Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ilya stared at the beast. The beast stared back. A stripe of clean, sterile light lit it from the side, illuminating the oil-slick contours of its chitinous back. Its antennae — which was long, longer than any appendage ought to have been for a creature of its size — twitched, and Ilya flinched back from it, nearly fumbling the ice-cold can of Coke he had palmed from the fridge, mere moments before.

"SHANE," Ilya yelled, looking desperately down the dark hallway that led to their bedroom. It was pitch black outside the cottage — the kind of darkness that swallowed all light, that made the forest and lake beyond the windows featureless and forboding. "SHANE."

Shane was in the shower. Ilya could hear the sound of water falling, muffled through the walls. Shane was in the shower, even though it was well past his usual eight PM shower time, because Ilya had cornered him halfway out of his first shower and wordlessly taken Shane's cock in his mouth. Things had escalated as they usually did from there. Penis, hole; tears, sweat — Ilya had never once though of sex with Shane as something that could be boring, but there was something so enticing about the routine. It was a depressingly domesticated thought, sometimes. That there was comfort in knowing that curling his tongue around Shane's nipple like so would result in some variation of a beautiful, shuddering moan.

But that was the nature of love, Ilya supposed. It alchemized you. It also, supposedly, meant not being alone. Which Ilya was discovering he very much was; alone downstairs, while Shane showered obliviously above, uncaring of his predicament.

There was only one course of action left. Keeping a careful eye on the creature, still lounging atop one of Shane's dark granite countertops, Ilya slid his phone from his shorts pocket.

He heard Shane's ringtone, almost embarrassingly loud through the floorboards. Ilya waited, hands clammy around his phone, his attention split. From upstairs, there was a hollow thud, and muffled clattering — and then Shane, taking the steps two at a time, a towel half-secured around his waist, and shampoo still sudsy in his hair.

"What?" Shane asked, breathless. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Ilya pointed, wordlessly, at the thing by the sink. He had stuck his Coke can underneath one armpit — to avoid dropping it and causing a small, localized explosion in the middle of Shane's kitchen — and his skin was staring to pebble and pinken from the chill.

Shane's head whipped around. He was stunning in profile, Ilya thought. The light from the refrigerator — which was still open, and putting off more cold air — limned Shane's features in that selfsame cold light, casting each and every one of his expressions into stark, unrelenting relief.

Ilya watched the light play across his boyfriend's face as it shifted from tight concern to confusion, then settled into a sort of half-exasperated disbelief.

Shane looked back at Ilya. He had one hand tight around the edges of his towel. It was a thoughtful, if not wholly useless, gesture, Ilya thought. What was the point of covering up? Ilya had seen everything below the belt so many times he'd lost count. And it wasn't as though they had been particularly circumspect about the automatic blinds Shane had tried to use at the very beginning of their time in the cottage.

"Are you kidding me?" Shane asked. "You sent me 911 for a cockroach?"

Ilya goggled at him. "I am sorry," he said, slowly, "but you do see it, yes?" He flung his free arm out toward the bug — which was larger than a bug had any business being — which was currently in the process of cleaning its fucking face with its ugly, spindly legs. "It is huge, Shane."

"It's a cockroach, Ilya," Shane said. He tucked his towel tighter around his waist. There was a small puddle of water forming by his feet. "It's not even that big."

"Not big?"

"Oh my God."

"NOT BIG?"

Shane rolled his eyes. There was a wide smile playing across his lips. It was incredibly handsome, but Ilya did not appreciate it. "Ilya," Shane started.

"That thing," Ilya jabbed a finger toward the sink for emphasis, "is longer than a finger. What do you mean, it is not even that big? Bozhe moy, there are some fucking — what are they — rats, there are some rats smaller than that fucking monster."

Shane stared at him, distinctly unimpressed. His gaze skittered over to where the roach sat, innocently still — as though it were a housepet and not a harbinger of plague. Shane looked back at Ilya, a single eyebrow raised. Are you done? His expression was asking.

Ilya scoffed. "There is something wrong with Canada. First you have birds that sound like fucking wolf, and now you have cockroach the size of a rat." He shook his head. "Is this an American thing? Everything is bigger?"

"We're in Canada," Shane said.

"North America is America. You are all on the American land." Ilya waved a hand at him. "Do not distract me."

"That's pretty reductive, Ilya—"

"Shane." Ilya gestured toward the cockroach. "No more Wheel of Fortune words. Please. I will beg, you know this, but the — the — that. Kill it. Set the house on fire. I don't know. I just need—BLYAT!"

As if sensing something — murderous intent, malice, or maybe fear — the cockroach's smooth back split open, and it flew, launching itself in a perfect arc, toward Ilya.

Ilya could barely remember moving. The world went staticky at the edges, blurred and impermanent in that way it went when Ilya was laid out on the ice. He must have moved, though, because by the time he came back to himself, Shane had a hand flat on his back, and his Coke was on the floor, the soda fizzing as it pooled in an ink-dark puddle.

The cockroach was hovering, buzzing, above Shane's perfectly staged island; a drone, circling the bowl of fruit. It was plastic, according to Shane. Ilya wondered if the cockroach knew that. What did cockroaches even eat, anyway? Maybe plastic was a part of their diet — the secret to their unkillability.

Shane was staring, irritated, at the soda on his wood floors. "Are you kidding me," he said, tone flat. "Ilya. It's a bug. You're like, I don't know, a hundred times its size! It's probably more scared of you than you are of it!"

Ilya shook his head. "No. No, that is not true. That is a lie. That is blaytin — blahtent — whatever, that is total fucking lie. Look at that!" In Russian, the words tumbling from him, he said, "that thing is a fucking demon. It's not right. What the fuck is wrong with it? Why the ever-loving fuck does it — oh my God — why does it fly?!" He flinched as it listed closer.

"Some of them do that," Shane said, as though that was any fucking explanation at all. They watched, together, as it landed atop Shane's plastic banana — then sat there, like the world's largest, ugliest brown spot. "This is ridiculous. You're being ridiculous."

"You're ridiculous," Ilya muttered, mutinously. He yelped as Shane shoved him, nearly stumbling into the still-hissing puddle of Coke. "Hey!"

"Baby."

Ilya shot him a wounded look. "Shane," he said, gesturing wordlessly at the cockroach, which had begun to run one spindly leg over what Ilya hoped was his face.

Shane looked at him for a moment, lips pursed in that way that meant he was fighting back a smile. "You have got to be kidding me." Shane clapped a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking as he quietly laughed. "Big bad Ilya Rozanov, taken down by a tiny cockroach."

"You are laughing. I am here, begging you to please take care of the invader in our home, and you are laughing—"

"—Again, it's a bug—"

"—your boyfriend is asking you in a moment of weakness—"

"So you admit you're being a bit of a baby about this?" Shane asked.

"If it will get you to finally take care of it, fine, yes, whatever!" Ilya gestured, gingerly, toward the bug. He kept his elbows tucked to his chest, half-afraid that a more violent movement would send the roach into the air again — and maybe further into the cottage. And then where would they be? Ilya imagined, horrified, waking up to the roach on the nighstand — or worse, on his face. "I am being a big baby. Wah wah. Please kill the fucking bug."

"Okay, fine," Shane said. "Can you go get me a cup? I'm gonna grab some paper from the office."

"I said kill it," Ilya said, inching closer to Shane. "Kill! Not — not catch and release! What if it comes back?"

Shane was already walking out of the kitchen. "Then I'll put it outside again, okay?" He looked at Ilya over his shoulder. "They don't even live that long. Most only live for a year at most."

"A fucking year?"

"Go and find me a cup, Ilya," Shane called from deeper within the cottage. "Not one of the nice ones!"

Ilya, who had slunk around the island and the soda spill, flung open the nearest cabinet, eyeing the cobalt blue glasses atop the highest shelf.

"That means the blue glasses!"

Ilya grabbed one of the few plastic sports cups cluttering the drying rack by the sink. It had the Centaurs' god-awful logo emblazoned on the front — the ugly mascot reared up on its hind legs, a stick brandished in front of it like a sword.

Protect us from evil, Ilya told it, silently, and settled against the countertop to watch the cockroach and wait for Shane to return.

It only took a moment before Shane was rounding the corner again, a sheet of printer paper in hand. "Okay," he said, holding a hand out for the cup. "This is gonna be a bit harder without a flat surface, but I think we'll be okay."

Ilya waved, wordlessly, toward the bowl of fake fruit. Go on.

Shane rolled his eyes. He trotted off to do battle, his weapons of choice in hand. Ilya wondered if it said something particularly awful about him that he was hoping — praying, fervently — that some sort of incident would happen, and force Shane to kill the godless thing.

But if there was a God, he didn't seem to care about what Ilya wanted. Instead, Ilya watched as Shane plonked the cup down over the fake banana, roach and all, and then flipped it over in a single, smooth motion.

He placed the paper atop the cup and shook it, sharp and decisive. The cockroach tumbled off the banana, landing at the very bottom on its back, little legs wriggling helplessly in the air. Ilya watched it, satisfied, but just barely.

"Can you open the sliding doors for me?" Shane asked. He was holding the cup flat in the palm of one hand, the other braced atop the paper covering the mouth of it, preventing any hope of escape.

"Okay," Ilya said. He gave Shane a wide berth, anyway.

The wilderness just outside was far from quiet. Opening the door let in a rush of warm, balmy air and the soft sounds of the night: cicadas and crickets, bullfrogs singing by the shore, and the quiet movement of the trees and water, that hushed susuru of the leaves swaying in the breeze, and the lake lapping up at the rocks that framed it.

Ilya watched as Shane stepped out onto the deck. The automatic lights flickered to life, just a step behind him. The warmth of them made Shane's skin glow, tanned bronze from almost two straight weeks in the sun and still damp from his interrupted shower.

"What did you even do about bugs in Boston?" Shane asked. He crouched low, ass straining against the towel. "Oh-kay…out we go, buddy, go home…" He was fucking speaking to it. Ilya wanted to scream.

"No bugs," Ilya said.

"Seriously?" Shane asked. There was a dull, rattling sound as he shook the cup. "What, you're telling me you never had to deal with a cockroach in Boston?"

"No." That was the whole point of having fuck-off amounts of money, wasn’t it? You could buy flashy sports cars and designer sweatpants without batting an eye at the price. And you could also afford to live in places that cockroaches couldn’t get into.

Unless, Ilya thought, staring at the muscled slope of Shane’s back, you were Shane Fucking Hollander, and deliberately sought out places where the infernal beasts were. He imagined them flocking to Shane; like the cockroaches were butterflies, and Shane, some stupid Canadian cartoon princess.

“Man. You are so lucky you didn’t end up with the Admirals, you know that, right?” Shane said, because he was an asshole. He turned around, his task done, and stepped past Ilya back into the cottage, sliding the door shut behind him. “I mean. I heard they’re like twice the size out there. And they’re everywhere. Can’t escape ‘em.”

“No.”

“Oh yeah.” Shane nodded. “Hayden and I found one in our hotel room in what…2013? 2014? It was like, this big.” He held two fingers apart, the space between them horrifying.

“No.” Ilya shook his head. “Fuck New York City,” he said. “The cockroaches can eat Scott Hunter, for all I care. Maybe it would be a mercy kill.”

Shane rolled his eyes again. One day, the wind would blow the wrong way, and his eyes would be stuck like that. And then Ilya would laugh — just to see how he liked being on the other end.

"Okay," Shane said. "You big baby." He locked the sliding door shut behind him. His hair, Ilya noticed, had already begun to dry. It suck up in odd places — like the spikes on a hedgehog's back.

Ilya ran a hand over Shane's head. It was damp, the hair soft and soapy. "You did not finish."

"Showering?" Shane shrugged. "I mean — you texted 911. I kind of assumed it was serious." He shot Ilya a dirty look. "If you text me 911 over a bug again when I'm showering, I'm letting it eat you. Just saying."

"I am too big for a bug to eat," Ilya insisted. "Not like Scott Hunter, who is a feeble old man."

"Uh huh. I'm sure," Shane said. "At least Scott Hunter can handle a cockroach without screaming like a bitch."

"Hey!" Ilya prodded him in the stomach, just to hear Shane giggle. "Take that back."

Shane began to back away, shuffling back toward the stairs. "No, I don't think I will…"

"Shane," Ilya said, warningly.

Shane grinned at him. "Ilya." He placed one foot on the stairs, bracing himself against the banister. The automatic light flickered on above his head, limning him with a warm glow.

"Take it back," Ilya repeated. He took a step forward. Shane, still smiling, his lower lip half-bitten in that way that meant he was holding back a laugh.

Shane tensed. "Make me," he said, and then took off — as if hearing some imaginary horn — sprinting recklessly for the bedroom.

Ilya laughed, giddy with it, the emotion swelling warm in his chest. "You will regret that!" He yelled, and chased after him, taking two steps at a time, before skidding sideways into their room.

Shane was a silhouette behind the frosted glass. Ilya could make out the shape of him — the vague colors of him, warm skin turned dark in the summer sun — but it had nothing on the sight of Shane, naked and freckled, beaming brightly at him against the dark tile.

"Hi," Shane said. "Can I help you with something?"

Ilya stepped out of his boxers, and into the shower. "I think you can." He took a step forward. Shane leaned back.

"Really? With what?" Shane asked, breathless. There was a sweet flush, high in the apples of his cheeks. Ilya wanted to bite them.

"Well, I have this little problem," Ilya drawled, bullying his way into Shane's space.

"Another bug?" Shane interrupted. There was a mean little gleam in his eyes.

Ilya groaned. "Shane!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Shane snorted, his laughter pitching up into a hiccuping shriek as Ilya leant in and nipped punishingly at the long column of his throat. "Ilya," he moaned.

"You will be sorry for that," Ilya promised, the words muffled as he leant in for a kiss.

Shane smiled into it. "Make me," he murmured.

"Don't worry," Ilya said. "I will."

He reached over amd flicked on the waterfall head. They had very little to say to one another after that.