Archive of Our Own

>>> Present day >>>

Ilya is at a client’s place, packing his equipment and preparing to leave after a job well done, when a text manages to ping through his Do Not Disturb. Now, there are only two contacts in his phone with the privilege to do that, and one is in Russia at the moment, which leaves one possibility. He drops his current task and picks up the device.

Shane: Can I come over?

Ilya smiles. Just what he needs after a long day and two difficult clients.

Ilya: of course

Ilya: but you are probably getting there before me, so just let yourself in

This client’s place is all the way across the city from Ilya’s apartment, so it’s gonna take him a while to get home. Good thing Shane has a key.

Shane: Oh, shit. Are you in the middle of a session? Sorry.

Ilya huffs fondly and rolls his eyes. If he were in the middle of one, he wouldn’t have answered. Shane should know this.

Ilya: no, session is finished

Ilya: i am about to head out, actually

The next message comes immediately.

Shane: Okay. See you, then. Drive safely.

Ilya pockets his phone and continues packing. Just as he’s about to make his exit, the client pipes up from her place on the couch. Her shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair is a mess; she’s wearing nothing but a bathrobe; and she’s smoking a menthol cigarette. “Um…”

“Yes?” Ilya asks, a little impatiently, because while his body may still be here, his mind is already halfway to his apartment, winding down with his best friend.

She stumbles through her next words, fidgeting with the cigarette stick in her hand. “If I wanted to… see… you again—”

Ilya plasters on a professional smile and hands her his company’s card. “Call number on card, ask for ‘Sergei.’”

“Got it. Thanks,” the client says somewhat awkwardly. Ilya pays it no mind.

On the drive home, Ilya thinks back on today’s clients and tries to pick which one he would rather have another session with. The first one—definitely not. The second… maybe? She has some issues with communicating, expecting Ilya to read her mind at multiple points, but it could be chalked up to inexperience. Besides, the pay is much better.

As Ilya passes the supermarket, he considers if he’s running out of anything at home yet—nope—and drives past. Then comes the university, which has him running through all the things he could possibly need to stop there for, but there isn’t really anything. He’s ahead on the work involved in his latest paper (partly why he’d been so confident as to take two clients today), and, unlike his masochist friends (Shane included), he isn’t TAing this semester—and he absolutely won’t be in the future as long as he can help it—so he’s home free.

At the doorway to his apartment, Ilya takes stock of his appearance. He most likely looks a mess after such a long day, with his wrinkled clothes and duffel bag full of BDSM gear, and wonders what kind of playfully disparaging comment about his appearance awaits him. With anticipation, he makes his way inside.

Shane is lounging with one leg crossed over the other on the couch and tapping madly at his phone. He’s wearing nothing but boxers and an oversized black t-shirt of Ilya’s with the university name and logo, which Ilya notes should qualify as one of Shane’s favorites by now because this isn’t the first time he’s borrowed (stolen) it. It looks better on him than it does on Ilya. Shane looks up at the sound of the door opening and smirks. “You look like you just fought a hurricane.”

Ilya drops the duffel bag on the floor in front of the TV. “I won.”

Shane snorts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Ilya shrugs. “Neither does fighting a hurricane.”

Shane opens his mouth, then closes it, unable to find a retort in time, like he’d missed a quick time event in a video game. He puts down his phone and stands instead.

Ilya tut-tuts and wags a finger at him before he can even start making his way to the kitchen. “No, no. I cook tonight.”

By this, Shane is visibly miffed. Kind of cute, the way his face scrunches. “Come on, you’re tired; you just got off work. Let me—”

“No,” Ilya says firmly, and then wants to smile at the way Shane becomes rooted to his spot. “I will feed you. Is therapeutic for me. I need this.”

Shane softens, sitting back down. Good boy. “Okay. What are you making?”

Ilya peruses the fridge. His options are limited, but there should be enough for something filling and tasty for both of them. “You will see,” he tells Shane cryptically, which earns him a huff.

He makes them a vegetable paella he knows Shane will like because he’s made it before, a while ago, to great results, though he has to swap a couple of the ingredients. This time, he also piles on the seasoning to his own preference, because this isn’t like last year when Shane had still been skittish about eating anything not aggressively bland. Ilya has been slowly, tirelessly acclimating him to more flavorful meals over the past year, gradually increasing the amount of seasoning every time he cooks in such a way that Shane doesn’t notice.

One day he’ll admit to this dastardly scheme, but that day is not today.

Halfway through the process, Shane is bored enough that he pads into the kitchen to inspect.

“Smells good,” he remarks, his chin barely an inch over Ilya’s shoulder. “Is that—”

“Do not hover,” Ilya scolds, his tone laced with irritation because he was raised in a household where being a wanderer in the kitchen during the cooking process is punishable by death. “You will know when is ready.”

Shane grumbles. “I’m not—hovering.” Ilya can hear his pout without seeing it. He lowers the flame, sets down the spatula, and turns around to face the other man.

They lock eyes.

Shane stares defiantly back up at Ilya, and Ilya, without warning, throws his best friend over his shoulder and fireman-carries him to the living room. The whole way, Shane is making noises and tapping his back in indignant complaint. Ilya deposits him down on the couch, and when their eyes meet again, Shane is fighting off laughter.

“What was that about?” Shane demands.

“Behave,” Ilya says simply, and returns to the kitchen. Shane huffs again, but he does stay put.

Once the food is ready and Shane and Ilya have set the table together with military-like coordination, Ilya watches carefully as Shane takes his first mouthful of paella.

Shane moans around his spoon and, upon swallowing, says, “This is even better than last time. What did you put in this?”

Ilya smirks as he lowers his own spoon. “Trade secret, Shanya. Sorry,” he says, not sorry at all.

“No you’re not,” Shane clocks with a grin and an accusatory point of his fork across the table. “You’re just scared of the day I’ll learn how to cook all my favorite dishes from you, and after that I won’t need to keep you around anymore. You’re keeping it all a secret so I’ll just depend on you forever.”

“I like your imagination,” Ilya chirps back. “Is not even close to true, though. You also need me and my apartment every time Matt kicks you out to fuck his girlfriend.”

Shane scrunches his nose in disgust at the mention of his roommate. “Ugh. Can we not talk about Matt and his fucking girlfriend?”

Ilya smirks. “Would you rather hear about the women I fucked for money today instead?” He taunts.

Shane makes a show of thinking about his answer. “Honestly, between the two, that is the less dreadful option. How was work?”

Ilya wants to melt. Despite it all, his best friend is thoughtful and caring to a fault—but only towards the right people. He’s glad every day that Shane has, for whatever reason, chosen him as one of his inner circle, the people who get the real version of him and not the cold, clipped front that strangers and people Shane doesn’t quite like get.

“Eh, fine. First client very tedious, second could not communicate her wants to save her life, but paid very well.”

Shane hums along, and they continue to eat.

Afterward, Shane insists on doing the dishes since Ilya is the one who cooked. Ilya lets him, then goes back to the living room to set up his TV to tune into tonight’s Raiders away game as he waits.

Once Shane’s back, as is routine, they rave and rage at the TV in equal measure, complaining about penalties and plays that don’t go anywhere and chuckling to each other when they find themselves unexpectedly in sync.

After hockey, Ilya offers to put on a movie. Shane, at this point, is lying atop him, his chin propped up on Ilya’s chest as the third period proves to be a one-sided snoozefest in favor of the other team. He declines, though, saying he’s tired and would rather sleep already.

In companionable silence, they get ready for bed, knocking each other’s shoulders as they brush their teeth in Ilya’s cramped bathroom. Ilya only has the one bedroom, and in that bedroom only one bed, so Shane and Ilya lie on their sides under the covers, facing each other.

Ilya pokes Shane’s nose with his index finger. “Something happened, yes? I can tell. Want to talk?” He asks his best friend in the dark.

Shane shakes his head. “It’s nothing much, really. Tomorrow morning. Promise. I just wanted to be with you tonight.” He smiles shyly. “Like usual.”

Ilya smiles back. “You can have this any time you want. Always.” He pinches Shane’s cheek for emphasis, which makes him giggle and swat Ilya’s hand away.

They fall asleep not long after.

<<< Over a year ago <<<

“Ilya Rozanov?” says a flat, clipped voice from behind him.

Ilya turns around, and his first thought is, freckles. His second thought is, deep, brown, brown eyes. His third thought is, pretty. His fourth thought is, a response is probably warranted, a confirmation of his identity perhaps, or really anything this pretty guy needed from him. He’s more than happy to provide.

However, the guy must take his silence and eye contact as a ‘yes?’ in and of itself, because he continues. “You’re Professor LeClaire’s TA, right? Shane Hollander. I’m, um, Professor Theriault’s new TA?”

Ilya quirks an eyebrow. “That is a question?”

Shane Hollander blusters. “Uh, no. I’m telling you I am. Apparently, I’m supposed to meet you here? For the hand-off?” His hands fidget with the folder he’s holding.

How awkward. Ilya decides to take mercy on him. “Mm. Yes. Give it here.”

Shane Hollander hands him the folder full of boring departmental documents from the meeting Theriault missed, which he’d had to borrow from his arch-nemesis and fellow statistics and probability professor in order to photocopy. Their hands brush for the briefest instance as Ilya takes the folder from him. Huh.

“Uh,” Shane Hollander starts. “There. Thanks for meeting me.”

“I was ordered to,” Ilya points out. This guy sure is an interesting one. He’s dressed way too warmly for the current weather, everything covered up, and his pretty freckles have the faintest dusting of pink.

Ilya expects Shane Hollander to leave at this point, hand-off duly accomplished, but he lingers instead, leaning on the same stone railings Ilya has his back up against and prolonging the awkward silence. Ilya can practically hear him thinking, trying to come up with whatever it is he wants to say next.

“You, um,” Shane Hollander finally pipes up, “You single-handedly make LeClaire’s classes bearable for us non-STEM people, by the way. So, thanks for that.” He ducks his head right after he says it, as if the statement were a confession extracted from him by an interrogator. “I should go. They’re—waiting for me. But it was nice meeting you.”

Shane Hollander then bounces off the railings and comes up in front of Ilya to offer a handshake. Ilya waits a moment before taking it, meeting Shane Hollander’s eyes and holding his gaze for the duration of contact. The handshake is firm and sure, and Shane Hollander’s big brown eyes are the textbook type one could get lost in.

Ilya lets go first, Shane Hollander quickly following his lead with a clearing of his throat. He produces one last awkward utterance before he leaves: “Uh, bye.”

“See you around,” Ilya calls after him, making Shane Hollander briefly turn around to smile and nod. Ilya finds his lips quirk up as well, almost without his consent.

Well. That was certainly something.

>>> Present day >>>

It’s a great start to any day when Ilya is able to witness the process of his best friend slowly emerging from dreamland. In some ways, Shane is a lot like a cat, and never more so than in the specific way he wakes. It starts with a twitch of his nose at the heat of the morning sunlight hitting him just right. Then, he makes this little noise from the back of his throat, higher pitched than one would expect when looking at him. Then, his eyelids flutter and his face scrunches as his vision is flooded with light. Finally, a smile blooms on his lips as he notices Ilya is already awake. He nudges a foot against Ilya’s under the covers in acknowledgment and tells him in an adorable sleep-scratchy voice, “Hey. Morning.”

Ilya smiles back and ruffles his hair, making him giggle. “Good morning, Shanya.”

“Sleep well?” Shane asks after clearing his throat.

“Always when I am next to you,” Ilya tells him honestly.

Shane’s smile only grows. “Okay. You have to let me make breakfast, though, after last night.”

Ilya pretends to consider it. “Eh, together,” he says as a compromise.

Shane huffs but does not disagree, and they get up to start their respective morning routines.

By the time they regroup in the kitchen for breakfast, their movements beside and around each other are well-worn and practiced, the product of countless repetitions. They nearly wordlessly collaborate on coffee to each of their preferences, omelette with tomatoes, mushrooms, and red and green bell peppers, and french toast. The ideas are Ilya’s, but all he needs to do is gesture at the ingredients, and Shane immediately gets what he’s trying to do.

Overall, Shane navigates Ilya’s kitchen and apartment in general like he owns the place, and to be honest, at this point he kind of does with how often he’s over. Ilya can swear Shane touches Ilya’s kitchen more than his own and Matt’s kitchen. It makes some part of Ilya immeasurably pleased, but he carefully does not examine why. That way lies overthinking, which is the last thing Ilya Rozanov is.

Anyway, another thing Ilya enjoys about how fluently they move with each other are all the little signals and touches while cooking. A nudge with a shoulder here, a tug on the sleeve there, an adjustment of an ingredient’s position so it doesn’t get knocked over, a kick to get out of the way. There are few things that please Ilya more than how freely Shane touches him and gets up in his face—because Shane is not a touchy-feely person, and with every absent-minded bit of contact from Shane’s end, Ilya is reminded of how all of this comfort was slowly, painstakingly earned over a long time of Shane gradually letting his guard down around Ilya. Loosening up. Letting him in.

Ilya suspects that were the Shane of a year ago to be privy to how he acts around Ilya now, he’d probably freak out. Ilya built this sort of easy intimacy brick by brick, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Once they’re eating together at last, feet almost touching under the table, Ilya pounces. “So… what do we have to talk about? You have been, ah, keyed up since last night. You know you can tell me anything, yes?”

Shane actually winces, which signals to Ilya that whatever it is must be even worse than what he was anticipating. Something is really bothering Shane, and Ilya is prepared to start wars to be able to resolve it. “It’s just…” He sets his fork down. “Do you think I self-sabotage?”

Ilya answers easily, coffee cup at his lips. “In your academic career? No. You are perfectionist, but not bad enough to be mental problem like some people. I think you are fine.”

Shane shakes his head. “No. In… in love.” He whispers the last word, like he’s embarrassed of it.

Oh. Oh. Ilya gives him a smile first to soften the blow. “Who told you this? Rose?”

Shane averts his eyes. Right on the money, then.

Ilya continues, “I think you are little bit skeptical of dating game. I also think you see parts of yourself that you think guys will find difficult first. So, you will open with your worst quirks, showing them off, to scare these guys away early before they like you first and find out about possible annoying parts later and leave you. If Rose calls this ‘self-sabotage’ and you do not like that word, we can call it something else.”

Shane is staring at him a little bit in fear, a little bit in wonder. “You really think all that? Rose told me basically the same fucking thing. Fuck.” He runs a hand over his face. “Doesn’t really matter what we call it, then, huh? If the truth’s the same.” He laughs humorlessly.

Ilya reaches over the table to grab Shane’s free hand and rub over his knuckles with his thumb. “Hey. Nothing wrong with you. Is all stupid men who cannot see your worth.”

Shane smiles bashfully and squeezes Ilya’s hand. “You’re going off-script there. What Rose said was more along the lines of being less picky upfront and giving more guys a chance.”

Ilya shrugs. “Well, she is not wrong, but I am more right.”

That earns him a chuckle. “So yeah, things got a little heated, and Rose and I ended up making a bet.”

That piques Ilya’s interest instantly. “Oh?”

Shane recounts the terms: “If I’m able to meet a guy and see him for a month or longer than my customary ‘one date followed by ghosting them forever’ according to Rose, then I get $200. Otherwise, I agree to let her keep setting me up until she finds my one true love.”

Ilya smirks. “And let me guess—you have no intention of playing this straight.”

Shane gestures delightedly. “This is why you’re my best friend. No. Of course not. I fake it, get someone to pretend to date me for a month, and split the money. Easy.”

Oh. Ilya already loves this plan. And he’s almost certain of why Shane is telling him all this now: the two of them are about to pull off the greatest con their friend group has ever seen. Shane is going to ask Ilya to be his fake boyfriend.

Ilya imagines it: hamming it up in front of Rose and their other mutual friends with PDA that would, in all honesty, not have to be much more than how close they already are naturally. Fake dates and hugs and kisses and ridiculous but sweet romantic gestures. Oh, this is going to be so much fun.

Ilya straightens up in his seat from the sheer giddiness, unable to keep the smile off his face already. “Well, if you are looking for someone—”

“Oh, no, I already asked someone,” Shane says lightly.

Wait.

Huh?

Ilya blinks.

Why wouldn’t Shane ask him? He knows they could make it convincing. And their friends already like to joke about them dating. It was the most obvious choice in the world. Unless Ilya is missing something…?

“Who?” Ilya demands, smile gone and voice more clipped than he intends it.

“Scott Hunter,” Shane supplies. “Y’know, from econometrics."

“I know who Scott Hunter is,” Ilya says. “Why him?”

Shane shrugs. “I wouldn’t mind faking it with him.”

But you do mind faking it with me?

Shane continues, “Besides, he agreed to a 60/40 split, and all I have to do in return is make sure the guy he likes sees us fake dating to make him jealous and notice Scott more. So, it’s a purely transactional arrangement. No risk of feelings getting involved.”

“But why n—uh. You are not worried about me spilling to Rose?” Ilya asks, for lack of anything else to say.

Shane stares at him strangely. “No? I know you’re on my side, Ilya. I trust you more than anyone, so I wanted you to know it’s fake before you gag at seeing me make eyes at Scott Hunter.” It’s said with a chuckle.

“Hm,” is all Ilya can manage. Suddenly, he feels very, very far away from his body. “And this will go on for a month?”

“Yeah, ideally. And for keeping my secret, of course I’ll treat you with the money afterward. We can go anywhere you want!” Shane’s eyes are bright and excited, but Ilya feels the farthest he possibly can from it.

It’s going to be a long month, isn’t it?

<<< A year ago <<<

Ilya, truthfully, hadn’t expected Shane Hollander to last very long. It’s no slight on him; everyone at the university knows that Professor Renaud Theriault goes through TAs like tissue paper. However, Shane Hollander pleasantly surprises him by proving to be the exception to the rule and actually manages to stick around.

And he happens to also be much better than the string of stressed-out, tortured (usually female) grad students that came before him. At first, that Theriault had chosen a man at all had been a surprise. Also, almost all the previous TAs had been blonde. And yet, though Ilya wouldn’t plainly admit this to his face, Shane Hollander is the lone factor making Theriault’s classes human-bearable now, too—a feat Ilya previously thought impossible.

Shane Hollander is there at every meeting where he’s needed or even wanted. He keeps a meticulous, accessible record of all of Theriault’s course materials, even ones past relevancy. Everything is perfectly organized and prominently displayed along with Theriault’s office hours to any student in need. Without even being asked, he redesigns Theriault’s page on the university website, which had previously been updated four years ago. He is always willing to help or explain and has been called upon by an exhausted or hungover Theriault to finish his lectures many a time—to great effect. All of Theriault’s students adore him. At least a few have confessed their love.

His issuance of rejections goes like this: if the undergrad is female, Shane Hollander will say, sorry, but he’s gay. If they’re male, he will say, he doesn’t date younger guys. It’s a great spectacle to witness, even from behind a corner wall.

“Did you hear the whole thing?!” Shane Hollander asks him incredulously once he turns the corner and notices Ilya waiting with a stack of paperwork and a keycard.

Ilya only shrugs and hands the items over, this time purposefully brushing over Shane Hollander’s fingers as he gives him the keycard. And then, because he apparently can’t keep his mouth shut today, he runs it and asks, “Does Theriault know you’re gay?”

Shane Hollander’s eyes narrow suspiciously, and his posture becomes tense, defensive. “Yes. As a matter of fact, he does. Why?”

Ilya shrugs again, a little exaggerated and performative this time. “Nothing. You are just different than TAs he usually gets, is all. But maybe is improvement. You have lasted longer than all leggy blonde girls combined.”

Shane Hollander scoffs. “I don’t think Theriault chooses TAs based on degree of attractiveness, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Shaking his head, Ilya deadpans, “He usually does, yes. But I am glad he chose you because you are actually very good at your job.”

That puts a very pretty blush onto Shane Hollander’s very pretty face. Ilya watches several retorts die on his tongue in favor of, eventually, “Thanks.”

The next time they see each other, Ilya is in a much worse mood.

Someone stupid plagiarized several papers and managed to go undetected until their own best friend finally reported them. The university is looking to see if they cheated on anything else, and LeClaire and Theriault are both involved. All this culminates in Ilya and Shane Hollander being called to stand outside a dreadfully long and boring meeting where they can, possibly, be called in as witnesses at any point. Or just not at all, and that would mean they’d wasted the past hour and change.

Ilya lets his fingers fly over his phone’s keyboard as he texts Svetlana up a storm to complain. Meanwhile, Shane Hollander has brought a book about macroeconomics. Ilya had learned previously about Shane Hollander doing a master’s in econ, so when he pulled out the book earlier and apologized in advance for needing silence so he could use their potentially to-be-wasted time to get a head start on the reading for his next paper, and by the way, he’s doing a master's in economics, what’s Ilya in here for? Ilya had retorted that he knew that already, and physics.

“You looked me up?” And Shane Hollander had looked and sounded inordinately pleased by this.

“Maybe,” Ilya responded with a smirk.

Eventually, they hear the voices in the meeting room die down, the door open, and people start filing out. So, they weren’t needed after all. Figures.

“You are fucking kidding me,” Ilya mutters.

Shane Hollander snorts. He gestures with his book. “Well, I’m glad I brought this at least.” He peeks at Ilya through his long lashes. “See you around?”

Before he can overthink it, Ilya holds out his phone, the screen open on the new contact menu. “Give me your number. After this intense bonding experience, we are friends now, yes?”

Shane Hollander blinks at him, stunned.

Ilya lets his hand fall. Misreading is a disease, he guesses. “Ah, is fine if you don’t want.”

Shane Hollander splutters. “No, wait!” Now he’s blushing even to the most intense degree Ilya’s ever seen him do. “I was just surprised. Sorry.” He takes the phone and types in his digits.

When the device gets back to Ilya, he discovers that Shane Hollander had also taken the liberty of typing out a contact name for himself: ‘S. Hollander (Theriault office).’ He snorts. “You think by now I will not remember you are TA for Theriault?”

Shane Hollander is smiling with the next retort. “Well, I don’t know your contact naming scheme!”

Ilya shakes his head, erases what the other man wrote, and types ‘Freckles’ for the contact name. Then, he opens his messages and shoots Shane Hollander a text—

Ilya: Best most productive hour of my life. Text me for good time again, baby 😘

When Shane Hollander feels his own phone buzz in his pocket and reads it, the clear ring of his laugh echoing in the hallway and the way his eyes crinkle leaves Ilya feeling a little warm.

Later in the week, Ilya gets his first text from Shane Hollander: a bid for commiseration.

Freckles: Ugh. Have you seen this yet? I get the intention, but I’m not the only one who thinks this is ridiculous, right?

Freckles: [sent a photo]

The photo is of a slide from a lecture of a certain professor of econometrics, announcing that starting the following week, phones and computers would no longer be allowed during their lectures and had to be either left outside or at a designated bin (which would be provided). Ilya has seen this slide going around, to similar reception, in group chats and the student forums.

Ilya: right. is that not same prof who lets students bid on coverage of exams?

The reply arrives not even a minute later.

Freckles: Oh my god, yeah, it is.

Freckles: Did you take this class too?

Ilya: yes, last sem. but i did not spend a cent :p

Freckles: Neither have I so far. What’s the point, right?

Ilya: yes! let other people go broke

Freckles: Haha. Absolutely.

By the time LeClaire’s next lecture rolls around and Ilya has to get off his ass, he’s surprised to have been texting Shane for that long, practically the whole time.

And that’s how it starts.

>>> Present day >>>

Shane: Please. I need you to back me up in case Rose doesn’t believe me or tries to corner me.

This is Shane’s last text to Ilya, from yesterday, which he hadn’t answered, and yet he’s taken time out of his day and shown up after all at CARA+MEL to watch the possible train wreck or blockbuster success unfold with his own eyes. Somehow, he can’t imagine anything in between.

Anyhow, Ilya gets there early with his research materials from the library and his laptop and is able to claim their clique’s usual booth since there aren’t a lot of people on a cloudy weekday afternoon. The ‘guy Hunter likes’ for whom it is pertinent to witness this charade as well is working behind the counter today, of course: customer darling barista Kip Grady. Ilya talked to him a little when he ordered; he has no idea what’s coming, and it’s a little cruel, but he’s preparing to live vicariously through Kip later, a little bit, since his prior knowledge of this plan precludes him from having any strong reactions.

Not that there would be cause for Ilya to have any strong reactions. Definitely not.

Shit. He really isn’t handling this well at all, is he? And Shane and Hunter aren’t even here yet.

Ilya works on his thesis, struggling to focus or write much of anything in favor of just mindlessly flipping through the pages of his references until Rose arrives.

“Ilya! Hi, babe!” She launches herself into his arms, squeezing him into a quick hug and kissing him on the cheek.

“Hello, Rozochka.” Ilya greets her and smiles as sincerely as he can. He has no idea how he does; he has no access to a mirror currently, but it’s probably far from his best performance if the way the inside of his body feels like it’s in a meat grinder is any indication of how he looks on the outside.

Still, Rose doesn’t seem to notice anything off with him, so maybe things aren’t that bad yet.

“Why’re you here before Shane?” She asks as she takes off her jacket and hangs her sling bag on the back of her seat. “Missing the whole point of this show-and-tell, isn’t it?”

Ilya tilts his head, confused. “What do you mean?”

Rose swats him on the arm. “Oh, come on. It’s no surprise. Shane told me I’m here because he got a boyfriend! So, no need to be coy; you’re not spoiling anything.” She waggles her eyebrows.

“Yes, he did,” Ilya responds somewhat gravely, probably more than could ever be warranted. “And when he gets here, he will tell you all about it.”

She laughs. “Oh, I see how it is. Fine, I’ll play along. Hmm, I wonder who it could be.” She puts a finger on her chin to simulate deep thought, which gets a surprised laugh out of Ilya, too. 

They wait several more minutes before, finally, the men of the hour arrive. They’re not standing particularly close, nor are they doing anything obnoxious like linking arms, but Ilya’s breath still catches in his throat at the sight of his best friend standing in what’s probably intended to be a boyfriend-like manner next to Scott fucking Hunter. Shane is flushed from the cold, but he looks happy. In a way that could believably be interpreted as the glow of a new relationship. Fuck.

“Rosie, Ilya, hey,” Shane greets as he takes off his coat and bag and takes a seat on the opposite end of the booth from Ilya and Rose. He then scooches over to make room for Hunter. “You’ve both met him before, but just as a refresher, this is Scott.”

Hunter smiles warmly. “Hi, everyone.”

“—My boyfriend,” Shane completes.

Rose does a double take. She looks at Hunter, then at Shane, then inexplicably at Ilya, then back at Shane, then back at Ilya again. “But—

‘What?’ Ilya soundlessly mouths at her, not wanting to involve Shane in this. Is it over? The charade doomed from the start?

Rose gapes at him. Then, she carefully shakes her head, clears her throat, and offers Hunter a handshake. “Of course. Nice to meet you properly, Scott.”

Shane, oblivious to or uncaring of the silent exchange that had just occurred between Rose and Ilya, then looks expectantly at Ilya for his turn to keep the masquerade going.

All Ilya cares to perform is a gruff nod in Hunter’s direction. “Hi.” He averts his gaze from the booth. “I think I will go to Kip and order a croissant. Excuse me.”

He doesn’t particularly feel like eating a croissant, but the sugar and carbs might actually be good for him right now, so whatever. Ilya leaves the table to let Rose and Shane and Hunter talk amongst themselves. He orders his croissant, and even if it is not his prerogative, he pesters Kip into taking a break to sit with their friend group like usual. Shane will probably thank him later for being such a good sport. Jesus Christ.

“Oh, hi, Kip,” Shane greets when Ilya returns with the barista in tow, then silently raises his eyebrows at Ilya to indicate his approval and gratitude. Ilya shrugs and ushers Kip to the edge of the booth beside him. “I was just introducing everyone here to my new boyfriend, Scott. Have you two met as well?”

And Shane damn well knows the answer to that. According to him, Hunter confided that he’d tried and failed to flirt with every CARA+MEL customer’s favorite barista multiple times. Shane, admittedly, is not the best actor, somewhat overselling it. Ever so earnest. Ilya wants to pinch his cheeks but has to bite down on the urge. Something tells him it wouldn’t be appropriate right now.

Kip—like Ilya had expected—looks a little winded. But, disappointingly for Ilya’s sense of internal catharsis, he maintains his composure and cordiality. “Yeah, a few times, as a customer.”

Now, Hunter looks a bit pained by those words, that that’s all he is to Kip. Ilya fleetingly wishes CARA+MEL served popcorn.

“So,” Rose takes over the conversation. “Do tell the story of how you two got together. I mean, it just seems so sudden, and I’ve never really seen Shaney with boyfriends.” For some reason, she’s looking at Ilya instead of Shane and Hunter for that last sentence. Ilya resolutely looks away.

Shane fake-giggles—and Ilya knows it’s fake because only he gets the real ones. “Well, it’s kind of a long story…”

“Oh come on, it’s not that long, baby,” Hunter interjects in a manner Ilya is certain has been precisely practiced. He wouldn’t put it past Shane at all.

By the time the whole charade has been played out, Kip is vaguely uncomfortable and out of break minutes; Rose still looks faintly skeptical and keeps casting strange lingering glances at Ilya; and Shane looks so transparently like the accomplished-ness he must be feeling at everything going according to what he and Hunter must have practiced that he’s radiating with it. It would be adorable if Ilya were in a better mood. As it is, it’s only salt in the wound.

Also, he’d been wrong in his earlier prediction. This performance was neither a slam dunk nor a complete failure. It was a mild, arguable success, which is simultaneously deeply boring and disturbingly curiosity-inducing.

How is he supposed to survive a whole month of this, exactly?

<<< Several months ago <<<

Ilya lets his beer slosh around in his glass as he gestures wildly with his hands and speaks to the crowded bar booth. “So, there I was, fist-deep in this woman—”

“Oh my fucking god, Rozanov!” Hayden interrupts, face twisted up in disgust, to the raucous laughter of the rest of their table. Shane, sitting beside Ilya, is nursing his own beer and listening dutifully. Rose to his left is snickering. Svetlana to Ilya’s right is on her phone, having already heard this one. And Troy, to Svetlana’s right, is rolling his eyes—whether at him or Hayden, Ilya’s not sure.

Ilya points at Hayden in admonishment. “Shut the fuck up, Pike, you are not listening. Ignore the sexual; this is important to story—”

Hayden bristles. “Like hell it is! You just wanna flex and brag that you get to have kinky sex for a living, and, frankly, I’m tired of—”

“Boys,” Shane interrupts at last, clearly to the relief of everyone else. “Can we focus? Stop interrupting, Hayd.” It’s said with an accompanying swat at Hayden’s arm.

“Thank you,” Ilya tells him, leaning into Shane’s space and earning a bashful smile.

Spluttering, it’s Hayden’s turn to point accusatorily, this time at Shane. “Wha—of course you take his side! Some best friend you are.” He crosses his arms and looks away.

“Aww, poor lamb,” says Svetlana, reaching over her side of the booth to pat Hayden on the shoulder. Rose, Troy, and Ilya all laugh. Shane seems to be able to keep it under control, though.

“Anyway,” Ilya continues. “So, I am doing my thing, and then out of nowhere, this client, she moans my name!”

“So what?!” Hayden reacts immediately, inviting a just as immediate ‘shush!’ motion from Shane.

Ilya shakes his head. “No, you are not listening. She moans my name. Not my alias. My real fucking name!”

“Oh, shit,” Troy says.

Ilya keeps the momentum going. “Right? I am like, how does this girl know me? Is this why she booked me? Of course I have to pull out at this point, and we talk. Apparently she knows me from the university.”

“No,” Rose says, cringing. “Ugh! I’d wanna bury myself if that happened to me. Damn.”

“No, no, that is not even best part,” Ilya tells them. “The reason she books me is, her words, because she found me on agency website listing, recognized me, and ‘wanted to see what LeClaire’s hardass TA can do.’”

“To her ass?” Troy deadpans.

A chorus of boos.

Ilya reaches over and ruffles Troy’s hair roughly. “Oh, fuck you, Barrett!”

“Hey, you walked right into that one!” Troy defends himself, but no one’s siding with him.

“So, what happened next?” Shane asks, tugging at Ilya’s left sleeve. “Did you continue after?”

Ilya makes a face. “No, of course not. Is weird, no? I do not want to do this with people who know me from the university. I like things, ah, separate.”

Shane sips from his beer and hums in agreement. “Ah, yeah, I can see why.”

“For sure,” adds Rose.

Ilya wets his throat with more beer as well. “But of course, I refunded her full amount and explained as nicely as I could.”

“Real professional,” Troy appraises, clinking his highball glass against Ilya’s own.

“And I was ready to forget this incident—eager to, honestly—but then later I find out one of my regulars is her ex-fucking-boyfriend.”

“No! What the fuck?” Exclaims Rose. 

Ilya nods gravely. “Thankfully, he has not been lying and does not in fact know me from the university as well. But still. Crazy fucking coincidence, yes? Guess I know why it did not work out between them, though. They are both subs. Unlucky.”

And that has the whole table—yes, even Hayden—laughing again.

The merriment at their table continues for a good while, but then the lot of them have to part for the night because it’s a weekday tomorrow. The woes of being forced to schedule in the middle of the week as the only night everyone’s free. Ilya notices Shane frowning at his phone from where he stands leaning against a wall by the bar and approaches.

“Something wrong, Hollander?”

Shane perks up at the sound of his voice, fixes his expression to be more neutral, and puts his phone in his jacket pocket. “No, nothing. Um… well, kinda?”

Ilya grins. “Which is it?”

Shane sighs and lets the frown creep back onto his face. “It’s my roommate. He texted me an hour ago that his girlfriend’s staying over tonight, so I kinda really don’t wanna be there. For reasons I’m sure you can imagine.”

Ilya lets the grin turn sly. “Oh, I can imagine,” he says. “So you have no place to stay tonight?”

Shane shrugs. “I’m sure I can make some calls, find somewhere available. It’s not a big deal, really.”

Ilya rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Do not bother. Just stay over at mine. Ok? You came here by bus, yes? I will drive us.”

Shane’s eyes are shining, and on his cheeks is a mild flush. “Really? You… you don’t have to do that, y’know. I’ll be fine, Ilya. Besides, I wouldn’t wanna be a bother.”

Ilya grips him by the shoulders for emphasis and insists, “You are no bother. Let’s go.” Then he maneuvers behind Shane to walk him out the door, all but pushing him out of the bar. They say their goodbyes to the rest of their friends and head to Ilya’s car.

“Nice car,” is Shane’s assessment when they reach the thing. Ilya lets his chest swell with pride. It’s one of the first things he bought for himself upon moving into the city, and it’s his pride and joy, which he always checks and repairs by himself and generally won’t let anyone else touch.

“Thank you. Now, get in,” Ilya says.

Shane files in obediently, settling with his bag and putting on his seatbelt. Most of the ride is silent, and the only sounds are the road, other cars, and music on the radio—which they only punctuate with occasional comments on a song’s quality. It’s relatively companionable, yet still, Ilya notices Shane is tense and wonders what it could be.

It gets worse when they get to Ilya’s apartment. Shane stiffens up like a mannequin, unsure of where to put his limbs, and just generally seems very uncomfortable being in Ilya’s space. Ilya has half a mind to think he’s gonna bolt. No way is he having a good night’s sleep if he’s thinking that his guest is probably fidgeting on his couch one wall away all night long.

And thus, Ilya makes a beeline for the liquor cabinet and pulls out his best bottle of vodka. He returns to Shane, now on the couch, and waves it around. “Want to continue our party?”

Shane thinks about it. “You know what? Fuck it. Yeah. Give me some.”

Ilya smiles widely and takes a seat next to him, leaving little distance between the two of them.

For the first couple of shots, Ilya asks softball questions just to make Shane loosen up and get him talking in a more carefree manner. Stuff like why he went the grad school route, why econ, is he planning to take it all the way to a PhD, too? It turns out: because he likes it better than the jobs available to him after he got his degree, because he’s good at the math side of things but wanted something more practical than other math majors, and yeah, probably. After answering each one, Shane shoots it all right back at Ilya, like they’re playing verbal table tennis. Tsk tsk. Still too stiff for Ilya’s liking.

For the next couple of shots, Ilya changes tactics and gets into the personal. What’s Shane’s family like? (Good, supportive, but they can be a bit much, so Shane is glad for the distance that living in a different city provides.) But Ilya realizes his mistake when Shane bats the question back.

“My family is…” Ilya drawls, running his index finger around the mouth of his shot glass. “Complicated. Let’s leave it there.”

Shane must sense he doesn’t particularly want to talk about this, and so he nods, and asks for another shot.

Ilya’s questions become rapid-fire. Coffee order (black French roast to Ilya’s double caramel pump vanilla latte), left or right side of the bed (left to Ilya’s right), pets (none, but a cat could be nice to Ilya’s none, but a dog would be awesome). Favorite place to travel leads to Ilya learning that Shane has extended family in Saskatchewan, Manitoba, and Kyoto and has been to there and more, as well as that he went to elementary, middle, and high school in Montreal.

Finally, once Shane’s guard is down and they’ve both had several shots, Ilya asks about what he’s really wanted to know this whole time:

He points at Shane. “And you. How in hell are you single?”

Shane chuckles, brushing Ilya’s fingers to get to the vodka bottle and prying it out of Ilya’s hands. “Is that meant to be a compliment or an insult?”

Ilya groans. “Come on. You are fucking gorgeous. I get rejecting undergrads, but I never see you with anyone ever.”

Shane is beautifully flushed now, hiccuping a little before his next words. “Gorgeous?” He asks, voice gone scratchy and soft.

Ilya flicks him on the nose. “Don’t make me say it again, Hollander.” He takes the vodka back. “Answer?”

Shane sighs. Then shrugs. Then looks helplessly up at Ilya through his lashes, as if this is a game show and he wants to phone a friend to answer the question for him. “I don’t know. I’m just… not looking to rush into things, I guess. Again.”

Ilya pauses from swirling around the vodka in his shot glass. “Again?”

Shane sets his own shot glass down on the coffee table for a moment, covers his face with both hands, and groans. “Ugh. Why am I telling you this? Okay, fuck it. I used to be engaged.” He leans back into the couch cushions, hard, as if knocked around by the words.

The contents of Ilya’s shot glass spill all over his fingers and down to his pants. He hisses, “Shit.” Then he turns to Shane with much urgency. “You were? Why—what happened?”

“It was to a girl,” Shane begins to explain now. “Back when I was in undergrad, before I accepted I was gay.” They’re both on their sides, heads and bodies pillowed on Ilya’s large, soft couch, facing each other, with the vodka and shot glasses forgotten on the table. Shane swallows. “Her name was Jessica.”

When Shane falls silent, Ilya nods and hums, urging him to continue to elaborate.

“She was my first long-term girlfriend. Officially, she lived with her parents, but in practice we pretty much lived together. I thought she was everything I was supposed to want. Someone nice and safe. Someone I could have kids with.” Shane averts his gaze from Ilya’s for a moment. “I liked talking to her. Kissing was okay. The sex was… whatever. I thought it didn’t matter as long as two people loved each other. Maybe sex just wasn’t that great and everyone is lying—oh, shut up.” He punches Ilya on the side.

Ilya raises his hands. “I did not say anything!”

“But you smirked!” Shane pouts. “I saw it, Ilya.”

Ilya quirks an eyebrow. “Smirking is words now? I can do that and submit to Scrabble and get points?”

That earns him a smack on the chest and giggles from Shane. “Oh my god, you’re incorrigible.”

“Continue,” Ilya prompts, nudging Shane’s socked foot with his own below the couch.

“Okay,” Shane says. “Well, basically, to cut a long story short, she realized it before I did, called off the engagement, and broke up with me. She told me she didn’t hate me, but I had to figure this out on my own, and it wasn’t up to her. So then I had to rebuild the newly shattered pieces of the life I thought I had, alone.”

A lock of Shane’s hair had fallen into his eyes while he was speaking and gesturing, so Ilya absentmindedly tucks it back. “Mm.”

“And I…” Shane pauses, looking at Ilya with an emotion he can’t decode. Then, he sits up and takes another shot before resuming his previous position. “I guess I’ve just been really cautious about dating since then. I don’t wanna make the same mistake, y’know? Planning a life with someone who turns out to be completely wrong for me.”

Ilya gestures at the space between them. “Well, you do not have to date so seriously.”

That earns him a scoff, Shane’s eyes shuttering. “Ugh. That’s another thing. I can’t do casual. I’m a romantic at my core. It’s all or nothing for me. I can’t do the hookup lifestyle, and I cannot keep up with the guys who do. No fucking thank you.”

Wow. So that’s how much of a no-go Ilya is, huh? Way to let him down gently.

Affronted at being shot down like that out of goddamn nowhere, Ilya gasps exaggeratedly. “Oh, is this the case? Well, this is exactly why I do not date. It is nothing but hassle. I do not believe in there being one ‘right’ person for me. I would rather fuck whenever I want, at work or outside of it, and save all my love for my friends. That way I can be happy both ways, and there is never any drama. Win-win-win.”

When Shane speaks next, it’s very quiet. “Yep. Of course you don’t date. Of course.”

Ilya tilts his head and smiles crookedly at him. “I know. I am worst bisexual stereotype. Sorry.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “And what does that make me, a Hallmark movie protagonist?”

Ilya laughs loudly and clasps both of Shane’s hands within his own. He thinks he imagines Shane’s breath hitch—must be the alcohol. “Do not worry. We will find you your prince charming yet.”

Shane giggles. “You might be searching for a long time.”

Ilya doesn’t really care. Now that it’s become clear that—as per his own criteria—Shane would never go for him, Ilya has slotted him firmly into the ‘friends to love and spoil’ category. But he is far past the amount of sobriety needed to voice anything resembling this sentiment, so he just smiles.

>>> Present day >>>

Ever since the morning when they discussed the bet, Shane hasn’t been coming over at all.

Ilya has gone so far as to check Matt’s girlfriend’s modelling Instagram account to see if she’s in fucking Paris or something just to be able to explain the absence, but no. She’s home and even having dates with her boyfriend. Dates he’s sure don’t just end outdoors. And Ilya is so incredibly bummed out that right after, he opens his messages on impulse and shoots Shane a definitely way too desperate-sounding text.

Ilya: it has been one week. i miss cooking for two :(

Shane starts typing almost immediately but then stops, then starts again, then stops again. Several minutes later, a reply finally makes its way through.

Shane: Sorry. I miss your cooking too :( But we can’t while this fake dating thing is going on. I mean, I can’t very well be staying over at the apartment and sleeping in the same bed as another man who’s not my ‘boyfriend’ whom I’m extremely close to, right? Looks wrong.

Several thoughts and emotions pass through Ilya reading this text. First, If you miss it, then come over already. A text not even meant for the drafts, too dismissive of Shane’s intent. Second, But I like being ‘extremely close’ with you :(. Another meant for the chopping block; too clingy, surely. Third, I don’t fucking care how it looks. You’re my best friend, and you have a god-given right to sleep in my bed no matter what your fucking boyfriend has to say about it. Is this how you’ll act when you get a boyfriend for real? Am I going to lose you?

Now, that last one is frankly just alarming.

As if to overcorrect, Ilya lands on downright passive-aggressive, and Shane sees it before he can edit it to something saner.

Ilya: ok. suit yourself

Shane: Don’t be upset please. Ilya :(((( 💔

Shane: As soon as this charade is over, we’ll have as many sleepovers as we both want.

Shane: And I’ll treat you with the money, remember? You still haven’t said where you wanna go…

And Ilya is a weak, weak man wherever his best friend is concerned. He closes his eyes and breathes.

Ilya: i want to go to the aquarium and see the penguins

The next reply pings through right away.

Shane: Okay! We can definitely do that! I’m looking forward to it :)

Ilya: all the way to next month, shanya

Ilya: you are going to kill me

Shane: Sorry. It’ll go by quick. Promise.

Ilya doesn’t end up doing it, but he really, really wants to send, I don’t believe you.

He sucks it up and works on his thesis for the rest of that day, blissfully unaware of how much worse things can get.

Ilya finds out exactly how much worse it gets the next weekend when their clique of friends all have a free night to meet at their favorite local bar, Prism. Shane had invited Hunter, of course, but apparently, he’s busy and declined, so it’s just them and their mutual friends.

It starts when he, out of reflex, goes to wind his arm around the back of Shane’s chair by the bar, and Shane stops him.

“Um,” Shane starts, sounding preemptively apologetic, in a low voice so only Ilya will hear him but the rest of their friends won’t. “It’s probably better if we significantly tone down our touchiness since I’m supposed to be in a relationship right now.”

Is he fucking kidding?

Ilya scoffs. “Really?”

Shane narrows his eyes at him. “You wouldn’t want Rose to even think I’m cheating on Scott with you, which is so ridiculous it’d likely propel her to the right conclusion that it’s fake. We can’t risk it.”

Ilya grumbles his response.

“What was that?” Shane asks, mildly amused now, elbow propped up on the bar counter and chin resting on his half-closed fist.

Ilya rolls his eyes. “I said I will behave. How difficult is it not to touch you at all for one night, anyway?”

Apparently, really fucking difficult.

Whenever Shane tells a story or a joke and makes Ilya laugh, Ilya wants to ruffle his hair or pinch his cheek or squeeze his shoulder, and each time he either has to disguise a half-aborted attempt to do just that or forgets entirely and does it anyway, which earns him a withering look of disapproval from Shane. When Shane gets some beer foam on the side of his mouth, Ilya wants to wipe it off with his thumb. He barely tamps down on the urge to do that one, but that he was able to tell it wouldn’t be appropriate is probably progress? Shane should praise him, really, for not messing it up 100% of the time, only some. It’s a lot more than one could reasonably ask of him.

Ilya has always been touchy with his friends. Svetlana can tell you all about it, just how few physical boundaries they maintained since they were kids. And, although it had been a bit of a whirlwind compared to a lifetime being childhood friends, he’s extremely pleased to have achieved a similar level of physical closeness to Shane within a year and change. He likes being close with Shane. He likes touching Shane. And there are really very few things in this world Ilya likes more than Shane touching him, free and unfettered by concerns such as other people’s eyes.

Shane’s right here, but Ilya can’t cook for him, can’t sleep beside him, can’t even touch him. What’s the fucking point? Ilya misses him all the same. Ilya misses him so fucking much. And it hasn’t even been two weeks.

Wyatt is the first to notice at the bar. “Guys, are Shane and Ilya fighting or what?”

“What?” Shane asks. “No, of course we’re not.”

Wyatt shakes his head. “Dudes, you gotta be. I mean, you’re barely touching. It’s weird. And that’s after I used to think the sheer amount you two used to touch was very weird.”

“Well, we are not,” Ilya says. “Shane just has a boyfriend now. Remember?” And he is not sulking.

Wyatt blinks owlishly. “Oh, shit. Right. He’s not the jealous type, is he? If he is, even without the platonic PDA, I don’t think he’d survive your Shane-and-Ilya thing either way.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Shane demands.

Hayden laughs loudly from the other end of the bar. “Buddy, I think you’re gonna find that out for yourself soon enough, so don’t worry about it.”

“Very helpful, Pike.”

“Bite me, Rozanov.”

That night, Ilya goes home to an empty apartment. His fridge and cupboards are still more stocked than they’d usually be already since he’s only been cooking for himself. His bed feels too big, and the left pillow still smells a little like Shane.

Ilya hates his life.

He takes to spending more time at Svetlana’s—freshly returned from Russia—but instead of offering comfort, she just calls him out for using her as a substitute now that he can’t hang out with Shane.

“You’re pining,” is her diagnosis, delivered in deadpan Russian.

“I’m fucking not; I just miss my best friend,” Ilya retorts.

“Since when is he your best friend and not me? That’s your boyfriend in all but name, Ilyusha. And you’re clearly obsessed with him,” Svetlana says ruthlessly.

Ilya lifts his head from where it’s buried in her couch. “Shane is not into me that way and neither am I. You know this. How many times do I have to say it?”

“As many times as until it actually becomes true,” she replies in a sing-songy voice paired with a fake saccharine smile.

The night from hell at Prism proves to be an anomaly in terms of Hunter’s absence—because for the next good while, it seems like everywhere Shane is, Hunter follows. Every meetup of their friend group, Hunter is there to smile at Shane and squeeze his hand and call him baby and laugh at his jokes, and everything about it makes Ilya’s skin crawl. He grows quiet, unforgivingly clipped and blunt when he does speak, and is overall just not playing along very well as the part of the supportive best friend. It’s so bad and so noticeable that were he not an openly bisexual man, his behavior easily reads as vitriolically homophobic. Or, at least that’s what Wyatt and Troy tell him.

After the umpteenth time when Ilya is unpleasant all throughout the afternoon of their clique hangout, Shane finally confronts him. He excuses himself from the group, grabs Ilya, and drags him outside to talk.

“Okay, what is your problem?” Is what he opens with.

“Is it ok you left your boyfriend to be alone with me right now?” Ilya shoots back.

Shane gestures helplessly. “See? That. There it is. What the hell is going on with you, Ilya? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the plan. All this is temporary. It’s fake. But you’re acting like it’s not.”

“Well, maybe I do not think you have been acting very much,” Ilya admits, gaze averted. “Maybe I think lately you are being more and more genuine.” He swallows. “Are you growing to like him?”

Shane laughs incredulously. “Are you kidding me right now? Ilya. I don’t have feelings for Scott. Neither does he have any for me. We’re friends. That’s it.”

Ilya steps forward into Shane’s space the way he’d been denied these past weeks. “Friends like we are friends?” He gazes deeply into Shane’s brown, brown eyes. “Do you stay over at his house now too? Let him cook for you? Sleep in his bed, if you are such good friends?”

Shane’s face shows he thinks the question is ridiculous. Whether ridiculous because yes or ridiculous because no, Ilya holds his breath for the answer.

“No,” Shane says finally, and Ilya can breathe again. “Of course not. It’s different with you. You know that, right, Ilya?”

“I know now,” he says with more warmth and sincerity than he’s been able to manage in weeks. There’s relief flooding his chest right now, but even still, it barely puts a dent in the gaping void of the dread of missing Shane. He holds back a sniffle. “I know you said no touching, but… hug?”

Shane softens. “Oh, Ilya, of course.” He smiles warmly and opens his arms in invitation. “C’mere.”

Ilya all but crushes Shane in a bear hug, squeezing him so tight it makes him giggle—the real one—and the sound is music to Ilya’s ears. He envelops himself in Shane’s warmth, his scent, the solid feel of him under Ilya’s hands for entirely way too long. It’s not long enough. Shane just lets him hold him without comment, but eventually they do have to pull away.

When they get back inside the building, Ilya inexplicably feels like he’d just recharged, as if he were a little machine who runs on Shane that had previously been deprived of its power source. And when Shane takes his place next to Hunter again, he can feel the little power core in his mechanical heart already start to putter and discharge, with the existing wear and tear accelerating its way to zero battery.

<<< A few months ago <<<

Their clique is at the usual haunt, CARA+MEL café, on a sunny afternoon. Instead of one big group discussion, there are mini conversations taking place between pairs or trios. The café is a lot more crowded than usual, so the lot of them have been forced to claim a smaller booth. Shane and Ilya are sitting so close that Shane is almost half in Ilya’s lap in one corner of the booth.

They must’ve been so absorbed in their discussion of planning activities for the next time Shane stays over at Ilya’s apartment, gesturing and laughing and whispering into each other’s ears, that it takes Hayden across from them several finger snaps to get their attention.

“What, Pike?” Ilya asks once he finally notices the exasperated man.

Hayden elbows Rose on the side. “See what I mean?”

Rose nods sagely, a finger on her chin. “No, yeah, I kinda see it now.”

“See what?” Is Shane’s query as he props his chin up on his elbow on the table. The motion causes him to lean just that little bit more into Ilya, which Ilya wordlessly and automatically accommodates.

“See? That right there,” Troy points out, gesturing at the two.

“Yep. Shane’s practically sitting on you, Roz-man,” Wyatt adds.

At the callouts, Shane and Ilya separate a little bit, suddenly self-conscious.

“So?” They both demand at the same time, accidentally in sync.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” Hayden groans. “Seriously?”

“Spit it out, Pike,” Ilya tells him with a matching eye roll.

“Is there something going on between you two?” Svetlana finally supplies, tone slow and deliberate like she’s speaking to a couple of particularly slow children.

“Yeah, that,” says Rose. The guys murmur and nod along as well.

Shane looks at Ilya. Ilya looks back, searching his eyes, and finds incredulity and something else that has no place in his expression. Fear?

“Going on how?” Ilya asks innocently. Shane snorts, covering his mouth.

“Are you together or not?!” Hayden finally asks in a considerably louder voice, enough to be heard over the busy café crowd. “I know what we all said about dating within the friend group, but we promise we won’t judge. Also, several of us totally called it if yes.”

Shane’s nose scrunches up. “No way. Ilya doesn’t date.”

Ilya leans back into the booth and gestures. “And Shane does not do casual.”

Wyatt looks thrown. “Wait. You’re saying you two don’t like each other like that?”

“I like Ilya a lot,” Shane asserts, a little offended. “As a friend.”

Ilya puts a hand on his chest. “Aww, Shanya, I like you too!”

“Your words and actions kinda aren’t matching up,” Troy says, taking a bite out of his croissant and subsequently gesturing with it.

“Yeah,” Wyatt agrees. “Just earlier, Hollzy, you literally let Roz swipe whipped cream off his latte with a finger and feed it to you.”

Ah, there it is. Shane’s blushing now. “That’s—!” He looks to Ilya for a rescue.

“That is because I thought they changed whipped cream brands to one that tastes worse, and Shanya happens to have refined sense of taste and can confirm small differences like that.”

“Yes. That. Thank you,” Shane says, crossing his arms defensively.

“That still doesn’t excuse hand-feeding. I think maybe Shane could’ve gotten it himself. With a spoon or a straw, even,” Svetlana retorts.

Ilya sighs. “Look, I was not thinking in the moment, ok? We are comfortable with each other, as friends. This is illegal now?”

The second-to-last statement makes Shane smile and bump his shoulder fondly against Ilya’s, and of course Ilya smiles back.

Rose slumps. “Okay, yeah, I think I’m just filing this one under Shane-and-Ilya weirdness. It’s worked so far. Don’t bother trying to understand them, guys.”

Troy raises his coffee cup. “Hear, hear.” And Rose toasts it with her own.

“Oh, no, I’m not done,” Hayden says. “Not letting you off the hook that easily. Shane, don’t think I’ve forgotten you used to have the biggest crush on Ilya—before you even met him. Whatever happened to that?”

Shane shoots up in his seat, flushed and furious. “Hayd! Everything about what you said is out of fucking context! I—”

“Ooh, this is true?” Ilya teases.

“No!” Shane insists. “I admired you, especially after I became a TA too. That’s it.”

Ilya nods. “Ah, yes, I remember this. You told me. You were very sweet, Shane.”

Shane exhales a laugh. “See, Hayd? See how easy it is not to cause misunderstandings when you don’t twist people’s words?”

“You two are frustrating,” Hayden says, which has the whole table laugh. “Oh, also, what about you two basically living together at this point? Shane stays at Roz’s place more often than his and Matt’s apartment by now.”

“That is an exaggeration. I only stay over when I need to after Matt fucking kicks me out,” Shane effortlessly parries.

“Oh please,” Hayden drawls. “You use that excuse all the time even when his mythical girlfriend is posting on her modelling Insta halfway across the country.”

Ilya shrugs. “Shane can stay over whenever he wants.”

“See!” Hayden yells, gesturing to the rest of their table, which gets nods from Troy, Wyatt, and Rose.

“There is nothing between us, Pike. Sorry you cannot imagine being so close to your friends,” Ilya mocks.

Hayden sticks his tongue out at him like a child. “Man, shut up, Rozanov.”

“All right, kids,” Svetlana butts in, and their chaotic little booth bursts into laughter again.

>>> Present day >>>

Even Svetlana gets sick of him eventually, so after Ilya catches up with the work on his thesis again and is left with nothing to do and nowhere to go and with a very conspicuous Shane-shaped hole in his routine, he throws himself into work.

Sometimes he takes two, even three clients in a day. He sees some of his agency-mates’ clients when they prove to be too busy with their own lives. At first, all goes well. Ilya is good at his job and has a great reputation for a reason—or, well, ‘Sergei’ does, anyway. He does whatever they ask: be mean, be soft, minimize the accent, play up the accent, straight up degrade them in Russian, use toys, use his hands, use his own gear, use the client’s. And he is paid quite well for all of it.

He splurges on a new coffeemaker with his hard-earned money… but then remembers he’s not actually that fussy with his brewed coffee and it’s Shane who would probably appreciate this more. If he actually came over and used it, that is.

And that’s the thing that begins to precipitate cracks in Ilya’s normally ironclad work ethic: the nonstop thoughts of Shane. It’s so bad that when Shane and Hunter’s PDA particularly pisses him off the same day as he’s seeing a client, they will most likely give him feedback for being rougher than expected or rougher than usual. To Ilya’s usual professional standards for himself, an unforgivable blunder. To his current mindset, Tuesday.

It all comes to a head at the residence of one Kyle Swift.

It’s no secret to Ilya’s agency that he plays favorites, and Kyle happens to be his favorite client—one whom he looks forward to seeing and providing whatever he wants, taking more pride in the quality of his work than with even most clients. Thankfully, his sentiments are reciprocated, and Kyle makes it a point to ask specifically for ‘Sergei’ every time he is in need of their particular services.

Kyle is fucking loaded. He lives in a classy Italian-style mansion in a gated residence just outside the city limits. He has fancy gear imported from Europe and Japan, which he keeps in his custom-furnished and very spacious basement playroom. He’s also long-distance engaged to an older gentleman businessman who, from what little Ilya has gleaned about him through Kyle’s offhand mentions, seems like-minded about kink and very open-minded about them both fucking other people while apart.

And Kyle’s thing is shibari. When he calls Ilya’s agency asking for ‘Sergei,’ it’s because he wants to be elaborately tied up. Now, Ilya is no professional rope artist or anything, but due to Kyle’s requests, he has considerably enhanced and expanded his skill set wherever Japanese rope bondage is concerned. Before he met Kyle, Ilya could’ve said he knew a thing or two about artfully tying people up. By the six-month mark of Kyle being his client, he’s done about as much practice and research, if not more, on shibari as he had on his undergrad thesis.

All this to say: Ilya is supposed to be good at this. And yet that’s not the quality of performance Kyle gets from him today.

Ilya misjudges Kyle’s comfort levels several times, tying spots too tight and others too loose, needing to adjust but only ending up with the opposite problem, and then play on repeat like a broken record. Kyle also clearly notices, breaking character more than once to ask what’s up with him while Ilya grits his teeth through the session.

Everything’s off with him—from the rope tying to gauging Kyle’s mood and wants to even the dirty talk and staying hard long enough to fuck him to completion. That last one especially stings Ilya’s pride—the need to pivot to toys because his performance isn’t up to par. It’s one thing if the client wanted toys from the start; that’s no sweat off his back. But if they wanted him, and he was unable to provide, well then, what the fuck even is the point of doing this?

At the end of the session with the two of them winding down with aftercare and cleaning up Kyle’s playroom together, Ilya apologizes up front and offers a refund for the whole session.

Kyle laughs indulgently. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Serg. We all have off days.” He pauses. “Or at least I did, anyway, back when I still needed to be employed before I got my inheritance. I’ll put in a little extra, so buy yourself something nice later, mkay?”

“Okay. Thank you,” Ilya says, still thoroughly embarrassed, rubbing nutrient shampoo into Kyle’s very well-moisturized locks as his client lounges in his luxurious marble bathtub.

Kyle sighs when Ilya’s fingers hit a particular spot on his scalp, closing his eyes. “Look,” he starts, “I know you don’t like talking about not-work stuff, but if you’ll indulge me asking… did something happen recently?”

Ilya cringes, and his hands briefly pause in their motions.

Kyle looks at him like he’s a wounded deer he’s trying very hard not to spook. “It’s just… this isn’t like you at all, y’know, Sergey? I can’t help but wonder if it’s something big and you’re just keeping on, taking clients and grinning and bearing it. Sure seems like you.” He chuckles lightly.

Ilya sighs. “You are right. There is something. And I have no one to tell who will not call me pathetic, so I guess I will tell you.”

Kyle grins and adjusts his posture in the tub. “But to be clear, I’m still free to call you pathetic if you are, right?”

“No! No way!” Ilya insists, which gets him a splash of soapy water to the face that he barely manages to block with an arm.

Once both their laughter has subsided, Ilya spills. “It is nothing, really. Or, it should be nothing.” He takes a deep breath. “My best friend, he… he is dating. He got a boyfriend.”

Kyle nods gravely. “Oh. You didn’t know he’s gay? Or… what is he?”

“He is gay. And no, of course I knew. He knows about me too,” Ilya says.

“But you aren’t happy about him dating, are you?” Kyle asks.

“No, no, I am not,” Ilya admits. “I do not like his boyfriend. He is fucking boring and he pisses me off. And they are one of those couples that make sense in this really tame, boring way, where you can already see white picket fence and 2.5 kids—”

Kyle snorts. “Oh my god.”

“But,” Ilya continues, “is that really a good match? Like, kisses on cheeks and wordless missionary with lights off for five minutes a night?”

“For some people it can be,” Kyle says generously. “As long as they’re happy, that’s all that really matters, right?” He punches Ilya lightly on the arm. “Not everyone can be fun and kinky like us, Serg.”

“You are supposed to be on my side, Kyle,” Ilya admonishes with a pout.

Kyle ‘tsk’s. “Look, I don’t think the boyfriend is really your problem. You wanna know what I think?”

“Enlighten me,” Ilya deadpans.

“I think you’re jealous,” he whispers the last word conspiratorially. “I think you can’t abide by your best friend potentially ending up with someone else when you can be the one rocking his world, lights on, all the positions and gear, several hours a night,” Kyle teasingly concludes.

“No,” Ilya says, but it sounds more like begging. Like, please don’t let this be true.

“Yes,” Kyle counters, staring Ilya down with his messy wet hair and slightly unnerving light-colored eyes.

“I mean,” Ilya’s grasping at straws now. “Sure, I was attracted to him at first, but I got over that after he made it very, very clear he would never go for guys like me.”

“Guys like you what?” Kyle asks, eyes narrowing.

“What is the word, promiscuous?” Ilya tries.

Kyle outright guffaws. “Well. That’s tough, buddy. Congratulations for realizing your feelings at least, though?”

Later, during the drive home, Ilya thinks unavoidably about Shane. Is that really what he wants? To date him? Honestly, Ilya would be plenty happy with a return to how they were before: Shane staying over at his apartment more than he goes home to his own, Shane touching him however he wants in front of their friends, talking for hours about any topic under the sun…

Is dating really necessary? Sure, it would be nice to be able to… to kiss Shane whenever he wants, too. And Ilya has always wondered how many times he can make someone so sweet and lovely come in a single night. Or just how far down his body that pretty blush goes. But all that’s like, idle fantasy. Of course he’s attracted to Shane. Who wouldn’t be? Have you seen him?

Mostly Ilya just wants his best friend back. That’s the priority here. The being attracted to Shane part is on the back burner for a reason—and the reason is because Shane wouldn’t go for him. Not for guys like Ilya. Not for Ilya. And that’s the real problem, isn’t it?

He grips the steering wheel tighter. Can anyone really blame him for just taking what he can get?

<<< Two months ago <<<

Someone from the university rents out Prism for New Year’s Eve. Rose gets an open invitation, Ilya wheedles Shane into agreeing to come, and then things just kinda snowball from there. At the party, they know most attendees, but somehow a bunch of people completely unrelated to the university are also there, possibly unaware that the place had been reserved for the night at all. The hosts don’t seem to mind, though, simply happy to have more people over to party.

In typical fashion, Shane and Ilya are inseparable for most of the night. The place is so packed that their friends only make about 60% of the amount of comments expected when Shane plants himself in Ilya’s lap to make way for Svetlana and Troy’s late arrival and then subsequently returns to nursing his beer. Ilya, of course, isn’t making any complaints either, as it’s really easy for Shane to hear him over the noise of the rowdy New Year’s Eve party when he poises his chin on Shane’s shoulder and speaks directly into Shane’s ear.

They’re light and giggly the whole time, truly too comfortable in each other’s space, until Rose and Hayden finally get fed up and whisk Shane away to force him into participating in the party games. Shane’s face is screaming rescue, but Ilya only waves at him in delight, allowing him to be dragged away. Shane needs it, honestly. Not long after, meanwhile, Ilya gets pulled in by his STEM crowd into their own shenanigans.

Shane and Ilya reunite at midnight. In hindsight, Ilya should’ve been able to tell from Shane’s expression that he was probably gonna ask to go home together already, but at the time he had been rather preoccupied. See, it’s midnight, which means New Year’s kisses.

Once the screaming countdown culminates and the clock strikes twelve, the music explodes. Ilya kisses or is kissed by a whole bunch of people, women and men, STEM and humanities and business, and he’s very happy to do all of it. Up until he notices Shane by the bar with an unreadable expression that certainly doesn’t look like anything positive.

And that just won’t do. It’s a new year! So Ilya waves him over, beckoning him closer and calling, “Shane! Shane! Here!” all while grinning wildly. Oh, he’ll get his best friend into a celebratory mood all right.

Shane reluctantly makes his way closer, and once he’s close enough, Ilya drags him in by the wrist.

“Ilya, what—”

And Ilya, in pure elation with no other intent behind it, truly, leans in and kisses Shane full on the lips in front of everybody. At first, Shane is still, and Ilya starts to pull back… but then he springs into action, hauling Ilya in by the waist and suddenly kissing back ravenously. His lips move against Ilya’s like a man starved, and the intensity is genuinely surprising. Somehow, Ilya never thought this is the way someone like Shane kisses.

Tongues get involved, Ilya seeking entry past his best friend’s eager lips, which is enthusiastically granted. They essentially make out for way too long and way too intensely, to wolf whistles and cheers from their friends and strangers alike. And Ilya is just too buzzed at this point to be able to register the strangeness of it. Shane is touching him everywhere, hands wandering anywhere he can possibly reach, and Ilya follows his lead, groping blindly as they devour each other’s mouths.

It then distantly registers, in the back of Ilya’s mind, that this might be one of the best kisses he’s ever had. But he tries not to think about that too much.

They part for air finally, and Ilya, likely glowing from jubilation if how tingly and giggly he currently feels is any indication, simply tells Shane with a smile: “Happy New Year.”

Shane echoes it back, but his voice sounds distant, and his face is screwed up into yet another complicated expression, and no, this isn’t what Ilya had intended at all. It’s New Year’s! The mood should be all-party. But before he can say anything more, Shane is retreating and making a beeline towards the bar. He’s speaking to the bartender with much urgency, and Ilya gets distracted by the crowd again.

By the time he sees Shane next, he’s being hauled around by a put-upon Rose and Hayden in search of Ilya. According to them, Shane has gone and gotten himself nearly blackout drunk, lost most of his inhibitions, and is now insisting he won’t go home with anyone else.

“Ilyaaa!” Shane launches himself at Ilya, leaning heavily onto him in a hug. Ilya catches his weight with no small amount of effort. “Let’s go home now please!”

And all Ilya can do is laugh at his best friend’s adorableness. Now, this is a rare breed of Shane Hollander. One to be treasured, surely. “Of course, of course,” he tells him fondly. It’s only later that it occurs to Ilya that Shane had called Ilya’s apartment home.

Shane is very giggly and touchy the whole drive home, not giving Ilya a single moment of peace. Once they get to the apartment, though, Shane refuses to freshen up or go to bed, planting himself firmly on the couch and insisting Ilya come too.

Ilya huffs indulgently and obliges, sitting beside Shane in the only partially lit room. But then, Shane swings a leg over Ilya’s thighs and climbs onto his lap, straddling him.

Shane leans in awfully close, winding his arms around Ilya’s nape and playing with his curls. He asks, “Tell me, if I were one of your clients, what would you do to me?”

Ilya’s not sure what’s going on right now with Shane exactly, but it’s obvious enough that he's horny; Ilya can feel him hard against his stomach. He’s also drunk. Well, they both are, but Ilya still has some mental faculties left.

And the Shane whom Ilya knows is not attracted to him. Thus, it must just be that Shane probably hasn’t gotten laid in a bit and, in his severely inebriated state, is taking this out on Ilya. And so, Ilya does not indulge the ridiculous question. “Shanya, if you were my client, you would not even know my real name. Would you prefer that?”

Shane pouts. “Nooo! I love your name.” He whispers it sultrily. “Ilya.” And then more playfully. “Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. It’s sexy.”

Ilya can’t help chuckling at that. “Thank you?”

“Hey,” Shane says, planting his palms on Ilya’s shoulders to indicate his seriousness. “Would you kiss me again? Ilya.”

Ilya shakes his head. “Not if you’re this drunk.”

Shane wilts. “I’m not that drunk!”

Ilya snorts. “Shane Hollander, you are very, very, very drunk. But when you are not, we can talk about this tomorrow, so let’s go to bed now, yes?”

Shane grumbles a bit at first but eventually says, “Okay,” leaning back on Ilya’s lap and giving him a little breathing room. Ilya uses this to get one leg out from under Shane’s thighs so he can have the leverage to stand, lifting Shane up bridal style and carrying him to the bedroom.

Ilya wrangles Shane onto the bed and tucks him in, but when it’s time for Ilya to do his nightly routine, Shane won’t let him go at first. He whines, “Ilya, noooo, don’t go…” with the most lethal puppy eyes mankind has ever seen, gripping one of Ilya’s arms in both of his own.

“Shanya, I will be back. I promise. Ok?” He tries to reassure.

They enter a staredown. Shane looks up at him intensely, as if trying to gauge his sincerity. Seemingly finding what he must’ve been looking for, he nods resolutely at last and says, “Okay. Be quick please.”

Ilya chuckles. “Of course.”

Once Shane is tucked securely under the covers and has been reassured a few more times that Ilya will be beside him soon, Ilya exits the room and changes, freshens up, brushes his teeth. Afterward, he lingers outside the door, conflicted.

Shane is still touchy, and there’s no telling if he’ll make a move again—one that the Shane whom Ilya knows would most certainly regret in the morning.

With this logic, Ilya plops down on his couch instead and falls asleep.

The next morning, Ilya is woken up by Shane—super hungover—padding sleepily around the apartment. Little words are exchanged as they help each other through their morning routines at first. They only start talking halfway through breakfast, once they’d both had enough coffee.

Shane clears his throat awkwardly after swallowing a mouthful of tomato omelette. “Um. I didn’t—do anything embarrassing last night, did I? ‘Cause I remember hassling you a lot and then passing out.”

Ilya takes another sip of coffee and says, very carefully, “Not really. You were just very drunk.”

Shane almost seems disappointed by that answer, but Ilya for the life of him can’t fathom why. “Oh. And, uh, why’d you sleep on the couch?”

Ilya shrugs. “Guess after my routine I just did not make it to bed,” he lies again.

Shane is silent for a long moment, staring at his plate. Then, he shakes his head and blinks rapidly a few times. “Right. Um. I gotta get back soon. Thanks for letting me crash again.”

“You are always welcome here,” Ilya tells him, this time sincerely.

“I hope so,” Shane says, and if Ilya were the overthinking type, he’d call the smile Shane gives him as… ‘pained.’

Things are weird for a bit after that morning. Shane doesn’t come over at all the following week, and they hardly see each other at the university, but on the tenth day, he finally texts Ilya to tell him Matt’s kicked him out again. He sounds as casual about it as he usually does, so Ilya is only all too relieved by the signal to return to their status quo.

>>> Present day >>>

Scott Hunter is hosting a house party. It seems to be to celebrate him being accepted to a postdoc, something or other. Ilya wasn’t paying the most attention.

Hunter lives in a nice house—a real one, not an apartment—centrally located in the city proper, not too far from the university itself, and with a spacious interior and a big yard. Overall, perfect for such events. Still, Ilya hadn’t pegged him as the type to throw a house party necessarily. He just didn’t seem like it, but oh well, we’re all wrong sometimes.

Ilya, because he’s apparently a masochist and has nothing better to do (like oh, he doesn’t know, his fucking thesis maybe?), is one of the first to arrive, but even then, he couldn’t beat Shane’s punctuality.

Shane has been busy all evening playing host like he’s Hunter’s spouse or something and the keeper of his household and fireside. He greets new arrivals, guides people to various places they want or need to go, and goes around offering everyone food and drinks occasionally. He acts like he knows the place like the back of his hand and has been here a million times—which. Ilya doesn’t actually know if that’s true or not. It’s certainly possible, what with Shane never going to Ilya’s apartment at all lately. 

It makes Ilya sick to his stomach—the way Shane moves like this is his home, too. Is it uncharacteristically good acting? Is that just how he is with guys he’s friends with? Shane had said that he wouldn’t do a lot of the things he does with Ilya with Hunter or anyone else. That Ilya’s different. Special. But did he even mean that? Or did he change his mind already?

It eats Ilya from the inside out, and never more so after his renewed acknowledgement to himself that he really does want everything with Shane, but he’ll take anything he can get since Shane wanting him in the same way is evidently off the table. Friends is still the number one thing, Ilya finds that he needs to keep reminding himself. He wants his best friend back. His best friend who won’t see him as anything else or anything more. The way they were before was great, and that’s really all Ilya wants. All he can realistically have.

To distract himself from the spiral of thoughts, Ilya takes to trying to get Shane’s attention in a way that blatantly flouts the “not too much touchiness” rule Shane had set. He all but begs Shane to dance with him at one point, insisting that “Come on, your boyfriend doesn’t mind, does he?” to put Hunter in a corner to possibly appear too possessive, guaranteeing his approval and encouragement to tip a reluctant Shane over the fence.

As their bodies move against each other to the music and the people who know them in the crowd stare at the not-exactly-platonic display, Ilya lets the rest of the world narrow to just Shane and himself. For the duration of the song, Ilya’s entire world is composed of: Shane’s freckles dusted a faint pink from the drink or two he’s had, Shane’s messy and slightly sweaty hair from being all over the house herding people around, Shane’s carefree smile as he lets himself let loose around Ilya (no touching rules temporarily discarded), Shane’s sparkling brown eyes as he tries to one-up Ilya’s moves. By the end of the song, they’re panting and giggling into each other’s shoulders, and Shane has his arms wound around Ilya’s neck and is looking at him with pure delight and wonder. This. This is what Ilya had been missing.

But he can’t have it for long—because, soon enough, Shane is letting go. “I should check on the second floor, but thanks. I needed that.”

Ilya forces a smile. “Of course. I knew you needed a break.”

“Come find me when any of our friends get here, ‘kay?” Is the last thing Shane says, waving as he walks away in the direction of the stairs.

Ilya is unable to follow those instructions, however, as Rose barrels past him to get to Shane and Hayden, Troy, and Wyatt get there once Shane is already downstairs again. Once Svetlana arrives to complete their little clique, Ilya pretty much drags her out to the balcony for a smoke.

Svetlana has little sympathy for Ilya’s plight, but he knew that. All she says is she’s not here for a pity party after they finish their first sticks. Then, she pats him on the shoulder—hard—and returns to the party, leaving Ilya alone.

Ilya finds the idea of returning inside, where Shane and Hunter are now glued at the hip, beyond unappealing, so he stays and keeps smoking. A couple strangers come in and out at different points, exchanging companionable glances and nods with Ilya as a fellow smoker, but that’s the extent of their interaction.

Incredibly, out of all people, it’s Hunter who finds him next.

Ilya eyes him warily. “You smoke too?” He asks, tipping his stick at him for emphasis.

Hunter chuckles lightly and shakes his head. “Ah, no, I vape.”

That somehow makes perfect fucking sense. “Of course you do.”

“But that’s not why I’m here,” Hunter says. “Just needed to get away for a bit, y’know?”

Ilya raises an eyebrow at him. “Is your party.” He takes a drag of his cigarette. “What, tired of congratulations?”

“Partly that, yeah. But what about you? Haven’t seen you inside in a while. I didn’t take you for a chain smoker." Hunter tries for a teasing sort of tone, but it kind of falls flat to Ilya’s ears. They’re just not close like that, and Ilya doubts they ever will be.

Ilya only grunts in response. He doesn’t particularly feel like explaining that he’s only driven to something resembling chain smoking by emotional distress, the exact same vice his mother once had.

“Wow,” Hunter exhales a surprised laugh. “You really don’t like me, huh?”

“Am I supposed to?” Ilya shoots back with more venom than is justifiable, which would be approximately zero.

Hunter’s smile doesn’t waver. “Shane told me you know it’s fake, okay? You can chill, man. I’m not taking him from you.”

Ilya scoffs, which is punctuated visually by cigarette smoke. “He is not mine to take.” No matter how much I may wish he were.

That elicits another bark of laughter from Hunter. “All right, sure, man. If you say so.”

Ilya gestures with his cigarette stick. “There is no ‘say so.’ Shane is not interested in me that way.”

“But you are, in him?” Hunter replies without missing a beat, eyes twinkling in amusement.

“No,” Ilya lies. “If he does not want me, why should I bother? We are friends. That is plenty. No reason to pointlessly want more.”

“Uh-huh,” Hunter says.

After Hunter goes back inside, Ilya is left with the distinct feeling of being defeated in that interaction.

A while later, Ilya reenters the party as well once he runs out of cigarettes. He doesn’t dare try to count how many he smoked for the hour and a half or so he’d stayed out. However, it quickly turns out to have been the wrong decision.

The crowd in the living room is playing some sort of game involving cards and drinks and who knows what else, with Shane and Hunter at the center of it. Everyone’s chanting at them, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

Okay. Maybe what Ilya really needs is a new pack of cigarettes. And he might just smoke all the sticks at once, even—because after some token refusals and reluctance against PDA, the happy couple obliges the people’s demand.

Shane allows himself to be kissed on the lips, and not just a quick peck, either. It’s a proper kiss, deep and lingering, and Hunter clearly knows what he’s doing because he’s able to make Shane respond in kind—grin into it, even.

Ilya feels far away from his body, like he’s one thing and his body’s another, and he’s not quite inhabiting it anymore. The inside of his head feels like TV static. The inside of his chest feels like it’s being carved out with a fucking meat cleaver.

And the worst part is—it’s fake. Ilya knows it’s fucking fake. It’s all for show. But it looks real enough. And someday, someday soon, it will be real. Shane will get a real boyfriend—because it’s not like he’s gonna stay single forever and keep sleeping over in Ilya’s bed and eating his cooking platonically till they both die of old age. No. One of these days, Shane is going to meet someone he likes for real, someone who isn’t a kinky fuckboy, and he’s going to fall in love and then Ilya won’t even get to have the slice of Shane’s time and attention he’s currently missing. Ilya is going to lose Shane, and the mere thought of it makes him want to crash his car into a fucking power line.

Imagining Shane dating, kissing, falling in love with someone else—Ilya can’t take it. He can’t take it if it’s anyone but himself. But Shane isn’t fucking into him like that.

So yeah, the month of the bet is almost over, and soon Shane and Hunter are going to fake break up, and Shane is going to take Ilya to the fucking aquarium—but then what? It’s only a matter of time until this fake taste of a nightmare becomes very, very real. Fuck. Goddamn it all.

Ilya inadvertently makes eye contact with Shane once he parts from Hunter, and he’s probably making some sort of hideous expression—because the moment Shane spots him, his smile fucking drops. But Ilya can’t bear to look at him for even a second longer.

And so he turns away from the crowd and books it out of the house, jogging to his car and getting the fuck away from there.

The thought of his own apartment right now makes him sick too. The whole space is just a big Shane-shaped hole, from his couch to his kitchen to his stupid new coffeemaker to his empty fucking bed. He really does sleep measurably better when he’s beside Shane, and now he knows why. It’s because he loves Shane and the thought of him with anyone else causes Ilya actual physical pain.

And he doesn’t think he can survive that tonight, so he goes to Svetlana’s instead.

She had only popped by for a quick visit to the party, so she’ll have been home for a bit once Ilya gets there. It’s a tiny miracle he managed to drive that far out at all, really, with how many times he had to blink back tears while behind the wheel.

In any case, Svetlana takes one look at Ilya before ushering him inside to her couch, wrapping him up in a blanket, and offering him a pint of ice cream—which he eagerly accepts.

“Talk?” She asks after Ilya had downed half the pint in wordless silence.

Ilya shakes his head, and she sighs.

He spends the night in her guest room, still blinking away moisture in his eyes up until the moment he manages to find fitful sleep.

>>> The next morning >>>

Ilya wakes up feeling not very well-rested at all. First, he is awoken way too early, with the sun not even fully in the sky yet and Svetlana still dozing based on how quiet the apartment is. Second, he knows he dreamt about Shane. The exact details of the dream are hazy, but it was likely something smitten and domestic, which is at the same time such an unattainable fantasy yet so close to what he already had before this whole fake dating business started that he aches with it. And third, his immediate cope for that is the following thought: he needs to grab his gear bag and head for the agency. A session with a client would put him out of these kinds of thoughts, at least temporarily, and then he could sulk in peace later in the day. However, his gear bag’s at home.

Resolving to face his dreaded apartment, Ilya goes through a condensed morning routine of sorts, leaves his dear Sveta a note, and gets in his car.

Well.

At the very least, Ilya doesn’t feel like crying anymore.

Progress?

It’s a relatively short drive to his apartment building, but whatever internal fortitude he may have built during it instantly disappears the moment he spots Shane’s almost-never-used car in the goddamn parking lot.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

Why is he here? Did he just get here? Will he leave if Ilya waits a bit?

But… Shane is in his apartment. Shane hasn’t been in Ilya’s apartment in weeks. And now he is.

Ilya wants to see him. Of course Ilya wants to see him. Ilya always wants to see Shane. And hold him. And make him laugh. And—

Focus.

(Who knew being consciously in love is such a drain on cognitive capacity?)

Ok. Here’s the plan: Ilya will enter his own apartment, find out what Shane wants, and try not to die.

And when Ilya finally does enter the threshold of the place, he expects to find a newly arrived Shane who’d barely missed him. But that is the farthest from the actuality, as the Shane that greets him upon entering is one asleep on Ilya’s couch, still in last night’s clothes.

Fuck.

He was here all night? He followed Ilya after he ran away? But why?

Ilya does not have time to ponder these questions for long because the sound of his arrival stirs Shane into wakefulness. Shane, upon opening his eyes a crack and noticing Ilya in the doorway, fucking bolts upright to envelop Ilya in a hug.

“Ilya,” he breathes into Ilya’s curls. Ilya’s hands hang limply at his side, his mind still too stunned to catch up to what’s currently happening. Shane pulls back to regard him. “Where were you? Why weren’t you home? Did you see my texts?”

“Was at Svetlana’s,” Ilya says, somewhat flat and distant, partly still processing. “Did not feel like going home. No, battery dead.”

Shane smooths the wrinkles on the shoulders of Ilya’s shirt. “God, I was so worried. You have no idea. Don’t scare me like that, Ilya.”

“I’m sorry, Shanya,” Ilya says automatically because he really is just a weak, weak man, and his heart lurches at the sight and sound of his Shane in distress. “But why are you here? What about Hunter’s party?”

Shane looks at him like he’s an idiot. “What about the party? You were upset, I couldn’t just—” He stops himself, takes a deep breath, and looks up at Ilya carefully. “Why didn’t you feel like going home last night?”

Ilya’s gaze darts away, but Shane turns that gaze back on him with his thumb and forefinger at Ilya’s chin. “Tell me,” he prompts softly.

Ilya sighs. Fuck it. “Because even alone in my own bed all I would think about was you. And I did not want to think about you last night.”

Shane’s breath hitches. “Ilya…” He swallows. “Okay—and this is really important—why not?” He’s still holding Ilya’s face. Ilya doesn’t think he ever wants him to stop.

“Fuck,” Ilya mutters. “Is it not fucking obvious?”

Shane shakes his head. His eyes are shining. “No. It’s really, really not. So I need you to tell me. Please, Ilya.”

He’s gonna have to fucking say it, isn’t he?

Ilya bites the bullet, and the words come out more naturally than he ever could’ve thought they would: “I am in love with you, Shane Hollander. I hate your stupid fucking fake boyfriend and I am fucking terrified of the day you will get a real one.”

“Fuck,” Shane says. He turns his gaze to the ceiling. “Fuck!” He inhales deeply. “For how long? Because no way you felt that way during fucking New Year’s.”

Ilya shakes his head and gestures. “I don’t know. Maybe in a way, since first time I saw you?”

“But that’s impossible,” Shane says. “‘Cause why did you lie and say I didn’t do anything the morning after New Year’s? I came onto you! And you pretended like it didn’t happen!”

“Because I thought you were just drunk and would regret it next morning!” Ilya shoots back. “I knew you were not into me, so I thought it was just alcohol.”

“Not into you?” Shane says incredulously. “Oh, fucking please.”

Ilya scoffs. “Oh, now you are? Why didn’t you choose me to be your fake boyfriend, then?”

Red in the face, Shane exclaims, “Because it would hurt me too much that it wasn’t real! God, can you imagine? You being all over me, acting like the sweetest boyfriend just to ham it up in front of our friends, and then once we’re alone, I have to act like we’re just friends again and none of that happened? It would’ve been fucking torture, Ilya. I couldn’t do that to myself.”

Very quietly, Ilya asks, “Torture why?”

Shane smiles, eyes wet. “Because I’m in love with you, Ilya Rozanov. I have been since forever, and I’m pretty sure everyone except you knows.”

Ilya blinks. “But… you don’t go for guys like me.”

Shane laughs, a little manic. “And you don’t date at all! How do you think I felt?”

“Okay…” Ilya says slowly. “So we are both stupid and wasted months.”

Shane softens. “Hey. I wouldn’t call months spent being your best friend ‘wasted.’”

Ilya shakes his head. They’re so close now, almost nose to nose. “But to think that I could have been kissing you this whole time…”

“Then do it,” Shane challenges. “Kiss me, Rozanov.”

Rozanov does, and it’s everything and nothing like New Year’s. It feels like magic, Shane’s lips against his own. It feels like winning a million dollars, the way Shane smiles into the kiss and winds his arms around Ilya’s neck, his hands finding Ilya’s curls and playing with them while Ilya does his best to ravish him with his mouth. It feels like Christmas morning, being able to savor and catalogue all the little noises Shane makes, the moans and breaths and whines—and god, he’s just so expressive.

When they part, Shane grins and says, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

Ilya shrugs. “I might have some idea,” he says, and starts peppering Shane’s neck with kisses. He starts with little pecks, but they gradually linger and deepen until he’s suckling intently at the junction between Shane’s neck and shoulder, and Shane is moaning his approval as he fists Ilya’s shirt in his hands.

Shane giggles and pulls away suddenly. “Wait, wait, wait! Ilya!” Ilya reluctantly complies and detaches himself from Shane’s lovely neck. “I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet!”

Ilya groans. “I don’t care. I am making up for lost time.” He pecks Shane on the nose, then again on the corner of his mouth, then on the side of his jaw.

Shane melts a little under the attention but ultimately holds fast. “Let me freshen up first at least. Okay?”

Shane freshens up. Ilya waits right by the doorway to the bathroom with crossed arms, and Shane, seeing him through the sink mirror, shakes his head at him in disapproval. “You’re insatiable,” he tells him.

“You will have to get used to it,” Ilya smirks.

Shane turns, leaning on the sink, and finds himself welcomed into Ilya’s arms as Ilya steps forward. “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he murmurs, their lips inches apart before Ilya closes the distance once again.

They kiss sweetly for a while, languid and unhurried, but things gain heat and urgency when Ilya moves down to Shane’s neck again and starts shamelessly groping him through his clothes.

“Ilya, fuck…” Shane moans, so unbelievably pretty with the color of his cheeks and the tone of his voice.

“Again,” Ilya demands. “Say my name.”

“Ilya,” Shane obliges him, his voice low and seductive. “Take me to bed?”

By now, Ilya knows he’s rock hard. And he lets Shane get a good feel of it as he lifts him by the hips and carries him out of the bathroom. Shane gasps at first, then quickly gets with the program and wraps his legs around Ilya’s waist, clinging on for dear life.

Ilya navigates his apartment by feel alone, unable to stop kissing Shane for even a moment. Shane, for his part, kisses back just as hungrily, fingers threading enthusiastically through Ilya’s curls. Ilya’s beginning to notice that might be his favorite spot. Has Shane been holding back this whole time?

Once they’re in bed, clothes come off quickly.

“Off, off, off,” Shane demands, fumbling with the zipper of Ilya’s pants. “Wanna taste you so bad.” He glances quickly up at Ilya through his lashes. “Is that okay?”

“If you keep looking at me like that, I will not even make it to when you get your mouth on me, Shanya,” Ilya tells him, which earns another laugh.

They get rid of the last of their clothes, but once they’re naked, they just kind of… stare at each other in wonder and disbelief.

“You’re beautiful,” Ilya says, breathless at the full extent of Shane’s skin, flushed beautifully pink all over as he shyly tries to hide himself under the heat of Ilya’s gaze.

“C’mere, please,” Shane says, a little choked up himself.

And Ilya goes to him, covering him with his body and mapping out his charm points and erogenous zones with exploratory kisses, eliciting the most wonderful sounds from a blissed-out Shane.

When Ilya finally makes it to Shane’s dick, hard and weeping, and runs his tongue along the underside of it, Shane groans and says, “Fuck. I wanted to do that first.”

Tonguing at Shane’s slit, Ilya tells him smugly, “Too slow.”

That lights a fire in Shane’s eyes, and he makes Ilya pull off, then flips them over so that he’s on top and at face level with Ilya’s abdomen. “You were saying?”

“Fuck, Shane. Do it,” Ilya pleads.

Shane’s mouth is a revelation. He’s an artist at sucking dick and a bit of a show-off, too. He takes Ilya in deep with unblinking, practiced ease, and keeps searing eye contact all the while.

Ilya really does not last very long, gripping Shane’s hair to guide him away once he’s close, but Shane whines in protest, burying his nose at the base of Ilya’s aching cock and gripping Ilya’s hips to keep him where he is.

That does it. Ilya comes hard with a groan, and Shane moans pleasurably as Ilya’s release paints his tongue an obscene sticky white. He swallows it all, painting a perfectly seductive picture as he wipes at the side of his lip with a finger, all innocent and carefree. Fuck. Ilya might get hard again soon.

Ilya pulls Shane up urgently to capture his lips, making him laugh once more with the sheer eagerness of it.

As soon as his breathing evens out, Ilya takes his turn, flipping them again and blowing and fingering Shane until he’s gasping and writhing under him, his legs shaking as he comes down Ilya’s throat. Ilya savors every twitch, every sound, every minute loss of control from the man he loves and has wanted for so, so long.

Afterward, they lay on their sides, and it’s exactly like what they’ve always done whenever they’re in Ilya’s bed together, but the difference is now Ilya can kiss Shane whenever he wants, and so can Shane, and both of them take full advantage of this fact. Though, it’s a bit hard to get some good kisses going when both can’t really stop smiling.

After their lips part for the nth time that morning, Shane whispers, “Fuck me?” sounding so adorably nervous and unsure as if there was ever a chance in hell that Ilya wouldn’t do whatever he asked or didn’t want it just as much. And if Ilya wasn’t hard again before, he sure as day is now.

Ilya takes his sweet time opening Shane up, playing him like an instrument to coax out all the prettiest noises. He’s generous with the lube and takes perverse pleasure in the slick and squelching sounds as he prepares Shane’s tight hole to take his cock. He keeps at it until Shane is panting and whining, begging for Ilya to “Get in me already, please.”

Ilya chuckles at him but obliges, reaching into the nightstand for a condom.

“Um,” interrupts Shane.

Ilya regards him in question. “Yes?”

“Can you… not?” He’s blushing furiously as he asks.

A thrill runs down Ilya’s spine. “No condom? Are you sure?” He makes sure to ask clearly, the professional in him taking over.

Shane nods bashfully. “It’s just… when I always imagined this happening, you didn’t use one. Is that all right?”

Ilya kisses him on the forehead. “Beyond all right. Oh, Shane, you have no idea how much I’ve wanted to feel you.”

Shane kisses him, long and lingering.

They’re face to face, foreheads touching, as Ilya lines himself up with Shane’s opening. Once the blunt head of his cock starts to breach the tight ring of muscle that is Shane’s hole, he checks in, “Ok?”

Shane nods a bit frantically. “Please,” he whispers, and his head rolls back into the pillow as Ilya finally pushes in.

Ilya can’t take his eyes off of him. Shane looks at him like being filled, and by Ilya specifically, is the greatest feeling imaginable. He takes cock like he was born for it. He opens beautifully underneath Ilya, blooming pink and sweaty and so lost in bliss even as Ilya isn’t even touching his cock. However Ilya imagined this might’ve gone has nothing on the reality of actually fucking Shane, on splitting him open and pounding him into the sheets. He’s so sweet and so gorgeous. He’s absolutely perfect.

Neither of them last particularly long. Shane comes first, spilling between their stomachs, completely untouched. He drags his nails down Ilya’s back as he does so, writhing as he loses himself to the pleasure.

Not long after, Ilya’s thrusts are speeding up as he chases his release from Shane’s oversensitive hole, jackrabbiting into him with slightly desperate grunts.

Shane doesn’t even give him a chance to pull out this time, locking his legs around Ilya’s hips and meeting Ilya’s eyes to tell him, “Inside.”

Ilya kisses him as he comes, licking into Shane’s mouth like he’s a drink of water as his release warmly coats the deepest parts of Shane.

They keep kissing for a long, long time, savoring each other, as they both come down from the high.

In the aftermath, Shane lies half on top of Ilya, his head pillowed on Ilya’s pec as he absentmindedly traces nonsensical shapes and patterns into Ilya’s skin.

“Um, so,” he starts awkwardly.

“Mm?” Ilya rumbles in response, still feeling a little spacey from his orgasms.

Shane finally spits it out. “W-Would it feel too much like work if I said I wanted you to dom me sometimes too? In bed?” It’s his turn to avert his eyes.

Ilya chuckles indulgently. “Shanya, I do not know if you noticed, but I already use my dom voice on you, when I just cannot help it. Is not always intentional, even. I do not think we will have a problem.”

“Wait a minute…” Shane blinks. “Oh my god! You totally do! How did I not notice?!” He runs a hand over his face. “This is embarrassing, oh my god.”

Now, they’re both laughing.

>>> Some time later… >>>

Ilya exits the conference room with his bookbound thesis and laptop in hand, his defense finally behind him. In the hallway waiting for him is a nervous Shane, who lights up at the sight of him.

“Ilya, baby, how’d it go?” He asks excitedly.

Ilya swallows, residual anxiety still lingering at the back of his throat. “Good, I think. Theriault smiled for, like, 0.5 seconds before he remembered he is supposed to be bad cop.”

That gets a chuckle out of Shane, and he takes Ilya’s laptop as they begin to walk to the outside. “We’re even, then, I think. LeClaire clapped politely at the end of mine.”

Shane’s own thesis defense was two days ago. He’d been an absolute mess before and after, requiring Ilya to step up and diffuse as much of those nerves as he could. He did his best, of course, but ultimately the material of Shane’s master’s thesis was great, so he really had nothing to worry about in the grand scheme of things.

The celebratory sex afterward had been incredible, too, of course. It had also been preceded by the fanciest dinner Ilya could think to make, with all of Shane’s favorites.

For today, the plan is to meet up at Prism with all their friends, most of whom had already had their defenses as well either two days ago or today. The only holdout remaining is Rose, who’ll have hers tomorrow. Still, she’ll be there to unload her own nerves and unwind after the year’s worth of work on her thesis.

When they get to the bar, Shane now completely shamelessly takes his throne of a seat on Ilya’s lap—his real, not-fake boyfriend’s lap—regardless of the boos and groans he’s met with.

“You know what?” Remarks Wyatt. “This isn’t even that far off from how you guys were already like. I have no complaints.”

“Speak for yourself, buddy,” says Hayden. “I’m proudly identifying as homophobic if this is the one couple in our friend group.”

“Jealousy is a disease, Pike,” Ilya tells him, his chin propped up on Shane’s shoulder as he rests his hands on the curve of Shane’s waist. Shane leans into him in turn.

“Y’know, I really thought you’d ask Ilya to be the fake boyfriend,” says Rose. “Then I could finally take credit for being the one who got you two together. But there goes Shane blindsiding me with the Scott curveball.” As she says the last part, she bumps shoulders with the man in question beside her.

“To be clear, I was surprised too. I thought Shane here was trying to make Ilya jealous, but the truth is so much worse and more convoluted,” Scott supplies. “I think you lot have the right approach of letting Shane-and-Ilya oddities be Shane-and-Ilya oddities.” He takes a sip of his fruity cocktail.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Shane asks.

Ilya pecks him on the cheek. “It means our love is special and they are all jealous, милый.”

Shane turns a beautiful shade of pink. “Oh. Then, they’re right to be.”

Another chorus of boos and groans from around their table, with Ilya being the only one contributing mirthful laughter.

Later in the night, upon reaching home, the accumulated sexual tension from the whole evening crests, and Shane and Ilya are unable to keep their hands off each other. They’re laughing and kissing as they try to take off each other’s clothes, and once they’re down to underwear, Shane smirks and asks, “So, is there anything you want from me tonight, as a reward?”

Ilya grins back and lets his voice slip into a familiar register that he knows for a fact will soon turn Shane’s spine to jelly. “Get on your knees…”

fin.