Archive of Our Own

There was a new vendor. Ilya knew because Bood (barbecue) , Wyatt and Ryan (used books and comics), Marley (knife sharpening), and Luca (framed drawings) had all come by to tell him when they should've been setting up. It was 7AM on a Sunday morning and if Ilya lived in a fair and just world, he would still be asleep instead of setting out his wares at New Haven Lake's farmer's market.

If only it wasn't his best sales day of the week. If only he hadn't started making pickled products out of reckless fear and boredom two years ago. With his bid for freedom from his corporate overlords leaving him with far too much free time paired with a generally bad sense of self-preservation, Svetlana had told him to 'get a hobby'.

So now he woke up at 6 AM on the weekends to haul enormous boxes of carefully wrapped jars out of the back of his ugly practical truck and listen to gossip.

"What are they selling?" Ilya asked every one of his nosy booth neighbors.

"It's in glass bottles," Bood said. "Olive oil, maybe? Remember Judy with the oils?"

"We did not like Judy," Ilya said ominously.

"Damn right. So maybe a better quality of oils."

"Maybe it will be vinegar!" Luca said with a shy smile. "You can work together!"

"I do not need artisanal fucking vinegar," Ilya said, then tempered it because Luca was a good, if slightly fragile, friend. Who also was parked in the stall to the left of Ilya and was not above making sad eyes at him for hours. "But it would be nice to talk shop with someone."

"You should go say hi before people show up!"

That was basically impossible because despite the market opening at 8, customers started wandering by as soon as the sun came up. It had taken Ilya a few weeks to understand that it was going to keep happening.

"Best just to get the credit card reader out first, brother," Marley told him sagely as he drank the largest bottle of kombucha Ilya had ever seen. It was almost threateningly red. "Start selling as you setup."

So Ilya set out his credit card reader as soon as he had the tablecloth down. He had leaned heavily into the pickle innuendo, even though traditional cucumber pickles were a small part of the business. Everything in his booth was covered with his logo: a pickle wearing sunglasses and a Hawaiian shirt which in turn had a smaller pickle pattern on it. His black tent had a giant version printed on the canopy and then in big obnoxious gold lettering: "Pickle Me This".

It was supposed to be a funny little side hustle. Extra money.

Now Ilya had his own pickle-printed Hawaiian shirt to match and he wore it over skintight tank top and short shorts. He knew what sold his product and only a small percent of it was North American curiosity in pickled beets.

"Rozanov!" One of his regulars cried out. It was 7:15 AM. He was still loading jars onto the repurposed Ikea bookshelf that he had paid Luca to paint black with gold embellishments to draw the eye to the product.

"Good morning," he said and pasted on a smile.

"Did you see there's a new vendor?"

"I have heard. I have not seen yet."

"I'll go see and let you know! For now, can I get two jars of the avocado? My niece actually loves it. I couldn't believe it! She's usually so picky."

And so it went. Ilya sold jars of beets, avocados, limes, peaches, jalapenos, peppers, turnips, eggs, onions, garlic, and ginger. The classic cucumber pickles always did the best, but he refused to stock more than he already did of them. Logo or not, the point was to convince people that cucumbers were the least interesting thing you could put in brine.

"Oh, are the pickled limes sour?" A young woman with twin toddlers asleep in a baby carriage and a baby strapped to her asked.

"They are," Ilya said, flashing a smile at her. "Because they are limes."

"I guess they are," she said with a tired laugh. "I want to try something new and I like pickles. What would you recommend?"

"Do you like hot things?" Ilya asked, purposefully bending over and picking up a crate, moving it slightly to the left as if it was of the utmost importance.

"I'm not great with spice," she said calmly even though there was a faint flush on her cheeks when Ilya turned back around.

"Beets," he determined. "They are still a little sweet. If you like those, you will like other things. You take a jar this week, come back next week and tell me if you liked it. Then I can help you pick something else out."

"Okay, I'll get a jar of the beets then."

Ilya plucked one off the shelf and handed it to her. "Enjoy."

"How much?"

"No," he said seriously. "This is free. You eat. If you like it then we will do business next week."

"You can't make any money giving away things," she protested, but she cradled the jar to her chest.

"You will see. I will make a lot of money from you…."

"Jackie," she supplied. "Wow. Okay. Thank you. I'll definitely be back."

"I like to reuse things," he said. "So if you finish that, bring back the jar and you get a discount. Okay?"

"Okay," she confirmed.

Another future customer secured, Ilya moved on to the next person. He had a parade of happy women of all ages that came to his booth to flirt with their empty jars in hand and not even a chance to nibble at his emergency protein bar. By noon, he was starving. That was when Svetlana showed up, iced coffee in hand and enormous sunglasses on.

"I just ate a cookie the size of my face," she told him as she came around the table. She refused to wear a matching Hawaiian shirt, but she did pin the pickle logo button to her cropped slightly see-through tank top and that was more effective anyway. "I think it soaked up most of the hangover."

"Why must you rub your lifestyle in my face?" he whined.

"I am not the one who decided to give up fun in favor of brine," she said with a pointed yawn. "I heard there is a new vendor."

"No one knows what he's selling yet."

"I do," she said and took a pointed sip of her coffee.

"Sveta," he gasped, "how?"

"I went over and looked."

"Every one of my customers says they will come back and tell me what they're selling. None of them have come back."

"I can guess why," she said with a smug look.

"You will tell me?"

"Just go get lunch and see for yourself," she waved her hands at him. "I've got this."

"No freebies for Landry," he instructed.

"You are not the boss of me," she said tartly.

"I am the boss of this table," he muttered.

"No, you are not," she said simply.

She was right, of course. Ilya would still be trying to sell product out of the back of his truck with a handwritten sign without her. They were partners. He did the visible side of things and she handled the money and public relations. It was fair. That didn't mean it wouldn't be nice if she'd wait until he had left to take down a jar of eggs and start eating their stock.

"Sveta," he said.

"Yes?" she said around half an egg. It was dyeing her lips slightly pink because she always went for the ones he pickled in beet juice. "I know how much you earned today already. We can afford it. It's good advertising too. Look how hot I look eating these."

"No one looks hot eating pickled eggs," he contended.

She sucked on her fingers and gave him a look. "Try again."

"Except you," he sighed. "Of course."

His stomach growled and he gave up, heading out into the flow of traffic. Bood was his first port of call though the man himself was manning the grill and his wife Cassie served Ilya a pulled pork sandwich that might've been kissed by angels.

"Have you seen the new vendor yet?" she asked.

"No-"

"Miss!" A customer called out. "Can I get more onion on this?"

"Your onions drive them crazy, we need to up our weekly order," Cassie said with a wink to Ilya. "Yes! Hand me your plate!"

Ilya moved on and out of the way. He stopped at the orchard stand where the entire Drover clan seemed in attendance. Usually Ilya could get in a chat with Harris and pet the family dogs that were some of the best behaved animals Ilya had ever met, but it was early fall which meant everyone was going nuts for apples and they were slammed.

"Ilya!" Harris called out when he spotted him. "Sorry- crap. Okay! Just take a cider, I'll trade you for a jar later!"

"Okay!" Ilya called back and took his usual bottle.

Thus fortified, Ilya found a corner of a picnic table in the neighboring tiny park and sat down to eat at last. He watched families and couples stroll around the market, some of them pulling wagons and others holding colorful fun tote bags. Dogs punctuated the crowd, trotting alongside their people in all shapes and sizes.

It was a strange world to occupy, but Ilya loved it.

Even if he didn't quite feel a part of it. Sitting, eating his lunch, he was as distant from the happy clumps of humanity as the moon. When he was done today, Svetlana would help him pack up and then she would meet up with Rose, the flower booth woman, and they'd get in her fragrant car and drive off again. It would be Ilya driving back home alone to brew up more product and boil jars while the television played in the background for company.

The sandwich went leaden in his belly, but he finished it out of respect for Bood's craft. Sipping at his cider, Ilya joined the moving crowd, letting them push him forward. The new booth stood out. The tent was a dark blue with tasteful red accents. There was a table setup in front with a matching tablecloth and written inside a wire frame shape of a droplet were the words: No Friction, Just Chemistry.

Arranged on the table, each sitting on a piece of beautifully carved driftwood, were six glass bottles with the same writing and logo embossed in silver on them. The pump tops were a matte dark blue that matched the tent. Everything radiated classy practicality. There was a small chalkboard sign that read 'Try a pump! It's also moisturizing! Cruelty-Free, Vegan-Friendly, Made with Organic Ingredients' and a price list in a frame.

It left Ilya none the wiser as to the product, but before he could move in closer, his eyes snagged on the man behind the table. He was talking to a customer, his hands hanging at his sides, shoulders drawn up like the interaction was an assault even though his face was calm. The customer seemed at ease talking to him, so he must be doing a good job of it.

He was gorgeous. Black hair, dark eyes framed by long black lashes, pretty sandy skin, and biceps that said he put the time in at the gym. His t-shirt matched his tent, the logo printed over his heart. Everything about him was crisp and fresh despite the hours he must've been on his feet already.

"Ruby, no!" Someone shouted, jarring Ilya from his reverie.

He looked down just in time to be barreled into by a wayward toddler. She was holding a half-eaten doughnut (Drover origin, Ilya diagnosed by the color and amount of powdered sugar). Halfway down the row, a frantic looking man, holding a matching toddler attempted was clearly trying to get to her. After a moment's hesitation, Ilya scooped up the little girl.

"Got her!" He yelled back, so no one would think he was running off with her. "Hello, Miss Ruby. Did you run away?"

"Away!" She shouted and wiggled a little in his grasp, liberally dousing him in powdered sugar.

"Holy shit, thanks," the frantic man stopped in front of Ilya. "Sorry, she's a runner."

"Maybe you need a leash," Ilya said dryly.

"She's a kid, not a dog," the man snapped. He jostled around the kid already in his arms around to his left and held his other one out. "Child, please."

Ilya handed her over, aware that she was leaving a trail of powdered sugar behind her. Her firecracker pigtails looked familiar.

"Jackie bought beets from me this morning," he recalled. "These are her children."

"That's your booth?" the man asked, eyes tracking over the shirt, then meeting Ilya's gaze with possessive defiance that was all too familiar. "I'm her husband."

"Okay," Ilya said peaceably. "Enjoy the beets."

He retreated. It had only taken three altercations for him to learn to play dumb when angry husbands turned up. It was hardly Ilya's fault that men let their partners come to farmer's markets unaccompanied.

When he glanced toward the booth again, he found the twins and their father also headed in that direction. The gorgeous man behind the table greeted them all with a small smile, reaching out and taking the non-sugar dusted twin from his…friend? Business associate? Polyamourous third?

What a nice family-friendly picture they made. Ilya left the vision behind. He had his own business to worry about. He stopped by Wiebe's sprawling setup and cut another unholy deal with him for his 'ugly' vegetables. Ilya would stop by the farm on Wednesday for pickup and lunch in the bargain. They always had a long winding talk over their 'deals' and Ilya tried not to think about how much he looked forward to hanging out with a middle-aged farmer, talking about their business interests.

Deal made and lunch date set, it was back to the booth. It was post-brunch time now, peak crowd on a beautiful day. Svetlana and Ilya talked in shorthand, restocking around each other and ringing up sales until the crowd thinned and eventually disappered altogether.

They re-loaded the truck and just as they were sliding in the last of their tubs, Rose appeared. She had made herself a flower crown from her wares and a stray petal was caught in her long red hair. Svetlana ran to her giddily, the two of them kissing and making a fuss over each other as if it had been days instead of hours apart.

"How'd it go today?" Rose asked him when they finally separated.

"Well," he said. "For you?"

"Fantastic! Are you going to move indoors this year?"

"Yes," he said though he was already dreading it. The cold months brought the fair into a local elementary school. The loading in was far more difficult and fewer people came. More work for less money, his favorite. "But you will not?"

"It never pays. My greenhouse is too small to produce enough and the quality isn't the same. I'll switch to the holiday craft fairs with my dried bouquets."

"Have fun," he said flatly.

"Oh, I will," she laughed. "Did you get to meet my friend?"

"Which friend?" Svetlana asked.

"I told you, babe, I got him to start selling here."

"That's your friend?" Svetlana's voice pitched up. "You said he was into homemade home health products."

"He is!" Rose laughed. "I thought you'd like finding out yourself."

"I did," Svetlana laughed with her.

They were already off in their own world. Ilya dug out his keys.

"I'm going," he announced. "Sveta, Tuesday afternoon?"

"Always!" She said with a smile.

"Bye!" Rose said.

"Goodbye."

That was the first Sunday. Not auspicious. Not even particularly memorable.

The second Sunday was a little different.

Ilya arrived with all the other vendors, a crowd of trucks and vans that saw actual use instead of the vanity pickups that always made Ilya retch a little. He wouldn't even have a truck if he didn't absolutely need it to haul his shit around. It had been practical to offload his Ferrari when he changed jobs, but some days he missed it, terrible gas mileage and nonexistent trunk space and all.

He was thinking fondly of his car as he lit a cigarette, sucking down a quick nicotine hit as he tossed he unfolded tables and set up the bookcase.

"You're not supposed to smoke here," someone said. Ilya groaned. It was likely one of the town board people, who liked to show up occasionally and scold every vendor for some perceived violation of their precious park policies.

"Oh no?" Ilya asked wryly and turned to face whatever sour-face assho- oh no. It was the hottie from the new mystery stand.

"It can't be food safe," the man said, but he didn't look particularly upset. He was actually smiling a little. He held out his hand. "Hi, I'm Shane . Shane Hollander? You're Ilya Rozanov, right?"

"Yes," Ilya said and shook his head, bemused.

"I've heard some great things about your food. Bood said your onions are the best."

"They are good onions," Ilya said. What? That was the best thing he could come up with? Fuck his entire life.

"I've got some food things, so I've never tried them."

"Allergies?" Ilya asked, already going to his allergy list.

"No," Shane said, his eyes were trained low, only darting up once or twice to catch Ilya's. "Texture thing."

"Everything has a texture," Ilya said. "So you don't eat food?"

"Some textures," Shane huffed. "Slimy is a no go for me."

"Slimy!" Ilya said. "My things are not slimy. Slimy is for fish."

"Okay, wet things,' Shane contended. "I don't know. I just know it makes me cringe. Sorry."

"I will give you something not slimy," Ilya determined. "And you will like it."

"I can't promise that, sorry," Shane said and he sounded genuinely a little sorry. "I heard it's supposed to rain today."

"Fuck," Ilya said, "I know. It will be all anyone says today."

"That it might rain?"

"You have not sold at other markets?"

"No," Shane frowned. "This is new to me. Why?"

"We are obsessed with the weather. Live and die by fucking clouds."

"You sell at other markets?"

Ilya had to start unloading or he was going to get behind, but he couldn't make himself move, transfixed by this strange apparition who seemed equally interested in him.

"This is the best one, but I do a few annual events and the big monthly market in the city. It is on Saturdays, no conflict."

"Rose does that one, I think."

"Mmm, yes. You're friends with Rose."

"You're friends with Sveltana," Shane lobbed back like it was an accusation.

"Yes?"

"And-"

Ilya stared at Shane. Shane's eyes were locked on Ilya's stomach where his tank top had ridden up a little. Well. That was interesting.

"Hey, Roz!" Bood appeared, carrying an enormous cooler over one shoulder. "Do you think it's going to rain? Cassie says no, but my leg is killing me."

"I don't know," Ilya said, attention flickering over to him. "I have not smelled it yet."

"How can you smell anything over that cancer stick?"

"Is Roz smoking again?" Marley called out. "Put that shit out, brother! You know they were all over you about it last month. You want to get another strike?"

Ilya muttered dire hateful things in Russian as he stubbed out the cigarette. When he glanced up, Shane was gone.

"Hi, Roz," Haas said, lumbering by with what seemed like a dozen frames under each arm. "Rain today?"

"Maybe! I do not have weather powers," he said.

"You do, a little," Harris said, wheeling by with a cart.

Ilya did, a little. He could smell rain coming, but it wasn't any more or less accurate than the actual weather app on his phone. Probably. He kept on setting up and his nose cleared up from his brief flirtation with his old addiction (he had been working on the same pack for a month now, that was practically cured as far as he was concerned).

As he set out the last jar, he inhaled.

"We are fucked," he pronounced. "Downpour."

"Fuck," Marley groaned. "Luca, you want help?"

"Please!" Luca said immediately.

Most of them had product that could stand to get wet. Ilya's jars could take a lot more than a little water, especially since he'd switched to better quality labels. Poor Luca's art would be fucked though so Ilya and Marley worked with him to get everything, but a few display pieces under tarps. Luca couldn't afford not to at least try to make the table fee or Ilya would've told him to just pack it in.

When word spread about Ilya's pronouncement, every table started taking their weather precautions if they hadn't already. There were a few ominous clouds creeping towards them as the early bird customers trickled in. Ilya upsold them as much as possible, something he usually didn't push on his regulars.

He texted Svetlana not to bother coming in. If he was wrong, he would pay for it later, but why should they both be damp and miserable if that was how the day was going to go? She sent back a thumbs up and then a selfie of her still cozy in bed because his best friend was an asshole.

The rain started right at opening. At first it was only misting which wasn't enough to drive off most people. Sales kept going, but Ilya knew they were on borrowed time. Sure enough, a half hour later, it started pouring.

"Great," Marley sighed, and ambled over to stand under Ilya's tent. "Radar says it could go for an hour or more. Then stop."

"Actually stop?"

"Chance of rain the rest of the day."

The worst kind then. Not consistently bad enough to admit defeat. The fakers would leave, of course. The sourdough couple who vended 'for fun and to meet people' would be gone first, then the prissy trophy wife that sold repackaged grocery store cookies and the trust fund couple who had gotten chickens for fun and sold their eggs at a ridiculous markup. Ilya bought his eggs from Wiebe, who didn't bother lugging them to the market every week, just sold them at an unmanned the stand on the road using the honor system like a trusting weirdo.

The two of them stared morosely out as the egg people left, giving jaunty waves like they were all in this together as they bailed. Fucking dicks.

"You want me to do your knifes?" Marley offered.

"Yes, fine. You want onions?"

"Did you do the extra spicy ones?"

Thus began the only good thing about rainy days. Harris ambled by with a full case of the hard cider they weren't allowed to sell, but could give out for free 'with purchase'.

"What's it worth to you?" Harris asked.

"If you give donuts too, then six jars, your choice."

"Deal. Can I stay here for a bit? Mom is freaking out about my sister's wedding also getting rained out even though it's three weeks from now."

"Yes," Ilya said immediately.

It was nice to talk to Harris, then Marley when he came back with the knives. Bood came over and they swapped brisket for onions. Wiebe gave out the last of the strawberries to everyone.

"They'll only go bad otherwise," he said with a sigh. "Ilya, think you could pickle them?"

"I can pickle anything," Ilya declared. "Balsamic."

"Damn," Bood said. "Sign me up."

"I will bring them next week," Ilya vowed.

The not-bullshit bakers brought around loaves to trade for ginger and the guy with goat cheese took some limes for his wife. Ilya had the makings of a few good lunches and a few new stories after chatting.

"What about the new guy?" Ilya asked. "Did anyone tell him about the trading?"

"Good question," Bood smirked. "Why? You want his product? It's probably up your alley."

"I tried some. My hands are very soft now," Luca said. "It smells nice too."

"I did not need to know that about you," Bood said.

"I could stand to hear more," Marley said then turned a shade of red Ilya hadn't known the man was capable of.

"I just tried the free sample!" Luca squeaked.

Enough was enough. Ilya considered his choices and selected his favorite beets. He pickled them in several flavors, but the honey ginger ones were the most popular. Pulling out a few slices, he laid them on paper towel he used to mop up the occasional leak. Drying the slices to the best of his ability, he layered them with goat cheese on a thin slice of the fresh bread.

"What are you doing?" Bood asked, eyes darting between Marley and Luca like he'd just caught on.

"Proving a point," Ilya said. "If customers show up, yell."

Then he dashed out into the rain. It was cold and wet as one might anticipate, but Ilya was fast and he reached the blue tent only half-soaked instead of completely. Shane was sitting in a folding chair with a book in his hands. He had glasses on. Ilya's heart skipped a beat. His dick twitched.

"Hello, Shane Hollander."

"Just Shane," he said reaching up and taking off his glasses which might be a crime against humanity. At least a crime against Ilya. "Everything okay?"

"No, it's raining. We are fucked for money today. But we are all exchanging things and I did not see you so I thought 'maybe this new guy doesn't know shit'."

"I know things," Shane said defensively, then allowed, "but I didn't know you guys all hung out."

"It is mostly whining about lost money, but we also barter some. You should do this too. It doesn't make up for cash, but it does get you lunch."

"I brought lunch," Shane said. "And I don't think anyone wants to trade with me."

Why wouldn't they want to? Not the point. Ilya was on a mission.

"Also you will try my beets."

"I don't like-"

"Slimy, I heard you. But I dried these and they are not very slimy. Plus goat cheese and good bread. These are all good things. Try a bite."

Shane hesitated and Ilya wondered if he'd made the wrong move. Maybe Shane's food issues were deeper than he'd guessed or he didn't like pushy people. But then the proffered paper towel was taken. It had stayed dry under Ilya's Hawaiian shirt.

Taking the bread, Shane studied it like it was dog shit he'd found on the bottom of his shoe, which Ilya found both offensive and ridiculously charming. What an asshole.

Then he took the world's tiniest bite. So small Ilya was sure that no actual molecule of food had gotten into Shane's mouth. There were chewing motions though. Then Shane tentatively took a second bite.

And a third.

Fuck. Yes.

"Interesting," Shane said and set it down. "I like the cheese and the bread. The beets are okay."

"Okay," Ilya repeated. "My prize winning beets are 'okay'?"

Shane took a second then grinned. "Damn. Your face."

"Oh, I see," Ilya said, a laugh startlingly out of him, "You are an asshole."

"Little bit, yeah," Shane laughed too. He had a great laugh. Fuck. "They're really good. Officially not slimy."

"Good, I will give you a jar," Ilya said happily.

"You want my stuff in exchange?" Shane asked.

"I give every one a free first jar because-"

"Oh yeah, Jackie told me. She thought it was funny we had the same idea. I mean I don't do the free part, but I do a bottle exchange. Or a refill if someone prefers."

"You know Jackie with the twins?" Ilya asked, innocently. "Nice lady."

"Her husband is my best friend. That's why they were here last week, they wanted to help me with my first day of selling."

Had Mr. Jackie told Shane that the pickle guy was a flirtatious jerk?

"He lost his child," Ilya said. "I returned her."

"That was you? Yeah, Ruby is a runner," Shane said, untroubled. "I mean temporarily. He's never really lost them."

"Leashes," Ilya said.

"No," Shane said. "So do you want to try my stuff or what?"

"Yes," Ilya said immediately.

"Original, bergamot, yuzu, basil, cucumber, or blackberry?"

Was it a food? A supplement? Ilya really needed to ask.

"You choose," he said instead. Somewhere Svetlana was getting a headache and she didn't know why.

"Okay, so I always recommend people rub a little on their hands before buying to make sure they don't have a reaction. It's never happened, but you can't be too careful and better hives on your hands then…you know," Shane said.

Ilya did not know, but he held out his hand anyway and Shane did one little pump from the basil bottle. The fluid was clear and when Ilya held his hands up to his nose, it did smell faintly of basil. Nothing strong. He rubbed it between his fingers and found it both slick and a little viscous. Definitely not olive oil. When he rubbed it into his hands, it seemed reluctant to absorb at first, keeping his fingers slick against each other until eventually it sank in, leaving his fingers still a little slippery, but definitely feeling nice.

"It smells good," Ilya offered because that seemed neutral enough.

"All six of them are edible too. I got them tested a few times to be sure," Shane said, warming up to the subject. "I know some online stores will sell just about anything, but I wanted to be better than that."

"So I can lick this off my hand?"

Shane frowned, then nodded. "Yes? That's kind of the point."

It was? Ilya licked his fingertips, glancing up at Shane to make sure he was watching. Shane's attention was definitely on his fingers. Nice. The taste was pleasant and not strong. More like smelling a crushed basil leaf then chewing on one.

So it was flavored liquid that you tested on your fingers and was edible. You were meant to lick it.

Wait.

"Shane," Ilya said very very carefully, "do you sell lube?"

He waited to be laughed at. Shane only stared at him. "You didn't know?"

"I did not," Ilya admitted. "You sell fancy lube?"

"Artisanal," Shane corrected, his eyes "I mean, it's all ridiculous words to mean homemade, but Mom says 'artisanal' sells better and she's my marketing person."

"Your mother helps you sell sex lube," Ilya repeated back to him, hoping Shane would correct him.

"It wasn't supposed to be a family business," Shane said, his thumbs hooking into his belt loops and shoulders coming up. "But my day job was making me kind of insane? And I was ranting to Rose about how shitty all the lube on the market can be. Like either it works well, but tastes like crap or it tastes okay and dries out or makes my skin crawl. I'm particular and she got sick of me complaining about it, so she told me to just make my own."

"And you did," Ilya surmised.

"Yeah. And I just made it for me, but a guy I hooked up with said it was pretty good and-" Shane stopped dead. "I- um."

"Me too," Ilya said once he realized why Shane had stalled out. He was, unfortunately, used to it. People heard his accent and made a lot of assumptions about what he was comfortable with. "Also women, sometimes. But me too."

"I'm gay," Shane said, lifting his chin a little.

"Okay, I'm bi. You want to say blood types too?" Ilya asked. "Everything is a label in this country."

"It's helpful. Labels are helpful."

"Your labels do not even say 'lube' on them," Ilya pointed out, gesturing at the pretty tester bottles.

"I wanted them to be discreet. The kind of thing you could have out and no one would know."

"Sneaky," Ilya deemed.

"Discreet," Shane repeated with a huff.

"What is the difference?" Ilya asked.

"One implies you're doing something wrong. It's not wrong," Shane said with a little too much verve. "Adults can have intimate products in their homes, but some people don't like to advertise it and that's okay too."

Intimate products. Fuck, Shane was adorable and Ilya wanted to eat him.

"Very accepting. I will take a bottle of yours for two jars of mine. You like the beets? You want to try something else?"

Shane shifted his weight a little. "One for one would be fairer."

"No, your bottles are more expensive," Ilya said. "And last longer. People eat food faster than lube."

"Depends on the people," Shane muttered, then nodded. "I don't really know your stock. How about you take a bottle of mine and I'll go back to yours and see what you have?"

"You show me yours, I'll show you mine?" Ilya asked with a sly grin.

"Yes," Shane said without any reaction at all. "Seems fair."

"You like fair," Ilya determined. "Okay. Give me one."

"You want the basil?"

"Mm, no. Blackberry. That is your only sweet one."

"It's not sweet really," Shane said, a little apologetically as he pulled a bottle out of one of a crate. He didn't have a single practical plastic tub. Everything was very aesthetic and chic. Clean. "Sugar is a problem."

"Take that back," Ilya said, accepting the sleek glass bottle. To denominate it's flavor, Shane had had a small mostly clear sticker with the same white wire frame as the logo in the shape of a berry. "Sugar is not a problem."

"It is for small damp spaces. It can cause yeast infections."

"Ah," Ilya said, wrinkling his nose. "Okay, yes that is a problem. But they make sweet lubes. I have tasted many."

"Sure," Shane said, his eyes skirting away again. Ilya was almost positive he was interested, but apparently he was also entirely flirt-resistant. "But those use a lot of chemicals that I don't like. I infuse a lot of my stuff with actual plants. I don't use the berries, I use the leaves."

The rain was still pouring down, but Ilya didn't run back to his tent and Shane kept pace with him, apparently unbothered by the damp. It slicked down Shane's hair over his forehead and plastered the dark t-shirt to his body. Ilya wanted.

"You had a customer," Luca said when they got closer. "Card payment."

"Thank you," Ilya said. "Say hello to Shane before business, Haas."

"Yes! Hi," Luca said with a little wave. "Everyone else went to Bood's stand to have some lunch. I was going to head over too."

"Go, I will watch for you," Ilya offered and Luca rabbited off.

"He's very….energetic," Shane settled on.

"He is a good kid," Ilya agreed. "He is getting a degree in architecture or something. Full scholarship. The drawings pay for food and rent."

"Oh, wow. I didn't know that."

"He does not brag, you have to pull it out of him," Ilya said, settling the lube bottle in some of his own packing material. "You can look, see if anything sounds good to you."

"Don't you have a listing?"

"Eh. I bring different things every week. It is too much work to remake the list every time."

"You'd sell more with a menu," Shane said, disapproval thick in his voice.

"People like to browse. Or I tell them what I have. I sell enough," Ilya said with an eye roll. "More than you."

"I doubt that," Shane said immediately.

"Oh, you think you are doing better than me?"

"Maybe," Shane hedged.

"You do," Ilya said. "Wow. Okay. We have a competition then."

"Today?" Shane frowned, waving at the rain.

"No. Next week. If it does not rain then we will see who sells more."

"You'll move more jars than I will bottles," Shane said. "We should measure by actual profit."

"Highest number wins," Ilya agreed. "What does the winner get?"

"Satisfaction," Shane said.

"Boo, Hollander. Stakes. If I win, I choose your next lube flavor."

"Fuck off," Shane grimaced. "Okay. Fine. Limited run. It has to be something I can actually make.

"Yes. I get to choose. What do you want if you win? Don't think about it too hard because you will not."

"I think it's fair I get to choose what you pickle next," Shane said. He was studying the jars like they might contain radioactive waste. "Or maybe a flavor. I think you've pickled everything that exists that's pickle-able."

"Not yet," Ilya said. "I will have strawberries next week."

"Gross," Shane deemed. He was awful. Ilya wanted to bite him.

As if someone in heaven has simply turned a spigot, the rain stopped. They both went still and looked up. The sun beamed down. The air turned humid in seconds.

"Lucky us," Shane said brightly. "Okay, I'm taking the beets and ginger for my mom."

"Not for you?" Ilya asked.

"Slimy," Shane said, grinning at the betrayed look on Ilya's face. Then he took the jars and walked off back to his booth with only a quick, "Next week!"

The rest of the day was heavy with the threat of more rain. Customers were in a hurry and Ilya rang up sales, stomach grumbling and clothes stuck to him. All he thought about was Shane's fingers grazing over Ilya's wares as they made their bet, methotidcal, careful and maybe, a very wee bit flirtatious.

Packing up took a thousand years and he got home tired, sore, irritable and unbearably horny. He needed a shower, but before that, he absolutely needed to jerk off. The blackberry lube found it's way into his hand as if magnetized. Certainly he hadn't gone looking for it and almost broken a jar of peppers open on the cement floor of his garage to find it.

Usually, Ilya laid down to jerk off, but he was too filthy for his bed right now. Stripping down, he threw everything directly into his washing machine and then went to the bathroom. Leaning against the sink, he pumped a squirt of the lube into his hands. A lush green smell filled the room, less like eating a blackberry and more like picking them on a hot summer day.

As soon as Ilya wrapped his hand around his cock, he knew he could never go back. Shane's lube was slick without being sticky and beautifully weightless. Fucking into his own fist had never felt so close to easing into another person before. With his eyes closed, Ilya could imagine Shane on his knees and he didn't even get to the concept of a blowjob before he came hard.

Ilya stared up at his bathroom ceiling. There was a small cobweb in one corner. His ears were ringing. There was come cooling on his stomach and hand. The skin of his palm felt incredible. Gingerly, he stroked his fingertips over his dick and found the skin softer then it had ever been in his life.

"What the fuck?" he asked the cobweb.

He got in the shower and went on with his evening. What the hell else could he do?

By the following Sunday, the lube level in his bottle had sunk considerably. Should he tell Shane that? The man seemed oddly uptight about sex considering his wares. Or maybe he was just uptight around Ilya. Hard to say without more data. Ilya set up his booth, trying to get a glimpse of the blue stand through the aisles, but the lemonade people were blocking his view.

Figured. At least the sun was out. Ilya did brisk sales. Jackie appeared again, this time with only her baby strapped to her chest.

"Shane said to tell you he's sick," she said as she held the empty jar out to Ilya. "And something about a bet for next week instead? Does that make sense?"

"Yes," Ilya said, trying not to examine the thick wave of disappointment. "He is not too sick? You want the same beets?"

"He has to be half-dead not to work. Hayden said he sounded like shit on the phone. Sounds like the flu," Jackie said. "And yes, please. I'll try something else too, like you said."

"See? I am business genius," Ilya winked at her, but his mind was elsewhere. He filled her container and set her up with two more things she just had to try which she paid for without hesitation. "Will you see Shane while he was sick?"

"Hayden has to stop by his house to drop everything back after, so probably," she said, then gave him an incisive look. "Why?"

Ilya turned to his tubs and pulled out a jar. It had had pickles in it, but he'd cut them all up for samples already. Now it was only the juice left behind.

"It is very good for cold and flu, if he will drink it," Ilya said.

"He's picky, but it's worth a shot," she said, taking it. "How much?"

"Nothing. I want him healthy again so we can have our bet," Ilya said as casually as possible.

"Okay. That's really sweet of you," she said and smiled at him. "I knew Hayden was wrong about you being a dick. I love him, but he has a terrible read on people."

Ilya grinned back at her. "Yes, very bad. I am All-Canadian sweetheart."

"I can tell," she said. "Do you want me to pass your number on to Shane so he can thank you?"

Ilya very much did. Jackie, he decided, was an excellent human.

When Svetlana came to relieve him for lunch, Ilya made it a point to go by the lube booth. Jackie's idiot husband, who must be 'Hayden', was standing behind it and chatting amicably with a customer. Ilya reluctantly gave him back some points for being willing to work his friend's booth and not acting like a dick about it, but Ilya wasn't going to chat with him. He made short work of his food and went back to his own booth.

It got slow an hour before breakdown and Ilya did another restless loop to stretch his legs. Hayden was gone. A beautiful middle-aged woman who bore a striking resemblance to Shane was behind the lube booth. She was wearing the branded t-shirt.

Catnip. Ilya had to investigate.

"Hello," he said as he approached. "I am-"

"Ilya Rozanov," she said, giving him a quick up and down as if measuring him against some image in her mind. The Hawaiian shirt got an extra beat of interest. "The pickle man."

"Yes, that is me," Ilya allowed. "I heard Shane is not well?"

"Don't get excited. He'll be back next week," she said stiffly.

"Okay," Ilya said with a slight frown. "I was going to ask if he gave you the ginger?"

She hesitated and Ilya watched her soften a little, "That was yours?"

"Yes, he said his mama might like it, so I thought I would ask if you did. Unless you are actually his sister?"

"Please," she scoffed. Mild flirtation was not effective on any Hollanders. Noted. "It was fine. It wasn't as strong as I'd like."

"Okay," Ilya said, squaring his shoulders. "You are a tough customer, I see. I will fix it."

"You're not going to change how you make something for one customer," she said with certainty. "Clearly it sells well as it is."

"Of course I will," Ilya said. "I have something to prove now."

Something passed over Yuna's face, but Ilya couldn't read what it was. "You don't. Really. It was fine."

"Fine is not good enough. Hollanders are hard to impress, but I will do it. It was nice to meet you."

"We didn't even really meet," she said. "I'm Yuna."

"Yuna," Ilya repeated. "I will give Shane a new jar next week for you. You must tell him the truth about it so I can adjust."

"I can do that," she said with a slight smile. "Wait! Shane said you bartered for it."

"Yes? We do that. The vendors."

"Okay, could you fill this out when you have a chance?" Yuna asked and passed him a postcard.

On one side was the No Friction, Just Chemistry logo. On the other was a list of questions.

Did you enjoy your experience with our product?

Why or why not?

What kind of activity did you engage in? There were tick boxes. Oral, Digital stimulation, vaginal penetration, anal penetration.

Ilya looked back up at Yuna, who looked back impassively. What a fucking weird family. Ilya's father would have pulled out his fingernails one by one before he asked a stranger about their sexual preferences. Then again, his father had been a terrible person, so that really didn't mean much.

Would Ilya's mother have handed out postcards like this for his business? Would she even approve of him having one? She would probably like that he worked with his hands and used his brain too. Maybe.

Sometimes trying to imagine her responses felt about as useful as using an Ouija board. His memories of her were fragments without answers.

"Yes," he said vaguely. "Sure. I will bring it back next week."

"Thank you," Yuna said. "Have a nice day."

Dismissed, Ilya returned to his own booth with the postcard shoved in his pocket. It went through the wash later that week, turning to mush. Oops.

Midway through the week, he got a text message.

Unknown Number: thank you for the pickle juice. sort of. It worked, but I couldn't get the taste out of my mouth for hours, so at what cost?

Ilya read it a few times, then saved the contact as Shane 💦.

Ilya: Cost of health is sometimes garlic. Your mother wanted to know if I liked your jerk off lotion.

Shane: Intimate personal lubricant.

Ilya: Your mother gave me a card asking to rank my jerk off session with your intimate personal lubricant. Better?

Shane: Actually, reading it that way is worse. She told me about the surveys. I said no. So I guess she decided to take matters into her own hands. Typical.

Ilya: I lost the card, but I would rate it 10/10. Did enjoy masturbating with, would do it again.

Shane: Ugh.

Ilya: I give you honest positive feedback and this is how you respond? You told me my beets were okay and I was nicer than this.

Shane: You were not. I just don't need details about how people use what I make.

Ilya: You started a business for sex gel and do not want people to talk to you about sex?

Shane: It's not a gel.

Ilya: Oh my god, Hollander.

Shane: I'm not a prude or anything. I just don't need to hear about everyone's private details.

Ilya: Very confused about your life choices.

Shane: Honestly? Same.

They texted a lot after that. A lot, a lot. Ilya was no longer beholden to a boss and while he was very busy most days either making or selling product, there were many small pockets of time throughout the day that used to be filled with mindless scrolling that were now taken up with Shane. Enough so that when Ilya caught up with him that Sunday, all the discomfort of a new acquaintance were gone. Shane even smiled when he saw him, a small smile, but definitely there.

The illness had left Shane's nose a little red and his eyes a little tired, but otherwise he seemed recovered.

"I would like to buy a refill," Ilya said, presenting Shane with the empty bottle.

"Did you meet someone or something?" Shane asked, wide-eyed.

"Ah no," Ilya said. "But you said you do not want private details."

"I don't generally, but now I'm worried you're using way more than you need to. It's pretty effective, you don't need to bathe in it."

"One pump, yes?" Ilya checked, trying to keep his face neutral. "How do you want me to say for jerking off? What makes you not want to die a little inside?"

"That's fine," Shane said, sounding like he was dying a little inside. "One pump for personal use without penetration should be enough unless you're going for a prolonged period of time."

This was too easy. "What is 'prolonged'?"

"Until it dries out," Shane bit off. "You're doing this on purpose."

"It would be less fun to do it by accident," Ilya said merrily.

"So you're telling me that in two weeks, you drained an entire bottle."

"Yes," Ilya said. "Is this a business transaction or an interrogation?"

"This is hell," Shane said, taking the bottle from him. "Blackberry again?"

"Mmm, no, I will try the yuzu."

"Was there something wrong with the blackberry?"

"No."

Shane frowned, but he filled the bottle with a very clever mini funnel system. "Why are you switching then?"

"I like to variety."

"That explains the twenty-seven kinds of things you sell."

"You counted?" Ilya asked, amused.

"No," Shane lied. "It can't be efficient to make so much."

"The variety is what makes it interesting. People buy one they know, usually the half-sour regular boring pickles, and then something fun to try. Sometimes the something fun becomes a favorite. It is an efficient way to make money."

"Does anyone help you with the actual process?"

"Does anyone help you make your lube? No. Sorry. Intimate personal fuck gel."

They stared at each other for a long moment, then Shane shook his head once.

"Better to do it yourself," Ilya supplied and Shane nodded. "Not efficient, just the best way. Best is not always efficient."

"Sometimes it is though," Shane said.

"Mm, yes. Sometimes. Is our bet still on?"

"Rose asked me about it you know. I had to tell her. It was embarrassing," Shane said.

He wiped down the top of Ilya's bottle carefully. He was touching it with his bare skin which Ilya wouldn't have counted on. There was a package of wipes by the counter. He probably cleaned his hands off in between. There was also a box of latex gloves though and Shane hadn't reached for them. Interesting.

"Why embarrassing?" Ilya asked. "It is fun. Competition."

"She said it sounded like dick measuring," Shane said.

"What?" Ilya said, taken off guard. "It is money measuring."

"It's a saying. When two guys are like really competitive, it's actually about them saying I'm more a man than you or something," Shane explained.

"Oh, yes," Ilya snorted. "Pissing contest. I know this one. Not dick measuring. Both are bad though. I don't care who's dick is bigger, it's just fun to have some competition."

Shane raised his eyebrows and waved at the entire market. "You have plenty."

"No, I have many people I like and respect, who do good business. They do not do it like me. Or you."

"We're not even close to the same."

"No? You don't want to come back to my stand and replace your pickle juice jar?" Ilya asked, pointing to the jar he saw sticking out of Shane's carefully arranged crates. The jar that clearly didn't fit into the neat compartments for Shane's bottles.

"That's just a sensible idea. And no. I don't want more pickle juice, I just figured I'd return the jar."

"Not sensible enough for the olive oil people that gave up last year," Ilya said.

"What's your point?"

"My point is, don't let Rose Landry bully you into not betting. It will be fun."

"Oh," Shane said, then snorted. "I wasn't going to let her. I'm going to win. I already made a lot this morning and it's only getting busier."

Ilya made a point of looking around the empty space by Shane's table. "Is it?"

"Yeah, cause I'm too busy talking to you. This is sabotage. Go away."

Ilya grinned, "But then I cannot pay and you will be down a bottle."

"Fine. Credit card, then go away."

"This is a very transactional relationship," Ilya complained and handed over his credit card. Once it went through, Ilya placed the sample-size contianer he'd had in his pocket on the table.

"What is that?" Shane asked like Ilya had pissed on his shoes.

"For your mother. She said my ginger was not strong enough, so I made a new batch. She promised to give me honest feedback. Good luck today! You will need it."

When Ilya walked away, he was almost positive Shane was watching him. Not certain enough to turn around and catch his eye though. It would be too pathetic to be caught looking back. Ilya, in general, tried not to act as pathetic as he generally felt. It had been a helpful guideline.

Svetlana was waiting for him at their booth, her expression the placid calm that always bode poorly for him.

"You made a stop," she said mildly, eyes on the bottle he made no attempt to hide.

"I did." He set the bottle into a plastic tote, this time wrapping it more distinctly so it wouldn't get lost.

"How much of that bottle did you pour down the drain so you would have an excuse to bother him?" she asked.

He stocked more of the new balsamic strawberries on the shelves and ignored her in a way that she likely felt proved her point. Everything he did or said would only convince her of how right she was though, so he might as well be productive while she judged him. To his surprise, she said nothing more about it. Maybe Svetlana had finally decided he could run his own life.

They sold and sold their way through the early afternoon. There was a slant to the sunlight now that spoke of fall, along with a breeze that was no longer so forgiving of their shorts and and tank tops. Ilya feared pants weather was coming which might cut into their profit margins a little.

Rose appeared, no crown today, but some daises woven into a single long braid down her back. She looked like a princess and Svetlana kissed her like one, complete with a sweeping dip. Ilya loathed them and wanted to be them in turn.

"Shane had a good day," Rose said mildly.

"Great. Good," Ilya said. "We had a fantastic day."

"It was average," Svetlana said.

"Traitor," he spat.

"Honest," she contended. "We're going now. Try not to pour anything expensive down the sink this week, yes? Once is believable, twice is concerning."

"Go away," he said.

"I love you, Ilyusha," she sing-songed.

"I love you too, Baba Yaga," he said.

She flipped him off and he pressed his hand to his heart like she'd blown him a kiss. Then they were gone, walking off arm-in-arm like the end of rom com.

"Hey, man," Wyatt said, walking towards Ilya with a troubling amount of purpose. Packing up to leave was a heavy prospect for Wyatt and he wasn't above getting recruits if Ryan's back was bothering him.

"Hello," Ilya said warily.

"A couple of us were talking about getting dinner together after the last outdoor market at the end of the month. I wasn't sure you heard about it and we definitely want you there."

They did? Ilya stood up a little straighter. "Are the chicken people coming?"

"No fucking hobbyists, just the core group," Wyatt promised.

"Then yes. Where?"

It was nice to be included. Ilya tried to find a way to ask if Shane was invited that wouldn't make him painfully obvious and couldn't. It was one thing for Svetlana to tease him about it, Ilya wasn't sure he could take an entire market doing it. The center would not hold.

"Can I ask you something?" Wyatt asked.

"Questions are always welcome, answers are not always given."

"Wow. That sounds practiced."

"Yes," Ilya said.

"Great. Listen, do you think Cliff knows Luca has a crush on him the size of the moon? Cause I'm a little worried about it."

For a worrying three seconds, Ilya had no idea who Cliff was. Then he remembered Marley had a first name.

"Why are you worried?" Ilya asked. "Luca likes big muscle men with sharp knives. Seems normal and good."

"Cliff is kind of in a different phase of life, you know? And I don't know if he even likes guys. What if he breaks Luca's heart?"

"You are worried in the wrong direction," Ilya deemed.

"What?"

"Marley thinks Luca is a gift from fucking God," Ilya said, briskly folding the tablecloth. "But he worries he is too old for him and too smart, so he may hurt his own feelings by not trying."

"He told you that?"

"No, I pay attention. Marley will never say anything and Luca thinks he has no chance, so we will watch them dance in circles until we grow old and die."

"Unless," Wyatt said.

Ilya looked up sharply. "You want to meddle?"

"Kind of."

"Mr. Hayes," Ilya said, his grin spreading slowly. "I enjoy the way you think."

"Wyatt, where did you- oh no," Ryan appeared, looked between them and got his hand on Wyatt's shoulder. "I told you to leave it alone."

"Because you have no romance in your soul," Wyatt said earnestly.

"Fabian disagrees," Ryan said. "Maybe you should go home and romance your wife instead of acting like neighbor on a 50s sitcom."

"Have you been paying attention? This farmer's market is a 50s sitcom if they were allowed to swear and gay kiss."

"There is no gay kissing," Ilya put in. "That is what we're trying to correct."

"Rose and Svetlana would disagree," Ryan said.

That was a good point and if Svetlana knew Ilya had said that he would likely be murdered.

"Yes, true," he said quickly. "More gay kissing is required. The amount of straight kissing happening here is not acceptable."

"This is a workplace," Shane said. Where the fuck had he come from? Did the man have cat's feet? He was just suddenly standing in their loose conversation group, phone in hand and holding himself a little stiffly as he darted his eyes around. "There shouldn't be any kissing."

"Not even when Lisa brings me the good coffee?" Wyatt asked mournfully. "She did three twelve-hour shifts in a row and still brought me coffee. You don't want me to kiss my hero surgeon wife?"

Shane went still, eyes darting as he tried to find an answer to that.

"He's fucking with you," Ryan said with a sigh. "Leave Shane alone. He's right. This is a workplace basically. Just because no one made us sign stuff doesn't mean we can harass Luca and Marley. Even if it is kind of pathetic."

"What's pathetic?" Shane asked.

"They have been flirting for many months, but are both very sure the other one is not interested. We will fix it," Ilya explained.

With a stern look on his face, Shane surveyed Ryan and Wyatt.

"That's the plan," Wyatt said.

"There is no plan. Leave them alone," Ryan said firmly.

"Agreed," Shane said.

It was a single word from a man they've known for all of two weeks, but Ilya watched it land with Wyatt and Ryan, settle there. Shane, a little awkward and strange, still carried an authority that was hard to explain. A surety. His 'agreed' landed and Wyatt sighed.

"Okay. Fine. But I reserve the right to meddle if we're having this conversation again next September. Two years of pining is my upper limit."

"Sure, Hazy," Ryan said, his hand was still on Wyatt's shoulder and now he used it to urge him back to their half collapsed booth. "I'll buy you dinner to make up for it."

"Wait!" Wyatt said. "Shane, you have to come out to dinner with us at the end of the month. I meant to ask you and I forgot."

Shane frowned, "Who's 'we'?"

"The regulars," Ryan said. "Just the hardcore ones. No strangers, no hobbyists. To say goodbye to the season, you know? Not everyone goes indoors and sometimes we won't see each other for months."

"I'm going indoors," Shane said.

Ilya did not celebrate. He did not even smile. Inside, there might be a little bit of confetti. Some champagne. Barely restrained dancing.

"So is Roz. We skip it and hit up conventions instead," Wyatt said. "So you're coming?"

"Okay," Shane said. "Send me the details."

Excellent! Ilya was glutted. It got even better when Ryan and Wyatt finally left and Shane whipped out his phone.

"Show me your numbers."

"Aggressive," Ilya said with a feral grin and took out his phone too.

Shane won by twenty-eight dollars. He grinned like he'd won the lotto. "Ha!"

"One sale! You won by one sale!"

"One sale counts. Don't be a sore loser," Shane said, puffing out his chest a little.

"Sore winner," Ilya accused.

"Yep, and you're going to regret ever challenging me."

"We will see," Ilya said, who very much did not regret it. He wondered if Shane knew that they had likely out earned every other vendor that day. "Bring your worst."

"Bacon," Shane said.

"You want me to pickle bacon?" Ilya asked, bemused.

"Yes. And I want you to convince people to actually buy it. That's the hard part. I know you can stick anything in brine, I want it to be something people want to eat."

"This was not part of the bet."

"It was implied," Shane said.

"It was not, but fine. I take this challenge. I will have it ready for next week. And we will run this bet again."

"Again?" Shane frowned. "Why?"

"One time is just one time. Not a pattern. I want to see the pattern," Ilya said. He studied Shane. "Don't you?"

Shane hesitated then nodded once. "Fine. Again next week. How about we call it until the end of the season? Three more Sundays."

"Agreed," Ilya said. "Where is my jar?"

"Shit," Shane said and rabbited away to fetch a single jar that Ilya absolutely did not need. Adorable.

When he returned, empty jar in hand, Ilya took it and replaced it with another one. Inside hundreds of orange matchsticks were suspended in a light red fluid.

"What?" Shane asked, then abruptly, "No."

"Quick pickle, not slimy," Ilya explained. "Tonight, you drain the jar and put it on top of your salad or something. They will still be very crunchy."

"Why does the label say 'Bunnicula's Favorite'?"

"When I was learning English, I read many children's books," Ilya explained, folding up his table so he wouldn't have to see Shane's face. "I liked the vampire rabbit and his dog friend."

"I don't think I ever read it."

"You should. The cat is also very funny. The rabbit does not blood, he sucks the juice out of vegetables."

"That's cute," Shane said bemused. "But why are you giving these to me? I charged you for the refill."

"You did. One sale which you won by," Ilya said.

The penny dropped. Shane opened his mouth then shut it. "Fuck that. I'll pay you for it, you don't have to make bacon. I want to win fairly."

"It is fair. You charged me on business hours. This is after hours and you did not even want them," Ilya said, relishing the way Shane's eyes narrowed at him and his lips went flat.

"The pickle juice."

"A gift for a sick colleague. Very sad that you almost die of germs."

"The beets."

"You also gave me a free sample."

"The ginger."

"Not even for you. Market research."

"I don't like this."

"Very sad for you. Eat the carrots, leave me a nice review on the internet. I have to go now. Some asshole wants me to make pickled bacon."

"Ilya!"

"Shane," Ilya beamed at him. "Have a nice week, solnyshko."

"What doe stha tmean? Ilya!"

Slinging his table into the truck, Ilya reached out and collapsed down his tent around him, packing it back into it's battered bag in under a minute. When he could see again, Shane had taken the hint and disappeared in the flurry of retreating vehicles. A win. So why did Ilya feel a loss?

Shane: This isn't over Rozanov

Ilya: Did you know pickled meats are a long tradition in the American South?

Shane: I know you just googled that.

Ilya: Yes, so? I am learning and I am sharing my learning with you. Same reason everyone in the world figures out pickling.

Shane: Food preservation?

Ilya: Yes! And also vinegar is delicious.

Shane: You're procrastinating pickling my bacon.

Ilya: I am educating myself on pickling your bacon.

Shane: sure. I like Bunnicula by the way.

Ilya: My carrots or the book?

Shane: Both. I like the carrots better than the beets. The book is fun.

Ilya: You are a liar.

Shane: I can't like things?

Ilya: No, you are accidental liar. The carrots are in beet juice, so you also like the beets.

Shane: That's not how that works.

Ilya: You really read the book?

Shane: Yeah, I got it out on Libby while I was waiting at the dentist. I like Chester a lot. Harold is fun too. Is it supposed to be a Sherlock Holmes thing?

Ilya: I only know the name of Holmes. I have not read anything or seen shows.

Shane: You'd love Elementary. It's great.

Ilya watched the first season while he experimented with the bacon, cut up an unwise amount of carrots, on top of making his usual batches. He met Svetlana on Tuesday to go over the books and watch their shows together, then with Wiebe on Wednesday to talk shop and walk lazily around the fields. On Thursday, he drove out to a high school and sold out of all his conventional pickles at a fall festival. It was barely fall, but Ilya wasn't going to complain about the extra cash, even if it did mean some Sunday folks would be disappointed.

A great week. So naturally when he came downstairs to load up the truck at dawn on Sunday morning, he discovered his left front tire had gone flat in the night. He stared at it and then pulled out his phone. He should have messaged Svetlana first, but she would still be asleep. He couldn't help himself.

Ilya: Do you know of any early morning mechanics?

Shane: What's wrong?

Ilya sent him a picture of the flat tire with a crying emoji.

Shane: You don't know how to change out a flat?

Ilya: Why would I know how to do that?

Shane: Do you have a spare?

Ilya: Maybe

Shane: This isn't a hypothetical. Do you have a spare tire, yes or no?

Ilya: There is a tire in the truck bed. That is probably a spare.

Shane: What's your address?

Ilya stared at the question. A thousand responses went through his mind, but somehow he found himself just typing in his actual address.

Shane: You're on my way. I'll be there in fifteen minutes.

Ilya: You don't have to.

There was no response to that. Shane was coming to his home. He would see the house that Ilya had picked out because of it's location over it's beauty and the tiny yard that he had converted into a series of raised vegetable beds. The urge to run inside and tidy up came over him irrationally. Shane wouldn't even go inside, but even if he did, he would find a neatly kept house. Ilya found mess irritating, especially now that he spent the majority of his week at home.

His mother would appreciate that he kept things orderly. He remembered her washing down the crown molding before his father would bring guests over for dinner as if the clean house might hide all the dirt that lingered in her family's collective spirit.

It had been awhile since his last dark reverie on his mother, but they never failed to stick in his teeth and the back of his throat. He was staring out over the road when Shane pulled up with his phone still in his hand.

Shane drove a dark blue van with the No Friction, Just Chemistry logo on the driver's door. Not big or loud, just present and clear. He pulled into Ilya's driveway and hopped out. He scanned the driveway, the garden, then Ilya standing uselessly next to his truck.

"Okay," Shane said, reaching back into his van and pulling out a plain black bag that looked very useful and official. "Did you check the tire for nails?"

"No," Ilya said, watching him bemused. "I did not know you were a mechanic."

"I taught myself a few things," Shane said with a shrug. "If it's just a nail, we might be able to patch it."

That was news to Ilya, especially the 'we' part. For the next ten minutes, Ilya learned several important things:

1. Shane was even hotter when he had a problem to solve and the tools to do it.

2. Fixing cars was boring, even with an excellent view.

3. He had a nail in his tire and they made kits that patched that.

"You should probably still get it looked at," Shane said as he applied the patch. "And we should definitely wait a few minutes to make sure it holds air."

"I will make you tea," Ilya said, relieved they'd reached a point in the proceedings he could do something about. "Or coffee. Whatever. Hot drink."

It wasn't freezing out, but the wind had a nip to it and Ilya could feel it picking under his clothes. Shane must feel it too because he didn't argue.

"Coffee would be great, thanks."

After Shane pumped the tire with some portable device he had on him like some kind of car magician, Ilya led him inside. The house was sparsely decorated because Ilya couldn't take clutter. He liked his furniture, all warm browns for the most part with pops of blue and green so it wasn't all neutrals. One of Luca's drawings was framed and hung over his couch. It was a scene of the market itself, on a gray day, but full of color in the bright tents and tablecloths.

Shane stared at it for a beat, but didn't make a comment. He followed Ilya into the kitchen.

"Holy shit," he said stopping dead in the doorway.

"It is a little…crowded," Ilya said.

The kitchen wasn't extraordinary in size or appliances, but it was, for better or for worse, Ilya's work station. The kitchen table was full of jars lined up and waiting for labels. There were a few boxes of empty jars stacked under it. The counters were covered in tupperware and the oven dominated by the enormous pot he used to mix brine and had nowhere else to store.

"You make all of your stuff out of your home kitchen?" Shane demanded.

"Where else should I make it?" Ilya asked, clearing the way to the coffeemaker with long practice.

"There's all sorts of rental kitchens," Shane said, spinning slowly around. "Where do you store everything?"

"Some here, some in the basement. Rental kitchens would eat all my profit. This is what you do?"

"No, I have a shed in my backyard that I converted, but I don't need refrigeration like you do or a stove."

"I do not have a backyard." Ilya waved at the window. His property backed onto a creek, only a tiny strip of land between the back of the house buffering it from the banks when they overflowed. "Sounds nice."

"It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter," Shane admitted. "It's why I've been looking for rental space. But you're right, it's not cheap. How does Bood do it?"

"He cooks on site mostly. The things he premakes at home are on their home grill, but he has a big one. They have a food truck once the outdoor market ends."

"Where do you eat?" Shane blurted.

"On the couch," Ilya said blandly. "If you want milk, it is in the fridge."

The fridge apparently also boggled Shane, but why he was surprised to find more ingredients and jars, Ilya couldn't say.

"What do you eat?"

"Cigarettes, coffee and fast food," Ilya said readily.

"Fuck off, you're built like a tank, you don't get that way eating fast food."

"I eat a lot of what I make," Ilya conceded. "Or eat it before it becomes pickled things."

"That makes sense. This is a lot of eggs."

"Wiebe's chickens are good layers. I get a bulk discount," Ilya said. "You want? I am very good at poaching them."

"I ate already, thanks."

They took the mugs (beautifully painted ceramic that Ilya had traded for last year) to Ilya's couch. Shane sat a sensible few cushions away, wrapping his hands around his mug instead of drinking out of it.

"What would you have done if I didn't show today?"

"I would have texted Svetlana and see if I could load in with Rose. When I had more time tomorrow, I could get a tow out here or call someone to look at it. This is better though, thank you," Ilya said because he hadn't yet.

"You're welcome," Shane said. "You're so…I don't know. I thought it was something you would know how to do."

"I know how to do a lot of things, but there is a reason mechanics exist," Ilya said without concern. "Do you think less of me that I cannot change a tire?"

"No," Shane said and Ilya believed him. He was too earnest to be doubted. "I'm just rearranging my mental picture of you a little. What did you do before pickling?"

Ilya stared into his cup. "I worked in I.T."

"You're a computer guy?"

It would be easy to just say yes the way he usually did. Nothing to see here. Ordinary cog has a breakdown and gets delusions of farming in his head.

"I created an algorithm for advertisers that was very good. They hired me from Russia, made sure I got citizenship, but they owned all my work, used it however they wanted. Year after year… I got very tired of it. I signed many pieces of paper so when I quit I had to leave everything behind. I had to promise to not work for a competitor or even in the field for years and years to get a good severance out of them."

He expected questions. He did not expect Shane to say, "Holy shit, you're IRritator81, aren't you?"

"You know about this?" Ilya said down his mug. "What the fuck?"

"I'm was SHield24."

Ilya stared at him. "Fuck you, no you're not."

"I am! Your code is…it's amazing to watch, Ilya. I loved working against you. You actually made it challenging," Shane gushed out. "By the end it was the only time I was enjoying myself at work and then you just- you stopped."

"You made me crazy. I fucking loved how fast you changed things," Ilya said, the itch in his fingers that still sometimes rose up coming back to him. "It kept me going."

"But you stopped," Shane said, almost an accusation.

Ilya had imagined this conversation. SHield24 was faceless in his imaginings, a masked keyboard warrior. When Ilya had tried to visualize his opponent, he hadn't been able to put so much as a gender to them, only a profound feeling of respect and malicious glee. Ilya had wanted to send SHield24 a message before he left, but if anyone had discovered something sneaky in his work, there would be no severance, no golden parachute. So he had imagined saying goodbye instead.

This was better anyway. Getting to tell Shane face-to-face. Harder and probably more painful, but better.

"I did," Ilya said. "I was so…nothing. Getting up in the morning started to get hard. My thoughts weren't good. Sometimes they were scary. Maybe I would have kept going anyway, but Svetlana knows me too well. She shook me up, dragged me out, and helped me quit."

"I'm sorry," Shane said softly. "That that happened. I just missed you. You're okay now?"

Ilya see-sawed his hand. "I am better. I work on it."

"Did you pickle things at the same time or did that come after?" The question was earnest like all of Shane's questions. It lodged in Ilya, somewhere deep and sticky.

"After. There was a lot of time after. I tried some things, but I kept thinking of my mother. She loved pickled tomatoes. Not ones she made, she did not cook much. I think she got them from her cousin or something. They did not have a label. I remember eating them with her and hating them. She told me that I was not sour enough yet to appreciate them and that was a good thing," Ilya said, the memory so thin and soft it was like cheesecloth running over his fingers. "I wanted to try them now that I was sour, but I could not find them anywhere."

"So you made them yourself?" Shane's voice was perfect, soft and deep and coaxing. Did he know that?

"Over and over until they tasted like something I wanted to eat. Svetlana tried them and then said 'beets too'. I told her this was a terrible stereotype and then she bought me ten pounds of beets anyway."

"I like her style," Shane said wryly. "I think that's how she landed Rose too. Just saying it like it was the truth over and over again."

"No, she is just very very good at eating pussy," Ilya countered. Mostly because it was true, also to watch Shane's face journey. It was 'shocked', 'annoyed', 'amused', and 'fuck you, Ilya' which was distinct enough expression that Ilya felt no qualms about claiming and naming it.

"How would you know?" Shane countered.

"Rose is not her first girlfriend and Bianca was not shy about sharing her ratings," Ilya said merrily.

"And Svetlana didn't care about that?"

"I did not say that. Bianca is an ex for many reasons, but that was one."

"Yeah, I'll bet."

"So, you left your job because it was boring without me?" Ilya asked, falling back against the couch.

"Shut up," Shane said.

"Wait," Ilya laughed, something warm bubbling in him. "That is not a 'no'."

"It wasn't the reason," Shane said, eyes glued to his knees now. "But it was a factor."

"You quit your job because no one else gave you a challenge."

"Also it was a horrible work environment and my parents got worried I'd drop dead before I turned thirty from high blood pressure," Shane muttered.

"You were so bored without me that you had to have a lot of sex and decide all lube was not measuring up," Ilya said with glee.

"I didn't have a lot of sex," Shane said and he was rounding on himself now. The starched confidence in his voice bleeding away. "I'm not really- I don't like one night stands very much. I thought I would, but I kind of hate them, actually."

"So what? You just jerked off enough to invent new lube?" Ilya asked.

"I don't think you can judge. You went through a bottle in two weeks apparently."

Fuck, Ilya had embarrassed Shane a little too much. He was getting defensive and prickly and not in a fun way. Time to throw himself on his sword.

"I used some. I put the rest into another container," Ilya admitted. "I wanted an excuse to talk to you."

Shane's head flew up in surprise and Ilya gave him a wry smile. "You did? Why?"

The sun was breaking through now, the last of the early morning cloud cover dispersing. It crept across the living room floor to paint Shane in gold.

"I like you," Ilya said softly.

"Oh," Shane said and his smile rivaled the sun. "I like you too."

"I like you in a way that makes me want to use an entire bottle of your personal intimacy products," Ilya clarified. "And I guess you are not terrible to talk to."

For a second, he thought he'd miscalculated, Shane's face smoothing into blankness. Then he erupted in a throaty laugh and it felt exactly like cracking through the SHield with his code. It was a heady feeling. Not nearly as good as Shane moving a little hesitantly towards him, eyes lowered and lips licked to an appealing gloss.

"You're not terrible to talk to either."

The kiss was syrupy slow and Ilya sank into it. Hungrily he pulled Shane in closer, his hands meeting strength under skin-warmed cotton. There was no give to Shane at all, yet he gave anyway, letting himself be drawn over Ilya's lap. When Ilya ran his hands up under Shane's shirt, Shane pulled away for a second to discard it, then tugged at Ilya's in turn. They touched each other with greedy, hungry handfuls.

"We have to go setup," Shane muttered against Ilya's lips. "We're going to be so late."

"Yes, my boss will be very angry," Ilya said, fingertips sliding under the waistband of Shane's pants.

"We can't load in after start," Shane reminded him, his own clever fingers getting into all sorts of interesting places. "We'd lose a whole day of sales."

"Then we better be very fast," Ilya said. "Too bad I left my artisanal fuck gel in my bedroom."

"Personal intimacy- fuck it," Shane said, then slid to his knees so fast, Ilya thought he might have teleported there.

There had been no lack of blowjobs in Ilya's life and he had had some stellar ones. Shane wasn't particularly practiced at it. It was still so good that Ilya had to employ tricks he hadn't used since he was a teenager to keep from embarrassing himself. Enthusiasm counted for a lot. Being Shane Hollander counted for even more.

"Close," Ilya warned.

Shane pulled away, a thing strand of saliva still connecting them. It did more than Shane's hand around him to bring him over the edge. Ilya lay there boneless and superheated for a second, gathering his scattered braincells together.

"We should get going," Shane said, still on the floor.

"What?" Ilya asked the ceiling.

"So we're not late."

"Shut up," Ilya said. "What do you think I am?"

"Hot," Shane said immediately.

"Yes, but not fucking rude. Sit and I will make sure you feel good too."

Given the givens, Ilya was aware that what he should have provided was the fast, efficient kind of head that got the job done and ticked off a box of every coming the same amount of times. They really did have to go soon, if Ilya's truck would even provide the go.

Too bad. Shane had the most gorgeous cock Ilya had ever put his mouth on and he was going to ensure that no one else's tongue would ever measure up to this ever again. Shane would compare every man to him from here on out if Ilya had any say in it.

Ideally, Ilya thought as he swallowed down around Shane, there would be no one else. Which was an insane, possessive thing to think, but there was no one to arrest him in his own brain. Despite his attempts at drawing it out and making an impression, Shane came even faster than Ilya had. When he tried to pull out, Ilya was possessed by forces greater than himself to stay put and to drink everything Shane spilled into him.

It was worth it to watch Shane collapse down around him a little, one hand squeezing the back of Ilya's neck a little compulsively as he cooled down. Ilya pulled off with intense satisfaction, kissing Shane's exposed thigh with a loud smacking sound.

"Fuck," Shane groaned and then, somehow, despite the angle, Ilya was being kissed again. Even slower and sweeter this time.

Tender.

Dangerous.

"You come very pretty," Ilya told him. "I want to see this again."

"Yeah," Shane breathed out and cupped his cheek. "Yeah, let's do that. Later. Work now."

"Work," Ilya confirmed.

Somehow, they got dressed and back into Ilya's garage despite their wandering hands. Ilya smoothed Shane's hair back into place and Shane aligned the shoulder seams of Ilya's Hawaiian shirt.

The tire had held it's air. Ilya had mixed feelings about that. It would've been nice to have a reason to stay home with Shane, but he doubted Shane would capitulate anyway.

"The bet is still on," Shane said sternly.

"Of course," Ilya said and kissed him. "I will win this week. No giving you an advantage with my own money."

"I don't need your money," Shane said sharply as has he chased after Ilya's lips with his own.

"Will you come back here tonight?" Ilya asked. "I will make you dinner."

"Literally how?" Shane demanded. "Your kitchen is militarized for pickle warfare."

"You will have to come over and find out. And I can test my bacon on you."

"You really made it already?"

"I am very good at what I do," Ilya said, very reluctantly taking a step back. "Come over tonight. I will make you a BLT like you have never had before."

"Okay," Shane said, mirroring him. The movement seemed to wake him from a stupor. "Yeah. What time?"

"Six. Bring your receipts. I have ideas for personal fuck gel flavors."

"In your dreams, Rozanov," Shane said and then broke into a job back to his truck.

Watching him run off had it's advantages. Shane definitely worked out. Effectively.

The tire stayed repaired. Ilya's mood stayed so high that he flustered several young mothers and retirees. Despite the missing traditional pickles, he moved product like it contained mana from heaven. By the time Sveltana arrived, he had refilled the shelves twice. The strawberries had proved especially popular after their debut last week.

"Ilyusha!" Svetlana said with wide eyes as she nibbled on one. "You must make more of these. It is like a drug."

"You don't like the sweet ones."

"I like this one," she said. Only after she demolished half a jar that she turned her attention on him. "Who?"

"Hm?" He asked, suddenly very interested in rearranging things into a more pleasing rainbow of color.

"You hooked up. You have that bounce in your step you only get when you've emptied your balls."

"Sveta! There are children present!"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You don't give a shit about that. Did you go out without us?"

"I do that sometimes."

"Not recently," she said. "No. You didn't go out. You're not puffy like you get after you drink."

"I do not get puffy!"

"You do," she said, waving that away. "You didn't go out. No one you have over your house is single. Unless…you didn't do anything stupid with Marley again, did you? You know he and…"

Luca was in the middle of a sales pitch next to them, blissfully unaware. Good.

"I would never," Ilya said fiercely.

"You did," she pointed out. "Several times."

"I was younger and stupider than."

"The last time was eight months ago."

"I would never do that to Luca," Ilya amended. "I like him. You know this."

"I do," she allowed. "So not Marley. Not a stranger in a club."

"Please, Sveta. It's new," Ilya said before she could press on.

"Oh, so not a hook up."

"I hope not," he admitted and finished his fidgeting with the jars, chancing a glance at her face. Her lips were a little pink from the strawberries and her eyes were soft. Sentimental in a way she rarely bothered with. "Don't say anything."

"I will think it very hard instead," she promised.

On his lunch, Ilya briefly considered not bothering Shane, then discarded that immediately. He bought two entrees from Bood and fries, carrying them across the lot to the blue and red booth. Shane was talking to customers. Instead of waiting, Ilya walked around the table and helped himself to Shane's chair. He could see Shane tense over it, but to his immense gratification, he also saw him relax immediately. The sale was made and Ilya said, "Sit and eat."

"I only have one chair," Shane said. Ilya gestured at his lap. "Absolutely not. We're in public."

The implication that it might be all right in private was enough to tied Ilya over. "Do you want the chicken or pork?"

Chicken was the answer, eaten carefully by the table, eyes still on the parade of potential customers. Ilya reluctantly got out of the chair and stood next to Shane as they ate.

"I don't miss working behind a desk," Ilya said as a breeze came through, carrying the smell of fresh baked bread. "Do you?"

"Not most days," Shane said quietly, shifting so their elbows brushed together. "I miss being the best at something."

"You are the best at intimate fluids."

"I know you know that's not right," Shane laughed.

"I like your intimate fluids," Ilya said without apology. "Very much."

"Oh god, please don't do this to me when I have to talk to people for another three hours."

"You will manage."

"What do I owe you?" Shane asked.

"For this morning? I think it is illegal for me to charge for that."

"Fuck you, I meant for the food."

"You fix my tire, I get you lunch. This is only fair."

"But you're making me dinner."

Ilya sighed, "I do not want to keep score of that. Bets are fun, but not for us enjoying each other. Okay?"

Shane hesitated, then nodded, "Okay. That makes sense. Thanks for lunch then."

A customer approached as Shane was mid-bite. Ilya smoothly stepped in front of him.

"Good afternoon," he said brightly.

"Hi," a young nervous woman said. "My friend recommended your…stuff, to me?"

"A very good friend to do that," Ilya said warmly, toning it down. If he scared her off, he knew he'd be hearing about it for awhile. "If you take a little from the samples, you can see how it feels, if it sits nicely on your skin, okay?"

"Okay," she said hesitantly. "Which one do you recommend?"

"Ah, this depends on if you want it to have a smell and taste or not."

"Not," she said quickly.

"Okay," Ilya tapped the 'original' bottle. "Just a little. It is very effective and we do not want your hands to be slippery while you shop."

"Right," she said, darting her eyes to him and then to bottle. She took a timid pump then smoothed it between her fingers. "It does feel nice. But it's expensive."

"It is more expensive than things that make you feel sticky or uncomfortable," Ilya agreed. "There are times when you should save money, I think, and times when you should make sure you are comfortable. I cannot tell you which is which for you."

She eyed the bottle, then his face. She reached for her wallet and Shane was there with his credit machine and few quiet words about usage, allergens and returning the bottle for refills.

"I think this sale should count for me," Ilya said brightly.

"Go away," Shane said.

"No," Ilya said and picked his lunch back up again.

"That was a good line. About the comfortable and expensive stuff."

"It is not a line. I believe it," Ilya said. "I do not care what kind of dish soap I use, so why pay more for it? But my sheets are good. Expensive. The kind of sheets that make a handsome man stay."

"Shut up," Shane groaned.

The day flew by. Ilya packed up in record time. So fast that he had to linger a bit for the line out to die down before he could pull into the departure line. Which meant he got front row seats to Marley crossing to Luca's booth with a small box in his hand.

"Hello, Cliff," Luca's charming lilting accent seemed to smack Marley square in the chest and he slowed a little.

"Hi," Cliff said. "Didn't mean to bother you, I'm sure you want to go home, but if you have a second?"

"I have many seconds," Luca said and then rocked back on his heels a little as if trying to squirm away from his own awkwardness.

Cute. Horrifying. Ilya had seen Cliff eat a woman out while another one rode his dick while Ilya got his rocks off inches away, then talk to his mother on the phone a half hour later still nude and totally calm. But apparently Luca made him fidget and blush. What a piece of work is man, indeed.

"I was thinking about your pencils and how your sharpeners get dull. I know you can get replacement blades, but it seems kind of…anyway. I thought this would help."

Luca took the box Cliff shoved in his direction with bemusement. He opened it and Ilya couldn't quite see the contents without making it incredibly obvious that he was watching.

"You can just slide the blades out," Cliff explained, his voice dropping. "And I'll sharpen them for you. Whenever you want. No charge. It's a demo piece and it'll…I can make them, maybe."

"Thank you," Luca said, his voice a little choked. "I love this. Thank you."

They both just stood there, smiling, but seemingly frozen and Ilya considered all the things Ryan had said and Shane's agreement. Don't meddle.

Marley gave a little nod and then started to turn away, his face clouding over. For fuck's sake.

Ilya rolled down his window.

"Haas! Marley likes dark beers. Didn't you buy too much for your last party?" Luca's eyes found him, instantly far more murderous than Ilya had ever seen them. Ilya gave him a jaunty wave and rolled the window back up, pretending to be very interested in his phone.

Ilya: I meddled.

Wyatt: Success?

Risking a quick glance, he did see Marley reach out and gently touch Luca's wrist, talking quietly.

Ilya: I think so. You ask next week. I am no one's favorite now.

Wyatt: lol, Luca thinks the sunsets on your ass, I wouldn't worry about it, but yeah I'll ask.

Good deed done, Ilya went home to prepare for what he hoped would be some excellent karma. Of course, there were the usual steps to take, unloading and dealing with inventory. There was some extra satisfaction in opening his accounting software tonight. Then he took a long thorough shower and dressed in things that could be removed quickly with the kind of hope that fueled space missions.

The kitchen was full, but Ilya knew how to move around it by now, especially to make simple things. Ilya wasn't exactly a chef when push came to shove, but he had access to some of the best fresh ingredients in the city every Sunday and a desire to impress. The kitchen table was still impassable and not likely to become less so in fifteen minutes. The coach had been fine for coffee, but dinner was something else.

It took a minute to drag out the card table Ilya used when he had people over. Woven placemats, napkins and silverware made it almost look like an intentional adult decision instead of the stopgap measure it really was.

It would be funny to Ilya later, how much he had fussed over it.

His doorbell rang and he approached it calmly, a last quick smoothing of his hair. When he opened it, Shane was standing there in a soft blue button down and cargo shorts. It was so him, so simple and ridiculous that Ilya didn't even say hello. They were magnetized to each other, the kiss an inevitability.

One led to the next, a series of kisses that took them up the stairs, crashing down the hallway and into Ilya's bedroom. A trail of clothing was left behind, efficient strong hands making quick work of them.

A lot of Ilya's expensive niceties had disappeared with his career change as he invested his money to potentially last him a lifetime. The car, the penthouse, and overpriced modern art had been dissolved into carefully managed accounts, but he had kept his bed.

He had never been more grateful for that than when he tipped Shane onto the dark duvet of the massive enveloping king-sized mattress with it's gloriously decadent sheets. A good meal deserved the perfect plate.

"We don't know who won the bet yet," Shane said, his eyes dancing.

Ilya got his hands on Shane's waistband and yanked his pants off. "Don't worry, I can humiliate you over sandwiches. For now we enjoy each other."

"I had a great day."

"I'm having a better one," Ilya said, sinking to his knees to nip at Shane's inner thigh. "Do you want to get fucked?"

"Yes," Shane groaned. "Fuck. Please."

"So polite," Ilya said and reached for the pretty glass bottle he'd left on the side table. "Now, I get to answer a very important question."

"What's that?" Shane asked.

"Did you make your lube to taste especially good with your skin?"

"I-"

Ilya swiped a streak of lube across Shane's inner thigh than chased it with his tongue, citrus melding with the taste of clean skin to zing through his brain. "Yes, I think you did, this is too perfect a pairing."

"Not on purpose. I said no animal testing, so I had to test it on something," Shane said weakly.

"Cruelty-free. Is that you, Shane? I don't think so. Some of the things you did to my poor algorithm were very nasty."

"It deserved it," Shane countered then groaned as Ilya parted his legs and rubbed the pad of his thumb over Shane's hole.

"Maybe I should be nasty back," Ilya said.

"Oh, you already were, but I can take more."

He really could. Shane could take being eaten out with the kind of moaning that undid Ilya's higher thought processes. The lube made everything the hottest kind of wet and tinged the air with the rich citrus-green scents Shane excelled at making. They mingled with sweat and desire until Ilya went a little nose blind with it all.

"Enough," Shane groaned, his hands hard on Ilya's shoulders. "I want you, please."

"Yes, okay," Ilya said and somehow got on a condom. "One pump for jerking off. How many for me to sink into your tight ass? "

"I use four pumps with a toy."

"With a toy?" Ilya said and the words fully sank in. "Shane. Have you-"

"No," Shane cut him off with a hard swallow. "But I want you. So don't stop, okay?"

"Okay," Ilya said and leaned down to kiss him. This was not the moment to ask questions. they had reached a tipping point and if this was what Shane wanted than Ilya was sure as hell going to give it to him.

It did slow him a little. He fingered him instead of getting right to things, making sure Shane was loose and feeling only pleasure. The kissing was a bonus as far as he was concerned. When he eased into him, Shane bent double like it was something he did every day, Ilya missed his lips a little.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

They rocked together, slow at first then gaining passionate speed. Ilya's necklace swung between them, a pendulum of shared pleasure. There was no hint of Shane's newness to the act, no sign of pain on his face. It was like they had been made to do this together.

No friction, just chemistry.

Shane was a genius. Ilya might even tell him so later, when he's done making them both come hard enough to forget their names.

"I'm hungry," Shane muttered long afterwards, his hand in Ilya's hair, making him dozy.

"Then I will feed you. Stay."

"I'm not eating in bed."

"You are not allowed to get dressed, so you cannot sit on my nice chairs."

"That seems like a problem you made."

"You made it by being too hot."

They would up eating salad out of the serving bowl with forks on the floor of Ilya's bedroom, still naked and a little sticky.

"I liked the carrots," Shane said, spearing some of them with his fork. "And the beets. I like the things you make."

"I like your intimate fluids," Ilya said. He licked his lips still getting delicious hints of yuzu there.

"I hate you." A fork flashed through the air, skewering more of Ilya's hard work and Shane pressed a kiss to Ilya's shoulder before eating more. "No BLTs?"

"I will have to get dressed. Bacon grease."

"Oh, yeah. Not excited about you putting pants on, but I was kind of looking forward to you failing at bacon."

That Ilya was at the stove five minutes later was a testament to how thoroughly fucked he was and also how little he cared. Shane had pulled his briefs back on, but was otherwise seemingly content to watch Ilya from the kitchen doorway. When Ilya pulled the bacon out from between paper towels, Shane frowned.

"I thought you pickeled it."

"I did. Cooked it first so it was crispy, then put it in with brine and more maple syrup for a few days." It hit the hot pan with a satisfying sizzle. "But you do not like slime, so I pressed out the liquid. It only needs a little time to get hot and crispy again."

"Oh," Shane said like this was divine revelation. "Thanks."

"Get your sales numbers, we will look while we eat."

When Shane bit into his sandwich, Ilya tried not to be too obvious about staring. He probably failed judging by the way Shane raised his eyebrows at him. Then they dropped and all of Shane's concentration was on what he was eating.

"What the fuck?"

"What?" Ilya prompted. "Bad? Should I start over?"

"Don't you fucking dare," Shane snapped. "Oh my god, why is this so good? I don't even like bacon that much, I just thought it would be an obvious fail."

"You want me to make unsellable garbage? Cruelty-full, Hollander. We must change your little sign."

"You lost a bet, it shouldn't gain you anything to lose," Shane said.

Ilya walked his fingers up Shane's still bare thigh. "Then you made a few mistakes. I think I won a lot."

His hand got slapped away, but when he returned it, it was allowed to stay.

"It was good for you too?" Shane asked. "Really?"

Shane Hollander, a study in contradictions: expert coder, excellent salesman, awkward in conversation, seller of sex products, reluctant to discuss sex in public and a partial virgin until Ilya had got a hold of him. Confident until he wasn't. Scared in a way that made him beautifully brave.

"It was," Ilya said unadorned and open. "You are very good for me, I think."

"I'm definitely going to make you money," Shane said and took another bite of his sandwich, radiating pleasure. "I've got ideas when we settle up for today."

"Oh, you think that you won again?" Ilya asked. "When I did not even buy anything from you?"

"Yes," Shane said around a mouthful of bacon Ilya had cooked and pickled and cooked again for him. He hadn't even made a second jar. "It won't even be close."

It was two dollars off. They had come so close to each other that it could've been a rounding error if Shane would let them round things.

"Pumpkin," Shane announced. "It's seasonal."

He looked so pleased with himself that Ilya toyed with letting him think he'd really done something. "You have thought about this."

"It's bland, weird, and hard."

"Like you?" Ilya tilted his head. "You are a pumpkin cousin?"

"Fuck you, Rozanov."

"No, no, I like this. Pumpkin. Very tough one," he said, trying to keep a straight face.

"Wait," Shane said, the penny dropping. "No. How?"

"Like you said, people like pumpkin in the fall. I make watermelon rind in the summer. It is not very different."

"Ew," Shane said.

"Do not 'ew' until you try it. But yes, I did pumpkin two years ago. I will do it again this year. Thank you, I have my two new flavors for the indoor market already done. The outdoor market people will try them first and I can adjust the recipe."

"Fuck," Shane groaned.

Ilya reached for him. "Again?"

"Yeah."

Ilya was never going to taste yuzu the same ever again. The sex was even better the second round, both of them sensitive to the touch all over. Even better was afterwards with Shane was sated and pliable, laying half on top of Ilya. The window was open, carrying in cool air and the crisp warning smell of autumn wrapping its fist around summer's throat.

"I should go," Shane said.

"Stay."

The word pulled out from Ilya before he could check it. It sounded needy and pleading. Pathetic. He wanted to bite it back, to make a joke or deny it.

"I wake up early," Shane said, a warning. Not a denial.

"Mm, me too," Ilya said and kissed Shane's shoulder.

"I like to get a run in. Hit the gym."

"You think I do not do these things?" Hope bloomed in him. "I get these muscles from laying in my bed until noon?"

"I figured you lifted," Shane allowed and snuggled in closer. "How much?"

"Enough to carry you to bed."

There was a beat of silence and then Shane said, "Good answer, but I'm going to get a number out of you."

"You will see. We'll go to the gym together soon. Okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

Shane spent the night. They went for a run in the morning then fucked on the stairs, sweating and laughing about it. Reluctantly, they parted and then proceeded to text incessantly until Ilya wheedled an invitation to go to Shane's house. He saw Shane's 'shed' which was was enormous and painstakingly clean as a doctor's office. Ilya brought an overnight bag and Shane did not seem to think that was presumptuous.

They spent the week climbing in and out of each other's beds. Ilya got to experience the full range of Hollander products and decided that while all the flavors were fun, he might like the original the best. Flavorless and scentless, it gave him Shane as he was and it was hard to find anything to critique about that.

Sunday was, for once, the worst day of the week. Sure, Ilya saw his customers and started hyping up his 'fall flavors'. Yes, he got to watch Luca flush pale pink when he met Ilya's eyes and then helplessly spill, 'I like him so much' in between trying to convince old ladies to buy his pretty drawings. Of course, he got to go and tease Marley when Svetlana arrived which got toothlessly threatened with several interesting knives.

But he only got to see Shane for lunch and that was a fucking crime.

"We spent all day together yesterday," Shane pointed out when Ilya aired his grievances.

"That was yesterday," Ilya said.

Shane didn't argue. He also would not allow Ilya to kiss or grope him because they were 'at work' and that was 'inappropriate'. While Ilya heaved a put upon sigh, he was actually a little relieved. It was one thing to flirt, another thing to have other people see them like that with each other so soon.

There was something private about what was growing between him and Shane. Ilya was not a natural gardener, but he had learned to help fuel his business and to keep himself busy in the long hours between markets. These days, he did know a little of how to coax and protect a tender new plant until it bore fruit.

"My mom liked the new ginger better," Shane told him like it was a precious secret. "But she said she's been reading up on you and knows you can make it more interesting."

"Is that so? Is your father picky like this too?"

"He's a foodie, so yes and no," Shane said. "He liked the beets."

"You shared my beets?" Ilya feigned horror. "Shane. My flirtation beets. They were for you only."

"Those were not flirtation beets," Shane said immediately. "Were they?"

"They were," Ilya said.

Shane dipped his head, hiding a pleased smile. "Beets are not a romantic vegetable."

"Take this back immediately. They are the most romantic!"

The sprout kept growing. They spent another week in each other's pockets, texting when they weren't together. The last day of the outdoor market, Ilya was high as a kite purely on endorphins and affection. He kissed Svetlana on the cheek as she rung up their last sale of the season: pie-flavored pumpkin and maple bacon.

"What was that for?" She asked, eyes bright and happy to match his own.

"Thank you. For making sure I did not become a weird hermit," he said. "You were right."

Instead of gloating or teasing, she only hugged him hard. "It was your work, Ilyusha. I'm proud of you. Of us."

"Me too," he said and hugged her back.

It was a bit of a race to get everything back where it needed to be at home, shower, and get to the restaurant on time. Ilya put in a little effort, pulling out slacks and a designer shirt that hadn't seen the light of day in two years. It was the kind of silk that welcomed touch and the color of the sky right before full dark with dark red buttons then that was all to the better.

Most of the familiar faces were already gathered around a large table. Shane was sitting beside Rose, but on the other side, someone had tossed a sweater the back of the chair. He looked unfairly gorgeous in a plain linen button down.

"Who does this belong to?" Ilya asked, plucking at the sweater with a barely contained sneer.

"Me," Shane said. "I saved you a seat."

"You want me to sit next to you?" Ilya checked.

Shane gave him a bewildered look. "Where else would I want you to be?"

The nascent sneer was swallowed by a tide of affection. Ilya sat down bonelessly and after a brief internal debate, he dropped his arm around the back of Shane's chair. With a half-smile, Shane leaned back against it.

On Rose's other side, Svetlana very slowly leaned forward and nailed Ilya with a look of nuclear proportions.

"Yes?" He asked mildly.

"How does it feel?" Rose asked, following her girlfriend's gaze.

There was the smell of a trap around the question. Ilya asked warily, "How does what feel?"

"To be meddled with?" Wyatt asked from across the table, smiling like he'd found a mint first edition Spiderman something or other.

"What?" Ilya's voice dropped an entire octave and twenty degrees. Oblivious to the chill, Shane leaned in closer. That was fine. He was exempt anyway.

"I knew you two would be perfect for each other," Rose said contently. "I'm surprised it went as easily as it did though, I thought we'd have to do more work."

"Excuse me?" Shane asked, his voice breaking slightly.

"You deserve to be happy," Rose said and Ilya had to give her credit that she seemed very sincere. "Sveta and I talked about it and we thought you two would get along, but would also be complete assholes about us matchmaking. So when you started your business, I thought maybe if you sold at the market it would go better."

"You told me it was a great way to kickstart online sales," Shane said, sitting up straight. The loss of contact was worrying.

"And it has been," she pointed out. "It wasn't purely for romantic purposes. I just thought it'd be nice if you could meet your big adversary in public."

"You knew?" Ilya asked and now he was sitting up. "Sveta. The NDAs."

"You signed them, not me," she said with a shrug. "And Rose will have spousal privileges soon."

In the momentary panic, it didn't hit right away. It took Ryan saying, "Well hey, congratulations," to shake the realization loose.

"You got engaged? Sveta! You didn't tell me?"

"It was spontaneous," she said and then she wasn't saying much at all because he was attempting to hug her and Rose over Shane who squawked and swatted at him and then got folded in by Rose.

The party turned raucous almost immediately. A second round of drinks were ordered before the first could be fully consumed. Rose and Svetlana got toasted so many times that they were both giggling drunks before the entrees arrived.

"Should we be angry?" Shane asked into Ilya's ear as Bood recounted his own engagement with Cassie's commentary.

A little ways down the table, Marley was facing towards Bood, listening, but Luca was close at hand, eyes drifting from Bood to Marley's face with a small pleased smile.

"No," Ilya decided. "They only put us in the same place. We did the rest."

"Yeah," Shane said and relaxed back against him. "That's true."

"More important question: you have an online store?"

"Yeah? The website is on my cards and flyers and things. You didn't notice?"

"I did, but I have one like this and it only says where I am selling."

"You could make bank selling online," Shane said with complete confidence.

"Yes, but I would need more people, probably. I cannot do all the markets, make everything, and manage orders with just me and sometimes Sveta."

"I guess not," Shane agreed. "You don't want to manage people?"

"I don't want to become a person running a business instead of a person making things," Ilya confided and as the words came out, he was certain they were true. "I like the doing. Are you trying to make a intimate personal sex fluids empire?"

"You're doing that on purpose."

"Answer the question."

"I want to sell people something that works," Shane said after a moment's hesitation. "I like seeing my product out there, but I'm not sure I would trust other people to hold to my standards. It would be weird to hand the making part over to someone else. Maybe in another year or two, I'll feel differently."

"Control freak," Ilya said affectionately.

"Eat shit," Shane said and dropped his hand to Ilya's knee under the table, giving it a quick squeeze. "$2, 220 today, by the way."

The conversation had passed them by. Around the table everyone seemed to be talking at once, jubilant noise filling the air. It was a beautiful thing to be a part of. Especially when he could lean over and say, "$2,498."

"Fuck you, you didn't."

"End of season sale."

"Show me," Shane demanded, wilting a little when Ilya proffered his phone. "Fuck, fine. You win."

"Good. I have the perfect flavor in mind."

Eight Months Later

The world was in bloom. Ilya stood behind his table, the full array of his product, including ten new offerings were ready for sale. His new neighbor had set out eleven pieces of driftwood with their classy bottles gleaming in the spring sunshine. Ilya now knew that David Hollander had lovingly polished each one of those pieces of wood to a sheen. The same way he had taken a look at Ilya's Ikea bookshelf and come over a few weeks ago to weatherproof it.

"Ready?" Shane asked, challenge in his eyes.

"Ready," Ilya said. "Winner chooses dinner."

"Agreed."

"There's something wrong with you two," Marley said, wandering down the aisle "But apparently Luca wants you at his graduation party anyway. Here."

Cardstock invitations would join Svetlana and Rose's Save the Date on Ilya's fridge. For now. These days, Ilya was only in his own house to work. He was fairly sure Shane had noticed that and was figuring out how to ask Ilya to move in. Giving up the house would be hard. Maybe Ilya would hold onto it and keep running the business out of it. If he wasn't also trying to live in it, he could convert some of the space. Was that legal? A question for later.

His first customer of the day was familiar. She was carrying a toddler.

"Ah, hello," Ilya said to the toddler very seriously. "Arthur, you are making your mama very strong."

"Only on one side," Jackie said with a laugh. "I really have to switch arms. What do you think, baby? Should we get more carrots and strawberries?"

"Berry," Arthur agreed.

"I will hold them behind for you," Ilya said. "No need to drag them around the whole market."

"Thank you. You're the best. We're still on for Friday?"

"What's Friday?" Shane asked.

"Hollander, it is rude to eavesdrop," Ilya scolded. "I am taking Jackie out on a date."

"I need to get my dress re-sized for the wedding," Jackie corrected. "Ilya knows someone, he said."

"He always knows someone," Shane said, both a grumble and a hint of pride.

"Hayden said to tell you he'll still come by to help out lunch."

The compromise had taken some time, but now at noon, Svetlana and Hayden took over their booths. Shane and Ilya bought lunch from Bood, got cider from Harris and settled at the picnic tables. They ate together, knees touching under the table, watching the crowd walk by.

"I have something for you," Ilya said, before Shane was halfway through his lunch. He meant to wait until the end, but he couldn't stave off the anxious giddiness.

"No public indecency," Shane said quickly.

"Dirty mind. You can have that later." He pulled the carefully wrapped bit of wax paper out of his pocket.

Taking it, Shane frowned. "It's not my birthday. Or an anniversary. Unless I forgot something?"

"No," Ilya assured him. "Open it."

With care, Shane got his thumb under the small piece of tape holding it shut and opened the wax paper. Inside was a beet sitting on some goat cheese on top of a piece of sourdough. Ilya had used a cookie cutter to shape all three pieces into identical hearts.

Shane's smile was already well worth the effort. "Ilya. What?"

"This is the first thing I feed you," Ilya said. "But a new recipe. Blackberry and yuzu. Like the first things you fed me."

"I didn't feed those to you, you basically drank them on your own," Shane countered, but he sounded unbearably fond. He went to take a bite.

"No, wait," Ilya said and took Shane's hand in his.

"Why? Did it come out badly?" Shane frowned.

Ilya shook his head and met Shane's pretty brown eyes. His freckles faded a little without sunlight over the winter. That was all right. Ilya was looking forward to watching their return like he looked forward to the days getting longer and the sun on his own skin. If he was lucky, it was a sea change that Ilya could watch over and over.

"I love you," Ilya said.

It was so much easier than he'd thought it would be. His heart hammered in his chest and his throat was tight, but he also felt light as air.

"Holy shit," Shane said and dropped the little sandwich back onto the paper. The hearts fanned out over it. "I love you too."

They kissed on the park bench, the thousands of sounds of a busy market going dim and distant. Ilya reached for the beet and held it to Shane's lip, watching him eat as Ilya's fingertips went pink.

"Good?" Ilya checked.

"Perfect," Shane said, eyes a little wet looking.

"As good as your beet lube?"

"Hard to say. That's a bestseller, you know."

"Hollander," Ilya groaned. "Be romantic."

"I'm licking your fingers clean in a public place. That's as romantic as I get," Shane lied. "I love you. So much."

They shared the goat cheese, bread and the last of their lunches. Passing the last dregs of his cider to Ilya, Shane said,

"I have a plan."

"Oh?" Ilya grinned around the bottle. "What is that?"

"In a year or two, we should combine businesses. One big stall. We don't have to hire anyone new, but maybe ask Svetlana if she wants to be a full partner or something. Have my mom come on more regularly. With the four of us, we could grow without giving up the things we like."

"You want that?" Ilya asked, his already taxed heart trying to keep up with that.

"I would love that," Shane breathed out. "What do you think?"

"I would love it too. I even have an idea for the name."

"Oh, I was thinking like one tent, still two names…" Shane trailed off and caught the look in Ilya's eye. "What's the name?"

Ilya reached out and wipe a single pink droplet from the corner of Shane's mouth.

"The Slippery Pickle."

"I take it all back, I hate you," Shane said immediately.

"Black and red tent. Very nice sexy font," Ilya cajoled. "We can wear your nice t-shirts, no big patterns. Logo is yours, but the droplet is shaped like a pickle."

The serious mask cracked and Shane started to laugh. "Okay, I fucking love it. I love you and your ridiculous brain and your pickles and our plan."

The sun shone warm on their faces and their kiss tasted like every good thing they had made together.