Archive of Our Own

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Mr. Evgeni Vladimirovich Malkin spends all of two weeks in the continent before he is embroiled in a scandal.

This is not the first scandal to be linked to him, and rest assured will not be the last.

(He has a terrible habit of picking the worst time to follow his impulses, and always seems to happen during the Season, when the Ton are at their most active.)

All it takes -- this time -- is a bottle of fifty-year scotch, a valet dashing from a private room in a state of complete and utter dishevelment, and a hysterical chambermaid who witnessed what could only be described as, “something not fit for anyone’s eyes, M’lord.”

Zhenya is appropriately shamefaced, his mother is furious, and his childhood friend Sasha announces that the Season is now most definitely underway.

“I always knew you’d spare me the boredom that irrevocably comes with the Season, but in this fashion? Zhenya, you have outdone yourself this year.”

Sasha is a smug asshole. Zhenya knows this will not go unpunished.

His mother does not disappoint.

He is at dinner with Sasha and his betrothed, Genevieve, when the cable arrives with a messenger. The messenger is apologetic for interrupting, but the cable cannot be ignored.

“Such dramatics,” Zhenya sighs as he takes the paper knife from the messenger and slices it open.

Zhenya probably should feel rather more guilty about spraying what little wine he had left in his mouth all over Sasha.

Zhenya sulks for two weeks before the next cable arrives. The only reason he avoids another scandal is because Genevive manages to interrupt the procession of visiting dignitaries from the capital.

She drops her tea tray by his doors, causing quite a disturbance, but giving Zhenya the precious minutes he needs to quicken the footman from his bedchambers and into the secret passage hidden behind a tapestry.

When he emerges, decent but rumpled, she is leaning across the corridor and holding another cable between her fingers.

“Mama grows impatient,” she says, slipping it into Zhenya’s coat pocket and walking off. Zhenya opens the cable.

Another week passes before the next cable arrives. The tone is more dire, the meaning clear. The family accountant is coming to London, intent on closing out Zhenya’s outstanding debts and leaving him penniless.

He does what he should have done three weeks ago, when first threatened with this fallacy.

He goes to Sasha.

“Oh, Zhenya,” Sasha says with a sigh. Zhenya hurries him along with a lazy hand as he reaches for a cigar with his free one, clipping it to his liking before sucking on it a few times. Not exactly the flavour he likes-- Sasha prefers weaker than he-- but it will suffice.

“I need to find a suitor. Preferably one who will remain married to me until my mother calls off this ridiculousness.”

“Surely we can find someone who will be of some sort of permanency to you? Maybe a nice woman whom you can get fat with babies? You do love children so.” Sasha looks a little pitiful, a little like Zhenya needs to be coddled and taken care of.

Zhenya refuses to indulge such silliness.

“Find me someone to play along in this charade,” he demands instead, reaching for the sherry.

Sasha rolls his eyes, but joins him. They’re nothing if not a reliable force together.

Zhenya cables his mother and says they’re reviewing prospects, and will advise when he has found a suitable match. She gives him the rest of the month to find someone, to coincide with the arrival of the family accountant.

“The rest of the month to find and marry someone? She must have a fever!” Zhenya exclaims, pacing back and forth in Sasha’s drawing room.

Sasha and Genevieve are running down a list of eligible bachelors for Zhenya to choose from. They are at the end of the list, everyone deemed unsuitable. Zhenya is bored to the point of exhaustion, the hot weather and his horrible suit combining to utterly suffocate him.

“What is the name of your accountant? Maybe he holds connections here?” Sasha asks, reaching for Genevieve's fan and tagging at his collar.

“Mr. Crosby, apparently,” Zhenya says. He vaguely remembers meeting the man once; Mama had been enamoured with him for his accounts knowhow, and Papa liked him for his sporting aspirations. Zhenya had been busy chasing a particularly frisky Countess at the time, and hadn’t paid much attention to anything.

“Mr. Crosby? I know of him.” Sasha grins good-naturedly around his glass.

Zhenya snorts. Of course Sasha does. “Oh, do you, know?”

Sasha nods. “He has the personality of a cement wall but a fantastic posterior. You will know that much when you meet him, at least.”

“Sasha!” Genevieve implores, but the flush high on her cheeks captures Zhenya’s interest.

“I will meet him again,” Zhenya decides.

Genevieve fans herself more hurriedly. “Heaven help us all.”

Mr. Crosby an uncomfortable individual, holding himself so rigidly holds that Zhenya finds himself working harder than anything to make him laugh. When Mr. Crosby steps off the boat on a dreary Tuesday to greet them, Sasha and Zhenya are waiting to escort him to the house.

They take in the discomfort on Mr. Crosby’s face as he disembarks down the gangplank, a trunk being dragged along by a porter behind him.

Zhenya has been unable to find anyone to marry in the meantime, and is at his wit’s end. The last hope he has is to implore to Mr. Crosby’s human side and hope they can figure a work around to last him long enough to secure his family’s wealth.

“Mr. Malkin,” Mr. Crosby says, holding out a hand to shake. Zhenya takes it and tries not to make a fool of himself. As Mr. Crosby lets go and turns to speak with Sasha, Zhenya wonders how he possibly could have failed to notice the sweet plushness of Mr. Crosby’s lower lip, or the sharp cut of his suit, so flattering and so intriguing.

Sasha’s eyes dance as he meets Zhenya’s hungry gaze over Mr. Crosby’s shoulder.

There are two things Zhenya knows after two days of being in Mr. Crosby’s company.

Firstly, his posterior is as absurdly wonderful as Sasha advised, which Zhenya notices the generous curve of every time Mr. Crosby’s hands place themselves in his pockets, seemingly unknowingly. Nervous tick, perhaps.

Secondly, Mr. Crosby is very particular about a number of things. It makes him a very good accountant, a devilish parcheesi player, and an absolute rouge at cards. It also makes him quite testing when he insists on his meals being presented at a specific time (“Good for the digestion,”) and on exercising twice a day, like clockwork.

Zhenya wakes up on the third morning to Mr. Crosby returning from his morning run, sweaty and rumpled. Zhenya promptly has to return to his own quarters lest he make a fool of himself in front of the house staff and Mr. Crosby. His body cannot help but respond to Mr. Crosby’s, and Zhenya is beside himself.

“What do I do, Sasha? Mr. Crosby is so-- I fear I will never find the words to adequately portray my feelings,” Zhenya moans on his chaise, as Sasha pours some whisky and Genevieve plays a beautiful tune on the pianoforte. Mr. Crosby is attending to Zhenya’s debts, closing out as many as he can before the week is over.

“Ask him to marry you instead,” Sasha suggests. Zhenya laughs.

The idea is so ludicrous. Mr. Crosby has worked for his family for at least the past few years, and Zhenya’s parents pay his wage-- not Zhenya. He owes nothing to Zhenya, nor would he if he knew of Zhenya’s plans to hoodwink his parents thusly so.

“You are ludicrous,” Zhenya says instead. Sasha just raises his glass and joins his intended on the pianoforte, completely ruining the sweet tone for the afternoon.

The break in the nature of Zhenya and Mr. Crosby’s strange relationship comes when they take a turn around the lake on Zhenya’s country estate, Sasha and Genevieve trailing behind. One of Zhenya’s hunting dogs has just whelped, and they come running across the grass after their mother. Zhenya watches as Mr. Crosby’s face positively melts with happiness, and he gets down on his knees in the grass to play with the pups.

“You enjoy dogs?” Zhenya asks. Mr. Crosby looks up at him, the smile on his face wide and unbidden. Zhenya’s breath catches in his chest. It’s suddenly a little hard to breathe.

“Oh, absolutely. I love all kinds of animals. Our home in the country is positively a zoo. Dogs, cats, birds, horses, all manner of pets. I enjoy the caretaking, and rearing them as small babies to watch them grow.” Mr. Crosby laughs as one of the pups nips at his fingers.

Zhenya smiles back, helpless to do anything but. “I love animals too,” he says. Mr. Crosby’s expression only warms further.

It is perhaps the most Mr. Crosby has said to Zhenya, and Zhenya is furiously trying to establish whether Mr. Crosby is simply shy, or he is intending on keeping their relationship strictly to a detached, business one.

Zhenya has also all but resigned himself to returning to Russia in somewhat a cloud of shame, as it is now almost a third of the way through and he is no closer to finding anyone.

He has attended three balls, and while there are both women and men who are willing-- nay, eager-- to assist Zhenya and his predicament (mostly thanks to Sasha), he can’t seem to displace Mr. Crosby from his mind.

Zhenya offers out a hand to Mr. Crosby, who takes it with thanks and dusts off his slacks.

“I hope the grass won’t stain,” Zhenya says with a sigh. Mr. Crosby shrugs and places his hands in his pockets.

“No bother. I have several pairs.”

Zhenya nods and they walk back around the grounds toward the house.

“So, what are your plans? Your mother informed me you have until the end of the month to find yourself a suitable partner before I am to cut you off,” Mr. Crosby says. Zhenya sighs and kicks at a dirt clod.

“I understand Mama’s desire to see me married off, but it is so frustrating. I cannot just conjure up a willing bride or groom. There has to be some sort of… some spark, or at least at least potential for some. I cannot see this ending positively for anyone.”

Mr. Crosby hums and says nothing further, leaving Zhenya to guide them back indoors as thunderclouds roll over, threatening and thick.

Mama sends another cable, enquiring as to the progress of his engagement. Zhenya burns it over breakfast, glaring and frustrated. He spends the morning and most of the afternoon in a foul mood, before he seeks out Mr. Crosby.

He finds him in the library, sleeves rolled up and glaring at a cable of his own.

“Is something the matter?” Zhenya asks. Mr. Crosby startles and tucks the cable into his pocket, shaking his head.

“No, nothing at all.”

Zhenya’s eyes narrow. He smells a rat.

If there is one thing Zhenya is good at, it’s uncovering secrets. He considers himself something of a savant at it-- knowing exactly how to ask and how to seek out facts. It is one of his strengths, and he loves secrets.

It does not take him long at all to discover that Mr. Crosby has an engagement predicament of his own. The messenger who delivers the cables is a gossip hound, and is known to open most, if not all, of the cables he delivers. Zhenya allows it because he brings the boy in and drinks with him occasionally to discover the secrets himself. It’s a good relationship, and one he will miss if he is forced to return to Russia.

“His uncle is going to cut him off as well?” Sasha exclaims as Zhenya tells him that evening over dinner. Mr. Crosby has retired already, and Genevieve is back in the city attending to her family’s needs.

Zhenya nods. Sasha grins. “You know what this means…” he trails off.

Oh, Zhenya does.

He is unsure of Mr. Crosby’s attentions towards himself, but he finds himself in a difficult position. He requires his family’s finances to live and cannot afford to be cut off, but he is loath to damage the gentle friendship he has with Mr. Crosby thus far.

Another cable threatening imminent removal of funds spurs Zhenya into action, and he invites Mr. Crosby for a private dinner that evening.

Mr. Crosby arrives at the dining room before seven, dressed in a dashing suit and a smile, and Zhenya listens to him talk about his day as they are seated in the dining room and make their way through three courses, two glasses of wine to accompany.

They retire to Zhenya’s lounge for sherry, of which Zhenya drains all at once and shuffles a little closer to Mr. Crosby on the chaise. They are far enough for propriety’s sake, and the house staff is still around to act as ‘chaperones’.

“I have an ulterior motive for inviting you tonight, Mr. Crosby,” Zhenya admits. Mr. Crosby frowns, sipping at his drink before placing it on the table in front of them.

“Is everything well?” Mr. Crosby asks. Zhenya shakes his head.

“I-- yes, of course. I have enjoyed our time together more than anything. I just… my mother is threatening to cut me off from the family if I am not engaged to be wed. Obviously engagements can be quite long, given the process to obtain a license, but I need to be married, Mr. Crosby, and soon.”

Mr. Crosby nods. This is not news. Zhenya hopes to God that this behaviour means Mr. Crosby won’t throw his drink at Zhenya and storm out. He has had sherry thrown in his face before, and it is a blast to remove from upholstery and suit jackets.

“I was hoping, if you were amenable, that you would wish to marry me, Mr. Crosby.”

Mr. Crosby’s jaw drops.

“…I. What?”

“I thought I was most clear. Would you marry me, Mr. Crosby?”

Mr. Crosby’s mouth moves, but no noise comes forth.

“I fear I have misheard you. Did you just propose to me? More importantly, why did you just propose to me?”

Zhenya reaches out to take one of Mr. Crosby’s hands.

“It would be beneficial for both of us, I think. I understand your uncle is placing you in a similar situation. It would work. You could be left alone to focus on your accounts, and I would take care of you. My mother means well and alas, I cause too many scandals for her to abide any longer. I’m sure your uncle has his reasons. Would you at least consider it? I have enjoyed our time together while you have been here, helping to close down my accounts in preparation to impoverish me.”

Mr. Crosby flushes a deep red, and looks down at their hands.

“I-it wasn’t. It wasn’t like that. I mean, yes, I will marry you. It would be beneficial for both of us, of course. As you said. My uncle is indeed pushing for me to be wed, and I cannot imagine much worse than being forced into a union against my will. At least this would be… a marriage of convenience, perhaps.”

Zhenya should feel happy.

Mr. Crosby said yes to his proposal, but for some reason he still feels so empty. Like Mr. Crosby did not say yes to the right proposal.

He sends a cable to his mother that night, as Mr. Crosby sends word to his uncle that they are intended to be wed.

They retire to bed separately, and Zhenya tosses and turns for hours, Mr. Crosby’s words haunting him.

A marriage of convenience, perhaps.

Each day that passes with Mr. Crosby so close, and yet so far, is fresh torture for Zhenya.

He wants to put his hands on Mr. Crosby, to kiss the downward curve of his mouth when he fusses over the family’s accounts, or to sit with him and enjoy the company of the animals.

They talk a lot-- about their lives, about their upcoming wedding.

Zhenya discovers that Mr. Crosby has actually been around a lot longer than Zhenya had realised.

“I actually grew up down the road from you. Your mother recognised me when I finished university and returned to the neighbourhood,” Mr. Crosby confesses one evening. His cheeks are flush from the wine and Zhenya has lost every hand of poker they played. He is hard pressed to be disappointed, though. Losing to Mr. Crosby is a different kind of sweet that he fears he will never recover from.

“Oh, you did,” Zhenya says-- because of course. Of course now he remembers snatches from his childhood, of a foreign boy with a mop of dark curls and big hazel eyes, in the same year as Zhenya’s cousin Tanya in their school. He was part of Tanya’s group of friends, and regularly attended parties together.

How could he have forgotten such a creature as divine as Mr. Crosby?

“I never forgot you,” Mr. Crosby admits as they are headed upstairs to bed, both unsteady.

Zhenya is unable to do much more than stand frozen as Mr. Crosby giggles and heads to his quarters with a sigh, bidding Zhenya good night. The words burrow themselves into his heart, settling in there, taking root. Like a seed desperate to grow into a beautiful flower, or a solid oak tree.

What has Zhenya gotten himself in to? And more importantly, what else is Mr. Crosby hiding?

They are wed a month later in the continent, with Zhenya’s parents arriving by boat a few days before, and Mr. Crosby’s family joining them from the colonies.

The ceremony is small and tasteful. Zhenya and Mr. Crosby slip matching gold bands on their fingers, and when Zhenya leans in to kiss Mr. Crosby and call him his husband, he realises that this is why his heart has hurt ever since he proposed.

He wishes to be married to Mr. Crosby-- to Sidney-- but not like this. He wants their marriage to be real and complete, loving each other and betrothed for it.

Mr. Crosby looks sad when Zhenya pulls away, but disguises it well during their dinner. They pose for cake, dance their first as a couple, and Zhenya’s mother cries as she hugs him.

“I’m so happy you are finally at peace, Zhenya. You have been suffering with your loneliness for so long, and your scandals were such cries to be loved. I could not abide your pain any longer.”

Perhaps, Zhenya thinks as he watches Mr. Crosby speak with his parents, his sister by his side, her hand tucked into his elbow.

Their wedding night is a natural climax of things, Zhenya supposes.

Mr. Crosby stands by their marital bed, watching as Zhenya removes his suit piece by piece. Mr. Crosby has undone his cravat and taken off his jacket and shoes, suspenders loose by his hips, but that is as far as he has reached.

“I forgot about this,” he murmurs. Zhenya’s fingers slip on his buttons.

“We don’t… if you cannot bear it-- blast. Sidney, what I mean to say is that I would never force you into this. If you do not wish for me in this bed, I will sleep elsewhere.” Zhenya tries to use Mr. Crosby’s first name in a show of intimacy, because the idea that he would expect Sidney to lie back and think of the colonies is a horrifying one.

“It would not be a trial. Not in the slightest.” Mr. Crosby’s eyes are on the bedspread and his voice is hoarse, but Zhenya cannot move a muscle listening to him.

“It… would not?” Zhenya asks, feeling hope build up inside him, threatening to overtake him entirely. Mr. Crosby shakes his head, his thumb spinning his wedding band.

“I have enjoyed your company immensely, and when you proposed to me, I… I knew that even if it were to just be for convenience, at least I could have you, somehow. I fear I have misled you.”

Zhenya is moving to Mr. Crosby’s side before he finishes, and has Mr. Crosby’s face cupped in his hands, tilting it to look at Zhenya as the last word leaves Mr. Crosby’s lips.

“Whatever do you mean?” Zhenya searches Mr. Crosby’s expression, but all he can find is sorrow.

“I have… I have had intentions toward for you for a long while now, Zhenya. Ever since we were children. It was remiss of me not to mention that when your mother suggested you were enjoying yourself rather a lot out here, I endeavoured that I would come out to look over your accounts, ensure everything was organised for your return. I just wanted to spend some time with you. I have wanted it for years. I was so nervous when I saw you as I disembarked from the boat, I just wanted you to be... well, impressed by me.”

Mr. Crosby drops his head, ashamed and embarrassed. His cheeks feel warm in Zhenya’s palms, and Zhenya cannot have this. He cannot.

“Oh, Sidney. I was so impressed with you. You really have no idea how much I love you,” he hears himself say. Mr. Crosby looks up at him, eyes wide.

“I have loved you for quite a while now, yes. I was unsure of how to express it. I just.. I love how intelligent you are, how you put me to shame and keep me in my place when I require it most. But you are never ashamed of me, and you never ask me to change, and that makes me love you most of all.”

Mr. Crosby’s eyes are shining as he nods, moving up onto his toes to kiss Zhenya, another dry press of his lips that turns wet and slick and passionate.

Zhenya and Sidney celebrate their marriage, their true marriage, until the first light of the dawn breaks through the curtains. Sidney sobs his way through yet another orgasm, curled up against Zhenya, his fingers tangled in Zhenya’s hair, mouthing at his neck.

“Zhenya,” he croaks as Zhenya spills inside him, his face buried in Sidney’s hair, moaning Sidney’s name. It feels so perfect, so complete.

“Sidney,” Zhenya replies, moving Sidney’s face to kiss him, and kiss him.

He is not stupid, of course. He is aware that Sidney is not the sweet, perfect being that Zhenya currently thinks he is, and he is aware that he is not the same person Sidney has watched from afar for so long.

But, he hopes they will grow together, into a pairing that will be strong as a brick wall, and as entwined as the ivy that scales it.