Archive of Our Own

Rehearsal ended the same way it always did, with a collection of shuffling papers and instrument clatter. Music stands and chairs scraped against the floor in uneven rhythms, and the low murmur of conversation rose as musicians filtered offstage to pack their instruments away. Rosin dust hung faintly in the air beneath the stage lights.

Shane barely noticed any of it. He was still hunched over his stand while his pencil scribbled quickly across the margins of his sheet music, making cramped markings between Schubert’s notes to notate sections that still needed to be perfected before that upcoming weekend. His handwriting was scrawled between old notations and music notes, built up in grey smudges where he’d erased and rewritten the same words over and over again. He’d circled the same entrance three times already, as if that alone would make his section remember it.

“Did you hear the news?”

Shane didn’t look up. He finished the note he was writing, underlined a bowing change, then finally gave a single, distracted nod toward Hayden, who had appeared beside his stand.

Of course he’d heard the news. Every musician in Montreal had. Every person in Montreal had.

The orchestra’s spring schedule had been announced a month prior, and tucked nearly into February was a piece Shane had already begun to think of as his—Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto.

He had started practicing the solo the same night the program was released. It was the first time the orchestra would be performing the piece since Shane had worked his way up to Concertmaster, and he had been ready—overprepared and eager, if he was being honest—to assume the soloist role.

He would wake up with the phrases looping through his head, fingers twitching against the sheets as if his violin were in hand. He’d timed himself on the cadenza, shaving milliseconds off like an athlete desperately chasing a personal best. He practiced it for hours every day. Obsessively.

Then, three days ago, the announcement dropped. Ilya Rozanov’s 2017 North America soloist tour. It was an impressive list of cities and pieces. To Shane’s chagrin, beside the dates of February 11-12 was Montreal. Tchaikovsky: Violin Concerto.

Hayden folded his arms over the top of Shane’s stand, eyes wide in admiration. He took the lack of verbal response as an acknowledgement to finish his thought. “We get to share a stage with Ilya Rozanov, Shane.”

“I know.”

“He’s, like, the best violinist in the world right now.”

Shane fought a scowl and finally looked up at him. “Yeah, he’s pretty good.”

“Pretty good?” Hayden questioned incredulously. “Come on. He was performing with Moscow when he was, like, sixteen. That guy is a prodigy.”

In interviews, Rozanov often mentioned that he started playing at five years old, taught by his mother at the time, before beginning formal lessons at twelve. He outplayed every other child in his class and joined the Russian youth symphony at thirteen, the youngest to ever do so. He played with the Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra by sixteen, and was a touring soloist at twenty.

Now, at twenty-five, he was considered one of the finest violinists in the world. It was a widely accepted fact that few others stood at his caliber.

Shane was a month older than Rozanov, but he never even touched an instrument until high school. And he had only chosen strings because he couldn’t stand the idea of emptying his spit from a valve if he joined the band instead.

At first, the instrument felt foreign in his grasp. But his teacher must have noticed something promising. “You have good hands,” she had said one day, after he half-fumbled through his scales. As if that meant anything. As if good hands could close this decade-long gap between him and boys like Ilya Rozanov—boys who had been raised with violins tucked under their chins before Shane even knew the difference between clefs.

So he practiced. Minutes turned to hours turned to late nights that left his fingertips raw. At first, his parents were reluctant to pay for private lessons, but the more they watched him play, and the more they watched his musicality blossom, the more they understood that this wasn’t a passing hobby.

By the end of high school, he was sitting at the first stand. University followed, along with the impossible task of balancing coursework and constant practice. He passed his first audition to join the youth orchestra. And then three years ago, he earned his seat in the Orchestre Symphonique de Montréal.

Unlike with Rozanov, though, there were no headlines announcing Shane’s improvement. It wasn’t the type of progress that attracted attention. There were no glossy magazine spreads for Most Improved. No interviews about clawing your way up through sections by sheer refusal to fail.

Shane nodded once more at Hayden and set his violin carefully in his lap to gather his sheet music together. He aligned the edges of the pages with meticulous precision, desperate to waste time, maybe hoping Hayden would lose interest, and tapped them against the stand until they were perfectly flush before sliding them into his folder.

Hayden crossed his arms. “You’re jealous he has the solo.”

Ever observant.

“I don’t appreciate the accusation,” Shane replied evenly. With his sheet music filed away, he stood and started toward the stage door.

Hayden stepped in front of him and leaned against the door instead, effectively blocking his path. “Come on, Shane. Don’t pretend I don’t know that look.”

Hayden was a good friend. He had joined the orchestra as a cellist about six months before Shane’s induction, and he took him under his wing immediately. "Young musicians have to stick together," he had said. To Shane’s mild annoyance, Hayden had quickly learned all his tells, like the tick of his jaw when he went unheard in sectionals or the tension in his shoulders when a correction was thrown his way.

Shane sighed in defeat. “Fine. I’m jealous. I was ready to prove myself, and now I can’t. Happy?”

Hayden smiled patiently at him and turned to allow entrance into the dressing room. He continued to talk as Shane moved past him. “You have proven yourself. You’re the concertmaster, aren’t you?”

Instead of responding, Shane knelt beside his belongings, extracting a cloth to remove rosin dust from his violin strings. The repetitive motion steadied him. He focused on the movement rather than the thoughts that raced through his brain. He checked the bridge alignment twice. It hadn’t moved, and he knew it hadn’t moved. He checked anyway.

Hayden leaned against the wall beside him. “You know, I can still remember your scared little face when you joined,” he said. “You looked like you were going to shit your pants the first time Theriault told you that you were flat.”

“Alright, man.” Shane’s laugh was clipped.

“I’m serious. You’ve made a lot of progress. That’s nothing to scoff at.” He nudged Shane’s knee with the toe of his shoe. “But you can’t let jealousy cloud the fact that we have the awesome opportunity to play with one of the greats.”

There was that word. Greats.

Shane pictured himself on stage come February. He could feel the heat of the stage lights, and he could see the audience waiting with bated breath—but they weren’t waiting for him.

He tried to tell himself that being concertmaster should be enough. That leadership and consistency were all he needed. But there was a part of him—a younger one, with bright eyes and nimble fingers and a violin on loan from school—that craved more. That part didn’t want a title; it just wanted what Ilya Rozanov had. Greatness. Undeniable and unquestioned greatness.

Shane zipped his case with more force than necessary, the sound cutting through the hum of conversation around them.

“I just wish… I don’t know. I wanted it to be me,” Shane admitted. “It’s a well-respected solo. And I’ve been practicing it so much, it’s nearly muscle memory.” He sat back on his heels, eyes fixed on the wall. “I really wanted it.”

Hayden softened. “All of that work doesn’t go away just because Rozanov is playing it. You know that, right?”

Shane didn’t respond. He slung his case over his shoulder and stepped out into the hallway, Hayden a half-step behind him.

The corridor was lined with framed tour announcements, famous and well-respected musicians smiling behind thin glass with autographs curling across the paper. Shane wondered if Rozanov would have his own frame this time next year; another face frozen in triumph.

“You’ll be sitting less than five feet from him,” Hayden said as they walked. “That’s not nothing.”

If only that didn’t make it worse. He would be sitting so close to where he really wanted to be. So close, but too far. Close enough to compare every mistake against perfection.

Shane exhaled slowly. “I think the proximity will make me feel worse,” he admitted. “Like an amateur, or something. It’s like the violin was made for his hands specifically.”

“And maybe it was,” Hayden said with a shrug. “Doesn’t mean you can’t play it just as well.”

They reached the entrance to the Symphony House, and the warm May breeze brushed past them as they emerged onto the plaza.

Shane paused, hand tightening around the strap of his case. “What if existing next to him just highlights everything I’m not?” he asked quietly.

Hayden studied him for a moment. “You play your part,” he said simply. “Just like you always do.” He gave Shane a reassuring smile. “You didn’t get to where you are by accident. You’re letting this situation throw you way harder than it should.”

Shane nodded, but the reassurance bounced off him instead of sinking in. Play your part. He’d built his entire career on doing exactly that. He always showed up prepared, precise, and indispensable. He was always a reliable part of the whole. Maybe he could never be singular. Reliable was safe. Reliable didn’t risk failure.

A quiet, aching part of him wondered when safe became normal for him. When he had agreed that sitting near greatness was enough to replace the hunger to be it. He loved the orchestra, loved the discipline of his craft, but there was a grief there too. Grief for the version of himself that had once believed wanting more was okay, too. That ambition wasn’t his folly.

He swallowed down the thought like he always did and straightened his shoulders.

“Yeah,” he said, more to himself than to Hayden. “I’ll play my part.”

♪

Rozanov missed the first scheduled rehearsal due to a flight delay from Vancouver, where he had performed that week. Consequently, Theriault had asked Shane to play the sections of the solo that layered with the full orchestra, so they could fix any technical issues before the true soloist’s arrival.

Shane complied, but every note he played made him feel like a fraud, like he was a cheap imitation of the real thing. He played carefully, bow steady, aware of how easily his presence would be erased once Rozanov arrived. He over-articulated every run and kept his vibrato narrow, terrified of accidentally slurring on a single shift, afraid of anything that might sound indulgent.

He refused to indulge in something that did not belong to him.

A quiet voice looped in his mind, reminding him that this was temporary. That his role here was temporary.

The second rehearsal was scheduled on Thursday, two days before Saturday’s concert.

Shane arrived at the concert hall twenty minutes before call time. A handful of musicians were already there, scattered across the stage in various stages of unpacking. The air was filled with the sounds of tuning strings and the sharp scent of rosin. Shane unpacked his violin and pulled his folder from his bag before taking his seat.

The chairs of the first violin section had been shifted back from last week’s rehearsal to make room to the left of the conductor’s podium. A lone chair sat there, waiting for the soloist.

For Rozanov.

Shane’s jaw tightened as he laid out his music. He adjusted his shoulder rest, brought the instrument up, then adjusted it again. He quickly lost himself in idle practice as other members of the ensemble clambered into place, his violin perched in his lap like a ukulele as he fingered through a section of the music, plucking softly with his right thumb. The familiar passages could be played without much thought.

Shane had played his way through half of the first movement when a voice sounded beside him.

“Concertmaster.”

Shane straightened instantly, righting his instrument as he looked up.

Of course, Shane knew what Ilya Rozanov looked like, from photo spreads accompanying articles labeling him as the Next Best Musician in the Classical Sphere and God’s Gift to Music and other equally dramatic titles. Still, no amount of internet stalking could have prepared him to meet the man in person.

His confidence was palpable up close. He carried himself with an unmistakable sense of self-assurance; an ease that suggested the room already belonged to him, despite entering it for the first time. His brown curly hair was lightly styled, framed around his face in loose ringlets that kissed the tops of his ears and brushed the nape of his neck. He had bright hazel eyes and high cheekbones with a sprinkle of moles dotting his otherwise flawless skin. Strong jaw. Heart-shaped lips.

He was stunning.

And Shane was absolutely staring.

Rozanov snapped his fingers, pulling Shane out of his stupor. “Hello? Concertmaster?”

“Yes.” Shane schooled his expression and stood from his seat, extending his hand out to the other in greeting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ilya.”

Rozanov gave him a once-over as he stood, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Of course it is.”

He didn’t take the hand. Shane let it fall back to his side, fighting off a scowl.

Asshole.

“I need a stand,” Rozanov said, nodding toward the empty chair beside the conductor’s podium.

“Okay. They’re in the dressing room.”

Rozanov stared at Shane blankly, then gestured toward the stage door as if prompting the other man to provide the stand for him.

Shane blinked. “I think you’re capable of getting your own stand.”

The other man’s lips pursed sarcastically, head bobbing to the side. “Oh, I am. But you will get for me. Da?”

A few nearby musicians had gone quiet, practice paused, and instruments going slack to catch the exchange. The back of Shane’s neck was hot from the unwanted attention. Dimly, Shane realized this had nothing to do with the stand. This was clearly a statement, or a test of power, or some equally infuriating alternative. He wanted Shane to lose his cool in front of his orchestra.

Not worth it, Shane told himself. Not now.

Shane shifted his weight and set his violin carefully on his chair, shooting Rozanov a glare as he moved off stage toward the dressing room. He counted his breaths on the walk there. He wouldn’t stoop to Rozanov’s level; he wasn’t a child. He was the concertmaster. He had to look like one.

Murmurs followed him as he returned with a stand. He placed it in the open spot with just a hint more force than necessary, looking at Rozanov expectantly. Rozanov did not thank him. Instead, he made a dismissive shoo motion with his hand for Shane to move out of the way.

Shane settled back into his chair with irritation etched plainly onto his face.

Despite the embarrassment, he couldn’t help but watch as Rozanov settled and tuned his instrument. He sat where Shane could only see his quarter profile. Shane’s eyes traveled down the side of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, curving along his chin, toward the slope of his lips—

Shane shook his head sharply and looked away. Get a grip.

His pulse didn’t slow.

The low chatter of the ensemble petered to a stop as the conductor entered the stage. Shane straightened automatically. Theriault was a man of few words and fewer compliments, and Shane could count on one hand the number of times he had seen the man smile when there wasn’t an audience perceiving him. He greeted Rozanov briefly, and the two exchanged a handshake—good to know he’s capable of basic manners—before Theriault stepped up onto the podium.

“Good morning. As everyone is aware, we are joined today by Mr. Rozanov—” Someone in the woodwinds clapped suddenly, which was quickly echoed by the other musicians. Shane tapped his hand as a form of applause. Restrained, but polite. He clenched his teeth together to maintain a carefully neutral expression, refusing to let resentment show on his face.

Rozanov stood just slightly, offering a gracious nod as though this were expected. Applause must be the natural soundscape of his life.

“Settle, please,” Theriault called their attention again. The man opened the score on his podium. “Unlike last week, we will be focusing more explicitly on technicalities with our soloist and ensuring a natural blend.” He lifted his hands. “From the top.”

The hall quieted, and then the orchestra began to play.

The first movement fell outward as bold and dramatic as ever, unapologetic in its intensity. Shane felt the vibration of it through his collarbone, through the wood of the violin pressed against his jaw.

Rozanov’s entrance cut cleanly through the ensemble’s sound like a sharp blade.

On recordings, it was easy to blame the microphone quality and acoustics. In person, there was no buffer. The sound coming from Rozanov’s instrument was direct. Visceral. The tone was rich, and it easily filled the hall, claiming space as though it had always owned it. The notes were dense, carrying a weight of absolute certainty, as if he had written the piece himself.

Shane’s fingers continued to move automatically, muscle memory guiding him through the accompaniment even as his chest swelled from Rozanov’s sound.

The second solo section came to a dramatic end nearly ten minutes into the first movement, aggressive scaling tremolos ending on a stunning A6. The violin sections continued with a bright melody, blending together with the low droning of the woodwinds.

Shane glanced up to catch the conductor’s cue, but felt his breath catch in his throat as his eyes locked onto hazel rather than the dark wood of the baton.

Rozanov was watching him.

Not casually, and surely not by accident.

Shane’s next note fell slightly flat, and Rozanov’s lips quirked up with a knowing grin. Cheeks flaming, Shane turned his attention toward the sheet music, refusing to look up again. His left hand overcorrected his mistake, the next note landing a hair sharp. His jaw clenched.

The cadenza began thirty bars later, and Shane resisted the urge to slump back in his chair in defeat as the orchestra began their elongated rest.

Rozanov unfolded the cadenza like it was a gift, playing with a casual certainty that made it seem as though the difficulty of the phrases was a minor inconvenience rather than a challenge. He shifted the sound effortlessly between grit and lyricism.

Shane tracked it despite himself, having worked endlessly on the passage himself. His fingers tapped against his thigh in turn, his mind playing through the shape of the phrases. He mentally annotated each personalized choice. That shift was earlier than printed. That diminuendo was exaggerated. He’s using less bow than usual. Rozanov stretched the tempo to his advantage, seemingly bending time itself to make the phrases breathe.

The jealousy came on suddenly like bile, starting in Shane’s gut and rising into his chest as he compared himself to Rozanov. He could match the speed, the accuracy. He knew he could. He had, alone in his apartment at one in the morning, with a metronome ticking maddeningly on his stand. But would he ever be able to captivate the way Rozanov does?

The final trill rang out and resolved, and Shane exhaled slowly, bringing his violin and bow back up. The full orchestra came in once again, surging beneath the solo.

They were nearing the end of the movement when Theriault waved his hand, cutting them off.

“First violins,” he said, gesturing toward Shane’s section, “you’re rushing the syncopation. Be more mindful of the downbeats. Follow Rozanov’s cues.”

A familiar heat crept up Shane’s neck—the kind that only came on when he was under direct scrutiny. Of course it was them. Of course it was him. Shane only nodded, lifting his bow again.

Before they could reset, Rozanov turned toward him. “He is correct,” he said quietly. “You are anticipating me.”

A few heads turned. Shane fought to keep his expression neutral as he met his gaze, despite the spike in his blood pressure. “I’m following the tempo you set twenty minutes ago.”

“I changed my mind.”

The corner of Shane’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Would’ve been nice to know.” He hated how defensive he sounded.

Something unreadable crossed Rozanov’s face at the reply—surprise, maybe. Then he smiled, less smug than before. It was sharp and knowing as if he’d figured out everything there was to know about Shane in that single second.

“Follow my bow,” he said, turning back to his stand. “It will cue you.”

Theriault cleared his throat pointedly, drawing back the attention of the ensemble. “Excellent. From thirty.”

They began again.

This time, begrudgingly, but professionally all the same, Shane focused on Rozanov; the subtle lift of his wrist and the minute breath he took before each bar. Then there was a flicker of hesitation, the smallest of breath, just before the offbeat. That was the anchor. Shane adjusted in real time, suppressing the instinct that screamed that he should be the one leading, not this... stranger who had walked in and assumed leadership. Each offbeat aligned perfectly, the parts settling together like a puzzle clicking into place.

When they finished the movement without further comment, Theriault nodded in approval. He flipped through the score for a moment, offering things of note toward the ensemble. Each comment was followed by the scratching of graphite on paper, musicians diligently marking down corrections. Shane’s pencil moved quickly, an ugly scrawl of DO NOT ANTICIPATE hugging the corner of the staff.

“Alright.” Theriault finally stopped flipping pages. “Hold onto all of that. Let’s move on.”

The baton lifted again.

Where the first movement was known for its aggression, the second movement was highlighted by restraint. Long, aching lines that demanded control more than virtuosity. Shane lifted his violin and breathed with the section as they began, the sound warm and hushed beneath Rozanov’s entrance.

Rozanov’s playing sounded… different like this. His tone was softer now, almost fragile, each phrase unfolding like a confession. Shane found himself leaning into the sound despite his best efforts, adjusting his bow to match the subtle swell of the solo line, trying not to smother the sound.

They played through the second movement twice over before Theriault called for a short break. The musicians stood and stretched, quiet chatter filling the space. Shane stayed seated, wiping rosin dust from his strings.

A shadow fell across his stand.

“You adjust quickly,” Rozanov said.

Shane didn’t bother to look up, instead doubling down on cleaning his fingerboard, which was already spotless. “I don’t like being wrong.”

“No. You do not.”

He somehow made it feel like a diagnosis, or a thinly veiled insult. As if Shane’s precision was a flaw.

Before Shane could reply, Rozanov stepped away. Shane turned his head, watching him retreat into the dressing room.

“What the hell was that about?” Hayden questioned, leaning against the stand where Rozanov had just been.

“I don’t know.” Shane exhaled sharply. “He’s an asshole.”

An infuriatingly perceptive one.

Shane had spent years navigating strong personalities, dancing his way around looming pride and trying not to choke on clouds of ego. Ilya Rozanov, it seemed, was no exception.

“Yeah, well. World-class ego usually comes free with the bow,” Hayden joked.

Shane breathed out a laugh, shoulders loosening a fraction. “He isn't even trying to insult me. He just has this look in his eye. Like I’m a speck on his violin.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Hayden said dryly. “A speck is too small. You’re at least a smudge.”

Shane glanced sideways at him. “Not helping.”

“That’s my brand.” Hayden straightened. “For what it's worth, he noticed your efforts. That has to mean you’re doing something right.”

Shane wasn’t sure he wanted that to be true. Being noticed felt dangerously close to being seen.

Hayden patted him on the shoulder, already stepping back toward the cello section. “Just, don’t kill him with your bow or anything. You can’t be in jail on Saturday. We need you.”

The corner of Shane’s mouth twitched, the expression gone as quickly as it appeared.

Theriault tapped his baton against the stand, the thwack of wood on metal drawing back the attention of the musicians. “Let’s take the third movement. Quickly now.”

Shane adjusted his shoulder rest. The third movement was familiar territory. They had run it into the ground at the previous rehearsal, fast and rhythmic. The solo line was merciless, a test of precision and endurance.

Rozanov’s sound tore through the hall, bow flying across the strings so quickly it was surprising it touched them at all. The melody burst forward, every articulation sharp and clean despite the brisk tempo. The strings surged beneath him, tight and rhythmic.

Rozanov continued to push, deliberately leaning into the tempo and forcing it to accelerate. Daring the orchestra to follow.

Twenty bars later, Theriault cut them off mid-phrase.

“No,” he said simply. He turned to Rozanov with a point. “You’re driving ahead of the ensemble.” Then, the finger turned to Shane. “And you’re letting him.”

Shane nodded once, the initial spark of an argument immediately dying on his tongue. He rarely disputed Theriault.

Rozanov was unfazed. “The energy should move forward. Too relaxed and the movement loses teeth.”

“Energy does not require haste,” Theriault stated firmly. He lifted the baton again, shutting the door to the conversation. “Again, from the top. Hold the tempo.”

They began anew.

Despite the disagreement, Rozanov settled into the tempo, just a fraction, a compromise being met wordlessly. The rest of the movement snapped into place around him. They reached the final passage without interruption, and the last furious run exploded on the final note.

Theriault lowered his hands, already nodding contentedly. “Good.” That was high praise, coming from him.

Rozanov turned slightly in his chair, glancing back at Shane. Shane’s hand faltered where it was already jotting more notes onto his music.

“Good,” Rozanov echoed. There was a small lift of his lips, a barely perceivable smile.

Shane inclined his head in acknowledgement. His pencil dragged too roughly against the paper, ripping a hole into the final measure.

♪

The next day was filled with metronome clicks and throbbing fingertips. It was typical for Shane to indulge in lengthy practice before a concert weekend, but there was a strong desire to shine during these particular performances—an irritating itch that worsened each time he even thought about the performance. About the orchestra. About his part. About the solo.

About Rozanov.

He told himself that the fixation was professional. A guest soloist of that caliber demanded precision, cohesion, and responsiveness from their accompanying orchestra. It would be… irresponsible to not think about him. Obviously.

It was the same logic that had kept him up into the earliest hours of the morning the night before, running passages long after his fingers had gone dull with fatigue.

By Friday evening, Shane was replaying the smallest musical details from rehearsal. The memory of it was unnervingly vivid: the way Rozanov leaned into certain notes, the way his shoulders loosened just before difficult passages, the microscopic delay before entrances, the widening of his vibrato at the crest of a phrase. Shane dissected it all in the same way he dissected his own playing, methodically and obsessively.

He also, unhelpfully, reconsidered every glance and every gesture, unable to distinguish between the nerves that prickled under his skin or the far more inconvenient admiration that sparked whenever Rozanov's eyes met his.

Admiration was the polite word for it. The less polite version made Shane feel vaguely ill.

Shane awoke on Saturday with anxiety simmering in his gut. It was an unfamiliar, buzzing tension that left his chest tight and stomach clenched. Shane wasn’t the type to get pre-performance jitters. And he certainly wasn’t the type to pace his apartment like a trapped animal, but there he was, walking between his bedroom and the couch, the couch and the kitchen, the kitchen to the window, and back to the bedroom with music phrases silently running through his mind. He tried sitting once. That lasted about forty-five seconds before he stood up again.

His violin remained untouched. He had already practiced for nearly four hours the night before, running through scales and thirds and sixths and shifting drills across his E string until the pads of his fingers burned and the muscles in his hand twinged. Preparedness wasn’t the problem. It was anticipation.

The unease only grew as the afternoon ticked by, fueled by the silence of his apartment. Unable to stand it any longer, he gathered his belongings and left far earlier than necessary.

The quiet followed him down the stairwell, out onto the street, and into his car, clinging stubbornly to the inside of his skull even as the city roared around him. His brain just kept circling the same handful of measures like a scratched record.

He arrived at the concert hall just after four. Call time for dress rehearsal wasn’t for another hour, with the concert beginning at eight, but the building still seemed to hum with expectation for the performance ahead. Shane nodded absently at a couple of stagehands who were hauling equipment through the halls and slipped through a doorway before anyone could stop him for conversation.

The backstage corridors smelled faintly of dust and wood polish and aging velvet, a mixture of scents that commonly clung to concert halls. It should have felt comforting. Instead, it only reminded him of the impending performance.

Once inside the dressing room, Shane set his case down, unpacked his instrument, and slowly wandered out onto the stage. Without the orchestra filling it, the stage looked oddly skeletal. The house lights were dimmed, casting an eerie shadow over the empty seats. The stage had already been set for their performance; chairs for the strings were arranged in neat arches with a space to the left of the podium.

He stepped into the space and, for a moment, just stood there.

The hall felt much different when it was empty. Larger. Hungrier.

The silence of the hall pressed against him. His heartbeat thudded in his chest, breaths shallow. He felt too small on the stage by himself, and he briefly thought that this self-indulgent idea was stupid, but the weight of expectation had him rooted to the spot.

In a few hours, the house would be filled with hundreds of people sitting in the dark, leaning forward in their seats, anticipating something extraordinary from the orchestra. Shane would be sitting just a few feet away while Rozanov would stand here, his looming presence commanding the stage.

The thought didn’t burn the same way it had a few days ago.

Earlier in the week it had made something ugly twist in his chest. Jealousy, sharp and humiliating and nauseating.

Now it was… something else. He didn’t want to think about it.

Shane swallowed and brought his violin to his chin before drawing his bow across the strings, the opening of the concerto solo spilling out into the quiet hall. He hadn’t even looked at the part after that first rehearsal, too spiteful to acknowledge it, but the notes came easily to him. They always did. Muscle memory was his pride, but also his prison. His eyes slipped shut as he played, the long slurred lines seeming to breathe under his bow.

The sound carried far. Without the orchestra, every note bloomed outward on its own, lingering in the rafters before slowly dissolving. The hall returned it to him seconds later, softened and distant.

It was strange, playing the solo while standing in the wrong place. This was Rozanov’s ground.

But for a few moments, Shane let himself pretend it wasn’t.

He faintly registered the sound of the stage door opening, the thud of footsteps across the wooden stage, and another presence stopping beside him. He allowed himself to complete the phrase before letting his bow fall to his side.

“You want to steal my solo, Hollander?”

Shane laughed, rolling his eyes as he opened them. “Learned my name?”

Rozanov stood a few feet away, tuxedo jacket slung over one shoulder, bowtie undone and hanging loose at his collar. His violin case rested at his feet, as if he’d dropped it there without thinking. Shane refused to think about how comfortable he looked in the empty hall, confidence radiating from him.

Refused, but failed.

“I do research,” Rozanov said.

Shane scoffed, but the words made his stomach lurch slightly. He wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or not. “You mean you were eavesdropping on my ensemble?”

Rozanov's head tilted, as if mulling over the words. He shook his head. “I was listening.” He gestured to Shane’s violin, clearly changing the subject. “You do not rush the opening.”

Shane wasn’t sure if Rozanov was trying to chastise or compliment him. He settled for a neutral, “Most people do.”

“Da. They announce themselves.” Rozanov paused. “But Tchaikovsky does not need announcement. Patience is best.”

Shane shrugged, suddenly self-conscious as his phrasing was analyzed. A small part of him hated how much it mattered that Rozanov noticed. “Sure that… sounds right to me.” He cringed internally. He sounded stupid.

“You make it sound like a revelation. Audience would not expect that.”

Shane’s fingers tightened around his bow. He wanted to argue about tempo choices, how restraint could be mistaken for hesitation, or fear. He opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it. He suddenly and absurdly felt like a student waiting for a critique from a teacher. Small. He turned away slightly, shoulders tense as he adjusted the grip on his bow.

Rozanov continued staring at him. “More.”

Shane frowned. “What?”

“Play more for me.”

Shane swallowed, eyes searching Rozanov's face for a sign of malice. There was none. All he could find was intent bordering on curiosity. He slowly flexed his shoulders before lifting the violin to his chin again. If this were a test, he was determined to pass.

He refused to be outplayed on his own stage.

He chose to begin at the cadenza, widely considered to be the most technical part of the piece. Without the constraint of time, he allowed the phrases to stretch to exude vulnerability—soft, low notes slurring into the shrill upper register. Carefully shaped arpeggios and clean shifts pushed the harmony forward.

The notes came easier now that someone was listening. Which he found mildly irritating. He hated that the pressure sharpened him instead of rattling him. Hated that he could feel Rozanov’s attention like a physical presence somewhere just behind his right shoulder.

The final note faded into a charged tension that thrummed low in the air. He barely noticed the ache in his arm, focusing on keeping his breath even. The quiet that followed seemed too loud.

After a moment, Rozanov let out a soft breath. “I see why you are trusted with the orchestra.”

Shane lowered his instrument, a ghost of a smile on his face. The compliment eased him, albeit slightly. “Still not the soloist, though.”

“They chose me to stand in front, but you hold everything together. That is your part.” A shrug. “One would argue it is more important.”

Something in Shane’s chest tightened. Not jealousy, as it had been previously. Recognition, maybe. Or respect. That was worse. He had worked for years to be indispensable. To be the one person that the whole relied on. He never considered that someone might admire that, rather than overlook it.

He swallowed hard, fighting to keep the sudden rush of heat from rising to his face. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

Rozanov bent to pick up his case. “I will go finish preparing.” He met Shane’s eye with a grin. “See you at dress.” And then he was gone, the soft click of the stage door being swallowed by the empty air of the hall.

The silence returned almost immediately. But it didn’t feel quite as suffocating as before.

♪

Dress rehearsal went almost perfectly. Shane caught Rozanov's eyes on him more than once, the man’s gaze calm yet calculated as he observed. The fleeting glances left a persistent heat in his chest that he couldn’t shake. If he told himself it was irritation, he’d be lying. Each time their eyes met, Shane felt an unspoken question pass between them. Are you with me? And each time, he answered without hesitation.

Not with words, of course.

Rozanov would breathe differently before a tempo shift. A shoulder would loosen, or his bow would lift a fraction earlier than expected. Tiny, barely perceptible cues that would only be caught if one were watching closely. Shane found himself catching them instinctively, adjusting the orchestra with subtle lifts of his own bow or the slight tilt of his head.

Once or twice, he wondered if anyone else in the ensemble noticed the silent conversation unfolding between them. If they did, no one said anything.

The rehearsal wrapped with minimal conversation, and the musicians returned to the dressing room to complete their final preparations before the show. Shane carefully set his violin aside and loosened his shoulders. He rolled his neck, feeling the tension release beneath his skin. Around him, the low hum of pre-concert ritual filled the space: quiet laughter, the zip of garment bags, the soft murmur of scales being run. The familiarity of the sounds should have eased Shane, but every emotion felt heightened tonight. Not because he had something to prove, but because it wasn’t his story being told tonight. It was Rozanov's.

And Shane had never been particularly good at playing a supporting role. Even if it was necessary.

His entire career had been built around leadership. Around being the point the orchestra gravitated toward whenever things threatened to fall apart. The concertmaster was rarely the star, but he was always the anchor.

Tonight, though, he felt strangely like an orbiting body pulled into someone else’s gravity.

Hayden cut through the crowd to meet Shane in the corner, bowtie limply hanging from his fingertips. “Gimmie a hand?”

Shane chuckled and plucked the fabric from the cellist’s hold. “Why don’t you ask Jackie to do this for you, Hayd?” He worked as he talked, looping the fabric around itself until it sat neatly at the base of Hayden’s neck. “Better yet, she can probably teach you.”

“I can’t ask my wife to teach me to tie a bowtie, Shane. That’s embarrassing,” Hayden replied. “Besides, you’re the only one I trust not to make fun of me about it.”

“Maybe I’ll start laughing as I tie, then.”

Shane tugged the knot tight and stepped back to assess his work, smoothing the edges flat with practiced fingers. Hayden snorted, adjusting his jacket once the knot was set, and clapped a hand on Shane’s shoulder in thanks before moving off. The normalcy of the exchange brought him a moment of comfort. The routine reminded him that this was still his home orchestra, his people, even with a world-class soloist passing briefly through their midst.

Outside, the murmurs of the arriving audience filtered through the stage doors. Shane straightened his jacket and took a breath, glancing around the room. Anticipation had settled amongst the musicians, a mixture of nerves and quiet excitement buzzing around the room. He could almost feel the energy building beyond the walls. Programs rustling. People leaning toward each other to whisper about the soloist they had come to hear.

Rozanov’s name alone had likely sold half the tickets.

Now, he was standing to the side of the dressing room, jacket still tossed over his shoulder as if they wouldn’t take the stage in a moment. His posture was casual, unbothered by the impending performance, but his gaze continuously flitted across the room, eyeing those around him with quiet awareness.

It struck Shane how different the man looked offstage. Less mythic, somehow. More… human. If only slightly.

Their eyes met, but Rozanov’s indifferent expression didn’t break. He just offered a minuscule nod that Shane would have missed if he blinked.

Briefly, Shane wondered if Rozanov still got anxious before performing. If it were possible to still have restlessness flutter in your stomach after spending two decades perfecting your craft. Did it feel different, playing with a new orchestra every two weeks as opposed to consistency? Shane imagined that life: the months of travel and the blur of airports, various concert halls with no distinction other than architecture, the blend of names learned and forgotten within days.

It seemed lonely.

The thought surprised him.

For years, he had envied soloists—the freedom, the recognition, the autonomy of it all. But standing here now, watching Rozanov scan a room full of people who were technically his colleagues yet functionally strangers, Shane felt a faint flicker of something that might have been pity.

The hands of the large clock ticked into place on the hour, and the orchestra moved as one unit to take the stage. There was the soft sound of chairs scraping across the polished floor and the rustle of fabric as the musicians settled into their positions. The oboeist gave a tuning A, which Shane matched. The full orchestra answered the call together. The sound vibrated through the hall like a living thing, dozens of instruments aligning themselves to a single pitch. The familiarity steadied him slightly.

There was a scatter of applause as Theriault entered the stage. As tradition, Shane rose from his seat and shook the conductor’s hand before the man bowed, smiling politely at the crowd. He stood beside the podium, looking toward the stage door.

The audience’s applause swelled as Rozanov took the stage, striding up through the violin section. He stopped in front of the first stand and extended his hand to Shane. He had put his jacket on before taking the stage, and the black fabric made him seem taller somehow. His eyes were sharp, focused. Under the lights, he looked exactly like the version of him that appeared on posters and in glossy magazine interviews. The stage transformed him instantly.

Shane stood from his seat once again and took the hand, giving it a single shake. A formality. What wasn’t a formality, however, was the way Rozanov squeezed Shane’s palm.

Hard. Deliberate.

Their touch lingered for a beat longer than customary, and Shane dropped Rozanov's hand as if it had burned him, heat rushing to his face as he sat back down, heartbeat hammering in his chest. He caught the ghost of a smile on the soloist’s face, but it was quickly hidden as Rozanov turned away.

Shane stared at the corner of his sheet music, willing the flush on his cheeks to fade. The strength of the contact felt like a challenge, or maybe an invitation? Neither option settled him—both felt intentional. His fingers tingled where their skin had met and he flexed them once against the bow.

This was ridiculous. It was a handshake. People shook hands every day without a mental spiral. And yet his pulse refused to settle.

Theriault took his place and allowed a moment for Rozanov to prepare for the performance. Then, he lifted his hands, and the orchestra shifted into position to play.

A hush fell over the hall. Shane could hear his own breath and felt the breath of the entire orchestra beneath it. There was the faint click of someone adjusting a key in the woodwinds and the whisper of bow hairs settling onto strings. The first movement began quietly, the full orchestra winding the beginnings of the narrative until the solo began.

The audience held their breath every time Rozanov connected bow to string. His opening phrase unfurled across the hall, each note clear. Rozanov's sound cut through the support of the orchestra, commanding the attention of the spectators.

Shane was moving on instinct, following the cue of both the conductor and Rozanov's breathing. Despite his efforts to keep his attention on the score, Shane kept finding his attention lifting to watch Rozanov's movements instead. He played with more intensity than he had in rehearsals, spine tall and shoulders loose, his body moving freely with the music.

The piece passed in a blur of sound. Shane wondered if the audience could feel the same magnetism in Rozanov's performance as he could. There was an intimacy to Rozanov's phrasing, emotions lying vulnerable beneath the stage lights. Crescendos surged and then fell away, each shift purposeful. Powerful.

Beautiful.

Shane hated how easily the word came to mind.

He lost himself somewhere in the gentleness of the second movement, the music washing over him in waves. He forgot about the crowd, about the handshake that opened the show, about everything except the music bleeding from the stage. These were the moments he lived for, that he worked so tirelessly to achieve.

He spared a glance up at Rozanov. The soloist’s eyes had shut at some point, tempo etched into his being as the notes flowed from his instrument.

For a second, Shane forgot to play.

Not literally—his hands continued without conscious thought—but his brain stuttered over the realization that Rozanov trusted the orchestra enough to close his eyes entirely. They would match him, no matter what. That kind of trust wasn’t given lightly.

By the final movement, it felt as though Rozanov was challenging Tchaikovsky himself—driving the tempo forward, bow biting into the strings as if he was daring the music itself to outrun him. The orchestra followed him closely, electrified by the intensity. Theriault’s gestures grew sharper, larger, like a man commanding a vessel that threatened to break free.

Shane felt the push coming a fraction before it happened. Rozanov leaned forward subtly and drew in a deeper breath, and Shane adjusted without thinking, leading his section forward and ensuring a clean execution. The entire orchestra locked into the same heartbeat.

The final note rang out and hung in the air. A beat of silence passed before the hall erupted in applause. Shane let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Theriault dropped his hands and turned to Rozanov, beaming. Shane had never seen the man smile so widely. The two shook hands amid the noise. Theriault’s mouth moved, and Rozanov's shoulder shook with a laugh, both sounds swallowed by the crowd.

Rozanov shifted his attention to Shane once more, extending his hand again. Shane hesitated a fraction before standing, wondering if Rozanov's earlier grip would make a reappearance. He took Rozanov's hand, bracing himself for a squeeze that never came.

Instead, Rozanov leaned forward slightly and winked.

The gesture was so subtle that Shane wondered fleetingly if he imagined it.

Shane’s breath caught, and he released Rozanov almost too quickly, sitting back down with an outward composure that did not quite reach his now racing pulse. His skin tingled from the contact. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Rozanov turned back to the audience and offered a deep bow. The cheers amplified as Theriault cued the orchestra to stand, and they rose together, bowing in tandem.

The trembling of his fingers felt louder than the ovation. He pressed his thumb gently against the side of his index finger in a weak attempt to ground himself. No one would notice. No one ever did.

Still, he kept his gaze firmly on the polished floor of the stage as he exited, as if the swirls in the wood might explain why his pulse refused to slow.

♪

The hall felt different the following evening. Word had spread quickly after their performance last night—reviews on every Montreal news outlet of the soloist who commanded the stage and the orchestra who bent beneath him. What remained of the tickets for Sunday’s show had gone quickly. The audience was buzzing with expectation as the orchestra took the stage.

Even backstage, the shift had been noticeable.

Someone had a phone out earlier, scrolling through a review aloud while the brass section crowded around to listen. Words like electrifying and transcendent had floated through the dressing room. The critic had praised Rozanov first, naturally, but the orchestra had not been forgotten.

Shane had heard his own name mentioned once, tucked neatly inside a paragraph about the “razor-sharp leadership of concertmaster Shane Hollander.” He wished it hadn’t pleased him as much as it did, but he couldn’t fight the smile that spread across his face.

Shane could feel the anticipation the moment he sat down. He adjusted his music, acutely aware of the eyes tracking his every move. He couldn’t bear the audience much mind, however, when his thoughts were occupied by one thing: Ilya Rozanov.

It always seemed to be Rozanov nowadays.

Would he try something again, like last night? First the squeeze of his palm, then the wink… Was Rozanov purposefully trying to distract him, to throw him off his game and embarrass him in front of the crowd?

The idea irritated him, but he couldn’t shake the thought. It was ridiculous; professionals didn’t play games like this, not onstage with hundreds of eyes watching. They especially didn’t risk the cohesion of an entire orchestra for the sake of private amusement. Shane barely slept, mind looping between the tight grip, the smugness in Rozanov's eye as he winked, the certainty behind it.

He shifted in his seat, trying to ground himself in the routine. Spine straight, chin up, shoulders back. Appearances mattered on the stage. Control was important. He could be controlled. He had built a career on it.

Concertmaster wasn’t simply a musical role—it was a visual one. The audience watched him just as much as they watched the conductor. So he sat perfectly still, violin poised in his lap, as if nothing in the world had unsettled him the night before.

Rozanov's entrance drew louder applause tonight, not just appreciation but also recognition for what he could do. He followed the same path through the strings, confidence oozing, shoulders drawn back, and chin lifted high. When he reached the first stand, he did not extend his hand immediately. Instead, he seemed to study Shane for the briefest moment, eyes raking over his body as if there wasn’t an audience awaiting their performance. Like the moment belonged to them alone.

The attention sent a spark through Shane’s spine, and he reached out first, if only to make Rozanov stop looking at him like that. Their shake was brief, as last night’s should have been. No squeeze. No lingering touch. Nothing but professionalism.

Theriault wasted no time.

The opening phrases passed, and Shane’s brain continued to wander, muscle memory handling the fingerings easily. Was Rozanov watching him now, while he was focused on his music? Why did he show restraint tonight, as opposed to the last? Was it all a part of this game that Shane had found himself an unwilling participant in?

Could Shane be imagining the entire thing? Was he imagining tension where there was none, letting ego twist something harmless into something more?

That possibility unsettled him more than the alternative. If he had imagined it, then he had spent the last twenty-four hours obsessing over absolutely nothing.

Halfway through the third movement, he took a glance he hadn’t meant to. He planned to look at Theriault, but his attention was stolen immediately. Rozanov's face was focused, but there was a flash of joy in his eye as he played. The thrill of creation. It tugged unexpectedly at Shane’s chest. He knew that look. It was the look of someone alive in the moment, soul unguarded intimately.

Shane had built his talent around discipline and restraint. Passion was something you poured into the music and then left onstage when the lights dimmed. But Rozanov played as though there was no line between man and music, like there wasn’t a heavy stage door that they would retreat behind once the performance had ended. He carried his heart with him, wore it openly, as if he was inviting the audience to live it alongside him.

The longer Shane watched, the harder it became to hate the invitation. He didn’t know if he admired the courage of his boldness or feared it. Maybe both, he thought. Or maybe they were the same.

He wondered when his restraint had become a shield rather than a sword. When had discipline stopped being a tool and started becoming armor?

When the final section approached, Shane felt a tightening in his muscles that had nothing to do with tempo or stamina. He knew how this would end now: applause, standing ovations, another handshake. But he was anticipating something unknown, as well.

The last note was sharp and deliberate, a final explosion of sound. The reaction was almost immediate tonight, audience members standing, cheering, their applause crashing down onto the stage.

Theriault turned to Rozanov, laughing openly now, shaking his head as if in disbelief. They shared a few words that Shane could not hear before Rozanov turned to him once again.

This time, when Rozanov offered his hand, Shane took it without hesitation. This time, the squeeze was unmistakable. Shane pressed back, matching the pressure.

Rozanov smiled, a dazzling flash of teeth, and released him. He bowed deeply to the crowd, the applause still thundering down toward the stage. The remainder of the orchestra rose to their feet and bowed as well.

Instead of fixing his gaze on the floor, Shane glanced to his left. Hazel eyes were already waiting for him. The challenge was gone, replaced by something Shane couldn’t quite place. It seemed like recognition. Or approval. Almost like Rozanov had expected him to fall to his level, and he had.

For the first time, Shane didn’t look away.

The moment lasted only a second before they straightened, Rozanov turning back toward the audience, but it left a strange warmth simmering in Shane’s chest.

Later, following the remainder of the applause, the audience began to leave, and Shane shuffled his music together before he moved off the stage into the dressing room. The room was crowded with ensemble members in various stages of packing and undressing, and laughter and conversation bounced off the walls, overlapping chatter blending together into a familiar post-concert din. The air smelt of rosin and wood and sweat, adrenaline still clinging to their clothes.

Shane slid his violin into his case and loosened the hairs of his bow, fingers moving on muscle memory, before peeling off his jacket. Someone was complaining about their bow hand hurting, and Shane caught a whisper of someone inquiring if it would be strange for them to ask for Rozanov's autograph. Another voice asked if they should invite him to the bar. Shane hoped they wouldn’t.

A portion of the ensemble typically went out to celebrate a weekend well-played. Shane didn’t always join them; however, he was looking forward to a cold beer after the pressure of the past several days. And he was more than ready to get Rozanov off his mind.

He had just finished unwinding the screw of his bow when Hayden’s voice carried across the room.

“Rozanov, are you going to join us at the bar?”

If looks could kill, Hayden would have been vaporized on the spot from Shane’s glare. The absolute last thing he wanted was more time spent around Ilya fucking Rozanov.

Rozanov, who had been leaning against the far wall and scrolling through his phone, looked up at the question. He appeared to ponder for a moment. “Maybe. If Hollander also joins.”

Several eyes slid over to Shane. He coughed, the sound halfway between a laugh and a choke. “Since when am I a requirement?”

“Most of us will be there,” Hayden offered quickly, almost like he was apologizing for Shane’s curtness.

“I will go if Hollander goes,” Rozanov repeated. His expression remained neutral, but his eyes flicked briefly toward Shane. “I do not see appeal otherwise.”

The words landed heavier than they should have. Someone nearby snorted quietly. Shane refused to acknowledge the faint warmth that burst beneath his ribs at the implication. He busied himself in zipping his violin case, pretending not to notice the shift in attention in the room.

“I’ll try not to take offense to that,” Hayden grumbled. He turned to Shane, eyebrows raised. “Shane, you in?”

Shane weighed his options. Going home to his apartment for a quiet night suddenly sounded much more appealing than going out with Rozanov, group setting or not.

Eager eyes continued to watch the exchange. It was clear that the other musicians wanted more time to chat with the soloist, and Shane had the unfortunate position of determining if they could get that time. He hated the unspoken pressure.

Even more, he hated the knowing look on Rozanov's face.

Shane sighed in defeat and held a finger up. “One beer.”

“One always turns to two!” Hayden clapped his hands together, a bright smile on his face. “Let's hit the road.”

Shane slung his case over his shoulder and followed the group toward the exit, regret already swirling in his mind. As they filed out, he felt eyes on him, and he glanced back despite himself.

Rozanov was watching him, a faint smile tugging on the corner of his mouth, as if he had never doubted Shane’s agreement.

And somehow, Shane suspected that he hadn’t.

♪

The bar that the orchestra frequented was a short walk from the Symphony House, a hole-in-the-wall joint with jagged brick walls that always smelled of stale beer and old cigarettes. A crooked neon beer sign buzzed in the front window. It was fairly empty when they arrived, only a scatter of regulars that Shane recognized from his few other Sunday night outings.

The musicians filed in, spreading out across the bar in messy rows to place orders to the awaiting bartenders. The floor stuck faintly beneath Shane’s shoes with every step. A chalkboard above the bar advertised cheap wings that no one from the orchestra ever ordered. An old, familiar song played from the speakers mounted high in the corners, bass buzzing. The building was lit up with LED strands, casting blues and purples across the patrons.

Shane downed half of his beer the second the glass hit his fingers.

The cold bite barely registered before the alcohol settled warm in his chest. He puffed out a breath and leaned against the bar. He mentally told himself to slow down, to not treat the drink like it would fix this night, but the hum in his veins spoke louder. He finished the rest in three more swallows, empty glass hitting wood harder than necessary as he dropped his arm.

The bartender glanced at him, eyebrow lifting in mild concern as she cleared the glass away.

“Long night?” she asked.

“Something like that.”

She didn’t press. She simply wiped a ring of condensation from the bar and moved on to one of the flutists.

Across the room, Rozanov stood in a small group, absentmindedly sipping at a clear liquid in an old-fashioned glass while everyone around him chatted excitedly. He was still dressed for the concert—white shirt open at the collar where his bowtie had been, black trousers hugging low on his hips, jacket nowhere in sight. Shane supposed his change of clothes would be back at his hotel. The look should have been too formal for the shabby bar, with everyone else having dressed down, but it made something twist in Shane’s gut.

He looked good.

Shane immediately dismissed the thought, blaming the lingering adrenaline from the show, or maybe the pulsing of alcohol that had already drifted to his head. Still, his gaze lingered a second too long.

Rozanov looked entirely at ease, one elbow hooked lazily against the bar behind him while he listened to one of the cellists ramble about something. His sleeves had been pushed up to his elbows, exposing long forearms and the flex of muscle beneath pale skin every time he lifted his glass.

Shane looked away abruptly.

He ordered another beer, ignoring the triumphant grin that Hayden sent his way from the group over. The cool glass numbed his fingertips. He took a slower drink this time, letting the cheap, bitter liquid slide down his throat.

He tried to focus on the conversation around him—something about the current hockey season—but the words slid right through him. The same prickling awareness hit him, that unmistakable feeling of eyes boring into the back of his head. He shifted his weight, eyes dropping downward to his drink, before glancing over his shoulder.

Rozanov was watching him. Not casually. It was an intentional focus, pointedly ignoring the others around him while his attention honed in on Shane. He took a slow sip of his drink when Shane met his gaze, eyebrows raising slightly.

The look was unmistakably deliberate.

Shane felt jittery and exposed. It suddenly felt like they were the only two people in the room, despite the crowd in the bar. He excused himself and maneuvered through the crowd toward the restroom. Someone laughed too loudly behind him, and a hand brushed his arm in passing. Every sensation felt amplified.

The bar only had two single-occupant bathrooms, and Shane shouldered into the unoccupied one without much thought. The door locked with a dull thud, muffling the bar’s noise. He leaned against the counter and eyed himself in the mirror, taking in the flush of his cheeks and his dilated pupils. The grey-green lighting made him look sickly.

“Get it together,” he muttered to himself, clutching at the edge of the sink.

His mind betrayed him. Rozanov had been watching him with the same intensity of a predator monitoring their prey, like Shane was a meal to be devoured. The thought made him shiver. With each blink, he was met with the memory of Rozanov standing there, the lift of his drink, the curl of his long fingers around the glass, the cling of moisture to his lip as the cup was lowered—

Shane turned on the tap and rubbed chilled water over his face. It did nothing to quell the simmering heat beneath his skin. His reflection stared back at him, jaw tight.

A knock startled him.

“Just a second,” he called, heartbeat in his throat. He took another breath, drying his hands on his pants before moving to open the door. He opened his mouth to apologize to the person waiting, but instead made a sound of surprise as a hand on his chest pushed him back into the bathroom, door falling shut, followed by the heavy click of the lock.

Rozanov nonchalantly leaned back against the door. The pale light of the bathroom danced in shadows across every slope of his skin—the hollow of his cheeks, his sharp jaw, his infuriatingly moist lips.

For a second, neither of them spoke. The cramped bathroom suddenly felt much smaller with Rozanov inside it.

“What…” Shane’s voice was too thin. He cleared his throat. “What are you doing?”

Rozanov just shrugged.

The casualness sparked something in Shane’s chest. He was acting as if cornering Shane in a locked bathroom was the most natural thing in the world. As if there was nowhere else he could be in this moment. As if he hadn’t upended Shane’s thought pattern in a matter of weeks.

The fuse burned short.

“Seriously, Rozanov? First you—” Shane gestured wildly between them. “You come into my rehearsal and fuck with me, you call me out in front of my ensemble, you—” Shane made a frustrated noise, turning away from the other. “You messed with me at the concert, and then you forced my hand to come out to this fucking bar, and now you’re cornering me—”

He cut off abruptly as Rozanov gripped Shane’s jaw, his other hand finding his waist. His thumb pressed just beneath his lip, not gentle, but certainly not rough, as he turned his face from side to side, assessing him. Shane fought the urge to shudder under the gaze.

The contact was shockingly steady. Rozanov’s fingers were warm, calloused from years of playing, the pressure of them grounding Shane in place before he could even think about pulling away.

A slow, agonizing minute passed by as the two just stared at one another. The only sounds were the muted thud of the music, the murmur of conversation through the walls, and Shane’s heavy breathing. Rozanov's touch remained, steadying Shane against his better judgment. It felt like a boundary was being prodded at.

“I want you,” Rozanov said, voice low and accent thick, “on your knees for me.” He did not let go of Shane’s face.

Shane laughed sharply, defensive. “You are unbelievable.”

It didn’t sound nearly as dismissive as he meant it to. Because beneath the indignation, there was something else coiling in his stomach—something hot and electric. The boundary line was quickly becoming very, very blurry.

Rozanov shrugged again. “Maybe.” He tapped his forefinger against Shane’s cheek. “I think you like it, though.” His eyes lingered on Shane’s mouth when he said it.

God. Maybe he did like it. If he were to be asked, Shane would blame the thrum of alcohol in his veins for the shot of desire that fired through him. But he’d be lying.

Shane’s pulse hammered in his ears as he shifted on his feet. The rough edge of the sink dug into his back as Rozanov crowded closer, their bodies inches apart in the cramped space. This close, Shane could smell Rozanov's cologne—something woody and sharp that made Shane’s head spin with each breath. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of Rozanov's mouth, his lips curved with a knowing smile.

Rozanov's hand slid to the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his hair, holding him in place. Shane’s breath caught traitorously, a shiver running down his spine as Rozanov's thumb brushed against the sensitive skin just below his ear. He leaned in despite himself, lips parting on an exhale.

Rozanov moved his hand to cup his jaw then, and his thumb brushed along Shane’s bottom lip, coaxing his mouth open further. Without thinking, Shane brought the digit into his mouth.

There was a victorious flash in Rozanov's eyes. “Hollander,” he purred.

Shane’s cheeks hollowed as he sucked once, twice, and suddenly, Rozanov was extracting his thumb and replacing it with his mouth. Shane shuddered and curled his fingers into the other’s shirt, leaning closer. He gave access instantly when Rozanov nipped at his bottom lip, moaning weakly as their tongues slid together. Rozanov tasted like vodka and lime and a note of tobacco.

Despite himself, Shane’s hands roamed up Rozanov's torso, bunching the crisp fabric of his shirt as he tried to get impossibly closer. Rozanov angled Shane’s head to his whim to deepen the kiss further. Shane went easily with a whine, body arching into the touch. Their hips rocked together.

Rozanov broke the kiss first, nudging Shane’s head to the side as he pressed open-mouthed kisses across his jaw and down his neck.

“Fuck,” Shane whined as teeth grazed against his pulse point. “No marks.”

Rozanov hummed in disappointment, and he licked his way back up to Shane’s ear. “Do not want everyone to know their concertmaster was good for me?” His voice rumbled against Shane’s skull.

Shane’s cheeks flushed, hips bucking forward involuntarily. He faintly registered a hand carding through his hair, and he gasped as Rozanov tugged his head backwards, exposing his neck more.

“A shame,” Rozanov conceded, pressing a kiss to his Adam’s apple. “You would look pretty with them.” Then he took Shane’s mouth again.

Shane mumbled out a “Please” against his lips, not sure what he was even asking for. Rozanov seemed to understand anyway, leaning back as his gaze flicked downward.

Shane’s chest heaved, mouth swollen and slick from the kisses. He could feel the damp spot that was already soaking into his underwear, arousal impossible to hide as Rozanov cupped his hand over his crotch.

“You want to suck me off, Hollander?”

Shane swallowed, eyes slowly traveling back up to his face. “You really want me to suck your dick in a nasty bar bathroom?”

Frowning in consideration, Rozanov looked around. “It is not that nasty. So, yes.” His grip tightened in Shane’s hair, making his breath hitch lightly. With that, Rozanov guided Shane down to his knees, gently but firmly. Shane went willingly, hands coming up to steady himself on Rozanov's thighs.

Shane fumbled with the clasp of Rozanov's pants, sliding the fabric down to expose his cock pressing against the fabric of his briefs. Shane leaned forward and mouthed the outline of the half-hard cock before dragging his tongue across the fabric, earning a hard exhale. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Rozanov's underwear and tugged them down, freeing his erection.

Rozanov fisted the base of his cock, tapping the head against Shane’s bottom lip and effectively smearing precum across it. “Open.”

Shane obeyed, licking the salt from his lip before wrapping his lips around the tip, sucking gently and taking in more as Rozanov exhaled above him. He gripped Rozanov's hips to pull him closer, hollowing his cheeks as his head bobbed. He worked his tongue along the underside, drawing out low groans from Rozanov. He took him deeper with each pass, relaxing his throat to swallow more of his cock. Rozanov’s fingers tightened in Shane’s hair, guiding him.

Shane’s own cock strained painfully against his pants, and he was so turned on that he felt himself leaking steadily. He reached down to palm himself through the fabric, rubbing in time with the bobs of his head, chasing his own desire.

Suddenly, Rozanov thrusted shallowly into the wet heat of Shane’s mouth. It was unexpected, and it made Shane gag, but he didn’t pull off. He looked up at Rozanov through his lashes. The hand that wasn’t fisted in Shane’s hair was white-knuckling the edge of the sink, and his mouth was hanging open slightly around his moans. As best he could, Shane nodded once. Permission.

“Fuck,” Rozanov spat out as he smirked wickedly, and both hands were suddenly on Shane’s head, holding him still as he thrust into his mouth again. Shane gagged again, lighter this time, and shifted on his knees to tilt his head back further, allowing easier access into his throat. Rozanov took it the same way he took the stage: as if it always belonged to him.

The thought pulled another splurt of precum out of Shane.

Shane blindly fumbled with his pants until he could reach a hand past his waistband. His fingers curled around his own cock, and he traced around the head to gather the wetness before stroking himself. He moaned around Rozanov.

“Greedy, Hollander,” Rozanov hummed. He pulled back then, cock slipping from Shane’s lips with a wet pop. A string of spit connected them. Shane swallowed down a breath. His lips and chin were covered in saliva, and he used the back of his free hand to wipe at it, only serving to smear the mess more.

Rozanov cursed under his breath and hauled Shane up by his arms, shoving at his clothing until his pants and underwear sat just below his ass, exposing his cock fully. Rozanov took him in hand and swiped his thumb across the head to ease the glide before he stroked him base to tip. Shane couldn’t hold back his noises, desperate whimpers falling straight into Rozanov's warm mouth as they crashed back together in a heated kiss that was far more teeth and tongue than before.

Then Rozanov grabbed Shane’s hand, bringing it between them. Together, they curled their hands around both of their dicks, grip slick with precum. Shane dropped his head onto Rozanov's shoulder and panted as he watched their hands fist smoothly over their cocks, the combined heat and friction building relentlessly. Rozanov pressed his nose against the shell of Shane’s ear, breath hot and ragged as his hips bucked into the tight hold. Shane’s thighs trembled on a particularly tight upstroke, heat collecting low and hot in his belly. His free hand clutched at Rozanov's shoulder, nails digging into as the pressure built.

“Come for me,” Rozanov growled against Shane’s ear, and the command shattered what was left of Shane’s control. A thumb brushed over his sensitive head, and he spilled hot over their fingers first, his release triggering Rozanov’s own soon after, cum mixing across their knuckles. They stayed locked like that for a minute, panting, before Rozanov pulled back slightly, wiping their combined mess on the tail of Shane’s shirt with a smug grin. It dragged damply across the fabric, leaving a darkened smear that Shane only registered faintly.

Shane licked his lips, dazed and sated. “You’re an asshole.” If he were more coherent, he would have smacked him.

“What? My shirt is nicer than yours,” Rozanov said with a shrug, stepping aside and using his clean hand to turn on the tap and gather soap in his palm before washing up. The water ran loudly in the small bathroom, drowning out the distant thump of music through the walls. For a moment, Shane just stood there, watching the way Rozanov scrubbed his hands like this was the most normal interaction in the world.

Once he finished, Shane moved in front of the sink to wash his hands as well. He took note of himself in the mirror as he pulled his pants back up. His cheeks were a different kind of flush, one of arousal rather than the alcohol. His hair was sticking up oddly, and he attempted to flatten the offending strands with his wet hands.

The mirror above the sink was slightly warped, the kind that made the reflection just a little off if you stared long enough to care. Shane leaned closer anyway, trying to smooth out the worst of his appearance. His collar had twisted sideways at some point, and there was a wrinkle in the shape of Rozanov’s fist from where he had pushed him against the sink.

Rozanov snickered beside him. “You look like you have been licked by a cow.”

Shane let his hands fall, meeting Rozanov's eyes in the mirror. He didn’t look nearly as disheveled as Shane felt, only a hint of redness at the base of his neck being the only implication they had done anything at all. He had retucked his shirt in perfectly, cuffs still rolled in even folds, posture straight like he’d just stepped out of rehearsal rather than ravage someone in the bathroom.

“Maybe if somebody didn’t use my hair like a stress ball, it wouldn’t look like I just got off in the bathroom.”

Rozanov shrugged. “You liked it.”

It wasn’t a question. Shane rolled his eyes. He turned his attention back to himself in the mirror, smoothing his hands over his clothes. His pulse had finally started to settle, but there was still a stranger buzzing under his skin. He couldn’t decide if it was the alcohol, the adrenaline, or the fact that ten minutes ago he had been pinned against the sink by the most aggravating violinist on the planet. Possibly all three.

He tugged his shirt down, then frowned at the faint wrinkle pattern that had formed. There was also the stain that had already settled into the fabric. He tucked his shirt in to hide it without a second thought. God, he hoped no one in the orchestra was paying close attention tonight.

Suddenly, Rozanov held out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

“What?”

“You have a phone? Give.”

Shane pulled his phone from his pocket and unlocked it, passing it over to Rozanov. Their fingers brushed briefly in the exchange, and Shane pulled his hand back faster than necessary. Rozanov tapped around for a minute before handing it back, his own phone pinging as Shane took it.

“We will text.”

Shane felt his cheeks heat slightly, the thought of texting Rozanov flustering him. “Oh. Okay.”

The idea landed strangely. This hadn’t exactly felt like the kind of interaction that led to exchanging numbers. Shane thought it was more of a reckless, one-time lapse of judgment that they would both pretend never happened once they walked out the door. Apparently, Rozanov had other ideas. His expression held the faintest hint of amusement, as though he could see the gears turning in Shane’s head and was enjoying every second of it.

Rozanov studied him for a moment before nodding. “You leave first. I will give you head start.”

Shane blinked. “What, so it doesn’t look suspicious?”

“Yes,” Rozanov said plainly. As if he’d done this a million other times.

Shane huffed a quiet laugh, the absurdity of the situation settling over him all at once. He mumbled his thanks and gave himself one last once over in the mirror to make sure he looked moderately presentable before sliding past Rozanov, unlocking the door, and exiting the bathroom. The noise of the bar rushed back in immediately. It felt strangely bright after the dim light of the bathroom.

He paused for half a second in the hallway, forcing his breathing to regulate before stepping back into the crowd. He slipped back into his spot at the counter and picked up his forgotten beer, taking a long sip. The bitterness settled him none.

A couple of people were still clustered near the far end of the bar, laughing too loudly and talking even louder. Everything looked the same as when Shane had left, which somehow made the last handful of minutes even more surreal. No one seemed to notice Shane’s return, or maybe they never even noticed his departure. He didn’t really care.

Across the room, the bathroom door opened a minute later. Rozanov stepped out, looking perfectly composed, possibly even more put together than before he entered the bathroom at all. Shane’s eyes tracked him as he walked through the crowd to rejoin the conversation he had abandoned earlier. Someone handed Rozanov a drink as he approached, and he accepted it easily, slipping right back into the circle of musicians as if he’d never left.

He scanned the room briefly before his eyes landed on Shane. Just for a second. Shane broke eye contact, staring down at his beer instead.

Shane’s phone buzzed in his pocket suddenly, and he fished it out to glance at the screen.

ROZANOV: your hair still looks like shit

Shane snorted quietly into his drink. Unbelievable.

HOLLANDER: Next time I’ll bring a comb.

He hit send before he could think better of it. Then he took another drink, trying very hard not to look across the bar again.

♪

They didn’t text.

Rozanov's phone number sat in Shane’s contact list like a powder keg about to explode. He never dared to touch it, afraid of the blast. The contact stared back at him every time he scrolled past it, bare and unused, the message thread beneath it empty except for that single exchange from the bar.

What would he even say? What would it mean if Rozanov answered? Would they end up having a normal conversation, or would he be met with flirtatious teasing? Even worse, what if he went ignored?

Despite the worries, he still found himself checking his phone every moment he could. Every ping or vibration sent a jolt through his chest, only to be left disappointed when it wasn’t Rozanov's name that greeted him. Spam emails. Group chats from the orchestra. His mother reminding him to call. Anything but the one person he was hoping for.

The Orchestra’s spring season wrapped up in June, bringing on a lull in Shane’s usual schedule. The sudden openness in his schedule felt strange after months of structure. He still attended their regular rehearsals, but without concerts weekends dotting his calendar, he had more free time to just exist. He caught up with old friends, took a few weekend trips to Ottawa to see his parents. Life kept moving.

But at night, he found himself thinking about the way Rozanov's hands felt on him, the guiding grip in his hair, the slickness of his lips. It always happened when he was trying not to think about it. Late nights after practicing, when his muscles still hummed with residual tension. Quiet moments lying in bed after dinner, when the apartment felt too still. One thought would slip in—a flash of brown hair and sharp, hazel eyes—and suddenly he was back in that fucking bar bathroom with Rozanov pressed too close.

Thinking about it drove him insane, and he felt even crazier when he’d get off on the memory, biting into his fist to muffle his sounds.

Sometimes he would lie awake afterwards, staring at the ceiling, chest tight with shame. He told himself he was only hung up on it because of the recklessness of the night. A lapse of judgment, that’s what it was. His mind refused to listen, replaying not only his touch but his eyes, the way he gazed at Shane like it meant something more than a brief bathroom hookup.

It got easier to ignore the ache as time moved on. By July, he had accepted the silence as an answer. Whatever sparked between them in February had burned out as quickly as it had flared.

Shane was halfheartedly practicing in his living room, midway through Beethoven’s Fifth, when his phone pinged with a message. He finished the phrase before laying his bow on the stand and reaching for it, nearly dropping the device when he saw Rozanov's name on his lockscreen. He swallowed before swiping on the message to unlock the phone.

ROZANOV: august 19th

Shane blinked at the brief message, questions immediately swirling in his head. There was no context. No greeting. No explanation. Just a date. He swiped over to the calendar. That was five Saturdays from now. It felt like an invitation. He returned to the message thread, fingers unsteady.

HOLLANDER: You’ll be in Montreal?

ROZANOV: yes. masterclass

The thought of Rozanov instructing a room full of violinists coaxed a quiet huff of laughter from Shane. Sounded like a nightmare for all of those involved. His phone beeped as another message came in.

ROZANOV: you should come. might learn something.

HOLLANDER: As if.

Shane worried his bottom lip between his teeth, thinking. There was no way he would give Rozanov the satisfaction of seeing him seated among a crowd of musicians, just another face hoping to absorb his brilliance from proximity alone. He could already picture the smug look.

And yet.

The chance to see him again tugged hard.

Shane stared at his phone for another five minutes, waiting for the three dots to appear and indicate that he was messaging back. The device sat in his hand long after the screen dimmed, and he tapped it awake every few seconds, as if that might make another message appear. He wanted Rozanov to admit that he wanted to see Shane, that he missed him even half as much as Shane missed him.

Another text never came, and disappointment swirled deep in Shane’s gut. He dropped his phone back onto the table and picked up his bow. The opening notes of Beethoven felt harsher when he resumed, the bow biting far too harshly into the strings before he forced himself to relax.

♪

Shane didn’t go to the masterclass. He just happened to be at the building, loitering outside the university’s largest music room at the same time that the masterclass was scheduled. It was a coincidence. He left his violin at home. Very deliberately.

The masterclass was supposed to end at six. Shane’s watch told him it was 6:15. He hovered near the door and watched as groups of musicians filtered out of the room, mixtures of praises and curses leaving their lips as they finished their time being under Rozanov's wing. Most of them carried violins, cases slung over their backs. Some looked exhilarated, others slightly shell-shocked. He couldn’t blame them.

By 6:30, the trickle of musicians had slowed to a stop. Shane took a deep breath for courage before kicking off the wall and moving to the door. His hand hovered over the handle for a second too long. He told himself he could still leave.

He didn’t.

Inside, the room was in a general state of disarray from the three-hour class, with stands scattered and chairs askew. There were quite a few more spectator seats than Shane was expecting, despite seeing the throngs of people leaving the hall in the past half-hour. Two young musicians were still there, flanking either side of a tall man at the front of the room.

Ilya Rozanov.

Shane had only seen him in photos in articles that crossed his feed over the past few months, commending him on the completion of his solo tour and announcements of upcoming plans.

None of them did him justice, of course. The sight of him sent a familiar jolt through Shane, sharp and unwelcome. He had let his hair grow over the past several months, unruly curls now licking at the base of his neck. He wore a dark, fitted sweater, sleeves pushed up to expose strong forearms, and he gestured widely as he spoke, attention focused wholly on the students in front of him.

Shane took a seat near the door, choosing it specifically so he could have an escape route if—when—he finally deemed this a mistake. He forced his posture to be loose, as casual as he could, as if he hadn’t been overthinking this interaction all morning.

He watched as Rozanov helped correct posture and adjust finger placements. One of the students stood with her violin tucked under her chin while Rozanov gently repositioned her wrist, tapping the back of her hand until her fingers curved properly over the fingerboard. He mumbled something about bowing, the sound lost at Shane’s distance.

At one point, he picked up his instrument and demonstrated a phrase of Mozart’s third violin concerto with the same infuriating ease that he usually played with. The sound blossomed through the room and lodged itself below Shane’s ribs like a bruise. Even in an empty lecture hall, Rozanov played like he was onstage. The notes rang clear and effortless, phrases shaped with quiet confidence.

Eventually, after thanking him profusely, the students gathered their things and exited the hall.

Shane remained seated, suddenly realizing how large the room felt with just the two of them occupying it. He debated leaving and pretending he had never been here at all.

Rozanov turned, and his eyes found Shane immediately. He smiled, though it wasn’t the smug one Shane was afraid of confronting. It was relaxed, almost relieved.

“You did not want to learn from me?” Rozanov questioned as he approached.

“There’s nothing you could teach me,” Shane answered with a shrug, hoping his voice was level enough to mask his nerves.

Rozanov quirked an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. Shane did not look at how his arms bulged in his sweater. “Nothing? Are you sure, Hollander?”

Shane nodded, slowly. His throat felt tight. He didn’t trust his words.

Rozanov chuckled and nudged Shane’s knee to the side with his own, stepping into the area between his legs. “Then why are you here?”

Shane stayed silent for a moment, leaning back in the chair to look up at Rozanov. He searched for a flippant reply, the true answer seeming too vulnerable. “Emotional support. For any students that you traumatized.”

“How generous,” Rozanov replied. His hand settled onto Shane’s shoulder, and he leaned down further into Shane’s space. “Give me a real reason.”

Despite himself, Shane found his gaze dropping to Rozanov's lips. His heart leapt in his chest as the thought of those heart-shaped lips occupying his own crossed his mind. Shane swallowed. “Maybe I missed you.”

“I see,” Rozanov said, voice soft. “Maybe I missed you, too.”

He closed the gap between them, capturing Shane’s mouth in a kiss. It felt different than their kiss in the bar bathroom—slow, deliberate. Sweeter. Shane fought the urge to chase Rozanov's mouth as they parted.

“Come back to hotel?” Rozanov questioned.

Shane hesitated for a breath before nodding.

Rozanov smiled before standing fully and going to gather his belongings. He packed his violin carefully into its case, movements unhurried. He glanced back once, eyes warm and pleased, as if he’d never doubted Shane would be there at all.

♪

Shane offered to drive them to the hotel, since he had driven to the university anyway, and the Jeep had a full tank. And because he needed something to occupy his mind until they could get there. And his hands.

On the contrary, Rozanov didn’t take his hands off of Shane the entire ride, abusing the privilege of riding as a passenger. He ran his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, skimmed his knuckles over his cheek, and let his hand fall to squeeze his warm palm against Shane’s thigh. The teasing touches sent sparks of desire racing through Shane’s body, making it virtually impossible to focus on the road.

By the time he parked and they stumbled their way into the building, Shane was almost fully hard, cock straining achingly against the zipper of his jeans.

It was a nice hotel. If Shane wasn’t so turned on, he might have taken the time to comment on it out loud.

They barely made it through the lobby without drawing attention, Rozanov’s arm slung possessively around Shane’s waist, guiding him toward the elevator. He immediately crowded Shane against the wall of the elevator when the doors slid shut behind them, his mouth crashing down on his. Shane groaned into the kiss, hands fisting in Rozanov’s shirt.

Rozanov broke off, and Shane’s breath hitched as lips brushed against the sensitive spot below his ear, shivers racing down his spine as teeth grazed lightly across the skin. Rozanov pulled at Shane’s shirt, just enough to untuck the front of it from his jeans. Without the confines of the car, his hands roamed freely, skating upward to press at his pecs, tracing the ridge of his abs, curling around his hip to pull him closer.

The elevator dinged softly at their floor, but neither of them moved for a moment. Rozanov traced up Shane’s carotid with his tongue, then nipped at his earlobe. Shane huffed out a breath and fisted his hand in Rozanov's sweater, steering him toward the hallway. Rozanov fumbled with his keycard when they arrived at the door with Shane pressed up against his back, all but shoving him against the wood as if their atoms would align just right and they’d phase through into the room instead. The light finally flicked green on the third attempt, and Shane reached around Rozanov to shove the door open so they could tumble into the room.

The switch on the wall clicked beneath Rozanov's finger, flooding the space in dim light. A king-sized bed dominated the room, sheets crisp white and pillows stacked high. The far wall, past the wide threshold into the rest of the suite, had floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a view of Montreal spread out below them.

Shane barely had time to take in the sight before Rozanov was on him again, walking him toward the bed with a series of searing kisses. His knees hit the edge of the bed, and he allowed himself to fall backwards onto the mattress, pulling Rozanov with him. Their mouths crashed together, hot and slick as their tongues met. Hands shoved at clothing—Shane pushing Rozanov’s sweater up his toned chest and Rozanov fumbling with the buttons of Shane’s shirt.

Rozanov pushed Shane down onto the mattress and crawled over him with a predatory gaze, lips trailing down his neck to his collarbone. Shane arched up, gasping wetly as Rozanov laved his tongue over his nipple before sucking hard enough to draw a moan. Hands roamed lower, unbuckling Shane’s belt with deft fingers and yanking his pants open to free his cock. Precum was already beading at the tip, and Rozanov licked his lips before leaning down, taking Shane into his mouth in one smooth motion.

“Fuck, Rozanov—” Shane's hips bucked, fingers threading through Rozanov's hair as the wet heat enveloped him, tongue pressing flat against the underside while lips sealed tight. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard, drawing out curses and pleas from Shane's lips.

After a minute, Shane shoved weakly at Rozanov’s head. “Stop, I’m gonna—Shit, don’t want to come yet.”

For a second, he was afraid Rozanov was going to continue and push him off the edge without a care, but he finally pulled off with a wet pop, just as Shane’s toes had started to curl from pleasure.

They both stared at one another for a moment, eyes raking over lean muscle and flushed skin, until Rozanov lifted a finger, twirling it in the air. Shane rolled over onto his stomach immediately. Rozanov leaned over him, mouth finding his shoulder, kissing and nipping along the line of his spine, mapping out his skin. Instinctively, Shane arched his back, pushing his ass up.

Rozanov pressed a hot kiss to the base of his spine before he stepped away to search through his suitcase. A bottle of lube and a condom packet hit the sheets beside Shane’s knee.

“Anticipated this, huh?” Shane's voice was unsteady.

“Of course,” Rozanov responded as he sidled back behind Shane, grabbing the lube and popping the bottle open to coat his fingers. “But in my head, I was able to be your teacher before we got here. Like, ah… Roleplay.”

Shane rolled his eyes, despite the fact that Rozanov couldn’t see his face. “I told you there is nothing you can teach me.”

Rozanov just hummed in response before grabbing at his ass, non-sticky fingers spreading his cheeks apart, before his lubed finger prodded at his entrance. He stroked over the muscle slowly, methodically, pulling a full-body shudder from Shane.

Shane’s head flopped downward, forehead pressing into the curve of his elbow. “Come on, Rozanov.”

“I do not think you are in a position to demand things of me,” Rozanov replied, but he relented, finger finally pressing inward.

Shane sighed at the intrusion, knees sliding further apart as Rozanov slid a second finger in beside the first. He made slow work of opening him up, as if he wouldn’t rather be anywhere else, dragging languid moans out of Shane as his fingers teased and spread. “Fuck, you—” Shane whined pathetically as Rozanov's fingers crooked, searching. “You’re good at that.”

“I have a lot of experience in fingering, Hollander.”

Shane spared a look over his shoulder. “Was that a music joke?”

Rozanov's eyes slowly pulled away from where his fingers were buried inside of him, eyebrow cocked. “No.” His expression morphed into smugness as his fingers twisted just right, brushing up past Shane’s prostate, making his vision blur.

“Fuck,” Shane cried, melting back into the sheets.

Rozanov crooked his fingers deeper, pressing relentlessly over the sensitive spot. Shane’s body trembled as pressure built low in his gut, hips stuttering forward into the sheets with each thrust of Rozanov's hand. Precum smeared across the fabric beneath him, but the slick glide wasn’t enough. A needy, low moan fell from Shane’s mouth as Rozanov added a third finger, stretching Shane wider, the burn lost to pleasure.

Rozanov continued fucking his fingers into him until Shane’s cock was steadily leaking precum into the sheets. “Rozanov,” Shane gasped, pushing his hips backwards to meet his hand. “Please, I need—” He cut off with a sharp whimper as Rozanov thrust his fingers again.

“Tell me what you need.”

“You.”

He was met with a low sound from Rozanov, a bit too animalistic to be categorized as a hum, before he extracted his fingers. Shane focused on his breathing as he listened to the crinkle of a condom packet and the slick sound of smeared lube.

“Mmm. Roll over. On your back. I would like to see you.”

Shane was grateful for the command, finally able to take in the sight of the other man. Rozanov's hair was tousled and his lips swollen, a delicious flush spreading down his neck. His eyes burned into Shane’s, pupils blown with desire. He leaned down, capturing Shane’s mouth in another deep kiss as he grappled with Shane’s legs, bending them upwards. Shane obediently wrapped his hands around the back of his own thighs.

Rozanov gripped Shane’s hip tightly with one hand, thumbs digging into flesh, the other hand pressed into the mattress as he slowly pushed forward. Shane’s head fell back against the sheets. The stretch was intense, delicious, and Rozanov continued to push inward until he bottomed out. He stilled for a moment, thumb rubbing soothing circles into Shane’s side.

At the first few thrusts, Shane squeezed his eyes shut, lips parted on shaky exhales. His hands clutched helplessly at the sheets, desperate for a tether to keep him grounded.

Rozanov rolled his hips, thrusting slow and deep. The hand that was caressing his hip slid up his torso, groping lewdly at his body before ultimately cupping his cheek. “Open your eyes.”

Shane complied, vision slightly blurred by the wetness clinging to his eyelashes. He didn’t know when he had begun to tear up.

Rozanov's thumb wiped beneath his eye. “Okay?”

“Yes.” Shane’s voice broke on a weak moan as Rozanov pulled out almost completely before sliding back home. Rozanov's hand found Shane’s cock, swiping his thumb over his wet tip.

“You are like a string tuned too tight, Hollander. Relax.” He paused, gaze lifting to meet his eyes. He smiled. “That was a music joke.”

Shane rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to retort, but the sound caught in his throat as Rozanov's hips snapped forward again.

Rozanov found a rhythm quickly, hips snapping forward and bottoming out with each push, cock driving against Shane’s prostate. Shane’s hands clutched at Rozanov's shoulders, nails digging into skin as his body arched upward to meet Rozanov's hips. Rozanov's hand tightened around Shane’s cock, stroking him in firm pulls in time with his thrusts.

Shane gasped wetly, pleasure building like a crescendo. “Rozanov—Ilya, fuck—I’m close,” he panted.

Rozanov answered with a low growl, fucking into him harder. Shane came undone on a tight upstroke on his cock, spurting hot over Rozanov’s first with a shattered moan, eyes screwing shut again as his hole clenched around Rozanov's cock. The pressure pulled Rozanov over the edge as well, and he buried himself deep into Shane, groaning as he pulsed inside.

They collapsed together, sweaty and spent, Rozanov's full weight falling onto Shane as they caught their breath. After a moment, Rozanov pulled out carefully, tying off the condom and tossing it to the side before falling back to the sheets, tangling his limbs with Shane’s. “Not bad, concertmaster.”

Shane smacked his chest, color rising to his cheeks. “Don’t call me that after we just fucked.”

“Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry at all. He grabbed Shane’s wrist and pulled at it. Shane stared at him. He yanked again, then again, eyebrows raised, until Shane finally relented and clambered on top of him, long limbs curling in to straddle Rozanov's waist.

Rozanov smiled up at him lazily. “Encore?”