Chapter Text
Everything is wrong.
Shane stands at the head of the long chapel table, hands braced against polished wood, staring in mute horror as Katya Rozanov, his soon-to-be husband’s great-grandmother, terror of empires and family matriarchs alike, lifts yet another length of teal fabric and holds it directly beneath his chin like an accusation.
“See?” Katya says brightly, already pairing it with a slice of sky blue. “Like ocean, yes? Very romantic.”
Shane feels something inside him fracture. His jaw tightens. His fingers curl into his hair, tugging just hard enough to hurt. He resists the very real urge to growl at a woman old enough to have buried three husbands and still walk away victorious. Teal, sky blue, together, in public.
Around them, six other relatives chatter at once; voices overlapping, hands flying, opinions multiplying like bacteria. Seating arrangements are debated with military precision. Flowers are rejected, revived, and rejected again. Someone mentions flying doves, and Shane nearly sees his life flash before his eyes, flying doves.
He clenches his teeth so hard his jaw aches. These people are about to be his family, he reminds himself, repeating it like a mantra. He should listen. He should compromise. He should be grateful. But there’s absolutely no universe in which he walks down an aisle while dodging bird shit.
Katya waves the fabric again, hopeful. Shane exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, the way he does when customers at the restaurant snap their fingers at him like he’s a dog. His head is already pounding. The numbers won’t stop cycling in his mind; chapel rental, banquet hall, flowers, catering. Every figure stacks on top of the next until his skull feels too small to contain them.
His parents can’t help. He knows that. He hasn’t said it out loud, but it hangs over him like a quiet, shameful truth. This wedding, this whole life, is being funded by Ilya. That fact needles him more than he wants to admit.
Shane pays the apartment bills. He insists on it. He works double shifts, comes home smelling like grease and stale coffee, feet aching, hands raw. But Ilya still makes more. Ilya always makes more. Sometimes Shane feels like a child playing house beside a man who has already mastered the game. He hates that feeling.
Katya lowers the fabric at last, her sharp green eyes softening as they land on his face. She studies him the way generals study battlefields—thoroughly, without illusion. Her dark blonde curls are perfectly tousled, her posture unyielding even seated. Age has done nothing to dull her; it has only sharpened her.
“Moy khoroshiy mal’chik, Shane,” she says, impatience threading through affection. “What is it that you want?” Her accent thickens around the words.
The room quiets.
Shane straightens. “Not that,” he snaps, pointing viciously at the offending teal. “We’ve been through five already. It’s awful.”
Katya’s brows lift. “Red, then. Red is powerful. Strong. With top hats—”
“No top hats,” Shane cuts in sharply. “Absolutely not.”
Katya clicks her tongue. Irina inhales like she’s about to jump into traffic.
“I don’t want my wedding to be a joke,” Shane says, voice tight, controlled but fraying. “I want it simple. Clean. Not…whatever this circus is.”
“But Shane,” Irina says carefully, already bracing. “The groomsmen liked it. Ilya liked it.”
Shane’s glare snaps to her so fast it’s almost physical. If she weren’t Ilya’s mother, if she weren’t sitting there with her hands folded and that measured look on her face, he would say something unforgivable. “No,” he says instead, clipped. “Marleau and Connors were joking. They joke about everything. That doesn’t mean I’m letting them dress like rejected magicians at my wedding.”
A collective sigh ripples around the table. Someone mutters something in Russian. Shane doesn’t care. The colors are wrong. Too out there. Too random. The flowers look like they belong in a bridal magazine meant for women with Pinterest boards and lace fantasies. He isn’t a woman.
He rubs his temple, again, the ache blooming behind his eye. He knows he’s being difficult. He knows he’s being stubborn. But this, this matters. He wants something masculine. Grounded. Something that doesn’t feel like he’s being swallowed whole by someone else’s idea of romance.
“Break,” Shane says suddenly, pushing back from the table. “I need a break.” Before anyone can protest, he’s already standing, chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. He doesn’t look back. He just heads for the door, chest tight, pulse racing, determined to find Ilya before this whole thing spirals completely out of control.
He stalks down the narrow stone corridor, shoes striking the floor with clipped, angry precision, and somewhere between the chapel doors and the flickering votive candles, the thought creeps in uninvited: What if this is a mistake? The idea lodges itself in his chest, sharp and unwelcome. He’s too young. This is too fast. Six months until the wedding. Six months until his name became Shane Hollander-Rozanov.
He mutters a curse under his breath and pivots toward the kitchen, already picturing Ilya exactly where he knows he’ll be: leaning too close, smiling too slowly, charming the absolute hell out of someone who absolutely does not need to be charmed.
The last six weeks have worn him thin. This wedding is supposed to be theirs, his, but somehow it’s turned into a full-scale family summit. Eight aunts. Cousins he can’t keep straight. Traditions he can’t pronounce. Opinions on everything from flowers to forks, all because it isn’t Russian enough, isn’t old-world enough, isn’t soaked in enough ceremony and symbolism and gravitas. They want rituals. Prosit’ ruki i serdtsa u kogo-libo. Formal permission. Blessings. Performances.
Ilya asked Shane’s parents for his hand like they were living in a different century. Put a diamond ring on his finger so heavy it feels welded there, a constant reminder that he’s already halfway in. And since that proposal, the floodgates have opened; ideas, expectations, plans delivered with love and insistence in equal measure. He hasn’t said no. Not really. He never does. But now he’s furious.
He reaches the kitchen just in time to see Ilya, infuriatingly perfect, mid-conversation with the chef, speaking in his native tongue like he’s reciting poetry instead of discussing dumplings.
Tailored black suit, open collar, his hair artfully messy. “Hmm,” Ilya hums, low and pleased. “Pel’meni s sochnym myasnym farshem i lukom budut prosto voskhititel’ny—”
“Ilya.” Shane’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. “I need to speak with you. Alone.”
Ilya turns, smiling automatically, already softening. “Moya lyubov’. One second, we’re almost finished discussing—”
“Now,” Shane snaps. No patience. He doesn’t wait. He turns on his heel and heads for an empty side room, hands already shaking with the effort of holding himself together. Behind him, he hears Ilya apologize, voice warm and apologetic, and the sound only winds him tighter.
Ilya joins him moments later, closing the door gently. “Shane, what is wrong? You know we only have limited time—”
“Exactly!” Shane explodes, spinning to face him. “Limited time because this is rushed. Because we’re drowning in everyone else’s opinions.”
Ilya blinks. “What are you talking about?”
“Your family,” Shane snarls, dragging both hands through his hair. “They are driving me insane. Nothing is right. The colors are wrong. The flowers are wrong. And tuxes with tails? Are you kidding me? We’re going to look like fucking penguins.” His voice cracks, and that’s what really pisses him off. Tears blur his vision before he can stop them. “I hate it,” he says again, weaker now. “I hate all of it.”
Ilya’s there instantly, hands closing around his wrists, grounding him. “Shh. Hey. Calm down.”
Shane’s breath stutters.
“You love me,” Ilya says softly. Not a question.
Shane nods.
“Then you’ll marry me in a potato sack.”
Despite himself, Shane wrinkles his nose. Ilya laughs, low and delighted, and some of the pressure finally eases.
“I just want it to be perfect,” Shane says, wiping at his cheeks. “I love that they care. I do. But I need some control. I need it to feel like me.”
“Come here,” Ilya murmurs, pulling him into a tight embrace. “Moy krasivyy mal’chik. I’ll handle them. I don’t like that you’re upset.”
Shane exhales against his chest. “It’s not their fault. I’m just...overreacting. Classic autistic behavior.”
“My autistic baby,” Ilya says, and kisses him firmly.
Shane melts into it, arms sliding up around Ilya’s neck, savoring the solid warmth of him. The kiss deepens, heat sparking, until Shane’s backed against the wall and fully aware of how intentional this escalation is. He lets out a soft sound – half laugh, half gasp – right before Ilya smacks his ass.
Shane yelps, eyes flying open.
Ilya grins. “Later,” he says. “I promise. But we do still have a wedding to plan.”
Shane groans. “You’re doing that on purpose.”
“Obviously.”
They’re still staring at each other when Ilya’s phone rings. He swears quietly, checking the screen. “Fuck. Work,” he says. “I might have to leave.”
“Now?” Shane protests. “You can’t just leave. I need you here.”
“I know,” Ilya says quickly. “Pozhaluysta. Prosti menya. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He grabs Shane’s hand, kisses his knuckles. “Keep things…hard for me.”
Shane yanks his hand back and shoves him lightly. “Just go.”
“YA tebya lyublyu,” Ilya says, already moving toward the door.
“Love you too,” Shane calls after him.
When the door shuts, Shane wipes the last of the tears from his face and exhales. He trusts Ilya. Completely. And yet, that familiar knot twists low in his gut; the secrecy, the work he’s never allowed to see, the things left unsaid. He shakes it off. There are bigger problems to deal with.
Like his big, loud, impossibly complicated, gay Asian-Russian-Canadian wedding.