Chapter Text
Ilya had left Detroit with only the essentials stowed away in the saddle bags of his 1991 Sportster. He knew he paid more for the bike than it was probably worth. It was as old as he was. Perhaps that is why he picked it. A thirty-five year old motorcycle was an antique, even in great condition. At the same age, many would have called him young. He didn’t feel that way anymore. It was time for him and the bike to be retired. Both only had to get a little further down the road before they could rest.
It was a pretty bike. The seat was real leather, buttery soft in texture and still shiny. The fuel tank was a deep maroon. Not flashy but noticeable. The chrome was absolutely pristine. He figured the price of the bike meant that a lot of work had gone into maintaining or restoring it. He paid cash for the motorcycle at a certified Harley-Davidson dealership in Farmington Hills. He left his car parked in front and rode the bike off the lot. An international road trip seemed like a nice idea. Ilya had his plans but he was determined to take his time on the road and enjoy as much of it as possible.
Which is why he cursed himself when, four hours into his leisurely ride, the bike started making noises. He had made it to Ontario without issue but as he progressed up Hwy 401, the bike struggled to get up to speed. Each time Ilya tried to accelerate, he was answered with a choking sound from the exhaust. He checked his fuel gauge– the tank was full. Everything, as far as he would tell, was in working order. Even the radiator was not indicating an overheat.
The bike still moved just fine but kicked and choked when he hit the gas. The speed that followed felt delayed and unsteady. What a waste of money, he thought to himself. But it wouldn’t matter soon anyway. As the motorcycle gasped and gulped beneath him, he noticed exit signs for Paris and London. Sure. The plan was to get on the highway and drive north east until… But that wasn’t really a plan, at all. More just a rough idea.
Trees replaced the city skyline and bike was still complaining. This had been a somewhat impulsive decision, all told. He left work that afternoon, drove to Farmington Hills, bought the bike, and hit the road. He hadn’t even taken it for a test ride before. There was no need to overthink this. But he was slowing down on the road and the choking sound from the exhaust was joined by a knocking noise somewhere in the bike’s interior. Fuck.
The sun was setting but on the shoulder of the road he spotted “Hollander’s Motorcycle Repair: Domestic, foreign, and antique” on a small plastic sign. Beneath the text, he saw scanned logos for BMW, Ducati, Toyota, Yamaha, Campagna, and thankfully, Harley-Davidson. He took the next exit. The shop was to the right of the ramp. Advantageous.
To call it a shop was generous. Hollander’s looked like a beat up shack attached to a large open garage. There was a single wide beige trailer behind the garage. The sky was dark. As Ilya pulled into the gravel drive of the repair shop, he spotted the closed sign on the door of the shack. Yeah. It was a Friday night. Why would it be open? Just because Ilya needed it? He needed a lot of things and at this point, he was used to going without.
He parked the bike and popped out the kickstand. He didn’t want to wait until the morning but would walk to a hotel if he had to. Beyond the garage, Ilya saw the lights were on in the trailer. Maybe the guy would let him pay too much to fix the bike that he had just paid too much money to buy. It’s not like he would need to save money and the mechanic could clearly make better use of it.
He walked over and knocked on the screen door of the trailer. A man answered the door but he looked nothing like Ilya had expected. In his mind, a mechanic was old… weather beaten and maybe even a little fat. Mechanics wore coveralls and had thick foxtail mustaches and smelled like gasoline and motor oil. In truth, Ilya didn’t know where he had gotten this idea from. He had never met a mechanic first hand. When he brought his car in for maintenance, he dropped it off at the front and checked in with reception.
“What’s up, buddy?” The man said to him as he opened the interior door. He kept the screen door shut.
The man wasn’t old. He looked to be Ilya’s age but it was hard to tell. His Ducati t-shirt was bright white and a little baggy. He had a lot of tattoos which did fit with Ilya’s stereotypical vision of a wrench jockey. Everything else looked wrong.
“Hey, my bike is making this choking noise and,”
“Sorry. I would be happy to help you in the morning. We open at seven,” The mechanic went to shut the door.
“It’s just that I don’t want to ride with it sounding like that!”
“Yeah? Then don’t do that.” The mechanic said dismissively. “See you at seven!”
He shut the door. Ilya knocked again on the metal frame of the screen door.
“I said seven!” The mechanic yelled from inside.
“I can pay you!”
“I’d hope so. That’s how I stay in business!”
Ilya knocked once more. The man opened the door again.
“What is—” The man started.
“No. I can pay you. A lot. Name your price. I just need to get back on the road.”
“Seven,” The man repeated.
The man was large. He was not excessively tall yet Ilya noticed that his body was muscular and lean. Ilya wondered if he worked out on his own or if he looked like that because his job was so physically demanding. And fuck, he smelled good. The mechanic didn’t smell like one. He smelled like clean laundry and cheap, fragrant shampoo. His hair looked damp. Ilya bet he had just showered. The thought alone made his mouth water.
“Ok, can I ask a favor then?” Ilya pleaded.
“Sure,” The man seemed to genuinely relent.
“Can I get a ride? I saw there is a hotel nearby,”
“I can’t help you there,”
“Can’t or won’t?” Ilya pressed.
“Can’t. I can’t drive at night.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Never mind. I’ll get an uber or something,”
“Good luck,” The mechanic chuckled.
“No ubers here?”
The man shook his head.
“I am guessing there are no taxis either?
“Nope,”
The two men looked at one another for a moment. Ilya tried to think of some other solution. There had to be some place he could go until the morning. Seven a.m. would come soon enough and then he would be done with this place.
“Is there maybe a train station? Or a bus line?” Ilya asked.
“Look around,” The mechanic gestured. “This is Harrisburg. People pass through. Nobody comes here on purpose.”
“I did,” Ilya offered.
“Why did you come here, then?”
“To get the bike fixed,” Ilya admitted. “I saw your sign by the exit while I was on Highway 401,”
The man in the trailer considered this for a while. He pursed his lips like he knew he was about to do something foolish. He opened the screen door and Ilya stepped away from the doorstep.
“I have a couch,” He said gently. “You can sleep here tonight and I will look at your bike in the morning,”
Ilya was taken aback by the offer. He didn’t know how to respond so for several seconds, he didn’t.
“I’m Shane,” The man reached out to shake his hand. “What’s your name?”
Ilya stayed silent.
“If you are going to be sleeping on my couch, you can at least tell me your name, huh?”
“Ilya,” Ilya said finally. “Ilya Rozanov,”
“Full Christian name, already?” Shane laughed a little. “I guess I will know what name to put on the invoice.”
Ilya followed Shane into the trailer. It was spotless inside. The couch was older but looked clean and comfortable. There was a well-loved patchwork quilt folded and resting on one of the arms. The air inside the trailer felt warm but not stuffy. On the ride, Ilya was surprised by how chilly it could still be in the middle of spring. This felt cozy.
“I’ll get you a pillow from my room,” Shane said.
Ilya wasn’t sure if he should follow his host but he did anyway. Shane’s bedroom was equally tidy. It was sparsely decorated but the bed was made and the two nightstands were clear save for a lamp on one side. Shane grabbed a pillow off of his bed. As he turned back around, he seemed surprised that Ilya had followed him. They stood face to face for a few seconds. Ilya watched as Shane’s face went red. Ilya found it comforting that the feeling was mutual.
Shane’s breath hitched and he handed the pillow off to Ilya. Ilya’s fingers brushed Shane’s as he took it.
“Are you scared of me?” Ilya asked.
“No,”
“You’re a big guy,” Ilya said. “You look like you could fight me off if you wanted to,”
“Yeah, I could,” Shane said, gulping. Then he added, “If I wanted to,”
Ilya backed away, just a step.
“It’s late,” he told Shane. “I’ll go make up the couch. Thank you.”
They locked eyes once more. Shane inhaled sharply. He grabbed the pillow back from Ilya and tossed it on the bed. Ilya smiled. Shane launched forward and kissed him. Ilya kissed back. Their movements were uncoordinated, aggressive, and sloppy. Ilya felt excited for the first time in a long time. He maneuvered so that Shane had his back against the wall beside the bedroom door. He pressed against him and felt the warmth of Shane’s body. Yes, he wanted to go further but he also just wanted to linger in this for a while. He kissed and nuzzled Shane’s neck. The other man was trying to rip off Ilya’s clothes. Ilya was working hard to resist letting him do just that. There was a battle raging in Ilya’s mind. He hadn’t expected any of this. But now, he wanted it badly even though he knew he didn’t deserve it.
His brain felt conflicted but the rest of his body moved with a certainty that was frightening.