Chapter Text
1959
Ilya was breathing too fast.
Every quick intake of oxygen might as well be a siren, alerting everyone in the house to Ilya's every movement.
In, out, in, out, in, out, in—
He was definitely breathing too fast.
The staircase before him, with all it's creaky boards typical of a house older than the government and family Ilya is just a few meters away from leaving behind forever, doesn't provide any comfort that may help slow his rapid breathing.
Closing his eyes, Ilya tries the remember the good memories this house gave him, how his mother used to chase Ilya and his brother throughout the second floor of this house, how she'd stop them before they tumbled down this staircase.
In
Hold
Out
In
Hold
Out
His breathing slows.
Ilya made his way down the stairs with the practice ease of a teenager who had long since memorized the route to take to avoid getting caught sneaking out to meet Svetlana and Sasha, unknowingly preparing for the day he wouldn't come back.
It felt too easy, slipping out the door, not bothering to lock it behind him, walking two blocks down to the car Svetlana had gotten for him—he'd learned a long time ago not to question how or where she was acquiring her contraband—and ignoring the pang in his chest at the memory of the girl he was leaving behind.
Ilya knew the route he needed to take to decrease his chances of getting caught, he knew the areas where their were gaps in military presents, and he knew where the blind spots of each watch tower where.
He drove for hours, silent, not daring to even turn on his headlights, relying only on the light from the full moon and his knowledge of the roads to get him to his destination.
The fallen tree eventually comes into view, and Ilya turns his wheel violently to the left, allowing the car to violently crash into the neighboring forest.
It's easy, climbing out of the wrecked car, grabbing the one bag he'd allowed himself to bring, and using his lighter, a piece of fabric, and the bottle of expensive vodka—the kind you save for a special occasion, like once again besting the Americans in their little game of cat and mouse—he'd stolen from his father's study, to ignite the car.
Ilya walks,
and walks,
and walks.
The clearing had been destroyed years ago.
The Soviet Party had declared it a freak accident.
Nobody believed them, really, but Ilya knew it was easier to believe a fire had burned the large clearing and not the forest it rested in than acknowledge the advancements being made within those secret labs he overhears his father discussing.
He sees the plane stashed on the far side of the clearing, and Ilya silently sends another thanks to Svetlana.
It's at moments like these that Ilya hopes the God his mother secretly worshiped, the God Ilya carries the symbol for around his chest now, is real and will watch over Sveta for him now.
Climbing into the small plane, Ilya runs over the plan in his head again.
Step One: Make it out of that house and into the car
Check
Step Two: Make his way to the clearing
Check
Step Three: Crash and ignite the car
Check
Step Four: Prepare the plane and take off towards the West
In progress
Step Five: Make it to Sveta's contact in France to re-fuel
Step Six: America
The lack of true detail between steps four and six sit heavy in Ilya's brain, but he's never truly been a person dependent on plans, always more comfortable figuring things out as he goes, and trusts that skill will get him to the free world safely.
In
Hold
Out
Ilya starts the engine.
Ilya isn't as surprised as he probably should be when, not five minutes after landing in Who fucking knows, USA, he's swarmed by American agents.
He figures his lack of surprise is at least aided by the constant feeling of too easy that became his companion throughout his flight.
The quick English washes over him, and while Ilya usually has no problem keeping up in his second language, the lack of sleep is proving a greater issue than he'd originally thought. Nevertheless, Ilya gets the message: Comply or we'll kill you right here.
A bag is pulled over Ilya's head along with handcuffs, trapping his hands and arms behind his back, which Ilya thinks is unnecessary but knows better than to antagonize agents who are clearly struggling against the orders they have been given to let him live.
Despite his better judgment, Ilya can't resist the call of sleep as he sits blind in the van he was forced into, only coming too when one of the agents all but drags him up and out of the vehicle. He doesn't fight as he's guided through what must be a government building, and sits obediently when he feels a hand push down on his shoulder.
Ilya hears shuffling all around him as his cuffs are unlocked and his arms are pulled to the front of him and locked together again to what Ilya believes must be a table. The same is done to his feet, which after a small experimental stretch Ilya discovers are locked to the leg of the chair and to each other.
He resists the urge to laugh and the Americans' excessiveness.
The bag is never removed.
Agents come and go, sometimes hitting him, sometimes checking to make sure he hasn't magically gotten free of his chains. Time passes in a whirl of boredom and pain until suddenly Ilya is blinded, not by the bag, but by the too bright florescent lights above him.
When his eyes adjust Ilya finds a man sitting across from him, holding a large manila folder no doubt filled with information about him.
"Mr. Rozanov, I trust you won't need an interpreter?"
Ilya stares at the agent and nods, still disorientated from the sudden transition from darkness to light.
"Wonderful, then I won't waste any more time. You caused quite the commotion here when we spotted your aircraft on our radar, more so when we realized who you were. I mean, the youngest son of The Grigori Rozanov flying himself all the way from the Soviet Union—you can imagine our shock."
Why haven't you killed me Ilya wants to ask, but the words get stuck in his throat and instead he coughs violently, suddenly extremely aware of his own dehydration.
Slowly, the agent slides him a glass of water that had been sitting on the opposite edge of the table, and Ilya takes it greedily, awkwardly bending his chained wrists to drain the glass. Passively, Ilya wonders if the drink could be poisoned, but decides that if they Americans haven't killed him by now, they probably aren't going too. At least not until he stops complying.
"Thank you," he says, setting the glass back down. When the agent doesn't continue his monologue, Ilya continues, "I could not stay there, in Russia."
"So you fly all the way across the Atlantic?"
Ilya gets the feeling he's being interrogated, "Yes, I hear stories about how American is free world, and is far away from my father and his hypocrite friends."
The agents eyebrows shoot up, and Ilya watches as she scribbles something inside the file.
"So would it be correct to say you have no allegiance to the communist way of life, Mr. Rozanov?"
"Yes, sir," Ilya replies, the not quite lie not quite truth rolling off his tongue easily.
The agent nods, it bothers Ilya that he doesn't even know the man's name, while the man seems to know everything about him.
"Alright Mr. Rozanov, I have a deal to offer you. We aren't unaware of your work as a Soviet pilot and believe you could offer us valuable information about Russian operations. From now on you'll work for the US government, you'll give us all the information you have and help us perform operations within Soviet territory. In return we will help you assimilate into American life."
The agent finishes with a smirk, knowing Ilya has no real choice but to accept this deal and that Ilya is getting nothing out of it but the chance to keep his life for a little longer.
Ilya smiles, "Okay Mr. Secret American Agent, I will be double-crossing Russian spy for you, on one condition," the man frowns, "I want to be apart of whatever moon business you Americans are up to. I want to be American astronaut."
The agent stares at Ilya, assessing, and then sighs while he glances down at Ilya's file.
"Mr. Rozanov, you have a deal."
April 8, 1970 — Three days before the launch of Apollo 13
Shane loved the simulator. It was hours of quiet darkness, only the meditative work on the control panel in front of him to worry about.
He knows the whole point of the simulator is to prepare to connect with the service module and LEM and to repeat the necessary solutions to any problems that could possibly arise during their flight. The unknown of the whole operation should frighten Shane, make the dread that pools low in his stomach grow and grow; but Shane's been in the astronaut program long enough—and a pilot even longer—that the unknown is incorporated into his routine. He's memorized almost everything that could go wrong and has every contingency plan and solution down to a tee.
Shane is ready. After getting so close his first time in space, Shane is ready to land on the moon.
Shane turns his head to look at Rose and watches her as she safely maneuvers the sim command module, "docking" it into the service module.
He hears Hayden let out a breath, "Let's fucking go Rose."
"Oh please, that was nothing."
Shane smiles as they slowly climb out of the sim, stretching his arms above his head, "He's right Rose, I couldn't have asked for a better pilot on this mission."
Rose smiles up at him, and Shane opens his mouth to suggest they quickly grab something to eat before running another sim, when he spots Wiebe across the room, whispering frantically with the flight surgeon, a dark look in his eyes.
Wiebe looks up, meeting Shane's eyes, and jesters for the three of them to come over. Hayden shoots Shane a worried look, but Shane brushes him off. There's no point in worrying about possibilities, not when their focus needs to be on this mission.
"What is it, Wiebe?" Shane asks as they approach. He ignores the pitying glance the flight surgeon gives them as he walks away.
There's no point in worrying about possibilities.
Shane repeats this phrase like a prayer. It got him through the air force, it got him through astronaut training, it got him through his first space flight, it will get him through this conversation.
There's no point in worrying about possibilities.
"We just got the results back from the blood tests, Cliff Marleau has the measles."
Marleau, the backup Command Module pilot, a nice man, dedicated if not a little brutish, crucially, not apart of Shane's crew.
What does not have to do with us Shane thinks.
As if reading his mind Hayden says, "Well, I've had the measles."
Shane finds himself nodding, "Yeah me too."
He looks at Wiebe, but Shane finds that Wiebe isn't looking back at him. No, Wiebe is looking at—
He's looking at Rose.
"I haven't," Rose breathes out and Shane's heart drops. This couldn't be happening, they were so close.
No
Shane must've said that at loud because Wiebe turns his whole body towards Shane, "The flight surgeon has called for Rose to be removed from Apollo 13," Wiebe continues, "and I have to agree with him, we can't risk Rose getting sick up there while you and Hayden are on the moon."
"No, no this is ridiculous, I don't have the measles, I won't get the measles," Rose looks at him, "Tell him Shane, I don't need to be taken off the flight."
Shane wants to agree with her, wants to tell Wiebe and the flight surgeon and all of mission control and NASA that Rose Landry does not have the measles, that it is perfectly safe for her to fly.
But he can't.
"I—Rose we really can't risk it."
Shane forces himself to watch as Rose's face falls, "This is ridiculous."
He forces himself to watch as Rose storms out of the room, "I don't have the fucking measles."
Hayden grabs Shane's shoulder, forcing Shane back into the room fully, "Marleau was Rose's backup, so who's her replacement," he hears Hayden ask.
Wiebe sighs, "We, uh," He sighs again, "Ilya Rozanov."
1963
Shane remembers the first time he met Rozanov like it was yesterday. It was the first day of astronaut training and Shane was practically buzzing with anticipation.
In the air force he'd heard whispers of rumors about a Soviet pilot working with America, having been recruited after escaping at just 18, and when his request to be loaned to NASA's space program was approved, those rumors grew louder.
He was supposed to be amazing, one of the best in their generation.
He was supposed to be joining Shane's astronaut class.
They weren't supposed to get their until 0800 hours, but Shane couldn't resist the urge to arrive 30 minutes early.
Just in case.
He had rounded the corner of the hallway, ready to wait outside the meeting room door until an appropriate time to enter arrived, when he saw him.
Ilya Rozanov.
Shane would never admit it, but Rozanov hadn't notice him standing there initially, and Shane used that time to stare,
and stare
and stare.
The Russian was gorgeous, the sight of him making Shane's stomach flip on itself and that familiar, dangerous, feeling at the site of another man made itself known again.
Rozanov finally looked up, and Shane tried to shove that feeling back down to where it belongs, but it was futile at the sight of those piercing blue eyes.
"Can I help you?"
The sound of Rozanov accent did not help, at all, but Shane had refused to let his one chance to make a good impression be ruined by those dangerous thoughts.
"Sorry, no, I'm Shane Hollander," he walked closer and extended his hand, Rozanov looked down at it and back at Shane, ignoring the offer, "I just wanted to say I've heard a lot about you, you're an amazing pilot."
"Yes."
"Al—alright, well I'm excited to be in the training program with you, it should be a lot of fun."
Fun?! Fun, Shane really?
He realized too late that he's extended his hand again, but before he can pull it back Rozanov shook it, and Shane did not think about how Rozanov's hand felt in his.
He did not.
Despite the hand shake, Rozanov did not say anything else to Shane, so Shane had taken the hint and began to walk away from Rozanov and find his own portion of the hallway to wait in.
"You will not be so nice when I beat you."
The comment filled Shane with an unexplainable warmth excitement anticipation rage, "Not happening, asshole."
From that moment on in the program, Shane never knew a moment of peace around Rozanov. He'd laugh and tease and rile Shane up. He'd all him stupid names in Russian that Shane has never been able to translate. They'd swap 1st and 2nd place constantly during training.
Shane couldn't stand him.
He felt absolutely nothing else when he saw Rozanov enter a room but pure annoyance.
But then training ended and Shane was slotted for his first flight and Rozanov never was, doomed to be a flightless astronaut.
He didn't have to deal with the Russian anymore.
April 8, 1970
"What!? This is ridiculous Brandon. Rozanov?! No, no, I won't fly with him, I refuse. There was to be someone else, I mean, there's no way I can trust a Soviet to get Shane and I back from the moon safely."
"Hayden, you have to understand, there isn't anyone else. Rozanov is the only pilot mission ready. With the budget cuts we've had this year—"
"Fuck that! If he flies I don't"
Hayden's…anger finally snaps Shane fully back in place and he pushes all unnecessary thoughts about Rozanov down.
"Hayd, let—let's not make drastic decisions, okay. I mean, you haven't even given him a chance."
"Given him a chance!? Shane, he was the biggest asshole, to you, throughout training. He's still an asshole, how can you be okay with this?"
Shane sighs, "I'm not Hayden, trust me, but we need to think about the mission, okay. Just—just give him one chance, one sim. Please."
He watches as Hayden's resolve crumbles, "Alright Shane, one sim."
They both look back at Wiebe, "Wonderful, you both are expected back here bright and early tomorrow, 0600 hours, understand?" Shane nods and walks with Hayden to their lockers and to their parked cars.
Shane thinks of nothing on his drive home.
Nothing.
He pulls into his garage, and thinks of nothing.
He unlocks his front door, nothing.
He turns on the lights of his empty and quiet house, he silently makes himself dinner, he takes a shower, brushes his teeth, sets his alarm, and climbs into bed.
Nothing,
Nothing,
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing.
It's only when he turns of the lamp on his nightstand, bathing the room in darkness, and closes his eyes that Shane thinks about Rozanov.
In those moments between wakefulness and unconsciousness, Shane allows himself that indulgence.
April 9, 1970 — Two days before the launch of Apollo 13
Shane knows as soon as he steps into the room that things will not go well.
Introductions between Rozanov and Hayden were tense, both of them refusing to make any sort of attempt at peace.
"I know Hollander, you are very glad to see me, I would be too if I had lost Landry to stupid decision and was now stuck with just Pike."
"Shut up Rozanov, he obviously doesn't want to hear that bullshit from you," Hayden replies and Shane resist the urge to tell him he doesn't really mind Rozanov's cockiness. He knows it's different for Hayden, with the Russian going after his skills like that.
"Hm, I don't think Hollander minds, do you?" Rozanov steps closer, and Shane can almost feel his hot breath on his face, "Is just fun and games, enjoyable, right Hollander?"
The way that word, enjoyable, rolls off Rozanov's tongue has Shane repressing a shiver.
"Get off of me Rozanov," he finds himself saying, surprising himself with the bite in his voice.
Rozanov complies, a strange look passing on his face right before he backs away from Shane's person space with a grin, "He does not deny it Pike, you see, it is just you with a problem with me."
Shane can see Hayden fighting against the urge to deck Rozanov right there, outside the simulator, and decides enough is enough.
"That's enough asshole, we've wasted enough time already," Shane motions for Rozanov and Hayden to follow him into the sim, throwing a look at Hayden he hopes says, everything is going to be fine.
Shane thinks he would. be more successful at reassuring Hayden if he didn't believe they were seconds away from a disaster.
He's worries are proven right when, in the sim, Hayden freezes up at an alarm. Shane knows the issue, knows the fix, and if it was the real deal he would've reached over Hayden the moment he noticed to take care of it himself.
But it isn't the real deal, and Shane knows Hayden needs to know what to do in case, god forbid, Shane is unable to assist him.
Rozanov doesn't get the memo.
"Oh my god Pike, I know you are 15th best astronaut, but it is not hard here," Rozanov pushes up in his seat, reaching over Shane towards Hayden's portion of the panel and performing the exact procedure Shane had been repeating in his head since the alarm went off, "maybe next time you do not try to kill us Pike."
When they're finally done, Hayden storms out of the sim, an objectively impressive feat given the cramped space, and Shane chases after him, faintly aware of Rozanov following them both at a more casual pace.
"Hayden wait—"
"yes, wait Pike, we must debrief how you killed us in there."
"You had no right, asshole," Hayden screams as he turns around to face them, Rozanov having snuck up behind him and now standing just slightly too close to Shane's side.
"I do not understand, I had to right to what? Prevent us from dying in a burning ball of fire? I thought you wanted to get back to your thousand children."
"Don't fucking talk about my kids, Rozanov. I swear I'll—"
Shane jumps in between Rozanov and a rapidly approaching Hayden, "Whoa, both of you, shut the fuck up. Hayden talk a walk, Rozanov did nothing wrong, if we were actually in space I would've done something before Rozanov even realized to had frozen up, okay?" He turns around to look at the Russian, "Rozanov, stop fucking around, we launch is two days, this is serious."
Shane glances back at a stricken Hayden, "That's it, I'm done."
He watches, frozen, has Hayden walks slowly, too slowly, out of the room, disappearing around the corner.
"Pike will come around."
Shane whips is head around, looking back at Rozanov, "Like you care."
"You're right, I do not. But I do enjoy watching him get all angry at me, will be lots of fun watching him try to resist starting a fight during mission," he pauses and let's that smile, the one Shane knows means he's thought of the perfect jab, "You did look very pretty, cолнышко, defended me from Pike."
Shane ignores the thumping in his chest at Rozanov calling him pretty, "Fuck off, asshole."
Rozanov laughs, "Alright, Hollander, I understand, you do not want to get sick of me before mission. You are — what is English saying — saving the best for later."
Shane scoffs at Rozanov. For one, he knows the man is excellent at English and does not need help with most words and idioms, especially when he's calm, and two, he's heard Rozanov use the correct saying all the time in training. Albeit, to make fun of and antagonize he recruits struggling with the coursework. Along with Pike and, during the brief time they were dating, Rose.
He leaves Rozanov standing there, resolving to get some lunch before finding Hayden, but before he can finish his meal he spots Wiebe across the dining hall, Rozanov not far behind, motioning him to follow them.
Quickly getting up and gathering his stuff, Shane follows closely behind as Wiebe leads them to his office.
"Have a seat gentlemen," Rozanov drops down immediately while Shane slowly lowers himself beside him, ignoring the heat radiating from Rozanov's splayed legs, "Hayden has pulled himself from the flight, he's refusing to go up."
Shane wishes he could say he was shocked, but in truth he knew the moment he let Hayden leave he wouldn't be coming back, not as long as Rozanov would be there too.
"Okay so, we have backups, right?" Rozanov asks.
Wiebe sighs, "Unfortunately no, with this measles exposure and the recent budget cuts, there is no astronaut prepared to fly the lunar module."
Shane's heart sinks, he knows that even being allowed into the space program was a big stretch for NASA, he's not ignorant to the fact he's the only Japanese-American there (although he's technically Canadian, he doesn't care to bring up another thing that makes him different), and he's afraid that his was his one chance to command an Apollo Mission, to land on the moon.
His thoughts are interrupted by Rozanov, "Okay, so you send us up alone."
Shane blinks, "I'm sorry, what?"
"We don't need Pike, or anyone else, I can fly module and send Hollander down to moon."
"Rozanov you can;t seriously be suggesting this, I mean a two man mission is crazy—impossible even—right Brandon?"
Wiebe's lack of immediate response startles Shane, "You can't be serious."
"We really can't afford to push this mission back. Rozanov, are you sure you'd be able to fly the Command and Lunar module."
"Yes, I am sure. While Americans were busy ignoring my existence I trained for both roles, just in case."
Shane feels something too close to fondness at Rozanov's words, and before he can resist he responds, "I—alright. I'll do it."
For a moment Shane catches a smile he's never seen on Rozanov before, it's open and bright and lacks the undercurrent of meanness his usually smiles hold.
It's genuine
It's beautiful
Shane doesn't realize he's following Rozanov out of Wiebe's office until he hears the door shut behind him and he's suddenly being crowded against the wall.
Shane meets Rozanov's eyes and finds them full of intensity, "You will not regret this Hollander, I will give you one hell of a ride."
He doesn't have time to process Rozanov's words before he's gone, leaving Shane confused and warm against the wall.
Shane counts to ten, then twenty, the thirty before his resolve breaks and he breaks off on something resembling a run to the single-stall bathroom, silently thanking whatever is up there that nobody sees him in the hallway and that the door is unlocked when he arrives.
Barely five seconds after Shane locks the door behind him he has his dick in his hand, seating a furious pace that makes him hiss and the too dry friction of his hand.
He leans against the wall, forcing himself to remove his hand, holding down a whine at the loss of contact. Shane spits in his palm before continuing fiercely jerking himself off. He closes his eyes and presses his back into the wall harder, closing his eyes and conjuring the image from moments ago of Rozanov crowding around him, trapping him.
Shane cums with a gasp, biting into into his lip to keep himself quiet.
Shame quickly washes over him as he cleans himself off, and before opening the door Shane breaths,
In
Hold
Out
In
Hold
Out
And pushes that dangerous feeling down.
He cannot stand Ilya Rozanov.