Work Text:
He hadn’t expected him to be here. That was a mistake on his part. He hadn’t thought to check. To make sure. Had foolishly thought that he didn’t need to. It had been six months and they had yet to run into each other. He should’ve known his luck would run out.
The light in the room was dim, the only source being the floating candles above them. If it had been anyone else maybe that would’ve been enough to conceal them from each other. But it wasn’t anyone else, it was the two of them and they had always had an invisible string tying them together, a pulse of magic that hiccuped whenever the other one was close by. He didn’t even need to be able to see across the room to know that he was here. He could just feel it. Even now. Even still.
They’d been staring at each other for a long time now across the floor filled with bodies swaying back and forth in time with the music. They’d been staring long enough that it must’ve been noticeable — surely, someone had realised. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to look away. He couldn’t bring himself to stop. He wanted more. More of the dark hair and the sharp jawline and the kind eyes that, once you truly saw him, truly knew him, promised mischief, adventure, love. More of the laughter that rang like bells through the room, enticing anyone lucky enough to hear it. More of Shane Hollander, period.
Except.
Except that, of course, he couldn’t have that. Wouldn’t have that.
Had made it perfectly clear to the man that he wanted nothing to do with him anymore.
That he didn’t love him.
That he never had.
And yet.
And Yet.
Here they were.
Locking eyes across a crowded room.
Both refusing to be the first one to look away.
Both still so stubborn.
Before anything else could happen the music abruptly stopped and the static feedback of a microphone echoed across the room.
Everyone turned towards the stage where a tall and burly man wearing a navy blue tuxedo was grabbing onto the microphone and clearing his throat. He looked older, with gray, thinning hair and red, blotchy skin that wrinkled around his eyes and across his forehead.
“Good evening, everyone,” the man started. “Welcome to tonight’s party at Chez Dagenais. I hope you all have been enjoying yourselves. The bidding is about to start in the next room over. If you would like to participate please head that way right now. To the rest of you, I wish a pleasant evening.”
People started moving around, some to go to the room in question, others to make way for the ones leaving. He glanced around the room quickly, looking for familiar freckles, but he couldn’t find him again. Must’ve gone with the crowd. Ilya slipped out of the room with everyone else.
He didn’t have a big window of time to get this done without getting noticed so he walked as fast as he dared, joining the moving crowd before quickly extracting himself and finding his way upstairs.
The Dagenais had a big house. A mansion would probably be a more accurate description. As any good thief, Ilya had of course mapped it out. Eight bedrooms, six bathrooms, two libraries, a study, a kitchen, a dining room, a ball room, a den, a playroom and a large garden. And the basement where all of the stolen art that was being sold right now was being kept, of course. Ilya wasn’t here for that though. He was here for something else.
Quiet as a mouse he made his way down the long hallway until he reached a rather sturdy looking teak door with carvings of snakes on it and a golden handle. He pushed it down slightly, testing to see if it was locked before pushing all the way. Rich people never thought to lock their doors. They were too confident, too trusting. Ilya wasn’t complaining though, it was obviously working to his advantage.
The study was small and reflected the drawings that Ilya had required perfectly. Everything was exactly as it should be.
The dark leather chair and the matching dark wood desk with a jade green tiffany lamp on top of it; the only source of light in the room other than the moon shining in through the window. The rows and rows of leather bound books, the metal archives, the persian rug and… there, the portrait hung on the wall opposite the desk.
He headed toward it, a grin slowly making its way onto his face. This was going to be easy.
Too easy, a voice in his head said. He tried to quiet it down. There was no reason to be paranoid: he knew the guards wouldn’t walk past this part of the mansion for the next ten minutes, he could hear the faint music from downstairs, meaning the ball was still proceeding as normal, there was no alarm to trip (he’d done his research, he was always very meticulous about it, much to his fellow partner in crime's annoyance) and there was no safe in the entire world whose code Ilya Rozanov couldn’t crack.
Piece of cake, really.
Except.
Except.
“What, I don’t even get a hello?” a voice behind him said. He closed his eyes slowly, the grin falling from his face.
Of course.
Shane Hollander.
Taking a deep breath, he turned around slowly and did his best not to let his face give anything away.
Stupid.
Stupid.
He’d just been thinking about the hiccup. About the string. And yet, in his eagerness to get the job done he’d somehow missed it.
“What are you doing here, Hollander?” he replied, voice flat.
He looked even better within arms length than he did across a crowded room. The golden rim of his glasses brought out the molten gold of his eyes, his freckled skin matching it in beauty. His hair was long and curling into a mess at the nape of his neck where he’d probably nervously been running his hands through it but then again, it had always been that way and Ilya had never minded. Never cared. Only ever longed to put his own hands on it for the sake of feeling the silky strands between his fingers, gliding over his palms and wrapping them around his wrists when they were long enough.
His hand twitched and he hid it quickly behind his back, hoping Ilya hadn’t noticed.
The man in question raised an eyebrow.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he shot back. He was wearing a suit the colour of maroon and Ilya had the ridiculous thought that he’d worn that particular suit for him. That he knew Ilya was going to be there.
I love you in that colour.
Oh yeah?
Yeah.
Maybe I’ll wear it more then.
For me?
Yeah. For you. Only for you.
Words from another life, from another time, echoed through his mind. He blinked, trying to shut it down. This was not the time and place for that.
“I just needed some air,” Ilya said calmly. He could tell Shane wasn’t buying it but he didn’t seem too willing to push either.
“You look well,” he said instead, giving Ilya a onceover.
“I’d say thanks but your opinion doesn’t really matter to me now, does it?”
Liar, said the voice in his head. Yeah, he answered it. But he doesn’t need to know that.
Shane didn’t seem fazed though. He just took a step forward, coming closer to Ilya. He chanced a glance at the grandfather clock to his left. Fuck. He’d already lost a minute and a half on this. He needed to get rid of Shane.
“Go back downstairs, Hollander. I don’t want you here.”
“Liar,” this time it was Shane who’d uttered the words rather than the voice in his head.
“Why would I lie about that? I have nothing to say to you,” he said smoothly, looking Shane right in the eye.
“Because you want to get rid of me,” Shane replied easily.
Ilya’s heart skipped a beat.
“What?” he wondered, voice barely a breath. What was Shane implying?
There was something there, in his dark eyes. Something that said I know you. I see you. That look had always terrified Ilya. Even when it had felt like home it had made the blood in his veins run cold.
“You want to get rid of me,” Shane repeated, walking up to Ilya until they were toe to toe. He leaned in closer and Ilya resisted the urge to close his eyes and inhale deeply when the smell of the cologne that Shane always wore overwhelmed his senses. Mint and citrus, sharp and fresh and something else that was just Shane.
“Why would I want that?” he whispered, looking up at the only man whose heart he ever regretted breaking. Ever regretting taking to begin with.
He was used to taking things that weren’t his, used to holding precious and invaluable things in the palms of his hands. Nothing had ever felt as precious and invaluable as Shane Hollander’'s heart. And yet he’d cut it open and bled it dry on the sharp edges of his being once the weight of it had started feeling like Atlas holding up the world, Sisyphus rolling a boulder up the hill.
“Because,” Shane whispered back, leaning in to put his lips right next to Ilya’s ear. “You only have eight minutes left to steal the documents in that safe.”
Ilya’s breath hitched. He couldn’t help it. Shane knew? Or at the very least, Shane suspected.
The treacherous part of his heart that for some reason still held on to hope said See? He knows and he’s still here. See? You could’ve stayed. See? You wasted six months you could’ve spent waking up to peppermint lips and hands that held you together when your own felt like tearing you apart.
The rest of him wasn’t as naive.
“What are you talking about, Shane?” he said, cursing himself immediately for using his first name. He could see the effect it had on the man in front of him as Shane leaned back just enough to peer down at him; the way his eyes darkened, the way his cheeks flushed slightly, the way his lip quirked into a half-smile.
He wanted to bury himself into that dimple, make a home there and never leave. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to kill someone.
“Oh, don’t play dumb, my love. It’s beneath you,” his voice a low rumble with just a hint of something dangerous. Like amusement but sharper. Ilya couldn’t quite place it, unused to hearing it in Shane’s voice.
“You knew I’d follow you,” he continued. “Just like I knew you’d come up here.”
“You don’t know anything about me. I came here to get some fresh air. Believe it or not, seeing your ex for the first time since you broke up wasn’t something I was expecting to do tonight.”
The trick to being a liar, Ilya had learned at an early age, was to mix in some truth with the lie. Just enough to make it believable. Just enough to be convincing. Ilya hoped this was convincing.
“Hm,” Shane made a sound, eyes darting down to Ilya’s lips before returning to his eyes. Brown met hazel, fire met ice and Ilya refused to be the first one to back down.
“Funny,” he commented. “Seems like you actually care about how you broke my heart now.”
Ilya gave a smile that was all sharp teeth and no warmth.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” he said.
At this point there was way too little time to get the documents out. All he could do now was hope that distracting Shane from the topic they’d just been discussing would be enough before he made a quick exit.
“You don’t sound very sorry,” Shane noted.
He was right. Ilya wasn’t sorry at all. Breaking Shane’s heart had been a necessary evil. A way to keep him safe. Shane didn’t need to know that though.
Ilya shrugged.
“Still, it’s only polite to apologise,” he returned.
Shane was quiet for a moment, his brow furrowing as if he were trying to figure something complicated out. Ilya refused to give anything away as he stared back at him, blinking slowly like a cat waiting to pounce.
“I saw you arrive with Marleau earlier,” he said at last and if Ilya was surprised by the rapid change of subject he didn’t show it on his face.
“I’m not sure I’d choose him as a partner,” he continued.
“Wow,” Ilya nodded his head slowly, as if contemplating Shane’s words. “That means absolutely nothing to me.”
He could see a flicker of something — frustration? Hurt? Ilya wasn’t sure –- in Shane’s eyes before the smile returned.
“You’ve always been a good liar, Ilya,” he said and Ilya had to resist the urge to close his eyes at how good it felt to hear his name spoken from the only lips that had ever spoken his name like it meant something important, like it was precious, like it was worth worshipping and protecting and loving.
It had been so long.
He missed it terribly.
“But I always saw you. Even now. Even now, I see you,” Shane continued.
He leaned closer still; their noses brushing against each other, their lips only a breath apart. “I know why you did it. I know why. And it’s okay, I promise. I forgive you. I understand."
Ilya closed his eyes, finally giving in. It was too much. It was everything he wanted and couldn’t have. It was everything he’d had, everything he’d lost, everything he could never, ever regain. Shane was a mirage, taunting him with empty promises.
Shane’s lips brushed against his own when he spoke again.
“I’ve been chasing you over rooftops for years, Ilya. Did you really think I wouldn’t know you anywhere?”
Ilya's heart stopped.
Was he—
Was he saying what he thought he was?
Was Shane-
Was Shane—
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps that could suddenly be heard from just outside of the door, the static sound of a voice over a radio following it.
Fuck.
He was out of time.
Before Shane could react Ilya had pulled him close, closing the miniscule gap between their lips in seconds. He wrapped his arms around Shane’s waist, pulling him close and bending down as he did his best to lead him towards the wall of books and slam him against it.
The kiss was harsh and urgent and he did his best to pour all of his anger and frustration into it. He knew he wouldn’t get to do this again. He knew it was only for show now. So he did his best to enjoy it, to enjoy the way Shane’s lips felt against his own, the way he gasped when Ilya bit down on his lower lip, impatiently waiting for their tongues to meet. He was just about to push his hand through Shane’s hair with the goal of giving himself access to his neck when the door to the study slammed open.
They sprang apart, as if they’d been caught redhanded and Ilya did his best to pretend to look embarrassed.
“What are you doing in here?” the guard asked. He was very tall, very bald and very annoyed.
“Um” Ilya said, feigning helplessness. “We just wanted some privacy.”
He looked towards Shane who looked incredibly dishevelled and dazed.
“Yeah, sorry man. Just couldn’t keep my hands off of him in that suit, y’know?” he said, scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish grin on his face.
The guard narrowed his eyes and looked between the two of them for a minute before deciding that the ruffled hair, flushed cheeks and swollen red lips corroborated their story. He grunted and pointed a finger towards the door.
“Get out of here, this is a private room,” he muttered and waited for the two of them to do just that. Shane smiled again at the guard, grabbing a hold of Ilya’s hand and moved towards the door.
The minute they were out of sight of the guard, Ilya let go of Shane’s hand and backed away as far as the hallway allowed it. Shane looked down at his hand in surprise, blinked and then looked up at Ilya, confusion written all over his face.
“Ily-”
“Don’t,” Ilya interrupted him. “I don’t know what game you’re playing here but I’m not interested in whatever it is.”
Shane brows met in the middle as he frowned.
“What? I- I’m not playing any games. I want you. Now, just like then. And I’ll want you tomorrow. And it won’t matter if you’ll be there or not, I’ll still want you anyway. Even if you break my heart again. Even if you break it every day for the rest of our lives. I don’t care, Ilya, it’s yours to break anyway.”
“Stop! Stop it!” he hissed, holding his hands up in front of him as if he could physically stop the torrent of words that were leaving Shane’s mouth.
“I can’t do this, Shane. I don’t want to break your heart again, don’t you get that?”
“So what, you’ll just break your own instead?”
“If the alternative is risking your life then yes. Every single time. Always.”
“You don’t get to make that decision for me, Ilya.”
“We can’t always get what we want, Shane. Not even by being the richest man in the city.”
Shane opened his mouth to argue back but right then the power went out and a scream was heard from downstairs. They both stood in silence, unsure of what to do.
“Go,” Ilya sighed. “Go save them.”
Shane only hesitated a moment before he slipped away in the darkness. Ilya didn’t hesitate at all as he headed back the way he’d come from.
See, the thing about being the best thief in the business is you always have a backup plan.
In the end, he got the documents.
𓆩𓃠𓆪
He was balancing on the edge of the building, an old game of chicken he’d liked to play with Andrei when they’d been children. One misstep and you’d fall to your death. But Ilya was better than that. He always had been. Agile as a cat, Andrei used to say. Ilya didn’t think that was a real expression. They’d argued about it often. They’d argued about a lot of things, in the end.
It didn’t take long before he felt a presence behind him. He didn’t react, refusing to be the first one to give in.
“Ilya—” the voice behind him said, worry lacing his voice.
“Don’t,” Ilya interrupted him. “Not up here.”
The man behind him sighed.
After another moment of silence he joined him on the edge of the rooftop, balancing. Not as graceful as Ilya but good enough to not worry Ilya about him potentially falling to his untimely death.
“I don’t want to fight,” the man in the black leather suit said eventually.
“Then let’s not fight,” Ilya shot back.
Another sigh.
“I missed you,” he said. “Not just in— in our other life. But here. You disappeared here too, y’know. Where have you been?”
“Was that what gave it away?” Ilya countered. “That both of us disappeared from your life — lives — at the same time?”
“No,” Shane said slowly. “I already knew by then.”
Ilya had to take a minute to properly process that. To let it sink in, grow roots in his bones, around his veins. To rearrange everything he thought was true. Everything he thought was them.
“So what, you’ve just been lying to me this whole time?”
“It’s not like you haven’t been lying to me,” Shane retorted, a note of bitterness in his voice.
Oh.
Oh, you’re going to regret that, he thought.
“No,” he said, voice colder than the steel of the claws in his gloves. “No, I didn’t know who you were. I didn’t know. I never lied to you for any other reason than to protect you.”
Shane turned so they were both fully facing each other, feet planted firmly along the narrow edge they stood on.
“I know that. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner but could you honestly tell me you wouldn't have run off if I had told you? I wanted to give you the time to tell me yourself. It was your choice.”
“Oh, so it was my choice when to tell you but you still went ahead and figured out who I was? How generous of you. Is that how it works with you precious heroes and your precious moral compasses? Tell me, where does the compass needle point when someone abandons their code of honor for personal gain?”
He could see a tick in Shane’s jaw, a sign of his frustration. His anger. Ilya wanted to bite down on it until he opened his mouth and released it. Until he coated the walls of the building with it. Until Ilya could cut himself on it, bleed it all out over the jagged pieces of his own heart.
“It wasn’t on purpose,” Shane said. “That night, at the Winter Gala. When we danced, do you remember what you said? Mistletoe can be deadly if you eat it—”
“—but a kiss can be even deadlier if you mean it.” Ilya finished.
Shane nodded.
“You said that. On the dance floor. And then, three days later, you kissed me on the rooftop. And you said it again. And I knew. I didn’t mean to, but I knew. I swear, Ily-. I swear. I didn’t actively try to break your trust, okay? I wanted you to come to me when you were ready.”
“And what about you? Were you ever going to tell me about yourself?” Ilya said, already knowing the answer.
Shane said nothing, the quiet confirming exactly what Ilya had thought. He gave a slow nod, a huff of incredulous laughter.
“That’s great, sweetheart. That’s just great,” voice dripping with bitterness as he started moving backwards without looking.
The worry in Shane’s eyes came back tenfold and he started stepping forward and reaching for him but Ilya just stepped further back. He lifted his right foot into the air, keeping it dangling just over the edge of the building so that only one foot was holding up his entire weight. Shane looked like he wanted to protest, his mouth opening and closing a couple of times.
Ilya lifted an elegant eyebrow.
“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”
He swayed back and forth a little bit, pretending to have lost his balance just to get under Shane’s skin. It worked. He could see the tension in the way he held himself, the way his hands twitched as if they wanted to reach out and grab him. Good. He deserved to worry, after all. He deserved so much more, really.
He’d known. For months and months he’d known and he’d let Ilya break up with him and he’d let Ilya believe he didn’t know who he was up on the rooftops, that he didn’t know who he was outside of this too. He could worry a little bit about Ilya’s safety for once. It was only fair. And Shane was all about fairness, wasn’t he?
In the end Shane only took a deep breath and said:
“You looked beautiful tonight.”
Ilya wasn’t expecting that.
He knew, objectively, that he was attractive. He’d never had a lack of admirers, he’d always dressed well, he had good bone structure and marble skin and he knew just how to make his curls sit right.
But it still caught him off-guard when Shane called him beautiful.
Maybe it was something about growing up in his brother's shadow, maybe it was something else, but no matter how much the newspapers called him hot, no matter how many people wanted his company, how many people fawned over him, he never truly felt it. He was beautiful in the way an object was, a piece of art locked away behind glass. Something to be admired from afar, something that was currency. That’s how it felt when people called him beautiful.
But when Shane called him beautiful it meant something. He didn’t want to admire from afar. He didn’t see Ilya as an object, a statue too precious to touch lest you ruin it.
When Shane called him beautiful he meant he was beautiful.
Not he was beautiful.
He said it as someone who wanted to touch and explore and worship up close. Who wanted to pray at the altar of Ilya Rozanov. Who wanted be blessed by his hands, his lips, anything and everything.
And Ilya felt it.
“Why did you wear that suit?” he threw back, finally putting his foot back on the edge. He could see Shane’s whole body relax as he gave a loud exhale.
He studied Ilya for a second, looking into his eyes before:
“You know why.”
Ilya did know why.
For me?
Yeah. For you. Only for you.
Before he had time to reply a tinny voice came through the earpiece in Shane’s mask.
Shane sighed in frustration as he listened to what the voice was telling him. When it was finished he gave Ilya a complicated look — all longing and guilt and regret wrapped into one.
Ilya rolled his eyes.
“Go,” he said.
Shane didn’t move.
“Go,” he said again.
“Will—” Shane stopped himself, tried again. “Will you still be here when I get back?”
“Guess you’ll have to wait and see” he replied, standing on his tiptoes on the edge just to watch Shane panic again.
“I’m not giving up. We both know now. And I told you, I’m not going to stop loving you even if you leave. So we need to figure this out, okay? We need to finish talking about this,” he whispered urgently, getting closer to Ilya but only by a few steps so as not to make Ilya lose his balance. As if he could.
Ilya put his heels back down, moving into Shane’s space as he leaned in and whispered:
“Guess you’ll have to catch me if you want to talk.”
Shane grinned, closing the distance between them to give him a kiss. It was short and sweet, a promise. Two butterfly wings moving against each other ready to take flight, perpetually intertwined. It was nothing like the kiss they’d shared in the mansion. Nothing like the kisses they usually shared on rooftops.
Ilya guessed that made sense, now that they both knew. That their actions from one life might bleed into the other one.
It was terrifying.
It was exhilarating.
It was standing on the edge of a rooftop playing a game of chicken, waiting to see if you’d fly or fall.
They pulled back at the same time.
“See you on the rooftops soon then, my love.”
And then he was gone.