant, so he knows there’s always a table free for him if he calls ahead—and listens as Rozanov obediently prattles the words back to him so that he knows the other man has heard him correctly. 

“Okay,” says Rozanov. “I can be there in an hour, I think? Maybe forty-five minutes.”

Junghoon is already changing lanes, so Shane figures that the sound of an address must have awoken him like a sleeper agent. “I will be there earlier than you, but I can just wait. Don’t break any speeding limits, Rozanov.”

Rozanov hums something non-committal. Shane leaves him be for now. Even though some rich people consider speeding tickets as just the price for going as fast as you want, he hasn’t ever heard of Rozanov getting fined. He figures that the pressure of hoping to take over Rozanov Group after his father’s death is enough to keep him vaguely in the straight and narrow. 

“Okay,” says Shane at last. “When you arrive, just say you’re there for me. Someone will take you to my room.”

A pause. “Your room, Hollander? But I have already been there.”

“I’m literally in the car with my driver.” Shane’s knuckles turn white where they grip around his phone. He figures that if Rozanov is the death of him, he at least won’t have to deal with the whole inheritance thing. “I meant the private room at the restaurant. Make another sleazy joke and there won’t be a second part to the night.”

“So, that is on the menu . . .” Rozanov lets the sentence trail off, suggestively.

“Behave yourself and you might just find out,” says Shane, then hangs up before Rozanov can quip something back at him. Closing his eyes, he leans his head back against the headrest and lets out a long groan. 

Junghoon clears his throat. “Are you okay, sir?”

“I will be,” Shane says, and then realises how that sounds. He only gets an amused chuckle in return, though, so he figures that he can just leave Junghoon to make a conclusion on what that means by himself.

Shane indeed arrives earlier than Rozanov, but that gives him some time to settle in, which he is grateful for. Les Amis is a small French bistro, a couple of filled tables on the floor at the front and one private room in the back. The chef, Pierre, welcomes him with a hug, which Shane allows. He’d called ahead and had been enthusiastically assured that the table would absolutely be empty. The fact that it would be Rozanov who is showing up might have raised some eyebrows at any other place, but Shane doesn’t typically take his business here. He’s not sure the people who work here even know what Rozanov Group is.

He leans back in his chair with a sigh. It is not often that Shane allows himself to relax. When he thinks about it, he’s really only relaxed when he is with his friends, the rare nights off he spends at his parents’ place, and whenever Rozanov pounds him in the bed so well that he loses the capability to feel anything else but pleasure. There’s something about being surrounded on all sides like that, being taken care of.

Once he hears voices heading his way, he forces himself to sit up straighter. And then, in seemingly no time at all, the door is being propped open, and Rozanov is manoeuvring his broad shoulders around the tight turn. He’s in a leather jacket with a sheared collar, probably Hermes, which would have looked ridiculous on anyone else but him. When he takes it off to hand it to Pierre, he reveals a tailored black buttoned shirt and the golden crucifix he is never seen without. Shane realises that he is staring only when he meets Rozanov’s amused gaze.

“I will leave you for now, gentlemen,” says Pierre, with a polite grin. He turns to Shane. “Josephine will come by later to take your orders.”

Shane nods his head. “Please give my guest a glass of the best red you have.” 

“Alright.” 

Pierre pulls the door closed behind him, which leaves the two of them in silence. To Shane’s muted surprise, the quiet is not really awkward. They are just seizing each other up for a moment, and Shane takes Rozanov’s hungry eyes as a permission to look right back.

It is Rozanov who breaks the silence. “You speak French as well?” 

“My dad is Canadian,” says Shane. “When I was younger, we used to spend our summers in Ottawa and Montreal.”

“Ah.” Rozanov pulls a face. “Hence the terrible team.”

Before he can stop it, Shane laughs. “The Metros are not terrible. Fuck you, you only like the Raiders because they’re aggressive as fuck. I bet that you would be like that if you played.”

“I played a little when I was younger, back in Mother Russia,” says Rozanov, waggling his eyebrows. “I won’t deny or confirm your accusations.” He gives Shane one last, appraising look, before something more serious settles across his expression. “Alright, Hollander. You wanted to talk about the plan, right?”

So Shane tells him about what happened when he met up with his friends, how he teased his ‘relationship’ with Rozanov, and how he’d thrown out the suggestion that they could meet him at the engagement party. And then he outlines how he’d like Rozanov to meet his parents—he thinks over lunch would be the least threatening—and afterwards the rest of his family. After which they could start the moving in process, or at least the illusion of it, and slowly shift into more dangerous, so-called engagement-to-be-married territory.

At the end, all Rozanov has to say is, “Does that mean that I have to be nice to Scott Hunter?”

“Oh my god,” says Shane, barely clamping down on a startled laugh. “He’s just a guy. And I’m mostly going to be there for Kip, so we’ll probably say hello to Scott and move on. Don’t tell me you have a personal vendetta against the guy?” 

Rozanov shakes his head. “Personal grievance. He’s annoying. But I behave, and I can be a doting boyfriend in front of your friends if you need me to be.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Shane says, dryly. “I don’t think you’re a great actor, so just act like you always do around me. My friends wouldn’t believe me if I came with some kind of lovesick fool. I need someone who can challenge me.”

Somehow, Rozanov looks a little wistful at that—or, at least, if Shane was asked, that is how he would describe the emotion on Rozanov’s face right now. Not that Shane knows him at all. “Alright. It’s good to know that I don’t need to ask your permission to be annoying.”

They are served their drinks and they order mains. Rozanov likes the wine, which Shane had assumed he would, and they make appropriate small talk about their work and the projects they’re working on. As the evening starts winding down, Shane has almost forgotten about the horrible day he’s had so far. He’s probably going to regret it in the morning if he does take Rozanov home, but he thinks he’ll regret it even more tonight if he doesn’t. It should not be an easy choice; it is anyway.

So, after they’ve both polished off their plates and glasses, and after Shane has tried and failed to pay, thus leaving a huge tip, Shane calls for Junghoon. If his driver is surprised at all to see Rozanov standing on the curb with him, lazily sucking on a cigarette, he has the good grace not to say anything about it.

Back at Shane’s place, Rozanov leaves his shoes in the shoe rack and then half-tugs, half-carries Shane to the bedroom. He has not forgotten where it is. 

Tonight, Rozanov fucks him slow and gentle. He keeps Shane on his back the entire time, their eyes locked as he moves inside of Shane. The piercing blue of his eyes is causing a weird twisting in Shane’s chest, like someone is pressing his ribcage into his lungs, so he tugs Rozanov down so that he can line their mouths up. Kissing helps some and makes it worse in many other ways. At least it finally manages to fizzle his annoying thoughts out into silence. 

And sex with Rozanov is never not good. Shane comes so hard he’s pretty sure that he might briefly reach a whole different dimension. Rozanov says something in Russian when he comes; for the first time ever, Shane wishes that he understands what it means.

“Is late,” says Rozanov afterwards, voice slow and thick around his accent. One leg is slung across Shane’s hip, pinning him in place as if he is the world’s sweatiest, most incredible smelling weighted blanket. Shane imagines just keeping Rozanov around so that he can press his nose into the skin to take in his scent whenever he wants.

“Mm.” Shane stretches his body, legs trembling deliciously at the strain in his muscles. “You can either leave now and take an Uber back home, or you can pop by your place tomorrow morning early before you go to work.”

Snuffling, Rozanov moves closer so that he can tuck his nose into Shane’s neck. His breath disturbs the hair at the back of his head, a pleasantly ticklish sensation. “I stay.”

“Okay,” Shane says, softly.

Again, he sleeps like a baby, curled up in the bed next to Rozanov.

--

David ladles some soup into his bowl and then passes the pot to Shane. When he’s not too busy with work, he likes to cook, and his soups are a work of art. Shane eagerly fills his own bowl to the top, then places the pot to the side. Humming, he brings a spoonful up to his nose and just breathes in the smoke. Slowly tipping the soup into his mouth, he tunes back into the conversation his parents are having around him.

“Honey, you added that meeting with the investors into your private calendar as well, right?” says Yuna. “Because it is really important that you are there and on time.”

Chuckling, David points at her with his spoon. “No talk about work at the dinner table,” he scolds, though it is clear that it is meant playfully. “And yes, of course I added it to every single calendar ever. I think even Jacques noted it down.”

“Well,” grumbles Yuna. “As your driver, he should know when to take you where.” She seems to talk herself out of a more impassioned speech and turns to Shane. “Anything exciting on your end?”

Shane shrugs. “Kip’s engagement party is coming up.”

They both make adequate noises of excitement. Yuna loves Kip and appreciates Scott—though she firmly believes that he should have locked down a few pride-themed sponsorships before he kissed Kip on the ice and became the first hockey player to publicly come out as gay—and David just loves people. And they both love it when people are in love, which their own marriage is a perfect example of. Shane never considered himself a heartbreaker, but he needs to make sure that the dishonesty of this thing with Rozanov stays under wraps forever, because he might be breaking both of their hearts if they ever found out.

“I assume that you have an adequate gift?” says Yuna. “That reminds me—we have to talk about otosan’s birthday party.”

With a nod, Shane leans back in his chair. Apparently Rozanov has an idea for the gift, though he hasn’t told Shane what it is exactly. Trusting him felt nerve-wracking, but Rozanov’s been surprisingly dependable with regards on every front so far, so Shane has decided to hang back and let the guy do what he wants. “So, about ojiisan?”

“Same old, of course.” Yuna sighs. “I think it’s finally registered to the man that he’s dying relatively soon. He’s invited all of us to come to the estate. For the family lunch and everything. The one he swears up and down he hates.”

“Mm, he does like to be in the spotlight.” David gives her a teasing grin. “I wonder where you got it from.”

Yuna rolls her eyes at him. “Okay, honey, but between him and me, it is very clear who is the insufferable one. And it’s not me.” She turns to Shane. “I told him that the three of us would drive upstate. Are you okay with coming?”

“Um, no.” Shane pauses with the appropriate amount of calmness for the pandemonium he’s about to release. “Ah, that’s not what I meant. I’ll come, but I will need another invitation, too. Sort of. Maybe.”

“Oh, that’s lovely,” David pipes up, immediately. He blinks. “Who is it?”

So, turns out, the news that it is Rozanov does not go down well with his parents—initially. Shane had not really expected differently, if he is being honest with himself. At least Yuna stops shouting at him for long enough to calm down, not shouting in any angry way but in the I’m confused and I don’t know how to deal with this-way, and then they talk about it. 

His parents don’t like it, Shane can tell, but he thinks he’s at least sold the lie of their love well enough, because Yuna orders that Rozanov has to come by at least once for dinner before he’s thrown to the gauntlet that is the Tayama family.

And he’s allowed to take Rozanov along with him to lunch. Shane will consider it a win on all fronts.

--

Rozanov: i have exciting news

Shane: When you say it like that, I don’t think it will necessarily be exciting for ME.

Rozanov: you wound me hollander
Rozanov: anyway
Rozanov: my friends are also coming to grady’s party

Shane: Kip and Scott’s* party
↳ [Rozanov reacted with 👎]
Shane: But also: what?

Rozanov: my friend troy is trying to get with harris drover so he found an in

Shane: Actually?

Rozanov: you think i would lie to you just to ridicule you?

Shane: Yes.

Rozanov: in a heartbeat, actually
Rozanov: but this one is true

Shane: Should I be worried?

Rozanov: no i will tell them to behave

Shane: Or else?

Rozanov: 🔪🔪

--

The party venue that Scott and Kip rented is, of course, way too fancy. It’s all high ceilings and marble pillars and a working fountain in the middle. People in gorgeous evening dresses and tailored suits flit around, glasses of bubbling cocktails clutched in their hands, platters with assorted hors d'oeuvres carried around by waiters in stiff uniforms. 

Shane has felt antsy ever since he arrived in the passenger seat of Rozanov’s car, and it barely has to do with Rozanov’s driving skills. Between the two of them, Rozanov appears to be the relaxed one; he’d tossed the keys of his way-too-expensive sports car to the valet with a cheerful wink, and he’d whistled as they made their way up to the large entrance door. Shane had handed the embossed party invites to the doorman, and they were waved through after brief scrutiny.

Which leads them to here, seemingly with all of the eyes of New York’s socialites boring down in the sides of their heads. Or, Shane thinks, it is more likely that everyone is looking at their linked fingers, since Rozanov had refused to drop his hand even as they stepped inside.

Sure, Shane knows they are here to sell their relationship to their small corner of the world, but it is still terrifying to be seen so clearly. There’s a reason why he’s always preferred to blend into the background whenever he is somewhere with a lot of people, whether that is a party or not, and it has nothing to do with his sparkling personality.

“Come, darling,” says Rozanov, tugging Shane closer into his side. “Let’s go say hi to your friend with the funny name and give him his gift, okay?”

“You know his name is Kip,” Shane grumbles, but allows himself to be tugged along.

The crowd parts before them like the Red Sea as Rozanov pulls Shane along, which is probably the reason that Rose spots their approach before Shane can tell her to be quiet. Shane notices her eyes go wide, her red lips popping open, at the sight of Shane clinging onto Rozanov’s hand like a lifeline. “Shane Hollander-Tayama!” she bellows, with the subtlety of a foghorn on a ship. 

If not everybody was looking at him yet, then that is definitely the case now. Shane quickly tugs himself free from Rozanov’s grip so that he can close the space between him and Rose, quickly clamping one hand over her mouth. She sends him a glare and then bites him, actually sinks her teeth into the meat of his palm.

This time, it is Shane who yelps. “Devil woman!”

“What the fuck,” Rose hisses at him, nudging Elena so that the two of them can gawk at Shane. “When you said that you were bringing someone, I did not expect—”

“Hello, ladies,” says Rozanov, finally catching up to Shane. He reaches out so that he can lace their fingers together again, then gives Elena and Rose individual, respectful nods. “Nice to finally meet my boy’s best friends. I’m Ilya Rozanov.”

Elena recovers first. “Holy shit!” she says. “I know who you are. I mean—nice to meet you too.”

The rest of their introduction goes well enough. Rose gets over herself and immediately starts threatening Rozanov to treat Shane well. Shane knows she has a lot of contacts, all her fingers in different pies, so it’s good to see that Rozanov seems to take the warnings seriously. It’s fun to see that Rose still has the gift of making men quiver in their boots, even if those men are six feet tall and intimidatingly Russian.

After the initial introductions, Rose takes them to Scott and Kip, who are sitting in the corner of the room. They seem to be holding court: people come up to them, giving them their well-wishes and gifts, and then duck away to enjoy the free cocktails. 

“Save me,” Kip moans, as soon as he spots their approach. “I want to mingle, but the evil overlord is keeping me chained to this chair.”

Next to him, Scott rolls his eyes so hard that Shane worries that they’re going to pop out of his head. “This idiot pulled a muscle in his thigh yesterday, so his physician told him that he cannot stand for too long. We had to improvise.” To Shane, that reads as if he is wholly aware that Kip will be jumping on the dance floor by the end of the night. 

“Well, marriage is a compromise,” says Shane, with a little, wobbly smile.

Rose chortles. “Compromise, in their case, means that Kip does whatever he wants and Scott hovers to the side, worried and possibly brooding.”

Introducing Kip to Rozanov goes about exactly like how it went with Rose and Elena: Kip does a lot of yelling, Scott does a lot of confused posturing to protect his boyfriend’s dignity, and Shane tries his best at balancing between being adequately bashful and eager to introduce his, ahem, boyfriend. Everything is smoothed over when Rozanov presents their gift, which is apparently a private tour through an exhibition by the artist himself, a guy that Kip really likes. Shane knows that the exhibition itself sold out within the time it takes for a normal man to sneeze; getting a one-on-one with the artist himself must be even better. Kip does look like he is going to cry. Or propose. If he wasn’t going to literally get married to Scott. And Shane wasn’t dating Rozanov—at least as far as their friends know. Ha ha!

Then Shane escapes from all of their clutches, barely remembering to drag Rozanov along with him before he can get caught up in some gossiping session Shane does not want him to be involved in. He’s happy to bump into a bar, positioning Rozanov slightly to the front of himself, because people always flock to him like they’re flies and he’s made of honey.

Lucky for Shane, the bartender is no different. Rozanov orders himself a neat vodka and does not laugh or even attempt a joke when Shane orders a ginger ale. He can probably see that Shane is slightly overstimulated. The line of his body against Shane’s side is a welcome thing.

It does not take long for their peace to be disturbed. Shane has just taken a swig from his ginger ale—complete with sprigs of mint and a slice of orange—when the crowd parts, and the most terrifyingly beautiful woman and Troy Barrett appear from the crowd. They seem to be heading straight for Shane and Rozanov, which makes Shane realise that this must be the friend Rozanov had been talking about before. Shane does not really know why the thought of such a beautiful woman hanging around Rozanov makes him feel so weird.

“So you are the one who locked down our Ilyusha,” says the terrifyingly beautiful woman after she comes to a stop next to them. “Nice to meet you. I’m Svetlana.” She holds out her hand to Shane.

“Sveta,” Rozanov says, threateningly. 

Shane looks at her with a frown, shaking her hand almost thoughtlessly. “Ilyusha?” He’s probably pronouncing it completely wrong. He turns to Rozanov to ask. Rozanov looks like he has been hit over the head by a big hammer.

“Just joking,” says Svetlana, waving her hand at Rozanov like he is no more than an annoying fly. She looks Shane up and down, her eyes bright. “I can totally see why he’d lock down someone as pretty as you, darling. I know all of the girls and boys on the east coast are weeping.”

Possessiveness rears in Shane’s throat, and he does not manage to clamp down on his glare fast enough. “That so?”

“Enough, Sveta.” Rozanov seems to have finally recovered enough to force the words past gritted teeth. “Please don’t listen to her. She is an annoying pest who enjoys saying things that are untrue and does not have my best interests at heart.”

Svetlana boos. “That’s what friends are for, Ilyusha.”

Lucky for the both of them, Troy seems happy enough to only put up his hand awkwardly and give them a smile. It looks slightly strained, but Shane gets the impression that is just what Troy’s smile looks like. As far as Shane is aware, Harris Drover is a sweetheart, and he’s absolutely going to eat Troy alive. Just to see that, Shane thinks it’ll be fun to stick around Rozanov and see how that plays out.

“Nice to meet you, Shane,” says Troy.

Smiling, Shane ducks his head. “Same to you, Troy.”

“We’ll be taking our leave now,” says Svetlana, wrapping one arm around Troy’s shoulders. “Leave you two lovebirds to it. I’m going to watch Troy make a fool of himself now. Chop chop, Barrett.”

Troy starts protesting, but Svetlana is unmoved. They disappear into the swaying crowd.

Shane watches them go and then turns back to Rozanov. “Well, uh? That went better than I thought it would be, honestly.” It would, of course, be for the better if Rozanov’s friends liked Shane too, and it seems that, once they got over their shock, Shane’s friends don’t mind Rozanov. Though it has been a tiring night so far, Shane thinks it has gone about as well as it could have. 

The words seem to snap Rozanov out of his thoughts, and he blinks at Shane, a slow sweep of his lashes. “I’m pleased,” he says, the words so soft that Shane wonders if he meant something else.

But this is not the place to ask. Shane resolves to question him about it later.

--

They end up on the dance floor, even though Shane typically avoids dancing like the plague—only caving when Rose turns her puppy eyes on him. Rozanov manages as well, somehow, but mostly because he’d perked up at a song, declared this is my song! and then pulled Shane along to the middle of the crowd before Shane could pull his gaze away from Rozanov’s sparkly eyes. He’s not a bad dancer, even if they mostly just sway together. Rozanov’s hand is like a brand on his hip, a grounding weight. 

Still, Shane can’t help but glance around, nervous, as if they could somehow get caught out. Even if this is exactly where they’re supposed to be: for everyone to stare at them, to know that they came together as an item.

“Don’t stress, Hollander,” says Rozanov, and there’s a sort of undertone to his words that Shane can’t really place. “You have been to parties before.”

“Yeah—” Shane says, then cuts himself off, because continuing with only when I know you are going to be there is a whole can of incriminating worms that he does not want to touch with a ten foot pole. He huffs. 

Rozanov raises his eyebrows, amused. “Yeah?”

“Shut up.” Shane chews on his bottom lip, annoyed, his thoughts going a million miles an hour. Where had that thought even come from? Did he really go to parties just to see Rozanov? Yeah, he concludes, but only because he knew that if he saw Rozanov there, he’d be able to get laid. That’s all there had been to it. 

Gentle fingers rescue his lip from where it is trapped between his teeth. Shane looks up, with a gasp, just in time to see Rozanov swoop in with a focused gaze. Before Shane can react, a wet kiss is pressed against the swell of his mouth. He leans into the contact with a pleased sigh.

The kiss is a chaste thing, especially when considering all of the other things they’ve done. Shane still feels the weight of it like it is a physical force. 

When they pull back, Shane is panting, even though the kiss was not long enough to steal his breath. It must be something about Rozanov, or the atmosphere, or his ribcage crushing down on his lungs. “You had something there,” says Rozanov, running his thumb along the swell of Shane’s bottom lip, probably still shiny with his own spit.

Shane reaches up and curls his fingers around Rozanov’s wrist, squeezing gently. “We are going to get out of here,” he murmurs. “And then you’re going to fuck me.” 

Rozanov nods so fast that Shane briefly worries that he’ll get a whiplash. “I can do that. I can definitely do that.” 

“I know you can.” Shane allows a brief grin to grace his features.

And then Rozanov is hustling him out of the venue with a brief call of goodbye to Kip and Scott. The car ride back to his apartment has never felt as short and long at the same time. Back home, Rozanov pins him to the bed after he watches Shane methodically hang his suit so that it doesn’t wrinkle, and then wrecks Shane exactly as he asked for. It’s—wholly perfect. 

Shane does not really know how to feel about that either.

--

To Shane’s surprise, Rozanov actually looks nervous as they walk up the front door of the Hollander-Tayama household. The Russian man is tugging at the collar of his shirt and tightening his hand around the stems of the bouquet he brought as if the tulips can actually be a source of support to him.

Gaze questioning, Shane turns to him. “You know they are just my parents, right?”

Rozanov huffs. “Well, first of all, am I not supposed to be your perfect boyfriend? And second—as far as you told me, they don’t even like me.”

“They don’t like the idea of you,” Shane says, reassuringly. “But they don’t know you.”

“Not reassuring,” says Rozanov.

Shane smiles and bumps their shoulders together. “Just be polite and charming. I know you can be, because you have half of New York City wrapped around your pinky finger. And, believe it or not, I’m on your side here.” He turns back the door and sinks his key into the lock. “Just be nice to my parents and they’ll be nice to you. Later on, at my grandpa’s place, you can be a little shit.”

“Ah, my two personalities.”

“Quite.” Shane pushes inside and steps out of his shoes. “We’re here!” 

Rozanov follows his lead, almost a meek puppy. Yuna and David are in the sunroom at the back of the house, a space where they only invite close friends and family, and special guests. That they are hosting the two of them there is a good sign to Shane—it means they are taking this seriously. And that they believe that Rozanov is important to Shane. If everything goes to plan, he’ll be a member of the family soon.

“Hello, mum, dad,” says Shane, giving them both quick hugs. “Good to see you.”

“You too, kiddo.” David beams at him, and then pulls Rozanov in for a hug too. Rozanov is startled, but he seems to accept it. Good. 

His parents obviously have questions for Rozanov. Between David and Yuna, Shane knows who he’s most worried about. But Yuna seems really touched by the gift of the tulips that Rozanov awkwardly presents her with, as Shane had expected she would be, and that smoothes out the normally harsh edge to her words to a considerable extent.

In the lead up to today, Rozanov has been more of a wildcard, but only because Shane could not adequately estimate how he’d do under the combined scrutiny of his parents. The earlier nervousness did not bode well either. At his core, though, Rozanov is a business man. And you can’t truly do good business with people who don’t like you. He seems to relax more the longer their conversation goes on, his large body sprawled out comfortably across one of the Hollander-Tayama’s couches, one thigh pressed against Shane’s at all times. By the end of their first interrogation (Shane does not kid himself into thinking there won’t be more), Yuna and David seem at least halfway there to being taken by him.

“Shall we have lunch?” David suggests, after the conversation has mostly petered off into pleasantries. “The chef made dumplings. Do you like dumplings, Ilya?”

Rozanov nods, a true smile on his face. It transforms his face into something softer, something lovely. Shane has to turn his head away. “We have something similar in Russia. Pelmeni. They are amongst my favourite foods.”

During lunch, the conversation is more casual. Rozanov talks to David about classical cars and to Yuna about the stock market. They also talk about hockey, and though Shane had warned Rozanov that his mum tended to be a bit obsessive about the subject, Rozanov had just laughed and said, I see where you get it from. So that was that. She doesn’t even mind that Rozanov is a dirty Raiders fan, but just dissected the season so far and observed that there was no way they were making the playoffs this year. Rozanov just takes it in stride, and Shane sits at that table, carefully picking apart his gyozas, and wonders what kind of loopy land he’d entered. Because, as much as his parents had been confused that he’d said that he was dating Rozanov, they seem to be enjoying themselves right now. Like his mother doesn’t curse Rozanov Group on a weekly basis.

“I’m going to be honest,” David says, near the end of the meal. “When Shane told us that he was seeing you, we wondered whether he was acting up, or something like that. He’s never told us about anyone he was dating, and he’s never brought someone home so far, so we definitely didn’t expect you to be the first one. But I am weirdly glad that it is you. It seems like you two are a great fit.”

Something close to a hopeful grin blooms on Rozanov’s face. “Thank you, sir.”

David waves his hand. “Just call me David. You’re part of the family now, hm?”

Rozanov looks like someone has handed him a pure gold bar as a gift. Or like he’s chipped his molar and he’s trying to smile through the pain. 

Just before they leave, Yuna tugs Shane to the side. “You two look good together,” she murmurs. “Does he make you happy?” 

Shane swallows and nods, all at once lost for words. 

“Then that is the most important thing to us. We just want you to be happy, Shane.” She quickly squeezes him into a hug, then pulls back to grin at him. “Otosan is going to lose his shit, though. Good. Let’s give that guy something to be confused about.”

At that, Shane can’t help but laugh. “He’s very good at that.” 

“Confusing people?”

“Sure. And annoying them.” Without meaning to, fondness creeps into Shane’s tone. He clears his throat. “I—uh, he’s really special to me. I think.”

“If he is special to you, he is special to us.” She cups his face briefly, then takes a step back. “I’ll tell otosan to prepare another seat at the table for his birthday. Don’t forget to be there on time. I’ll tell Junghoon ahead of time that he is working that Saturday.” 

Shane groans. “Mum, I can talk to my own driver!”

She tuts. “Just to be sure. Who knows where your brain will be.”

On the drive home, Shane clutches the handle above his head as Rozanov taps his fingers casually against the clutch. He’d allowed Rozanov to pick him up in one of his fancy cars, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the way his heart does a million flips whenever the motor purrs like a big cat below them as the car pulls up. It seems to amuse Rozanov, if the glint in his eyes is anything to go by. At least he isn’t hightailing it down the roads as Shane had worried he would. Just to show off, or something like that.

“Thank you for coming along,” says Shane, once Rozanov drops him off in the guest parking bay of his apartment complex. He hasn’t ever minded sharing a small space with Rozanov before, so he doesn’t know why his body is reacting so weirdly now. Maybe he’s coming down with something. “And for, well, charming my parents. I thought they’d be way more annoying, but I think they liked you.”

Rozanov reaches up and tucks a strand of Shane’s hair behind his ear. The corner of his lip curls up in a smirk. “I told you, didn’t I, Hollander? That I’d be the perfect boyfriend?”

Once back in his apartment, Shane lies down on his bed—with his outside clothes still on, even, because he could not be bothered to take them off yet—and screams into his pillow. It doesn’t do too much to ease the weird tightness in his chest, but at least it makes him feel a little bit better. Even though that just might have to do with the lightheadedness he got from nearly suffocating himself on his pillow.

--

Shane: [photo]

Rozanov: what is this?

Shane: You cannot read now?

Rozanov: fuck you i can
Rozanov: why does your grandfather send you a whole invitation for his birthday
Rozanov: we live in the era of text?

Shane: He hires a different Japanese designer each year to do it.

Rozanov: kind of cute but does not answer my question
↳ [Shane reacted with 🤷]

Shane: Anyway, as you can see I have a plus one. So you have to be there.

Rozanov: of course!! already planning how to best terrorise an old dying man 

Shane: Sounds good 👍

--

Shane’s apartment. Falling dusk is painting the living room in shades of blue and blush purple, broken up by the golden glow of lamps scattered around the space. Shane is on one side of the couch, the hood of his sweater pulled up over his head, bottom lip trapped between his teeth as he works on finishing the last of the emails that really need to be answered today. On the other side of the couch, Rozanov has stretched out, swiping away on his phone. The little furrow between his eyebrows shows that he is deep in thought, though Shane cannot tell whether he is busy with work or something else. 

Rozanov has been ‘moved’ into his place for three days now. He’d shown up at the tailend of the previous week with honestly a crazy number of boxes. Most of it had been clothes, because Shane had assured him that the apartment was stocked with everything, and all that is Shane’s is Rozanov’s, but there had been a few personal trinkets as well; a couple of photo frames of him and his friends and a beautiful blonde woman, a perfectly trimmed bonsai in a pot that he carries in by hand, and a stack of books, both in English and Russian. 

It had all been very structured. Shane, with his million guest bedrooms, had found one for Rozanov to settle down in, knowing full well that Rozanov would only use that place to dump his stuff. There hasn’t been a single night yet since Rozanov moved in that they hadn’t shared Shane’s bed. The last time Shane ever slept with another person in his bed before that was never.

So far, their coexistence has been very peaceful, perhaps only because they are both so busy during the week. Shane rises at what Rozanov calls “ass o’clock” in the morning and works out, then has Junghoon drive him to work. Most of the time when he gets back, Rozanov isn’t home yet. They really only meet at the fringes of the day, in passing, like ships in the night. But there’s something weirdly special about seeing Rozanov’s shoes haphazardly kicked off in the entry way when Shane leaves in the morning and the pastel pink sticky notes he sticks to the fridge door, full of scribbled Cyrillic that Shane probably couldn’t decipher even if he could read the alphabet. 

Hayden had asked him, completely seriously, when Shane told him that Rozanov was moving in, how he would manage sharing his space with someone. That was the first thing anyone had asked. The answer is: really well. Shane is managing absolutely perfectly. And that, by itself, is something to be dissected, peeled back layer by layer to peer at the soft insides. But not tonight. Tonight, Shane is tired.

With a pleased sigh, he sends off his final email for the night, then presses the button to turn off his tablet, tossing it to the floor. As he looks up, he comes face to face with sharp blue eyes. He wonders how long Rozanov has been looking at him, if there’s something wrong.

“Something on my face?”

Rozanov huffs out a laugh through his nose and shakes his head. There’s a languid quality to his body, which is something Shane has always envied most about him: his ability to relax seemingly everywhere he goes. As Shane watches, he sits up a bit straighter, though, a more actively listening position. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot,” says Shane, ever so slightly confused.

Gleeful, Rozanov mimes pointing a gun at Shane. He tilts his head back slightly. “You confuse me, Hollander. You tell me that you want to marry me for money, but you’re not exactly poor, as far as I know. And you’ve never struck me as a person to be greedy for things like that. So, my question is: what’s up with that?”

Shane leans back, though he’s careful not to break his eye contact with Rozanov. “I do—I do not care about the, like, saving money until you’re the richest person in the cemetery thing? And I’m definitely not poor; far from it, really.” He plays with his fingers as he continues. “But me and Hayden have this dream of opening a hockey school for disadvantaged kids. Kids who normally wouldn’t really make it in a sport like that. Neither of us ever made it as hockey players, but we’d still like to help people who have bigger dreams than we ever had. There’s a lot of money in there, though: staff, supplies, maybe even a whole rink. There’s a plot of land I have my eye on. That’s it, basically.”

“Hayden?” Rozanov scrunches up his face. “Really? From Pike Construction?”

Shane splutters out a laugh. “He’s been my best friend since high school!” He reaches out and kicks Rozanov’s ankle. “You can’t hate my best friend, asshole. I’m pretty sure that is against, I don’t know, fake-marriage code.”

“Fine, fine,” says Rozanov, though clearly reluctantly. “You’re kind of a saint, aren’t you, Shane Hollander? Of course, you want to build a hockey school for people who cannot afford to play the sport.”

Shrugging, Shane purses his lips. “I’m definitely no saint. Sure, one part is the hockey school, but it’s also—you know something about your family drama, right?”

“Right.” Amusement dances in Rozanov’s eyes.

“My parents are great and everything, but the rest of my family kind of sucks. They all really only care about themselves. My grandfather set up everything for all of his kids and their kids to have good lives, and they basically took that at face value, especially my cousins. Parties, private jets to five star hotels, expensive clothes, expensive taste.” Shane lets out a long sigh, frustration boiling below his skin. “And they’re all married already. So, they always kind of rub it in my face that, even though I’m the one who’s working the hardest, I’m not going to get any part of my grandfather’s inheritance. But they will. As stupid as that sounds, that was one of the biggest motivators for me to ask you.” He whispers the last few words: “I just really wanted to prove them wrong.”

Some emotion that Shane does not recognise has settled across Rozanov’s face; his eyes are blank, but his eyebrows are furrowed, casting dark shadows across his face. Then he sits up so suddenly that Shane almost jumps. A strong hand wraps around Shane’s ankle and tugs him closer across the couch until he’s nearly in Rozanov’s lap, which Shane allows to happen, his hoodie rucking up his back.

“Then we will prove them wrong,” says Rozanov, a certain weight behind his words. He leans closer so that he can skate his nose along the line of Shane’s cheek. “And we will make them regret ever being mean to you.” 

Shane tilts his head to the side, his eyelashes fluttering. “You’d do that for me?”

“Of course,” Rozanov purrs. “That is basically my favourite thing to do. Plus, the only person who can be mean to you is me.”

Annoyed, Shane’s eyes snap back open. He groans, though he does not pull away from Rozanov; even now, there’s a magnetic pull to him. Shane doesn’t believe himself to be a person who easily connects with people, but Rozanov makes it easy to engage. “Seriously?”

Rozanov shrugs, looking down. But even without seeing his face, Shane would know that he is smiling. He just radiates this smugness.

“Fine,” says Shane. “I guess you’ve deserved it. For putting up with me.”

“Mm.” Rozanov puts his fingers below Shane’s chin so that he can tilt his face up, their eyes meeting. His gaze is thoughtful, playful, this perfect line he seems to balance on without effort. “I do deserve it.” And then he cranes his neck so that he can slide their mouths together, tongue slipping between Shane’s automatically parting lips.

Kissing Rozanov never seems to tire Shane. It’s crazy, because it shouldn’t feel novel each time. Rozanov is a good kisser in the sense that he is reliable—a lot of tongue, a lot of spit, but in the perfect way, and he always plays Shane like he is a violin. When Shane was younger, he used to be proud of himself for being able to find his way around his house with his eyes closed. Being with Rozanov makes Shane feel like he is a house. Rozanov could make love to Shane with eyes blindfolded, and he’d still know to hit every single spot that makes Shane stutter on a moan. Except that Rozanov is a bit weird, and Shane sometimes catches him kissing with his eyes open, like there’s something interesting to be seen on Shane’s face when they make out.

Shane does not dare ask. Maybe he does something weird with his eyebrows and Rozanov’s just fascinated. He’d rather not know.

It is a natural course of action that they make it to Shane’s bedroom together. Rozanov is already naked by the time Shane makes it to the bed, his cock three-quarters hard against his stomach, something dark and wanting in his eyes. He pats the bed next to him with a hand, and Shane needs no further invitation.

They kiss some more, because kissing is always easier than talking—and there isn’t that much to talk about anymore, right now. Shane wants Rozanov’s mouth on his own and Rozanov’s hands on his waist, and maybe, if they’re both lucky, Rozanov’s dick in his ass. And then some.

“Please,” he says, half-moans into Rozanov’s house. He tugs on Rozanov’s hand, leading him down and around. To where he wants—needs him. Inside the quiet of his own head, it is an easy thing to admit.

Rozanov groans and then mutters something in Russian, the words half-bitten off. “Okay, I have you.” 

And he does have Shane. He opens him up on three fingers, wrist twisting, and then rolls a condom on himself. 

“Unf,” says Shane, as Rozanov slides into him, tightening his legs where they’re wrapped around Rozanov’s waist. God, it feels so good, there’s just one thing that could make this feel better— “I should get tested again.” 

Rozanov actually stutters inside Shane, then stills, peering down at him. “Huh?” 

“I mean.” Shane reaches up to wind one of Rozanov’s curls around his finger, then tugs on it slightly. “You should get tested regularly, anyway, but. If my husband-to-be is only fucking me and I’m only fucking him . . . it would be nice. You know?”

“Fucking—” Rozanov leans down so that he can bury his face into Shane’s shoulder. “Shane ‘Golden Boy’ Hollander wants me to fuck him bare.”

Groaning, Shane sinks his nails into the skin just below Rozanov’s shoulder. Muscles jump underneath his touch. “Don’t act like that is the craziest thing ever,” he huffs, even though he’s glad that Rozanov can’t say his face right now, because he’s definitely red as a tomato. “Plus, I heard that it feels really good.”

“Yeah?” Rozanov has recovered from apparent shock enough to pick up the pace again, though he keeps it a gentle thing. Like this, it is almost as torturous as it is when he’s hitting Shane’s prostate on every second stroke until Shane is reduced to nothing more than a sobbing mess.

He clenches around Rozanov on the next stroke, punching a groan out of his throat. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” Rozanov grins, a sharkish thing. His teeth are charmingly a bit lopsided in his mouth, though they’re perfectly white. A hint of fang peeks out at the corner of his mouth. “When you say it with such conviction, I guess I have no choice but to believe you.”

“Pah—conviction,” gasps Shane. “Big word for you, huh, Rozanov?”

Sweaty curls drooping into his face, Rozanov looks down at him. “I must not be fucking you well enough if you’re still this damn mouthy,” he says, decisive, and then sets out to rectify that. 

Shane can only cling onto Rozanov’s muscled body, blunt nails probably leaving lines in the skin of his back, and mouth pleas against Rozanov’s lips. The orgasm that is wrenched out of his body, both by Rozanov’s hand around him and his cock battering against Shane’s prostate, is almost painful in how good it feels. Afterwards, Shane is a wrung out mess, and Rozanov soothes him with a wet towel and what is most definitely an overabundance of kisses pressed to every inch of Shane’s skin. Eyes closed, Shane leans into it.

--

It does not shock Shane that the only real opponent to his tryst with Ilya Rozanov is none other than Hayden Pike. Shane’s best friend recently moved into a villa up in Westchester County to accommodate his seemingly endlessly growing family, which is obviously very nice and to be expected, but the extra travel into the city means that they don’t see each other as much as they used to. 

Which makes it even more fun when they do meet. Hayden invites him out to the sports bar they used to frequent when they were both in college—or more so that he used to frequent and drag Shane along. At least it was a place mostly without loud music, just good company, a couple of beers, and screens on the walls.

Shane texts Rozanov that he won’t be home until late tonight and then tells Junghoon to drive him to the bar. By the time he makes it there, Hayden is already seated in their regular booth, the small smile he reserves for Jackie on his face as he’s busy on his phone. Shane shrugs out of his coat, draping it across the back of the seat, and then takes a seat opposite him. It startles him out of his concentration, and he looks up with a big grin. 

“The man of the hour!” says Hayden, reaching across the table to clap their hands together in an awkward slap-fist-bump that Shane can never keep up with. Hayden never seems to care. “Good to see you, dude.”

“Good to see you, too,” Shane says. “How’s the family?”

It’s enough to set Hayden off and for Shane to lean back, catch his breath. Shane gestures at the bartender for two pale ales as Hayden starts telling Shane all about beautiful Jackie and his gaggle of children. Married before they even both left college, Jackie and Hayden started their family as soon as they could, and Shane used to joke that Hayden was aiming for a full hockey team. But his kids are adorable, even if Shane sometimes shamefully has to listen for context clues to know which ones are part of the twin set and which ones aren’t. Hayden is always just happy as a clam to talk about them, and Shane is happy to see his best friend happy. 

“Enough about me.” Hayden is halfway through his second beer while Shane is still sipping on his first when he turns his sharp gaze on Shane, finger tapping against the table in rhythm with his words. “Let’s talk about you.”

“Uh.” Shane looks away. “What about me?”

“Why did I have to hear from Rose Landry of all people that you’re dating Ilya fucking Rozanov?” says Hayden. 

Shane winces. “Because of his reaction?” When Hayden gives him a look that spells I’m not mad at this answer, just disappointed, he hurries to continue. “Listen, it just kind of happened. It started out as something casual.”

“You, Shane Hollander?” Hayden asks. “Casual?”

Flushing, Shane takes another sip of his beer so that he can chew over his answer. “Well, it clearly didn’t stay that way . . .”

“No kidding!” Hayden leans back, clearly to gather himself. He runs through his paces, then shakes his head again. “Jesus Christ, man. He’d better treat you well, or I’ll come over to beat him up for you.” 

There is no way Shane is successful at keeping the amusement off his face. “Well, he has about three inches and sixty pounds on you, but you are always welcome to try.”

Hayden flips him the finger. “I still don’t like it. But if he makes you happy, which he clearly does since I can’t imagine you sticking with anyone who doesn’t, then I guess I can behave. As long as you tell him to do so as well.”

Shane hides his smile behind the rim of his pint glass. “I’m sure he’d appreciate me putting him on a leash like that.” 

“I don’t know.” Hayden looks him up and down, appraising. “If anyone could reign that mad man in and tie him down, it would be you. Plus, who knows—he might even be into stuff like that. Doesn’t he seem like the type?”

Ha ha. Shane finishes his beer in one swallow, then breathes too early and chokes on the drink. He hacks up a lung as Hayden watches with growing wariness, then manages to gather himself. “I’d prefer not to talk about my boyfriend like this,” he forces out between wheezing breaths. He really needs to run more, keep up with his cardio better, but that’s another wish thrown into the wind that won’t ever come to fruition with his current schedule. 

“Alright, sorry.” Hayden’s mouth twists a little bit, and Shane knows that his friends kind of consider him to be a boring guy, at least in the bedroom. Sure, they’re vaguely aware that he is not some kind of Virgin Mary, but in their eyes, he’s the guy to have perfectly simple, vanilla bedroom activities. Nothing scandalous. 

If only they knew.

And nothing bad against people who like more typical sex, but Shane is well aware that what he and Rozanov do is . . . not quite that. Alas, that’s neither here nor there. 

For now, Shane will focus back on the conversation, which has understandably shifted to the hockey school. Something Shane could talk about for hours, so he’s immediately locked in. It is also another reason that Shane can remind himself of why he’s doing all of this with Rozanov. This is not only his passion project anymore, but Hayden is also involved: investing time, money, and nights away from his young family. If nothing else, there’s that.

--

They settle into a rhythm, against all odds. Weekdays mostly separate, the fringes of their evenings overlapping, nights spent in Shane’s bed, either having sex or not. And then they sleep together in Shane’s bed afterwards. Like it is something normal. Shane doesn’t think this is quite what he meant with “no-strings-attached-marriage-of-convenience-with-a-deadline” with Ilya fucking Rozanov, but he’s already trapped the guy in this scheme. And the sex continues to be mindblowing, something they’re both clearly very into, so it’s not like Shane has backed himself or Rozanov into an impossible corner. It’s just the domesticity of it all that he hadn’t expected, even though he does know that it’s quite impossible to share a house with another person and not get attached in some form or the other. 

It’s just nothing that he expected from Rozanov. They bicker. They argue. There’s no one who can make Shane’s blood boil faster than Rozanov can. But there’s also no one who can fuck him as well. Who uniquely understands the pressures of family and expectation and business, all at the same time. So, it’s weird how they fit together. But also, looking back at it, strangely to be expected.

If Shane had to pin it down, see where everything messed up and diverged from his perfectly planned timeline, he’d say this is it: this point exactly. He can’t really pinpoint it on a timeline, he just knows that he can feel it there. Before this, there’d been an easy distinction between time spent with Rozanov and without him. The real and the fake. The time for acting and the time for letting it happen. But now the lines are getting blurred.

And Shane doesn’t know how to stop it anymore. 

--

Rozanov: will u be home for food

Shane: No.
Shane: Stuck in this stupid business dinner.

Rozanov: and texting me during it?
Rozanov: tsk tsk
Rozanov: you need me to fake emergency to get you out of there?

Shane: It’s okay. I’ll be done in like an hour.
Shane: And if not, I have no choice but to blow up the entire room.

Rozanov: wow who knew good boy hollander has jokes

Shane: Fuck you.

Rozanov: thats more like it
Rozanov: ill order enough for there to be leftovers
Rozanov: those dinners never have your rabbit food

Shane: Thank you.

--

Shane: I placed a grocery order. 

Rozanov: you remember ilya’s chips?

Shane: Oh my God, don’t talk like that.
Shane: But yes, I did. 

Rozanov: yayyy i will love u forever 

--

Rozanov: stuck at lunch watching troy flirt
Rozanov: attempt* to flirt
Rozanov: this is like watching a ship sink or something
Rozanov: kind of fascinating but also horrible
Rozanov: how is harris putting up with this??
Rozanov: is this what love does to people
Rozanov: im going to gauge out my own eyes with this spoon
↳ [Shane reacted with 😆]
Rozanov: that is what you’re reacting to? really??
Rozanov: my misery is no laughing matter hollander!!!!

--

Shane: Did you really leave your laundry on the bathroom floor?
Shane: The ONE room in our house that has a laundry basket?

Rozanov: oops

Shane: Rozanov.

Rozanov: to be fair those were the clothes you ripped off me
Rozanov: so whos really at fault here???

Shane: There will be no more clothes ripping if you don’t CLEAN THEM UP!

Rozanov: 💔

--

This, Shane figures out: sometimes, Rozanov gets sad. He didn’t see these parts of Rozanov when they’d only been meeting up to hook up. But living with him reveals sides to him that Shane could never have imagined for himself. The domestic parts, yes, both boisterous and quiet, but also the more withdrawn parts of him; the parts that Shane guesses he’d like to keep hidden from prying eyes, but ones you cannot conceal if you are actively living together with someone. 

There are times that Rozanov gets a bit duller, like a haze covers his shine. And he is so bright, Shane has figured out from being next to him so much, that there is a lot to dull. Like his smile reflecting the light, but not reaching his eyes. A slowness to his movements, from time to time, that does not speak of the good muscle aches you get after working out, but a deeper pain, non-temporal. Then there is the bottle of pills in the medicine cabinet. The label is always turned to the back, and Shane is too polite to turn it around—which he guesses Rozanov had counted on—but he knows what it contains even without having to read it.

It makes sense that Shane hadn’t been aware of everything that makes up Rozanov before they started this wild plot. He just hadn’t realised how little he actually knew. Rozanov is a sarcastic bitch, and he’s fucking antagonising, and he draws the blood out from underneath Shane’s nails. But he’s also—caring, and soft around dogs, and he tries harder to make Shane laugh when stressed than anyone else Shane knows.

So it’s a balance: on one end, the insurmountable knowledge that this is all going to end once their arrangement is up. On the other end, something new, something Shane had not counted on: the growing realisation that he might be enjoying this arrangement more than he thought he would be. Which is not fair to Rozanov, who is still counting on this thing having an expiration date, as they had stipulated at the beginning, but that’s fine. Shane is fine.

As Rozanov is wont to do, he throws a wrench in all of Shane’s carefully laid out plans anyway. Or maybe Shane does it to himself. He’s certain that Rozanov was the catalyst, whatever the case may be. 

Because, for the last week or so, Rozanov has been—not moping, Shane would not call it so unkindly—but moving through life with a certain kind of complacency. He lies next to Shane at night, but from the sight of the bags beneath his eyes, it almost looks like he doesn’t sleep much at all. The amount of pills in his bottle still shrinks every day, which Shane knows because he has been watching them like a hawk, but there’s a slow tiredness to him. And that is not the Rozanov that Shane has come to know, the bright-eyed asshole he’s come to expect and perhaps, in some ways, even anticipate. 

Shane doesn’t really know how to fix it, but he does know that it can’t go on like this. He comes home, and there’s a staleness in the air. Like it hasn’t been disturbed in a while. Rozanov’s shoes are still in the entry way, where he always haphazardly kicks them off, his peacoat still hanging on the outside of the wardrobe rather than inside it. 

Rozanov didn’t tell Shane that he has a day off today. Days off, if at all, are very far and few in between in their line of work. But Shane knows that Rozanov is not the kind of person who just wouldn’t show up when there are people depending on him. He must have called in sick, or something like that.

There’s nobody in the living room but a discarded hoodie, which Shane tuts at but collects anyway. The kitchen is empty, and so is the private gym, the balcony that Shane uses to do yoga and Rozanov uses to smoke on, the study neither of them really use. It only leaves the bedroom.

Shane finds Rozanov on their bed, curled up underneath the blankets but turned away from the door. He stirs slightly when Shane announces himself with a polite couch, but does not face him. 

“Are you just not going to acknowledge me?” asks Shane.

“Go away, Hollander.” Rozanov’s voice comes out rough, like he hasn’t said anything since he mumbled something in sleepy protest at Shane this morning, as Shane had been pulling away from his nightly embrace to go to work.

“Rozanov,” says Shane, and then, when there is no reaction, “Rozanov, Rozanov, c’mon.” 

No reaction.

Scowling, Shane opens his mouth to call out for him again, when a flash of memory interrupts him. He says, carefully curling his lips around the syllables, trying to remember the correct pronunciation: “Ilyusha.”

That gets a reaction. Rozanov nearly bumps his head against the headboard in his haste to sit up. The blanket pools around his waist as he stares at Shane, an almost deadpan expression on his otherwise expressive face. The skin below his eyes is swollen and red, his hair sticking up at odd angles. “Ilyusha?” he says, the syllables clipped, almost disbelieving. 

“Mm, I knew that would get a reaction,” Shane grins, even though he hadn’t been sure at all. “But now I know that it annoys you, I’ll be sure to use it more often when I need you for something.”

“Annoyed—” Emotion flashes across Rozanov’s face; it looks like he’s going through all of the stages of grief at the same time. “Whatever. What do you want?”

Shane tosses him the hoodie he’d snagged from the back of the couch, watching with satisfaction as it clips the side of his broad shoulder. “We’re going out,” he says. “No more moping.”

Rozanov just stares at him, eyebrows severe. “Going out?”

“Well, I assume you’ve heard of the term before.” Shane snorts. “Considering who you are as a person.”

“You want to go somewhere . . . with me?” says Rozanov, just to clarify. 

Shane grits his teeth, certain that he is going to chicken out if Rozanov asks one more time. “Yes, Rozanov. I know you don’t like to use your ears, but you do have them.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “It doesn’t suit you to lay around here and mope. So, we are going somewhere.”

“It’s not a good day, Hollander,” Rozanov says, looking down at where his hands are twisting around the hoodie.

“Which makes it a great day to get out of the house.” Shane is careful to keep his voice neutral, but no-nonsense. “Come, I’ll make a reservation at a nice restaurant. Or we can go for a drink. Whatever gets you up and moving.”

A shuddering breath, then a sigh. “Fine, fine. You are awfully persistent.”

The corners of Shane’s mouth quirk up before he can stop himself. “Why do you think I’m such a damn good businessman?” He leans against the doorway just as Rozanov looks up, and there’s a kind of naked vulnerability in his eyes that Shane does not really know how to place. Softly, he says, “Get ready, and I’ll wait in the living room.”

Shane sits in the living room and hears Rozanov putter around in the bathroom, so at least he’s up and moving. Like he told Rozanov, he goes to book a restaurant for them, scrolling through a list he found online until his gaze settles on something perfect. Shane calls them up, confirms for a reservation in an hour, and then waits for Rozanov to reappear.

When he does, he’s wearing the hoodie that Shane had tossed him. It is also, Shane realises, originally Shane’s hoodie. Which means nothing. The hoodie is comfortable, and Shane had basically given blanket permission by throwing it at him.

He stands up and gives Rozanov a smile. “Shall we go?”

--

“Where are we going?” says Rozanov, as the Uber ejects them in a side street of Brighton Beach in Brooklyn. 

Shane grins at him. “The internet told me that this place does the best of those Russian dumplings you like. Pelmeni?” He’s probably completely butchering the pronunciation. When Rozanov just stares at him with furrowed brows, he rushes to add, “We can also go somewhere else. If you don’t like this restaurant.”

“No.” Rozanov looks away from him, hiding his face. His voice is rough, maybe a bit wet. “This is fine.”

They are seated at the back of the restaurant, which is mostly dark plastered walls and wood beams. A candle dripping wax messily down its side lights a golden circle just big enough for Shane to see Rozanov’s soft eyes. All of the chalkboards are full of Cyrillic that Shane could not even attempt to decipher even if the penmanship wasn’t so terrible, but Rozanov observes them with gleeful interest. He chats to the waiter in Russian, and his voice drops even lower in his native language, the syllables lazy and purposeful. The entire time, he does not stop looking at Shane.

“Did you order for us?” Shane asks, as the waiter whisks away again. They hadn’t even been handed a menu, but he doesn’t know if that is a feature of the place or if Rozanov had just swooped in before that could happen.

Rozanov inclines his head. “You’re cheating on your diet for me,” he says, with a small smile. 

“Am I?” Shane raises one eyebrow. “That’s fine. These dumplings better be as good as the internet told me they would be.”

They are, of course. Rozanov watches with glee as Shane’s eyes blow wide as soon as he bites into the first doughy pillow. Minced meat and spices explode on his tongue, and paired with the sour cream that they’d been served to the side, it all makes for a delicious treat. Shane can’t stop the quiet, pleased sound from escaping, and hopes that it is swallowed by the din of conversation from the other tables around them.

“Good?” asks Rozanov, delicately spearing one of the pelmeni onto his fork, holding it up as if to inspect it. Then he looks up at Shane. His eyes are a piercing blue even in the dim light.

Shane nods, the back of his neck heating up. “So good.”

“Mm.” Rozanov closes his teeth and lips around the pelmen and groans as the taste seems to explode on his tongue too. He finishes chewing and nods, a tiny smile twitching around the corners of his mouth. “Okay, that’s really delicious.”

They finish two servings of pelmeni and a plate of beef stroganoff. Everything is so good that Shane can’t even bring himself to care that none of these dishes fit into his diet. It would already be worth it just to see this side of Ilya: a bit softer, a bit more loose, still bickering with Shane like it is a job he gets paid for, but below that content. 

After the meal concludes, they squabble about who gets to settle the bill. Rozanov has an advantage, speaking the language of the staff, and none of Shane’s determination can match up against his charm. 

“Next time, I get to pay,” Shane grumbles as he slips into his coat at the entrance. 

Rozanov laughs, his head tilting back slowly. He’s got a nice mouth, broad and full of white teeth. “Whatever you say.”

Spilling onto the street, the rush of people, a neverending phenomenon in New York City, swallows them. They are just two guys, laughing, in a little bubble of their own. Rozanov curls his fingers around Shane’s wrist and pauses him in his steps, something unreadable and enormous in his gaze. “Thank you for this,” he says, eyelashes fluttering. “I had a great time.” And then, like a secret or a confession or a curse: “Shane.”

Ilya, Shane thinks, wildly. Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. “Ilya.” Like a prayer.

The moment suspends between them like a tether. Shane’s heart beats messily in his ribcage, the world narrowing down to the infinitesimal space that separates him from Rozanov.

“Hey,” says Ilya, suddenly, a determined gleam in his eyes. Despite their similar statures, he seems to loom over Shane, a vision even in the flickering neon light pouring down on them. “We should show your family something fun. Something surprising.”

“Should we?” Shane’s voice is weak. 

Wordlessly, Rozanov drags him along to a bodega somewhere down the street, a Cyrillic sign above the entranceway, and tells him to wait as Ilya heads inside. He bites on his lip and plays with his fingers as he stands there, watching as a narrow door across from him ejects two girls in leather skirts, their hands swinging between their bodies. One of them lights a cigarette, says something in a low, teasing voice to the other, and then they’re gone.

“Shane Hollander.” A call of his name snaps him out of his thoughts, and he turns around. Ilya holds out something with a teasing smile on his face. It actually reaches his eyes, this smile, which drives the dagger in Shane’s heart even deeper. “Didn’t you say that we should get married?”

Curious and scared in equal measure, Shane takes the little trinket from Ilya. It’s a gachapon, he realises, the ones you get from a coin machine for a dollar or two. Shane manages to wrench it open, and a gaudy plastic ring with a massive rock candy gemstone spills into his palm. After some deliberation, he slides it onto his pointer finger, since it clearly doesn’t fit around his ring finger. “We do.” He manages to give Ilya a wobbly smile, holds up his hand. “This is a terrible proposal, just so you know.”

Eyes glittering, Ilya smirks back at him. “That so, Mr. I-Need-You-To-Marry-Me?”

“Shut up.” Even without seeing himself, Shane can feel that he is blushing. He turns his face away and stares at the wall, tracing the lines in the terrible wall art that the interior designer has hung up, and he’s grown surprisingly fond of over the last few years. “Just so you know, if we show up to that party engaged—” He puts up his fingers in quotation marks around the word, “—my cousins are going to rip us apart.”

“Oh, don’t you worry.” There’s something sharklike about Ilya’s grin, even viewed from the corner of Shane’s eyes. “I am prepared for anything. And I love to play.”

--

The Tayama estate in upstate New York State is, even in Shane’s wholly subjective opinion, a thing of beauty. Tayama Yuto had bought up the ground when it was still being developed, a swath of land with gently rolling hills and foliage that turns a plethora of shades of gold and brown in autumn. As a proud Japanese citizen, he had a mansion built that took influence from the houses he’d see in Japan, paper doors and minimalist colour patterns and a careful balance between nature and the built environment. There’s a zen garden outside, carefully tended to by members of the staff, and Yuto claims that he gets enough relaxation simply by seeing other people do the work for him. 

Ilya’s in the passenger seat for once, fidgeting with his hands as Shane winds around the last bend in the road before the driveway smooths out into the final, straight bit. Probably wanting a cigarette, but Shane had sent him a flat glare when Ilya had tried to pack the box, so he’d left them at home. 

Shane taps his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the music Ilya is playing across the bluetooth connection—that had been their compromise; Shane drives, so Ilya commands the music. The ring around his finger catches the light every time he moves his hand, which keeps drawing his gaze even though he knows he should be focused on the road. After Ilya’s impromptu proposal, they’d scrambled around to find actual engagement rings before his otosan’s birthday party. Luck would have it that Ilya knows a goldsmith, a friend of a friend, who had managed to whip up something classy but understated for both of them.

Around his finger, the weight of the ring is heavier than it should be. It’s just a simple band, the outside plated with a matte black band that lets through a hint of the gold underneath. Classy and understated; clearly expensive. Exactly as expected from the two of them.

There is no doubt that someone is going to see it, and that that person is going to ask. That is, after all, why they’re doing this.

Shane tries not to be too nervous about it. 

He’s here to celebrate his ojiisan’s birthday, see his family, and make them all see that he is engaged to the hottest piece of ass the city has to offer. He doesn’t want to be on their level, he wants to surpass them. As much as they looked down on him, he wants to do the same. Something like petty revenge, yes, but Shane has always been the one to hold his head high, pretend that nothing they did was hurting him. For once, he wants to be the victorious one.

They pull up in the parking lot to the side of the house, his car just one in a row of fancy vehicles that would be bank-breaking to a person in any other tax bracket. This is probably the only place where Ilya has any overlap with the Tayama-cousins; Shane has gotten rather unwillingly acquainted with his large collection of luxury sports cars. In comparison, Shane’s car is rather plain, but he likes it, and it’s safe, so he’s going to stick with it, thank you very much. 

Before he gets out of the car, he pauses, one hand on the door handle. He takes a deep breath, in and out, just trying to gather his resolve. This is the moment. 

“Shane,” says Ilya behind him. He turns around; Ilya is already looking back, an unreadable emotion in his blue eyes. “I’m here for whatever you need, okay? We’re in this together. And if you’ll tell me when, I’ll punch whoever you need me to.”

Despite everything, that forces a laugh out of Shane. He shakes his head. “There will be no punching today.” He pauses, considers. “For now.”

Idiot that he is, Ilya actually gives a small cheer at that.

A long table is set up on the lawn, perfectly integrated in the landscaping. Members of the staff flit around with covered plates and trays with crystal glasses. Someone is re-arranging the flowers in one of the vases. The rest of the family is seated a little further away, spread out across a massive garden set with massive parasols positioned at strategic points to block out the sun.

“Hello, everyone,” Shane calls ahead, receiving luke-warm responses. Everyone, at least, looks to be hyperfocused on Ilya at Shane’s side. 

Yuna rises as they draw closer, wrapping Shane up in a hug and pressing a kiss to his cheek. She squeezes his wrist, then directs him towards ojiisan, who is waiting, sprawled in his own comfortable chair. 

“Ojiisan.” Shane bows in front of the chair, just a small dip of his head. Just enough to show a modicum of respect. “Happy birthday. Thank you for the invitation.” 

Eyes sharp, Yuto just waves a hand at him. “Of course,” he says, the words short and clipped. “You are always welcome at my house, Ryusei-chan. Some birdy told me that you have brought someone with you to meet me.”

Shane grits his teeth, feeling rather than seeing how Ilya draws closer after saying hi to Yuna and David. He knows that Yuto is only speaking in Japanese because Shane is one of the few grandchildren who had bothered to learn, but he still does not like how it excludes Ilya. “Yes, ojiisan,” he says, ducking his head. “This is my—Ilya.”

Like Shane had instructed him, Ilya ducks his head respectfully. “Thank you for having me, Mr. Tayama. Your house is gorgeous.”

“I am very proud of it,” Yuto says, a bit coolly, though his dark brown eyes are assessing Ilya with great intelligence. From up close, Shane can see his grandfather’s frail body and his failing health, a pale pallour to his mottled skin and dark circles below his eyes. He’s thinner as well, his clothes still as impeccably tailored as they’ve always been, but his shoulders narrow, his cheekbones sharp. “But you are family now, no? Feel at home.”

It is as much of a welcome as they could have hoped for. Shane lets out the deep breath he didn’t realise he was holding, and automatically opens up his fingers when Ilya’s hand prods his own to make space for himself.

From the side, he can see most of his cousins lean forward, almost as if they are watching a sports match. He turns his head slightly, just to make sure his cousin seated closest to him, Estelle, can see the small smirk curling around his lips. And then he brings their linked hands up to his shoulder, in such a way that the ring around his finger catches the light.

“Shane Hollander,” says Yuna, somewhere to the side of them, with an appropriate amount of calmness. She breaks the tense silence that had settled over the group. “What is that around your finger?”

And then all hell breaks loose.

--

Apparently, Shane was supposed to tell his parents immediately after Ilya had proposed to him. He tries not to be too annoyed at the fact that they care more about the fact that he is engaged to Ilya Rozanov than that he is engaged at all. Perhaps, by now, they had thought he’d never get married. Never would find someone to settle down with. If only they knew.

When the confusion had ended, they’d been called over to have dinner by the head of the staff, so that had broken them up temporarily. But only for long enough to all pick a chair, then turn towards Shane and Ilya. Because yes, some of the middle seats had been left open on purpose. So that everyone could observe, scrutinise. Shane suddenly understands what it means to be Ilya Rozanov; they all want a piece of him.

Yes, Shane Hollander is rich and rather well-known, but he is also considered boring. People do not want a piece of him. Just a business deal, from time to time. Or a new luxury apartment. Things he is good at. 

So this is different. They want to look at him because of him. Shane used to be so predictable. This is not even out of the ordinary, this is an entirely different league.

By the time everyone’s over their shock at the announcement, they’re onto the second course, lightly battered fish and a selection of vegetables. Shane chews, but he barely tastes the food, even though he’s sure it’s delicious.

“So,” says Aunt Yuki, primly, placing her perfectly manicured hands on the table in front of her. “When exactly did the two of you get engaged? It must have been pretty recently, no?” 

Aunt Yuki has her fingers in many pies, Shane knows. And with that, he means that she knows all of the gossip, the minute it crosses out into the open. Everything there is to be said about anyone who matters, she catches a hold of. Which is why Shane had kept it under wraps as carefully as he did, something Ilya had luckily sympathised with. He turns to her with a flat gaze. “A couple of weeks ago. So yes, I would say rather recent.”

“It’s rather unusual for you to be engaged so soon after announcing your relationship,” says Kaito, a perfectly polite grin on his imperfectly botoxed face. “This isn’t a ruse to get a piece of the inheritance, is it?”

“Kind of interesting how quickly you came to that wildly off-base conclusion,” Ilya drawls, bored. “Is that what you did? Maybe that is why you’ve never heard of this strange concept called love before.”

“Ilya,” scolds Shane, but he has to bite down on his grin. He turns back to his cousin, a cool smile on his face. “As of yet, we are only engaged, with no wedding planned yet. With ojiisan’s sickness, it’ll be touch and go whether he can be there or not. Whatever implications that has for this inheritance is up to him.”

Yuto rasps out a dry sound, perhaps a laugh. “What do you mean, touch and go? You don’t think I would see my last grandson get married?” He leans closer across the table, his eyes glittering, and Shane is unpleasantly reminded of the fact that every bit of slyness and cunning he’s ever had, he’s inherited from his grandfather. “That just won’t do. So, tell me, Ryuu-chan—” He looks at Shane, something calculating in his gaze. “What did you think of a summer wedding?”