Graham was a homophobe and was seen as one of Trump's closest allies in the Senate. His death will not meaningfully impact the partisan balance of the Senate, as South Carolina's Republican governor can immediately appoint a replacement to serve out the remainder of his term.
Graham's death, which was unexpected, comes as the nation is expectantly waiting for the death of former Republican Senate Leader Sen. Mitch McConnell — who was hospitalized weeks ago and has mysteriously not made any public appearances, statements, or updates since.
Rose and Shane (who are both closet cinephiles; Shane because he thinks it's embarrassing to have hobbies and Rose because being a cinephile as an actor just seems cringe to her) are working their way through one of those "100 movies to watch before you die" lists and finally get to Dirty Dancing.
"I can't believe you haven't seen this," Rose says, and Shane grumbles something about not really being a fan of the genre and well, their rule is that if they think the movie is stupid they can turn it off after an hour so Rose finds it on one of the 6000 streaming platforms Ilya pays for (the Fast and the Furious movies keep jumping around) and starts the stream fully expecting for Shane to exert his veto power in an hour.
And then he just doesn't. He sits there and watches the whole thing, mouth slightly open. Usually they talk at least a little bit about the plot or the cinematography (Shane has developed some opinions in that regard, mostly adopted from Rose whose opinions he takes as gospel by consequence of knowing next to nothing about the industry) but Shane is just. Rapt.
Then Ilya comes stalking into the living room towards the end of the movie and by pure coincidence he's wearing a black shirt and pants and Shane looks away from the TV for the first time in 90 minutes.
"Shane," he says, and puts two fingers on Shane's jaw, entirely chaste but extremely proprietary. "Have you seen my iPad?"
"Den," Shane says softly. "It's in the den."
Rose darts a look between Ilya, Patrick Swayze on the screen, and Shane's open-mouthed expression. Laughs for about four straight minutes.
People the other day were posting about the Hollanov AU possibilities of prince/knight and for the record, that is great and I support it. But if I could quick also make an argument for prince4prince?
Okay, so walk with me: this would take place in a world where political marriages between two men sometimes happen, but it's a pretty recent thing and some people still have hangups about it.
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“You wanted to see me,” says Rozanov, “alone?” He’s smirking in a way that makes Shane reasonably sure he’s being mocked, but for once in their very short acquaintance, Shane won’t take the bait.
“Yes,” says Shane, heart pounding. “Close the door behind you.”
It’s the first time they’ve ever been alone together before. Rozanov raises his eyebrows, but he does close the door. He takes the chair across from Shane. The way he slumps in his seat is unfortunately attractive, but then, that applies to nearly everything he does.
“How did you escape the rest of your retinue?” asks Rozanov idly.
“I evade them very rarely,” Shane says. “They were not prepared.”
“Mm,” says Rozanov. “I evade mine very often, so I am always prepared.”
There is no point in prolonging this. “I need to tell you why the marriage cannot take place,” says Shane.
“You mean our marriage,” says Rozanov blankly. “The one happening in ten days.”
Shane nods. “There is a provision,” he says. “It’s not used very often but if we both object, we can still get out of it.”
“You agreed before. What has changed?” Rozanov’s tone is unreadable, and Shane cannot make himself look at him.
Shane had known, on some level, that the only way out of this situation would be to explain it to Rozanov, but his resolve had been considerably stronger in the early hours of the morning, following another sleepless night. With Rozanov in the room, Shane’s determination is weakening every second.
“I’m sick,” Shane tries.
“You seem healthy enough to me,” says Rozanov.
Shane can feel his face start to heat. “Not that kind of sick.”
“What kind, then?” Rozanov presses.
“Does it matter?” says Shane.
“You are the most duty-bound person I have ever met,” Rozanov says. “Your entire life is obligation. Why is this the one charge you refuse?”
This is agony. Shane reminds himself how much worse it would be, for the whole mess to come to light after the wedding. An annulment. Rumors swirling around them, Rozanov sent home in likely disgrace.
“Look,” says Shane, “you deserve someone who can be with you.” He fights the urge to drag a hand down his face. “Someone who could properly consummate the marriage.”
“And you cannot?” says Rozanov. “What, are you going to try to tell me you aren’t interested in men?”
Shane freezes. Rozanov is more perceptive than he looks. “No,” Shane grits out. “Uh. I am.”
There is a long pause.
“The problem is the way I’m interested,” says Shane.
“And what way is that?” asks Rozanov.
Shane presses his lips together.
“What,” says Rozanov, “should I start listing ways?”
“No,” says Shane before he can stop himself. “Fuck you.”
With some men, this would be the start of an international incident. When Shane risks a glance at Rozanov, there is no fury, no outrage. Maybe a glimmer of triumph, although that makes no sense.
“I, uh,” Shane says. “The things I want are—are perverse.”
Again, no anger. Rozanov also does not run screaming from the room. He says only, “Perverse how?”
For obvious reasons, Shane has never needed to tell anyone before, but he does probably owe Rozanov the truth.
“I have heard other men talk,” Shane says unsteadily, “about what they like, when it comes to matters of the flesh.”
Rozanov nods. Shane is standing with his toes over the edge of a precipice. There is nothing left to do but fall. He swallows.
“I have never heard another man say he wants to be the one on his knees,” Shane makes himself say.
Another pause. Shane’s heart is in his throat.
“This is not unusual, in my experience,” says Rozanov.
Shane stares at him. “What?”
“Every time a man has his cock sucked, there must be someone doing the sucking,” Rozanov says. “The act cannot happen without it, no?”
Shane’s mouth is hanging open. He closes it. “I mean, it happens,” says Shane at last. “But a man isn’t supposed to—”
“Enjoy it?” says Rozanov softly. “And you do?”
“I think I would,” says Shane, ruthlessly honest. “Very much.”
“You think you would, but you have never done it?” Rozanov says. He’s almost smiling.
Shane feels absurd all of a sudden. In my experience, Rozanov had said, implying he has committed such acts before, maybe with some frequency, while Shane has done almost nothing. He breathes through his nose and tries not to feel like a child. Shane’s inexperience is not the problem. His perversion is.
It occurs to Shane that he had chosen to share perhaps the mildest of his predilections. Worse, that he had done so because on some level, he still does not want Rozanov to think less of him. Stupid.
“That is not the only thing I want,” says Shane. And he reaches for the worst, most incriminating fantasies he can think of, thoughts that make him burn with shame even when he is alone. And Rozanov—cocky, boastful, outrageous Rozanov—sits and listens. It is absolutely horrible, but after the first few, there is something strangely comforting about admitting these things aloud to another person. He wonders if this is how Catholics feel in confession.
Rozanov does not react with mockery or disgust. Occasionally, he asks a question—so in your mind, when this man holds you down and makes you take it, is he rough with you? Does he hurt you? And Shane answers with the same curious detachment, Maybe but it is less about the pain and more about not being able to stop him, because he knows I want it.
Sometimes there is an odd strain in Rozanov’s voice, but he does not flinch away from any of Shane’s lurid, sinful imaginings. Shane regrets meeting this more considerate side of Rozanov only now, before they are to prevent the wedding from ever happening.
If Shane is being honest, he loses track of the time, is only reminded of the outside world when footsteps sound in the hallway behind them, from the other side of the door.
“Ah, so they’ve found us,” says Rozanov, with an unfairly devastating smile. “Your people or mine, do you think?”
An awful thought seizes Shane. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” he says, cold in the pit of his stomach.
“Of course not.” Rozanov stands, stretches. “Who would believe me?”
The door opens. “Your Highness, where have you been?” An unfamiliar voice. One of Rozanov’s retinue, then.
Shane busies himself with the papers on the table.
“Right here,” Rozanov tells his attendant. “No international incidents today. We were just having a chat.”
“Thank you for the conversation, Highness,” Shane tells Rozanov, holding out his hand to shake. When Rozanov steps close enough to clasp hands, Shane adds in an undertone, “I can draft the papers to void our engagement tonight.”
Rozanov takes Shane’s hand in his own. His palm is warm and dry, his fingertips rough with callouses. His Royal Highness Ilya Rozanov is known to be a fine athlete, skilled in fencing. So is Shane. There is a reason King David and Queen Yuna had hoped the match might be a happy one. Shane feels a pang of something, that they will likely never have another conversation alone. Still, he has at least freed Rozanov from a life shackled to Shane’s debaucherous soul.
Rozanov squeezes Shane’s hand. “Don’t,” he says.
“What?” says Shane.
“Don’t draft the papers,” says Rozanov, almost casual. “I will not sign them.”
He releases Shane’s hand, turning to go.
“What do you mean?” says Shane dumbly.
Rozanov looks back at Shane and smiles again. There is an edge of something to it that Shane doesn’t know how to define, except that it makes him shiver.
“Our wedding is in ten days,” says Rozanov. He backs out of the door, attendants urging him forwards. “Thank you for the conversation. Very illuminating,” he calls from the hallway.
Like a month ago I messaged a craft group about accessibility for wheelchairs and the answer I got was “there’s a lot of stairs but we have cute boys who can carry you”.
And it’s…not good. As a wheelchair bound person I largely depend on people when I want to go out and do *anything* so I’m used to it, I laugh it off, make an annoyed post about it and off I go. But I wanna just say a thing real quick.
Even if I wasn’t gay, wasn’t a survivor scared of men, getting help as a disabled person is just…Not a pleasant thing to us! Imagine for a sec how you’d feel being carried up a flight of stairs. You’re a grown person. You’re being touched in an awkward way. You’d rather do it yourself. You’re So Uncomfortable. It’s not where I look for the beginning of a romantic relationship.
So like…could abled people stop doing this thing where they think helping us in a condescending and infantilizing way is cute? Cause I’m real tired. Just get me a ramp or lift and I’m cool. I don’t need a dating service when I’m just trying to go about my day
(Also, people who use wheelchairs are not the only people who have problems with stairs - anyone who’s using a cane, or crutches, or who just has dodgy knees is gonna wish you had access to a lift, a ramp, or some other place to meet).
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