Work Text:
The cold air of the garden is a welcome respite from the stuffy interior of Duke Crowell’s winter palace. Though the flowers are all dormant in their winter beds, the snow that perches delicately on the remaining branches of the remaining shrubbery are pretty in their own way. The snow has stopped for now, but the ominous clouds overhead and the early sunset promise more to come.
Shane makes his way along the garden path, hands clasped carefully behind his delicately pleated, royal blue short coat. The riding boots that his valet had polished to a sheen that morning are speckled with mud from the churned up snow of the path, but Shane doesn’t mind; it’s a further excuse to not return inside just yet. He can delay the inevitable by seeking out a servant-
“Hollander, what are you doing?”
Shane’s head jerks up from where he’s been watching his boots as he walks, heart racing not from being startled, but in a conditioned response to hearing that voice nearby.
Ahead of him on the path, looking resplendent in a long black and gold coat with fur at the cuffs and along the rim of his felt hat, stands Ilya Rozanov; second son of Grigori Rozanov. He has a cigar hanging loosely from his lips, which are cocked into a familiar smirk.
He’s infuriatingly handsome, a gem of the court, and worst of all… he knows it.
Shane’s feet carry him forward, though his mind is already assessing the open air of the garden, lines of sight from the doors where they might be spotted from. Thankfully, Ilya dips behind the tree he’s been leaning on, further obscuring himself and now Shane from the prying eyes of the court.
Not that there are any other people out here, braving the cold as an excuse to escape the noise and press of bodies inside.
“Why are you out here?” he asks Ilya, because of the two of them, Ilya’s never been one to shy away from large groups of people. He thrives in them, standing around in circles of important men, smoking cigars and laughing too loudly.
Ilya shrugs, taking a pull on his cigar and blowing the smoke out of the side of his mouth, kindly downwind of Shane.
“Saw little lordling wander out into the cold, with no jacket. He will catch his death out here.”
“Canada’s not exactly warm either, you know.” Shane retorts, eyeing the snow ladden tree branches above Ilya with suspicion. He refuses to admit that he is, in fact, quite chilled; the thought of any snow or ice falling into the exposed nape of his collar sending a shudder through him.
“Stubborn little malysh.” Ilya shakes his head, stubbing his cigar out against the cold bark of the tree he’s leaning on. He beckons Shane in closer, and with one last helpless look at the branches above, Shane goes.
He’s barely within arms reach of Ilya when the man strikes; fur cuffed arms and dark gloved hands reaching out, catching at Shane’s waist and dragging him in. His coat opens for a moment, and then Shane is engulfed in the warmth of the thick material. His protests are lost in the thick trim of fur that lines the lapels of Ilya’s coat, but he snakes his hands around Ilya’s back and rucks up the shirt; pressing frigid palms to the bare skin of Ilya’s back as punishment.
Ilya hisses, but if anything, he squeezes Shane in closer.
“See? Freezing.” he taunts, and Shane hides his smile by burying his cold nose in Ilya’s neck as further retaliation.
Years of sneaking away at various court functions and making themselves scarce together whenever they can have Shane more than aware that the time they have together is short. The thought chills him deeper than the cold winter air, but it’s hard to linger on such things when Ilya is resting his cheek against Shane’s own; he’s melting into the embrace as much as Shane is.
Burrowing as close as he can physically get, Shane has the wild thought that he wishes he were a tiny doll, one that could live forever in Ilya’s fur lined coat pocket. It’s just so cozy.
“We warm up here, then maybe we go back inside and warm up a little more. Yes?”
The soft press of a kiss to the exposed skin of Shane’s neck is sweet despite Ilya’s risque invitation.
“Need to clean my boots first.”
Ilya snorts with amusement, the warm puff of air tickling Shane’s ear.
“Okay, lordling. We can do this.”
“Not yet though? This is nice.”
Ilya’s arms tighten around Shane, and he gets another kiss for his efforts.
“No, not yet.”