Archive of Our Own

September

“Hey, do you remember which estate agent you used when you moved home? You said they were good, right?” Rose asks him over the phone as Shane makes himself a coffee.

“Yeah, Sarah… something. I’ve got her details somewhere. Why?”

“A new friend has another friend who’s moving to Ottawa for work. I said I’d ask you for any helpful information, and she said he’s mostly just after an estate agent for now.”

“Oh. Sure.”

“Hey, actually,” Rose hesitates briefly but charges on, “it’d be nice if he could just have someone he could ask directly about stuff. If you don’t want to that’s fine entirely, or if you’d rather any questions come through me or something that’s fine too, but-”

“That’s fine, Rose,” Shane cuts her off gently. “I’d be happy to answer any questions he has.”

“Thanks Shane! And, hey, maybe he’s cute.”

He laughs, can almost hear her eyebrows waggling down the phone, and swiftly redirects the conversation to her latest shoot instead.

Even if this guy is cute, Ottawa’s a (relatively) big city, and Shane doubts he’ll be interested in anything Shane has to offer - aside from estate agent recommendations.

April

“One sec, Hayd,” Shane calls, rooting for his phone where it’s buzzing in his bag.

Shane laughs at the photo Ilya sends him of the dogs playing at the dog park and taps it to send a heart reaction back.

“Is that him?” Hayden asks, a little sourly as he steps back inside the office to collect an umbrella. “It’s raining, by the way.”

Shane sighs and pushes himself to his feet, grabs his own umbrella. “That was Ilya, yes,” he replies shortly.

“Why are you still texting the guy? It’s been months, right, since he moved?”

Shane shrugs. “He’s a friend. Why wouldn’t I?”

“A friend? I mean, it’s been, what, eight months and you’ve still not even met up in person. How do you know he’s even real?”

“What the fuck, Hayd?” Shane shakes his head, a little bewildered. “Of course he’s fucking real. I seriously don’t get why you don’t like him? He’s not done anything?”

“Just feels like he’s stringing you along, is all,” Hayden mutters darkly.

Shane sighs, puts up his umbrella as they leave the building and walk down the block to the coffee shop Shane likes because they don’t burn the beans, and Hayden likes because they do these ridiculously sugary doughnuts.

Ilya had first texted him last September, just a day or two after Shane had told Rose she could pass on his number, and he’d shared his estate agent's details on request. Ilya had asked about neighbourhoods and where was good to live, which had led to Shane asking what kind of things he was looking for, and then they just… hadn’t stopped texting.

It had been rapidfire in the beginning, as Ilya had moved his business’s headquarters to Ottawa so had relocated his entire life, and Shane had been willing to answer all of his questions since he had little to do outside of work and the gym and chatting to his parents or Rose whenever she wasn’t on a week-long shoot. It had been… nice, to have someone rely on him and his knowledge, to be able to chat to about random topics that had expanded to almost anything and everything.

Things had eased off as Ilya had settled, but they’d never fully stopped. Shane had been the one to help him research the better pet shelters where he’d found his dog, Anya; Ilya had sent Shane details of a new supplement specialty store that stocked Shane’s favourite protein powder he’d only ever found online. They’d both texted in celebration when Ottawa’s hockey team had made the playoffs for the first time in almost a decade, had texted again in commiseration when they’d been knocked out of the first round in a tense 7th game loss.

Ilya had had a few questions Shane hadn’t known the answers to, mostly about the better clubs and pubs for a fun night out. When Shane had admitted he wouldn’t have a clue, though, Ilya hadn’t judged him, had seemed to just… accept it, in a way that a lot of Shane’s other friends hadn’t.

They’d texted restaurant recommendations back-and-forth, whenever they’d each tried somewhere new - Ilya admittedly more adventurous in his tastes. Shane now knows where most of the better dog parks are in the city, Ilya knows where to find the regulations about how to dispose of waste after an awkward attempt to get rid of a sofa. 

The one thing they’d never messaged about was meeting up, and it had never really bothered Shane.

So what if he looks at every dog he passes to see if it could be Anya? He’s never seen a photo of Ilya, but he knows what his dog looks like. He doesn’t know if that’s weird or not.

He and Hayden collect their coffees from the barista with thanks and head back to the office, and the thought nags at him insistently.

He pushes it down, won’t give Hayden the satisfaction, and holds onto the discontent until work is over and he’s heading home.

Shane’s stomach flutters with butterflies, and he mildly regrets bringing this up.

Shane bites on the string of his hoody as he thinks. He knows meeting in a public place is probably sensible for their first meet-up. But equally, he’s texted with Ilya for months now. He’s a friend of a friend of Rose’s, and Shane’s nervous but he thinks the tenuous connection, on top of everything he’d learnt about him through their text conversations, is enough that he trusts him.

Shane stares at the last message for a long minute until the screen goes dark. 

He sends through his address, offers 6pm as a meeting time with a question mark and gets a thumbs-up in response.

Fuck.

Thursday

Shane chews on his hoody string as he stares at the rows of wine neatly lined up on the shelves in front of him.

Shane likes an occasional glass of wine and knows what he likes to drink, but he doesn’t think he and Ilya have ever discussed wine preferences. He has a quick search through their messages but nothing pops up and he hates how indecisive he feels as he flicks back-and-forth between too many options.

“Not sure what to get?” a soft, accented voice pulls him from his indecision and he looks over to see a ridiculously handsome man standing a metre away, watching him with soft amusement on his face.

“I, uh,” the string falls from between Shane’s lips and he flushes. “No,” he manages to reply a little sheepishly. “I’ve got a, um, a friend, coming for dinner, and I don’t… I know what I like, but I’m not sure what he does.”

“You are cooking?” the man asks, interest writ clear across bright hazel eyes.

“Just… I was going to do burgers, so maybe beer is better?”

The stranger shrugs, which tugs at his soft grey sweatshirt in a way that Shane wants to bury his hands in.

“This one is good,” he says, tapping at a bottle of red between them, “Goes well with red meat, and is not too expensive.”

“Thanks,” Shane says softly, and puts the indicated bottle in his basket.

He gets a quiet, “you are welcome,” back, and there’s a long lingering second where Shane wonders if the handsome stranger might say something else, but it ends abruptly with a jerky nod as the stranger turns and heads back down the aisle.

Shane’s stomach churns with mild disappointment but he’s not brave enough to chase after a stranger in a public setting, so turns and heads for the soft drinks aisle. He wants to have options for Ilya, and for himself in case Ilya’s not in the mood to drink.

The coke is down the other end - he knows Ilya likes diet coke, at least - and Shane steps up to the ginger ale as it’s closest, only to bump into the handsome stranger again.

“Ah,” the stranger says, eyes on Shane’s hand reaching for the last six-pack of Canada Dry on the shelf.

“Oh. Sorry,” Shane pulls his hand back, flushing. “Were you?”

“No, is okay,” the stranger shakes his head.

“No, please,” Shane interrupts, “You should. In return for the recommendation,” he adds, lifting his basket with the wine as if to explain with an awkward shrug.

“... Okay,” the man nods slowly, and Shane tries not to think about how he can smell his aftershave, subtle and inviting, as the man picks up the cans. “Thank you.”

“Sure,” Shane flushes, and takes a step to the right to pass the man, just as he does the same and they stop mere inches from each other, close enough that Shane can almost feel the body heat radiating from the man even through his sweatshirt.

He realises he’s only an inch or so shorter than the stranger, his eyeline direct with thick lips and a sharp cupid's bow that Shane has the ridiculous desire to trace with the tip of his tongue.

“Sorry,” he flushes again, and the other man stays still as Shane takes a step to the left, this time, and walks around him. Fuck.

He picks up a six-pack of coke and looks back, but the man has disappeared and Shane suddenly regrets not saying something else, making some excuse to get his name, to linger in his presence for even a second longer.

He sighs, tries not to be so disappointed by his own awkwardness, and picks up the last bits for tomorrow before heading to the self-checkouts.

As he scans through his bottles, packing them neatly in his bags-for-life he spots dark golden curls, a bright grin as the stranger talks to the cashier scanning his goods. He’s so fucking handsome, tiny crinkles around his eyes as he laughs at whatever his conversation partner has said, and Shane can’t quite tear his eyes away.

Their eyes catch and Shane flushes again as the self-checkout beeps angrily at him and he puts the item in the bag hastily, relieved when it quiets.

He finishes packing and looks up to see hazel eyes watching him still. He flushes, is glad for muscle memory as he inserts his card and types his pin even as his brain barely registers what his hands are doing. He collects his receipt as his phone buzzes, and he lifts it to his ear as he carries his shopping out to his car.

“Hello?”

“Uncle Shane!” Arthur’s excitement is almost too loud in his ear but he smiles down the phone, always happy to hear from his godson.

“Hey, Arthur,” he replies warmly, and glances up to see golden curls turning right out of the supermarket doors as Shane exits.

Part of him wants to call out, but Arthur’s already talking rapidly in his ear - something about trucks? - and Shane focuses in on the conversation, tries not to think about the regret fluttering in his chest.

He goes home via the convenience store, picks himself up some ginger ale anyway. While he’s there he sees a packet of the dog treats that Ilya has said once are Anya’s favourite, and he feels silly but can’t quite bring himself to put them back on the shelf.

Friday

Shane’s stomach riots with butterflies as he checks his phone for the eighth time since Ilya texted him eighteen minutes ago. He’s cleaned his apartment thoroughly since getting home from work, has prepared everything he needs to make burgers according to the recipe, has made sure the diet coke is nice and cold in the fridge.

He paces, throws himself down onto the sofa, wonders if his sweatshirt and nice jeans are too formal? Not formal enough? The TV is on, showing the lead up to the game but he can’t focus on the commentators and springs to his feet again, starts pacing back-and-forth until his phone buzzes once more.

Shane’s heart jumps into his throat, forms a solid lump there as he tries not to run down the hallway to the front door. He opens it just as his guest raises a fist to knock, and they both freeze as they see each other in the dim entryway light.

“It’s you,” Shane breathes, hazel eyes recognisable even in the darkness, the soft scent of Ilya’s aftershave just as inviting as it had been yesterday.

Ilya’s eyes, wide with surprise, crinkle with the smile that takes over his face. “Hello, Shane,” he rumbles, accent thick and Shane loves the way it curls around his name.

“Hi, Ilya,” he greets back, stepping back to let the man enter his home.

“For you,” Ilya holds out the pack of Canada Dry and Shane can’t help but laugh, takes the chilled cans from him.

“Thank you,” he accepts. 

He watches as Ilya toes off his sneakers, lines them up neatly next to Shane’s in the porch with something like domestic fondness flooding his veins, and leads his friend through to the kitchen.

“I told you maybe we had met,” Ilya grins as he says ‘later’ to the wine but accepts a can of coke for now.

“We hadn’t met when you said that,” Shane replies pedantically, but can’t stop his own smile from softening his face.

Ilya shrugs carelessly, hazel eyes tracking Shane as he pulls out a glass and hands it over, shakes his head when asked if he wants ice.

“You could’ve bought Anya, you know,” Shane offers, pouring his own ginger ale into his glass.

Ilya hums thoughtfully, “she is at friend’s. Was easier, than worrying about her jumping on your furniture.”

Shane huffs, though glances over at his living room as if seeing it again for the first time. “There’s nothing I don’t mind her jumping on,” he decides, scanning his sofa and chairs, “so long as she’s not too muddy. Maybe next time?”

“Okay,” Ilya agrees softly, a warmth in his eyes that feels like it fizzes through Shane.

They retreat to the living room, sitting at opposite ends of the couch. Ilya’s loose, relaxed, he takes up half the sofa as he splays himself across it, legs spread and shoulders slumped back into the cushions. Shane’s relieved he seems so comfortable, even as he’s a little stiffer, can’t quite relax until he’s sure Ilya’s having a nice evening, isn’t regretting this.

“Relax, Shane,” Ilya teases lightly as he turns to look at him. “You do not regret inviting me already, I hope?”

“No, of course not!” Shane replies instantly, turning to Ilya and swallowing hard as his eyes are drawn to muscular thighs clad tightly in denim. “Sorry. I just… I want you to like it here. I want you to-” he cuts himself off, can’t quite voice it as he looks at his hands wrapped tightly around his glass.

“You want me to?” Ilya pushes gently, and Shane meets his eyes. He instinctively knows that if he shakes his head, refuses to answer then Ilya won’t press again, but what kind of example is he setting for himself then? For this friendship?

“I want you to like, um, spending time with me. In person, I mean,” Shane swallows. “I know I’m not the most interesting of people, but-”

“Shane,” Ilya cuts him off. “You are not boring. Well… okay,” he concedes, flapping a hand and rolling his eyes, “Maybe a little. You have boring opinions about cars and some other things. But I like it. I like texting you, I am sure I will like spending time with you. Okay?”

“Okay,” Shane practically whispers, sips his ginger ale to wet his dry throat. “Thanks.”

They chat a little more, watch the first period of the game but it’s relatively dull and lifeless, neither team apparently trying to win tonight. 

Ilya offers to help as Shane starts to cook dinner, but Shane’s got most of it handled, waves him to sit at the bar counter instead while he flips the burgers and sticks the chips in the oven, pulls the salad out from the fridge.

Ilya uncorks the wine, lets it breathe and grins as he pointedly inspects the label before telling Shane “good choice” to which he rolls his eyes but can’t stop a grin back.

He points absently at the cutlery drawer when Ilya starts to set the table, and turns to fetch the salt when Ilya’s suddenly in his path and they bump into each other, chest-to-chest and Shane’s breath catches.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, and his eyes catch on Ilya’s lips again before he can pull himself away.

The burgers aren’t bad as they eat while watching the second half of the second period. Ilya’s complimentary enough, which relieves Shane, as he digs in. Their fingers brush again as they both reach for the shared bowl of chips, and Shane flushes as he freezes, letting the touch linger for a long second.

Their plates are put away, a second glass of wine each poured as they return to the sofa, sitting a little closer again. It would only take a shift of Shane’s leg for their thighs to meet, and he’s more aware of the distance between them than he is of his own breathing.

“I, ah-,” Ilya sighs, tips his head back into the sofa cushions as Shane turns to look at him, heartbeat in his ears almost drowning out the hockey commentary on TV as the tension in the room seems to expand to fill all four corners. “Nevermind.”

“What is it?” Shane asks, suddenly worried something’s wrong as a faint line furrows Ilya’s brow. “Ilya?”

Ilya exhales slowly. “I wanted to ask for your number yesterday, at the supermarket,” he says lowly.

Shane blinks, chest tightening with anticipation. “I wanted to ask for yours, too,” he admits.

Ilya frowns at him. “But, the phone call?”

“Phone call?”

“With, ah, Arthur? Sounded like you two are very close? I know we have not spoken of boyfriends or anything, really, so. I am sorry if I have made this awkward.”

“Oh!” Shane stares at Ilya for a long second, and then gets up to get his phone off the side. “Ilya, Arthur’s not… I’m not dating Arthur, or anything, ew. He’s my godson. Here,” Shane shows him a picture of him and the Pike kids, pointing to the young boy next to Shane. “He’s Hayden’s son, he’d stolen his dad’s phone yesterday to call me.”

“Oh,” Ilya breathes out slowly, “So, you are single?”

“Yes,” Shane nods. “Very single.”

“Very single,” Ilya repeats, teasing delight entering his voice and Shane regrets his choice of words.

“Fuck off,” he takes his phone back, puts it on the side table. “I just meant-”

“I know what you meant,” Ilya purrs, catching Shane’s hand as he turns back towards him.

“Ilya,” Shane half-protests, half-pleads as hazel eyes catch his, sharp with want and desire as he leans in towards Shane.

“Yes?” Ilya breathes as he’s barely an inch away, those wicked lips so close to Shane’s own.

Shane leans up to kiss him in answer, feels the heat of it soak into his chest like drinking too much wine too quickly. Ilya takes the lead, practically devours him as Shane leans into him, one hand burying in dark gold curls as the other cradles his sharp jaw, holds him close.

Shane shifts and Ilya immediately breaks the kiss, watching Shane as if to confirm he’s okay. Shane smiles, presses Ilya back into the cushions with one hand and grins as he loops one leg over to straddle Ilya’s thighs, press forward again into another kiss. One of Ilya’s hands settles warm and heavy on his thigh, the other around the nape of his neck to hold him steady for more kisses and Shane thinks that maybe he was just made for this, made for Ilya’s kisses.

“I am very glad you were brave,” Ilya murmurs eventually as they part. “To suggest meeting up,” he adds, when Shane doesn’t quite understand.

“Me too,” Shane agrees. “I’m glad you came.”

“Well,” Ilya’s grin turns wicked, “I have not come yet. But we could change that, if you wanted.”

Shane laughs, leans down to kiss him again, pulls back panting a few minutes later.

“Yeah, I want,” he agrees, and yelp-laughs as Ilya picks him up by the thighs, wraps his legs tightly around Ilya’s hips as he’s carried upstairs to the bedroom, grinning into Ilya’s mouth the entire way.