Chapter Text
1.
Shane sets the dinner table with four sets of the good china. He listens to Ilya and his mother laugh together in the kitchen while Shane's father helps him with the glassware.
David throws an old Christmas jazz record on the turntable and they sit down to eat. Conversation turns to hockey as it always does, and Shane is pleased at the way it doesn't feel like the sport is serving to obfuscate any other part of his life anymore. It's all wrapped up together now, indivisible.
Ilya spoons seconds of mashed potatoes onto his plate, then Shane's. Then he turns to Yuna, offering some to her, too, saying "Mama?"
She pauses, then nods. Ilya notices the hesitation and blushes slightly. He scoops some potatoes onto her plate and hurriedly explains it's just Russian culture to call the parents of partners Mama and Papa, and that he doesn't have to, it just rolled off his tongue, it's a sign of respect, etcetera, etcetera. She assures him that of course it's okay, thank you for the potatoes.
Ilya then tries to convince the Hollanders that it is also Russian culture to open presents on Christmas Eve and is ultimately unsuccessful.
2.
Yuna makes Ilya sleep on the couch. Shane argues, a bit petulant, groaning about how he's a grown adult, he can sleep in the same room as his boyfriend. It's his parents' house, though, and the rule in his parents' house is no sleeping in the same room unless you're married.
Ilya sneaks into Shane's room at midnight anyway. He climbs into the warm bed and kisses him softly and slow. They sneak hands under the covers and wrap strong hands around each other's cocks, breathing into each other's mouths and biting the insides of their cheeks when they silently come into their boxers. Ilya makes a show of licking Shane off his hand, and they giggle about it. Shane sneaks out to get a warm washcloth and grabs new underwear for both of them. They curl up on the tiny full size bed, feet hanging off the ends, and set an alarm for four am, so Ilya can tiptoe back out to the living room before the parents are awake.
3.
Ilya has never had a real Christmas, not like this. Growing up, his family followed Russian tradition and threw big New Year's Eve parties, with tables full of food and ornately wrapped gifts piled high. Then a week later, they would go to a service on Orthodox Christmas, too, though these were much less memorable. North American Christmas was just something from the movies. Even since he'd lived in Boston, it mostly just served as a day to lounge around with Svetlana and watch American football.
The Hollander's Christmas is, unsurprisingly, ridiculously charming and warm, just like those movies. David makes them all a large breakfast with pancakes and cheesy eggs and cinnamon toast and leftover Christmas Eve ham. Ilya feels a strange warmth in his chest as he watches Shane eat a bit of everything.
They exchange gifts, and Ilya feels his cheeks burn bright red when he realizes there is even a stocking for him, labeled with a quilted "I" and full of candy and rolls of loonies and a pair of nice socks. He opens his gifts carefully— a nice tie, a hockey book in Russian, a voucher for a plane ticket to visit Ontario next summer.
He gets David a puzzle of a New Yorker cover, May 1991, Shane's birth month. Yuna gets a nice pair of Ayoka pearl earrings. For Shane, Ilya gifts him a nice dinner from a fancy Montreal restaurant that is prepared and then delivered straight to your doorstep, white tablecloths and crystal wine glasses and nice silverware included. He wants to take Shane out for a nice dinner. He thinks maybe this is the next best thing.
He couldn't help himself, so he also got the entire family Boston Raider's t-shirts— including Shane, who reacted with such disgust that it made Ilya legitimately worried for the stability of their relationship for a moment. The next morning, as he sleepily took the mug from David's outstretched hand, he paused as he realized he was wearing it.
Noticing his attention, David chuckles.
"It's a nice shirt. I've been meaning to get one myself." Ilya wishes the emotion back down his throat. "Don't ever expect to see Yuna wear hers, though."
4.
Rose Landry loves Los Angeles. She didn't think she would. She used to only submit for projects based in Toronto, New York, Montreal, Atlanta, sometimes Vancouver. London and Paris when possible, once Berlin on a whim. She figured she'd find someone in one of these places to settle down with, and there were a couple times she thought maybe she finally had.
First it was her work that kept bringing her to LA, and then it was her friends, and then, at some point along the way, her own heart started to point west.
After her second big blockbuster premiere, she purchased a small bungalow in the Hollywood Hills, with a porch facing east. It is on this porch where Shane sits at an old and rusty outdoor bistro table, sipping on tea and looking out over the rolling hills below.
Rose sits in the doorway for a moment, just watching him, backlit by the pink glow of the sun reflecting off the valley. There's something about the light in Los Angeles, just as the sun retreats behind the ocean, a diffused and ethereal blanket that colors everything just right.
Her friends are getting married and having children and getting divorced and moving abroad and Rose is spending time with her beautiful gay ex-boyfriend and hearing far too much and also not enough about the hot sex he's having with his mystery hockey man. Life tends to twist around on itself, and she feels ridiculously lucky to be tangled up with Shane Hollander, funny and earnest and kind.
Los Angeles is a house of mirrors; it reflects yourself back to you. Rose sits next to Shane, offers him a bite of the slightly stale croissant leftover from this morning. He hesitates, then takes a piece, cupping his hand underneath it to catch the crumbs as he lifts it to his mouth. In the distance, there is the faint sound of cars and someone messing around on an acoustic guitar. A soft breeze rustles the leaves above them.
Everything goes pink and pinker still, until the sun completes it's journey and everything turns a deep periwinkle blue. They are silent as it shifts. Rose is lost in her thoughts until she feels Shane move slightly next to her, reaching his arm behind her and twirling his fingers in her hair, resting his hand on the back of her neck. She looks at him and smiles. He smiles back, then asks what's for dinner.
5.
The Metros play against the Royals the afternoon of New Year's Eve, which gives them the entire night to enjoy in Los Angeles. Shane declines the invites to various clubs and parties his teammates are going to, making it very clear he intends to follow Rose around wherever she goes. He makes this clear so that if any picture comes out of him at a queer club, he can say he was just going with the flow of the night.
Rose helps him get ready in his hotel room. She dresses him in slouchy, low-slung slacks and a black t shirt that hugs his shoulders and is cropped just above his waistline, so that any movement exposes a small sliver of the skin on his torso. They watch a YouTube video on how to get his hair to lie just right, mess with it until it comes kind of close. The final step is Rose standing over him as he sits on the edge of the bed, her tongue sticking out slightly as she smudges some black eyeliner on his waterline and just above his upper lashes.
He likes it more than he thought he would. It's subtle, but it's there, and a year ago he would have never thought to do this, but tonight he is. He wonders in which ways he will be different next year.
The club is dark and loud and Shane can feel the base run up from his shoes into his heart and then his head. It is more fun after Rose convinces him to take two tequila shots in succession. She drags him onto the dance floor and lets her move his body how he is supposed to, then learns it's actually kind of fun and starts moving it himself.
He's walking to the bar to grab another round when he hears his name, his full name, "Shane Hollander?", and the steady bass seems to get stuck in his chest and for a second he's not sure he can breathe but he does and then he faces the direction it came from. A man a little shorter than him, with a septum piercing and bleached eyebrows, a mesh sleeveless top and sparkly highlighter, beautiful in way Shane never really noticed before, but is noticing now.
"You're Shane Hollander, right?"
Shane chuckles awkwardly and nods his head.
"Shut up, my sister is going to absolutely freak out! She's a huge fan of yours, she's fifteen and has your poster on her wall. Can I get a picture?"
Shane must have hesitated, something on his face betraying his apprehension, because the man reached out a hand and gently touched his arm, leaning in and adding "It would just go to her, of course. She would be so upset if I didn't at least ask."
His smile is soft and understanding, and Shane feels guilt settle in his stomach. He wants to be here. He wants to be seen here.
"Of course, man, yeah, no problem."
The man passes his phone to his friend, who snaps a quick picture of them. Shane hopes his smile looks genuine— sometimes he's not sure. The man thanks him and turns to go, and in a moment of bravery, Shane asks him his name.
Michael grew up on PEI, played hockey for a year but it wasn't for him. They talked about summering by the lake and how he misses Canada and his sister. He moved to LA to be near his boyfriend, and Shane's heart lurches slightly at this. They make small talk, and Shane offers to buy him and his boyfriend another round, but they politely decline to go meet friends somewhere else before midnight. They shake hands once more, and before he can change his mind, Shane leans in a bit closer.
"Hey, um—," Shane takes a deep breath, continues. "Send that picture to me on Instagram, and let me know if you and your sister are ever in Montreal. I'll get you tickets to a game."
Michael lights up, says Of course, and Shane returns to the dance floor. The world doesn't end.
6.
Ilya gets a FaceTime call from Shane at 2:48 am Boston time. When he answers, Shane asks if he woke him up, as if Ilya wouldn't still be out if he wasn't set on helping his boyfriend through the new year.
Shane is a vision, laid back in the bed, shirtless, eyeliner smudged beneath his lower lashes. Ilya tells him so. He's flushed red down to his chest— probably from the alcohol, but maybe a bit from hearing Ilya's compliments. At least Ilya hopes that's part of it.
"How's 2018?"
"Mm, very good," Ilya says, chuckling at Shane's lazy, drunken smile. "Even better than last year."
Shane raises his eyebrows. "Better than last year?" Then, quietly, just barely a whisper, "Impossible."
Ilya shifts in his own bed, turning to his side to hide the way his breath is getting stuck in his throat. Once he's settled, he asks Shane about his night, and he listens.
They count down the California New Year together.
"Happy New Year, моя любовь," Ilya says quietly into the glowing screen.
Shane replies, slowly and carefully rehearsed, "с Новым Годом."
Ilya feels another surge of affection, warm and deep in his body. He's nearly sick with it, this overwhelming torrent of constant emotion. He feels a bit unmoored in himself, but he doesn't mind it so much. He's up to his neck in thick wanting and finally understands the term lovesick. He wills his voice to speak again, completely unsure if anything will come out.
"Terrible pronunciation," he says, and then Shane laughs, bright and lovely.
They stare at each other a bit longer. They are three thousand miles apart and feeling every inch of the distance.
Shane brings his phone closer, lowers his voice as if he is revealing a secret.
"Do you think this will get any easier?"
Ilya cannot lie, not to Shane, so he gives a wry smile, and so he just says "I don't know."
Shane sighs, rolls onto his back. His eyes are glistening, almost like they're reflecting the night sky. Or maybe Ilya is just dreaming.
"I don't think it will," Shane says, but he's smiling as he does.
7.
Some Sundays, when he is home and not hungover, Ilya goes to church. Orthodox, Russian-speaking. He puts on a suit, likes the way it hugs his shoulders and his hips tightly. He stands stiffly in the open room, body aware of itself. He lets the easy language wash over him, unthinking. He knows the prayers, mumbles them softly with the others.
During communion, he crosses his arms and receives a blessing instead. He doesn't go to confession anymore and he likely never will again. He will keep his sins to himself; they are precious to him.
After the service, he goes to the annex and indulges in the free, shitty coffee, mingles shyly with the other congregants. Breaks off a piece of fresh pirozhki, crumbs falling on a papery napkin, lets the babushkas tell him all about their lovely, single granddaughters. Recently, some of the children figured out he plays for the Raiders, shyly coming up to him to ask him to sign their service programs. Then, weeks later, they expect him and bring pucks and silver sharpies.
Sometimes, when gossiping with the women or talking hockey with the men, he has to lean in and ask someone to repeat something, not recognizing a Russian word, and he worries he's forgetting. He thinks to ask Shane if he ever can't recognize a word in English or French, but thinks it's too vulnerable, memory being a strange and painful topic for both of them.
He always leaves earlier than all the others, pocketing one more pirozhki for the road and sneaking out without saying goodbye.
The cathedral is the only place in Boston where he is reminded of home and mama and himself. He goes mostly just so he can be in a room where everyone speaks Russian, where he doesn't have to waste precious energy translating all this stupid English. Sometimes, when he is feeling particularly indulgent, he listens to the singing children and he allows himself to believe. In this brief belief-state, he is deserving of his lover, he will see his mother again someday. It barely lasts a minute, and then the heels of his feet start to hurt in his dress shoes.
After, he calls Shane.
8.
Hey Ilya, just calling to say hi— sorry if I'm catching you at a bad time, I wasn't sure when your tape review was today, but just a reminder that I'm gonna be at Hayden and Jackie's tonight so I can't talk much. I'll send you pictures of the baby, of course. She's so big now, you wouldn't believe it. Anyway, I, um, I saw that Samson was scratched for next game, I won't ask any questions about it, but, um, yeah I don't know what that's about but I hope everything is okay. Things have been weird around here, too, I guess, for the team, I mean— I think it's just that time of the season probably. Anyway, I— I won't take up all your time, I just wanted to say hi, and that I miss you, and I love you, and it's— I just wanted to say that I'm— that things are— I don't know. Nevermind. I love you. Okay. Bye.
9.
"Let me see."
Shane is coaxing Ilya into dropping the hood of his sweatshirt and shifting the camera just so, so he is able to see the black eye Ilya earned for himself against Toronto.
"Is not pretty," Ilya mumbles, accent thick with the weight of the day.
Shane just hums, and waits. Ilya has never met a more patient, stubborn man. He knows what the commentators on TSN say, that hockey prodigy Shane Hollander is all agility and speed. Ilya knows the truth though, that all his power on the ice flows from his ability to wait— wait for the puck to drop, wait for a teammate to get in a good position, wait for a chance to intercept, wait for the right shot, wait for every opportunity to be formed in its perfect entirety before acting on it; wait, wait, wait.
Ilya is bad at waiting. In this way he is a strong player, a strong person. He is opportunistic, takes risks, is faithfully trusting of his own agency and skill. Sometimes, he's all he ever needs. Sometimes, he looks behind him and sees nobody there.
Shane's ability to wait gets him what he wants once again, and Ilya groans as he pulls down his hood and turns his head to the light so Shane can see the deep bruise forming around his eye. He lets Shane fuss over him and bites his cheek to keep from smiling at the way he delivers advice like he's a certified doctor. He lets himself admit, even just to himself, that he doesn't mind the fussing much at all. He keeps his head still so Shane can properly assess the situation. He doesn't move one bit.
10.
When they were at the cottage, Shane and Ilya liked to get high. It took them a few tries to get the exact mix of strain and method and dose that turns them both into sweet molasses, but now they've got it down to a science. They take advantage of the extended winter break in their schedules to indulge again, and Shane pretends to argue about it impacting their play before ultimately giving in.
Shane likes an edible; chewy, grapefruit flavor. He likes the slow arrival of sensation, likes lifting his hand to grab a sip of his water and realizing everything's grown a bit heavier and less important. He likes burrowing into himself, feeling his body press out towards the edges of him as if expanding. When he is like this, the center of himself sits in his toes and his spine and his throat and his fingertips instead of his brain. He catalogs every inch of his skin. He is here; now.
Ilya prefers a joint. Prefers to inhale. Likes the gentle sting of the smoke in his lungs, the meditative practice of breathing in, out. He likes feeling it travel up to his head immediately, the way he relaxes almost on instinct. His natural, not-high slouch is always bent towards Shane, leaning his way like redwoods to other redwoods. When he is high, this only magnifies and Ilya is stuck to his boyfriend, turned liquid and filling every space he can.
When they're high, they like to kiss. They always like to kiss, but especially then. When they kiss, it's sloppy and handsy and sweet. They ask each other childish questions like When did you know you first liked me?, and What do you tell your friends about me?, and Would you still love me if I was a worm?. They argue over the answers through toothy smiles pressed up against each others cheeks in almost-kisses.
Once they've gotten their fill of kissing, they pull out snacks (potato chips for Ilya, veggie straws for Shane— they bicker over whether or not that's basically the same thing) and sit on the couch. Shane is always the one to turn the TV on and pull up some video game, then hands Ilya the controller and backseat-games as Ilya's clumsy, tingling hands try to keep up with Shane's directions. Ilya can only smile, his strong, unfaltering lover laying with his head heavy in his lap.
Ilya gets sleepier quicker than Shane when they're high, so Shane carries Ilya to bed. Ilya flops down dramatically onto his stomach and Shane climbs over him to press kisses to the back of his ear, the nape of his neck, his shoulder. He straddles Ilya and presses his fingers into the topography of his back. The muscle gives under the touch, unclenched and malleable. Shane likes Ilya like this, and so he tells him so.
Right before they fall asleep, Shane talks to Ilya. At this point, Ilya's brain is disconnected from his mouth. Any attempt to make a sound would be futile. Shane, on the other hand, uses this time to talk about things that are hard to speak about when he's sober. The first couple times this happened, Ilya tried over and over to respond, to open Shane up further, but words kept getting stuck in his throat. Now, he just listens to listen.
Tonight, Shane tells Ilya about his first season in the MLH. How the expectations were stupid high. How long it took to temper the feeling of being outside his own skin, slightly above himself at all times. How he worries the feeling might be coming back a bit.
Ilya runs his thumb over the soft skin right above Shane's hip, saying We will talk about this tomorrow with just his touch. Shane lets his eyes close on their own accord. He rests knowing there are three things he can be certain of; his body, his boyfriend, tomorrow.
11.
Troy Barrett feels like he's living a fever dream. He's at the All-Stars game and is getting pulled for extra interviews, good press. Usually Dallas is the one getting selected for these things but this year it's him. He hopes he impresses everyone, or at least does just okay to be overlooked.
The room is filled with the best of the best— this is part of the fever dream. Scott Hunter and Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov and that one rookie from Carolina everyone says is the next big thing. And Troy is also there, and he's shifting a bit in his seat.
They're waiting for the organizers to explain the order of events to them, and it seems like everyone else in the room is relaxed except for him. Rozanov keeps leaning over to Hollander to whisper something in his ear, causing Hollander to stifle a giggle and slap Rozanov on the arm. He didn't know they were such good friends, but it makes sense a bit, how they've been at the top, together, for so long. He wonders if he'll ever get used to the pressure, to be able to relax during a press scrum, to laugh with rival players like that. He wonders if he'll ever get to have hockey and himself at the same time.
The fever dream continues when Scott Hunter approaches him and compliments him on his play against the Admirals the week before. Troy's stomach turns with guilt— he knows what Dallas had spit towards Hunter's teammates that night, nasty comments about sharing the locker room with someone like that. He assumes that Hunter knows this as well, and the fact that he made a point to compliment Troy's play regardless is a kind of kindness that nearly knocks the wind out of him.
"You're having a great year," Troy replies, hoping that Hunter can't hear the tremor in his voice. Hunter really hasn't had that great of a season, so Troy also hopes that he understands what he means by this. Just in case, he adds, "I'm excited to be here with you."
Hunter looks at him appreciatively, thanks him for saying that. Troy feels his walls go back up, worried he said too much, returning to his prickly self, and Hunter moves on to chat with the rookie. He manages to keep a bit of that warmth he felt by the entire interaction close to himself, and imagines it as a kind of forgiveness, even though he's sure it isn't, and he wouldn't deserve it even if it was.
During the game, the Western Conference doesn't stand a chance, and he watches Hollander and Rozanov celebrate a crazy trick shot goal by Hollander. Their obvious joy at being on the ice does not make them any less intense and serious about their play, and Troy envies that way they can balance it so easily, how fluid and comfortable they are in themselves. They look like they're having so much fun, and they're fucking good.
He can't figure out if they have so much fun because they're good, or if they are good because they have fun. He wishes he could test the theory, but he's not sure he's close enough to happy or good to return any valid results.
12.
Boston plays at Montreal and Ilya takes a bad hit. He lets Shane take care of him.
Shane fills up a bath, running his finger under the faucet every so often to make sure the temperature is just right. He fills it with eucalyptus bubble bath and epsom salts. He sits on the edge of the porcelain while Ilya slips in. He uses a bowl to playfully scoop up water and pour it on Ilya's head. He puts a hand on Ilya's forehead to shield his eyes from the soapy stream. He says "My mom used to do this for me."
Ilya sighs and smiles and slumps a little further down, so the bubbles tickle his lips.
"Mine, too."
13.
Yuna and David had a dog before Shane. A Boarder Collie named Beliveau. Like any older sibling, Bel had a hard time adjusting to the baby, but she warmed up to him after a bit.
Shane, on the other hand, did not have the same tolerance for his big sister. Yuna and David thought that once he got older, he might start to love her like they did, but that day never really came. Every time Bel was close, Shane would scream and cry until they took her to a different room. There were times when they considered giving Bel to a more welcoming family, but Yuna just couldn't bear to part with her, so they managed the best they could. They would trade off taking Shane one place and Bel another, and the whole family fell into a comfortable routine.
Eventually, when Shane was around two and a half, something changed. It was strangely sudden, the way Shane's attitude went from actively hostile to radically indifferent. It was like Bel wasn't even there. After this, they orbited each other, never getting too close to each other, always keeping a respectful distance, simply coexisting. Sometimes, Shane would sneak some of his chicken into her bowl before dinner. These nights, Yuna would find Bel sleeping outside of his door, as if she knew exactly who had gifted her this sweet, small luxury. Still, they would never touch, or even look at each other.
Bel got sick when Shane was five, and one day they took her to the vet and didn't take her home. Shane sobbed, wet, heaving breaths when he heard the news. He was inconsolable for days. Yuna and David were a bit bewildered, if also a bit touched, by the sudden display of affection for the dog. They got him a stuffed animal that looked like her, and this Bel still sits in his childhood bed over twenty years later.
Sometimes, their dog comes up in casual conversation, and Yuna and David are always surprised to hear that Shane doesn't remember ever hating the dog, and that he thinks of her often and fondly. He explains that he was just scared of her sometimes, but that's something completely different from the fact that he also loved her.
"She was unpredictable, which I hated," he explains, "but I always noticed when she was gone."
14.
It is colder in Boston than in Moscow. Something to do with the humidity levels. Tiny water particles hang in the air, swept up and away from the Atlantic Ocean and freezing all around Ilya's fingers and nose.
He's kind of a baby about it, he can admit it. Just because he's Russian does not mean he likes the cold. He's dramatic about it too, wrapping his scarf around his neck an extra time in a huff, half because he likes the way it makes the rookies laugh and half because he really needs the extra layer of warmth. He stares down his face and watches the fog escape from his mouth every time he breathes out. He used to love this when he was a child. Now, it just makes him want a cigarette and Shane's hand in his coat pocket.
15.
They are sitting on the couch, scrolling on their phones. Shane is up against the armrest with his legs out long, his feet in Ilya's lap. They are silent for a while. Then, Shane:
"Do you ever think about what your life would be like if you never met me?"
Ilya's head snaps up, brow furrowed. His hand pauses on Shane's ankle.
"Like, at least,— I don't know, if I had never introduced myself that day in Regina." Shane looks at Ilya, earnest and seriously considering. "Then none of—," he gestures between the two of them, "—this would have happened. Probably."
Ilya doesn't move. Scowls more.
"And we wouldn't even know what we were missing, I guess, so," Shane's voice is quieter now, timid, realizing he might have mis-stepped. "I was just wondering. If you think about it ever."
They stare at each other for a moment. Then Ilya throws his phone onto the cushion beside him and scrambles into Shane's lap, laying heavy across him and gripping him tight. Ilya nuzzles his face into Shane's chest as though he's trying to carve out more space in his body to burrow into. Shane's arms wrap around Ilya instinctively, his fingers finding the nape of his neck and twirling the curly hair there. He holds Ilya like this, thinking he probably would know what he was missing if he never had this. Somehow, inexplicably— he's sure he would.
"Don't you ever fucking ask any stupid fucking shit like that ever again," Ilya grumbles into Shane's t-shirt.
Shane huffs out a laugh in surprise, then sighs when Ilya just holds him tighter in response.
"Okay," he whispers into Ilya's hair. Seals it with a kiss.
They lay like this for a couple of minutes, Shane running his fingers up and down Ilya's back, Ilya breathing heavy on top of him. After a bit, Ilya looks up, props his chin on Shane's chest, wide-eyed and pouting. Shane all but whimpers when he realizes Ilya's eyes are a little red.
"Say you're sorry."
"I'm sorry, Ilya." He leans down to kiss his waiting lips. "I won't ever ask any stupid fucking shit like that ever again."
Ilya reaches up for another kiss, lets this one linger a bit. Softly nudges his tongue into Shane's mouth, then pulls back, just slightly.
"Stupid fucking idiot," he whispers against Shane's lips, then sits back up and returns to scrolling on his phone.
16.
Shane keeps getting random packages to his door. Silly things, like heavy duty sponges and gourmet balsamic vinegar and a 10-foot long phone charging cord and a car air freshener shaped like a pine tree. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize it's always something that fixes a problem he mindlessly vented to Ilya about before. It's so thoughtful, it takes his breath away. He starts to tear up at the sight of a Scrub Daddy. Love is strange.
17.
"Tell me about your coach's son."
Ilya is surprised it took Shane this long to ask and also surprised he asked at all. He thinks about it for a second, then tells Shane about the first time he kissed Sasha, tipsy on stolen vodka and huddled close together for warmth on Ilya's terrace. They had gone out to the terrace to smoke a cigarette, but Ilya thinks maybe they both knew what was going to happen when they did. They didn't do anything more that night, but a few weeks later, laying in bed and talking about nothing, Sasha slowly moved his way down the bed and tucked his fingers under the waistband of Ilya's sweats, looked up through his dark eyelashes, and asked, Can I?
"But what was he like? Like, as a person."
Ilya thinks a second about this. He and Sasha had fallen out of communication, growing apart in the way people do with time. He briefly considered giving some flippant answer, that Sasha was always reckless and apathetic and a bit selfish in his own way, but to his surprise, Ilya cannot betray his old friend like that, even— or especially— to Shane. Sasha was a bit reckless and apathetic and selfish, but Ilya remembers his gentle hands and soft voice and clear laughter just as much as anything else.
It had always been Ilya and Sasha and Svetlana growing up, each of them sticking to the others out of the same rebellious nature. Sasha and Svetlana envied Ilya for his promising career in hockey, he envied their relative freedom from it all. Their parents tolerated their loyalty to each other because it kept them more or less out of trouble, or, at the very least, kept the trouble contained to themselves.
All of the big moments in his life were accompanied by Sasha and Svetka. Sasha listened carefully when Ilya complained about the incessant pressure of being Russia's next hockey star, and about his father. Sasha shared his mother with Ilya when he no longer had one to be there for him. Sasha was never angry, even when Ilya was, all the time— what Ilya would respond to with a broken glass and a hoarse voice, Sasha would respond to with a shrug. He was funny and irreverent and somehow always knew what to say.
Ilya tells Shane a story. They were 16, and Ilya had just lost a game he should have won easily. His coach was angry, his father was angry, he was angry. Sasha came over to check on him, and when Ilya slammed the door in his face, he starting knocking on a window. Ilya ignored him still. Sasha left, and then came back with a fifth of vodka, a hammer, and a bunch of empty tin cans. He held them out toward Ilya wordlessly.
They spent the rest of the night in the backyard, taking long sips of vodka as Ilya flattened the cans one by one with increasingly violent swings. A potted plant and a tomato trellis were additional casualties.
When Ilya admitted later that night, drunk and worn out and completely empty, that he missed his mother, Sasha didn't grow awkward or try to comfort him with platitudes. Just told him that he can borrow his, that her first maternal action will be telling him to cut that ugly mess of his hair. Ilya made sure to wrestle him to the ground for that one, and they laid there until Ilya fell asleep.
The next morning, he woke up in his own bed, a glass of water on the nightstand. He groaned as he remembered how he needed to clean up the scattering of smashed tin cans on the back patio, but when he walked outside, they were already gone, as if nothing happened last night at all.
"He was my best friend," Ilya says, quiet and nostalgic.
Shane hums.
"Did you love him?"
"Not like— not like I think you are asking."
"But yes?"
"Yes."
He lets Shane grow quiet and then hang up, and he waits for him to text first. Trusts he will come back when he's ready, and he does.
Ilya is brushing his teeth when the text comes through.
Okay but I'm hotter, right?
It's so unexpected that Ilya actually laughs out loud, causing some toothpaste to escape onto his chin. He finishes brushing his teeth as he replies with one hand.
hes not even close
It's another ten minutes before he gets a response. Ilya is in bed, playing a game on his phone, when they pop up on the screen, three in succession.
I'm glad you had him
As a first time, I mean
And as a friend
It's so unexpected, and Ilya wonders if he'll ever stop being surprised by Shane Hollander. He suspects he never will.
His phone buzzes one more time.
And I'm glad you're mine now
18.
Shane visits Ilya during his bye week, and they have passionate marathon sex. After, Shane wants to take care of Ilya, so he lays him gently on the bed, naked and sleepy and warm from the shower. He plants kisses all over Ilya's body, soft and self-indulgent. He presses his lips into the soft skin, rests his cheek there just to feel the steady pulse of life. He breathes in slow and deep to savor the lovely mix of faint santal body wash and Ilya's natural musk.
Shane nips lightly at Ilya's hip, then cups his hand underneath Ilya's balls, mouthing gently at his soft cock. Ilya chuckles a bit, says that he's not sure that it's up for much more tonight. Shane tells him he doesn't mind, and closes his mouth around it, sucking softly. He feels a brief swell of interest against his tongue, but it stops there. He continues to lick over the velvet skin, holding the base with his hand so he can press in with his lips softly. It's easy, like this, for Shane's nose to nestle in the coarse hair there, for his forehead to rest heavy on Ilya's stomach.
Ilya purrs his contentment, brushing carefully through Shane's hair. "Feels good," he says in a whisper.
Ilya's cock never gets any harder, and Shane doesn't pull off. Just feels the gentle weight of it in his mouth and rubs circles on Ilya's thigh with his thumb. He loses track of time and then he feels hot, salty tears touch his lips, still rested around Ilya's cock, and his surprise at his own emotion shocks him a bit, and he pulls off and chokes out a laugh.
Ilya notices the tears and reaches out to pull Shane onto his chest, saying Oh, baby, and lets him cry softly into his neck, tears gathering sticky on his collarbone.
19.
Ilya learns that when Shane is having a rough day, he likes his space. He also learns that this space does not include playing billiards on Game Pigeon. In February, they play a lot of billiards on Game Pigeon.
20.
Cliff Marleau collects magnets. The tacky touristy ones, made of polyester resin in bright, solid colors. He puts them on his fridge and they make a gaudy centerpiece to his otherwise quite modern and tasteful kitchen. They remind him how lucky he is he gets to travel so much, and for his job, no less. Before he was thirteen, the furthest he had gone from his hometown in Louisiana was Southern Ohio, when his mom packed him and his little sister up and hauled them away from his father.
But Southern Ohio had a hockey rink, and hockey ended up saving them all. And now Cliff gets to travel, and pay his mothers mortgage, and send his sister through med school, and collect tiny, cheesy magnets for his fridge.
When Roz first came over to his place, he asked Cliff about almost every single one. Why he picked the Space Needle over Mt. Rainier, why he doesn't have the Hollywood sign, what this landmark on the Winnipeg one was. Roz was good at this, at reaching out, connecting. He was really bad at being reached out to.
The next fall, Roz came back from Russia with a magnet to add to his collection, "Moscow" written underneath a building. When Cliff asked what the building was, he explained it was the Bolshoi Theatre, and how his mother would take him and his brother to go see the ballet, and how he pretended it was boring but really, he always thought it was amazing.
Seven months later, Cliff was grabbing a drink for a girl he invited over, when he realized the Moscow magnet was missing. He panicked, and with no explanation to his date, quickly dropped to the floor and started grabbing behind the cabinets, under the fridge. He audibly exhaled when he felt the rubbery edges of it tucked up against the floorboards, and nothing felt right until it was back, stuck to the fridge with the rest of them.
It's that stupid magnet that Cliff is thinking about when Roz tells him he's requesting a trade to Ottawa.