Chapter Text
1875, Wyoming, 12 miles out from Cheyenne
The sun is high above the cerulean afternoon sky, blazing strips of light landing upon the wide brimmed cowboy hat of Shane Hollander. His steady steed walks peacefully, acting as though the hot September's sun was nothing more than a candlelight flickering above them. His brown fur feels hot under Shane’s hands. His mane, a blonde chaos of hair moving gently side to side, with the minimal wind occasionally swiping it further back, nearly wrapping around where Shane’s hands hold onto.
They’ve been trotting for five hours thus far, although Chiron’s gait has gotten less excited as the hours keep moving slowly past them.
Shane started off his morning in his hometown of Cheyenne, Wyoming: Waking up at five, doing his daily check-ins with the neighbors. The casual ‘howdy’s’ and ‘how do you do’s’ have become tradition at this point, one the common folk have come to expect in the early hours of the day, sometimes before the sun has even had a chance to fully rise. His blue, long-sleeved cotton shirt had been tucked into his dark blue jeans. His hearthstone brown cowboy boots peek out from under the slight flair of his pants, which were mostly hidden from his white chaps. The outfit was complete with a dark blue and white bandana tied around his neck, his gun holstered to his hip, a bag slung across his side, and his white cowboy hat, a prized possession he never leaves home without.
He asked the children how they were doing, said howdy to his mama and papa before heading to the mayor's office. He got a handwritten letter declaring they wanted to meet him in the early hours of the day to discuss ‘business’. Now, business could mean anything when it comes to the mayor. Sometimes business meant finding a criminal and putting them behind bars. Sometimes business meant threatening someone who wasn't one to cooperate. Sometimes business meant helping form expansion plans Shane certainly had no place to be talking about.
Today, business meant leaving town on the hunt to find a new partner for food. Or at least someone they could do normal trades with in exchange for their delicacies of fresh vegetables and homegrown fruits. Their land has grown dry, dryer than usual for this time of year, which means the usual farmer who supplies the town's produce, an immigrant by the name of Jean-Jacques Dagenais, is out of a job. His crops are dying and the children are hungry. So now it’s time for ‘Sheriff Hollander’ – a name he has been adamant that he is not – to go find the solution to their problems.
Shane did what he always does – nod to the mayor with a polite tip of his hat, saying a quick ‘Yes, sir,’ before leaving. Before his journey, he went to a nearby friend's home. A friend who, unlike Shane, actually wanted to have the sheriff title.
The sun rose steadily behind him as Hayden Pike opened the door. “Hollander, hey buddy,” He said as soon as he saw the sweet expression of his friend standing in front of him. Shane tipped his hat, taking it off as he entered the way too small Pike household. His girls were already running around, saying a quick ‘howdy, uncle Shane’ before running outside to start on their chores. Shane said a quick hello back before directing his attention to Hayden.
“I have been asked to go on a journey to the distant town of Rawlins. Mayor thinks they might be a food partner we could buddy up with,” Shane explained, his slightly southern accent dragging as he speaks. It was small, small enough to nearly miss, but still present when serious conversations are afoot.
“So… I wanted to employ you as Sheriff for the time I’m gone,” He concluded, and Hayden nearly tackled him to the ground. Really, it’s a silly thing to do. He isn’t even the real sheriff, but the people still look up to him enough to where it felt like he needed to present this big task to his friend.
“Shit, Hollander. I would love to!” Hayden exclaimed, pulling away from Shane, who straightened his bandana as soon as his friend was gone. “Gosh, Jackie is going to be pleased,” He mused, a small smile on his pretty teeth, one that Shane copied.
And so, it was decided. Shane would be leaving Cheyenne on a two week journey to and from Rawlins. Which is where the cowboy is headed now.
Shane grabs at his cowboy hat, taking it off and beginning to fan himself with it. The sun seems to only beam down harder, glaringly without the shade of his Stetson. Shane looks up, glaring right back at it. Chiron neighs, successfully making the cowboy look down at him rather than the sun. He places his hat back on, staring forward on his horse to see what might be making him speak.
Shane tightens his eyes, squinting harshly in attempts at viewing what looks like a small blob in the distance. He squints further, leaning closer to Chiron’s head. Chiron, who whines again. Shane strokes through his mane, eyes not leaving the blob for a moment. Then, the sun shifts behind the clouds and the blob forms into a town.
Shane shakes his head, blinking a few times to make sure he is correct. He’s been trying to drink enough water and snacked only once on dried corn an hour or so ago. His mind shouldn’t be playing tricks on him yet. Chiron whines yet again and Shane is hit with the realization that yes, that is a town. A town not on his map. Shane grins, excitement flooding his system as he clicks his heels against Chiron’s side to speed up.
The wind feels like heaven after many long hours without much of it. Chiron’s mane blows beautifully, covering parts of Shane’s face from his hunched over position on the horse, holding tightly. His hat falls backwards, wrapping around his neck and flowing harshly with their speed. Shane felt that the addition of a cord on his hat seemed stupid when his mama suggested it, but right now, he’s never thought of something more brilliant.
“Mother’s are always right, Shaney,” Yuna would be taunting in his ear, but the only sound he can hear is his horse’s harsh hooves against the dead, grassy plains.
The town, he can see properly now, looks less and less like his own. For starters, he doesn’t see the beautiful horses lined up behind homes, nor does he see much of homes at all. They appear more… decrepit. Destroyed.
Shane’s positive grin begins to fade, turning into one of confusion. Their crops are dead, deader than his own. The spot where they are – or where they were – look like they’ve been long gone for years. He tugs on Chiron’s lead, pulling them to a stop a decent distance away. Shane sits up straighter, looking at the remains of a town with crinkled brows and a scowl.
This place is destroyed. Broken buildings, frayed grass marks where a fight must’ve broken out, the boney remains of an animal behind a house.
Shane adjusts his hat back on his head as he pulls Chiron to a full stop. He hauls himself off his horse, grabbing his lead to walk them closer in.
Really, it’s stupid. Whatever was here before clearly didn’t like company, and clearly could take on a whole town. But here he is, walking in with his head held high and his horse strutting confidently behind him. Maybe if he pretends to feel like the Sheriff his town wants him to be, he too can take on whatever awaits out there.
Wind blows through the buildings, causing a creak to release from one, and a shatter to release from another. Shane stops in his tracks, turning to Chiron, who looks significantly less worried than him. It’s the sort of confidence he needs right now. He leans his forehead against Chiron’s and pulls away, muttering, “You’re gonna stay out here. I’m gonna be back, okay?” If his horse could speak, he’s sure he would say ‘Okay’ in return.
He ties the lead onto a broken piece of fencing that stands out of the grass, impaled into something oddly human shaped. Shane is going to ignore that for now.
With a hand on his gun, Shane walks further into the town. The clouds cover the area with a menacing darkness, forcing his shadow into hiding for the time being. He glances up to the sky, almost praying the sun would show back up to sweat him out of his fears. Instead, he is met with the distant rolling sound of thunder, signaling an incoming storm, which is truly the last thing the cowboy needs right now. Logically, yes the storm would be great. Fresh water for both him and his horse would be great. Maybe he could even find a few more canteen’s to snag to fill with said water.
On the other side, that means being here in the darkness by himself, and he isn’t feeling quite as brave as he would prefer. How he managed to get a sort of sheriff title is beyond him.
Shane takes slow steps as he approaches one of the buildings. The door was no longer on, hinges broken and fallen to the side. He pushes past the debris, stepping over broken wood and shattered glass. It looks like this used to be someone’s home, as shown by photos that were thrown to the ground and left behind. Shane bows forward, grabbing one of the pictures and fiddling it between his fingers. The corners are frayed and ripped, burnt at one edge like someone had started trying to dispose of it before the fight broke out. But still, he can clearly make out the family: a young girl, small and sweet looking with little pigtails and two happy parents on either side of her.
An unsettling feeling ripples through Shane, making him drop the photo to the ground and continue searching through the small home. Wood carvings, clearly sentimental and meaningful, left in the kitchen. More broken glass, like the window above the sink had been shot in. A knife was lying in the sink, rust covering every inch of it from tip to handle. Also left in the kitchen is a flask. Shane grinned, walking over to it to pick up and examine. It had a dark leather binding, a name embossed in it: Landry. He pulled the flask out of its casing, noticing the seemingly pure silver of it.
Growing up not wealthy, Shane can’t imagine leaving behind this sort of treasure. This is quite the expensive item. He slides the flask back in its case and slips it into his crossbody satchel, right as he hears another shatter from nearby. Shane turns around abruptly, hand still hovering over his gun as he looks towards the sound. The sound which appeared to be another building over. Shane walks slowly out of the home, looking across the way to what seems to have been the local saloon. His boots crunch over the dead grass and forgotten bones, certainly alerting whatever may be rummaging nearby of his arrival, not like Chiron hadn’t already done that too with his insistent whining.
The batwing doors are surprisingly intact, and surprisingly here, considering this location isn’t a hot location to obtain these – but this shouldn’t be a surprise with everything else strange about this town. Shane pushes them open with both hands, gaining an uncomfortable dusting of grime to settle over his palms. The doors creak, loud and harsh in the quiet space. Shane bites down the urge to cover his ears with his hands – that wouldn’t exactly look the most powerful to whatever is out there. He wipes his hands on his chaps, brushing the greenish brownish haze onto the sides to stain there.
Shane glances around the dimly lit saloon: Shattered bottles line the floor, along with what appears to be dried blood and gun shots. He turns his head to the wall that the door is attached to and scans over the array of holes there too. He cocks his head to the side, looking closer. Decent sized rounds, similar to what his own gun carries. About fifteen of them lined the wall, shot in various places going up and down like they were tracking something – someone.
That similar uncomfortable, uneasy feeling returns in Shane’s body, tingling through his fingers and shooting to his spine. He drops his hand from where it was touching the holes on the wall, glancing down to the floor. It isn’t just a feeling of unease about what happened here. His body is telling him that something is wrong. Something is wrong now. Shane swallows harshly and licks his lips, his eyes trained on the floor. The bullet holes shine what small remaining beams shimmer in the sky through the building, the only source of light this saloon has. He can see his shadow on the floor, and right behind it, another one has appeared.
Shane’s body prickles, everything suddenly feeling much hotter than it did in the sun for five hours. His hand falls to his gun. “Don’t even think about it,” A deep voice threatens behind him, much closer than Shane expected. This voice is accented, unlike Shane’s own. It’s not dripping with southern twang. Rather, it holds a bitter bite of something Eastern. Something not from around here. Shane raises his hand slowly from his gun, allowing both of them to float in the air beside him.
“Turn. Now,” The voice commands, that same gruffness in it from before. Shane could hear the subtle shuffling of a gun, he presumes it's in the man's hand, likely moving it to the side as if to indicate how his captive should be revolving. Shane listens easily, turning slowly around, hands still raised high as he attempts to figure out how to get out of this.
He keeps his eyes trained on the destroyed flooring so when he’s facing the man, the first thing he sees is dark cowboy boots. Scruffed up, old looking boots, torn slightly on the sides, barely preventing holes. Shane dares to travel his eyes upward. The man wears dark blue jeans, stained with a sort of dark splatter across part of them. His shirt is a deep red and white flannel with a black, leather vest over top. The sleeves are rolled up to mid arm, which is still pointing a gun at Shane.
His eyes follow up to meet a beautiful blue staring back to him. His glare shines under the lighting of the bullet holed wall, his blue eyes unbelievably bright, in contrast to his darkened expression. His eyebrows are furrowed, lips in a thin line, jaw tightly wound as he looks harshly at the cowboy. He appears to have curly locks that peak out slightly around his ears and across his forehead from his own black cowboy hat placed over them.
Shane’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, speaking before his mind catches up to stop him. “Howdy, partner," He says nervously, which forces the man's eyebrows to fall even further. He presses his gun closer to Shane, who backs up against the dilapidated wall. Maybe it will fall over and he can escape his fate through embarrassment. Death by old wall. It’s not a noble cowboy's death, but it's something.
“I’m not your ‘partner’,” The man spits the words venomously, as though they personally offended him. And maybe they did, even if Shane was just trying to be friendly. Friendly to someone who clearly doesn’t want any of it.
The man's eyes widened slightly, showing off more of the blue surrounding them. “What do you want, hm? To arrest me?” He asks, pushing the barrel closer to Shane, pressing it firmly to his chest. Shane takes a deep breath, leaning his head back to look at the man from under his eyelashes. Shane can feel the slight wobble in the blonde's hand as he holds onto the gun, can see it closer now that his fingers are only a few inches away.
Shane keeps his hands up, his voice calmer than before now that he’s realized this man is afraid too. “Why would I want to arrest you?” Shane asks, his accent slipping into a more southern twinge.
That seems to have been the wrong question. The man presses the gun harder into Shane’s chest, a snarl on his lip as he growls, “You’re a fucking sheriff, here to take me in, yes?”
Shane’s eyebrows furrow down, tipping his head forward as confusion surrounds his expression. He looks in the man's eyes, watching as he darts back and forth in Shane’s. He seems unstable – anxious maybe? Angry definitely. “No, I’m not a sheriff. Why would I be here to get you?” Shane asks, his tone still calm, but beginning to edge into irritation. Irritation at the man seemingly wanting to accuse him of things he knows nothing of.
The man scoffs, as though it’s the craziest thing he’s heard. But it gives him a pause anyway. His gun doesn’t prod quite so harshly into Shane’s chest, his eyebrows seem to lighten up the smallest amount, and his eyes look like the sky unclouding from a storm. “Because… because you want to arrest me. You want to turn me in,” He says, his bite less sharp than before, his fingers more shaky. Shane knows he could take him. He could grab his own gun and knock him unconscious, or maybe switch their positions so he’s pinned to the wall instead. But Shane doesn’t move. Rather, he leans into the circumstance – try to keep the man at ease, the same way he would tame Chiron when he’s upset.
Shane drops his chin further, looking up at him as opposed to down, as though the blonde still has the high ground. He slowly, like molasses falling from a glass bottle, lowers his hands. “I’m not a sheriff,” Shane says gently, the same gentleness he uses when telling Chiron “It’s okay.” His southern twang still catches on his words. “I’m not here for you. I’m going to Rawlins to get food,” He explains, eyes looking between both of the man’s, trying to find any resistance or uncertainty within them. Instead, he is met with something else.
The man’s face shifts, one of suspicion to almost understanding. He presses the gun again to Shane, a poor attempt at a threat. A threat the cowboy no longer takes seriously. “You… you do not want me?” He asks, brashness falling off with hesitancy, eyebrows crinkling together in a confused way, no longer an angry one.
Shane shakes his head again, dropping his hands onto the man’s arm that holds the gun. He jumps the slightest amount, as though he hadn’t noticed Shane moving his arms down until now. “No, sir,” Shane answers, keeping the same quiet tone as before. At this point, Chiron would be pressing into his hands, his face soft and understanding to the cowboy. Shane feels like he is almost at this point with the man too.
Then, in one more trial to make him understand that Shane truly is of no threat, he gently pushes his hand towards the ground. He’s met with a small amount of resistance, almost trying to press back up, but choosing not to. He’s being welcomed rather than warned. Shane swallows, keeping himself steady as he slowly puts his fingers over top of the man in an attempt to maneuver the gun out of his hand. This, however, does earn him backlash.
The man pushes him roughly against the wall again, pointing the gun up at his head as though remembering what his original objective was. Shane’s hands are latched around the pale wrist near his face, pulling him away with a furrowed brow. “What are you doing?” He queries, voice remarkably calm like the rare streams they sometimes stumble across. The man scoffs, “What are you doing? Trying to take my gun?”
Shane lets out a groan, fully shoving against the man this time, who stumbles slightly backward at the abrupt push. His head tips forward, earning Shane an eyeful of his gorgeous black hat. Like his boots, it too is roughed up. It isn’t nearly as scuffed, but it certainly has seen some things. It has that same dark splotch on it, lingering around the brim unsettlingly.
“I don’t want your gun pointed at me, is all!” Shane exclaims, arms raised at his sides, away from his own gun. He has gotten this far without getting shot. It would surely be a let down if this is where the man in front of him got it mistaken and kills him here. He then crosses his arms over his chest, eyebrows furrowed.
The blonde hurriedly adjusts his hat with his free hand and frowns deeply at his words, but drops his gun down to his waist anyway. They stare at each other, breathing harshly in frustration. Frustration that’s been steadily bubbling under Shane’s ribs for the entirety of this conversation, and the frustration of no longer being in control like the man seems to yearn for. A stare off, or maybe a shoot out, Shane isn’t sure which way this will diverge.
The wind rattles more destroyed homes nearby. The distant sound of glass breaking causes a sudden whine to erupt from Chiron, which makes Shane clench his jaw: He’s not going to check on his horse, even though he desperately wants to. He isn’t going to show defeat by breaking eye contact first. The saloon creaks uncomfortably, loudly in their ears. The only other noise between the two cowboys is their breathing and the gentle rustling of their clothes.
Then, after a drawn out moment, the blonde holsters his gun. Shane lets out a breath, a small one hidden just for himself as he watches the man sniffle and cross his arms back, mirroring Shane’s position. The cowboy straightens up his posture as he no longer feels the need to stay on edge. The middle ground has been established.
The man shuffles his feet, scruffing up the tips against the broken wood flooring. He shifts, as though trying to find stable ground – whether emotionally or physically. He takes in a breath, then seems to brave himself as he says, “I’m sorry for pointing my gun at you.” He stands tall, like this apology seems to effeminate him.
Shane finds a surprising chuckle to fall out of his mouth, shaking his head with a tiny grin. “It’s alright,” He responds easily, honestly. He’s had guns pointed at him more times than he can count on two hands. The man didn’t even shoot, so truly no harm has been done – no apologies needed in his book.
Shane moves away from the rickety wall, walking closer to the cowboy in front of him, who looks at him warily. It seems to take serious effort for him to keep his gun from exiting his holster again, as indicated by the light twitching in his fingers. Shane isn’t phased.
Instead, he reaches his hand out with a smile. “Shane Hollander,” He says, his accent finally finding home behind his vowels instead of in front of them. There’s a beat where the man keeps his eyes firmly on Shane’s. His eyes are tight, little daggers of blue stabbing into Shane’s brown ones. His hands, once twitching to grab his gun, have paused at this gesture he clearly seems perplexed by.
He spends another moment staring cautiously before looking carefully, skeptically at the hand and bringing one of his own rough, calloused hands into Shane’s.
“Ilya Rozanov,” He – Ilya – responds, giving a curt nod as he shakes their hands together. They hold for another moment before letting go. Ilya stares at him, curiosity raking over his expression as he stares down Shane in a way that nearly feels exposing. And although his intention may not be to throw the kind cowboy off, it certainly does just that. Shane adjusts his posture, shoulders squared, chin raised high in another attempt to appear like the leader he has been forced to become. The need to remain strong still hovering in his mind.
Ilya laughs quietly at his performance, shaking his head as he asks in a curious voice, “Where’d you say you’re heading, Hollander? Sundale has nothing for you here.” He shifts on his feet once more, but it isn’t out of his once nervous energy. Rather, he shifts into something more casual and calculated, one that makes Shane feel like he’s standing too uptight for this conversation. He stays tall anyway and pockets his thumbs, sliding them awkwardly in his chaps as he stares down Ilya.
“Rawlins. I’m going to see if we can make a deal. Their crops for our goods,” Shane explains, watching as something flickers within Ilya’s eyes. He hums, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes seem to stare through Shane, straight into his soul. He cocks his head to the side, almost like he’s pleased by whatever he’s found within. Shane has to look away, forcing to find something other than the bright blues across from him.
Another hum is heard and the man moves forward slightly. His boots creak noisily in the now quiet room. “It’s long ride, no?” He asks with the sort of voice that seems to demand attention. It's attention Shane easily gives him by turning back to meet his suspicious gaze. He swallows, nodding his head.
“A week to get there, and a week back. Longest ride I’ve had so far,” Shane answers like he would to anyone in his town who asked: a rehearsed sort of thing, impersonal. He shifts too, shoving his hands fully into his pockets now – a motion Ilya easily tracks with his eyes. He stares a moment longer before finding Shane’s again.
“Is good town? This… Rawlins?” Ilya asks, gaze glimmering curiously. Shane furrows his brows slightly and nods again.
“Very good. It’s a big supply point. Big town, lots of people,” Shane answers, his tone holding a more cautious edge, treading carefully like he’s unsure on what spots in the grass may contain landmines. It feels like he may be stumbling onto one now. Ilya’s face brightens the smallest amount, a twinkle present within his eyes.
Shane cuts in before the man across from him has a chance to: “Why are you asking? Interested in going?”
Ilya chuckles at the cowboy cutting to the chase, hurrying through the rest of the questions the accented male had planned – stumbling right into what he wanted. “Very,” Is all Ilya said, leaving the word to float in the air as the wind picked up speed again. Chiron cries from not so far, seeming to buck up at the sound of more crumbling rooms nearby.
Shane shoots a sideways glance to the door, peering the slightest bit outside before finding his gaze back on Ilya. He takes over his appearance once more: scuffed, splotchy, sharp. But kind, or at least kind enough to get by. They both have a place to get to, and it makes sense to go together. Plus another body means another person to help fight if needed. And another person will make the Rawlin’s mayor impressed – it will show Cheyenne’s commitment to this deal.
But then again…
“You said you need to be taken in,” Shane starts, bringing his hands from his pockets to cross over his chest. Ilya stiffens the slightest amount, as though he’s afraid that this will lead to Shane confessing he is in fact a sheriff, that maybe he fell for the easy lies the cowboy fed him. Ilya nods wordlessly, jaw tight and eyebrows furrowed.
“Why?” Shane asks, tone light but curious. He stares down the man across him, who swallows thickly at the question. It seems to loom over the two of them like a storm cloud ready to strike. Ilya doesn’t speak, simply clenching and unclenching his jaw, seeming to be working himself up to something. Shane stands patiently, allowing the seconds to pass by without worry. This gives him time to examine the cowboy anyway.
However, it isn’t much time as Ilya abruptly speaks up. “I’m on the run. From sheriffs,” He specifies, taking in a breath as he attempts to remain his cool composure that is just barely cracking. Shane stays quiet, watching as Ilya subtly tries to appear bigger than he already is. It’s a small movement, the light adjustment in his shoulders, his eyes he forces to appear steely. But under that, the same nerves tug at the frayed edges of his expression. Shane doesn’t mention it, but he takes account of it.
“I fled town. Now, they want to take me back,” Ilya explains, leaving it open ended, perhaps on purpose, giving Shane the opportunity to come up with whatever explanation he would like; Scenarios that would force him to flee town, like kidnapping a child, or stealing from the mayor, or killing a sheriff – maybe that’s why he’s so antsy about Shane being one.
But looking at the man now – how his eyes dart all over Shane’s face, how his fingers fidget the smallest amount in a way Shane is sure he isn’t aware of – he doesn’t exactly get ‘I killed a sheriff’ vibes.
“I want a fresh start. Away from it all,” Ilya says, voice certain, firm. And then, in a suddenly much gentler tone, “Please.”
Shane swallows, pushing down the swimming worries in his stomach. Ilya could be lying – hell, he did have his gun pointed at Shane’s head moments ago. But taking it all in, accounting for his own optimistic thoughts and his want to help, especially when Ilya’s craving a new beginning, the decision feels rather easy.
Shane nods once, solid as he thinks through his thoughts. “Okay,” He starts, beginning to walk towards the doors. He hears the sound of loud boots following quickly after him and the squeak of doors opening and closing. “You can join me then. It’s long, like I said, so make sure you have what you need when I drop you off there,” Shane explains, turning around briefly enough to watch the devilish smile pass over Ilya’s face. He finds himself smiling lightly too while he turns back around.
Chiron whinies as he spots Shane, bucking up once again. Shane picks up his pace, placing his hands out in front of him as he closes in on his horse. “Shhh, shhh buddy,” He murmurs, gently petting down his soft snout. Chiron fusses again, but presses into his touch anyway. Shane places a kiss to his nose, putting their foreheads together for a fleeting moment before backing up. He turns to see Ilya watching with an amused look crossing his face. His smile has since turned into a smirk.
Shane straightens up, his neck flushing warmer than the hot sun. He knows most men in Cheyenne are far rougher with their animals. They're treated as a means to an end – a way to get from point A to point B. But Shane could never bring himself to do that. It’s impolite. Chiron is family.
And although it’s typically the woman’s job to be this way with them – all soft and caring – he prefers to do it himself. However, having been caught doing it, he feels the same effeminate way Ilya seemed to feel earlier.
Shane clears his throat, gesturing with his left hand towards his pretty steed. “This is Chiron, Chiron this is Ilya Rozanov,” He speaks to the two, acting as if this is a normal greeting between two people and not a supposed criminal and his horse. Chiron shakes his head, making another soft sound as he stares at the stranger. Ilya’s smirk shifts into a soft smile, softer than anything Shane has witnessed thus far, creeping forward with his hands up. Once close enough, he raises one hand in front of the horse’s nose for him to smell.
“Hi, Chiron,” Ilya whispers, acting too as if this is normal. Chiron hesitates, sniffing harshly before bringing his tongue out to give his palm a little lick. Ilya chuckles, his eyes sparkling happily as he moves his hand upward away from his tongue to pet down his nose. Now, it was Shane’s turn to watch the pair in amusement.
He acts in the same reserved softness that isn’t welcomed here. It lessens a knot Shane didn’t know formed in his chest; At least he can cross off ‘animal abuser’ from his scenarios of why Ilya got kicked out. Shane lets out a breath, which makes the blonde turn to look at him. His smile, although small, lingers while he speaks, “You introduce people's full names usually to Chiron?”
Shane chuckles, shaking his head as he runs his hand down Chiron’s silky mane. “It’s polite,” He replies plainly, his smile evident in his voice too. Maybe inviting Rozanov on this trip won’t be so bad.
Ilya stares at Shane for another moment before pulling back as his eyes widen slightly. He drops his hand and begins to back up towards the saloon. “I need to grab my bag, hold on!” He calls, turning around to begin to jog properly to the shadowed building. He ducks in quickly, disappearing around the corner Shane could no longer view from his angle.
Shane chuckles as he looks at Chiron again. His horse makes a similar little sound, pushing his face closer to Shane’s head. He presses a kiss to his nose immediately, another smile forming on his lips. “What do you think, hm?” He questions, staring down at the white spots that decorate Chiron’s snout.
At the lack of response, Shane continues. “I think he seems nice,” He says, glancing back to the saloon. He can hear light clanking and what he presumes is Ilya’s boots against the floor as he hurries around the room.
“He will be good with us,” Shane muses, which earns him a soft huff. He lets out his own sigh, nodding as though Chiron spoke. “I know, but he’s apologized about the whole gun thing,” Shane rolls his eyes, continuing to pet down his mane. “And I think he means it. He’s just… skittish. Like how you get sometimes, you know?” Chiron makes another little sound, shaking his head. Shane takes that as him understanding.
Before their one-sided conversation can continue, the light crunching of dried grass under boots snaps him out of it. Shane turns to see Ilya jogging his direction, a bag on his back bouncing at every move. There’s a long pole sticking out of the top of it. Shane crinkles his eyebrows together, squinting towards the moving object. Upon closer examination, he notices it’s a guitar neck.
Ilya slows his feet to a stop, adjusting his Stetson on his head with an airy smile. “Thanks for waiting,” He says, hands pulling at his straps like he’s making sure it’s still on from the short distance of the saloon to Chiron. Shane nods, giving him a little smile back. “No problem, Rozanov,” He replies, gentle fingers untying the knot on Chiron’s lead. Ilya watches him work quietly as he grips his leather bag straps, listening as another bout of rolling thunder starts up again.
The silence between them doesn’t feel nearly as awkward as Shane anticipated it to be with a stranger – let alone a stranger who had a gun on him a mere fifteen minutes ago. Instead, an easy feeling settles. Not quite comfortable, but maybe something akin to it. Shane finishes his knot and hops onto his horse with the grace of someone who does this for a living. His eyes fall back down to Ilya, who is scanning Shane like he still isn’t sure how to go about this.
The cowboy simply grins, offering his hand down for his new partner to grab onto. Ilya, with less hesitancy than earlier when they shook hands, latches onto Shane and allows himself to be partially pulled up. Once on the horse, he adjusts his legs behind Shane.
They leave a sizable distance between them, a space large enough to not feel the other's body heat with the whipping winds. It’s almost strange how much it feels both like nobody else is up here with Shane, and also how acutely aware he is of the feeling of Ilya’s looming presence behind him.
Shane clears his throat once the subtle shuffling behind him stops. He latches his hands onto the lead, turning his head to the side to glance at Ilya from over his shoulder. “Ready?” He asks, in which he gains a wide, devilish grin back in response.
And so, the start of the next week begins.