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Arlo Dubois exhales and watches the foggy mist of his breath dissipate into the cold day, the faint rays of the approaching sunset painting streaks of orange and red across the pale sky.
He shifts against the concrete wall behind him and taps his finger against the cigarette in his hand, staring at the ashes as they get carried away by the icy breeze of December.
Winters in Milan, he’s come to learn, are always unforgiving.
He’s been installed here for three months now. Not long enough to be good at Italian yet, but long enough to know his way around the city. Long enough to not care about the winter or think twice about the thick coat shielding him from the cold and the expensive dress shoes that cover his feet.
Long enough to get a full night’s sleep without thinking of the blood in his hands and the violent acts that granted him the life he has now. Not that he ever really cared in the first place.
He was sixteen when he first killed someone. He’s way past the tremors of shock and the pounding heart.
“Hey, man.”
Arlo turns his head lightly. Ivo, one of the men on his crew, is standing right outside the smoking area beside the start of the garden maze on the back of the symmetrical facade, his hands stuffed inside the pockets of his jacket as he nods to the palazzo.
“Boss is here. Says he wants to have a word with you. Now.” He adds, his eyes pointedly glancing at him.
He looks at the cigarette in his hand with mild annoyance. He’s on his first smoke break of the day. He’s cranky and tired and his fucked up shoulder from when he was shot two months ago has been acting up lately.
“Arlo.” Ivo says, the undertone of a warning in his voice.
“It’s fine, Ivo.”
Ivo doesn’t look convinced. He’s been here longer than him, but he has the nervous energy of a small chihuahua.
They both hear a car driving away, distant voices growing closer as they reach the long entrance of the palazzo.
With a sigh, he stubs the cigarette against the stainless steel ashtray and makes sure to throw it inside one of the trashcans. Boss hates his men smoking out of the designated area. He also hates when they leave cigarette waste laying around.
They both walk to the entrance of the rustic facade and take a stand right by the opulent black doors just as their boss finishes saying something to Fabian, his messenger.
Shane Hollander is a few inches shorter than Arlo, with freckles smattered over his nose and cheeks and a silver jewel shining on his pierced ear. He has jet black hair that falls in perfectly styled stands over his forehead. He’s wearing a light gray two-piece suit and amber round sunglasses.
He walks with the posture of a man that already expects that eyes will inevitably turn to him as soon as he enters a room, a confidence that would be boyish and cocky if it were anyone else. His face is always set on a blank expression, occasionally breaking into a frown that makes people shrink two sizes smaller when it’s directed at them, and his voice is never loud, not because he doesn’t have it in him, but because he doesn’t need it to be.
He’s barely twenty-nine, but he’s been in charge of the Omerta since before Arlo started working for the Italian mafia, and not once since he was employed has Arlo heard of him making a single mistake.
He watches in silence as he adjusts the long black coat draped over his shoulders half heartedly and shakes his head at Fabian, who is gesturing wildly like he’s trying to make him reason but ultimately gets ignored in favor of Hollander making a vague motion of his hand directed to the looming figure behind him.
He swears he can almost hear Ivo’s nervous gulp from where he’s stood when he finally takes notice of their boss’ bodyguard.
No one really knows shit about Ilya Rozanov. He’s tall and broad shouldered, with dirty blond curls and a stoic face that carries a strong jaw and a scar on his eyebrow. He's Russian. He seems to have his eyes permanently trained on their boss. Apart from those obvious, basic facts, none of them know when exactly he got here. Or how. Arlo has heard many stories since he got employed, all of them ranking from the most ridiculous to the most dark.
I heard Boss found him in some dingy restaurant working as a waiter, Emil had said once during a smoke break, and everyone had laughed at the idea of the taciturn, slavic man having a job that required any amount of charisma.
I heard that he was beating some guy to death in an alley when Boss found him, Donovan told them once as they waited for one of the monthly shipments. He was like a feral animal. No wonder he’s Boss’ little guard dog.
I heard Rozanov’s father was the head of the Russian mafia, Rivas told them one night, after he died, Rozanov’s brother ended up drowning in debt and Boss killed him after the Omerta lended him money that he never paid back. He took Rozanov with him. As payment.
That one, maybe because Rivas was the captain of one of the recruitment crews and was often in close proximity to their boss to have really overheard the story, seemed to be everyone’s chosen best.
Arlo watches Rozanov catch the small gesture and grab the black coat off their boss’ shoulders, draping it over one arm with his black leather gloved hands. It freaks Arlo out a little, the wordless communication that Boss has with his bodyguard. The way they move like a single being, with Boss always a step ahead but never more than that step far. Rozanov walks if Hollander walks, like there’s an invisible leash latched to some collar that only Boss can tug at.
It must be so humiliating, he thinks just as Boss climbs the long flare of stairs that lead to the main entrance and Rozanov follows behind him like an obedient dog. He wonders if he burns with the shame of subduing himself like that. Of reducing his entire existence to a single man out of obligation.
If Rivas’ story is true, he remembers one of the newest recruits saying, I would prefer death than being someone’s little bitch after being a fucking Bratva member.
Arlo gives a small reverence as Boss walks past them and sends Ivo one last look before following behind the three men.
“I don’t care about a new supplier, Fabian. I don’t care if they’re offering the best fucking party drug to ever exist on this earth.” Hollander takes the sunglasses off and puts them on his breast pocket, already walking in the direction of his office. “Make sure no one bothers us.”
“Yes, sir.” Fabian sighs, locking the tablet on his hands and disappearing behind a corner.
They take the stairs in complete silence. Arlo trails behind his boss and his bodyguard, notices the way Hollander leans his body the slightest bit back and immediately has Rozanov’s gloved hand pressed firmly against his lower back. He never steps up to walk side by side. They don’t share a single word with each other.
He wonders if they have ever even had a conversation out loud.
When they finally reach Hollander’s office, he steps inside right behind the two men and immediately freezes on the spot when Hollander turns and frowns at him.
He clears his throat.
“Sorry, sir.” He says, backtracking until he’s by the door again. He places his hands behind his back and tries not to clench his jaw.
Right. He has to give up his gun, let Rozanov pat him down. He has to wait for permission to enter. No one just steps inside Hollander’s office. He knows this. It still makes his insides sour with a bitter defiance, one that he’s become quite familiar with lately.
Why do I have to do this? I’m no better than Rozanov. None of us are.
He lets his eyes roam around; he’s been here before, countless times over the years, every month when Hollander holds a meeting with crew captains.
The room is wide, drowned in brown and gold colors and filled with sturdy furniture; a dark brown leather office chair behind a thick mahogany desk, two leather seats slightly facing one another, tall bookshelves that fill the entire main wall, a gold chandelier that falls from the domed ceiling and drowns the room in warm light. There’s a large but simple leather sofa pushed on the opposite wall, a small coffee table and a mini bar to the side.
His boss sits down on his ridiculous, expensive looking chair and leans back against it with a quiet hum. Rozanov stays right behind him, still and unimportant. He could probably lean back against the bookshelves if he relaxed his posture, which, of course, he doesn’t.
“You can come in. Take a seat.”
Arlo does. He tries to hide his grimace when he sits down and feels his shoulder strain. Whatever this sudden meeting is for needs to be done soon. He wants to drink some good vodka and sleep.
When he realizes it’s been almost a minute and his boss hasn’t said anything else, he looks up and adjusts his posture.
“You wanted to talk to me, sir?” He prompts, trying to keep his tone carefully polite. Hurry the fuck up, the exhausted, bitter part of him thinks.
Hollander tends to almost never look people in the eye. It’s something all of them have noticed, over the years. Arlo doesn’t know if it’s a power move, if he thinks everyone is beneath him and undeserving of being met eye to eye, but it has always, always irked him.
Today, Hollander slowly taps a finger against the mahogany grain as if he’s in deep thought and then lifts his gaze to look directly at him.
“How’s your shoulder, Arlo?” He asks, in that usual flat tone that sometimes throws people off.
Ah. So this is a health check-up. Also not unusual, he supposes. His employer is not a bad person. Not to his employees, at least.
“I am not going to lie, sir, it’s been giving me a bit of trouble these past days.” He admits. Maybe he will cut this meeting short this way.
“Must be the winter season,” his boss says, examining his shoulder with brown empty eyes. Despite this being another common thing that his boss does, he fights the strange urge to cover the bullet wound with his hand, as if Hollander can see it through the fabric of his coat.
He chuckles awkwardly. “Yeah. Must be the cold weather.”
“Hm.” Hollander gestures to the mini bar behind them. “Would you like something to drink?”
He does. He doesn’t want it here, though. He wants to be home. “Ah, no, no. Thank you, sir.” He rushes to add. It earns him one of Hollander’s small, amused smiles.
“I have some good strong Russian vodka.” He says, as if the new offer will make Arlo change his mind.
He clears his throat again. “I think I’m good. Thank you, sir.”
Hollander looks like he’s fighting back another smile. “Your loss.” He shrugs, and Arlo momentarily marvels at the way the fading flush on his cheeks from being out in the cold and the playful jab makes him look strangely younger.
“How long have you been working for me now, Arlo?”
“Almost four months, sir.”
Hollander nods. Without the sunglasses, it’s clear that he’s tired. He leans back on his chair with a sigh and makes a small flourish with his fingers. Arlo almost can’t hide his startled jump when Rozanov steps forward, a cigarette between his gloved fingers that he delicately presses between Hollander’s lips before he tilts his jaw up towards him and flicks the lighter on against the filter.
What the fuck?
He watches with a weird churn on his stomach as Hollander makes a small noise and takes a drag, hands loose on his lap, eyelashes fluttering as he holds the smoke inside and then blows it slowly in Rozanov’s direction.
Rozanov’s face is still devoid of any emotions. His features remain closed off, jaw seemingly permanently locked.
His eyes, though.
Arlo doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone look at someone with so much…devotion.
It’s quiet but fierce, there in the way Rozanov follows every minuscule shift on Hollander’s face. As if he was born to do it. As if he’s been training his whole life to categorize and learn every single part of Hollander’s being.
He fights the urge to make a disturbed noise.
He watches his boss take the cigarette with his own fingers and gently pat Rozanov’s side with his other hand. As if on command, the Russian man takes a step back and becomes part of the furniture again.
“So, Arlo,” Hollander finally speaks, flicking the ash off over the ashtray on his desk absentmindedly. “I’ve been going over the books. I am very particular about doing this myself, you see. I can track a discrepancy before it becomes a real problem.”
All of the blood in his body freezes inside him.
“Discrepancy?” He repeats, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.
Hollander lets out a small, mocking groan. Arlo’s stomach ties itself in knots.
“Come on, Arlo. Let’s not play dumb. I’m giving you a chance to be honest with me here.”
“Sir-”
“Twenty five grand missing from the last shipment.” There’s not a single trace of playfulness in his demeanor. His eyes bore into Arlo’s, empty and calculating. “Fifty grand from the one before that. Both from locations only your men work on.”
“Sir, I can explain.” He gulps loudly, fights back a wave of nausea. “There were…complications with one of the suppliers-”
Hollander’s eyebrow twitches. He doesn’t look angry. Maybe that’s the worst part. That he doesn’t look angry.
He looks entertained.
“Do you think I’m stupid, Arlo Dubois?”
“No, sir. Never, sir. Please, let me just explain-,”
“How long has this been going on, Arlo?”
He grits his teeth. He stays silent.
“When did you first steal from me?”
He doesn’t speak. He shifts on his seat and winces. Hollander follows the movement like a cat finding the best angle to pounce for the mouse.
“September 24th. England. Yorkshire, if we want to be more precise.” Hollander tilts his head to the side. “You stole ten thousand, that first time. A grain of sugar, in the grand scheme of things.”
He stares at him. The fingers holding the cigarette that has been slowly burning away move almost imperceptively.
Arlo breaks.
“I was going to pay it back. I was going to, I promise, Boss. I just needed the money. I needed the money, but I swear, I swear I was going to pay it back.”
“You weren’t, though. You stole twenty more. Fifty more.” Hollander lets out a disappointed sigh. “You were good, Arlo. I saw potential in you. I picked you, remember?”
It’s shameful how the words hit something inside him. It makes him angry. At himself, at the man in front of him. At the burning humiliation of having to fight the urge to kneel and beg for forgiveness.
“How did you-?” He stammers faintly, fighting the way his body is shaking in angered defeat as he looks up to meet his boss’ eyes.
Hollander’s mouth curves into a smile.
“I have a good hound dog.” He flicks the cigarette with his finger again. Hysterically, he thinks he hasn’t seen him take a single drag since Rozanov lit it up for him. “Who else is working with you, Arlo?”
No one, he’s about to say, but one look at the man in front of him lets him know that it’s a lost cause.
He’s sweating under his clothes. He feels almost feverish, shoulder throbbing with a phantom pain so strong that he wonders if he’s been shot again without noticing.
He realizes, with a sudden clarity, that he is probably going to die today. If not by the boss he betrayed, by the local gang he sided with on the promise of money he doesn’t have.
This, he guesses, is the only explanation as to why the next thing that comes out of his mouth is:
“Hollander...”
A plea. A useless, feigned plea, one that has him simmering in anger and humiliation, one that he knows probably won’t go anywhere, but a plea nonetheless.
Behind his boss, a creaking sound like wooden giving under a heavy pressure travels across the room.
“Names, Arlo. I need names.” Hollander says, with a condescending tone that has him sinking his nails on the plush leather of his seat.
When a whole minute passes and his teeth hurt from how hard he’s clenching his jaw, he hears his boss sigh pitifully.
“Oh, God, Arlo,” he laments, standing up and rounding the desk until he’s leaning and bracing his hands against it. With a click of his tongue, he says: “You really should have accepted that vodka.”
Arlo manages to catch Shane Hollander giving the smallest of nods before the creaking sound of wood has the hairs at the back of his neck standing up.
Beneath the overwhelming fear, he feels incredibly fucking stupid for ever laughing at the mocking names they came up with for Rozanov.
Ilya Rozanov, hound and guard dog and shadow, who takes exactly three quick strides towards him, grips at his injured shoulder and grabs at his left wrist in an iron grip, snapping his thumb with a swift, practiced movement.
He hears himself scream under the sudden wave of agony.
“That’s one, Arlo.” his boss says sweetly. “Don’t worry, you can try being honest with me nine more times.”
As soon as the door closes behind the men carrying the unconscious body of Arlo Dubois, Shane slumps against the desk and exhales sharply through his nose.
“Now there’s a bloodstain on the carpet.”
Ilya keeps his back to him. He’s still panting, his entire body tense as he listens to their men walking away. Once he’s completely sure that they’re alone and safe, he turns on his heels and looks at the incriminating stain with a small grimace.
“Sorry.” He says, voice strange and thick around a mouthful of blood. Arlo had managed to throw a hit before Ilya dislocated his injured shoulder. Shane watches him suck on his bloodied teeth and shifts on his feet. His handsome striped suit is rumpled, one of his leather gloves is half off his hand and his previously styled curls are now a sweaty mess. “I got…ah, how do you say?”
“Carried away?”
“Da. Carried away.”
Shane fights back a smile and hums, trying hard to hold on to his tone of disapproval. “You did, yeah. I told you to break his fingers, not throw a punch.”
Ilya looks away and frowns at the floor with a vague grumbling sound.
He arches an eyebrow. “What was that?”
“He called you Hollander.”
An involuntary delighted laugh bursts out of him.
“Is that why you almost broke down my bookshelf?”
The tips of Ilya’s ears are a bright shade of red. His silence only confirms his suspicions. He stares as he takes his bloodied leather gloves off and stands in front of Shane expectantly, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
“Answer me first.” He says, firm but gentle.
“Da. Yes.”
“Were you mad when he did it?”
Ilya swallows hard.
“Yes.”
“Cucciolo,” he shakes his head fondly. “That was an employee being questioned for betrayal.”
“I know.” Ilya shrugs with poorly acted nonchalance, eyebrows furrowed and lips doing something that can’t be called anything except a pout. “He should not call you that, anyway.”
“Yes, well, he’s being dealt with right now. I don’t think we have to worry about what he calls me or anyone anymore.” He says, closing his eyes and sighing deeply as he lets his head fall back between his shoulder blades.
He’s tired. He’s been nursing a mild hungover since yesterday, he’s been awake for almost twenty four hours, he had to drink and make small talk with men he couldn’t care less about, he got home to deal with Arlo Dubois’ bullshit and, on top of it all, he hasn’t been able to properly be with his husband in two whole days.
“Shane.”
His lips curve in a smile. Ilya’s voice is edging on desperation. He doesn’t even have to open his eyes to know that his body is full of that antsy restless energy that seems to invade him whenever he sees Shane in clear distress.
Still, he stays right where he is.
“I’ve missed you.” He opens his eyes and tells him, not only because it’s the truth but because he loves to watch his gaze grow darker, loves to notice the clench of his defined jaw and the change in his breathing. “So fucking much.”
“Shane, please, please,”
God, but he looks so beautiful like this. Shane’s heart jumps inside his chest when he remembers Ilya’s expression after Arlo hit him, the unfocused eyes and the cocky fucking smirk that blossomed on his face at the man’s audacity, the way he spat a mouthful of blood right over Arlo’s white dress shirt before pouncing on him like a feral dog.
Shane’s fierce beautiful man, guiding him through crowds and keeping him safe, willingly staining his hands with blood for him, ready to follow his commands like he was made for it.
He shrugs off the suit jacket and lets it fall down his shoulders, tilting his head back to expose the curve of his neck.
“I miss you inside me.” He admits, low and heavy-lidded. He tries to ignore the way he fails miserably at sounding composed and teasing.
Ilya makes a broken, pathetic garbling noise, hands twitching at his sides.
“Lyubimiy…”
Shane shifts again, almost squirming. He’s been half-hard since…shit, probably since Ilya took that hit to the mouth, and now he’s so hard he can feel the head of his cock smearing precum all over the front of his designer dress pants as he takes in the roughed up state of his husband, desire coiled tight on his lower stomach.
“Come here, cucciolo.”
Ilya shortens the distance with unsteady feet. He gets close enough that Shane can hear his ragged breathing, stumbling into his space until his forehead meets his temple. His hands stay at his sides.
“Does it hurt a lot?” Ilya shakes his head, eyes closed and lips sealed shut. “Is your mouth still bleeding?” He gives Shane a slow nod.
His stomach clenches with unspooled want. He puts a finger under Ilya’s chin and presses his thumb against his lower lip, pushing it down until Ilya’s mouth goes slack in his hold. Almost immediately, a messy trail of spit and blood gathers around his gums and down the inside of his lip.
“Fuck.” He mutters brokenly at the sight, right before he adjusts his grip on Ilya’s face and presses their mouths together on a bruising kiss.
It must sting. It must, but Ilya whines and hums like he’s found paradise, breathing harshly through his nose as he crowds Shane into the desk and slams both hands on either side of his body, swallowing his breathy noises with his mouth.
The taste of the blood should disgust him, probably. It definitely shouldn’t have him suckling on Ilya’s tongue and plastering himself into his strong, lean figure, shouldn’t have him needily trying to rut against his body and burying his free hand in his curls.
“Ilya, fuck,” He hisses into his mouth and paws at his suit jacket with desperate fingers. “Fuck me. I want you to fuck me, please, I need you,”
Ilya is already nodding, mindlessly mouthing at his jaw. “Yes. Bedroom, we have to–”
“No.” He pulls away and tightens his hold on Ilya’s face, pressing his fingers viciously into the flushed skin of his cheeks to make him look at him. Ilya does, gaze glassy and hooded. “No, here, now. I need you inside me now. You can do that, right? You can be a good dog and fuck me on top of this desk?”
Ilya’s eyes glaze over at the words, chin smeared with their combined spit and his blood, curls a mess courtesy of Shane’s hands.
“Fuck, Shane.” He grabs at his waist and hoists him up on the sturdy desk. “Yes. Yes, anything you want, anything,”
When he scrambles to take his clothes off, Shane shakes his head and curls a hand around his tie.
“Fuck me like this, like this.”
He fumbles with his own suit and underwear and slips out of them, handing them over to Ilya, who folds them carefully and places them on the empty space beside Shane with a content hum.
“Big desk. Good choice.”
He huffs with laughter.
“You say that every time I let you have me on it.”
“Well, is true.”
Shane unbuttons the remaining dress shirt and lets it pool around his shoulders. He leans back on his elbows and basks in the way Ilya stares at him like he never wants to look away.
“So pretty.” He whispers, reverently, then slots himself between Shane’s spread thighs and takes his legs to wrap them around his tapered waist.
The friction of Ilya’s clothes against his leaking dick has him moaning loudly, head thrown back as he rubs against it shamelessly.
“I need it, I need it,” He tugs at Ilya’s tie and brings him closer. “Now, Ilya.”
He flattens his back against the desk and opens one of the drawers, scrambling for their bottle of lube before pushing it into his husband's chest.
When Ilya finally, finally presses inside him after pumping two thick, long fingers into him for what feels like forever, Shane feels his entire body grow pliant against the mahogany grain.
It’s like nothing else matters, like nothing is more important than the thrust of Ilya’s hips driving into him, like the only thing he has to focus on is the slow, pleasant drag of his husband’s cock inside him and the way his hands grab and squeeze at his pecs as he fucks him.
At some point, Ilya slows down to lean over him and kiss him. It causes the chain around his neck to dangle between them, the crucifix and his wedding ring hitting Shane’s chin softly.
The next time the chain hits his face, he slides his tongue out and catches the golden ring, rolling it inside his mouth.
Ilya’s movements grow frantic at the sight.
He lets the ring go and coils his hand around his tie, tugging at it to wordlessly ask for harder, faster. Ilya complies. Of course he does.
“I should put you on a leash,” He babbles around a whimper, clumsily trying to meet Ilya’s thrusts. “I, ah, ah, I could pull at it and have you react to it like, fuck, like a fucking Pavlovian response. I would do it anytime I want, ah, anytime I want you to fuck me.”
Ilya nods, panting harshly, gone beyond words, his face sweaty and flushed, mouth slack and teeth stained with blood, laser focused on fucking Shane like he was asked to.
He tugs at the tie again and smiles at the way Ilya lets out a whiny, hiccuping noise at the tightness of it around his throat, his pace turning desperate and erratic.
Shane squirms and wraps his cock on a loose fist, arching his back with a loud moan when Ilya hits his prostate on the next thrust.
“Yes, yes, there,”
He’s so close. He feels all the muscles in his body tense as he desperately tries to fuck himself on the cock inside him. He clenches a handful of curls at the top of Ilya’s head and grips at them, hard.
“Make me come.” He commands, looking into Ilya’s feverish eyes. “Make me come, fuck, do it, please, please,”
Ilya quickens his pace, harsh thrusts that have Shane’s sweat slicked back sliding up and down the desk. His hands spread his legs and push them up, fucking directly into his prostate once, twice, until Shane is gasping and shuddering, messily spilling all over his own chest.
Ilya stills inside him, letting him ride the waves of pleasure, caressing his hips with worshipful fingers. When his breathing has regulated enough, he clenches around Ilya’s cock and bites back a small noise at the overstimulation.
“Come on,” he urges him with a tilt of his hips, voice hoarse. “Want you to come inside me.”
Ilya’s body shudders at the words. He feels him pull out slowly, then push back in with a snap of his hips, quickly building a desperate pace that has Shane’s cock twitching in a weak attempt to get hard again.
“Good boy,” he sighs, enjoying Ilya’s gasping little grunts in response. “Come for me, shchenok.”
Ilya groans, broken and reedy, fucking into him once more before he stills and comes in warm, thick spurts inside him.
Shane hums contentedly. He lets his legs dangle over the desk and blindly reaches out with his arms, smiling when Ilya immediately leans down so he can wrap himself around him like a vice.
They don’t speak for a while. He caresses Ilya’s curls and kisses his face, lets Ilya rub at his back and gently massage his legs until both of their breathing grows steady again.
“I really did miss you.” he mumbles against Ilya’s temple. “I hate being away from you.”
Ilya circles his waist with both arms, presses them so close together Shane swears he can feel their heartbeats synchronize. “Me too. I hate boring men talking to you.”
He makes a vague sound of agreement. He’s loose-limbed and probably two seconds away from falling asleep, but he can feel the slickness between his thighs and on his chest starting to dry unpleasantly.
“Want a bath.” He mumbles as he noses along the collar of his husband’s shirt, inhaling the faint smell of cigarettes and perfume and what is distinctively, naturally just Ilya.
“You’re falling asleep,” Ilya says with a little chuckle.
“That’s why you’re going to take that bath with me.” He says primly, and then, halfway around a yawn: “Make sure I don’t drown.”
“Da, lyubimiy.”
“Your mouth?”
“Is fine, doesn’t hurt. He throws weak punch.”
“Good.” He rubs his cheek against Ilya’s chest. “I don’t want to walk.”
“Okay, shanezhka,”
Ilya steps away from him to grab his own coat. He drapes it over Shane’s naked body like a blanket and pulls him into his chest again. Their bedroom is right next door, he thinks tiredly and distantly. No one is allowed on the second floor unless they’ve been granted access. They’re safe.
It takes some time for his brain to finally register and translate what Ilya just called him.
“Sweet bun?”
He feels Ilya’s chest vibrating with quiet laughter. “Yes. My sweet little cottage cheese bun.”
It’s a clear testimony of his exhaustion that he only hums and nods, tightening his arms around Ilya’s neck until he feels his hands grip the back of his thighs and hold him up.
“What would they say, if they see their boss getting carried around like baby, huh?” Ilya teases with fond playfulness.
He smiles into Ilya’s shoulder. “They’d say: what a good guard dog. I want one like that.”
He hears Ilya whispering something in Russian over and over, pressing the words against the skin behind his ear.
It’s safer like this, he knows. Keeping Ilya one step behind, like a second shadow, quiet and unnoticed until told otherwise. Not easier, never easier, but safer.
If I let you walk beside me, he remembers telling him once, my eyes would always look for you. And I would give us away, just like that.
It 's hard. It 's always hard. Pretending that he doesn’t have anything to lose while being aware of his heart walking right behind him, having to fight the urge to look back, trusting that Ilya is always there, Orpheus and Eurydice all over again.
Except Orpheus had looked back. Orpheus didn’t have Ilya to lose.
God, he really needs to sleep.
His lips curve into a softer smile, eyelids fluttering shut as he replies:
“I love you too.”