Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

January 

If anyone had asked Shane a month ago to describe his apartment, he would have said it was perfect. He lives in a rent-controlled two bedroom, one bath in a stately historical building that boasts large windows, original wood flooring, and a partial view of the river. The neighborhood is quiet yet centrally located, and Shane’s unit is on the top floor, which means no noisy upstairs neighbors or tall buildings blocking the flow of natural light into his home. 

The only other unit on the floor has been “occupied” by the same resident for over a decade. Madame Lezotte is a retired travel agent who spends three-quarters of the year in France with family. When she does stay at the apartment, she keeps strict quiet hours after 8 p.m. and almost never has guests over. 

This apartment—which he’s inhabited for nearly two years—is the first home that Shane has ever made by himself, without his parents or roommates. He loves everything about it. Though the building itself is over a century old, the appliances are new and Shane has a large, stainless steel fridge with plenty of room for his stacked meal prep containers and fresh vegetables. It’s only a ten-minute metro ride to the office, which means Shane doesn’t need a car or to pay for a parking spot. When the weather permits, he spends the weekends going on runs along the river and buying fresh produce at the neighborhood farmer’s market. 

It’s a pretty ideal existence for someone like Shane Hollander. 

That is, until the new guy moves in next door. 

The worst part is that no one warns Shane that his life is about to change. He goes home for the holidays to visit his parents and by the time he returns, Madame Lezotte has already moved out. She doesn’t even leave Shane a goodbye note. 

Shane’s last performance review at work was glowing, save for one area of improvement: embracing change. 

So this is kind of his worst nightmare. 

For the first week of the new year, Shane paces around his apartment and tries to quell the anxiety swirling in his stomach. He doesn’t have enough data to tell him whether the guy next door will end up being a good neighbor or a problem. What he’s overheard through their shared wall has Shane worried. The guy next door—I. Rozanov, according to the mailbox in the lobby—is nothing like Madame Lezotte. 

Shane has overheard the sound of heavy furniture and boxes being pushed around, sometimes as late as midnight. He’s overheard a deep male voice talking on the phone, sometimes in English and sometimes in what Shane thinks might be Russian. He’s overheard at least two female guests being “entertained” loudly (and pleasurably) by his neighbor. He’s overheard a movie playing at high volume on the TV, with lots of deafening explosions and police sirens. 

Every time Shane hears footsteps in the shared hallway, he runs to the peephole to try and catch a glimpse of his neighbor. He never manages to see his face, but what he does observe makes Shane even more nervous. His neighbor is tall, with curly light brown hair and a well-muscled body—at least when viewed from behind. He moves with an easy swagger that Shane could never hope to emulate. 

Shane finds himself wishing that another elderly woman had moved in next door. He knows how to handle that kind of neighbor.

He doesn’t know how it’s going to go with someone so… physically imposing. 

He wonders, nerves and anticipation warring inside him, when they’re going to officially meet. 

It happens on Thursday night at 11:36 p.m., two weeks after I. Rozanov moves in. 

Shane is already in bed. He’s not quite asleep, but is well on the way thanks to his pre-bedtime cup of chamomile tea, white noise machine, and sleep meditation app. He’s taking deep, slow, breaths and relaxing all the muscles in his body when techno music starts thumping through his bedroom wall with all the subtlety of a herd of elephants. 

He almost jumps out of his skin. 

“What the hell?”

The bass is so loud that Shane’s headboard vibrates against the wall. He sits up, suddenly wide awake and buzzing with righteous indignation. 

Fuck. This. Guy. 

Shane has been trying to withhold judgment about his new neighbor all week, but this is a bridge too far. No one gets to mess with Shane’s perfectly calibrated bedtime routine. No one gets to lower his sleep score so that he has to overcompensate with caffeine at work tomorrow.

Shane is not usually a confrontational person, but he’s making an exception tonight. If he doesn’t nip this kind of inconsiderate behavior in the bud, Rozanov will continue to disrupt his peace because he’s clearly an asshole. 

That’s it. He’s going over there. 

Shane stands in the hallway, still dressed in his pajamas. He raps on the door three times. 

No one answers. Shane isn’t surprised considering the volume of the music thumping on the other side. He tries again, harder this time. 

“I know you’re in there! Don’t you know the city noise ordinance goes into effect at 11?” 

Shane doesn’t yell, exactly. He just says it in a louder-than-usual voice. Angrily. 

There’s a pause before the volume on the music turns down—not all the way, but enough so that the thumping bass doesn’t set Shane’s teeth on edge anymore—and he hears the sounds of footsteps coming closer. A moment later, the door swings inward and Shane has his first close-up look at his neighbor.

Who is very tall. And insanely hot. And shirtless. 

Fucking hell. 

He’s an asshole, Shane’s brain reminds him as he takes in piercing hazel eyes, a chiseled jaw, and that ridiculously muscled torso. I mean, wow. Obviously. But still an asshole.

“Hello,” the man says in a Russian accent. He tilts his head appraisingly, looking Shane up and down. “And you are…?” 

The man—Rozanov, presumably—doesn’t look mad to find a random man banging on his door and shouting about noise ordinances. 

He looks curious. 

Shane tries to school his features into a stern expression. He feels at a disadvantage here up against his shirtless Adonis of a neighbor. He wishes he had thought to change out of the Christmas pajamas his mom bought him. 

“I’m your next door neighbor,” Shane says. “You know, the person you share walls with? You’re playing your music too loud and some of us are trying to sleep.” 

He waits for the man to apologize, promise to turn down his music, and shut the door. That’s what Shane would do if one of his neighbors complained about him. He’d also send them an exorbitantly expensive gift basket before promptly dying of mortification or moving out of the country. 

Rozanov doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, he braces one arm against the doorframe and leans forward, looming over Shane and invading his space. 

“What a nice welcome to neighborhood,” Rozanov says. His tone is light, teasing. Shane swallows and resolves not to take a step back. He is not going to let this guy physically intimidate him. “Are you building police, S. Hollander?”

And wow, this guy really is an asshole. 

“How do you know my name?” Shane asks, because he’s not going to acknowledge that dig about being the building police. 

“I see on mailbox next to mine. S. Hollander in apartment 4B. What does the S stand for, I wonder?” 

Shane thinks he might hate this guy. He certainly hates the way his eyes flick up and down Shane’s body, lips curling into a smile like he’s biting back a private joke at Shane’s expense. He hates how distracting his shirtless body is, how juvenile Shane feels in comparison wearing his penguin print pajamas. 

He knows he should politely reiterate his request to keep his music down from now on and go back to his own apartment. He shouldn’t let Rozanov get a rise out of him. He definitely shouldn’t escalate the situation because they’re going to be living next door to each other for god knows how long and— 

“It stands for suck my dick,” Shane snaps. 

Well. So much for taking the high road. 

Rozanov doesn’t look offended. He looks utterly delighted. 

“Only if you ask nicely,” he says, taking a single step closer to Shane. 

He’s so close that Shane could like, dip his head and lick his nipple if he wanted. 

Shane’s brain short circuits at the thought. What the fuck. 

He turns on his heel, cheeks hot with embarrassment and something else—a warm, buzzing sensation that spreads across his entire body. 

“Just– keep the noise down on weeknights,” he says. “Okay?” 

He practically sprints back to his front door. He doesn’t turn around when he hears Rozanov call after him in a sing-song voice. 

“Okay! I will be seeing you around, Stephen Hollander with the cute pajamas!” 

“Not my fucking name, Rozanov.” 

Shane slips through his front door and back into his quiet apartment. He leans back against the door and takes a steadying breath in his dark apartment. After a moment, the music next door turns off and Shane is left with only the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears. 

He closes his eyes and tries not to think about Rozanov or the way Shane’s entire body lit up like a live wire when he said in that low, accented voice, only if you ask nicely. He’s hard in his penguin print pajama pants and now he’s going to have to jerk off and shower before he can sleep. While trying not to think about his asshole neighbor.

This is bad. This is very bad. 

No—this is going to be fine, Shane thinks a little desperately. He can manage this. He’ll just avoid his neighbor from now on. 

Surely, it can’t be that hard. 

February 

It turns out that avoiding Rozanov is impossible. 

His job must start at around the same time as Shane’s, because almost every time Shane steps out the door at exactly 8 a.m., Rozanov is already in the hall and ready to greet Shane with a new S name. 

“Good morning, Sigmund!”

“How are you today, Stalin?” 

“Have a good weekend, Scooby Doo?”

Shane responds the same way every morning. 

“Fuck off and leave me alone, Rozanov.” 

To his dismay, Rozanov takes this as a challenge. Every morning, he greets Shane with a shit-eating grin and follows him down all three flights of stairs. If Shane speeds up, Rozanov matches his pace. If he slows down, so does the other man. Once, Shane stopped on the second story landing and just stood there for a full minute glaring at Rozanov, who shamelessly smirked in response. 

“Trying to spend more time together, Hollander?” 

“You fucking wish, Rozanov.” 

Shane doesn’t know how Rozanov is always so irritatingly energetic in the morning. It’s utterly unfair—the man definitely doesn’t have a wind-down routine or set bedtime. Shane knows this because he can hear Rozanov on the other side of his bedroom wall, sometimes playing music (volume lower since their confrontation), or entertaining a female visitor (Shane now keeps noise-cancelling headphones in his nightstand drawer), or talking on the phone in Russian (he always sounds angry on these calls). 

But now every weekday morning, it’s the same. 

Shane steps out his front door and Rozanov is there. 

They walk downstairs together, Shane sniping back as Rozanov teases him, until they’re out on the street and headed in opposite directions. 

It’s only when Shane ducks into the metro station that he’s free of the strange, electric buzz on his skin that accompanies his every interaction with Rozanov. 

Even on the weekends, Shane is plagued by his new neighbor. 

Gone are the days of waking up on a Saturday morning for an early morning run, picking up fresh produce at the farmer’s market on the way back, and then coming home to shower and meal prep in silence. 

The Saturday after Shane tells his neighbor to turn down his music, he walks out the door in his running clothes at 7:30 a.m. and crashes straight into Rozanov, who is also dressed in athletic gear. The man is solidly built and up close, Shane can smell the sharp, pine scent of his deodorant layered over warm skin. He mumbles an apology and scrambles backward, hoping that his cheeks aren’t as flushed as they feel. 

“Good morning, neighbor!” Rozanov says. “What a surprise. You are going to gym too?” 

“Uh– no, I’m actually headed for a run by the river. I try to do ten kilometres every weekend.” 

“That sounds better,” Rozanov says, nodding. Then to Shane’s absolute horror, he grins and announces, “Much more fun than gym. I will join you.” 

Shane is terrible at navigating unfamiliar social situations. There is no playbook for when your annoying next door neighbor invites himself on your run, and so he just nods. It can’t be too bad, he comforts himself, trying not to panic. It’s not like Rozanov will expect him to make conversation while they’re running, right? Shane can just put in his earbuds, turn up the music, and pretend he’s running alone. After the initial weirdness, Shane will probably forget that Rozanov is even there. 

“Fine,” he grits out. “Let’s go.” 

It is, he realizes soon enough, impossible not to notice Rozanov.

He runs at Shane’s side, matching his stride with the ease of someone with a regular cardio routine. They’re shoulder-to-shoulder the whole time, close enough that Shane can hear Rozanov’s rhythmic exhales and catch the salt and skin scent of his exertion. It’s been months since Shane last had sex and he’s suddenly painfully, horribly aware of the physicality of the man next to him. Shane’s brain goes to unhelpful places, like whether this is how Rozanov breathes—harsh but controlled—when he’s fucking someone. He swallows hard, willing himself not to sneak glances at the thin rivulet of sweat dripping from Rozanov’s temple down the side of his face and into the collar of his black tank top. 

He fails. 

His traitorous brain lights up at the idea of following that trail of sweat with his tongue. Shane tells it to shut the fuck up. 

After they finish their run, Rozanov trails Shane to the farmer’s market and watches him shop for fruit and vegetables. He calls all his purchases boring and buys a dog-shaped keychain from an artisanal leather crafter and two pains au chocolat from a bakery stall. He bullies Shane into taking the second pain au chocolat even when he tries to explain that it doesn’t fit into his meal plan.

“Hollander, we just run for over an hour,” he says. “Enjoy carbs and sugar. Live a little.” 

Out of principle, Shane doesn’t eat the pain au chocolat while he’s out with Rozanov.

Later that day though, after he’s showered and prepped his lunches for the week (air-fried chicken breasts, roasted sweet potatoes, and sauteed lacinato kale), he pulls out the pastry bag and takes a bite. The croissant is delicious—flaky and buttery, with dark chocolate that melts on his tongue as he chews. 

He finishes the whole pastry and thinks of the way Rozanov's crooked smile the whole time.  

The following Saturday, Rozanov is already waiting in the hallway when Shanes exits his apartment at 7:30 a.m. 

“Ready?” 

“Ready.” 

It becomes another part of Shane’s routine, like organizing his work inbox on Sunday evenings, or calling his parents twice a week, or going out for happy hour with Rose and Hayden at least once a month. Shane and his obnoxious next door neighbor take the stairs together every weekday morning. They go running and shop at the farmer’s market on Saturdays. Even when the weather is shit, Rozanov shows up, dressed in a rain shell and ready to go. 

It doesn’t mean anything. 

It’s just an adjustment to his schedule. 

Shane tries a new recipe for turkey meatballs and zucchini noodles. 

He ends up with enough food to feed eight. He hates food waste and he’s noticed that Rozanov has ordered delivery for dinner no less than three times this week. The other man must be busy at work this week, or at least too lazy to go grocery shopping. Shane doesn’t care about Rozanov’s nutrition or anything, but it feels like a no-brainer—Shane has too much food on his hands and someone needs to force Rozanov to eat a vegetable at some point. 

He portions out half of the meatballs into a glass container and a healthy helping of zoodles and marinara sauce into a second. Before he can second guess the decision, he walks down the hall and knocks on the door. 

This is normal, he thinks. Neighborly. 

The door swings open and he’s confronted by the sight of Rozanov shirtless again, a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. In theory, Shane finds smoking a disgusting practice. In the moment, all he can think is, fuck, that’s hot. And then, does this guy ever wear a shirt?” 

“Hello Snoopy,” says Rozanov. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

The word pleasure in Rozanov’s voice sends a shiver down Shane’s spine. He ignores it. He’s gotten really, really good at ignoring it. 

“You can’t smoke in here,” he says instead, frowning. “You’ll lose your security deposit.” 

Rozanov rolls his eyes but takes the cigarette out of his mouth. 

“Security deposit is for when I move out,” Rozanov says with a shrug. “I have no plan to move ever, so this is not a problem.” 

“Never?!” Shane squeaks out, incredulous. 

He knows he’s stuck with Rozanov as his neighbor for a while because their landlord insists on one-year leases. But the idea of living next door to this infuriating man who won’t leave him alone forever? Shane’s anxiety spikes just thinking about it. 

Then Rozanov grins like the cat that got the canary and Shane realizes he’s being teased. Again. Because Rozanov is an asshole.

“Ah, ah. You will not get rid of me so easily, Hollander,” Rozanov tuts. He nods at the glass containers in Shane’s hands. “What is that?”  

Belatedly, Shane recalls the reason he’s here. 

“Uh, I made too much for dinner,” he says, blushing for some stupid reason. It’s not because Rozanov looks good enough to eat right now, or the fact that Shane’s brain is broken and keeps supplying images of sweaty curls, a crooked smile, and a very specific ass every time he’s jerked off for the past month and a half. “I didn’t want it to go to waste. Here.” 

He shoves the containers at Rozanov and starts to turn away, hoping to make it back to his apartment before the other man can make fun of him for overstepping or for his boring, healthy food choices. 

To his surprise, Rozanov does neither. He takes the containers from Shane and gives him a soft, sincere smile. 

Somehow, the sight is even more dangerous than his bare torso. Shane swallows and ignores the warm flutter in his stomach. 

“Thank you, Hollander.” 

“No problem, Rozanov. See you later.”

“Of course. Very soon.” 

It sounds like a promise. Or a threat. 

Rozanov stops by the following evening to return the empty washed containers. Shane is in the middle of cooking dinner when he knocks—miso salmon, broccoli rabe, and brown rice—and answers the door wearing the pinstriped apron that Rose gave him for his last birthday. 

“Spongebob Hollander. You look like train conductor,” Rozanov exclaims, eyes wide with delight. “Is very cute.” 

“Shut up,” Shane says automatically, trying not to feel too pleased. Rozanov is just being an asshole. He doesn’t actually think that Shane is cute. The guy is, after all, painfully straight—at least based on the makeup of his weekend visitors. “Uh, I need to check on the salmon. I can take those or you can come in and–” 

In true Rozanov fashion, his neighbor doesn’t even wait for Shane to finish issuing the invitation. He simply steps through the door and shuts it close behind him. Shane is surprised when Rozanov toes off his sneakers without having to be told, placing them neatly on the shoe rack in the entryway. He follows Shane through to the kitchen wordlessly, still holding the empty glass containers. 

“Wow, this is very nice,” Rozanov says, looking around the room as Shane uses a meat thermometer on the salmon. It still needs a few more minutes. “Clean. Modern. You are Mr. Interior Designer.” 

“Thanks,” Shane mutters, because he’s never sure if Rozanov means what he’s saying or if he’s making fun of him. He thinks he did a decent job with his apartment, but Rozanov probably finds it dull and devoid of personality. “I would offer to give you a tour, but the layout’s pretty much identical to yours.” 

“Hm,” Rozanov says, pulling out one of the stools at the kitchen island and sitting down. “Mine is not so nice. You should come over sometime, give me tips.” 

“What’s wrong with your place?” 

Shane is legitimately curious. He’s never thought to peer into Rozanov’s apartment before. He’s always been too distracted by the fact that Rozanov keeps answering the door shirtless. 

He turns to the oven, checking on the salmon and veggies to give himself something to do. Shane isn’t sure what to do next. Why in the world did he invite Rozanov inside? Are they just supposed to—what? Hang out? Talk? Have dinner? 

“Too much room and not enough furniture. I only live with my family in Russia and with roommates before. I am not used to having my own space.” 

“Oh, I get that. I was like that when I moved here too. It takes a while, you know, to turn a place into a home,” Shane says, relieved to land on a safe topic. The salmon and broccoli rabe look ready, so he pulls on oven mitts and carefully pulls out the sheet pan. “I didn’t even buy a couch for this place until I’d lived here for six months. Give it time.” 

“Da. That makes sense. I will try to be patient. Work on it little by little.” 

When he turns around, Rozanov is nodding as though he’s actually taking what Shane is saying seriously. Shane is suddenly struck by the memory of his first few months in the city and how lonely he was. He wonders if it’s the same for Rozanov at all. Sure, the man has a new date—or sexual partner—over almost every weekend, but Shane hasn’t clocked any repeat visitors. Maybe that’s what makes him blurt out the next words. 

“I made too much food again,” he says, gesturing toward the pan. It’s not true. He was planning to save the leftovers for tomorrow night, but Rozanov doesn’t need to know that. “Do you want to stay for dinner?” 

When Rozanov doesn’t answer right away—just sits there with those piercing eyes that feel like they’re pinning Shane in place—he starts to lose his nerve. 

“Or you can take some home with you, if you want. You probably have plans…” 

“No, I have no plans,” Rozanov says. He smiles at Shane, bright and open in a way that makes him look younger. Boyish, even. The sight strikes Shane in the solar plexus, making him feel winded. “I would love to stay.” 

“Okay. Yeah, good. Let me just get this plated. There are drinks in the fridge. Help yourself to anything you want.” 

They eat dinner side by side on the couch with a hockey game playing on low volume. It gives Shane something to do instead of staring at Rozanov and it means that he doesn’t have to stress about lulls in the conversation. The evening isn’t as uncomfortable as Shane would have guessed. Rozanov drinks one of the beers left over from the last time Hayden was here and compliments Shane on his cooking. He gives him shit about being a Montreal fan and the number of throw pillows on his couch, but announces upon returning from the washroom that he likes Shane’s hand soap. 

“You will have to show me where to buy. I want my hands to always smell like apples and cinnamon.” 

“Okay, so I’m now taking you shopping for furniture and hand soap?” Shane says, because one of the things Rozanov mentioned while they ate was that he could use help picking out a new desk and dresser for his apartment. “And I made you dinner. Twice. What else can I do for you, your highness?” 

Rozanov leans back against the couch, his gaze traveling slowly down Shane’s body. His expression goes from relaxed to intent in a blink of an eye, and Shane’s breath catches. He feels a little bit like a rabbit who’s just realized he’s in the presence of an apex predator. Shane is also acutely aware that he and his hot neighbor are alone in his apartment now, sitting close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from Rozanov’s body. 

“Depends on what you would like to do,” Rozanov says, and his voice is back to that low growl that Shane remembers from their very first encounter. Only if you ask nicely. “There are many things I would like you to do for me. There are many things I would like to do for you.”

Is Rozanov leaning in closer? Is Shane? 

Shane grips the edge of the couch with his fingers and squeaks out, “Let’s start with IKEA.” 

His cheeks burn as he replays his words—what the let’s start here implies. It implies that there’s a next step. It implies that Shane might want something from Rozanov in the future. 

“Okay,” Rozanov says, leaning back against the couch. He smiles like he's been handed a gift. “We start there.”

Chapter Text

March

Somehow, Shane acclimates to living next door to Rozanov. 

He gets used to the obnoxious morning greetings: 

“Ahoy, Sputnik!” 

“Good morning, Squidward." 

“Happy Monday, Santa Claus.” 

“Did you sleep well, Solnyshko?”

Shane Googles the last one and blushes when he realizes that his hot neighbor apparently calls him “sunshine” in Russian. He tells himself it means nothing—just Rozanov trying to get under his skin—but sometimes late at night, he lets the word coat his tongue, whispers it while he’s stroking his hard cock and trying not to think of a terribly specific crooked smile. 

He also adjusts to spending part of every weekend with another human being. This development is especially irritating as it goes against everything that Shane has ever known about himself. 

Shane Hollander is the type of person who requires solitude at the end of a long week. He is the type of person who needs time and space to quiet his mind and sand down the rough edges of his nerves. He’s always been that way, even when he was a kid. It’s one of the reasons dating has never come easily to him. 

Oh, the initial period is always good—meeting someone he’s interested in, going out for dinner and drinks, having sex before returning to their own homes. It’s when things progress that Shane starts to feel antsy. Despite his best efforts, he always struggles when expectations rise to daily phone calls, staying over multiple nights in a row, and toothbrushes sharing a cup beside the sink. That’s typically when he panics and runs away. 

But for some reason, it’s been kind of nice, going on long runs and perusing farmer’s market stalls with Rozanov every Saturday. It’s fun, racing each other along the riverwalk until Shane’s calves burn and there’s a cramp in his side. It’s easy, bickering over fruit selections and the merits of boule vs. bâtard sourdough loaves. 

It doesn’t make any sense because Rozanov is everything that Shane usually tries to avoid—cocky, loud, and rude. 

He finds that he doesn’t hate it. And that pisses him off.

Or at least he tells himself that it pisses him off, because the alternative would be to admit to something far too soft and dangerous. 

Later that month, they go to IKEA together because Shane is a man who honors his commitments.  

Of course, Rozanov refuses to follow the sensible arrows designed to lead customers through the showrooms and warehouse, insisting that he knows a shortcut that’s “better and faster” and that Shane is being boring by following the rules. After almost two hours, it’s abundantly clear that Rozanov’s shortcut is bullshit and they’re lost. Shane is hangry and overstimulated and ends up yelling at Rozanov in the lighting section for almost knocking over a display floor lamp while doing a terrible impression of Jar Jar Binks. 

Shane refuses to talk for the rest of the shopping trip, at least until Rozanov pays for his lunch of Swedish meatballs and charms him with funny stories from his boyhood in Moscow. By the time they get back home, Shane has forgiven him enough to help carry the heavy flatpack furniture boxes up to their floor. 

“I am luckiest boy in the world,” Rozanov coos as he carefully walks backward up the stairs, holding one end of a box. Shane grips the other end. They’re both out of breath. “To have such a strong, pretty neighbor with big muscles to help me.” 

Shane, to his utter mortification, feels his cheeks heat up. Pretty, his horny lizard brain screams at him, jumping up and down in delight. He thinks I’m pretty.

“Shut the fuck up, Rozanov,” he grunts, and Rozanov shoots him a grin that’s so self-satisfied it should be illegal. 

Shane sits in his cubicle, pretending to check emails as he sips on his cup of coffee and thinks about his neighbor. That morning, Rozanov had trotted down the stairs with him and right before they parted on the sidewalk, he’d winked and said, “See you later, sweetheart.” 

It’s obviously just another one of his stupid S nicknames. He doesn’t mean anything by it. Still, Shane replays the interaction over and over again in his head. See you later, sweetheart. The wink. The lopsided smile. The mischief in those hazel eyes. The way that his shirt gaped around the collar to reveal lickable collarbones and the glint of his gold cross. Sweetheart. Solnyshko. 

When Rose’s head pops over the back wall of his cubicle, Shane startles and curses as coffee sloshes over the lip of his mug, the one that says, NONE OF YOUR EMAILS ARE FINDING ME WELL. Rose gave matching ones to their whole team last year after they wrapped up a big project with a particularly hellish client. 

“Please tell me your weekend was better than mine,” she begs, letting out a long suffering sigh. “I had a terrible Hinge date and went to two baby showers.” 

Shane winces, and not from the hot coffee scalding his hand. He’s been to his fair share of baby showers. 80% of them were for Hayden and Jackie’s ever growing brood. He’ll never understand the game where party guests eat candy bars out of diapers. It’s disgusting. 

“Hello to you too, Rose,” he says, wiping off his hand with a tissue. “What happened with your date? And my weekend was fine.” 

It was actually more than fine. As they carried boxes up the stairs, Shane had admitted to Rozanov that he loved building IKEA furniture—“It’s like a giant, functional LEGO set!”—and Rozanov had asked if he wanted to help with the dresser and dining table. They’d built furniture while half-watching a James Bond movie and eating tuna melts that Rozanov made. Shane hadn’t gone back to his apartment until after 9 p.m. 

“...the real question is, what wasn’t wrong with him?” Rose is saying. Shane valiantly returns his attention to her diatribe about the Hinge date. “I’m pretty sure he used AI to enhance his profile photo, he chewed with his mouth open, and when I complained about the baby showers he told me that I needed to embrace my divine feminine energy more.” 

“Fuck. That is terrible. I’m sorry, babe.” 

“I know. It’s grim out there.” She looks so despondent that Shane reaches up to pat the top of her head. “I don’t even know why I keep trying.” 

“I get it,” Shane commiserates. “Why do you think I haven’t gone on a date in months?” 

It’s true. Shane still has the apps on his phone, but he turned off the notifications when he went to his parents’ for Christmas and hasn’t bothered to check them since. He’s been busy lately. 

“Ugh, maybe we both need to get laid,” Rose says. “What are you doing on Friday? We should go out, be each other’s wingperson. I’ll find you such a cute boy, Shane Hollander.”

Unbidden, an image of Rozanov looming in his doorway shirtless flashes through Shane’s mind. God, maybe Rose is right. It’s probably pent-up horniness that’s leading to his frankly unhealthy preoccupation with his neighbor—his hot neighbor who definitely sleeps with women. Shane had heard a laughing female voice through the shared wall just last week. He had promptly put on his noise cancelling headphones and failed to absorb a single sentence of his audiobook. 

“You know I’m not the best wingman, but I’ll be on the lookout for hot guys who chew with their mouths closed. Just for you.” 

“God, the bar really is in hell. It’s a plan then? Friday.”

“Friday,” Shane agrees. “Let’s find some passably attractive men to take home.”

“That’s the spirit!” 

Sadly, they do not find any passably attractive men to take home. 

The club they go to is within walking distance from Shane’s place. When it becomes clear that the clientele is mostly made up of tech bros and finance douchebags, he and Rose give up on the prospect of getting laid. Instead, Rose coaxes Shane into drinking three Mai Tais—“We deserve drinks with little umbrellas, Shaney!”—and they dance for a while before Shane’s head starts to pound from the loud music, pulsing lights, and crowded dance floor. 

“Do you mind if we go?” he says into Rose’s ear. 

“Okayyyy,” she says, smiling up at him with glassy eyes. “But I’m a wee bit drunk. I don’t think I can drive home.” 

Shane rolls his eyes fondly. Despite his growing headache, tonight has been fun. Rose is one of his best friends and has a knack for effortlessly breaking down Shane’s emotional defenses. Besides his parents and Hayden and Jackie, Rose was one of the first people that Shane came out to. He blurted it out at a post-work happy hour after they’d only been working together for a month, and Rose had simply beamed and said, “Oh, you’re going to make some lucky guy so happy.” 

“You can stay the night,” Shane decides. “I have a spare toothbrush and extra pajamas.”

“Aaaand you have all the skincare thingies so I don’t have to go to bed with my makeup on.” Rose nods emphatically, hand on Shane’s elbow to steady herself. “You’re the best host. Best best friend. Not a great wingman but I won’t hold it against you.” 

It takes twice as long as it should, but they eventually manage to walk the five blocks back to his apartment building. Shane is pleasantly tipsy, but Rose is definitely inebriated from the extra two shots of tequila she did when Shane went to the washroom earlier in the evening. 

He practically has to carry Rose up the stairs to the fourth floor, trying and failing to shush her as she drunkenly monologues while Shane fumbles with the key to his apartment. 

“You’re a treasure, Shaney,” Rose is slurring, arms wrapped around Shane’s waist from behind. Her chin digs into his shoulder. “You’re the best. What would I do without you?” 

“Get too drunk and then have to Uber all the way across town, probably.” 

“And I wouldn’t get to wear your pajamas. Your mom buys you the cutest pajamas,” Rose goes on. She’s terrible at modulating her volume when she’s drunk and Shane is mortified at the thought that his next door neighbor can probably hear every single word. “The ones with the penguins… and the ones with the polar bears… and the ones with the little tiny loons on them…” 

“Okay, okay. That’s enough.” 

The key finally slips into the lock and Shane lets out a relieved sigh. He shoots a glance down the hallway. Rozanov’s door remains closed though he can see light seeping out from the gap at the bottom. 

“I love you sooo much, Shaney,” Rose says as he ushers her into his apartment. “You take the best care of me.” 

“I love you too, babe.”

He hears a heavy thump followed by a cut off curse from behind Rozanov’s door, as though his neighbor just dropped something heavy. For a moment, Shane considers walking over and knocking to see if Rozanov is alright, but that would be overstepping, wouldn’t it? Instead, he follows Rose into his apartment and shuts the door behind them. 

Shane wakes up at 6:30 the following morning. He’s quiet as sips on a protein shake and gets dressed for his usual Saturday run, aware that Rose will probably be sleeping off a wicked hangover in his guest room until late morning.

At 7:30, he’s standing in the hallway, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Usually, Rozanov is already waiting for him with a shit-eating grin and some snide comment about how he’s going to beat him on the run today. 

But today, the hallway is empty. 

Shane frowns and checks his watch. 7:34 a.m. 

Rozanov hasn’t missed a single Saturday run since they started this two months ago. Is something wrong? Shane thinks back to the sound he heard behind the door last night and his mind jumps to the worst case scenarios. Rozanov, pinned beneath a heavy piece of furniture. Rozanov, passing out and hitting his head against the kitchen counter. 

Heart in his throat, Shane jogs over to his neighbor’s door and knocks before he can spiral about whether he’s overstepping. 

Several moments pass before the door opens to reveal Rozanov. 

Shane’s first thought is that his neighbor looks like he just woke up—dressed in low-slung gray sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt with bedhead and bare feet. 

The second thing he registers is that Rozanov’s mouth is set into a grim line that looks almost… upset? Shane has never seen that expression on his face before. Irritation, sometimes. Smug satisfaction, too many times to count. Teasing, a million times over. But right now, the seriousness of Rozanov’s gaze makes his jawline look sharper, his hazel eyes hard as diamond. 

Shane feels oddly wrong-footed. He’s not sure what he could have done to piss his neighbor off, but Rozanov is looking at him with a wariness that seems unwarranted when just yesterday they were bantering on the stairs. 

“Uh, hi,” Shane says, shifting from one foot to the other. “I just… I thought we were running today?” 

Rozanov crosses his arms over his chest. Shane tries not to notice the muscles in his forearms or the way his t-shirt tightens over his well-defined chest. Even having just rolled out of bed, Rozanov is unfairly attractive. 

“I did not think you would want to run today,” Rozanov says. His voice is cold and stiff. “Since you have girlfriend sleeping over. I figured you would be busy taking her out for brunch date.” 

He spits out brunch date like it’s a curse and Shane’s brain struggles to process. So Rozanov had overheard Rose in the hallway last night. He’s probably annoyed about the noise, which is a little rich coming from the guy who still has to be told to turn down his stupid techno music when Shane is trying to read before bed. And he also apparently thought that Rose was– 

Shane lets out a huff of laughter. 

“Rose isn’t my girlfriend,” he says, because it’s a little ridiculous. Leave it to a straight guy to assume that men and women can’t be platonic friends. “She’s one of my best friends. And we work together. But she’s not my girlfriend because I’m gay.” 

For a moment, Rozanov stares at him with unblinking hazel eyes and Shane is filled with unease. Is his neighbor going to have a problem with this? That would suck, not because Shane would have hidden his sexuality—he’s done way too much work on self-acceptance over the past few years to prioritize the comfort of bigots—but he’d rather not live next door to a homophobe. Especially one who’s starting to grow on him. Like a rash. 

“Oh,” Rozanov says. “Oh, I did not know that.” 

It’s subtle, the way Rozanov’s shoulders relax and the set of his jaw softens. He uncrosses his arms and opens the door wider. 

“Is that a problem?” Shane asks, just to be sure. 

Rozanov shakes his head, curls bouncing.

“No, no, not a problem,” he says, and he’s smiling now, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Is a good thing. I am also… not gay, but bisexual. I like both.” 

It’s Shane’s turn to stare. 

“Oh,” he says faintly as his stupid brain screams, HE LIKES MEN TOO. “Cool.” 

“Cool,” Rozanov repeats, the corner of his mouth twisting as though he’s biting back a joke. Is Shane the punchline? Shane feels like he might be. “Okay, give me five minutes to get dressed to go running.” 

Shane nods and stands in the hallway with his hands in his pockets, his heart beating out of his chest. 

I like both. 

Well, fuck. 

April

Shane should have known he’d be walking into a lion’s den the following Monday. He logs onto his computer and discovers that Rose has beat him to the office. 

Dream Team Chat ☕🐱✨

Rose Landry [8:22 a.m.]: SHANE HOLLANDER. Why didn’t you tell me you had a running date with the hottest man alive? 

Rose Landry [8:22 a.m.]: I can’t believe you had me wing womaning for you when you had that hot piece of ass next door. 

Shane Hollander [8:23 a.m.]: This is a work chat! Not appropriate, Rose. 

Rose Landry [8:23 a.m.]: Umm, last week we were talking about Hayden’s vasectomy here. 

Hayden Pike [8:24 a.m.]: WTF did I miss? I go to visit my in-laws for one weekend and Shane is seeing some new guy. 

Shane Hollander [8:24 a.m.]: Not seeing any guy. Nothing to report. 

Rose Landry [8:24 a.m.]: Sneaky Shane has been going on a weekly running date with his next door neighbor since February?! I spied on them coming back from their run through the peephole and he is an absolute specimen. An Adonis of a man.🥵

Shane Hollander [8:25 a.m.]: Shut up. You’re making it sound like a bigger deal than it is. We literally just run and go to the farmer's market together on Saturdays. And sometimes we have dinner during the week. 

Rose Landry [8:25 a.m.]: … 

Hayden Pike [8:25 a.m.]: … 

Rose Landry [8:26 a.m.]: Define “sometimes.” 

Shane Hollander [8:27 a.m.]: I don’t know, like two or three times a week? It’s easier to cook for two people than for one, honestly. It’s just convenient. 

Hayden Pike [8:27 a.m.]: Weekly runs, farmer’s market, and dinner two to three times a week? Shane. Buddy. You are dating this man. 

Shane Hollander [8:28 a.m.]: It’s not like that! We’re just neighbors. Friends, maybe. I don’t even know his first name. 

Hayden Pike [8:28 a.m.]: 🤦🏻🤦🏻🤦🏻

Rose Landry [8:29 a.m.]: Oh, Shane. This might sound crazy, but have you considered asking him? 

Hayden Pike [8:30 a.m.]: If you’re hanging out multiple times a week, I bet he’d be okay with you knowing his first name. 

Shane Hollander [8:30 a.m.]: Oh, will you look at the time? I have to run to a very important meeting. 

Hayden Pike [8:31 a.m.]: WE ARE CONTINUING THIS CONVERSATION AT LUNCH. 

Rose Landry [8:31 a.m.]: Sending you both an invite now! 😘

Meeting Invitation: Shane’s Hot Neighbor Saga 

✅ Accept | ❔ Tentative | ❌ Decline | 🕐 Propose New Time

Required: Shane Hollander; Rose Landry, Hayden Pike 

🕒 12:00 p.m. - 1:30 p.m. 

📍La Luncheonette 

“Your friend, she called you Shaney.” 

Shane practically jumps out of his skin. He’s used to seeing Rozanov in the mornings and on Saturdays, but running into him in front of the mailboxes in their building lobby is somehow startling. Rozanov is still dressed for work in dark jeans and a button-up black shirt. His curls are tamed with product and Shane can smell the faint remnants of cologne. The scent is woodsy, a little spicy. It makes his mouth water. 

“So?” Rozanov goes on. “Is that your name? Should I call you Shaney?” 

The cat is out of the bag, apparently. It’s not like Shane expected them to call each other by their last names forever, but he does feel a twinge of regret when he thinks of some of the nicknames Rozanov came up with. Sweetheart. Solnyshko. Sugar buns. Shchenok. He's loathe to admit that he'll miss them. Besides, this presents the perfect opportunity to ask for his neighbor’s name, which is something both Rose and Hayden insisted was critical for the next step in “Operation Stop Being An Idiot and Kiss That Man Already.” 

“Uh, it’s just Shane,” Shane says. He gestures toward the mailbox next to his, at the sticker reading I. Rozanov. “What about you?” 

“Ilya,” Rozanov says, looking ridiculously pleased that Shane has just asked for his first name, as if it’s not something they should have shared the first day they met. Shane barely remembers why it was so important to him to gatekeep this information from his neighbor. Something about him being so fucking annoying that Shane wanted to scream. Or lick his abs. He supposes not much has changed since that fateful day in January. “Ilya Rozanov. It’s a pleasure to finally be trusted enough with your full name, Shane Hollander.” 

Okay, and the way Rozanov—or Ilya, whatever, that feels weird—purrs the word “pleasure” followed by Shane’s full name is just unfair. He swallows hard and nods, hoping that Rozanov can’t see the flush rising up his neck and heating his cheeks. 

“What are you doing for dinner tonight, Shane Hollander?” 

“Oh my god, please don’t tell me you’re going to use my full name all the time. That’s so weird.” 

“Hmm,” Rozanov says thoughtfully, tapping his finger against his lower lip. The gesture only serves to draw Shane’s gaze to his neighbor’s mouth. “Maybe I will call you Hollander most of the time for old time’s sake. But I will call you Shane on special occasions. And Shane Hollander when you are being very bad.” 

He winks. Shane’s entire body vibrates like a tuning fork. 

“So, dinner?” he squeaks out, trying desperately to get this conversation back onto level ground. “Uh, no plans. I was just going to make a salad and watch this documentary about the pyramids…” 

“So boring, Hollander,” Rozanov says. It doesn’t sound like an insult when he says it. “I have dinner reservation at Le Serpent but my friend cannot make it. You will eat with me instead. I will pick you up at seven.”

Shane knows Le Serpent. It’s one of those fancy restaurants with tiny plates and fabric napkins and low mood lighting. It’s the kind of place you take someone for a date, and not even a first date. It’s what Rose would call a “third date, seal the deal” kind of spot. 

He should say no. Shane doesn’t even know if his neighbor would be interested in him—it’s presumptuous to think he might have a chance just because the guy mentioned that he’s bisexual. But Ilya Rozanov is looking at him expectantly and Shane hasn’t gone out for a nice dinner with anyone but Rose, Hayden, and his parents for months. 

“Sure,” he says, mouth dry. “Sure, I could eat.” 

Office Peons🐝🐝🐝 Group Chat 

Me: so I know my neighbor’s name now 

Rose🌹: good job!!! step one: complete 

Me: … and we’re also going to le serpent tonight? for dinner? 

Hayd🐟: whoaaa dude, I’m impressed. I can’t believe you got the guy’s name and immediately asked him out to the most romantic dinner spot. who are you and what have you done with my best friend?! 

Rose🌹: damn, shane. I feel like a proud mama 

Me: I actually can’t take the credit here, guys. it was his idea 

Rose🌹: GIRL. 

Hayd🐟: what she said 

Me: before you both freak out and read too much into this, it was a last minute thing. he was supposed to go with a friend who bailed on him. I’m sure he just didn’t want the reservation to go to waste 

Rose🌹: GIRL!!! you know that was just an excuse, right? he made that reservation for YOU, babe 

Hayd🐟: again… what she said 

Me: okay he’ll be here in fifteen minutes so I gotta get ready 

Rose🌹: wear that navy button up you have. the one with the textured weave. you look so handsome in it 

Hayd🐟: and those leather sneakers. they’re nice without being too overdressed 

Me: jesus, you both sound like my mom 

Rose🌹: WORK MOMMY IS SO PROUD OF YOU 

Hayd🐟: AND WORK DADDY SAYS TO REMEMBER TO USE PROTECTION 

Me: I hate you both so much 

Shane feels a little silly sitting on his couch and waiting for Rozanov. They could have just as easily met in the hallway like they do for their Saturday runs. But Rozanov had said that he’d pick Shane up at seven, which means coming over to Shane’s apartment, which means that Shane has to sit here for at least another five minutes— 

A knock sounds at the door. Five minutes early and just in time to save Shane from an anxiety death spiral. He inhales deeply and walks to the door to reveal Ilya Rozanov. 

Christ, it’s been less than two hours since he saw the man and Shane’s brain still short circuits at the sight of him. He’s changed into a different shirt, still black but with a silky sheen to it. It looks soft to the touch. The top three buttons are undone to show the glint of his gold cross. He has a leather jacket draped over one arm. 

“Hi,” Shane says, then makes a little idiotic wave. He wants to die. He also wants to drag Rozanov into his apartment and drop to his knees for him. 

It’s possible, he admits to himself with no small degree of panic, that he’s in over his head when it comes to his next door neighbor. 

Rozanov looks Shane up and down. Shane’s entire body feels hot under his gaze. 

“You look nice. Very pretty. I like the shirt.” 

“Yeah,” Shane says. His palms itch with nerves. “Uh, well, I hear it’s a nice restaurant. Didn’t want to disappoint.” 

Rozanov smiles at that. 

"Oh, Hollander. You could never disappoint me." 

Shane follows Rozanov down the stairs and out into the brisk evening air. Rozanov gestures toward a parking garage a block away, where he apparently stores his car—something predictably sleek, fast, and metallic black. 

“Nice ride,” Shane says awkwardly after he’s buckled himself in. He doesn’t know much about cars but he senses that Rozanov is the kind of person who does. “You keep the interior really clean.” 

Rozanov’s mouth twitches as though he finds Shane amusing. 

“Thank you,” he says. “I got a good discount on it. I work at car dealership. What do you drive?” 

Shane files this in his mental folder of Ilya Rozanov facts. Today’s been a good day for information gathering—he now has his first name and his occupation. Next up: figuring out if he would ever be sexually interested in a boring homebody who wears printed pajamas and reads history books for fun. 

“I don’t have a car," Shane admits, wondering if this is hurting his chances. "I take the metro because it’s easier and more eco-friendly. When I visit my parents or go out of town, I just rent something.” 

“Ah, you are such a good boy. Mr. Environmentalist." 

“Shut up," Shane says, turning to look out the window so Rozanov can't see his embarrassed flush. 

It surprises him when Rozanov's hand lands on his knee and squeezes, just once, before retreating. Shane turns to see his neighbor looking over at him with an open expression. 

"No, no, I am not insulting you," Rozanov says, voice soft. "I think it is very admirable, that you are person who lives your values. It is rare and special to meet someone so good." 

"Okay," Shane says, nodding faintly. He's aware he should say more, but his chest feels too tight. "That's... thanks." 

He settles back into the seat and tries not to smile the whole way to the restaurant. He feels both unsettled and absurdly touched by Rozanov's kind reassurance. 

Dinner is an equally destabilizing affair.

On the one hand, Shane is always surprised by how easy it is to talk to Rozanov. Conversation flows naturally between them, moving between light jabs about their diverging tastes in music to complaints about the last week at work to reminiscences about their respective childhoods playing hockey in Ottawa and Moscow. 

On the other hand, after a couple glasses of wine, the low lighting makes it appear as though Rozanov is lit from within—glowing like he’s been painted by a Renaissance master. Shane can’t help himself from resting his chin in his palm and openly staring at the man across the table, can’t stop the way his gaze keeps lingering on the line of Rozanov’s throat when he tilts back his head and laughs. 

“Shane,” Rozanov says after their dinner dishes have been cleared. The food was delicious, the company perfect. Shane still doesn’t know what they’re doing here, but he privately thinks it might be one of the best dates of his life. “Do you want dessert?” 

And Shane almost says no because it doesn’t fit into his diet and he usually tries to limit the amount of sugar he consumes. But the idea of ending the night now—especially when he’s feeling warm and loose from the wine and Rozanov called him “Shane” like it’s a special occasion—is unbearable. 

“Sure,” he says. “Why don’t you pick something for us to share?” 

They end up sharing a dark chocolate mousse that is so sinfully rich that Shane has to bite back a moan when he takes the first bite. Rozanov—or rather Ilya, if they’re calling each other by first names tonight—doesn’t take his eyes off Shane as he swallows and licks his lips.

“Good?” he asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” Shane says, then licks his lips again. “Really good.” 

Ilya insists on paying for dinner. Shane’s rational side finds this awkward and resolves to find a way to pay him back. The side of him who is just now admitting that he has an enormous, potentially life-altering crush on his next door neighbor is inwardly squealing with the glee of a thousand school girls. 

They’re both quiet on the drive home, a new tension unfurling between them in the car. Shane keeps glancing at Ilya and catching him looking back. The streetlights cast shadows across Ilya’s face that Shane finds infinitely fascinating. He wants to trace each one. He wants to crawl over the center console and climb into his next door neighbor’s lap. Every time he thinks about where this is leading—whether Ilya will ask to come in tonight, whether Shane will let him—his pulse quickens. 

But after they walk up the stairs and reach their floor, Shane’s neighbor surprises him yet again. There’s barely a trace of the teasing, cocky Ilya that Shane has grown accustomed to over the past few months, no hint of the man who used to have a different woman every week wailing in pleasure through their shared wall. 

Instead, Ilya Rozanov is entirely serious as he walks Shane to his front door. 

"Goodnight, Shane," he says, keeping his hands in his pockets as he leans against the doorframe, looking devastatingly handsome. "I had a good time." 

"Me too," Shane says. He wishes that Ilya—who is clearly the braver, more confident of the two of them—would do something. Like lean in for a kiss, maybe. Or simply tangle his fingers in Shane's hair and force his head back so he can suck at his neck. "Goodnight, Ilya." 

Ilya nods once and turns on his heel to head back to his apartment. 

Shane stares back at him with his heart in his throat. He should let it end here. It’s been such a nice night. He shouldn’t do anything to jeopardize it. But then he thinks about Ilya sliding his credit card card into the leather bill holder at the restaurant and the way his knee kept knocking against Shane’s underneath the table. He thinks back to what Rose said at lunch the other day: “Sometimes you have to take a risk, Shane, to get what you really want.” 

“Wait,” he calls out. 

And before he can stop himself, Shane is taking several strides across the hallway, reaching up to cup Ilya’s face with both hands, and crashing their mouths together. 

Chapter Text

May

It’s been two weeks since what Shane thinks of privately as That Night. In his mind the words are blown up in bold neon letters that blink above his head—as annoying and persistent as a certain hazel-eyed Russian–-whenever he’s trying to fall asleep. Or tidying his apartment. Or zoning out in a boring meeting at work. 

That Night after dinner at Le Serpent, Ilya had responded to Shane’s kiss with such unguarded enthusiasm that it momentarily wiped all anxiety from his brain. No easy feat, considering Shane Hollander has an official generalized anxiety diagnosis and the accompanying bottle of clonazepam in his medicine cabinet to validate it. 

But touching his neighbor had worked better than any pharmaceutical intervention to calm his racing mind. From the first brush of their lips, Shane’s thoughts had gone fuzzy and warm. When Ilya dragged him by the front of his shirt into apartment 4A and pressed him to the back of the door, Shane hadn’t thought, this is a spectacularly bad idea. His brain had instead raised a fist in victory and shouted, okay, yeah, let’s fucking go!

When Ilya had dropped to his knees to mouth at the crotch of Shane’s good jeans, Shane had momentarily wondered if saliva degraded raw denim, but the thought swiftly dissipated as soon as Ilya unzipped the fly and took Shane’s already hard cock between his wet, pink lips. Shane had cursed and came so hard and fast down his neighbor’s throat that it felt as though his soul left his body. 

Then, the rest of the night: Ilya, pulling him into the bedroom and undressing Shane with the delighted urgency of a child opening a gift on Christmas morning. Ilya, bracketing Shane’s naked chest with his knees, stroking himself while muttering in Russian, eyes dark and glittering with desire. Ilya, mouth falling open and letting out a stuttering f-fuck, Shane, as he came in wet stripes all over Shane’s bare chest. They’d cuddled for a few minutes afterward before Ilya got up to grab a wet washcloth. He’d come back and cleaned off Shane’s chest with surprising tenderness, then grabbed Shane’s phone from the pocket of his discarded jeans and entered his phone number without asking. 

“So you can text me whenever you get lonely,” he’d said with a wink. “Give me some warning next time, yes? We can take our time.” 

Next time.

The words had continued ringing in Shane’s head long after he said goodnight and returned to his own apartment. There were a million reasons why there shouldn’t be a next time. They lived next door to each other, which would make it awkward as hell when this inevitably flamed out. Though Ilya’s stream of weekend visitors had slowed down, Shane had still passed a beautiful woman with dark curly hair leaving his neighbor’s apartment the previous week, which meant that Ilya was definitely still sleeping with other people. Which would be fine and normal if Shane was the kind of person who could stomach a casual hook-up. But Shane was not chill in the face of ambiguity. 

He had gone to bed That Night convinced that the best course of action was to write this off as a one-time mistake—a scorching hot one, yes, but a mistake nonetheless. 

And yet, the very next day, Shane had texted Ilya, who had of course entered his own contact name in Shane’s phone. He had meant to say, let’s forget that ever happened. Instead what he typed out was: 

Me: Can I come over after work? 

Ilya had responded right away. 

Sex God🤠: I can make you come whenever you want 😘😘😘

So, there had been a next time after all—one that involved Ilya Rozanov opening Shane up on his fingers before fucking him into the mattress with such merciless precision that every single brain cell in Shane’s brain broadcasting that this was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea spontaneously combusted at the exact same time. 

Afterward, Ilya had started the shower and gently guided Shane underneath the stream once he deemed the temperature and water pressure acceptable. By the time Shane was clean and wearing a fluffy black robe that Ilya had laid out for him on the bed, there were already take-out boxes on the kitchen counter and some crime procedural playing on TV. 

It had felt rude to say no when Ilya told him to sit down while he made up a plate, so Shane had ended up staying for dinner and almost fell asleep on the couch tucked underneath Ilya’s arm. 

Hours later, Shane had dressed, leaned over the couch to kiss Ilya goodnight, and dragged himself back to his apartment. By the time he was in pajamas and crawling between his own sheets, Shane couldn’t quite recall why he ever thought this should only be a one-time thing. 

He could do casual. If casual felt this fucking good, he could do casual forever. 

Dream Team Chat ☕🐱✨

Rose Landry [3:42 p.m.]: Is it 5 yet? Is it Friday yet? Am I old enough to retire yet? Am I dead and free of the shackles of capitalism yet? 

Hayden Pike [3:43 p.m.]: Why does it feel like I’ve been at war for the past twenty years? 

Shane Hollander [3:43 p.m.]: Because we’ve all been in back-to-back meetings since 8 a.m. 😢

Rose Landry [3:44 p.m.]: At least Eric doesn’t call you a “little lady’ in meetings. 

Hayden Pike [3:44 p.m.]: 👿👿👿

Shane Hollander [3:45 p.m.]: I will avenge you. 

Shane Hollander [3:45 p.m.]: But perhaps not until I get another coffee. 

Rose Landry [3:46 p.m.]: Shane Hollander, living on the edge! What happened to no caffeine after noon?! 

Shane Hollander [3:47 p.m.]: This project is pushing me to the brink. Also, I think Ilya is a bad influence. That man will drink a Red Bull with dinner. 

Rose Landry [3:48 p.m.]: Oooh, someone’s hot boyfriend is rubbing off on him.

Hayden Pike [3:48 p.m.]: In more ways than one 👀👀👀

Shane Hollander [3:49 p.m.]: Not my boyfriend! We’re just hooking up. Like neighbors with benefits. Is that a thing? 

Hayden Pike [3:49 p.m.]: It’s a thing, but not a Shane Hollander thing. 

Rose Landry [3:50 p.m.]: Yeah, no offense, but I don’t think you’re built for a FBW situation. You get too in your head for the cool, casual attitude required for a situationship. 

Shane Hollander [3:51 p.m.]: Hey! I resent that. And I’m handling it just fine, thank you very much. 

Rose Landry [3:52 p.m.]: Give us some details. Frequency of hook-ups? 

Shane Hollander [3:52 p.m.]: I don’t know. I can’t put a precise number on it. We’ve only been doing this for a few weeks. 

Rose Landry [3:53 p.m.]: Fine. Number of hook-ups in the last week. 

Shane Hollander [3:53 p.m.]: Work week or calendar week? 

Hayden Pike [3:54 p.m.]: Jesus, stop stalling and just answer the question. 

Rose Landry [3:54 p.m.]: Exactly! Stop being a coward and tell us. 😡

Shane Hollander [3:55 p.m.]: I’m going to report you both to HR for creating a hostile work environment. 

Hayden Pike [3:55 p.m.]: Go ahead, buddy. But answer the question first. 

Shane Hollander [3:56 p.m.]: … five times in the last seven days. No. Six times. 

Hayden Pike [3:56 p.m.]: SIX TIMES?! 🤯

Rose Landry [3:56 p.m.]: HOW ARE YOU STILL WALKING? 

Shane Hollander [3:57 p.m.]: BRB, going to file my HR complaint now. 

It’s a Friday night. 

Hayden and Jackie have secured a babysitter, which means that they’re going to some buzzy new restaurant that serves fondue and ridiculously expensive cuts of beef. Rose is out town for a yoga retreat with her college roommates, having promised to return with a “chiller attitude” about their current work project—something that Shane highly doubts is possible when their client communicates with the delicacy of a chimpanzee wielding a hammer. 

Shane is alone in his apartment. It’s Friday and he’s treated himself to a poke bowl from the restaurant down the street, and he has a new book about the opioid crisis that his dad recommended, and his apartment is clean and comfortable, and his soft instrumental music playlist should be a soothing accompaniment to this relaxing evening and… 

Shane is not soothed. He is not relaxed. He is sitting against his headboard and pretending not eavesdrop through the wall on Ilya and whoever he brought home tonight. He can’t make out the specifics of what they’re saying—the sound insulation in the building isn’t that bad—but he can hear the lilt of a female voice. Ilya, saying something loud and fast, in the way he only talks when it’s in Russian. He can hear the woman, probably the same curly-haired, gorgeous model type that Shane has seen more than once, responding in turn and making Ilya laugh in response.

Another giggle cuts through the sound of Shane’s instrumental melodies, followed by Ilya raising his voice enough that Shane can hear the words.

“No, Sveta! You cannot!” 

The woman says something back that Shane can’t make out. He hears footsteps on the other side of the wall, as though they’re both moving quickly through the apartment. Shane is already reaching for his bedside drawer and fumbling for his noise canceling headphones, trying not to imagine Ilya backing the woman up against the wall and licking into her mouth with the same ravenous appetite that he brings to his encounters with Shane.

Will Ilya fuck her in the same bed that he had Shane in two nights ago? Will he join her in the shower and soap up her naked body with the same care? Will he pick her up with those muscled arms and lift her onto the kitchen counter before dropping to his knees and using his tongue on her, just like he did to Shane after they returned from farmer’s market last week? 

Shane feels sick. He wonders if it’s the raw fish from his poke bowl. He wonders if he’s going to throw up and have to skip their run tomorrow due to food poisoning. He wonders if Ilya will cancel on him because he has better plans for his Saturday that involve a smoking hot woman who can understand Russian and looks incredible in platform leather boots. 

He’s about to put on his headphones and lie flat on his back for an old-fashioned panic attack when he hears the knocking. Shane freezes. For a moment, he contemplates diving under his bed and hiding until whoever is trying to find him leaves. He used to do that when he was a little kid and unexpected guests came over. His mom would bring him a sandwich on a plate and leave it on the floor, like she was feeding a puppy. 

But as his mind races, he starts to worry that this could be something important. What if his parents drove here in an emergency? What if Hayden and Jackie are coming over with their kids because their babysitter fell through? 

He walks out the bedroom and pulls open the front door. He almost slams it shut again when he sees Ilya’s curly-haired visitor standing there with a wide, expectant grin on her face. Behind her, Ilya hovers with an uncomfortable expression. He raises his hand in a small wave and through Shane’s confused panic, he could swear that his neighbor blushes. 

Which is insane. Ilya doesn’t blush. He probably has never blushed in his life. 

“Hello, Shane!” the woman says, brushing past Shane and into his apartment as though she owns the place. “I’m Ilya’s friend, Svetlana. Can we trouble you for some sugar?” 

Shane stands aside and watches, a bit dazed, as Svetlana moves through his kitchen with terrifying efficiency. 

He’s realizing that Ilya’s friend—and he does not want to examine the relief coursing through his body at that word—may be small in stature, but is just as skilled as Ilya at stampeding over Shane’s carefully established boundaries. She starts opening drawers and cupboards at random, chattering on about how she grew up with Ilya in Moscow and how he’s just as hopeless now at stocking his pantry as when he was living in his first disgusting apartment where he never cleaned the toilet or the inside of the microwave. 

“Ilya tells me to come over for baking night,” she says, crouching down to open the cupboard where Shane keeps his baking supplies. “He says to me, Sveta, I want to make zucchini bread for Shane because he has a sweet tooth but will never indulge unless there is a vegetable involved. And then I get here and the man does not even have sugar or baking powder in his house. Can you imagine?” 

Ilya ambles over to stand next to Shane as Svetlana continues rummaging about in the kitchen. She throws some questions at Shane without looking at him and he tries his best to keep up with the rapid fire conversation. He’s both intimidated and oddly determined to stay on this woman’s good side. 

“What do you do for work, Shane Hollander?” 

“Uh, I work for a branding agency, but I’m not on the creative side of things," he says, mind still stuck on the improbable revelation that Ilya wanted to bake something healthy for Shane. "I’m a project manager. Pretty boring stuff… lots of spreadsheets and meetings.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. Project managers keep the idiots on track, don’t they? Without you, nothing would get done.”

“I guess so.”

“And it’s good that you are so organized and responsible. Ilyusha needs that. I hear you’ve been feeding this one, making sure he is not clogging his arteries with fast food every night. I am grateful.” 

“Oh, it’s nothing–” 

“–and he is grateful too, though he may not always show it. He’s a little shit sometimes, isn’t he? Say thank you to Shane for taking care of you, Ilyusha.” 

Shane steals a sideways glance at his neighbor and is fascinated as a hot flush rises from Ilya’s neck up into his cheeks. So maybe incredibly hot and cocky Russians do sometimes blush. Ilya runs a hand through his hair and clears his throat. He flickers his eyes to Shane—almost shy—and mumbles something that Shane can’t make out. 

“Speak clearly,” Svetlana commands. “No one can hear you.” 

“I said, thank you, Shane,” Ilya says. His tone is sarcastic, but there’s a softness in his eyes as he peers at Shane. “I am very grateful to live next door to someone with the exercise and diet of someone trying to achieve immortality.” 

“Like I said,” Svetlana says, standing up and dusting off her hands. Somehow, she’s managed to find Shane’s Ziploc bags drawer and has portioned out the needed amount of sugar and baking powder. “He’s a little shit but he only says good things about you. He’ll never admit it, but he needs someone fussing over him. It makes him feel special.” 

“Sveta…” Ilya growls, but says nothing more as Svetlana shoots him an arch look. 

Shane trails them to the door as they move to leave, feeling a bit bereft as he exchanges a look with Ilya. Since they started hooking up, there hasn't been a single encounter between them in the past few weeks where they didn’t touch each other—even when they’re walking downstairs in the morning, Ilya always bumps his shoulder against Shane’s and sometimes hooks their pinky fingers together playfully. But it feels weird to be affectionate in front of Svetlana when he doesn’t know what they are. When he doesn’t know what Ilya has told her. 

Ilya clears his throat again and gives Shane a single, short nod as he backs out into the hallway. Svetlana, on the other hand, stands on tiptoe to kiss Shane on the cheek. He tries not to flinch away at the unexpected contact. As she draws back, Svetlana brushes a thumb over Shane’s skin in a gesture that’s oddly maternal. 

“Sorry,” she says with a wry smile. “Lipstick. And wow, look at those pretty freckles. Just like Ilyusha described!” 

And with that, she’s out of Shane’s apartment and shutting the door closed behind her. 

Shane goes back to his bedroom and sits on the edge of the bed, trying to make sense of what’s just happened. Ilya has apparently been telling people about Shane—including his gorgeous friend who he’s not fucking—and talking about his freckles. Shane had told his friends about Ilya too, but that's because Ilya is sexual catnip for 99% of the population. He hadn't expected Ilya to tell anyone about him. It's not like Shane is everyone's cup of tea. 

He only says good things about you. Wasn’t that what Svetlana had said? 

Shane sits in bed with his book and reads the same page over and over again, an unfamiliar warmth spreading through his chest and into his limbs. 

Somehow, Shane isn’t surprised when Ilya shows up later that night alone, bearing a still-warm tin of zucchini bread. Shane doesn’t say anything—he just takes his neighbor by the hand and leads him through to the dark kitchen. In the moonlight, they eat bites of gooey zucchini bread dotted with dark chocolate chips. Shane doesn’t mention that the chocolate and sugar cancel out any of the zucchini’s nutritional benefits; he just smiles and leans in to kiss a smear of chocolate from the corner of Ilya’s mouth. 

Ilya kisses him back, soft and slow, and it’s different from the kisses they’ve shared over the past few weeks. It’s a kiss that feels like it’s going nowhere, and for some reason, that sparks a giddy, fluttering sensation in Shane’s stomach. 

“It’s late,” he murmurs after they’ve both finished their glasses of lactose-free milk to wash down the zucchini bread. He watches Ilya’s lips turn down in a small frown and hurries to stave off his departure. “You can stay, if you want.” 

Ilya stares at him for a moment and Shane wonders if he’s said the wrong thing. Maybe Ilya is the kind of person who never stays the night with his hook-ups. Maybe he’s going to think that Shane is getting too attached. But then Ilya smiles at him—bright and dazzling—and nods his head.

“Yes,” he says. “I am very tired. Too tired to go all the way home.” 

Shane rolls his eyes but the warm feeling in his chest expands. 

“Come on,” he says, pulling Ilya by the wrist toward his bedroom. “I have a toothbrush and some pajamas you can borrow.”

“Do they have cute animals on them? Can I wear the ones with the polar bears?”

“Ugh, shut up and don’t make me regret this.” 

It feels both strange and natural to get ready for bed together, to smile at Ilya in the mirror as they brush their teeth side-by-side in the bathroom and take turns spitting into the sink. He hands Ilya the polar bear print pajamas. They’re a little too short, the hem ending above Ilya’s ankles, and Shane grins at how cute he looks. He wishes he could take a picture to remember this, but that would be weird. He doesn't want to do anything that will shatter this delicate, quiet bubble they've found themselves in. 

“Goodnight, Shane,” Ilya whispers as he gets into the other side of the bed. 

“Goodnight, Ilya,” Shane whispers back. 

He curls onto his side so that he’s facing Ilya. They just look at each other in the dark for a while. Then Ilya is shifting onto one elbow, leaning in and brushing his lips over Shane’s in a motion so devastatingly tender that Shane has to swallow around a lump in his throat. 

As Shane closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep, he hears Ilya murmur, low and soft, I think Svetlana really likes you. He thinks, drowsily, that it almost sounds like Ilya is trying to say something else. 

Chapter Text

June

Spring bleeds into summer and despite every self-protective instinct in Shane’s body screaming that this could all flame out in a disaster of epic proportions—one that would force him to move out of his apartment and city and start a whole new life altogether under a new name—he finds himself getting comfortable.

Comfortable with greeting Ilya Rozanov in their hallway with a quick kiss in the mornings, comfortable with responding to his stream-of-consciousness texts at lunch, comfortable with changing into sweatpants before inviting Ilya over for dinner when he’s made too much food again. 

It’s a problem. 

Probably a big problem.

But it’s a problem that Shane is content to lock away in a compartment labeled “figure out later” in the back of his mind. Who could blame him, when he’s so busy these days? Shane used to think that he had a busy schedule before—running through a weekly checklist of work tasks, phone calls with his parents, catching up with friends, cleaning, meal prep, grocery shopping, chores, workouts, and the occasional online evening class on topics like kinesiology and ancient history when he felt like his brain was atrophying from too many spreadsheets and emails. 

But he’s never been busy because his days are being shaped by the presence of someone else. 

Never been busy because he’s willingly grocery shopping and meal prepping for two, just in case his neighbor comes over for dinner and ends up spending the night. Never been busy because Ilya—whose name he’s changed in his phone because even though he’s the best sex Shane has ever had, he can’t just remain “Sex God🤠” in his contacts—texts him spontaneous plans for them to do together after work and on the weekends. Never been busy because he’s suddenly, inexplicably okay with skipping laundry day just because Ilya wants to try laser tag or to go to some dog fair downtown. 

Sometimes when he can’t sleep, Shane scrolls through their ridiculous, stupid text thread and tries to ignore the warmth bubbling beneath his breastbone. 

No. 1 Menace😈: new speed demons movie out this weekend 

No. 1 Menace😈: we should go 

No. 1 Menace😈: is great cinematic experience

Me: do you ever watch anything that doesn’t feature loud explosions and hot women? 🙄

No. 1 Menace😈: yes of course

No. 1 Menace😈: i also like movies with explosions and hot men 😉

No. 1 Menace😈: especially with pretty freckles and glasses 

Me: shut up 

Me: okay fine. we can go on saturday after farmer’s market. maybe a matinee? 

No. 1 Menace😈: i will buy tickets. you pick place for dinner after 

Me: my boss was talking about this new place with amazing dry rubbed steaks 

No. 1 Menace😈: i’ll rub your steak 🥩👌🏼💦

Me: you’re disgusting 

No. 1 Menace😈: you liiiiiiiiiiiiike it 

Me: I fucking do not 

No. 1 Menace😈: 😘😘😘

So what if Shane is spending full weekends with his neighbor, who happens to be hot and annoying as hell, but in a devastatingly endearing way? So what if he’s returned to his apartment more than once wearing Ilya’s sweatshirt so that he can smell him for the rest of the day? So what if it feels increasingly wrong to describe Ilya as a mere hookup or fuck buddy whenever Rose and Hayden ask for details? 

So what? 

Shane is happier than he’s ever been and the last thing he wants to do is fuck up this delicate, miraculous situationship he’s found himself in by talking about it. 

At the end of the month, work finally calms down enough so that Shane can take a Friday and Monday off to visit his parents for a long weekend. He’s seen them less than usual since the holidays and feels guilty about it. His parents always say that they understand—he’s an adult now with his own life to attend to. They seem happy enough to drive into the city once a month or so for a Sunday lunch and museum trip, but Shane knows they miss having him under their roof. 

It’s just that lately, he hasn’t wanted to leave town on the weekends. That would mean missing his Saturday morning routine with Ilya, which has gradually expanded to include dinner and a movie on one of their couches, followed by sex and sleeping together. The sleepovers usually happen at Shane’s place because he’s more comfortable in his own bed with his ergonomic pillows and white noise machine. It does mean that Shane has to turn off his alarm clock on Sunday morning so that Ilya can sleep in, but he doesn’t mind. It’s always a bit odd to Shane that Ilya—who is always game for a 7:30 a.m. run on Saturday—prefers to luxuriate in bed until almost noon when given the option. 

Shane waits until they’re eating dinner on Thursday to tell Ilya that he’ll be gone from Friday morning to Monday afternoon. He’d debated not saying anything at all—it’s not like they’re together and he doesn’t want to come across as clingy—but he figures he should let Ilya know so that he can make other plans for the weekend. Maybe invite someone over, since Shane won’t be around. Go on a date or something. The idea curdles in Shane’s stomach like sour milk but he washes it down with a sip of ginger ale. 

“That will be nice for you,” Ilya says through a mouthful of the stir fry they’d cooked together. “I am sure your family will be very happy to see you.” 

“Yeah. But– gross, Ilya. Don't talk with your mouth open. You have to swallow,” Shane says automatically, which makes Ilya grin wider. “No! Stop that. You make everything about sex.” 

“But everything about you is so sexy, Hollander,” Ilya croons, one socked foot traveling up Shane's leg underneath the dining table to inch up his thigh. Shane kicks him lightly on the shin and glares at him, unimpressed. Ilya smiles back with a scallion stuck to his front tooth. It makes him look like a little kid, or maybe a gap-toothed hockey player, and Shane really shouldn’t find that so cute. 

Later that night, after they’ve gotten ready for bed—a routine that includes shower blowjobs and Ilya borrowing Shane’s loon pajamas—Ilya turns onto his side and hooks his leg between Shane’s underneath the covers. 

He clears his throat once then asks, “Can I call you this weekend? While you are gone?” 

Shane blinks back, surprised. He doesn’t know why this feels so momentous. He supposes it’s because they’ve never had a single conversation on the phone before. They haven’t needed to, what with being next door neighbors. Sure, they text all the time, but calling feels different. Serious, somehow. 

Ilya’s gaze flickers away from his and it’s strange, how his face is devoid of all its usual bravado. He looks almost unsure as he waits for Shane’s answer. 

“I mean, you will probably be too busy…” 

“No,” Shane says and Ilya flinches. Fuck. Shane didn’t mean to say that he couldn’t call. Shane does want to hear Ilya’s voice over the phone, to listen to him tease in that accent that he’s grown terribly fond of. He reaches over and places a hand on Ilya’s cheek. “No, I meant I won’t be too busy. And yes, I’d like that. Talking to you, I mean.” 

“Okay,” Ilya whispers, eyes gleaming in the dark. “I might call you, then.” 

“Good,” Shane responds, unable to keep a smile from spreading over his face. “I might answer.” 

Ilya turns his head to press a kiss to Shane’s palm.  

“Goodnight, Shane,” he says before closing his eyes. 

“Goodnight, Ilya.” 

Shane swallows a lump in his throat and tries not to think about how they’ll be apart for almost four days. It shouldn’t feel like anything at all, but somehow, the impending separation hooks like a barb in his chest. 

After kissing Ilya goodbye outside their apartment building, Shane makes his way to the station and boards his train to Ottawa the following morning. He’s seated by a window reading a book when a small, pudgy hand comes out of nowhere to poke at his leg. Hard. 

Shane almost jumps out of his skin. 

“Uh,” he says, blinking down at his new companion. “Hello?” 

The girl scowling back at him is maybe three years old, with shiny black hair clipped in a severe bowl cut. She’s cradling a box of animal crackers against her chest. She also has a visibly runny nose and cheeks so red Shane wonders whether it’s a rash or if she’s running a fever. 

“Here!” she says, holding up a closed fist. Shane stares at her until she unclenches her hand to reveal a cracker shaped like a… hippo? Or maybe a bear? “For you.” 

Shane really doesn’t want to touch the germ-ridden animal cracker, but he also has been around Hayden and Jackie’s kids enough to recognize when a toddler is winding up for a full meltdown. He’d rather not have to explain to all these strangers on the train who made a child cry because he refused to accept her generous offer of a blob-shaped cracker.  

Holding back a sigh, Shane uses two fingers to carefully take the cracker from her. He’ll throw it away once she’s out of sight. 

“Thanks,” he says. “So, are your parents around here somewhere? You should probably get back to them.”

The girl crosses her arms over her chest and glares at Shane.

“Not before you eat,” she practically growls, and Shane is suddenly, terrifyingly, reminded of Yuna Hollander telling him that he’d better finish his vegetables or he wouldn’t be getting any dessert. “Now.” 

Shane eats the fucking cracker. It’s disturbingly soft—like it’s been collecting moisture in a toddler’s hand for a while—and tastes like sweet sawdust. He swallows it and stares out the window for the rest of the journey, remembering how the soft press of Ilya’s lips had felt on his palm. 

When it comes to spending time with his parents, Shane thinks a long weekend is the perfect length of time. It’s long time to get comfortable, to fall into the old familiar rhythms of their family, to get spoiled with his favorite meals and listen to his parents’ comforting gossip about the neighbors and their kids. It’s also short enough that by the time his parents start giving him unsolicited advice and grilling him about his personal life, Shane knows he won’t have to suffer the endless questions too much longer. 

To his surprise, Ilya texts him at dinnertime on Friday. 

No. 1 Menace😈: you are safe in ottawa? 

Shane smiles down at his phone. He’s never really had anyone—besides his parents, that is—check that he made it somewhere safely.

Me: yeah, got in a few hours ago. we’re eating dinner now.

No. 1 Menace😈: what are you having? 

Me: my mom made my favorite. meatloaf.

No. 1 Menace😈: woooooow you even have culinary taste of old man 

Me: fuck off. what are you having for dinner? 

No. 1 Menace😈: well my usual sous chef is gone so i will probably order taco bell 

Me: first of all, I'm the one who usually cooks so if anything, I'm the executive chef and you're the sous chef 

Me: and second of all, taco bell? fucking gross 

No. 1 Menace😈: 👄 🌮🌮🌮

Me: 💩💩💩

No. 1 Menace😈: now who’s the gross one? 

“Shane?” 

He looks up to see both of his parents staring expectantly at him. Shane realizes belatedly that he’s been distracted at the dining table, staring down at his phone and texting Ilya and grinning down at his phone like an idiot. 

His dad clears his throat. 

“Your mom was just asking how things have been at work.” 

Shane shoves his phone back into his pocket and picks up his fork.

“Oh yeah, it’s been better lately. I'm on this new project…” 

That night, after watching a nature documentary with his parents, Shane goes back to his childhood bedroom and texts Ilya that he’s alone. He doesn’t know what he expects. They haven’t even been apart for a full day; he woke up this morning in Ilya’s arms, with Ilya’s lips pressed against the nape of his neck. But Ilya had told him to text whenever he was free. 

The phone rings as Shane is getting under the covers. He settles against the pillows and answers the call. 

“Hey,” Shane says. 

“Hey yourself.” 

On the other end of the line, Ilya’s voice is achingly familiar. 

“I’m glad you called,” Shane says, then asks, to cover up how eager he sounds, “What are you doing this weekend?” 

He braces himself automatically, preparing to hear about how Ilya has plans to go clubbing to meet hot people who are probably way more interesting than Shane. It’s not that Shane doesn’t believe that Ilya likes him—they have been sleeping together for almost two months—but it’s still hard to wrap his mind around the fact that someone that gorgeous and outgoing could be content to sit around at home with Shane forever. 

“Well, tomorrow I will probably skip running but go to farmer’s market to get that garlic dip you like,” Ilya says. “Then I have volunteer shift at animal shelter to walk dogs. On Sunday, I have lunch with Sveta. Then maybe I’ll do laundry and watch a movie.” 

Shane can imagine it all so clearly. As much as he loves seeing his parents, he suddenly feels an overwhelming pang of homesickness for his apartment. For the Saturday routine that has become the highlight of his week. For Ilya. 

“That sounds nice,” he murmurs. 

“Would be nicer with you here.”

Something loosens in Shane’s chest and he snuggles deeper into his childhood bed, listening to Ilya talk about that day’s terrible customers at the car dealership. When they finally hang up, it’s past midnight. 

Shane tucks his phone underneath his pillow and falls asleep. 

The rest of the weekend goes like this: 

Shane spends time with his parents. The Hollanders go on hikes, eat at Shane’s favorite local restaurants, play board games, and watch old home movies of an adorable, four-year-old Shane skating on the ice with a tiny hockey stick. 

Shane also spends a ridiculous amount of time thinking about Ilya every chance he gets. Texting Ilya throughout the day. Talking to Ilya on the phone late into the night while staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling. 

They’ve been spending increasingly more time together over the past months, but somehow being physically apart makes it easier for them to talk—really talk. Ilya tells Shane about his family back in Russia, about his father’s illness and his brother’s drug problem. Shane talks about how his dream had been to play hockey professionally, but his anxiety had spiraled out of control from the competitive pressure and in the end, he’d chosen his mental health over his ambition. Ilya tells Shane about the neighborhood stray dogs he had fed as a child. Shane FaceTimes Ilya to give him a tour of his childhood bedroom and pretends to be mad when Ilya makes fun of him for his Pokémon card collection. 

On Sunday night, Shane lies on his side and looks at his phone screen. Ilya stares back at him, also lying on his side with a pillow tucked beneath his head. Shane rambles about how they used to rent out a cottage during the summer and that those aimless lakeside days were some of the happiest of his childhood. 

“It was the only time that I didn’t have any kind of schedule,” Shane says. “During the school year, you know, it was always classes, hockey, other extracurriculars. But when we were at the cottage, I didn’t have to do anything. I could spend the whole day lying out on the dock, or go swimming until dinner. I could read a book in the sun until I fell asleep.” 

“I can imagine little Shane splashing around,” Ilya says fondly. “So many freckles from the sun.” 

“I bet it sounds boring to you,” Shane says with a self-conscious laugh. 

Ilya shakes his head, a small, secret smile playing at the corners of his mouth. 

“I don’t know, sometimes I like boring very much.” 

After they say goodnight and hang up, Shane stays awake for hours looking up and bookmarking vacation rental cottages. He ignores the fact that every time he imagines booking one for the summer, Ilya is there with him—cooking beside him in the kitchen, swimming up to him in the lake, falling into bed in a sunlit room, and kissing him underneath a star-dotted sky. 

To his parents’ credit, they wait until they’re in the car on the way to the train station before bringing it up. Shane is sitting in the backseat, feeling very much like a child again, when his dad clears his throat and speaks. 

“So… your mom and I noticed that you’ve been texting a lot this weekend, kiddo.” 

“Sorry,” Shane mutters guiltily. “That was rude.” 

“And you know, sound travels in the house.” 

Shane’s face heats up and his memory flashes, horribly, to his FaceTime call with Ilya the previous night. They hadn’t like, had video sex or anything, but Ilya had made some very interesting suggestions for what they could do together once Shane was back in the city. Things that Shane would never want his parents to overhear. 

“Oh my god,” he blurts out. “Were you guys eavesdropping on my conversations?” 

His mom turns around in her seat and levels him with an exasperated look.

“No, honey,” she says. “We would never do that.” 

It’s rich, coming from the same woman who still opens and reads his mail when it comes to their house, but Shane doesn’t say anything. 

“Well, I’m sorry I was distracted. I really have had a good visit. I'm sorry if I wasn't like, present the entire time." 

“It's not that. We had a great visit with you,” his mom says. Her forehead furrows in that way that means she’s either worried or trying to puzzle something out. “We’re not annoyed or mad. It was more– well, I suppose we’re curious.” 

There’s a beat of awkward silence before his dad cuts in. 

“You’ve looked happy. Smiling at your phone a lot. It made us wonder if you’ve met someone, that’s all.” 

“Uh-” Shane’s brain short circuits. He thinks of meeting Ilya for the first time and how all he’s thought about since that January night is him, him, that one right there. “I mean…” 

“Do you have a boyfriend, Shane?” his mom asks, straight to the point as ever. 

“No!” Shane yelps. Then he stares down at his hands, nose wrinkling at the way the denial tastes like a lie coming out of his mouth—bitter and wrong. He tries again. “I don’t have a boyfriend. Not… yet.” 

The words hang heavy in the car and Shane tries to ignore the way his mom settles back into her seat and turns her head to exchange a meaningful look with his dad. The whole thing makes Shane blush even harder and he knows that from now on, his parents will be dropping not-so-subtle hints in every phone call about Shane’s dating life. What a fucking disaster. 

But later, when he’s hugging his mom and dad goodbye at the train station, Shane’s mind wanders to Ilya again. To his easy charm, his generous nature, the way he always knows how to make Shane laugh when he’s irritated or wound tight with stress from work. 

He thinks, idiotically, that his parents would like Ilya.

He thinks that he can’t wait to see him when he gets home. 

Several hours later, Shane arrives home decidedly much worse for the wear. 

He groans into his pillow. The bug he’d caught—which he would bet a million dollars was from eating that fucking tyrannical toddler’s animal cracker—had come on fast. He’d started feeling under the weather as he got on the train—tired and a little achey. But by the time he’d gotten back to the city and taken an Uber to his apartment building, Shane felt like he was on the verge of death. He’d had to stop on the stairs three times to catch his breath. 

Now he’s in bed. His body is simultaneously hot all over while he shivers so hard his teeth clatter together. His muscles are sore. His skin aches. Shane hasn’t gotten sick in two years, a fact that he attributes to his careful diet, strict sleep schedule, and well-calibrated exercise regimen. All of that hard work, brought down by a bossy little girl carrying a disease-loaded animal cracker like a smallpox blanket. 

He drifts in and out of uncomfortable consciousness, uncertain of how much time has passed. At one point, he reaches for the water bottle on his nightstand and accidentally knocks it to the floor. He watches balefully as it rolls under the bed and out of sight. 

I guess I’ll just die of thirst, he thinks mournfully. Maybe Ilya will find me after the smell gets bad. He’ll look so handsome in a black suit at my funeral. 

A moment later, his phone vibrates.

No. 1 Menace😈: I hear noise from next door 

No. 1 Menace😈: either you are home or there is serial killer 

No. 1 Menace😈: please confirm 

No. 1 Menace😈: if you are back I can come over and give you proper welcome back 🍆🫦💦

No. 1 Menace😈: if not I will call police and hide under bed 

Shane pouts and to his great embarrassment, starts to tear up. It’s just that he’s been looking forward to seeing Ilya again all weekend, and now he can’t because he’s sick and incapable of having sex or even cuddling on the couch. It’s not fair. 

He thumbs out a response on his phone. 

Me: I’m home but dying 🤒

Me: I’m pretty sure I have a fever 

Me: and my whole body feels like it’s been sandpapered 

Me: sorry gonna have to raincheck on the welcome back party 😭😭😭

He watches three dots appear as Ilya types something before they disappear again. Shane winces and wonders if he’s made things awkward. Fuck, he shouldn’t be texting Ilya like this, pathetically whining that he doesn’t feel well. It’s not like Ilya’s responsible for comforting him. It’s not like they’re boyfriends. 

Yet, his brain unhelpfully supplies, bringing back what he’d said to his parents. He’s not my boyfriend… yet. 

He tells it to shut the fuck up, but he must be too tired to fight his own brain, because the word keeps bouncing around his head with the stochastic energy of a ping pong ball. Boyfriend. Boyfriend. Boyfriend. 

Some time later—he’s not sure how much time has passed, it could be minutes or days—a parched Shane is debating the merits of rolling out of bed to find his water bottle when he hears someone knocking on his door. He turns his head toward the sound muzzily.

“Hmm?” he says. 

Another three, rapid fire knocks, and then the sound of the doorknob turning. 

“Hollander, you left your door unlocked,” says a worried voice. “That is not like you.” 

It takes Shane a moment to place where he’s heard that voice before. Then his fevered brain supplies the name. Ilya, he thinks, pleased and distantly noting the way his pulse quickens at the realization. Ilya is here. 

Ilya enters the bedroom dressed in his work clothes, handsome but frowning as he looks down at Shane. For a moment, Shane debates pulling the covers over his head. He feels self-conscious about how gross he probably looks right now. He knows he’s very sweaty and not in a sexy way. He also knows that he’ll expire on the spot if he doesn’t drink water very soon, which means that his skin likely looks like shit. 

But Ilya doesn’t look disgusted. Ilya looks concerned as he takes several long strides to the bed and leans down, cupping Shane’s overheated cheek with a cool hand. 

“Solnyshko,” he murmurs. Shane’s eyes flutter closed. It’s nice to have Ilya here with him. “My poor sweetheart. Let me take care of you.” 

Call me your sweetheart again, Shane wants to say, but instead he nods and leans into Ilya’s touch. He takes the medicine that Ilya hands him and washes it down with a cold can of ginger ale. He settles against his pillows obediently as Ilya gently runs a cool washcloth over his forehead and neck. He rolls over so that Ilya can slip into bed next to him, sitting against the headboard and guiding Shane’s head onto his lap.

Shane closes his eyes and sighs at the soothing sensation of Ilya’s fingers brushing through his hair, soothing his oversensitive scalp. 

“Sleep,” Ilya says. “Moy lyubimyy.” 

“That doesn’t start with an S,” Shane mumbles sleepily against Ilya’s thigh. "I like it. What does it mean?" 

He’s asleep before he hears Ilya’s response. 

Shane drifts in and out of delirious sleep throughout the night. He has a snatch of lucidity where Ilya coaxes him to swallow another dose of medicine, another where Ilya helps him change out his sweat-soaked shirt and into a fresh one. 

When he wakes up the next morning, his fever has broken and Ilya is sitting on the edge of the bed typing on his phone. 

“Hi,” Shane croaks out. He still feels awful but his mind feels clearer. “Uh, good morning.” 

Ilya looks up, his expression settling into one of pleased relief.

“There you are,” Ilya says. He leans over and kisses Shane directly on the mouth, as though he doesn’t care about germs or gross morning breath at all. Shane makes an involuntary, contented noise against his lips. “Feeling better?” 

“Yeah,” Shane says. “Not great. I’ll still have to take a sick day.” 

“Not just one sick day, solnyshko. You should take rest of week off. Give your body time to recover." 

Shane would usually bristle at being told what to do, but there’s something sweet about Ilya’s worried frown and the way he keeps brushing his fingertips against Shane’s cheek. 

“Today and tomorrow,” Shane concedes. “I’ll see how I’m feeling on Thursday.” 

“I wish I could stay with you today but we are short staffed,” Ilya says, waving a frustrated hand at his phone. “But I have left medicine and there is soup in the fridge. Also more ginger ale.” 

Shane is certain that with his defenses down, he’s staring back at Ilya with a starry-eyed expression right now. It’s just… he can’t believe that Ilya Rozanov—his neighbor who used to play techno music at an unbearable volume and go out clubbing in leopard print shirts—is fussing over him like he’s Florence fucking Nightingale. 

He cares, Shane thinks. This time, it doesn’t sound like the horny lizard part of his brain. You keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, but he cares about you. He likes you. He wants to take care of you. 

“Go to work,” Shane says. Feeling braver than usual, he reaches out and encircles Ilya’s wrist with his fingers. “Thank you, for taking such good care of me. I’m really… it’s probably one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me." 

The words come out too earnest, too raw. Ilya gazes down at him with a helpless, fond smile and Shane feels warmth flood his body. 

“Come back later?” Shane asks. He feels a little breathless. It could be from the disgusting virus he’s battling, but it could also be from the way that Ilya’s face lights up at the request. “Tonight? I know I’m not the best company right now, but I missed you. I want to hang out with you.” 

“I missed you too,” Ilya says. “And you are always good company, even when you smell like Vicks VapoRub and talk about boring hockey statistics in your sleep.” 

“Fuck off, Rozanov. I changed my mind. I don’t want you here at all.” 

Ilya grins. He leans down and kisses Shane on the forehead. Shane’s eyes flutter closed at the tender gesture. His chest feels too tight, in a good way. 

“You don’t mean that,” he calls over his shoulder as he leaves the apartment. “You like me, Shane Hollander.” 

And fuck, if that isn’t the truth. 

Chapter Text

July 

“He’s so smitten with you. What the hell are you waiting for?” Rose hisses, elbowing Shane in the side. “Lock that shit down, Shane Hollander. I’m going to be so mad at you if you fumble this.” 

“He’s not smitten,” Shane whispers back. “I mean, we’re hooking up obviously, but–”

“Shhh! He’s coming back. Act natural.” 

Rose turns and plasters on a bright, innocent smile as Ilya ambles over from the bakery stall. He’s carrying a loaf of bread under one arm. It looks like one of the olive batards that Shane has been obsessed with lately. Warmth fills his chest, bright and dazzling as a lit sparkler. Shane, despite himself, is already thinking ahead to later in the day—to what he and Ilya will do after they say goodbye to Rose and return to the apartment.

When he and Ilya get home, Shane decides, he’ll make fresh pesto. He already has basil and heirloom tomatoes tucked in his reusable tote. Shane will spread bright green pesto on thick slabs of bread and layer on slices of tomatoes and mozzarella. He’ll pretend to be annoyed when Ilya moans exaggeratedly around the first bite and tells Shane that he’s a wizard in the kitchen. Then he’ll kiss the taste of summer right out of his mouth. 

Home. What the fuck? When did Shane start thinking about his apartment—about the top floor of that building—as a home that he shared with Ilya Rozanov? 

The part of Shane’s brain that emits an ever-present hum of anxiety tells him that he should be panicking right now. But instead, he smiles and nods as Rose says something about wanting to get coffee because she’s still tired and hungover from a raucous night out with her old coworkers from her last job. 

“Of course,” Ilya says right away. “There’s a place down the block that we like. They make very good matcha lattes. Shane’s favorite.” 

A place that we like. Shane feels giddy. He wants Ilya to say it again—to keep talking about them as a we, to care about Shane’s stupid drink order even though he thinks matcha tastes like lawn clippings, to buy a loaf of bread that they’ll eat together throughout the weekend. 

Shane lets out a slow exhale and Rose raises an eyebrow. A silent question: are you okay? She’s wearing that slightly guilty puppy dog expression, the one that she deploys to great effect on the rare occasions she misses a deadline at work. She’s probably worried that Shane is mad about this “accidental run-in” at the farmer’s market. Shane isn’t actually angry, though he’s well aware that his best friend engineered this meeting with the precision of a military strike. He’s annoyed, maybe, but you can’t be friends with Rose Landry and not expect a certain level of nosiness and meddling. 

So he nods and gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile, then trails Rose and Ilya to the cafe down the street. He sits there with the matcha latte that Ilya hands to him, their fingertips brushing, and tries to act very normal as he sits between his best friend and the man he’s in lo-... and his next door neighbor. His next door neighbor who he really likes sleeping with on a regular basis, and not just in a sexy way, but in a please never stop borrowing my pajamas and kissing me on the forehead before bed kind of way.

God, he’s so fucked. 

He watches Rose and Ilya converse easily, smiling at how Ilya shows genuine interest when Rose talks about the community play she's rehearsing for, touched by how he asks follow-up questions and promises to come to the opening night show with Shane. 

When Rose finally leaves, she kisses both him and Ilya on the cheek. 

“It was so nice to meet you, Ilya,” Rose says warmly. “Will I be seeing a lot more of you in the future?” 

She shoots Shane a not-so-subtle look that clearly communicates, this one's a keeper. 

Shane blushes but can’t hide how pleased he is at the thought of Ilya slotting into every part of his life. He tries not to think about how the buzzing in his chest feels less like panic and more like anticipation. Happiness, even. 

“Yeah, you probably will,” Shane says. “I mean, he’s always around.” 

He doesn’t miss the way Ilya’s smile widens at the admission. 

“Yes,” Ilya says. “And I plan to stay around for a long time." 

Ilya’s reaction to the fresh pesto is exactly what Shane predicted—all the way up to the frankly indecent moaning around the first, second, and third bites. Shane rolls his eyes at the over-the-top noises, but ends up hard and eager anyway as Ilya crowds him against the kitchen counter and kisses him senseless. 

At some point, they relocate to the couch with Shane in Ilya’s lap, stroking both their spit-lubed cocks in tandem as Ilya lets loose an incoherent stream of gibberish and Russian. Shane hears solnyshko. He hears lyubov. He hears something that’s half growl, half moan. He hears his name, again and again and again as they both come. 

He says Ilya too, holds the word in his mouth like it’s precious. In moments like these, it feels like Ilya’s name is the only word Shane remembers—a password that unlocks the vault of his heart. 

Shane is still in a dreamy, off-balance state when he sits down to call his parents the next day. Ilya is at brunch with Svetlana—he’d invited Shane to join, but it felt like too much after they’d already hung out with Rose the day before. This thing with Ilya was supposed to be hooking up with his hot neighbor, right? Not falling asleep in each other’s arms most nights, sharing groceries, and hanging out with their respective best friends together. 

That’s… that’s something else. Something that Shane’s brain refuses to define, even though the word is on the tip of his tongue. 

Maye that’s why he slips up when he’s on the phone. Over six months of carefully avoiding the topic of Ilya Rozanov with his parents and well, it just comes out. 

“How’s your weekend been so far?” his mom asks. “Did you do anything fun?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, half-distracted by Ilya texting him a picture of a cute dog. “We did our usual thing. We went for a run, did farmer’s market, and then tried out this new recipe Ilya found. A shrimp pasta thing with fresh basil. It was surprisingly good. I think maybe we’ll make a big batch of gyoza tonight and freeze the leftovers.” 

He sends a heart reaction to the dog photo and wanders into the kitchen in his bare feet. It’s only when he’s pulling the fridge door open to grab a sparkling water that he realizes his mom hasn’t said anything.

The silence is very unlike Yuna Hollander. Usually, it means that he's in trouble. 

Shane frowns, looking down at his phone. The call is still connected, at least on his end. 

“Mom, are you still there?” 

“Honey.” 

That’s all his mom says for a moment.

“Yeah?” Shane asks. He fiddles with the pull tab on the can of sparkling water, suddenly nervous. 

“Honey,” she says again, then lets out a short laugh. For once, his mom sounds... uncertain? “Sorry. Yes. I’m still here. Just wondering who in the world Ilya is." 

Shit. Fucking hell. Shane thinks back to what he just said, about how damning we and our usual thing sound. 

“He’s my next door neighbor?” he says, hating the way his voice pitches up at the end. He sounds and feels impossibly young, like an awkward teenager telling his mom about his first crush. “My, uh, next door neighbor. Since January. We’ve been like, hanging out a lot?” 

His mom doesn't say anything. 

Shane should have expected this—she's always been good at waiting him out. The one time he snuck out past curfew to go to a party in high school, she had stared him down over breakfast the following morning until he told her everything: whose house he'd gone to, how many beers he'd consumed, and even the details of the embarrassingly sloppy kiss he'd shared with Jessica Miller (who promptly ghosted him at school, much to his private relief). 

A decade may have passed since that night, but Shane suddenly feels all of seventeen again as a weighted silence hangs over the phone line. 

“Okay!” Shane folds like a house of cards. “A little more than hanging out. A lot, maybe. I don’t know. He’s– ugh. I like him, I guess.” 

His mom, of course, doesn't leave it at that. She's ready with a loaded follow-up question. 

“Does he like you back?” 

Shane kind of wishes they could have this conversation in person. He has the humiliating desire to curl up under a blanket with his parents on the couch and tell them all about the boy he likes. He leans forward, pressing his head against the cool granite of the kitchen counter and closes his eyes. 

“I think so,” Shane admits, lowering his voice to a whisper. He knows Ilya isn't home right now, but still—Shane thinks he would die of humiliation if his neighbor overheard any part of this conversation. “I mean, he goes running with me every Saturday morning even when the weather sucks. He brings me sandwiches when I’m busy with work and forget to eat. He takes me to these really nice restaurants and never lets me pay. He helps me pick out gifts for Hayden’s kids. He says my freckles are like constellations. I mean… Ilya, he probably likes me, right?” 

“Honey,” Shane’s mom says again. This time, her voice is softer.

Shane exhales and presses his forehead harder against the counter.

“Yes, Shane. He does,” his mom says, because she knows that sometimes Shane needs someone else to confirm the messy swarm of feelings that exist in his body. “Yes, I think we can probably say that this Ilya likes you.”

"Cool," Shane says, feeling both a little sick and elated at the same time. "That's... good to know." 

Thankfully, his mom doesn't press the issue further for the rest of the conversation. She lets Shane switch the topic to a new TV show that he thinks his dad would like and ends the call by reminding him that his AC filters should be replaced at least once every three months. 

Later that night though, when Shane is getting ready for bed, his phone lights up with a text. 

Mom: Your dad and I would love to meet your boy sometime. Love you, honey.

Shane quickly shoves the phone underneath the pillow so that Ilya, who is lying in bed next to him scrolling through his own texts, won’t see. He's glad the lights are off. He knows he's probably blushing right now. 

Your boy. If only. 

The thing about Shane is that he never makes a decision without considering every angle. That’s why his parents suffered through eleven university tours during his senior year of high school; that’s why his first serious boyfriend had yelled, in the heat of their final argument, that he couldn’t fucking deal with having to always reference Shane’s operating manual before they did anything. 

Shane knows that people often misunderstand his caution. They consider him an equivocator, or worse, a coward who freezes rather than taking a decisive step forward. 

He's always found that unfair. The truth is that Shane likes to have all the data in front of him. And once he has what he needs to make an informed decision? That’s when he acts. And he rarely ever second guesses himself. 

So, the extensive data that Shane has gathered thus far points to one conclusion—Ilya Rozanov should be his boyfriend. 

He just needs to convince him. 

Shane’s plan is simple. 

After work, he’ll pick up chicken parmesan from Ilya’s favorite restaurant, a bottle of very expensive Russian vodka, and a bouquet of red roses. He's consulted with Rose and Hayden about whether it's too much of a cliche—really, a dozen red roses?—but his friends both insist that Ilya will be swept off his feet. 

“Trust me, man. Red roses are a classic,” Hayden had said. “Even if you like, freak out and get all Shane about it, there will be no misreading your romantic intentions.” 

“What do you mean, ‘get all Shane about it’?” Shane asks, panicked. 

“Nothing, babe,” Rose says, petting his arm like she’s calming a skittish kitten. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll do great!” 

Shane sits in his apartment and waits, like a creep, until he hears Ilya's footsteps in the hallway. 

He has the chicken parmesan plated and in the oven on low heat to stay warm. He has a dozen red roses wrapped in parchment paper and tied off with a white satin ribbon. He has a bottle of expensive imported vodka chilling in his freezer. The plan is foolproof. All he has to do is bring Ilya into his apartment and say the words he wrote and rewrote in his notes app all week. 

Shane takes a deep breath, tugs down the hem of his new linen shirt, and throws open his front door. Ready or not, Ilya Rozanov is about to be wooed.

The plan flies out the window as soon as he sees Ilya. Because Ilya, while still the most objectively attractive human being Shane has ever met in his life, looks awful.

His eyes are bloodshot. His shoulders tensed. Even his beautiful curls look limper and duller than usual. 

"I was-" Shane starts to say, then works furiously to rewrite his mental script in real time. "Uh, are we still on for dinner? You look..."

He trails off. You look like shit doesn't seem very romantic. 

Ilya sighs as his eyes meet Shane's. 

"Sorry, he says quietly, looking defeated. Shane's fingertips itch to reach out for him. “Not a good day. Asshole customer yelled at me, made fun of my English, and told my manager to fire me. My boss is on my side, but still… Maybe we should raincheck. I don’t know that I will be good company tonight, solynshko.” 

Anger surges within Shane—not at Ilya for wanting to cancel plans, but for the customer who made him feel downtrodden enough to want to retreat. Shane, who has never been a violent person, has the sudden desire to stomp into the car dealership where Ilya works, demand to see their customer files, and track down the piece of shit who dared to hurt his Ilya. The flare of possessiveness takes his breath away. 

He thinks about the roses in his apartment. He thinks about the speech he’d practiced in front of the mirror at work, the one that Hayden had walked in on and teased him about for the rest of the day. I would like to be your boyfriend. Would you be interested in having a boyfriend? Preferably me? 

Tonight is obviously not the time for a big romantic confession. Not when Ilya looks like the day has sandblasted him until all that’s left is raw nerves. But that doesn't mean that Shane can't be there for Ilya. He can still offer him a good meal, a stiff drink, and a sympathetic ear. 

“Go change into comfortable clothes,” Shane says, stepping close to kiss Ilya on the cheek. “I’ll come over in a bit with dinner and we can get properly drunk together. You can bitch about work and I’ll help plot revenge on your evil customer.” 

It’s ridiculous how much pride Shane feels when some of the tension visibly seeps out of Ilya’s body. His neighbor rocks back on his heels and stares at Shane with those bright, avid eyes. 

“Shane Hollander,” he says, wonder written all over his face. “I thought you did not like to get drunk on weeknights. Or commit crimes.” 

“I’m making an exception for you.” 

For the first time this whole conversation, the corners of Ilya’s mouth tilt up in a small but genuine smile. 

Shane feels like he’s won the fucking Stanley Cup. 

Shane has always been a lightweight when it comes to alcohol.

That’s the only explanation for why, after three shots of the fancy Ilya-approved vodka, he finds himself starfished on the cool tiles of Ilya’s kitchen talking about how he hates everything on social media except unlikely animal friendship videos. 

“Like- you know when there’s a tiny monkey riding a dog like a horse?” he says. Ilya is lying on the floor next to him. In solidarity, or maybe because he’s also struggling with the concept of having legs. His pinkie finger hooks through Shane’s, a comforting anchor as the ceiling wobbles above them. “That’s the good stuff. That's the kind of stuff I like to watch, y'know." 

“I saw a video with cat and turtle on a skateboard,” Ilya slurs. He's definitely had more vodka than Shane. He had more chicken parmesan and pasta, too. Shane wonders if his stomach also feels like a sloshing water balloon whenever he moves. “Only the turtle was on the skateboard. Was very small skateboard, for very tiny turtle.”

“I like turtles. They’re so smart and they live forever.” 

“You know movie Finding Nemo?” 

“Yeah. Just keep swimming. I know it.” 

“In English version, turtle is named Crush and his son is Squirt. In Russian version, turtle is also Krush but with a K. But his son is Prysk instead of Squirt. Why? I do not know.” 

Shane laughs. He laughs and laughs. He doesn’t know why that’s so funny but Ilya must find it hilarious as well, because he starts laughing too. Shane loves Ilya's laugh. Gosh, he loves how Ilya sounds all the time. 

"Did you know that in the American version of My Neighbor Totoro, they almost renamed Totoro?" Shane asks. "They were going to call him Craig.” 

This sets them both off again. Ilya rolls around clutching his stomach, mouthing the words Craig. Shane rolls over onto his side with effort and watches, fondly, as Ilya screws up his face in laughter. He’s a little flushed and sweaty from the alcohol, one curl sticking to his forehead.

It triggers his queasiness, but Shane inches his way across the cool tiles until he’s face to face with Ilya. They lie on their sides, heads pillowed on their arms, and smile at each other goofily. 

"Thank you," Ilya says softly, corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles at Shane. "For being with me tonight. I know I was in a bad mood."

"I want to be here with you no matter what kind of mood you're in," Shane says. The alcohol is making him a little too honest, a little too sappy. He reaches out one hand and cups it around Ilya's warm cheek. "I want to make you feel better on your shitty days. I want to make you laugh about Craig." 

"My Neighbor Craig!" Ilya says, bursting into another fit of giggles. He turns his head and presses a wet kiss against Shane's palm. "Oh my god, Shane. That is so stupid." 

Shane grins. He can't believe how cute Ilya looks like this, face flushed and lips pink and wet. He thinks about My Neighbor Totoro and how many times he watched it with his parents as a little kid. His mom had dressed him up as a baby Totoro one Halloween. He has the sudden urge to show Ilya the photos. He wants to see Ilya’s baby pictures too, to marvel at his curls and ruddy cheeks. The idea of a toddler Ilya—maybe on ice skates with his mittened hands clutching a tiny hockey stick—makes Shane want to die, it’s so adorable. 

Thinking about their baby pictures makes Shane think about his parents, which makes him think about... 

"My parents want to meet you," he blurts out before he can stop himself.

Oh god, his brain screams at him distantly through the haze of alcohol. Shane. What. The. Fuck. 

Ilya blinks at him slowly, forehead furrowing in confusion. 

"Your parents," he says, then repeats it again. "You told your parents about me?" 

Shane kind of wishes he was a turtle right now because he could really use a shell to retreat into. As it is, he just cringes. Why is he so fucking bad at playing things cool? He hasn't even asked Ilya to be his boyfriend yet. Shane is not terribly experienced with relationships, but he knows you're supposed to be official before meeting the parents. 

"Fuck," Shane says. He pulls his hand away from Ilya's cheek and rolls away, burying his face into his arms. "Forget I said anything. I mean, or not. Yeah, I told my mom about you. And I was just thinking, that maybe after the flowers and everything, that I would ask you. And if you said yes... maybe we could go to the cottage. You could meet my parents there, but only if you wanted! And just for a dinner. But obviously, this is too much. I should shut up." 

A long silence follows Shane's outburst. 

Whatever that was, he thinks, was not the perfect speech he'd planned. He doesn't need to look at Ilya to know that his neighbor must be utterly confused right now. He curses Russian vodka and his friends for giving him such abysmal advice. It occurs to Shane that his face is mere millimeters from the kitchen floor. Well, maybe if he's lucky, he'll be exposed to some fast-acting bacteria that will kill him before the mortification does. 

"Shane," Ilya finally says, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry, but I am very drunk right now and did not understand anything you said. Can you repeat?” 

Shane doesn't think he could repeat what he just said even if he tried. Words are very, very hard right now. He thinks back to what Hayden said earlier, about how red roses are unmistakable in their romantic intent. With some effort, Shane pulls himself up onto his feet. He looks down at Ilya, who remains supine on the floor, mouth open in consternation. 

"Uh," Shane says, steadying himself against a wall. "I'll... be right back. You just stay there, mkay?" 

"Where would I even go?" Ilya asks. "I am stuck here until the room stops moving." 

Shane nods and hurries back to his apartment. Well, he hurries as much as he can when the hallway feels like its simultaneously expanding and spinning slowly counter-clockwise. Shane grabs the bouquet of roses from the kitchen counter and carefully retraces his steps to his neighbor's apartment, where he finds that Ilya has moved to sit with his back against the cabinets. 

The wide-eyed, unadulterated look of adoration on his face helps to ease the nausea roiling in Shane's gut. 

He steps toward Ilya and drops the bouquet of red roses into his lap. Ilya's eyes are huge and wet as he stares up at Shane. 

"What?" he whispers. "What are these for?" 

"They're for you," Shane says. This, at least, is closer to the script he'd practiced. "I got you flowers because I want you to be my boyfriend."

Then, before Ilya can respond, Shane stumbles through the apartment and to the bathroom, where he proceeds to expel the contents of his stomach into Ilya's toilet. 

As far as grand romantic gestures go, he thinks miserably, that could've gone a lot better. 

Miraculously, Ilya doesn’t run for the hills after Shane literally vomits up his feelings. Instead, Ilya crawls across the apartment to join him, flowers still cradled in one arm. He rubs Shane’s back and says soothing things in Russian. He grabs him a bottle of mouthwash. He tells him yes, of course, I would love to be your boyfriend. I am so honored that you would ask. He kisses Shane’s cheeks and his forehead, only avoiding his lips because Shane refuses to make out while there’s a film of bile in his mouth. 

They both end up chugging tall glasses of water in the kitchen and eating the leftover bread from the chicken parmesan order. Ilya keeps shooting Shane these shy, secretive little smiles as they sit side by side on the floor. 

“What?” Shane asks. He still feels nauseous but that's overshadowed by the overwhelming relief of Ilya agreeing to be his boyfriend. 

“Nothing,” Ilya shakes his head, then admits after a moment, “I’m just so happy.” 

They don’t have sex that night, obviously. Shane doesn’t think either of them is capable of giving a blow job without disastrous consequences. It’s not how he thought the evening would go, when he imagined asking Ilya to be his boyfriend. But after they get ready for bed together and he curls up against Ilya's chest, Shane can't bring himself to be too disappointed. 

After all, he thinks as Ilya’s arm tightens around him and a kiss is pressed to the top of his head, he’s right where he belongs.