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Ilya's thought about it a lot, over the years. Has always held it in his back pocket as a fallback option, a safety net he could rely on in case things got bad.
He's never told anyone about it, though.
And now he wishes he'd kept it that way.
"The fuck did you just say?" Shane's voice is the kind of contained that feels like all his emotions got compressed into a tiny box. It sounds flat, but if you know how to listen properly, it's the opposite.
Ilya does what he does best: he deflects. "What?" he says, with a nonchalance he doesn't feel. "Is a joke, Hollander, relax."
Only it wasn't a joke and they both know it.
"Say it."
They agreed to honesty. Actually talking about how they feel. Ilya agreed because everything felt easy and doable in that moment, Shane finally in his arms again and his heart full to bursting with happiness. He’d have agreed to anything.
It was one of those things that was so much easier said than done.
Because now Shane looks at him, piercing, demanding, an experienced captain who expects orders to be followed. Orders that force Ilya to repeat what he said. To dredge up that deep, half-hidden idea, not a pipe dream, a pipe possibility. A pipe cushion.
“Hollander,” he says again, placatingly. “Shane.”
Their toes are not touching anymore, he suddenly realizes.
“No.” Shane actually pulls his legs closer to himself, increasing the distance between them. He wraps his arms around his knees and keeps staring at Ilya with shining eyes and unwavering expectation. “Fuck you. Is that what you want?”
I want you, Ilya wants to say. Only you, forever, only us. But he’s not sure he’s allowed to say that. Not sure saying that will be worse than his original, stupid statement. Because for all their talks of openness and their physical intimacy, they still haven’t talked about what they are. To each other. To the world.
So he sighs. “Is a sensible option.” Shane still stares, so he licks his lips, quickly, and then says it again. “To marry Svetlana.”
“Marry Svetlana,” Shane repeats, slowly, as if he’s hearing the words for the first time and needs to figure out how to fit them in his mouth.
“For citizenship,” Ilya clarifies. “So I don’t need my Russian passport.”
He’s not sure why he keeps talking. It’s clearly not helping, and he doesn’t want to hurt Shane or himself. Doesn’t want to break what they have, a them for the first time ever, falling asleep and waking up and making ridiculous amounts of burgers. It’s all he wants.
So why the fuck can’t he stop ruining it? He clamps his mouth shut, sure it makes him unattractive but not caring, for once.
“Okay,” Shane says. “Sure.” His face is an emotionless mask, even the tears have disappeared from his eyes. “That sounds practical. For your passport.”
Ilya stares, bewildered, feeling like he missed something. “What?” he asks, stupidly, before he can hold it back. “Hollander, what are you—”
“You want to marry Svetlana.” The way Shane says it, it’s like a whip across the face. And not the fun kind. “So do it.”
A disbelieving laugh escapes Ilya, the only way he can try and process what’s happening right now. “You…want me to?”
Shane presses his knees to his chest and rocks back and forth in the tiniest motion. “I want you to be happy. I want to make you happy.”
Oh, sure. Cool. So Shane has decided to go nuclear and just full-on blow Ilya’s heart apart. Guilt-tripping him, but also not guilt-tripping him, because he probably really means it. He’s too direct to play games like that.
Ilya leans forward, wants to crawl over to Shane, touch him, hold him, somehow make this ridiculous situation go away. Shane flinches back, a fraction of an inch, but it’s enough. Ilya stops immediately and pain rips through him. They’ve never been at a point where Shane hasn’t wanted to touch him. Hasn’t craved closeness.
“You do make me happy, my love.” Ilya tries to make his voice so soft that Shane can feel the caress even across the distance between them. “You and your cottage and your many burgers.” The eye-roll he’s angled for doesn’t come, and Ilya’s throat dries up. Shit. Shane must be seriously pissed-off. “Look, I don’t want to marry her.”
“Okay.”
Ilya wants to take that contained tone and rip it apart, blow it up so he can get to the emotions he knows Shane is hiding inside. Underneath. Wherever. Getting even one spark of—something—would make him feel better.
“But you said it was practical. And I see your point. So give her a call, let’s make plans.” Shane’s brown eyes look so soft and earnest in the low light of the room. Ilya loves him so fucking much. His freckles are almost invisible in the golden glow, but Ilya knows them well enough without having to see them.
Shane being so literal about everything is one of the best things about him. It’s also one of the worst. He’s gotten better, over time, at detecting Ilya’s bullshit, but he can’t always spot it. Ilya wishes, desperately, that they could resolve the whole situation right now. The thought of Shane seriously making way for him to marry Svetlana because he believes he would be doing Ilya a favor is almost too much to bear.
“Hollander—” he tries again, unsure of what he can even say to end this situation but willing to try. “Listen, I was just—”
“No.” Shane cuts him off so decisively that Ilya immediately closes his mouth. “Do I like the idea? Absolutely not. But do I like the idea of giving you a safety net so you can come out, rather than having to worry about repercussions in Russia? Yes, of course I do.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fucking fuck.
There’s no way out of this for Ilya, now. Not when Shane has swallowed down his hurt and his anger and has forced himself to think logically about Ilya’s idiotic suggestion. And is now willing to go along with it.
For him. For Ilya.
For them.
Ilya wants to kiss him. Worship him with words and touches and kisses. Put a ring on his finger, consequences be damned.
Instead, he swallows drily, then pulls up Sveta’s contact. One final look up at Shane, who is so easy to read by now, like an open book that Ilya has lovingly thumbed through hundreds of times. Shane is bracing himself for impact, but he’s trying to hide it behind a supportive mask. It’s not quite a smile, stretching his lips, but it’s also not quite a grimace.
Ilya could never.
If Shane had made a suggestion like that, Ilya would have made his anger visible, let his jealousy consume him. Get snarky and offensive and then claim Shane like he wishes he could do in front of the world.
Instead, he hits Call.
“I’m almost at the club,” Sveta says, without as much as a hello. “You’ve got about three minutes.”
She speaks Russian. Of course she does.
And Ilya sees a light at the end of the tunnel. Shane doesn’t know any Russian. Has no idea what they’re talking about. He can simply explain to Sveta what’s going on and then be let off the hook. No harm done.
“Sveta,” he says, warmly, and continues with a smile on his face. “I am so completely fucked and I need your help right now. Please. I beg you.”
There’s a pause, probably caused by the disconnect between his words and his tone. “It’s about him, and he’s listening?” she guesses, smart enough to not use names. Smart enough to clock Ilya and his bullshit immediately.
“You are the smartest woman in the whole world,” Ilya says. “So you’ll help me?”
“Two minutes.” She sounds unimpressed. “Spill.”
Ilya quickly flicks his gaze over at Shane, who’s determinedly looking down at his phone, his white knuckles giving away just how non-casual he is about the situation. But he’s willing to play the part because he thinks it’s what Ilya wants. Ugh. Why does he have to be so fucking perfect? “Okay, here’s the thing,” he says, trying not to sound too hurried so Shane doesn’t think anything is going wrong. “We were talking and—I know this sounds ridiculous, but I didn’t really mean it—so I said, I could marry you. You know, for a visa. To get away from Russia.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the phone. Two.
Then loud laughter erupts, forcing Ilya to move the phone away from his ear.
Shane’s head snaps up and he looks at Ilya with concern, or maybe confusion, or maybe something else entirely. He lifts one eyebrow in question.
Ilya rolls his eyes in response and if he wasn’t so sure that he didn’t blush, he’d say the back of his neck is heating up. “Sveta,” he says eventually.
“No, no.” She’s switched to English and that is absolutely not a good sign. “Put me on speaker.”
“Sveta—”
“Now, Ilyusha.”
And Ilya sighs and obeys, removing his phone even further from his ear and pressing the speaker button. “Okay.”
She laughs again, not as explosive as before, not with the same level of incredulity. Instead, there’s a note of derision that Ilya doesn’t appreciate. “You want me to what?” she finally asks, when she’s got herself under control. “Commit marriage fraud?”
“No!” Ilya protests, instinctively. Yes. That’s what it would be, if they ever did follow through on his ridiculous idea. “You like me, no?”
Svetlana makes a sound like an audible eye roll. “I will absolutely not put myself at risk of being arrested if we were found out,” she says. “Or get you deported, you fucking idiot.”
Ilya’s neck is burning now and he can feel the heat seeping into his cheeks. Has Shane turned on the heating? This is unusual and ridiculous.
Shane’s mouth twitches. Ilya is almost certain he’s fighting down a smile and in this moment, he could murder them both. The two smartest people in his life, the ones he loves the most, and they’re laughing at him. Both of them. They’re teaming up on him.
“Yes, thank you,” he says eventually, sourly. “Your point is made. Good night.”
“Not so fast,” she commands, and Ilya pauses, his finger hovering over the
button. “You know who I would marry? Not for a visa, but because he’s a total fucking babe? Shane Hollander. Damn that’s a fine man. You should tell him.”
Ilya glares daggers at his phone and hopes Sveta can feel at least some of his ire. “Okay. Thank you, friend. Very supportive. Go clubbing.” This time, he hangs up before she can rile him up even more.
He steels himself, then looks up at Shane. His hurt and anger from earlier have vanished completely. Instead, his eyes are shining in an entirely different way, and one corner of his mouth is turned up. He looks so damn cute, Ilya could eat him up.
But also, how dare he be so smug about this whole thing? Ilya has always been so sure that Svetlana would be in his corner.
He definitely didn’t think she’d laugh at him for making the suggestion.
Or embarrass him in front of Shane.
The silence stretches between them. Ilya lowers his phone. “So,” he says, without any real plan of how to continue.
“A total fucking babe.” Shane’s voice is at least as smug as his expression. “A fine man.”
Ilya rolls his eyes and throws his phone down on the blanket between them. “Yes, yes, you’re a ten. Congratulations.”
Shane is trying so hard not to gloat, Ilya can tell. It doesn't warm him up to the man any more, wounded pride and everything.
"I'm so sorry," Shane says, not sounding sorry at all. "That must be so rough, having your plans fall through like that."
Ilya folds his arms across his chest and looks away, subconsciously chewing on his lower lip. "Yes, yes," he grumbles. "Very tragic. You feel for me. I get it."
"Mmh." It's a very noncommittal sound that Ilya doesn't react to and instead keeps staring anywhere but at Shane. He hasn't felt this humiliated in a long time.
And the worst thing is, he's brought it on himself. Fully and truly, this is his mistake.
The sound of a dialing tone makes him look up, sharply, at Shane, who's holding his phone in front of himself, tiny focused wrinkle between his eyebrows. Goddamnit, Ilya wants to kiss it even though he's mad at him. He is so fucking screwed. So ridiculously gone for this man.
"Hey, my love." A warm female voice fills the room, round and pleasant and perfectly trained. All the hairs on Ilya's arms stand on end. "Are you okay? It must be late, where you are."
And what a fucking difference between how Sveta treats him and this greeting. Not that he'd want it any other way. He'd worry about a brain tumor if Sveta ever called him my love instead of dickhead. But it must be…nice, to have a softness like that in your life.
"Hey." Shane looks way too happy. Part of Ilya knows that he has nothing to worry about. Rose Landry is a friend, nothing else. Shane is gay. Shane is here, at his cottage, with Ilya. He still can't help the way his stomach hollows out.
"I'm good," Shane says. "Really good, actually."
Ilya scoffs. Oh, that's great. That's fantastic. Good thing Shane is good. He loves that for him.
"Hey, can I run something by you real quick?" Shane continues. "Just an idea I just had."
Oh, fuck. Ilya knows exactly where this is going. He hates Shane, so much. He also loves getting to see his mischievous side, the little bitch he can sometimes be. Getting to see that side of Shane means he trusts you. He feels comfortable around you.
Ilya just wishes it didn't have to be like this.
There are much better ways to show your—what were they, exactly? Not boyfriends, right? Partners? Lovers? Yes. Lovers—how good they make you feel. Ilya can think of seventeen different ones off the top of his head.
None of them involve Rose Landry.
"Okay?" she says and laughs. "Sure. You're making me curious."
Ridiculously, Ilya wants to snatch the phone from Shane's fingers and hurl it into the line. How dare she. That is his line and he will not have Rose Landry besmirch it—
"Would you marry me?" Shane sounds and looks completely calm, like he just asked about the LA weather. The man is cold as ice, Ilya has to give him that.
Rose laughs a little, surprised. "What?" she asks.
Ilya wants to gloat. See, Rose also thinks it's ridiculous, he wants to say. Wants to get right into Shane's face and tell him, So what? You're no better than I am. We're both getting laughed at.
"Oh," Rose then says, destroying his daydreams. "You mean as a beard? Oh Shane." Her voice goes impossibly soft on the last two words and Ilya swallows drily.
He wants to stay mad at her, wants to be furious she talks to Shane like this, but how can he? When she clearly cares about him so much? Fuck, this evening is not going the way he thought it would. At all.
"Yes," Rose says, but Ilya knew she would say that. Nobody says Shane's name with such tender care and then turns him down. It's impossible. "Of course I would, Shane, if you need that—"
"No, no, it's all good." Shane cuts her off with a huge, soft smile on his face.
Ilya's heart melts a little, seeing him like that. It also makes him want to kiss him. Badly. Right now. He nudges Shane with his foot and pulls up both eyebrows, making it clear he's tired of waiting.
Shane's smile widens for a second, then he looks down at the phone. "It was just a hypothetical," he tells Rose. "It's not something I need right now, I just…wanted to know. Thank you so much, you're a great friend."
"I know." Her laugh is disgustingly melodious and sweet and Ilya scowls. "But listen, speaking of marriage, I thought there was someone else—"
Ilya has had enough and he lunges forward, grabs the phone from Shane and holds it up to his mouth. "Yes there is," he snarls, with more vitriol than the situation probably requires. "And if anyone marries him, it will be me." With that, he stabs at the display until the call disconnects, and finally turns back to Shane.
Shane's eyes are huge and brown and warm. "Marriage?" he asks quietly. "Really?"
Fuck.
Fuck.
Way to play it cool, Rozanov. Not.
They stare at each other for a moment and Ilya's annoyance and upset melt away faster and faster the longer he looks at Shane. Eventually, he throws his head back and huffs. "Yes. Fine. I only want you. I will die if you ever have a relationship with someone else, even if it is for show. Is that what you want me to say, Hollander?"
Shane smiles like the rising sun, slowly and brilliantly, taking Ilya's breath away. "Yeah, actually," he says and pulls Ilya towards him with a warm hand on his neck, kisses him softly. "That's exactly what I want you to say. And same."