#ilya rozanvov

You extricate yourself with a kiss to his forehead and one to Shane's cheek, which he turns his head at the last minute to make it a proper goodbye kiss.

"Text us when you get there," he says quietly. "And when you're leaving. And—"

"And if any strangers breathe in my direction?"

"Especially then," Ilya says, suddenly serious. "Be good, lyubimyy."

Three hours later, Shane is reorganizing the spice rack alphabetically while Ilya attempts to beat his high score on Mario Kart when Shane's phone buzzes. Then again. And again. And again.

"Your phone's having a seizure." Ilya says, not looking away from the screen.

Shane picks it up, frowning at the notification flood. Group chat. Multiple people. Something about...he clicks the link. The video buffers for three seconds before showing strobe lights, a group of people on the dance floor, and you in the center of it all.

"Is that—" Ilya drops his controller.

You're dancing. No dancing is too gentle a word. You're wild. Body rolling in ways that should be illegal, shirt riding up, hair a mess, grinning like you hold the secrets to the universe. Someone behind you is extremely close, eyes locked on you, more specifically, the bottom half of your body.

The caption reads: Y/N came OUT tonight 🔥🔥🔥

"That's...that's our Y/N?" Ilya sounds torn between aroused and deeply concerned. "The same Y/N who falls asleep during The Bachelor? The same Y/N who needed three business days to work up the courage to ask the waiter for extra napkins? The same Y/N who—"

Ilya stops before pointing at the screen. "Is that a twerk?"

It is, in fact, a twerk.

Shane is already dialing, but your phone goes straight to voicemail. He redials but the same thing occurs.

"No signal, probably. Clubs always have bad signal."

"Then I'm calling Marco."

"Marco hates us."

"I know." Shane's smile is terrifying. "That's why I'm calling."

Twenty minutes later, they're in Shane's SUV because Ilya's car was deemed too chaotic for an emergency. "Left here," Ilya reads from his phone. "The building is called Pulse."

"Of course it's called Pulse," Shane mutters, turning the corner with unnecessary aggression. "Of course."

Pulse is exactly the kind of place Shane would avoid on principle. Loud, crowded, sticky floors, and absolutely no logical flow to the layout. Ilya, however, navigates it like he was born there, parting crowds with sheer confidence and the occasional elbow.

They find your group near the bar. You are, mercifully, no longer twerking, but you are standing on a booth, attempting to lead a chant that nobody knows the words to.

"Y/N!" Ilya shouts.

You turn. Your face lights up like Christmas morning. "SHANEY! ILYA! MY HUSBANDS!"

"We're not married." Shane corrects automatically, but he's already reaching to help you down.

"Yet," you add, swaying dangerously. You grab Ilya's face with both hands. "You're so pretty. Did you know you're pretty? Shane, tell him he's pretty."

"You're pretty," Shane deadpans, already calculating the fastest route to the exit. "Can you walk?"

"Can I walk?" You scoff, offended by the implication. "I can dance. Did you see me dance? I was like—" You attempt to demonstrate, nearly taking out the person beside you. "—like that. I have moves. Sexy moves. Watch—"

"Absolutely not." Shane has your jacket. He's also acquired your shoes from somewhere, God knows how, and is herding you toward the door.

The car ride home is an adventure in itself. You spend the first ten minutes with your head in Ilya's lap, insisting he stroke your hair 'like a war hero in a movie.'

"You're not a war hero." Shane says from the driver's seat.

"I fought for my country."

"You worked retail for two weeks in college."

"It was combat, Shane."

Ilya is trying not to laugh, his hand moving automatically through your hair. "Why didn't you tell us you could dance like that?"

"I was saving it," you mumble, eyes closed. "For my rebranding."

"Your what?"

"My rebranding. I'm not 'cute domestic Y/N' anymore. I'm Party Y/N. I'm Chaos Y/N. I'm—" You sit up suddenly, nearly giving yourself whiplash. "I'm gonna get a tattoo."

"No." Both Shane and Ilya say in unison.

"A face tattoo."

"No."

"Of both your faces."

Shane actually swerves. "Excuse me?"

"On my butt," you clarify, like this makes it better. "Left cheek: Shane. Right cheek: Ilya. So when I twerk—"

"We're stopping this conversation." Shane interrupts, his ears burning red.

"—it's like you're kissing—"

"Y/N."

"—through the butt—"

Ilya has his hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. "Okay, lyubimyy. Okay. Let's...let's table the butt tattoo discussion for when you can walk normal."

You lick his palm.

"Did you just—" Ilya yanks his hand back, wiping it on his jeans. "He licked me."

"You're lucky he didn't bite," Shane mutters, but there's a smile twitching at his mouth now. "Remember when he tried to bite the paramedic?"

"That was one time and he was very handsome—"

"You thought the paramedic was handsome?" Shane's voice goes dangerously soft.

You blink, realizing your error. "No. You are handsome. Both of you. So handsome. Like...like if a sunset and a really good sandwich had a baby."

"A sandwich?"

"A really good one. With...with avocado."

Shane pulls into the driveway. He kills the engine and turns around, really looking at you for the first time since they dragged you out of the club. Your hair's a mess. Your shirt's inside out. There's glitter on your cheekbone that definitely wasn't there when you left.

"You're an idiot."

"Yeah." you agree, swaying even though you're sitting still.

"You scared us."

"Sorry," you mumble, genuinely. You reach for his hand, miss, get his knee instead. "I just...I wanted to be fun. Like you guys. You're so... you're so much. And I'm just...me."

Ilya's expression softens instantly. "Hey. Hey, no. You're plenty."

"You're our favorite person," Shane adds, unbuckling his seatbelt to lean into the back. "We don't need you to be 'Party Y/N.' We like grandpa Y/N better."

"Really?"

"Really."

You consider this. "Can I still get the butt tattoo?"

"No."

Getting you inside is a challenge. You insist on being carried so Ilya hoists you over his shoulder in a fireman's carry while Shane handles the keys, the shoes, and the growing headache behind his eyes.

"Put me down, you big Russian oaf." you complain, even as you pat his butt affectionately.

"Make up your mind."

"I love your butt. It's like two firm hams."

In the bedroom, they manage to get you into sweatpants and one of Shane's oversized sweaters—"I want Ilya's" you whine, so they switch you to Ilya's, which smells like him and is approximately three sizes too big.

"Water." Shane commands, pressing a glass into your hands.

You drink. You also demand Shane tell you a bedtime story, which turns into you telling them a story about "the time I fought a goose," which is apparently a real event from your childhood that somehow involved a kayak and a territorial waterfowl.

"...and that's why I'm banned from Lake Michigan." you finish, already half asleep.

Shane and Ilya exchange looks over your head.

"Should we check on him every hour?" Ilya whispers. "Make sure he doesn't choke?"

"Already set an alarm."

They settle in on either side of you. Ilya curled against your back while Shane is pressed to your chest. You mumble something unintelligible, smushing your face into Shane's collarbone. "What?"

"Love you," you slur. "Both. So much. Even though you're...you're buzzkills."

"Go to sleep, Party Y/N." Ilya murmurs, his arm heavy across your waist.

You giggle, the sound fading into soft breathing, and finally go limp between them. Ilya waits a full five minutes before whispering: "We should video him more often."

"Absolutely not."

"But the twerking—"

"Goodnight, Ilya."