love, pyramus

"Have you written to Wiebe, yet?" Yuna asks casually as she unfolds another letter, a report, probably from the ward watchers in Nova Scotia.

Shane rubs his palms over his jeans. "No. Was I supposed to?"

Yuna arches an eyebrow, eyes still on the paper in her hand. "He knows every werewolf in Canada. Possibly North America. He's a good ally to have."

Shane nods at the passive instruction and swallows back a sigh. It was good advice, and something he should have thought of himself. Maybe he would have done, but it's been hard to focus.

"The real question," Yuna adds under her breath, speaking to herself, "is what the hell Rozanov is doing writing me?"

Shane freezes, heartbeat spiking at the name, panic sending his mind reeling. What would Ily—Rozanov possibly have to say to his mother? By Shane's estimation, they only met once, years ago, when Rozanov stopped in Ottawa during his travel year. Shane had been away then, for the best.

"Who the hell is writing you, honey?" Shane's dad asks as he enters the room. He has a coffee mug in each hand, and sets one down at Yuna's elbow.

Or, Shane's stomach curdles at the thought, was Rozanov trying to reach him? He wouldn't dare. He had just as much to lose as Shane did if they were caught, possibly more. From what Shane remembers, the Moscow Conclave was a harsher group than even Montreal.

"Head of the Moscow Institute," Yuna mutters in answer, taking a sip from her mug.

Shane releases a breath. Of course she meant Grigory. The father, not the son. Still, he wishes he weren't so desperate to know what it says.

"Old jackass," Yuna keeps grumbling, brandishing her stele to do a translation rune, "I've never seen him do anything at Clave meetings other than blow hot air."

David snorts, glancing at Shane for a commiserating look, but Shane can barely answer it. His father frowns, and opens his mouth to speak, but Yuna interrupts.

"Oh," she sighs, the annoyance on her face dissolves into pity, "he lost his son. Killed on patrol. Poor man."

Shane's heart stops, plummets to the stone floor beneath him. "What?"

Ilya has a brother, he remembers. Prays.

Yuna glances up, meeting his eye. "You met him a couple times traveling, didn't you Shane? Ilya Rozanov?"

His parents keep talking, and Shane thinks he keeps answering, but he hears none of it. His brain has become incapable of taking in information, caught on this knowledge.

It's customary, when there's a death in one of the Institute familes to write the rest to report the news, to allow other Nephilim to send their condolences and respects. It will be Shane's duty in Montreal, as it is Grigory Rozanov's in Moscow.

But Grigory didn't send a fire message, like urgent news would dictate, he wrote a letter that passed from his desk to Alicante to Yuna's desk.

Which means that Ilya has been dead for days, and Shane felt nothing.

Some latent, urgent force within him launches him to his feet, drives him out the door, away from his parents' twin expressions of shock and concern.

Because they're the same age, they'll assume. Because they met a few times during their travel years. His parents would never guess just how many times they did meet, did more than that.

Ears buzzing, eyes unseeing, Shane's feet carry him on autopilot through the Institute halls, up to the attic he used to hide in as a child, far from the noise.

He stands in the middle of the empty space and tries to remember how to breathe. He cannot stop seeing Ilya's face as he last saw it, wide open and vulnerable, devastated while trying to pretend he wasn't.

Hollander, he'd pleaded, arm extended from where he sat on his sofa. Hollander.

I can't do this, had been Shane's answer.

He'd finished his mission and left Boston as quickly as he could, and buried himself in his work here. He knew, on some level, that he wouldn't be able to avoid seeing Ilya forever, but despite the danger of their duty, this never occurred to him.

Shane takes a rattling breath, and tries to speak. "Ave –" he breaks off, the sound echoing in the room.

Why had he run anyway? He'd gone to Ilya's apartment to talk, to break things off, but Ilya convinced him to stay.

"Ave –" Shane tries again, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He remembers exactly why. Somewhere in the hours between sleeping and waking in Ilya's arms, and Ilya saying his name, Shane thought:

No one makes me feel like Ilya Rozanov does.

And now, Shane will never feel that way again.

He drops to his knees, sob ripping out of his chest. He can't make himself say the words, and with no one to hear them, he settles for thinking them instead.