Chapter Text
Ilya’s bride raises his ringed hand triumphantly.
“Look at that,” he says. “Married at last.”
Rosanov accepts a slap on the back from a stranger and looks unbearably pleased with himself, like he has just won something important.
Which, Shane suspects, in his mind he has.
“Right then!” the MC says, wiping his eyes. “Give the happy couple another round!”
The crowd happily obliges.
The bride kisses Rosanov loudly on the cheek. Shane watches it happen, then looks away.
A hot, ugly twist of feeling that arrives in his chest. He does not examine it too closely.
He has no intention of examining it at all, in fact. He is standing in a pub in Ballybunion with a lace veil someone threw at him, while Ilya Rosanov gets fake-married to a man in smeared lipstick under a plastic flower arch. There are limits to what a person should be expected to process in one evening.
The MC is speaking again.
“Right! Tomorrow, lads, bright and early. We’ve a full day ahead of us. Beach events from eleven, judging in the afternoon, and then the big ceremony tonight. No sleeping through it if you value your immortal souls.”
A few men boo lazily at the idea of being awake before noon.
One of them shouts, “What beach events?”
The announcer consults his clipboard.
“Obstacle race. Sand sprint. Carry-your-mate relay. And weather permitting, something involving the sea.”
The wedding dissolves quickly after that. Someone turns the music up. The plastic arch is dragged aside to make room for dancing.
The bride is already telling the story of his marriage to the camera Hayden has up in his face.
“Didn’t even see it coming,” he says happily. “Love finds you when you least expect it.”
Someone hands Shane a pint of Guinness which he takes one sip of and immediately decides never again.
Jackie appears beside him a moment later. She does not say anything at first. She just picks up the abandoned pint in front of him, takes a sip, makes a face, and puts it back down.
“Nice work,” she says finally.
Shane stares ahead.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
She lets that sit there between them for a moment.
On the other side of the room, Rosanov has already been dragged into another round of congratulations. His bride has found him again. Hayden, traitor that he is, is talking to them both with broad, delighted gestures.
Shane has had rather enough bachelorhood for one evening.
“I’m going to step out for some air.” he says, and snatching the pint once again, makes a beeline for the exit before anybody can think of anything else for him to do. He nearly walks straight into a man dressed as a bridesmaid, mutters an apology, and keeps going towards the door..
The Atlantic air hits him immediately, harsh and salty. Ballybunion’s main street is deserted. The banner over the road snaps sharply with the wind.
WELCOME TO THE BALLYBUNION
HARP LAGER
INTERNATIONAL BACHELOR FESTIVAL
Shane sits on the low stone wall outside the bar and drinks half the bitter Guinness without stopping.
The door opens behind him.
Footsteps approach.
“Running away already?”
Shane does not turn around.
“You’re following me now.”
Rosanov sits down beside him.
“No.”
“You are.”
“Came out to enjoy the fresh air.”
Shane glances sideways. “Right.”
Rosanov is still wearing the sash. RUSSIA stretches diagonally across his chest in its cheerful polyester letters. Someone has spilled beer on the shoulder of his shirt. His hair is slightly out of place.
He looks annoyingly good.
For a moment neither of them speaks. The wind lifts the edge of Rosanov’s sash. The shine catches briefly in the moonlight.
“You're still wearing that,” Shane says.
“Yes.”
“You look ridiculous.”
“Yes.”
Rosanov takes a drink.
Inside the bar someone starts singing loudly and badly. A cheer follows.
Shane stares out toward the dark line of the ocean.
“You don’t have to keep doing this.”
“Doing what.”
“This whole thing.”
“What whole thing?”
Shane gestures vaguely toward the bar behind them.
“The festival.”
Rosanov shrugs.
“I am enjoying it.”
“You’re not.”
“Yes.”
“You’re here because you’re mad at me.”
Rosanov studies him. The expression on his face is calm.
“That is part of it.”
Shane exhales slowly.
“At least you’re honest.”
“I am always honest.”
“No,” Shane says. “You’re not.”
Rosanov smiles faintly. “You preferred when I was not.”
Shane looks at him. There is something in Rosanov’s expression now that wasn’t there earlier in the bar. Less playful.
“Your question earlier,” Rosanov says.
“What question?”
“Why I came.”
Shane waits.
Rosanov takes another sip of his drink.
“If you mean it, I will stop.”
Shane’s chest tightens. He doesn’t say anything.
Rosanov nods once, as if confirming a fact.
“I’ll take as yes. Okay, I will stop.”
The words sit there between them. Shane doesn’t know what to say to that. He feels his stomach twist, a sense of dread brewing. Inside the bar someone shouts Rosanov’s name.
Rosanov ignores it.
“You looked surprised tonight,” he says.
“At what.”
“When I said I would be better husband.”
Shane lets out a breath that might be a laugh.
“That was a joke.”
Rosanov turns his head.
“No.”
Shane looks at him properly then.
Rosanov’s expression is unreadable again.
The wind pushes a strand of hair across his forehead.
“You’re unbelievable,” Shane says quietly.
“Yes.”
“You can’t just show up in another country to prove a point.”
“I did.”
“You’re insane.”
“Yes.”
Rosanov looks back toward the bar.
“I am very committed person.”
Shane snorts.
“That’s not the word I’d use.”
Rosanov glances at him again.
“You were very committed too.”
Shane stiffens.
“Don’t.”
Rosanov lifts his hands slightly.
“Relax. I am only remembering.”
He stands up.
“Good night, Hollander.”
Shane does not move.
“Wait. Rosanov,” he swallows hard, “Ilya.”
Rosanov pauses.
“Don’t stop.” Shane says.
Rosanov looks at him. His eyes widen.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes. I need some time, but,” he rubs at the strain in his chest, “don’t stop.”
Rosanov smiles.
“Okay, Hollander.” He starts walking down the street toward the hotel. “You'll need a partner for this relay tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder.
Shane stands up. “Not you.”
“We will see. Practice tonight, just in case?”
"Fuck you.”
“Room 104.”