Love is Instinct; Deceive is Business #4: SCRAPS
Ilya Rozanov/Shane Hollander（Heated Rivalry烈愛對決TV版; 1965黑幫AU）
Love is Instinct; Deceive is Business #4: SCRAPS
Content Warning: This chapter contains depictions of drunk driving and underage smoking.
***
November 8, Monday. The Canadian Federal Election.
Even though the Suzuran Clan didn't explicitly back any one party, they were busy consolidating their territory and destroying any evidence that could lead to a conviction, ensuring the snap election results wouldn't disrupt their business. Although the Royal Canadian Mounted Police were currently focused on pre-election security, the mob still had to guard against post-election political retribution. Since the 1963 Valachi hearings, all criminal organizations had been like sewer rats pursued by flashlights, finding it harder than ever to hide their existence.
Shane was temporarily too busy to look after Rozanov, so he gave him a car to use freely, letting him go out to buy cigarettes and eat.
That was perhaps the first mistake Shane made.
Shane had only been away for two days, but he had almost forgotten the scent of aftershave. Rozanov always carried that scent—when their shoulders brushed, there was the fresh zest of lemon and the spice of fennel. Whenever Rozanov kissed the hollow of Shane's neck and he stroked the back of Rozanov's head, the forest notes of oakmoss and vetiver lingered stubbornly on his fingers. It reminded him of the season after the snow melted, walking barefoot across a lakeside lawn, damp soil clinging between his toes, the edges of wild grass brushing against his skin. It was uncomfortable yet grounding; thinking of these things, his restless anxiety would subside.
Shane parked the Mercedes in the garage, pulling up alongside the deep blue Volvo 122S. He looked at the Volvo that Rozanov complained looked too stodgy, and then he pushed the door open.
He saw Rozanov coming downstairs, pulling on an overcoat, car keys in hand.
"Hey..." The tension on Rozanov's face suddenly gave way to a blossoming smile, making Shane's chest twinge. "I thought you'd died out there. I was just about to go collect your corpse."
"Asshole." The corner of Shane's mouth turned up. "You going out?"
Rozanov shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged. "Dinner." The black overcoat he was wearing belonged to Shane.
Shane was exhausted. In two days, he'd only slept five hours intermittently on a sofa, changed his shirt once, washed his face four times, and eaten a burger bought by his subordinates when he couldn't stand the hunger any longer. He wanted to catch a quick nap because the polls would close around ten, and he had to stay awake until the results were in early the next morning to plan their response. It was seven in the evening. He was tired, but he missed him.
"Let's go," Shane said, turning back toward the door. "I'll drive you".
"Hollander," he heard Rozanov's footsteps follow, his tone concerned. "Let me drive".
"Go away," he muttered. Rozanov nudged him with a shoulder, and they squeezed into the doorframe, vying for who would reach the garage first. Shane couldn't help but laugh out loud. "The car you're driving is mine, too".
"That geriatric brick of car only I can push to rally speeds." Rozanov ran toward the 122S, and Shane chased after him, not even realizing he was laughing.
Rozanov immediately slammed the driver's side door and stuck his tongue out at him. Shane knocked on the window. "You bastard, if I get a ticket, I'm confiscating your keys."
"Ha! What you gave me is mine now. Come and take them if you can!" Rozanov rolled down the window. "Get in already".
What you gave me. Shane panted, swallowing the hesitation in his throat, and then he pulled open the passenger door.
The passenger seat was piled high with food wrappers and newspapers. Shane cried out, "My god, I only let you borrow it for a few days and you've turned it into this".
Rozanov muttered as he swept the trash off the seat. "Are you getting in or not?"
Shane frowned, brushed the crumbs off the cushion, and sat down. "So, where are we going?"
"Do you trust me?" Rozanov started the engine and began to reverse.
Shane didn't nod, but for some reason, he didn't give a negative answer either.
SOMEWHERE NEAR RIDEAU CANAL, OTTAWA, ONT.
***
Rozanov drove into downtown Ottawa instead of going to the 24-hour family diner nearest Shane's cottage. The Volvo bypassed the main roads clogged by the election; Rozanov's familiarity with the suburban backroads exceeded Shane's expectations. During the days Shane had been too busy to deal with him, how much of Ottawa had he mastered? The question left Shane with an unbelievable sense of loss.
The car finally stopped in front of a small restaurant by the suburban banks of the Rideau River. The lights were still on, but there was no host at the door.
Rozanov pushed the door open with practiced ease. The entire restaurant was built of wood, with no fancy paint, retaining the natural grain. Log beams hung from the ceiling, the wooden pillars were marked with the wear of old age, and the floor was paved with red brick. There weren't many tables, only about six sets. There was no television, no extra noise, only the melodious music from a gramophone that Shane didn't recognize.
A petite woman of about forty sat at the table closest to the door, her dark blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. A book lay open before her. She looked up and smiled, seemingly recognizing Rozanov.
"Back again so soon, Ilya?" She rose from her chair. Shane saw an apron over her dress. "And you brought a friend?"
"Galina, dobryy vecher." Rozanov turned and pointed at Shane. "This is Hollander. Hollander, this is Galina's place".
Galina was easygoing and her smile was kind, possessing an aura that made one want to confide everything to her. "Dobro pozhalovat Salatsgrivu. Welcome to Salatsgriva, Mr. Hollander".
Shane nodded in greeting. "Good evening, Ms. Galina. Please, just Shane is fine." Rozanov suddenly started walking.
"Then please call me Galina as well. Find a seat you like." Galina gestured into the restaurant.
Rozanov sat directly at a table for two by the window, where a pale blue lace cloth was spread under an empty vase. As Shane hesitated, Galina simply gave a gentle nod toward the chair, and Shane sat opposite Rozanov. Galina handed over a handwritten menu with dish names in English and Cyrillic script. Only then did Shane realize Rozanov had been speaking Russian to her.
When Galina walked to the table, Rozanov immediately said, "Two bowls of fish soup to start. For me and—" he suddenly twitched his mouth, "...Hollander."
Shane hadn't even finished looking through the menu. "Uh, I—"
Rozanov turned to him. "Don't say no, Hollander. That's Galina's signature soup, and your face is flushed red from the cold."
"What—I am not—" Shane touched his own cheeks.
"And I want that fish pâté sandwich thing, and... yes, Parmezan." Rozanov gestured with both hands, mimicking bread sandwiching a filling.
Galina narrowed her eyes in disapproval. "That is grilled pike-perch on rye bread, not some cheap snack like a sandwich." Rozanov ignored her, laughing in agreement, and then they spoke a few more words in Russian, both of them smiling.
"I'll have the mussels in white wine, please." Galina's menu consisted mostly of Canadian seafood and fish, the flavors looked refreshing, not at all like Rozanov's usual taste. Shane hadn't even known there was a restaurant here that saw so few customers.
"To drink?" Galina didn't seem to be taking notes, perhaps because they were the only guests in the shop. She remembered the order.
"Usually I'd have a vodka, but give me a kvass today." Rozanov leaned back in his chair.
"I don't need anything, just water." Shane put down the menu. He couldn't afford to be drunk before the poll results came in.
"Hollander," Rozanov suddenly leaned forward over the table. "You must try her kvass. Is light as water, almost no alcohol. You can handle."
"Nu! My kvass is authentic!" Galina shouted.
Rozanov chuckled. "Alright, alright. Get Hollander ginger ale then. I know you have it even if is not on the menu."
Galina raised her eyebrows and turned to Shane, seemingly only caring about his choice and not Rozanov's nonsense. But Shane said, "It's okay, I really don't want to drink tonight. Maybe next time, Galina. Ginger ale is fine".
"Very well." Galina just looked at him warmly. "Then two bowls of Rideau River fish soup to start. The mains are the mussels in white wine and the grilled pike-perch on rye with parmesan. One ginger ale—but Shane, I'm still going to give you half a cup of kvass on the house, just to try." Galina took the menus. "As for Ilya, one watered-down kvass."
"Nu!" Rozanov bellowed. Galina laughed as she walked away, and Shane found himself laughing too.
Galina's skill was indeed extraordinary.
The fish soup was milky white, filled with chunks of potato and carrot, and the fish was likely pickerel or pike-perch, topped with a sprinkle of dill. Shane had never tasted a fish soup so sweet and rich yet so clear. When his bowl was empty, he heard Rozanov give a soft laugh, so he ordered a second bowl. Galina brought him an extra basket of sliced rye bread, saying it was a thank-you for his compliments.
The mussels that followed and Rozanov's grilled fish were equally delicious. As soon as the plate was served, Rozanov stuffed half the fish and bread into Shane's hands. The fish was mixed with sour cream and cucumber under melted, toasted cheese. Shane hadn't realized he could be this hungry, even Rozanov teased him for his growing appetite.
"Two servings of Strawberry Snow." After they cleared their mains, Galina brought two wide-rimmed goblets.
"Galina, we didn't order this." Shane looked at the glass in front of him, filled with pink jam and white slush.
"It's a dessert on the house," Galina said. "It was a pleasure to meet you tonight, Shane. You are an honest guest with good taste. I hope you will visit Salatsgrivu again."
"Of course, Galina. Your cooking is the best comfort in winter," Shane said sincerely.
Galina's cheeks flushed. Rozanov looked at him with some surprise, and then Galina patted Rozanov on the shoulder. Even after Galina returned to the kitchen, Rozanov didn't take his eyes off Shane.
"What?" Shane couldn't help but ask, licking the strawberry jam off his spoon.
Rozanov shrugged, a smile in his eyes. "So you can enjoy a meal. Now I know."
"Rozanov, of course I know how to eat. How exactly do you see me?" He took another spoonful.
Rozanov only hummed in response, his gaze remaining fixed on Shane, seemingly unconcerned by the melting ice cream in his goblet.
－
They chatted with Galina until they lost track of time. Shane ended up drinking two cups of kvass before leaving the restaurant and before Rozanov could order a second vodka. They didn't return to the car, however, but walked along the banks of the Rideau River instead.
At night, the river's surface reflected the streetlights like a slow flow of dark, liquid metal, occasionally revealing a sliver of silver. Tonight's low temperature wasn't yet enough to freeze the river, only the rustle of the water proved there was indeed a channel beneath the railings. Shane breathed out a white mist, rubbing his palms. He saw lights still on in the houses across the canal. It must have been well past nine. Everyone was probably glued to their televisions watching the election results. There were no other pedestrians on the riverbank, and the streetlights cast their shadows onto the piles of withered leaves.
"Galina is Latvian."
"Oh." Shane turned toward Rozanov at the sound of his voice. The light carved out the edge of his face, but his eyes were hidden in the shadows of his curls.
"She left after the Red Army entered Latvia. Everyone in the Baltics wanted to escape the Red Army back then." The Soviet Union. Shane listened as Rozanov continued. "She eventually made her way to Canada and stayed for over a decade before opening that restaurant."
Shane had suspected Galina's background, but he hadn't pried. Their conversation had stayed on food, weather, and hockey. Because Galina seemed to be Rozanov's friend, he wanted to be her friend too, not just another informant for Suzuran.
"They speak Russian in Latvia?" Shane asked, because her accent sounded different from Rozanov's.
Rozanov shifted slightly, the weak streetlights casting a blurred shadow over his broad shoulders. Shane couldn't see his movements. "Da. She said it was one of the common languages." He paused for a moment. "But her Russian has an accent."
"Your English has an accent, too." A charming accent. As Shane spoke, he moved closer instinctively. Rozanov's shadow seemed to smile.
Shane watched the streetlights turn Rozanov's bangs into a tangle of golden silk. Shane remembered the scent of aftershave again, and before he realized it, he could actually smell it.
"How does it feel to speak Russian with Galina?"
"Good." Rozanov nodded in response, his tone simple yet relaxed.
"I like her. And her cooking." Shane noticed white sparks of light catching on those golden threads.
Rozanov was silent for a moment. In the morning light, his irises were a pale blue, but now, Shane thought they looked like the surface of the Rideau River.
"We can come again," Rozanov said.
Shane suddenly felt an ache in his jaw. He took a deep breath as if he were about to suffocate, the white mist billowing before him.
"Can we?" Shane asked.
And then Rozanov kissed him.
It wasn't their usual kiss in the dark corners, stolen and full of lust and passion. Rozanov just touched him lightly, pressing against his lips, their mouths rough from the cold. He smelled Rozanov's breath—the rye of the kvass, ethanol, and vetiver. And then the vision of the lakeside in summer. Shane opened his mouth, and Rozanov explored within.
Their noses brushed, they kissed, they licked, tasting every curve of their lips, every patch of dryness soaked with saliva until they were breathless. He didn't know when he had reached into Rozanov's curls, nor at what point Rozanov had begun cupping his face, stroking his cheekbones. When he saw the snowflakes on the golden hair again and felt the pinpricks of cold on his cheeks, his gaze drifted away into the darkness under the streetlights, where a thin veil of pure white was drifting.
He heard a sigh-like Shane—
Shane looked into Rozanov's eyes. He heard the sound of an uneasy heartbeat but still couldn't see clearly into the surface of the Rideau River. He might fall over the railing, or he might lie on the frozen river, but he simply refused to look away from Rozanov. Because this year's first snow was already nothing special to Shane.
It snowed every year in Canada. But this was the first time Ilya had called him Shane. So Shane kissed him again, whispering Ilya between their intertwined tongues.
"We should..." Shane gasped, only daring to take shallow breaths. Inhaling more of Ilya was making him go mad. "...get back to the car".
"Yeah?" Ilya's eyes were blurred, the distance between them only the tip of their noses.
"The snow is getting heavier." But Shane didn't even glance toward the sky. His lips lost Ilya's weight, and he couldn't help biting his lower lip.
Ilya kissed the corner of his mouth. Shane closed his eyes, tilting his head to chase the kiss back to its proper place.
"Alright," Ilya said, pulling back, his breathing quick. Shane saw him purse his lips, and then felt Ilya's hand support his lower back as they walked back to the car.
Galina's restaurant lights were out. They sat back in the car, Shane still in the passenger seat. Ilya hesitated to start the engine even with the key in the ignition. Shane watched the streetlights outside illuminate the car. Snow fell on the windshield, the light fading until the view outside was white, leaving only two unsynchronized breaths inside the car. Then Shane heard the friction of the leather seats. He took a deep breath and looked at Ilya.
Shane parted his lips. He closed his eyes again.
Their hands were draped around each other's necks, heat brushing their cheeks, filled with the scent of alcohol and desire. Darkness gradually crept in, and they could only find each other's warmth by instinct. He held Ilya against the hollow of his neck, dampening his own earlobes and collarbone. Sound and oxygen left his throat, and his fingers only remained lost in those curly locks of hair.
Then Shane heard the click of a metal buckle—his belt.
Next, cool fingertips slid over his scrotum. Shane arched his waist in pursuit, his palm striking the windshield. The resistance of the glass couldn't hold him, his palm left a watery print in the mist, and then he slid into the seat cushion as Ilya licked his penis wet. Their names filled the narrow space of the car, leaving no room for any other sound. It was all Ilya, Ilya, Ilya, with the occasional Shane slipping through the gaps.
Ilya swallowed him whole, swallowed all of him. His entire twenty-six years of life, those days spent sitting in an office chair. Ilya engulfed the years Shane had spent curled in the shadows of the office, far away from the mountains, rivers, and lakes.
Shane slumped in the passenger seat, his back against the door, his feet on either side of Ilya's body. Thin snow covered the windshield, blocking the light.
Shane still couldn't make out the mist of the Gatineau Hills, but he might already be able to bear the risk of getting lost in the hills.
So he sat up and unbuckled Ilya's belt.
Falling in love with Ilya Rozanov was Shane's second mistake.
CAR WASH, OTTAWA, ONT. 22:18, 8 NOV 1965
***
Ilya drove them back to Shane's cottage. It was just past ten, and Shane once again couldn't tolerate the chaotic passenger seat and food crumbs. After Ilya went upstairs, Shane used the spare key to drive away the 122S.
Shane sat in the lounge of a car wash, watching a television host comment on the risks of the snap election. Counting had just begun in Ontario, and the electronic display on the studio wall was constantly updating the seats held by each party.
A car wash worker knocked on the lounge door. Although the workers would clear out the trash and food crumbs, they usually kept any papers with writing on them just in case, so he handed Shane a stack of papers. Shane listened to the background noise of the television as he flipped through the crumpled papers, most of which were torn pages from newspapers and magazines.
Until Shane pulled out a very small piece of cardstock. The letters on the card were raised from letterpress printing. Although the ink was blurred, it occupied all his thoughts, deafening him to the television.
The card read: $ 5, No 2 and No 4, and a date—
7 Nov 1965.
"Is something wrong, sir?" The car wash worker was a boy under seventeen. He hadn't gathered with the older workers around the television to wait for the results. Instead, he was here handing papers to a dangerous client like Shane.
Shane finally heard his own voice over his thoughts. "Do you smoke?" He looked up from the pile of paper.
"Yes, sir." The boy rubbed his hands anxiously. "Did I do something wrong, sir?"
"No," Shane shook his head. "Would you mind giving me one?"
The boy took out a pack, pulled out a cigarette, and handed it to Shane. He then produced a lighter and lit the cigarette in Shane's hand.
"You can go now." Shane gave a wave, and the boy turned and left timidly.
After taking a few puffs, Shane muttered, Cheap tobacco. He hadn't smoked the stuff in years.
There was a commotion on the television. He looked back. A counter was frequently handing slips of paper with election updates to the host. The rate at which the Liberal Party seats were updating began to slow down. Then he pulled that thin card from the pile in his hand and shoved the rest of the newspapers into the trash.
Shane took the cigarette from his mouth, pressing the tip against the corner of the paper. Seconds later, the words Montreal Race Track began to blacken, spreading until a hole was burned through. Before the flame could touch his fingers, he tossed the entire horse racing ticket into the ashtray.
Then he finished the cigarette.
That was Shane's final mistake.
－
♪Listening: Royal Blood "Out of the Black" (Alternative: Billie Marten version)
You made a fool out of me and took the skin off my back running
So don't breathe when I talk cause you haven't been spoken to
I've got a gun for a mouth and a bullet with your name on it
Pulled a trigger for a heart beating blood from an empty pocket
Glossary and Historical Notes:
- While Galina Molchalina has been reimagined with a new profession and background in this work, her significance to Ilya remains as profound as it was in the original source material.
- "dobryy vecher.": Russian for "Good evening."
- Since "Rose" won't happened in this fic, the story instead on a web of conspiracy and deceive.
- The Canadian Federal Election of November 8, 1965: At the time, Prime Minister Lester B. Pearson hoped to secure a majority government to streamline his policy agenda, leading to a snap election. While the Liberal Party claimed the most seats, they failed to achieve a majority, resulting in another minority government. Though this left them tethered to the influence of smaller parties, it inadvertently paved the way for some of the most transformative reforms in Canadian history.
- The Valachi Hearings: In 1963, Joseph Valachi testified before a U.S. Senate committee, pulling back the curtain on the clandestine operations of the Italian-American Mafia. This monumental testimony served as the first official acknowledgment by the U.S. government that the mob truly existed.
- I was incredibly hungry while drafting this chapter. If you're curious, here is the article for the Latvian fish soup recipe.
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