Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Between 3E and 3F
Harry's POV
Harry locks the door of his flat twice, even though he knows he’s already checked it. The hallway smells faintly of damp stone and someone else’s cooking, and the stairs creak under his trainers as he takes them two at a time.
Edinburgh mornings always feel like this to him - grey but gentle, like the city is half-awake and doesn’t mind if you are too.
He moved here because he fell in love with the city. The history, the way the castle looms over everything like it’s keeping watch, the quiet pride of the place.
He tells people that when they ask. He doesn’t tell them that sometimes, especially on mornings like this, the city feels a little too quiet. That the beauty can feel lonely.
The bus to the airport is nearly empty. Harry sits by the window, his backpack between his feet, phone already in his hand.
He watches the streets slide past, the familiar shops and cafés, the spires and old stone buildings that still make his chest ache a little when he looks at them.
He likes his life here. He really does. His job at Edinburgh Castle is steady, grounding. He likes answering tourists’ questions, likes watching their faces when they step into the great hall for the first time. There’s something comforting about being surrounded by history every day, by stories that have already been told and survived anyway.
Still, London pulls at him.
Niall is there, not in Edinburgh. And so are the others, scattered now - Manchester, Leeds, Brighton, places that feel too far away for how close they used to be.
Group chats help, voice notes help, but they’re not the same as sitting on a sofa together, sharing chips and talking nonsense until far too late.
Harry opens his notes app without really thinking about it. The document at the top of the list is one he’s been living in lately. Hollanov. Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander. A story that pulled him in, especially now, when he’s starting to understand that the feeling he’d carried for years wasn’t wrong at all. It was just unnamed. Unacknowledged.
He is currently writing a slow burn that started as a distraction and turned into something he pours himself into every night. It’s easier to write about longing when it isn’t yours, he tells himself. Easier to give it to someone else.
He scrolls through what he wrote last night.
▣✦▣
Shane steps onto the train, eyes sweeping across the carriage with practised ease.
He’s not looking for anyone. Obviously.
He’s just taking things in, getting his bearings, killing time until his stop. Like he does everyday. It's one of his routines. Routines, that he needs.
And then he sees him.
His personal sunshine.
Shane’s lips twitch into a smirk before he can stop it.
Ilya actually came. On a Sunday. Shane knows for a fact that his sun never takes the train on Sundays, which can only mean one thing - he came all the way out of the city just to be here.
That’s… well. That’s a hell of a compliment.
Shane doesn’t acknowledge it. Of course he doesn’t. He never makes things easy.
Instead of saying anything, he lets his gaze linger for a moment too long, offers a slow, teasing smile, and then takes the empty seat across from him, deliberately casual. The ball is in Ilya’s court now.
But - just like always - Ilya only looks back at him, eyes bright, mouth soft with a smile that never quite turns into action.
Shane resists the urge to sigh. After last night, he’d honestly expected more. Something different. Something that went beyond stolen glances and quiet, loaded moments.
The train rattles on, the space between them heavy but untouched. Shane can practically feel it, the tension humming under his skin.
Is this really how it’s going to be?
The train slows. The doors are about to open when movement finally catches his eye.
Ilya steps forward, closing the distance between them. His cheeks are flushed, his shoulders set like he’s bracing himself for impact. Before Shane can even register what’s happening, Ilya is standing right in front of him, hand extended.
“Hi,” he says. “I’m Ilya.”
The russian accent wraps around the words, soft but unmistakable, rolling the vowels just enough to make Shane’s pulse stutter.
“I take this train every day,” Ilya continues, voice steady despite the nerves shining clearly in his eyes, “just because of you. I think you’re beautiful. And I want to get to know you.” A brief pause, a sharp breath. “I hope you feel the same way. Otherwise, this will be very awkward.”
His mouth quirks, nervous and hopeful all at once. “Would you go on a date with me?”
Shane’s mouth actually falls open.
That was… not what he expected.
And of course, the timing is absolute shit, because the doors slide open behind him with a soft chime. His stop.
“I-” Shane gestures vaguely toward the platform, heart sinking as he steps back. “I’m sorry. I have to -”
He steps off the train, already cursing the universe for its sense of humour.
Then, before the moment can slip away completely, Ilya follows.
Shane turns, surprise flickering across his face before it settles back into something warm and crooked. He reaches out, finally taking the still-offered hand.
“I’m Shane,” he says, shaking it firmly. “And yeah. I noticed you too.” His thumb brushes briefly over Ilya’s knuckles, intentional. “It’s always a good day when you’re on the train.”
He doesn’t answer the question about the date on purpose.
It was cute, sure, but also… unnecessary. Because dates?
Shane doesn’t do dates. And even if he did, he doesn’t have time for them.
▣✦▣
He tweaks a sentence or two, satisfied with most of it, then closes it again.
Maybe he can add a bit at the airport later. On the plane definitely.
︵‿︵‿🗺️⁀જ✈︎‿︵‿︵
By the time he gets to security, he’s already buzzing with that familiar mix of nerves and excitement.
He likes airports more than he’ll ever admit out loud. The movement, the anonymity, the feeling that something might happen just because you’re passing through.
Boarding is, as always, a mess.
People stand up far too early, block the aisle, argue softly about seat numbers.
Harry ends up near the front without really trying, and when priority is called, he’s one of the first down the jet bridge.
The plane smells like recycled air and cheap coffee. He finds his seat easily - 3F, window - and slides into it, stowing his bag under the seat in front. He presses his forehead briefly to the cool glass, watching the ground crew move below.
His phone buzzes.
Niall
You on yet?
Harry grins and types back.
Harry
Yeah. Absolute chaos though. Nearly got taken out by a woman with a wheelie case.
He sends it, then adds another message.
Harry
If I don’t make it to London, avenge me.
He settles back, stretching his legs out as much as the space allows. He likes window seats. Likes having something to look at when he doesn’t know where to put his hands.
People start filing past, voices overlapping, the soft thud of bags being shoved into overhead lockers. Harry half-watches, half-dozes, his thoughts drifting between London plans and unfinished scenes in his fic.
Then he looks up.
It’s involuntary, the way his attention snaps into place, like something in him has been tugged sharply on a string.
The man is standing at the front door, laughing at something someone says beside him. The sound is bright and unguarded, and it does something strange to Harry’s chest.
He’s beautiful in a way that feels unfair - dark hair pushed back messily, sharp lines softened by the smile that won’t seem to leave his face.
There’s confidence there, easy and natural, like he knows exactly how much space he’s allowed to take up and takes it without apology.
Harry feels it immediately. The heat. The awareness.
His heart starts beating faster, loud enough that he’s briefly convinced it must be visible.
The man turns slightly, still smiling, and for half a second their eyes meet.
It’s nothing. Barely a moment. And yet Harry’s stomach flips, a rush of something warm and dizzy spreading through him. He looks away too quickly, his ears burning, suddenly very aware of his own posture, his clothes, the way his hands are resting uselessly in his lap.
Get a grip, he tells himself.
He pretends to be very invested in his phone, even though he’s not reading anything. He can feel the man getting closer, the presence of him registering before he’s even properly there.
A bag rustles overhead.
There’s the faint scent of something clean and warm - aftershave, maybe.
Harry risks another glance.
The man is right there now, close enough that Harry can see the faint crease at the corner of his eyes, the way his mouth curves when he’s not laughing but still smiling. He looks even better up close, which feels deeply unfair and slightly rude.
The man stops.
Right at Harry’s row.
Harry’s breath catches.
The backpack is lifted smoothly into the overhead locker. The aisle clears. And then, without hesitation, the man turns and drops into the seat beside him.
3E.
Right next to him.
And shit.
Harry freezes, every muscle in his body suddenly very aware of itself. The stranger shifts in his seat, all casual confidence, and then reaches up to pull his jumper over his head like this is the most normal thing in the world.
And just to make that clear: It is not.
Harry stares. He can’t help it.
The movement reveals toned arms, warm skin, and - oh. Tattoos. Ink winding along his forearm, disappearing beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt. Black lines and shapes that look deliberate, lived-in, like they belong exactly where they are.
Harry swallows.
He is absolutely not turned on by that. Not even a little bit. He is a grown man on a commercial flight, not - no. Absolutely not.
His phone is in his hand before he really registers picking it up.
Harry
The guy next to me is fucking hot. Oh my God
He types fast, thumbs flying, heart still racing.
The stranger shifts again, elbow brushing far too close to Harry’s side. Harry goes rigid, then forces himself to relax, staring straight ahead like his life depends on it.
His phone buzzes.
Niall
Slip him your number
Harry lets out a silent, hysterical laugh and angles his body away, turning slightly towards the window so the man beside him can’t possibly see his screen.
Harry
Nooo! I could never do that
Harry
And now I sit very strangely just to make sure he can’t see that I talked about him 😂
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the stranger glance down briefly, then back up again, completely oblivious. Thank God.
Another buzz.
Niall
Yeah, I wouldn’t either 🤣🤣🤣
Harry risks a look. The man’s arm is resting on the armrest between them, muscles relaxed, tattoos fully on display. Harry’s brain short-circuits for a second.
He types again, slower now.
Harry
I just enjoy his muscles next to me
Then, he notices something else and to distract himself from his body's reaction, he types out another message.
Harry
He also smells good btw.
The stranger looks at him for a second and Harry feels himself blush.
Harry
Aaaand I need to stop now… That’s risky
It’s true. But now he has nothing to distract himself from the man next to him. His ruffled hair, his tattoos, his fucking arms and his scent.
The scent is subtle but distracting - something clean, warm, slightly spicy. It makes Harry’s head feel fuzzy in a way he very much does not need right now.
The phone vibrates almost immediately.
Niall
Maybe that’s the inspiration you need to write 😜
Niall
Or he could be a quick airplane fling
Harry bites his lip, suppressing a grin.
Harry
The things I want to do to him aren’t really quick 🤣 would be a shame
It's rich coming from him. From someone who has zero real-life experience and even feels like an imposter while writing smut. But that's not the point here, is it?
Nothing will ever come off this so it's safe. Just like his stories. Just in his head.
And his fantasies with this man would be more than just a quick fling right here. He would love to take his time, devour this man's body. Oh God, he really has to stop. No thinking anymore, Harry decides. Or this will end with a very embarrassing public boner.
Harry locks his phone and shoves it into his pocket, heart still hammering. He stares out of the window, watching the ground crew move below, trying very hard to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
Beside him, the stranger shifts again, close enough that Harry can feel the warmth of him through the thin barrier of fabric.
Harry thinks, distantly, that this flight might be the longest one of his life.
Just when Harry decides to just close his eyes, the stranger beside him reaches for his phone.
Harry doesn’t mean to look. He really doesn’t. He keeps his gaze fixed firmly out of the window, jaw tight, determination set.
Then the screen lights up.
And Harry’s eyes betray him immediately.
At the very top of the screen, above an app he doesn’t recognise, there’s a name.
Louis.
Harry’s chest gives a small, stupid flutter.
Louis. It fits. It sounds like the sort of name that belongs to someone who laughs easily and takes up space without asking permission.
Someone with tattoos and warm-smelling skin and an alarming effect on strangers sitting in seat 3F.
He swallows and tells himself to look away.
He doesn’t.
Louis opens a group chat, thumbs moving quickly, confidence bleeding even into the way he types. The chat name is bold and impossible to miss.
London boy’s trip
Harry winces and immediately feels guilty, but that doesn’t stop him from reading. The messages scroll by easily, big enough that it’s impossible not to see them.
Oli
Tell me you’re not already flirting with people
Zayn
He’s absolutely already flirting. Louis will get laid first on that trip.
Liam
Lads. It’s a boy’s trip. Emphasis on boys.
Louis lets out a soft chuckle, barely audible, and Harry’s stomach flips at the sound.
Louis types back.
Louis
So I can hook up with whoever I want. Great. Thanks for that.
Louis
I’m sorry for you though. Girls are against the rules
Harry blinks.
Oh.
So Louis is into men.
Interesting.
Not important. Not at all. Just a fact. A completely neutral, irrelevant fact that definitely doesn’t make Harry’s pulse jump or his thoughts spiral in entirely wrong directions.
He forces his eyes back to the window.
They drift back down again almost immediately.
More messages pop up.
Zayn
He’s going to come back married
Oli
Or arrested
Liam
Or both
Oli
Or no! Tommo falls in love and stays in London, leaving his friends behind for some stripper.
Louis snorts this time, shaking his head as he types.
So Tommo seems to be a strange nickname for him then.
Louis
Rude. I don’t fall in love
Louis throws Harry a look and Harry's face burns from being caught reading his messages.
Louis
Also if I did, it wouldn’t be in London.
Another cheeky grin in Harry's direction before he types again.
Louis
Maybe a plane there though. It's easy to accidentally touch someone here.
Harry’s ears burn.
He should stop reading. He knows he should. This is a complete invasion of privacy, and also a terrible idea for his already fragile ability to think straight.
Also, Louis caught him and clearly teases Harry with his messages now. He adverts his eyes, telling himself he won't look anymore.
But the banter keeps coming, fast and easy and Harry finds himself reading and smiling despite himself.
Liam
You’re unbearable. Why did I agree to come with you?
Zayn
Bet he’s already scoped out half the cabin
Oli
If there's a hot guy, send pics. I'm bored.
Louis
Behave
Louis
And I’m not sending pictures of strangers
Louis
…yet
Harry’s heart gives an uncomfortable little lurch.
No. No meaning. None at all.
He jerks his gaze back to the window, cheeks hot, pulse loud in his ears. The reflection in the glass shows him someone who looks a bit dazed, a bit too aware of the man sitting inches away from him.
Beside him, Louis shifts again, stretching his legs slightly, turning off his phone as the plane starts to move.
Harry exhales slowly.
And now he knows it for a fact: This flight is definitely going to be the longest one of his life.
︵‿︵‿🗺️⁀જ✈︎‿︵‿︵
After what feels like hours but might be just a few minutes, Harry eventually tears his gaze away.
Louis is slumped slightly forward now, head tilted, lashes dark against his cheeks. He looks softer asleep. Less sharp edges, less teasing confidence. Still unfairly beautiful.
Harry swallows and looks down at his phone before he does something stupid. Or continues doing something stupid, more accurately.
Niall is right. He can feel it, that restless buzz under his skin, the familiar itch in his fingers. Inspiration, sharp and insistent. Just not for the chapter he’s supposed to be working on.
He opens Google Docs and starts a new file.
No title. No outline. Just a blank page and the hum of the plane around him.
His thumbs hover for a moment.
Then he types.
▣✦▣
Shane Hollander is already seated when the stranger boards the plane.
▣✦▣
Harry bites his lip, glancing sideways again to make sure Louis is still asleep. He is. Harry turns back to the screen, heart thudding a little faster now that he’s crossed the line from thinking to writing.
In his story, Ilya Rozanov doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t pretend not to stare. He walks down the aisle like he knows exactly where he’s going, like he’s already decided that Shane is his.
Harry types faster, the words coming easily now.
Shane smiles when their eyes meet. Bold. Open. None of Harry’s own nerves or second-guessing. He lets Shane be everything Harry isn’t brave enough to be.
He doesn’t write details. Not really. Just impressions. Heat. Proximity. The way Shane notices Ilya’s accent immediately, the way it curls around his name and settles low in his chest.
Harry shifts in his seat, crossing his ankles, trying to ignore the way his own body reacts to the scene unfolding under his thumbs.
In the fic, they talk. Flirt. Touch knees by accident that isn’t accidental at all. In the fic, Shane doesn’t freeze up or overthink it. He smiles back. He leans in. He lets it happen.
Harry’s breath is a little uneven now.
By the time the plane lands in London, his Ilya is already halfway out of his seat, already glancing back with a grin that promises things Harry only dares to imply on the page.
They don’t say goodbye at the gate, he writes. They don’t pretend this isn't something they both want.
Instead, they go to a hotel. Somewhere close. Somewhere anonymous. Somewhere that exists purely for the space it gives them.
▣✦▣
The hotel room is quiet in that particular way that only unfamiliar places are. Soft lighting, curtains half-drawn, the distant hum of the city bleeding in through the glass.
Shane barely makes it two steps inside before Ilya’s hand finds his ass, squeezing it as if he waited forever to do exactly that.
It’s confident. Certain.
The door shuts behind them with a dull click, and something in the air shifts immediately. Shane swallows, pulse loud in his ears, every nerve ending suddenly awake.
Ilya doesn’t rush. He steps closer instead, close enough that Shane can feel his warmth, smell him properly now. Ilya tilts his head, studying him with open interest, like he’s already decided exactly what he wants.
“On your knees,” Ilya says in that russian accent that goes straight to Shane's cock.
The accent makes it worse. Better. Dangerous.
Shane doesn’t even hesitate.
He should hesitate. Ilya is a stranger. Someone he's just met on the plane, sitting in the middle seat next to him. But somehow the movement feels inevitable, like his body understands before his brain catches up. The carpet is soft beneath him as he lowers himself, heart pounding, heat pooling low in his stomach.
He looks up, breath shallow, and Ilya’s expression shifts - satisfaction flickering openly across his face.
Ilya reaches out, fingers brushing under Shane’s chin, lifting his gaze just enough to meet his eyes.
“Good,” he murmurs.
The word settles deep, heavy and grounding. Ilya steps closer, presence overwhelming now, and Shane’s hands curl into the fabric of his trousers, grounding himself, waiting.
Ilya smiles slowly, indulgent and wicked all at once.
He opens his trousers, lowering them and his briefs until his cock springs free.
Shane looks at him, his mouth watering. God, he can't wait to have his cock in his mouth.
“Good that you had seat 3F,” Ilya says softly.
“Best fucking flight I’ve ever been on.”
▣✦▣
Harry’s thumbs hover over the screen, the words still glowing faintly beneath them.
And then something warm and solid settles against his shoulder.
Harry freezes.
His heart stutters, then starts racing, loud and frantic in his ears. He doesn’t dare move at first, barely even breathes, as he registers the weight of a head resting against him. Louis’ head. Soft hair brushing his jaw. Heat seeping through fabric.
Oh. God.
Harry’s eyes flick sideways despite himself.
Louis’ eyes are open now - sleepy, unfocused, lashes still heavy - but definitely open. And angled downwards.
At Harry’s phone.
Shit.
Harry’s stomach drops straight through the floor. He locks his phone instantly, far too quickly, like that might somehow erase the last thirty seconds from existence.
His ears burn, his neck burns, everything burns.
Please don’t have read it. Please don’t have realised. Please don’t -
“That’s too bad.”
Louis straightens, pulling back, and Harry flinches so hard it’s embarrassing. He turns, eyes wide, caught somewhere between panic and pure humiliation.
Louis is looking at him with something dangerously close to amusement, mouth tilted into a lazy, knowing smile.
“I have plans with my friends tonight,” Louis continues easily, stretching a little in his seat, “and I can’t come to the hotel with you to do that later, love.”
Harry wants to die.
Actually die. Right here. In seat 3F. Taken out by his own filthy imagination and a stranger with impeccable timing.
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, heat flooding his face as his brain completely short-circuits.
This flight is officially a nightmare.
And it’s not even halfway over.