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The storm comes in sideways, rain battering the windows hard enough that Shane keeps glancing over like he expects the glass to give up and cave. Thunder rolls low and long, the kind that vibrates through the floorboards. It feels like the whole world has narrowed down to the living room: the couch, the low glow of the TV, Ilya warm and solid at his side.
They’ve made it a thing, impromptu date night. Pizza box on the coffee table that Ilya insisted on ordering, empty salad bowl of Shane’s stacked neatly on top of it. A blanket Shane stole from their bed because it’s heavier and smells like his laundry detergent. The lights are off except for the lamp in the corner, dimmed until everything feels a little unreal.
The opening lips of The Rocky Horror Picture Show appear on screen.
Shane snorts. “I can’t believe this is the movie you insisted on.”
Ilya hums, pleased, already curled into him like he’s been waiting all day for this exact moment. “You say this now,” he says, English a little rougher when he’s relaxed. “But I see this movie many times. Many.”
Shane turns to look at him. “You have not.”
“Oh, I have,” Ilya insists, nodding like it’s a solemn fact. “Midnight screenings. Secret ones.”
Shane blinks. “Secret screenings?”
Ilya grins, eyes flicking back to the screen as the rain lashes harder outside. “Movie was banned in Russia. Very taboo. Parents would lose minds.” He shrugs, fond and unapologetic. “That made it better.”
Shane laughs. “Of course it did.”
“We go late at night,” Ilya continues, warming to it. “Little theater, very old. We sneak vodka. We dress up. We shout at screen. Sometimes we get kicked out.”
Shane laughs louder. “Jesus, Ilya.”
Ilya bumps his shoulder. “Also… it help me learn English,” he adds, quieter now. “I memorize songs. Lines. I did not understand half, but I felt it.”
On screen, Brad and Janet start their ill-fated drive through the storm. Thunder cracks outside at the exact wrong moment, perfectly timed, and Shane groans. “Okay, I hate this.”
Ilya laughs, bright and unbothered, tipping his head back against Shane’s shoulder. “See? Atmosphere.”
As the movie goes on, Ilya starts quietly narrating pieces Shane doesn’t understand—leaning in to whisper lines before they happen, mouthing along to the songs, sometimes translating badly on purpose just to make Shane laugh. Shane watches him more than the screen, watches the way his mouth curves when he’s trying not to sing out loud, the way his fingers tap against Shane’s thigh during the musical numbers.
When Frank-N-Furter finally descends into the lab in all his glory, Shane lets out a low whistle.
“Wow,” he says. “Okay. It’s pretty good.”
“Yes,” Ilya says seriously, eyes fixated on the screen.
Shane nudges him with his knee. “You’d make a killer Frank.”
Ilya turns, eyebrow arching. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” Shane says, emboldened by the storm, the dark, the way Ilya is already halfway draped over him. “Corset. Fishnets. The whole thing.”
Ilya turns slowly, eyebrow arching. Then he laughs. “No, no. That is you.”
Shane blinks. “Me?”
“Yes,” Ilya says, pointing at him like he’s solved something important. “You have drama. You have legs. You would be very dangerous in corset.”
Shane groans. “I do not have drama.”
Ilya just looks at him.
“…Okay, maybe a little,” Shane concedes. “So what am I, Frank, and you’re…?”
“Rocky,” Ilya says instantly. No hesitation.
Shane laughs. “Of course.”
“I am built for it,” Ilya says, flexing slightly under the blanket. “And you like idea.”
“I do not—” Shane stops, sighs. “Hayden and Jackie are going to lose their minds if we show up to the party dressed like that.”
“Good,” Ilya says, pleased. “That is purpose of Halloween.”
The rain beats harder against the windows, thunder rattling the room as Frank-N-Furter bursts into song. Ilya tucks his feet under Shane’s thigh, curls closer, warm and real and familiar. Shane presses a kiss into Ilya’s hair, soft and absentminded. “You know,” Ilya says, “this might be good idea.”
Shane hums, satisfied. “I always have good ideas.”
On screen, the movie spirals deeper into glittering chaos. Outside, the storm rages on. Inside, Shane lets himself sink into it—into the warmth, the laughter, and the quiet certainty that this, right here, is exactly where he wants to be.
The next day is calm in a way that feels suspicious.
The storm is gone, the sky scrubbed clean and pale, sunlight slipping in through the kitchen windows. Shane is at the counter with a mug of coffee, still half-asleep, wearing one of Ilya’s hoodies and socks that don’t match. Everything feels normal. Safe.
Which is why he doesn’t see it coming.
Ilya is at the table on his phone, scrolling with a little smile that Shane has learned to be wary of. The scheming one. The one that usually means trouble.
“I order costumes,” Ilya says casually.
Shane freezes mid-sip. “You— what?”
“For Halloween party,” Ilya adds, glancing up. “At Pike house. For Hayden and Jackie.”
Shane lowers the mug very slowly. “Ilya.”
“Yes, baby?”
“What costumes.”
Ilya’s smile widens, sharp and pleased. “Frank. And Rocky.”
Shane’s heart drops straight through the floor.
“Oh my god,” he says immediately. “No. No, no, no. Absolutely not.”
Ilya frowns, confused. “Why not? You say is good idea.”
“I said it as a joke,” Shane insists, hands already waving like he can physically undo this. “I was joking. I cannot wear a corset in public. In front of people. Hockey people.”
“You look very good in public,” Ilya says reasonably.
“Ilya,” Shane says, voice climbing, “it’s basically lingerie.”
“So?”
“So I will die.”
Ilya gets up then, crossing the kitchen in a few long strides. He reaches for Shane’s wrists, gently stopping the frantic hand motions. “Hey,” he says softly. “Hey. Look at me.”
Shane does, cheeks already pink, anxiety buzzing under his skin. “We’re out,” he says, quieter now, like he’s trying to convince himself. “I know that. I just— that’s a lot. It’s… really risky.”
Ilya’s expression shifts immediately, all teasing gone. He cups Shane’s face with both hands, thumbs brushing warm circles into his cheeks. “I know,” he says gently. “Is scary sometimes. Even when you are brave.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” Ilya insists, leaning in to press a slow kiss to Shane’s mouth. Then another, softer. “But we do not have to do anything you don’t want.”
Shane exhales, shoulders sagging. “You already ordered them.”
Ilya grins. “Yes. But costumes can sit in box. Or we wear something else. Or we wear only for five minutes, then change.”
“Five minutes?” Shane repeats weakly “Maybe ten,” Ilya says, joking, then bumps his nose against Shane’s. “I also order robe. Very dramatic. You can keep it on whole time. Frank loves drama.”
Despite himself, Shane huffs a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“I am comforting,” Ilya corrects, kissing the corner of Shane’s mouth. “Also very hot in gold shorts, so people will be distracted.”
Shane groans, hiding his face in Ilya’s shoulder. “You’re not helping.”
Ilya wraps his arms around him fully, solid and grounding. “We go together,” he murmurs into Shane’s hair. “We leave together. And if you feel bad, we go home and eat candy and laugh about it.”
Shane closes his eyes, breathing him in. “You promise?”
“I promise,” Ilya says.
Shane shakes his head, but he’s smiling now, tension easing from his body as Ilya kisses him again—slow, reassuring, warm.
“…We’ll see,” Shane concedes.
Ilya grins like a man who knows exactly how this will end.
A few days later, the box arrives.
It sits by the door all morning like a loaded weapon. Shane pointedly ignores it.
He’s in the kitchen instead, grounded in routine—vegetables chopped with meticulous precision, zucchini and eggplant laid out on paper towels, ricotta measured carefully. The oven hums, preheating. Vegetable lasagna is performance-safe, clean carbs, nothing greasy. He’s still half in season mode, brain wired for control and numbers and discipline, even on a days off.
He’s layering noodles when he hears footsteps.
Bare feet on tile, the stairs creaking. Then—nothing.
Shane frowns, glances over his shoulder. “Ilya?”
No answer.
He turns back to the counter just as arms slide around his waist from behind, warm skin against his back. He relaxes automatically—until he looks down.
Gold. Very little of it.
Shane’s breath catches hard enough that he actually chokes. “Oh my god.”
Ilya laughs, low and pleased, pressing his chest into Shane’s back. “It arrived,” he says.
Shane slowly, carefully turns around.
Ilya is wearing the gold shorts. Not shorts, really—high-cut, shameless, catching the kitchen light so that every movement makes them gleam. Gold Converse on his feet, laces loose, absurd and perfect. His bare torso is on full display, muscles rolling under skin that looks almost lit from within, like the sun decided to move into their house.
Shane stares. Open-mouthed. Frozen.
Ilya tilts his head. “Is too much?”
Shane swallows. “Ilya.”
“Yes?”
“You can’t just—” He gestures helplessly. “In the kitchen.”
Ilya grins, flexes slightly on purpose. His abs ripple, catching the overhead light. “Why not? You are cooking. I am making sure it fit.”
Shane lets out a shaky laugh that sounds a lot like it might turn into something else. “I’m on a diet.”
“That is unfortunate for you,” Ilya says, stepping closer, hands resting on Shane’s hips. “Because I am not.”
Shane’s eyes drag over him, helpless. “People are going to see you like this.”
“Yes,” Ilya says proudly. “And they will suffer.”
“I’m serious,” Shane insists, though his voice is already wrecked. “You look— Jesus.”
Ilya leans in, kissing him slow and deep, holding under Shane’s jaw. When he pulls back, he murmurs, “You still thinking about corset?”
Shane groans, forehead dropping to Ilya’s shoulder. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Always,” Ilya says cheerfully. “But you will be Frank. And you will be beautiful. And I will not let anyone be weird to you.”
Shane exhales, steadying himself, hands gripping Ilya’s bare waist like an anchor. “I need to finish the lasagna before I burn the house down.”
Ilya kisses his cheek, then his jaw. “Il wait,” he promises, stepping back just enough to slap Shane on the ass. “Take your time.”
Shane watches him for a beat longer than necessary, heart racing.
“…You’re evil,” he mutters.
Ilya laughs, gold and bright in the kitchen light.
Ilya does, eventually, change—at Shane’s pointed insistence and the very real threat of tomato sauce splatter.
He comes back into the dining room shirtless anyway, grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair still a little wild like he didn’t bother with a mirror. Shane pointedly doesn’t stare. He absolutely fails.
Dinner is plated properly—layers of vegetables and chickpea pasta neat and careful, Shane’s idea of control made edible. They sit at the dining table, rainless evening light fading into soft blue outside the windows.
Ilya takes one bite. Then another. Then another.
Shane watches in mounting horror as Ilya commits fully to the act of devouring—fork loaded too full, sauce already smudged at the corner of his mouth, chewing enthusiastically like this is the best thing he’s eaten in weeks.
Ilya catches Shane staring and grins, mouth still full. “Is very good.”
There’s a streak of red on his cheek now.
Shane grimaces. “Oh my god. Ew.”
Ilya laughs, unabashed, licking sauce off his thumb. “You say ew, but you are proud.”
“I am not proud,” Shane says, though his mouth twitches. “You eat like you’ve never seen food before.”
“I grew up with brother.” Ilya shrugs. “If you eat slow, you starve.”
Shane shakes his head, taking a sip of ginger ale. He watches Ilya for a second longer, then—quieter, thoughtful—asks, “So… who did you dress up as when you used to go?”
Ilya pauses, fork hovering. “Brad,” he says. “Usually. And Svetlana, she was Janet.”
“Usually?” Shane prompts.
A grin spreads across Ilya’s face. “One time, we switched.”
Shane raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t.”
“I did,” Ilya says proudly. “I show up as Janet. Little white dress. Wig was very bad. Shoes were pretty but uncomfortable.”
Shane chokes on his drink. “You’re kidding.”
“No,” Ilya says, delighted. “People clap. Someone shout, ‘Janet!’ very loud.”
Shane laughs, shaking his head. “That’s— okay, that’s incredible.”
They eat for a moment, comfortable, the clink of forks against plates. Shane glances up again. “What was your favourite song?”
Ilya doesn’t answer right away. He chews slowly this time, thinking. “Super Heroes,” he says finally.
Shane frowns. “That’s— not always in it, right?”
Ilya nods. Then pauses, questioningly.
Before he can speak, Shane cuts him off.
“I looked it up.” Shane shrugged, voice weary.
“Yes. Many versions cut it. Is… how you say… ghost song.” Ilya smiles a little, fond. “I grow to love it because of that. Is myth. People say it exist, but you don’t always see.”
He switches briefly into Russian without realizing, voice softer. “Как что-то потерянное.”
(Like something lost.)
Shane watches him, chest tightening. “You know,” he says carefully, “that was… really brave. Going to see it. Dressing up. Especially back home.”
Ilya shrugs automatically. “Was just movie.”
Shane presses gently, “Ilya.”
Ilya hesitates. For half a second, something more serious flickers across his face. Then he laughs, waving it off. “Maybe,” he concedes. “But I look very good in garter belt. So worth it.”
Shane snorts despite himself.
He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms after another sip of ginger ale, and nudges Ilya’s foot under the table with his socked one. Ilya nudges back.
Shane looks at him—really looks—and says, steady and sure,
“If you could do it then I will.”
Ilya pauses mid–bite, fork still in his mouth, eyebrows lifting slowly as the words land.
He chews once. Twice. Then he swallows.
“You mean this?” he asks, gesturing vaguely downward with his fork, clearly referencing the corset, the fishnets, the whole Frank-N-Furter fantasy.
Shane nods, jaw set. “Yeah.”
Ilya studies him for a long second, eyes sharp and searching now, like he’s making sure Shane means it. “You are sure?” he asks, quieter. “Not because you feel you must.”
Shane exhales, then shrugs, a little sheepish but sincere. “If you were brave enough to do it back then—” He looks up, meeting Ilya’s eyes. “Then I can do it now.”
Ilya’s mouth curves into a slow, dangerous smile.
He sets his fork down deliberately, leans back in his chair, and says, pleased and reverent all at once, “Oh. This is very serious commitment.”
Shane laughs, nerves buzzing. “Don’t make it a big thing.”
“I will make it huge,” Ilya says immediately. “Like something else.” He winked, smirking.
Shane groans. “I regret this already.”
“No, no,” Ilya says, reaching across the table to brush his thumb over Shane’s knuckles, grounding him. “You will look incredible. And if anyone say something stupid, I eat them.”
Shane snorts. “You can’t eat people.”
“Why not?,” Ilya replies solemnly, then grins, eyes glittering. “Frank ate Eddie.”
Shane shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “Yeah because Frank took half of Eddie’s brain to make Rocky, then killed him with a fucking ice pick.”
Ilya lifts his fork, motioning it in a stabbing action to the side of his head, before rolling his eyes back. He then lifts his fork again, takes another unholy mouthful of lasagna, sauce immediately threatening his dignity. He smiles around it at Shane, utterly smug.
Shane grimaces. “You’re still disgusting.”
“Da,” Ilya says happily, mouth full.
The next morning, Shane is alone at the kitchen table with his phone, smoothie going warm beside him.
He stares at the screen for a long moment before typing.
Shane:
hey. random question. where do you buy makeup? Like the sparkle stuff?
The reply comes almost instantly.
Rose:
what sick freaky thing are you and ilya getting up to
Shane groans out loud, scrubbing a hand down his face.
Shane:
nothing freaky
it’s for halloween
There’s a pause. Then—
Rose:
oh this just got better
what are you being
Shane stares at the message, heart starting to pound. He glances down the hall toward the bedroom.
“Ilya!” he calls. “What do I tell Rose?!”
Ilya appears in the doorway, hair still damp from the shower, already suspiciously amused. “Tell her truth,” he says easily.
“I’m not telling her that,” Shane hisses.
Ilya grins. “You are Frank-N-Furter.”
Shane covers his face with his hand. “I hate you.”
“You love me,” Ilya corrects. “Also—” he tilts his head, considering, “—you should try costume.”
Shane peeks at him through his fingers. “No.”
“Yes,” Ilya says, stepping closer. “Just to see. To feel it. And then you send picture to Rose and make her scream.”
“I’m not sending her a picture.”
Ilya’s grin widens. “You are.”
Somehow, ten minutes later, Shane is standing in the bathroom, door locked, heart racing like he’s about to step onto the ice for game seven.
The fishnets go on first—black, threaded with fine glitter that catches the light. They stretch higher than he expects, clinging to his thighs, snug and warm and revealing in a way that makes his ears burn. Then the black underwear, garter belts snapping softly into place, unfamiliar weight and tension against his skin.
The corset is last. Black, glittered, structured. Heavy in his hands.
He gets it around himself, tugging it into place, but the back is still undone, laces hanging loose. He stares at his reflection, chest flushed pink, breath already uneven.
“Ilya,” he calls, voice betraying him.
“Yes?” comes the immediate answer, right outside the door.
“…Can you—” Shane swallows. “Can you tie it?”
The door opens. Ilya steps in—and promptly freezes.
“Oh,” he breathes.
Shane turns his back shyly, arms crossing over his chest. “Don’t— don’t say anything.”
Ilya does not listen.
“Shane,” he says, voice wrecked. “You look—” He breaks off, hands hovering uselessly in the air. “Fuck.” He breathes, staggered and shallow.
Shane laughs nervously. “Just tie it.”
Ilya steps closer, fingers brushing Shane’s waist as he gathers the laces, reverent and careful. “You are very sexy,” he mutters. “This is criminal.”
Shane shivers when the corset tightens, posture shifting, suddenly hyperaware of his body. “Ilya,” he warns. “I need to show Rose.”
“Yes,” Ilya agrees, absolutely not helping, hands already sliding to Shane’s hips. “Show Rose. Quickly. Before I take that off you.”
Shane turns, cheeks blazing. “Hands off.”
Ilya laughs, pressing a kiss to Shane’s shoulder instead, unable to resist. “Fine. But hurry.”
“Wait—” Shane starts, already panicking.
Too late.
Ilya lifts Shane’s phone and snaps a photo before Shane can bolt—Shane standing there in the bathroom, glittered fishnets catching the light, corset half-laced, one hand shoved firmly over his face like that might somehow save his dignity.
“Perfect,” Ilya says reverently.
“Delete it,” Shane groans.
“No.”
The message sends with a soft whoosh.
Shane doesn’t even have time to breathe before the phone explodes in his hand.
Rose:
HOLY SHIT
Rose:
ARE YOU KIDDING ME
Rose:
IS ILYA GOING AS ROCKY PLEASE TELL ME ILYA IS GOING AS ROCKY
Shane makes a strangled noise. “Oh my god.”
More messages pile in, one after another, relentless.
Rose:
I AM OBSESSED
I AM UNWELL
THIS IS ART
Rose:
YOU LOOK INSANE
LIKE ACTUALLY OFFENSIVE
Shane sinks onto the edge of the tub, face burning. “She’s going to kill me.”
Ilya peers over his shoulder, delighted. “She even thinks you look sexy.” He assures
Rose:
also not to be dramatic but you are the hottest gay boyfriend I have ever had
Shane drops his phone into his lap. “I’m going to pass out.”
Ilya laughs openly now, hands on Shane’s bare knees, thumbs brushing grounding circles like he’s keeping Shane from floating right out of his body. “You see?” he murmurs. “World agrees with me.”
The phone buzzes again.
Rose:
don’t buy anything
I’ll have it sent to your house
Shane stares at the screen, stunned.
“…She’s sending makeup,” he says faintly.
Ilya hums, pleased. “Good. Less work for us.”
Shane looks up at him, still blushing, still half-hidden behind his hand. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
Ilya leans in, kissing the knuckles covering Shane’s face, voice soft and smug. “You have no idea.”
Ilya doesn’t move right away.
He studies Shane—really studies him—the way his shoulders are slightly drawn in, the way his hand still shields part of his face even though the danger has clearly passed. His eyes trace over him slowly, hungry but careful, like he’s cataloguing reactions instead of just taking in the view.
His hand comes up, light as a question, fingers gliding over the glittered corset. He doesn’t squeeze. Doesn’t tug. Just feels the texture beneath his fingertips, stopping where the edge curves in near Shane’s collarbone. His thumb brushes there once, soft.
His voice drops, instinctively gentler. “Hey,” he murmurs. “How does it feel?”
Shane stills. Not in a bad way—just… inward. He blinks, attention pulling away from the embarrassment, the praise, the noise of the moment. He takes a breath. Then another. Actually checks.
“It’s…” he starts, then stops, thinking harder. He shifts his shoulders slightly, rolls them once, registering the pressure. “It’s tight. But not bad-tight.”
Ilya nods, listening.
“The fishnets are okay,” Shane continues slowly. “They’re not itchy. The glitter’s fine.” He pauses, brow furrowing as he notices something new. “There’s a seam here,” he adds, touching his side. “I can feel it, but it’s not sharp.”
Ilya’s thumb traces just below it, careful not to linger too long. “No tags?”
Shane exhales, relieved. “No tags. That’s good. If there was a tag, I’d already be losing it.”
Ilya smiles softly, all the teasing gone. “Then we cut them out if they show up,” he says easily. “Or we change it. No costume is worth making you miserable.”
Shane looks up at him then, something steady settling in his chest. “Yeah,” he says. “I just needed a second.”
Ilya leans in, forehead resting briefly against Shane’s. “You can always take second,” he murmurs. “Or ten.”
Shane huffs a quiet laugh, shoulders finally relaxing. “Okay.”
Ilya’s hand slips away, giving him space—but his eyes stay warm, attentive. “You look incredible,” he adds, softer now. “But more important—you feel okay. That is what matters.”
Shane nods, grounding himself in that.
Ilya watches him for another moment, gaze still attentive, then tilts his head slightly—problem-solving now, gentle.
“I can ask Tamara,” he says quietly. “She fix seam in heartbeat. She is magician with things.”
Tamara was a friend of Ilya’s from Russia. She had moved to New York in her late teens to pursue fashion, and she had styled them for various big events. The MET gala, NHL events, ESPYS you name it she was there.
Shane blinks. The suggestion lands heavier than it should, in a good way. He looks down at the corset again, fingers brushing the spot at his side, then back up at Ilya.
“You’d… do that?” he asks, softer. Not embarrassed—just checking. “Like, actually reach out to her. For me.”
Ilya doesn’t hesitate. He steps closer, hands settling warm and steady at Shane’s waist, thumbs grounding him there. “Of course,” he says simply. “I do anything for you.”
Shane swallows, something tightening behind his ribs. “Okay,” he says after a second. “Yeah. That would help.”
Ilya smiles—not smug, not teasing. Just fond. “Then it is done,” he says, pressing a kiss to Shane’s temple. “You don’t have to think about it anymore.”
Shane exhales, shoulders finally dropping all the way. He leans into Ilya without thinking, forehead against his chest. “Thanks,” he murmurs.
Ilya’s arms come around him easily, protective and sure. “Always,” he replies.
Morning light slips in soft and pale through the curtains, the room still half-wrapped in sleep. Shane is curled into Ilya’s side, dead to the world, breathing slow and even. His raven hair is a mess against the pillow, dark lashes resting against freckled cheeks, his face completely unguarded in a way only sleep ever allows.
Ilya doesn’t move.
Shane’s arm is draped over his chest, heavy and trusting. The other arm is tucked up under his own jaw, hand curled into a loose fist like he’s holding onto something even in dreams. His knee is pressed into Ilya’s thigh, warm, familiar. He fits there like he was built for it.
Ilya lies still for an undisclosed amount of time, just watching.
He traces freckles with his eyes, counts the faint ones across Shane’s nose, the ones scattered over his shoulder where the sheet has slipped. He memorizes the soft curve of his mouth, the way his brow smooths completely when he’s asleep. Enamoured doesn’t even begin to cover it. He feels full of it—love, pride, awe—so much it almost aches.
He is so brave, Ilya thinks.
Not loud bravery. Quiet bravery. The kind where Shane steps out of his comfort zone, heart pounding, cheeks flushed, and still says okay. The kind that trusts Ilya enough to try.
That thought makes his chest swell.
Then—selfishly—his mind wanders.
He imagines Halloween night. Shane in the costume. The way he’ll blush under the attention, the way Ilya will lean in close just to murmur praise in his ear. Kisses pressed slow and deliberate, hands warm over the corset, feeling the structure beneath his palms. He smirks to himself at the thought of smearing the lipstick Shane will be wearing, just a little, just enough to make him flustered.
Fishnets peeled carefully off strong, defined thighs later. The memory of glitter on skin. The quiet sounds Shane makes when he’s overwhelmed—in the good way.
Ilya’s mouth curves into a private smile.
His phone vibrates on the nightstand.
He freezes instantly.
Careful not to disturb Shane, he reaches for it with one hand, moving slow, watching Shane’s face the entire time. No stir. No wake. Just a soft exhale and a tighter curl into Ilya’s side.
The screen lights up.
Ring Camera: Motion Detected.
A small video preview shows their front step.
A box sits there, neat and unassuming.
Ilya’s smile returns, softer now, full of knowing.
Ilya watches the notification for half a second longer—then tosses his phone aside like it never mattered in the first place.
He shifts closer instead, tucking himself further into Shane’s warmth. Shane makes a small sound in his sleep but doesn’t wake, only curls in tighter. Ilya breathes him in slowly, grounding himself in the quiet intimacy of it—the clean linen of the sheets, crisp and cool, and underneath it all the faint scent of Shane’s shampoo. Vanilla and oak. Soft. Familiar. Never overpowering.
Perfectly Shane.
He studies him again, because he always does. The way his raven hair falls messily across his forehead. The freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks like constellations only Ilya bothers to map. His mouth relaxed, parted just slightly as he breathes. Ilya feels that familiar ache bloom in his chest—love so big it makes him still.
He lets himself drift back to sleep to the steady rhythm of Shane’s breathing.
When he wakes again, it’s hours later. Sunlight is stronger now, spilling across the bed. For a split second, Ilya panics—until he realizes Shane is still there. Just… awake.
Shane is sitting up against the headboard, glasses perched low on his nose, book balanced in one hand. A smoothie sits untouched on the nightstand, condensation sliding slowly down the glass. The delivery box is pushed far into the corner of the room like it’s been politely ignored.
Ilya groans softly, face smushing into the pillow as consciousness returns. He wakes fully to the feeling of Shane’s hand rubbing slow, absent circles over his back.
“Mmm,” Ilya complains, rolling onto his stomach, then turning over properly. The moment his eyes land on Shane—glasses, sleepy softness, utterly domestic—he smiles like he’s been punched with affection.
“You are very dangerous in glasses,” Ilya murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “Beautiful. But dangerous.”
Shane laughs, closing his book and tapping Ilya lightly on the head with it. “Behave.”
Ilya catches his wrist instantly, pouting exaggeratedly. “Gimme kiss.”
Shane shakes his head but he’s smiling, eyes still heavy with sleep as he leans down anyway. The kiss is slow and warm, Shane melting into him without thinking. When they break apart, Shane’s hand lingers, cradling the side of Ilya’s face, brushing his untamed curls back gently.
He studies Ilya for a quiet moment.
“The package from Rose came,” Shane says finally, amused but tired.
Ilya grins, unsurprised. “Da. I saw.”
“You did?” Shane asks, then exhales. “I opened it.”
“And?” Ilya prompts.
Shane launches immediately into a ramble. “There’s— there’s way too much stuff. I don’t even know what half of it is. Brushes and powders and sparkles and this very red lipstick and—”
Ilya leans in and kisses him swiftly, cutting him off mid-spiral.
Shane blinks.
“You will look beautiful,” Ilya says softly, accent thick with sincerity. Then, teasing again, “My little doll.”
Shane’s ears go pink. “I don’t even know how to do makeup.”
Ilya nods slowly, thinking. Then, quietly, “I can do it.”
Shane’s brows knit together. “What?”
“I can do it,” Ilya repeats.
There’s a pause. Then Ilya shifts, the humor draining gently from his expression. “I did my mother’s makeup,” he says softly. “For her funeral.”
Shane’s face softens instantly. He moves closer, pulling Ilya into him without a word.
“She was…her colour wasn’t right,” Ilya continues, voice steady but thin. “I watched her in mirror when I was little. Always careful. Always beautiful.” He swallows. “I thought I owed her that. Respect.”
He exhales a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, then forces a small smile. “She was beautiful without it, Shane. She was…”
His voice trails off.
Shane holds him there, steady and sure, thumb rubbing slow comfort into his back.
Ilya clears his throat, shifting the moment away before it can tip. “Svetlana taught me,” he adds lightly, grinning despite the emotion. “It is easy.”
But Shane can see it—the shine just barely held back.
Shane rubs slow, steady circles into Ilya’s back, grounding and sure, like he knows exactly where to touch without thinking about it. He leans in and kisses him softly—once at the corner of his mouth, then again at his temple.
Ilya exhales, shaky, and brings his hands up to cradle Shane’s face. Warm palms. Familiar weight. This, he thinks distantly, this is what keeps me here. Shane grounds him in a way nothing else ever has—quiet, constant, real.
They sit like that for a while, no rush. Ilya sniffles softly against Shane’s shoulder, not quite crying, not quite not. Shane pets his hair, fingers combing through dark curls in slow, soothing strokes, saying nothing because nothing is needed.
After a moment, Shane shifts just slightly. “I had a thought,” he says, careful.
Ilya stills, listening.
“It’s not in the movie, but, uh…” Shane rambles, scratching the back of his neck, eyes darting away before coming back. Ilya watches him with soft amusement, with awe—at the man in front of him, at this life, at the fact that happiness like this exists and somehow belongs to him.
“When I put the lipstick on,” Shane says, voice quieter now, “what if I kissed you right here—” he gestures vaguely, flustered, “—on your hip. So it leaves a stain.”
Ilya’s eyes go wide.
There’s no hesitation. He flips Shane onto his back in one smooth motion, straddling him easily, hands pinning Shane’s wrists against the pillows. Shane laughs, breathless and startled, eyes bright behind his glasses.
Ilya stares down at him, chest tight with feeling, a grin breaking through everything else.
“Fuck,” he says, raw and full. “I love you.”
A few days later, it’s Halloween.
The afternoon is grey and slow, the kind that presses gently against the windows. Shane and Ilya are tangled together on the sofa, a blanket thrown over them in a lazy heap while some old horror movie flickers on the TV. Shane has always been anxious watching these—jumpy, shoulders tight—but Ilya loves them. And Shane loves Ilya, so he endures, burrowing closer every time the music swells too sharply.
Ilya is happily eating candy, utterly fearless, fishing pieces out of a shared bowl and popping them into his mouth with zero concern. He offers one down to Shane, wiggling it temptingly.
“No,” Shane murmurs, face half-hidden in the blanket.
Ilya shrugs and eats it himself.
Shane’s head is resting in Ilya’s lap, blanket tucked just below his chin like he’s been carefully wrapped there. Ilya notices the way Shane is chewing gently on the blanket’s tag, absent-minded and soothing. A smile pulls at his mouth.
He threads his fingers through Shane’s hair, slow and rhythmic. Shane leans into the touch without a word, breathing evening out as the movie drones on. Ilya watches him more than the screen.
When the credits finally roll, Shane curls his legs up toward his chest, still on his side against Ilya. He mumbles, voice thick with comfort, “What time is it?”
Ilya leans down and kisses his temple. “Almost time,” he says softly. “We should start getting ready, yeah?”
Shane hums, melting further into him.
“You nervous?” Ilya asks gently.
Shane nods.
Ilya smiles, thumb brushing along Shane’s hairline. “You are very beautiful,” he says, accent a little heavier when he’s sincere. “This costume… it will drive me insane.”
Shane huffs a quiet laugh, eyes closed.
“I can’t wait to see how fabric hold you,” Ilya continues, voice warm and admiring. “How fishnets pull tight over your strong thighs. How corset fit your body.”
Then his tone shifts—softer, darker, playful.
“And later,” he murmurs, leaning close to Shane’s ear, “I can’t wait to take them off you.”
Shane shivers, smiling despite himself, and curls even closer as the room settles into quiet anticipation.
Later, Shane is perched on the edge of the bathroom sink, his legs dangling as makeup litters the counter—palettes cracked open, brushes fanned out, tubes rolling dangerously close to the edge. Rose’s doing, obviously. Ilya stands between Shane’s knees, rummaging through the chaos with intense focus, his tongue poking slightly out of the corner of his mouth.
He’s shirtless—of course he is—and Shane absolutely notices. His eyes track the flex of Ilya’s biceps as he twists open the cap of some mystery product, muscles shifting effortlessly beneath his skin. Shane doesn’t even try to look away.
Ilya glances up, catches him staring, and winks.
Shane groans immediately. “Jesus Christ, can we please just get this over with?”
Ilya laughs, shaking his head as he turns back to the counter. “No, no. I am master,” he declares proudly. “And you shall not rush me—especially when my canvas is already masterpiece.”
Shane groans again, heat rushing to his cheeks.
He isn’t sure how much time passes after that. Minutes blur together as Ilya works methodically, hands gentle but confident.
“Open eyes.”
Shane does.
“Turn head.”
He turns.
“Close eyes. Look up.”
Each instruction is followed by soft praise, murmured in Ilya’s accent. “Good. Such good boy.”
“Fuck off,” Shane mutters automatically, though there’s no real bite to it.
When Ilya finally pulls back, he presses a quick kiss to Shane’s cheek before lifting him effortlessly off the counter. Shane barely has time to protest before Ilya turns him toward the mirror, arms wrapping around his waist from behind, holding him tight.
Shane’s eyes widen.
He barely recognizes himself. He doesn’t look like him—and somehow, that makes him smile. He supposes that’s the whole point of Halloween.
Dark black eyeshadow frames his eyes, softened with silver shimmer that catches the light when he blinks. His lashes look longer, thicker. There’s a rosy warmth to his cheeks, and his lips—painted a deep, rich crimson—look almost sinful. Ilya hadn’t used foundation, adamant that covering Shane’s freckles would be a crime.
He looks different.
He doesn’t hate it.
Actually… he thinks he might look almost pretty.
Behind him, Ilya shifts nervously, bouncing just a little as he peers at Shane’s reflection. “So…?” he asks quietly. “What you think?”
Shane studies himself once more, then grins. “Are you sure you aren’t fully gay?” he says. “No bisexual man can do makeup this well.”
Ilya scoffs, grabbing Shane’s shoulders and giving them a playful shake before kissing his cheek. “Fuck you,” he says, grinning proudly. “I am master at makeup.”
Shane laughs, leaning back into him, feeling impossibly lucky.
The music drifts in faintly from Shane’s phone, muffled through the walls as they move into the bedroom, the rhythm low and pulsing like a promise. The lights are dimmer in here, warm and soft, and everything feels slower somehow—charged.
Ilya dresses first, tugging on the skimpy golden shorts with a grin that borders on smug. They cling to him shamelessly, catching the light every time he moves. He slips on the rest of his outfit with minimal effort before flopping backward onto the bed, laughing—careful, deliberately, to keep his shoes dangling off the edge.
Shane snorts from across the room. “I appreciate you not putting your shoes on the bed.”
Ilya props himself up on his elbows. “I know rules,” he says proudly.
“It’s still not fair,” Shane adds, crossing his arms. “You basically get to dress as yourself.”
Ilya hums, unapologetic. “I look good as myself.”
“And no underwear?” Shane asks, incredulous. “That was a choice.”
Ilya shrugs easily. “Lines would distract from outfit.”
Shane glares at him. “You’re already distracting.”
Ilya’s grin only widens.
Shane retreats into the ensuite before Ilya can say something worse. He starts with the fishnets, rolling them carefully up his legs, followed by the satin underwear and garters, hands steady despite the flutter in his chest. Last comes the corset. He slips it over himself, holding it in place against his chest as he steps back into the bedroom.
“Ilya?” he asks softly. “Can you tie this?”
Ilya is off the bed in an instant, expression shifting into something focused and gentle. He ties the corset swiftly, fingers practiced, making sure it’s snug without being tight. When he’s done, Shane nods, letting out a nervous laugh.
“Okay. Yeah. That’s good.”
Ilya’s hands slide over Shane’s clothed chest from behind, slow and grounding, before he pulls him back against himself. He holds him there, firm and warm, then turns them so they’re facing the mirror together.
Ilya presses a kiss to Shane’s neck. Shane flushes instantly, watching the way they look together in the reflection.
He squirms in Ilya’s arms. “We’re going to be late.”
Ilya barely moves. “Mm. Tragic.”
“Hayden’s going to lose his mind,” Shane insists.
Ilya smirks against his skin. “Good. He should not have planned party if he wanted people on time.”
Shane laughs despite himself, shaking his head as the music continues to hum around them.
Shane turns in Ilya’s arms and presses a soft kiss to his temple. He lingers there for a second, breathing him in, then pulls back just enough to take a steadying breath.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “Maybe we should… take some photos.”
Ilya raises an eyebrow, instantly suspicious and intrigued.
Shane’s mouth twists, nerves flickering across his face. “Hurry. Before I change my mind.”
That does it.
A few minutes later Shane’s phone is propped up on the dresser, self-timer blinking as they scramble into place, laughter spilling between them in hushed bursts.
One photo catches Ilya standing in the bedroom doorway, one arm stretched across the frame like he’s blocking the exit, golden shorts gleaming. Shane is half-hanging off him, arms wrapped around Ilya’s bicep, cheek pressed against his arm, grinning like he belongs there—because he does.
Another has them standing closer, Ilya in front, relaxed and smug, Shane tucked behind him. One of Shane’s hands curves around Ilya’s waist, fingers hooked just over the waistband of those ridiculous shorts. It’s intimate without trying, the kind of closeness that sneaks up on you.
Shane scrolls through them, cheeks warm, then sends both to Rose before he can overthink it.
Her response comes almost instantly.
A string of caps-locked messages. Far too many emojis. Several variations of ARE YOU KIDDING ME, YOU TWO, and I NEED YOU TO STOP BEING THIS HOT IMMEDIATELY.
Shane laughs, leaning into Ilya again, phone still buzzing in his hand as Rose continues to absolutely lose her mind over their costumes.
The door clicks shut behind them, the sound echoing softly through the quiet house. Shane fumbles with the lock, laughing under his breath as Ilya steadies him with a warm hand at his waist.
They must look wrecked.
Shane’s eyeliner is smudged beneath his eyes, dark and smoky in a way that feels earned rather than ruined. There’s lipstick smeared at the corner of Ilya’s mouth, another faint mark stamped into his cheek—undeniable evidence of a night well lived. They’re both a little giddy, a little buzzed, still humming with the afterglow of the party.
Shane shrugs one of Ilya’s leather jackets higher on his shoulders, the sleeves swallowing his hands. It smells like him—faint cologne, worn leather, something comforting underneath it all. He starts fidgeting with the hem of his corset, tugging at it absently, nerves and adrenaline finally settling.
Ilya notices immediately.
“Hey,” he murmurs, already crouching down in front of him. He works carefully at Shane’s shoes, fingers steady despite the alcohol, loosening laces with practiced ease. “Stand still, malysh.”
Shane tries. He really does. But he sways a little anyway, smiling down at him, jacket slipping lower down his arms as he watches Ilya focus. There’s something ridiculously intimate about it—Ilya on his knees, lipstick still on his face, hands gentle as he unties Shane’s shoes like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Party was… a lot,” Shane says softly, voice warm and loose.
Ilya huffs a quiet laugh, glancing up at him. “Mm. You survived.” His eyes flick briefly to the corset, to the jacket, to Shane’s smeared makeup. Pride blooms there, unmistakable. “More than survived.”
He finishes with the shoes, hands lingering just a second longer than necessary at Shane’s ankles before he straightens, rising slowly. Shane’s still tugging at the corset, twisting the fabric between his fingers, caught somewhere between overstimulated and safe.
Ilya reaches out, thumbs brushing over Shane’s hands, stilling them gently.
“Home now,” he says, low and reassuring. “You did so good.”
Shane nods, the movement small but sure, and lets himself be pulled fully into Ilya’s arms. He melts there, forehead pressing into Ilya’s shoulder, breath warm against his neck.
“Thank you,” Shane murmurs, a little thick with drink and emotion. “For… pushing me. I wouldn’t have done it without you.”
Ilya’s grip tightens just slightly, grounding. “Always,” he says simply, and guides them upstairs, one hand firm at Shane’s back like an anchor.
The bedroom light clicks on, soft and familiar. Ilya helps a buzzed Shane out of the leather jacket, then the rest—slow, careful, all patience. When the corset finally loosens and slides to the floor, Shane lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief.
“I’m free!” he giggles, flopping back onto the bed like he’s been released from captivity.
Ilya laughs, shaking his head fondly before disappearing into the bathroom. He comes back with the makeup remover wipes Rose had thoughtfully packed, already smirking.
Shane, meanwhile, is fully naked and absolutely losing a quiet battle with his pyjama pants, legs tangled, fabric half on, half off.
Ilya pauses in the doorway, lips pouting dramatically. “I was looking forward to taking tights off you,” he says, mock-offended.
“Another time,” Shane whines, reaching for him with grabby, pleading hands. “Please. I’m tired.”
Ilya softens instantly, leaning down to kiss Shane’s cheek. “Okay, okay.” He helps him the rest of the way, then strips out of his own costume, tugging on a pair of sweatpants before climbing onto the bed.
Shane visibly relaxes the second Ilya is close again.
Ilya swings a leg over him, straddling Shane’s hips, careful with his weight. He takes one of the wipes and starts slowly, deliberately, talking Shane through every step.
“Cold now,” he warns gently. “Just on cheek.”
Shane’s nose crinkles. “I don’t like it,” he complains, eyes squeezed shut.
“I know.” Ilya’s voice drops, soothing, steady. “You’re doing very good. Pretty boy.” The Russian curls warmly around the words.
Shane whines again, exhausted, but lets him continue. Ilya wipes away the dark liner, the shimmer, the blush, taking his time until Shane’s freckles reappear like constellations. He cleans his own face next, removing the lipstick, then tosses the wipes into the little garbage can by the nightstand.
When he settles beside Shane, Shane immediately curls into him, draping himself there like he belongs nowhere else.
“You’re so hot,” Shane mumbles, already half-asleep.
Ilya grins, kissing his temple. “Mm. Sleep.”
Shane is out almost instantly.
After a few minutes—once he’s sure Shane’s breathing has evened out—Ilya carefully reaches for his phone. He finds the photo Jackie took at the party: Ilya mid–push-up, gold shorts loud and gleaming, muscles flexed. Shane is sprawled across his back, legs crossed, head thrown back in laughter at something Hayden had said.
Ilya snorts softly, switching to his private account—the safe one. He types the caption, giggling quietly to himself.
in just seven days, I can make you a man.
Perfect.
He tosses the phone aside, snuggling closer to Shane, listening to his heartbeat and steady breaths.
Full of affection, pride, and something warm and settled in his chest, Ilya closes his eyes and drifts to sleep.