Archive of Our Own

they say the end is coming

everyone’s up to something 

i find myself running home to your

sweet nothings

outside they’re push and shoving

you’re in the kitchen, humming

all that you ever wanted from me was

sweet nothing 

Shane has his habits. He always did. 

Alarm at 6:30. Quick shower. Breakfast— Well balanced, obviously. Programmed at the beginning of the week, sorted by the season or whatever was available. His favourite white noises playlist, quietly mumbling in the kitchen while he reads The New Yorker on his iPad. He gets dressed by 7:10 with the clothes sorted the night before, and by 7:30 he’s out, heading to work. A pleasant walk, always on the same side of the road. If it rains, everything is postponed by ten minutes to get the bus that will drop him right in front of the university main building. He could go by bus everyday, of course, but Shane likes to walk. It gives him time to breathe, to think. To adjust. Shane likes the sound of that word, how it clicks on the mouth, behind the teeth. 

Anyway— His routine and everything.

Scratch that. All of it, in a bin. At least for today.

It’s a cloudy Saturday. Shane looks at Ottawa beyond the windows of his apartment, clouds twirling in the sky, heavy with rain. He briefly scrapes his cheek, playing with his empty can of Ginger Ale, body cornered on the sofa. He looks at his watch, then at the black TV.

And he feels like an idiot. 

See, Ottawa is a blessing to live in, until it isn't. Shane is a researcher and an assistant for the University of Ottawa, department of English Literature, but he is also born and raised there. He knows how expensive the city can get. And even if he’s from a good family, a supportive one which has already offered to help him with rent, he’s still worried about not being able to manage all the expenses of an apartment. Even if it’s a neat, clean one like his. Even if Shane is, probably, the epitome of low-maintenance. There must be a picture of him under such a definition, in some dictionaries.

Luckily for Shane, this new apartment has a spare room, and it’s big enough for two. Especially when one of them is Shane: he could live in his room 24/7 without feeling confined or caged. He’s not too interested in occupying space. For these reasons, Rose — one of Shane’s best friends — suggested he find a roommate: that was a couple of months ago. Shane had placed a rental listing of the room on some dedicated sites, pages on Facebook and Twitter: he also spoke with some candidates, but none fitting. Some of them were too loud, or too rude. Shane doesn’t really care who lives with him (he’d be perfectly capable of avoiding the guy), but he has to be at least mannered. Good morning, goodnight, how are you, the whole lot. They have only one bathroom, after all. No boorish men trying to break the dishwasher by messing up the programme. In complete honesty, Shane would have loved to have a female roommate, but as a man that was impractical and difficult. The only option was to write P.S.: I’m gay :) at the end of the announcement. The prospect of coming out in front of the whole public Internet was far from thrilling.

So, Shane sticks to men. For once, it’s an unfortunate condition.

He tries to be positive, he really does, but the truth is that Shane hates changes. Shane doesn’t jump into them, he just fights until he can, like in this case. There was no other way, he remembers to himself, looking at his deformed face in the mirror of the TV. He mouths these words, playing with his own fingers. Waiting for his flatmate, sit on the couch in complete silence, too nervous to do everything, on the verge of freaking out. Like he hasn’t tried to convince Jackie to just leave Hayden to him.

(Jackie is Hayden’s wife. They have three kids. Shane couldn’t stand a chance.)

The apartment itself is nice, though. Shane immediately liked it because it was full of light, and light had always made look rooms less empty. A big open space for the kitchen and the living room, with brown forniture and a furry, deep green carpet in front of the TV. The bathroom is also green, a lighter tone, like sage. There’s also a long hallway, a small room for storage, the empty bedroom and then, at the very end of the house, far from noises, Shane’s room, full of books and blankets, pillows and plants, well balanced on the windowsill. The walls, freshly painted by the old occupants, are a light shade of blue. The other bedroom is empty, but basically identical, same wood forniture and brown carpet. Shane had rented the place already furnished to be lived in— He’s not great at renovating, and he needed as much help as possible. Plus, he’s not picky. Everything was fine, no bright colours, no weird prints on the walls. Like, cheetah for the tiles of the kitchen, or some similar choices that would’ve assured a panicked call to his friends. Yes, Jackie, I have the fucking Pluvial Forest as a curtain for my shower, of course I’m overwhelmed. Come and save me. Shane has been lucky, instead. Until now.

He’s being fucking paranoid, that’s the truth. Just because everything happened in a rush doesn’t mean it will be a tragedy. Even if his nervous system is desperately trying to prove him otherwise. Yes, Ilya’s moving in might be a little hurried, but Jackie, Rose and Hayden had read the e-mails and checked his application form, and sweared the guy was suited as a roommate. Plus, Shane was doing him a favour: Ilya Rozanov, twenty-five, was a brand new member of the Ottawa Centaurs’ technical hockey team. He also used to be a player himself, apparently, back in the days. Not there, but in Russia. His career just disappears at a certain point— Good God. Maybe he looked into his life a little too much. Ilya had been forced to leave Boston, where he was based with a previous employment, in a rush. Ottawa couldn’t wait to have him. And he really needed Shane’s room. Which is fine. Completely fine. It’s not like he’s crushing in Shane’s life all of a sudden, without giving him time to rationalise the intrusion. Ah-nah. Not at all.

Ilya is, in fact, Russian— Again, googled. Ro-za-nov. Shane is naturally curious. This is why they’d stick to e-mails: he wanted to be clearly understood by Shane, even if that meant using a translator to write. At the same time, translating back Shane’s answers was equally helpful. Again, Shane doesn’t see the problem (the problem is a giant elephant right in front of his nose, but Shane is really good at looking at the ceiling. Well, he’s trying. Just to prove a point to his friends. He’s not uptight. Not at all. He’s twenty-five and truly living his best life). He has checked his references, his job, his socials. Ilya was a real person. Shane has been not lured by a maniac on the Internet. Rose had to swear it on their friendship several times.

Shane had asked Ilya to move in during the weekend, whichever worked for him, in order to be at home and welcome him. And yes, maybe check that he was alright, and truly not a psychopath, even if they’re really good social pretenders. Sue him, he really should quit those true crime podcasts Hayden is so obsessed about.

Today’s the day. New flatmate. New routine, of course. Shared bathroom, shared kitchen, shared living room. There’s nothing that could go wrong, right? Right. They’re adults, Ilya is probably a really good guy, Shane knows how to disappear in his own house, etcetera. Everything’s fine.

His phone chimes. A message.

Ilya Rozanov: I am here. Three floor?

Shane frowns, then relaxes. He must mean third. He types a quick Yes, then stands up, ready to meet him. He thinks. He hopes. You’ll find out Shane Hollander is a lot about hoping. 

He walks at the door just in time to hear a quick knock. Ilya is, in fact, standing there.

Shane’s first thought is: Jesus, he’s tall. The second— Hm. Quite difficult to grasp. 

There’s a lot of black, that’s for sure. Black leather jacket, black jeans, black t-shirt. It’s a good choice, though: in this way, his blonde curls look almost like an halo. An halo. An angel. The Fallen Angel by Alexandre Cabanel, 1847. Eyes detail. Shit. Lucifer is talking.

“Is this 4C?”, and he has probably said it already once, looking at his frowned brows. Shane clears his throat, then goes for a smile:

“Yes. Yes, it is! You must be Ilya.”

Ilya (Shane assumes) looks at himself, at his bags right next to a single trolley. Then, he looks at Shane, just like he’s still trying to understand the whole situation. That makes two of them. “Yes. I am. Sorry if I am late.”

”Not late at all. Please, come in. You’re… Uh, full of stuff”, he babbles. Ilya stares again: they both know that’s a lie. He has weirdly few belongings with him, for someone who’s moving from another state. Shane moves, resting against the door: Ilya’s presence explodes in the hall while he walks in, looking around. He carefully drops his bags on the floor. “Very nice. Like in photos”, it’s the only comment. Shane scrunches his nose: oh, Ilya feared to be scammed? You truly never stop learning. 

He closes the door, his grasp still on the handle. Slowly, he lets go. They stare at each other for a second. “So” Shane takes a shallow breath “Here we are. Do you want to arrange your room first? Let’s sort your stuff and then I’ll show you around.”

Ilya doesn’t immediately answer. His face stays even, but Shane can’t help notice that Ilya’s ears have turned pink. ‘’I— Many words’’, that’s all he says, apparently mortified. Shane’s mouth gapes in embarrassment: Ilya had told him how his English was poor over their e-mails, but he has never really thought about the implications of it. Shane is not a social butterfly, quite the opposite— He just doesn’t know how to make small talk. He doesn’t even see the point of it. And now he’s standing like an idiot in his own living room, looking at his flatmate, a man who literally doesn’t know his language. They must be a match made in heaven, that’s for sure.

All right. Problem solving. Something’s Shane is good at. ‘’Right’’ he nods, practical ‘’I mean— It’s no problem. Small sentences, yes?’’, he assures, hoping Ilya won’t think Shane is making fun of him. If it looks like Shane is talking to a child, it’s not his intention. Whatever works for Ilya. And for him, before he bursts into tears. 

Ilya, who nods immediately. ‘’Yes. Okay. That work.’’

Shane has read an article about how similar languages have similar daily words, like for the weather, the family, the everyday objects. He doesn’t think that Russian and English are similar in such a sense, but if Ilya is learning, that’s probably where he’s starting. That’s where Shane has to start. ‘’Your bedroom first. Then the house. Okay?’’

’’Great, yes’’, and Ilya seems… Relieved. Somehow. He smiles, and the room looks somehow lighter. Shane knows it’s not possibile. He’s not so sure he cares.

He holds the door open for Ilya, gesturing to the spare room: ‘’I think it’s big enough for… Well, you’’, he cringes, but Ilya nods, contemplative, looking around, brushing his empty desk with just the tip of his fingers. It’s really difficult for Shane to not hesitate on words, too busy wondering if Ilya knows them to notice his own, sudden silence. It’s an exercise he would have never thought doing. ‘’Blue is nice’’, is Ilya’s comment. 

‘’Not my idea, but thanks. It’s relaxing’’ he offers, and Ilya looks at him, tilting his head. Now that the Romantic Portrait Aura wore off, he looks more like a very curious, very confused dog. A golden retriever. Ilya blinks: ‘’Ah, yes. Relax. Okay. I understand. I have—‘’ a small hesitation ‘’Um, book. English book. I am studying, but… Little time. And I had Russian friends in Boston, so. No need to learn before this.’’

Another thing that Shane has to learn quickly is how to avoid looking confused in front of Ilya. He’s not so bad, after all. If Ilya can communicate, Shane can… Do the rest? He kinda has to. ‘’No problem. I have a degree in English Literature’’ he explains ‘’I can help you. After dinner, maybe. When we are both back from work.’’

He also has to be really careful with abbreviations. It’s better for Ilya’s learning, probably. ‘’Work! Yes’’ Ilya basically lights up ‘’I love my work. Can’t wait to start. Boston was… Okay. Rude, a bit. But I am rude too. Centaurs look really… Nice.’’

‘’We’re the best, that’s for sure. Big fan.’’

‘’Oh, so you now have my free tickets.’’

Shane stares, then probably blushes: ‘’Nonsense, Ilya. You don’t have to. But thanks.’’

‘’Why? I have… More tickets?’’

‘’Spare tickets.’’

‘’Yes, yes, spare. And no one to give them. It is okay. You say you are fan, you come for games. All good’’ and he shrugs, like it’s really no big deal. He then looks behind Shane: ‘’So, roommate. We have house to see.’’

Back in the hallway, after pointing to his own room and then to the bathroom (Ilya does a pleased hum at the colour of the tiles, then mutters: ‘’Pretty’’. Shane can’t help notice how the world pretty said by Ilya is pretty. Shane is also fucking weird), he drops: ‘’You know, your English is not so bad.’’

‘’Thanks, professor’’ Shane has to hide his burning face by looking directly at the kitchen, but Ilya doesn’t seem to notice ‘’I know a lot of words for my work. Useful words. Ticket, game, player, penalty, strategy, scheme, skates, puck, practice, schedule, rules. And also insults, even if I always use Russian. But they need me, so. I speak more with my job, so I know a lot.’’

For a moment, Shane thinks that Ilya is saying that words need him. But that’s probably stupid, so he reasons: ‘’You mean the team, right? They need you?’’

‘’Da. Yes.’’

‘’So they don’t mind that you’re still learning the language?’’

‘’No. They want the best. I am. I give good strategy, good advice, and they do good game. We win Stanley Cup. Scott Hunter goes home crying. And his home is a cave’’, and there’s a particular inflexion on that last bit. Like Ilya is really proud of knowing a word such as cave. Probably true, looking at how his eyes are shining, mischievous. Shane scoffs:

‘’What’s the matter with Hunter? He’s a good player.’’

‘’He has billion years.’’

A whistle: ‘’Billion? Very specific word. You must’ve looked that up. Googled it’’ he specifies at his glance ‘’To insult him.’’

‘’Ah! Da, I do that a lot. I google to insult’’, and he looks quite pleased with himself at the admission. Ilya claps once, and Shane almost jumps in surprise: ‘’Show me kitchen, roommate. I love cooking.’’

Turns out that, language barrier or not, Ilya also loves talking. And he doesn’t really care about being understood— He just goes for it and hopes for the best, apparently. He must be really good at what he does, for having the Centaurs so interested in him nonetheless. He asks Shane: ‘’Where is stuff?’’, probably referring to all the kitchen’s belongings. Shane tries to answer, but the words are still too specific for Ilya, so he just shows him the various cabinets. ‘’You do your own grocery?’’, and that’s an important matter. At least, for Shane. He’s not really ready to share his food, considering how it’s perfectly measured for one person. Thinking about seeing supplies disappear from where he has left them makes his skin shiver. Truly. Ilya narrows his eyes — maybe he’s translating? How does Shane explains groceries? —, but soon, he nods. ‘’Sure, whatever. But I have nothing for now. And it is late.’’

‘’Uh, I think I can handle that. I have food’’, if he sacrifices his salmon for tomorrow. And Shane really likes salmon. 

‘’Or we— Ask man to bring food home. Ready food.’’

A tiny part of Shane’s mind thinks how hilarious this is going to be. Decode Ilya’s English and shit— In a nice way, of course. Even cute. The whole rest is about to cry at the bare thought of how he must look ridiculous doing so, face scrunched and eyes particularly focused. ‘’You mean take out?’’, he says, unsure. Ilya looks each minute more happy of how Shane grasps his intentions. 

‘’Yes! Take out.’’

‘’Uh, I am not… I am not really— I don’t like it.’’

His roommate raises an eyebrow: ‘’How? You choose what you eat, you ask, you must like it.’’

‘’Yeah, but it’s usually junk food. Unhealthy. Bad’’ he supplies, tripping on his own words ‘’For your body. I hate eating that, and… I have a list. Of things I eat. Everyday.’’

Shane knew he could’t keep pretending being cool and detached forever. Not when Ilya and him are supposed to co-exist. He’d only hoped to last more than forty minutes. ‘’We can find a man with bad and good food’’, it’s what he hears instead. Not Okay, you fucking weirdo, whatever ‘’Like your list. So you don’t eat bad and we…’’ and there’s a quick gesture between their bodies, then a sigh ‘’Like, I am here and we are happy.’’

‘’Oh! We celebrate’’ Shane fills in, relieved. Ilya mouths the word, then tries:

‘’Celebrate. Like a party for two.’’

Shane’s ideal party, to be fair. ‘’Yeah, I guess.’’

‘’Okay. Yes, I fix room and then we call man.’’

‘’To order. To order something. We order a delivery, and the man is actually a rider.’’

Ilya frowns— Again, it’s really cute. Shane has not said it too many times. ‘’Rider. Like, ride? Verb? But you ride things, not person’’ a pause. Ilya hesitates, then, now smirking: ‘’You can also ride person, but I do not think—‘’

Shane feels his face suddenly tickling. Ilya bursts in a genuine laugh, but Shane is too stunned to shush him. Has his tongue always been so big? ‘’Yes— No! I mean, no! You can’t… I mean, you can, but— Oh, God’’ he pleads, covering his own, red face. Yes, he’s burning, and Ilya is still giggling like a twelve years old. Shane goes for: ‘’It is a meaning’’ a pause, a deep breath ‘’But a rider is someone who rides a bike and brings you food. That’s why it’s called a rider.’’

‘’Okay. I understand now. But it was fun’’ when Shane frees himself, he’s welcomed with Ilya’s pleased expression ‘’I go in my room. I will be fast. Then we order, yes?’’ Shane nods, reassured ‘’Very good. Choose… Uh, place to order. Restaurant! Yes.’’

Ilya walks past him, critically unbothered, whistling something through the hallway. Shane glimpses at his phone, wondering what will the best moment to tell Ilya he has never ordered take-out before.

*****

‘’So. How’s it going with the new roommate?’’

Shane bites his lower lip, ‘’Hm.’’

‘’Hm?’’, is Rose’s echo over the phone ‘’Why Hm? I thought we all liked Ilya. And before you speak’’ she quickly adds, and Shane closes his mouth ‘’I know your I’m about to have a breakdown tone. Never heard it in the last three weeks. What’s the matter?’’

Well. Considering that Shane never really talks about himself, he needs a couple of minutes to collect everything he has to say.

Which is a lot, by the way.

Three weeks ago, Ilya conquered Shane’s spare room. He had brought a few things, a strong cologne and flying notes in an unknown alphabet. Cyrillic, Shane has learned. Ilya had pointed at them: ‘’My groceries’’, he supplied, extremely serious. Shane had just nodded, sat at the kitchen island with his laptop and his agenda, working on a paper for a class presentation he was helping with. As an assistant, he doesn’t always speak to students: it’s a true challenge, for someone like him, but he tries to push himself each time a little bit more. He’s learning. And judging by the compliments he has from students, he must be at least bearable. Which is a good start.

(Rose and Jackie keep saying that it’s probably because of the glasses. Shane needs them during lectures, or when he has to read for several hours in general. Both of the women swear he looks damn hot in it. And Shane is not great at taking compliments.)

Ilya is… Well, active is an understatement. The hockey season is about to start, but he’s already booked for practices, meetings, sponsorships and stuff. He has tried to explain to Shane that his job required a good relationship with the hockey team, based on trust and, Ilya hoped, even friendship. ‘’But no Russians’’ he had said after a long pause ‘’Boston had two.’’

Even if he’s always around for his errands, Shane has noticed that Ilya barely uses his phone. At least for calling, that’s it. He has Shane’s number and a group chat with his coworkers, but nothing more. No calls from home. Ilya doesn’t even speak about home, about what he had before Boston, where he belonged. He only has calls from a woman: Svetlana, as Shane learned. His best friend, still based in Boston, very busy, very Russian, just like Ilya. It’s the only kind of call Ilya picks up, always with a light, endeared tone. His mother tongue slides confidently through the walls, while he paces the hallway, deep in conversation. Shane particularly likes the sound of it, how it rolls like the sea hitting the shore. Sometimes, Ilya even opens the kitchen’s window to have a cigarette, too focused on talking to notice Shane’s worry. ‘’It’s bad for you’’, Shane said the first time he had seen him smoke. He wasn’t on his phone; just relaxing after dinner. ‘’I will do only in my room and with window’’ it’s what he had promised. Not that he owed Shane everything else.

Sometimes, Ilya’s phone rings and the man just doesn’t answer. He glances at the screen and literally looks at it vibrate, unbothered, until it stops. It’s never just one call: two, sometimes three, in rapid succession, one after another. Like the person on the other side it’s eager to hear from Ilya. Shane is very curious about it— Shane is curious about pretty much everything. Ilya doesn’t seem the type to just ghost someone, and whoever tries, and tries, and tries with him must have something important to tell him. Which makes Ilya’s decision to not answer equally important. He just doesn’t know the man enough to say that his rejection is valid. Once, while they were both sit on the couch reading (Shane had his nose in Pride and Prejudice, of course; Ilya was muttering paradigms and cursing the English language, biting on a pencil), it happened again. Four times. Shane had looked at the phone, and then at Ilya, for every single call, hoping to act subtle, and obviously failing. Ilya had caught his interest, but his first comment had only been: ‘’I am no spy.’’

Which— ‘’I’m sorry, what?’’

‘’Americans are weird—‘’

‘’I am Canadian.’’

‘’They think that if you are Russian, you are always spy.’’

‘’Yeah, but I am Canadian.’’

Ilya blatantly ignored him: ‘’Or mafia. I am not. Both. Sometimes even if they call, you… Hm. I don’t know how to say’’ Shane had tilted his head, ready to help. It was good in helping with English, that was part of his degree. He could show Ilya how good he actually was. Helpful. For once, Shane was helpful, instead of the weird kid trying to blend with the wall. ‘’You know it’s better if you try’’, he had insisted. Ilya nodded, then ran an hand through his curls.

‘’Da. Sometimes… Sometimes people look for you. Like, they call, and call, and call.’’

‘’Trying to reach out, maybe? When you keep calling, as you said.’’

‘’Da, yes, that. And they think they are doing good. That they have the… Uh, power to do it?’’

‘’The right, you mean?’’ Ilya looked confused, and Shane continued: ‘’When you know or think that you are… Hm. This is difficult. Like—‘’ Shane really wanted to use Google Translate, but Ilya had insisted on how explanations in English were important for his learning, too. More words, the better. So, he took his time to think. ‘’Okay. In America they vote, you know?’’

‘’Yes. They usually vote really bad.’’

‘’Whatever. I mean, yes, but that’s not the point. In a country like the USA, voting it’s a right. Something legal adults have the right to do. If you need something to be happy, or safe, you have the right to have it. Got it?’’

‘’Yes, maybe. Thank you. And yes: sometimes people think that to reach out is a right. But it is not always like that. My right is to not answer my phone. Because I am sick of people who think that use me is also a right.’’

Shane knows that Ilya’s vocabulary is logically limited. He also knows that’s exactly why he chooses his words so carefully. He has quickly learned that Ilya hates being misunderstood: in fact, he’s so attentive that it rarely happens. He prefers to stick on simple words than repeating himself. That’s why Shane is sure that Ilya used the verb to use with a very specific intention. An intense, almost guttural one. In fact, Shane had nothing to say back, and Ilya did nothing more than relax his shoulders and blow away the conversation with a quick flick of his hand in the air. Shane felt between them the lingering presence of Ilya’s life before their apartment anyway.

Apart from his secrets (and Shane hates to call them such, but they are, right?), secrets that creep in their daily routine in an almost dismissive way, never for too long and never really holding Ilya’s attention, Shane would say that his roommate is… Well, definitely a surprise. A constant one. Like those advent calendars put up together only by leftovers and faith. In a good way, though. You’ll never know what you’re about to unpack.

Ilya truly loves cooking. And he’s quite good at it, even. In three weeks, Shane has come home four times finding a cheesecake cooling in the fridge. ‘’I had— Uh, day off’’ it was the usual explanation ‘’And I thought I do cake. You like cake? You said you have… You choose always your food.’’

‘’It’s a diet, yes. And cheesecakes…’’ Shane briefly glanced at the cake. God, it looked delicious. ‘’Well, a small slice, maybe. What’s the flavour?’’

Ilya almost beamed at Shane: ‘’Classic. But I can try new ones.’’

‘’You do love cakes, do you?’’

‘’Da. I have a list of things I like. I am simple man. Cakes’’ and he started counting on his fingers ‘’Hockey, of course. And dogs. I love dogs’’, then, Ilya paused. Shane was still too focused on how neat the cheesecake looked to care, until his voice added: ‘’And dots. I like your dots, also.’’

Shane almost twisted his neck: Ilya was patting on his own cheek with undeniable precision. Right where Shane’s freckles were. ‘’Oh’’, he blurted, then, after clearing his throat: ‘’Freckles. That’s the word, yeah’’, he murmured, not really capable of coming up with everything else. Not even a Thank you. Ilya just smiled and proceeded with garnishing the cake, always whistling under his breath.

Ilya had also brought home an Ottawa Centaurs scarf, which was immediately pinned right above the TV. ‘’Just so you know who you have to cheer’’, Ilya gestured at his set up ‘’Even if they are not playing, you know. You say you like hockey, yes? We can watch games together when I am home. And you come to games, too.’’

‘’Ilya, I’ve already told you that—‘’

‘’Whatever. You are too polite. I do not waste good seats. Will drag you if I have to.’’

‘’And who taught you that word?’’, he couldn’t help himself asking. Ilya simply smiled:

‘’Sveta. We had really nice talk today.’’

Since Ilya’s arriving, in fact, the TV had finally started to be used properly. Before him, Shane used to tune in only for games and a couple of movies. He isn’t a fan of Netflix or Amazon Prime, and he prefers watching them on his bed anyway, using his iPad. Ilya, on the contrary, uses his account multiple times a day, and pretty much always to watch Disney movies. After work, he is usually curled up on the couch, zapping through the options. ‘’Very simple language’’ he explained to Shane ‘’And very good… Hm, way to say words.’’

‘’Pronunciation.’’

‘’That. In Russia we don’t have many Disney movies. Some of them are really sad, like the lion one. My favourite’’ he had adorably messed up the accent on that one, but Shane just chuckled ‘’Is the one with the blue guy saying a lot of funny stuff. The genius.’’

‘’Oh! You mean Aladdin.’’

‘’Aladdin, yes. Come here’’ he offered without a pause, patting next to him. Shane blinked, unsure, before kneeling on the couch, finding the opposite corner. Ilya pointed at the TV with the remote in his hand: ‘’What is your favourite? We watch.’’

‘’Hm… Probably Mulan’’ he admitted, blushing ‘’You know… It was nice to have some representation. Mulan is Asian’’ he filled in, bringing his own knees to his chest. Also, Li Shang’s questionable sexuality had been equally comforting, for someone like Shane. But Ilya definitely didn’t need to know that. They watched the film together, Shane murmuring some lines by memory, without even noticing. Ilya had glanced every time, before turning his head back to the screen. ‘’You know many movies?’’ he asked, during the slow fading of the credits. Shane scrunched his nose:

‘’Kind of. I watched them a lot when I was a kid.’’

‘’Okay. You say the best ones. We watch together if you want.’’

Shane just smiled at him, but something loosed in his chest, weirdly close to his heart. Ilya was easily brushing away all the anxiety of bonding with someone new, probably without even noticing. He was naturally comfortable and relaxed, sweetly open. He had briefly mentioned to Shane how his coworkers were really nice, something he hoped for. Shane couldn’t be happier; how could someone dislike Ilya, after all? They also had some night outs. Shane wanted to tell Rose all of that. Or so he thought.

Now, he just looks at the wall right in front of him. Notes of his last lecture are scattered on the coffee table between the couch and the TV. ‘’Nothing. You’re right’’ he resolves, voice even ‘’Ilya is fine. Truly. Way better than I thought. I’m just prone to overthinking.’’

Shane had always considered himself as a very private person. Not jealous, or even possessive of his own things, nothing as such. He just… Doesn’t share. Not immediately, or even willingly. Not because he doesn’t trust his friends, or because he needs to look mysterious, attractive, interesting. It’s far from any of this. Shane is naturally inclined to keeping everything for himself, mostly because he’s not always sure of what others will think of him. He knows that he’s nothing you should be at twenty-five: probably a workaholic, not too interested in going out, definitely not interested in bars and parties, too rigid on his own routine to bare the idea of breaking it, unsettled by the lightest change during a perfectly normal day that for Shane is never either perfect or normal at all. Sometimes, he needs fifteen minutes with his AirPods, sitting alone in an empty studio, listening to instrumental music. The furthest spot on the bus, away from two girls chatting too loud. The fidget he always has in his pocket, for when he doesn’t even know what to do with his hands. And all of this comes from a specific place, a place he’s not so sure he’s ready to show to anyone.

Shane never had many friends, that’s it. He knows he lacks in social skills, but he is a good friend for Hayden, for Rose, for Jackie, even for his colleagues. He’s better than he was during high school, or even before. Now he goes out — if he carefully plans —, he sets dates and truly shows up. He listens, he gives advice. He’s present; he calls and asks. All of this took an insane amount of effort, and still Shane can’t help asking himself how much his friendships owe to his own work, and how much on others’. Because they wanted to be friends with Shane, no matter his weirdness. Because they were capable to look beyond it, even when Shane made it particularly difficult. Being his friend was an effort? The question, as simple as it is, has been haunting him for years.

It’s like Shane doesn’t have the tools in the first place. He doesn’t laugh at the right jokes and he can’t keep up with sarcasm, he’s flustered in taking compliments and he cries suddenly, in the least convenient times. Some nights, he just shuts down. He doesn’t talk, and he barely exists. He eats, he sleeps, nothing more or nothing less, and these are rules, not necessities. I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am. Sylvia Plath. Shane is, is, is, he has to. Even when it takes all of his energies. Even when he feels like someone is actively opening his mouth, sinking his fingers until Shane is wide open, only to drag away his words and thoughts, only to spread Shane apart, teaching him how to share with others, even if he doesn’t want to. He’s left bare and exhausted, consumed by the violence of being forced to crawl out of himself.

Ilya is not like Shane. It’s mostly thanks to him if they have talked so much since he moved in. Shane is sure that if they weren’t living together Ilya would have never approached someone like him. He’s outgoing and loud, his voice is always sure and almost mischievous, he openly grins, screams, curse. His colleagues are mad about him: they had spent some night outs together, as Shane said, nights narrated by Ilya during breakfast, if their schedules happened to collide, with the excitement of a kid. He has already learned a lot of new words, and he is always eager to list them to Shane, know if he is using them correctly. He never fails in making Shane comfortable, asking the right questions, never pushing too far, never insisting. Ilya never asks about his errands, but it seems always happy to know they are both home, even when it looks almost like a surprise. One time, he said: ‘’Were you in the fucking walls?’’, after almost startling at Shane’s sight in the kitchen. The other man briefly raised his shoulders:

‘’No. Just in my room.’’

‘’You are quiet. Like tiny mouse.’’

How much time has Shane left until Ilya starts noticing? There must be a deadline, right above his head. This is why he’s not fully able to enjoy Ilya’s company. That’s why his smile is always a little more tight than necessary. That’s why, when Ilya frenetically talks about his crazy hang outs, Shane just hums and nods, content, and yet rigid. Because this — how easy it is to linger in Ilya’s presence — can’t last forever. It never does.

Someday, exactly when Shane will put his guard down, Ilya will know. He will know by a word, or by a twitch of Shane’s hands, something misplaced, vulgar as a gash on the wall. He will understand that Shane is not quiet, is not private, is not subtle, is not cautious. He’s different— In the worst ways. He’s obsessive and controlling on himself and everything he intimately knows he can’t manage with his own hands. He will spot that Shane doesn’t have night outs, doesn’t talk about his colleagues, never gossips about a girlfriend or a boyfriend or a love interest. That he always eats the same things and always does the same things. That breaking his routine is not an eventuality, but a tragedy. That he needs to have his AirPods always close. That the blankets brought by Ilya — a tender, spontaneous gesture — rub against his arms in a way that almost makes Shane crazy. 

And it will hurt, more than ever. Shane doesn’t know why, and even if he’s not a man of instinct, he can’t help but being sure of it. There’s something under his skin shivering with cold anticipation. Maybe because nothing has ever been easier than breathing with Ilya, recognising his silhouette in the dim mornings, laughing at his jokes, fixing his grammar with gentle corrections, punctual and genuine. Maybe for Ilya this is just a friendship like any other, but for Shane is not. Shane has never been so relaxed in living with someone, has never felt how the weight he had put on himself was useless. Every other time he had met someone new there was always this lingering anxiety, at least in the beginning. With Ilya it’s not like that. Shane is not like that. He’s not scared of Ilya messing things up; he’s scared he will, and that there’ll be no way to avoid it. 

But. No gashes in the wall, for now.

Shane waits the invasion, the breaking, like an upcoming earthquake. 

He sits, like a soldier curled in a trench. And counts every breath.

*****

Shane ends up doing the gash himself.

Not on purpose. Obviously.

It’s been a month since Ilya has moved in. A month full of cakes, Disney movies, muttered Russian curses (Ilya apparently has an open war with their washing machine), heated hockey debacles always ending up with ice-cream— Chocolate for Ilya, protein for Shane. One morning, Shane has nothing in particular to do, so he wakes up early and decides to go for a run. When Ilya finds him in the kitchen, he’s already back and out of the shower. Ilya himself, on the other hand, has his curls still ruffled by the pillow. Shane’s fingers flick for a second from the need to fix them gently. ‘’Good morning’’ he mutters, just before lowering himself on the kitchen island, elbows pointed on the marble and face in his palms. He growls, clearly still sleepy. Shane is busy, too, dealing with his crossword, and answers without looking:

‘’Good morning to you.’’

In fucking Russian.

Ilya’s head snaps like he’s been shot.

Shane looks at the definition he’s actively arguing with — a fish that bacteria might grow on, what the fuck? — for another half a second, before he freezes, pencil still balanced on the page. He looks at Ilya, because of course he does. Ilya, who’s returning the look almost astonished, elbows still in position, face now free and vaguely shocked. Like he has seen… Well. Either a ghost, or his 100% Canadian roommate speaking his first language on a random Monday morning. ‘’I—‘’, Shane tries, but nothing really comes out. Nothing worth speaking, anyway. Certainly not an excuse, because Shane has got none.

Ilya is way faster than him: ‘’That was Russian.’’

The man is brilliant. Nothing to argue about that. And Shane obviously can’t deny it, so: ‘’It was, yes’’, he admits, putting the newspaper away. His hand slightly trembles, so he secures it on his lap, away from Ilya’s gaze. The other doesn’t seem to notice, not when his mouth is still agape and his eyes focused right on Shane’s face:

‘’You speak Russian?’’

The question is way too direct to be diverted. Shane is biologically incapable of lying without being caught, and right now, with Ilya only a couple of feet away, he wouldn’t even be able to, not with his unmatched attention on him. ‘’No, I don’t’’, he clarifies, but he feels terribly stupid, because that sounds like a lie. Or worse, straight-up gaslighting. He adds, in only one breath: ‘’I mean… I am not fluent. Even before you came, I thought about learning a bit, so I started listening to some YouTube videos. And then you told me that you don’t have any Russian colleagues here, while you did in Boston, and I felt so bad for you, Ilya, I swear. It’s not like pity!’’ he swears in a heartbeat, and he’s babbling, isn’t he? Somebody has to stop him ‘’It’s not at all like that. But I thought about how draining it must be for you to talk only in your second language everyday, and so… I’m, uh— There’s no casual way to say this. I was… Learning. Yes. To make you more comfortable. You speak Russian only with Svetlana and I know how hard you’re trying to learn English, and you’re doing so, so good. And then I also thought that if you couldn’t choose the language you use while you’re working, it was just unfair from me hitting you with even more English here, at home. This should be a common ground. If you’re tired, or mad, and you are at home, you should be able to argue or express yourself as you please, while you’re limited because I can’t understand you when you use your native language. And if I were you, Ilya, I swear, I’d go nuts. Like, imagine trying to say that you’re overwhelmed in a language that you don’t fully understand yourself. I’d be even more overwhelmed, so— Yeah. I have a textbook. And YouTube videos. And I’ll shut up now.’’

He had the idea right after Ilya told him about how he was still learning English, and he has practiced just this morning, before going out. Before Ilya’s arriving, actually, half of his mind was repeating general greetings in Russian. It looked like any other courtesy, something that Shane would have done anyway, if not for Ilya, for himself. For culture. The fact that it was Russian was just a coincidence, an excuse to do something he already had in mind. Shane also speaks French, of course, but he always wanted to learn a third language. Living with Ilya just gave him the right motivation: he would have been useful to someone else. Shane, who always has to think twice before speaking, who always questions his ways to show affection, wondering if it’s enough or not. If it is perceived in the right way. Who perfectly knows what it means not being able to express himself fully. He was almost certain that, once he had told Ilya about his lessons, at the right time and in Shane’s own ways, he would have been happy. Pleased, even. But now it just looks like something unsettling and… Well, even creepy. Ilya is probably thinking what a fucking psychopath. Fucking fucked in the head, Jesus. Shane can’t even look him in the eyes, now.

Slow steps, very careful, like Shane’s a wild animal about to run miles without looking back. Shane squeezes his own shoulders, trying to disappear in the old hoodie he’s wearing. He suffocates the need to curl himself on the stool, disappearing in the deep of his knees. He just… Doesn’t move. Shane feels the earthquake closer than ever, and all he can think of is bracing himself, holding onto what he can save. Jumping in the trench. 

Then, a soft voice creeps through the buzz in his ears: ‘’So you understood every time I cursed to our dishwasher. Or the oven. Or my computer. Or the remote.’’

Shane gulps: why is Ilya not looking at him like he thinks Shane needs to be severely hospitalised? ‘’Uh, no— I figured you were mad’’ he clarifies, blinking ‘’But my lessons are really not about cursing. More, er… More about everyday stuff.’’

‘’Very bad’’ Ilya is grinning, now ‘’Or not bad at all. You can learn from me. I know a lot of those. So what can you say?’’

This is— Alright. ‘’Like, basic conversation. In present tense. Also, adverbs and such. I know some random vocabulary, nothing big for now. The lessons are organised in units, so…’’

‘’So’’ Ilya echoes, in Russian ‘’You understand me?’’

Shane hesitates. Then breathes. ‘’If you talk really slow’’ he spells out, unsure, face burning ‘’I can say some simple things. Not a lot. Your English is better than my Russian.’’

Ilya is back on his elbows, always against the island, but he studies Shane now, almost mesmerised. His eyes are particularly focused, and Shane is trying to not implode. Where’s the earthquake? ‘’Your accent is nearly perfect’’, it’s the hummed comment. Like Ilya is now looking at something completely different, right on Shane’s face. Shane shrugs:

‘’The videos must be really good, then. Listen, Ilya’’, because of course he has to ask. There’s no way to see Shane Hollander getting over something. ‘’You don’t… You don’t think it’s weird? That I thought of doing this even before meeting you? Because I just wanted… I don’t even know, to be fair. I needed a way to show you that I wanted to help you, somehow. And this sounded like… Like the only option’’, the only option for someone who’s still questioning how he has friends in the first place, he thinks, but doesn’t add it. 

Ilya scratches his cheek, apparently deep in thought. It’s flattering thinking that he’s really taking his time to answer Shane properly. Or maybe he’s crafting a good excuse and he will leave the room by the end of the week. He’ll call Svetlana and he’ll say you have no idea what happened. Canadians are fucking nuts. Or something. ‘’Not weird at all’’ it’s his resolution, voice steady ‘’I think you are kind, Shane. Kinder than everyone I have ever met.’’

Fuck. Shane’s eyes are watery, aren’t they? Shane should dig them out with the closest cutlery. A knife will do. Ilya obviously senses his discomfort, because he snorts: ‘’I am just really pissed that random stranger teached you and not me—‘’

‘’Taught. It’s— It’s a paradigm.’’

‘’Fuck off paradigms, they are dumb and unfair. Just use one form and stick to it. Back to what I was saying: I am sure I am better teacher.’’ 

Shane clicks his tongue: ‘’I’d bet good money you are a terrible teacher.’’

He expects Ilya to be offended, but he meets a playful expression instead: ‘’This is a low blow! I didn’t know you had this in you, professor! You are always so pretty, someone would never think you know insults.’’

Shane is one compliment away from throwing his own face in the still untouched granola. ‘’I know how to insult’’ he swears, but it’s far from convincing ‘’I am not litigious, which is quite different. It means I do not start arguments very often’’ he supplies at Ilya’s wandering face. 

‘’Yes, that is very in character. Does not matter, I will be lit— Lift— I’ll throw punches for you if needed.’’

‘’I just told you I can!’’

‘’But no need to waste those hands. It is okay, I like insulting. I will tell you all the best Russian insults. They are really creative’’, he assures, switching language. He’s clearly testing Shane, but he’s more than ready. Bilingual conversations are notoriously helpful if someone wants to improve. 

‘’Or maybe you have a lot of free-time’’, Shane deadpans in the same language, matching Ilya’s smile now. His roommate shrugs:

‘’Probably both, but you’ll learn in no time. You are already understanding and having a conversation, but that’s probably because you’re a genius.’’

‘’No genius’’ Shane defends himself, now playing with his pencil.

‘’Definitely a genius. Look at me! I am Shane Hollander! I can be bilingual if I want! That’s how you sound. Told you, you’re lucky you’re so pretty.’’

Pretty in Russian is krasivyy. Shane can’t even begin explaining what that sound from Ilya’s voice does to him. He gets off the stool, turning his back to Ilya’s questioning gaze. If he doesn’t understand why Shane has no reaction to his compliments, he keeps it for himself. ‘’I had another idea’’, that’s what Shane says, in English again. He moves to the hallway: ‘’Wait for me, and feel free to have breakfast in the meantime.’’

When Shane is back, Ilya is trying to swallow a giant bowl of cereals. ‘’What do you have there?’’, he asks, curious. Shane shows what’s in his hands, and Ilya answers himself: ‘’Post-it? Am I one of your students now?’’

‘’No, of course not. I thought we could use them around the house. I can write words in English, and you’ll do the same in Russian. It’s a good way to practice.’’

‘’Very good, yes’’, Ilya agrees, brushing his fingers against the post-its on the left: pink and heart shaped, clearly new. Shane takes them first: ‘’Hm. These are mine.’’

Ilya raises his eyebrows: ‘’Why I get boring squared ones?’’

Shane hesitates, then admits, voice low, shy: ‘’I had normal ones for me, too. I’m full of these. I just wanted those ones.’’

Ilya doesn’t laugh. His eyes are sweet and unfocused again: ‘’Okay’’, and nothing much. Then: ‘’Do you want me to write in Cyrillic?’’

‘’Yes! I am practicing that too.’’

Ilya slowly shakes his head, muttering in Russian something still foreign to Shane’s ears. ‘’What?’’, but Ilya pretends not to hear it, and Shane doesn’t push.

*****

In the following weeks, their house is filled with notes. They’re both disgustingly busy: Shane has an upcoming deadline at university, and Ilya is surrounded by meetings with the team. He even flies to Toronto for a game, leaving for three days: Shane turns on the TV to follow the match, stupidly hoping to see Ilya, but he’s disappointed in that sense. They bring home a fair 4-2, though. The house is empty, and Shane feels like someone has scraped the walls until there’s nothing to suck away. It’s too quiet, there’s no cake in the fridge and the TV is always off. Ha hates it, just a bit. The perfectly normal amount.

Ilya keeps going out every chance he gets, with colleagues and friends, even with Svetlana, when she briefly visits. Shane has been too busy with a lecture to meet her, but Ilya has insisted for a next time. In the meantime, Shane wanders around their house, bumping in Russian translations that he quietly spells in the dim light of his free afternoons. It’s starting to get cold, they’re closer and closer to Christmas, and Shane is starting going around looking for presents. ‘’Are you going back to Russia for the holidays?’’, he asks one evening, almost dismissing. They’re watching Lady and the Tramp, one of Ilya’s new favourites. 

‘’No’’, it’s the quick answer. So quick that Shane blinks at Ilya’s tone. Arid, almost a snap. Even if Shane was pretty sure he would have said yes. He’s clearly wrong. 

‘’Oh. That’s… That’s okay. I’ll be here, too. My parents are going on a cruise. I’ll just pay a quick visit to Hayden, but I have… Nothing to do’’ he stutters, playing with the corner of his blanket. Ilya quickly changes the subject:

‘’Hayden is your best friend, right?’’

‘’Yes’’ he answers in Russian ‘’Him and Jackie have three kids. I’m the girls’… Uh, Godfather.’’

‘’Krjossnyj otez. We can study the family later. He has two?”

‘’Yup. Twin girls and a baby boy, Arthur. It’s been ages since I’ve seen them. They miss their uncle. It will be just an evening, though’’ he underlines, careful enough ‘’That’s it. We can do something nice for Christmas, if you want.’’

‘’I’m not really used to it. I can do a cake, if you want. Have presents.’’

There’s something wrong with Ilya. His jaw is clenched, and he has stopped looking at the movie. He’s barely following the scene, his eyes dark and unfocused, constantly opening and closing his fist on the couch. Shane tries: ‘’Would you… Prefer not to? You don’t like Christmas?’’, and that’s in Russian, again. Ilya doesn’t follow up.

‘’No, not so much. But I… I don’t want to push you… Like, far.’’

Ilya is not speaking Russian on purpose. At least, that’s what a small part of Shane thinks. ‘’Push me away?’’ he softly presumes, and Ilya nods. Nothing else. Shane turns his head to the screen: ‘’Deal. No Christmas. We will watch something together. And I might fuck up my diet for a day’’, he jokes. Ilya barely answers, but his shoulders relax. Later, Shane finds a post-it on his bedroom door. Spasibo, sladkikh snov. Thank you, sweet dreams. So, maybe they’re fine.

Ilya’s English is getting really good. He collects every single post-it written by Shane, and he also asks a lot of questions; he’s willing to learn and he does it quickly. Shane is not so bad with Russian himself. Sometimes, Ilya comes back from work so exhausted that he can only mutter something in Russian before collapsing in his room. Or, it happens that Ilya is so eager to tell Shane something that he just starts rambling in Russian, and Shane has to politely stop him and remind him to be slower, otherwise he won’t understand shit. Having a native on hand, though, is doing miracles on his accent. He has started to watch Russian cartoons, too, but their humour is quite different from North Americas’, so Shane can’t always keep up with the lines or their meaning. Ilya, on the other hand, has started to open his range in the worst ways. ‘’I have found something really… What was razvlekatel'nyy?’’

‘’Uh, again?’’

‘’Razvlekatel'nyy. We said yesterday for Bake Off.’’

‘’Right! Entertaining’’ he translated, joining him on the couch ‘’Well, I’m happy for you. What have you found?’’ he asked, and Ilya had happily zapped until he got the right channel.

Right on 90 Days Fiancé. 

‘’Ilya’’, Shane said, even though it sounded almost like a whine ‘’Are you joking now?’’

‘’Joking? Why? Funniest thing ever. Really stupid people are obmanutyy—‘’

‘’Scammed’’, because Ilya uses this word a little too much.

‘’… By really cruel people. Some of them are cute or a bit desperate or just, I don’t know, clueless, but even if I feel like terrible person I am also entertained, so.’’

‘’It is probably staged. Like, fake. Not real. They’re actors.’’

‘’Postavlennyy, that is the word. If it is true, I do not care. Really fun. Helpful with slang and accents, and even has subtitles. Do you want to watch with me?’’

Obviously, Ilya has convinced him pretty easily. Shane is afraid he has just discovered a Russian shaped soft spot in his chest, assuming that Shane as a whole is not a softie himself. Which he probably is. While Ilya has the time of his life watching it, though, Shane cringes most of the times. He has tried to explain to Ilya the concept of trash TV, but the Russian doesn’t seem to care. ‘’I have fun’’ it’s his excuse ‘’And I barely have to think when I watch it. You can go in your room with your iPad watching boring documentaries if you want.’’

Shane’s documentaries are not boring. And maybe he likes the sensation of brushing Ilya’s arm on the couch a little too much to be normal about it. 

In some cases, Shane is genuinely engaged. One evening, they’re both watching an episode, Ilya almost sprawled on the couch, one foot on the coffee table, Shane well-postured as always, glasses balancing on his nose. At the sight, Ilya has said: ‘’You wear glasses? Since when?’’

Shane has tried to tell himself that Ilya’s low, grumbling voice was just a coincidence. ‘’Since years, but only when I’m tired.’’

There was no answer to that, but Shane felt his ears burning nonetheless. And now they’re following this conversation on the screen, between a blonde, young woman and a heavily tattooed man. They’re in this bar somewhere tropical, it’s a late evening, and the quick shots changes are disturbing Shane’s eyes. ‘’I didn’t do anything’’, the man is saying, smug. Shane narrows his eyes: he knows he’s lying, he just can’t prove it, and either can Chloe. Not yet. The woman (Chloe, as Shane said, someone he’s quickly learning how to sympathise with) deadpans, arms crossed: ‘’You didn’t physically do anything?’’

Ilya mutters something in Russian, but it’s almost between his teeth, and Shane doesn’t catch it. Chloe insists: ‘’You shouldn’t have messaged another girl.’’

‘’I didn’t message another girl.’’

Ilya abruptly points at the TV: ‘’Liar! We have tapes of the cameraman!’’

‘’Yeah, probably Chloe doesn’t, but she knows, too’’ Shane argues, arms now crossed too. This is becoming personal. Ilya looks almost disgusted while snorting:

‘’He’s not attractive enough to act like that.’’

Shane now gives a second look to Justin, the man: tanned, full of tattoos, big earrings, a light stubble, thin hair. Not really tall. Shane scrunches his nose: ‘’Definitely not my type. And no one could ever be attractive enough to cheat, Ilya, I hope you know.’’

There’s no answer to that. Shane turns his gaze to face Ilya, who’s already looking at him, remote in his lap, eyes strangely big. He tilts his head: ‘’What? Ilya. I hope you know you’re not attractive enough. Do you? You never cheated on someone, right?’’

Ilya replies: ‘’Are you attracted to men?’’

The interaction itself sounds weird. It almost doesn’t seem possible to have such an exchange. It’s like Shane has just asked What do you want for dinner? only to hear Ilya saying Do you think we’re out of pods for the dishwasher? Something like that, more or less. 

Then, Shane realises. While Ilya is still looking at him, Shane’s face burning with his gaze, and TV hasn’t stopped chatting in front of them. Justin is laughing and admitting: ‘’Okay, yes, it happened’’, but neither of them has a reaction to that. Shane knows he has to say something, it’s up to him alone. He gulps, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. Ilya follows every movement like Shane’s about to sprint to the front door and disappear. ‘’Yes’’ he manages, small ‘’I… I’m gay, actually.’’

He had the intention to come out to Ilya for weeks. It’s been more than three months since their first meeting, and Shane… Well. If he wanted an excuse to do it, he definitely hasn’t been able to come up with one. It’s not like he has a boyfriend coming over, or he’s dating someone, or… Intends to. He’s not really interested in men right now, and no one has caught his attention. This means that there is no reason to tell Ilya he’s gay. No urgency or need. It’s just something Shane has dreamed to shape with his mouth. He has pictured Ilya’s reaction, how the words would have curled in the air. Something quiet, planned, like everything Shane does. Surely, not in front of a trash TV programme where poor innocents are scammed to get some strangers a VISA.

Ilya gives him a look, before turning back to the TV: there’s a new couple on the screen. ‘’I like both, so’’ a pause ‘’I can say that he is not attractive at all. I don’t even understand how he can pull more women.’’

Shane doesn’t really care about Justin’s charm right now. I like both, so. Ilya is into men. And into women, yes, he’d just said that, Shane was there, but he’s into men. Information that doesn’t change the trajectory of Shane’s life. At all. ‘’My point stands. No man is attractive enough to excuse cheating.’’

‘’Of course’’ Ilya agrees, before smacking his lips: ‘’However, if there was an excusable category, I would be in it. I am quite attractive.’’

‘’Oh, so you say.’’

‘’A solid ten. You don’t agree?’’ he teases in Russian. Shane doesn’t buy it for a second.

(Okay, maybe he does. For half. He just doesn’t show it.)

He answers in English: ‘’I can’t believe you’d cheat, that’s all.’’

‘’Because I would not, on my life. I am Russian. Very loyal man, very faithful. Committed to the bone. If I have a relationship, it is because I am sold.’’

Shane swallows the comment he was about to make, lips now sealed, somehow dry. Something undefined, lingering in his mind, twisting like thin fog, about how Ilya would act as a boyfriend. Someone’s boyfriend, on the general rule. Not related to Shane at all. He doesn’t allow himself to process it more than he already has, suffocating it as it is, bare and yet just vaguely formed. He decides to go for: ‘’Yes, I can easily believe it. That’s what they say about Russian mafia anyway’’, he drops after a careful pause, lips twitching in a smile. A pillow flies directly to his face, but Ilya is stupidly laughing anyway. 

*****

Christmas comes and goes in a blur.

Shane visits Hayden, Jackie and the kids, bringing presents and sweets with him. Jackie serves him a delicious roast for lunch, asking about work and, of course, Ilya. ‘’You could’ve invited him here’’ she insisted, but Shane tried to dodge the matter.

‘’He was busy. You’ll meet him, I swear.’’

Shane still feels this sick jealousy at the thought of talking about Ilya with his friends. He can’t believe how easy it is to get along with him, and he’s afraid that revealing it will do nothing but ruin what he’s trying to build with careful hands, a project that started without Shane even noticing. Like reality could crease it. He’ll let his friends meet Ilya, of course. Not now. He just wants a little bit of extra time in their bubble.

About that, Shane has been able to divert Ilya’s interest on trash TV. It’s all about sitcoms now. Through the month of January, Shane introduces Ilya to Modern Family, his brand new favourite show. They still watch Disney movies, of course, and Ilya is too engaged by 90 Days Fiancé to let that go too, but he’s nuts about Modern Family. Especially about Gloria. They have this entire conversation in Russian:

‘’She understands me. She knows what it means to be in a country where no one speaks your language.’’

‘’You have Svetlana.’’

‘’Yes, but only over the phone. I have to deal everyday with stupid, polite Canadians with a weird accent.’’

‘’That’s probably because they’re bilingual, too. What?’’ he said at Ilya’s doubtful look ‘’It’s true! A lot of people speak French here, too.’’

‘’You do?’’

‘’Yes. I am also pretty fluent. Not like my Russian, that’s for sure.’’

‘’Your Russian is good for a beginner. But that’s probably because you are a genius.’’

‘’I am not!’’

‘’You are. Right out of Harvard like every genius.’’

‘’I should’ve never told you that.’’

‘’Too late. I know how to win you now. Just one nice smile and you’re done.’’

‘’I am not.’’

‘’Whatever makes you sleep at night, Hollander.’’

It’s late January when a Centaurs home game is cancelled due to bad weather. The other team hasn’t even able to land in Ottawa in the first place, so Ilya has the chance to stay home and Shane secretly cheers at the open possibility of a night together. Ilya drags him in front of a new episode of 90 Days Fiancé (this gains Ilya a new post-it, annoying asshole, even if Ilya is quite familiar with curse words), and Shane watches it with him, blissfully defeated. He’s so happy for Ilya and his group of friends there in Ottawa, and he had no doubt he would have charmed all in no time. Still, his favourite version of Ilya is the one nested with him on the couch, in ruffled hair and comfy clothes. A small part of Shane suggests that it’s probably because that’s the version reserved for Shane and Shane only, the one no other human being gets. He silences this eventuality every time.

Ilya is rapidly distracted by a quite boring couple talking about their problems, and nudges Shane in the ribs: ‘’Hey. Do you want brownies? I wanted to cook them tomorrow morning, but I am free, so.’’

‘’You… You want me to help you?’’

‘’Yes. Why not? Cooking together is fun.’’

Soon, they’re really cooking brownies. Ilya doesn’t pull out a recipe from his phone or some notes, he apparently goes by memory, hands steady and relaxed. Shane is maybe staring at how he’s breaking the eggs a little too much, sit on the kitchen island while Ilya explains what he’s doing, sometimes in English, sometimes in Russian. 

This has clearly been in Ilya’s mind for a while: they already have all the supplies. Chocolate, butter, flour, cocoa, sugar, eggs and so on, quickly gathered by Ilya. ‘’I think there are also… Uh, healthy brownies’’ Ilya presumes ‘’But I don’t know how to do them. Will you eat them still?’’

‘’I think I can make an exception. Just for once.’’

‘’You did an exception at Christmas.’’

‘’Yes, because your Red Velvet was amazing.’’

‘’I don’t know, professor. I’m starting to feel that I am the exception here.’’

Shane decides to cut the chocolate bar while Ilya mixes the powders, both silent for a while. It’s not uncomfortable, though: Shane is learning that being in Ilya’s presence is one of the easiest things he has ever done. He’s not always thinking of what to say or how he looks or if he’s acting strange. They have their habits and jokes, Shane recognises Ilya’s presence in their house, how he poorly folds his clothes and the trace of their post-its, his thick accent and the familiar smell of his cologne on the blankets, the couch pillows now always misplaced. He has never had so many cakes in the fridge before, or the promise of a fresh pot of coffee in the morning. They still have their debacles on Ilya’s cigarettes or Shane’s ridiculous diet, but they get along. Even if they’re just brushing elbows on the kitchen island. Ilya‘s mess is not a threat to his life, it’s a way to know that Ilya himself is a part of it. The blankets that otherwise would be neatly folded, the dishwasher always perfectly loaded. Shane has never considered this point of view before. 

Shane has just finished with the bar when Ilya’s phone rings. His roommate briefly looks at the screen, then thanks Shane for the chocolate, ignoring the call. It ends as quickly as it started, and if Ilya ignores it, Shane should do the same. So, he does. Less than a minute later, while Ilya is measuring the milk, another call breaks the silence. This time, Ilya mutters under his breath: ‘’Fucking asshole’’, in a venomous Russian that almost poisons his tongue. Shane pretends not to hear, or to understand. The call ends unanswered for a second time.

Shane is looking for a tray when Ilya’s phone chimes again. Now, Ilya simply curses and grabs it, walking to his room. Shane looks at his back, stunned: is Ilya finally answering that mysterious number? He expects to hear his rough voice talking through the walls, but nothing comes to his ears. Only Ilya’s steps: he’s back to him, and without his phone. ‘’Sorry’’, he apologises, dismissive. Eyes somewhere else, again.

Shane debates about letting that go or not. Curiosity burns his throat until he tries: ‘’No, don’t worry. Have you… Was that from work?’’

Wow. Poor attempt would be an understatement. Ilya is almost religious about his work with Centaurs, and he has never treated any work call like that. It’s clear as day that Shane is only trying to gain information about whoever is calling. If Ilya gets it or not, he doesn’t seem mad at him. ‘’No’’, he sighs, then, low ‘’It was a call from my brother.’’

Shane had no idea Ilya had a brother in the first place. ‘’Oh’’, it’s all he comes up with. Ilya hesitates, eyes on the unfinished dough, fingers tapping on the counter. ‘’He wants money. He always wants money’’ he supplies. He has never looked so tired, all of a sudden. Like years has just fallen on his back. ‘’Treats me like I am fucking hockey player with tons of money. I am not, obviously. He just does not care.’’

‘’What’s his name?’’

‘’Not important. He wants money because he likes drugs, alcohol, gambling and women. Nothing I have the intention to help him with.’’

The admission is harsh, his eyes now narrowed. Shane just can’t help asking: ‘’Can’t… Well, can’t your parents help with it? Seems a serious addiction.’’

Ilya’s reply hits like a punch right in the stomach: ‘’My parents are dead. So, no.’’

No one would ever be able to answer to such a dry shot. Shane surely isn’t. ‘’I didn’t know’’ he whispers, eyes suddenly watery, just for a second. He hopes Ilya won’t notice, but he seems too far anyway. ‘’I’m so sorry, Ilya.’’

‘’It is okay. I always had a complicated relationship with my father. He was a harsh man… Cruel, sometimes. He was police, just like my brother. He wanted him to be that and he followed like a dog. My mama’’ a pause. Ilya looks at the wall, blinking fast and faster. Oh, God. If Ilya cries in front of him, Shane will probably melt in a puddle. The other clears his throat: ‘’Before my mother died, it was… You could say fine, I guess. He wasn’t very much present in my life. Her death destroyed him, but he never admitted it. And I was… I was mad. Like I’ve never been mad with everyone else. It was okay for me to not be allowed to be in his life, but to his pain? It was my pain, too. If I want to be egoist, I would say that for how he treated her it was more mine than everyone else’s.’’

It is a lot to absorb, that’s for sure. Shane tries to, as much as he can. He can feel how difficult this is for Ilya, how he’s barely putting the words together. He scatters the ingredients, silently telling him that he has no intention to ignore what he’s trying to do: to share with him. But Shane doesn’t push either. He just waits, without even touching him, gently guiding him with questions that Ilya can ignore, or remodulate, choosing what to say or not.

‘’What about her?’’

‘’Oh, she was… She still is my favourite person in the whole world. She died when I was twelve. By… Hm, accident’’ Ilya purses his lips ‘’That is what my father told everyone. She accidentally swallowed a whole bottle of pills.’’

Shane stares at the cutting board, still stained with chocolate, fingers rubbing on the marble. Then: ‘’I don’t know what to answer to that. I feel like… Well. Every word sounds stupid now. And I have a degree in Literature.’’

Ilya humourlessly laughs, so suddenly that Shane’s shoulders jump: ‘’You are the first who reacts like that.’’

‘’I really don’t feel like saying I’m so sorry. Quite doesn’t explain how I feel and it sounds just… So small, comparing to that. Almost hypocritical.’’

‘’It is not. But thank you anyway. Yes, I…’’ Ilya’s voice is now hesitant  ‘’I think I will say something else you will not have the answer for.’’

Shane really doesn’t want to stand there like an idiot. He grabs the bowl and says: ‘’Okay. If you want to say it, good. But let’s hit the couch, yes? I’ll put this in the fridge.’’

‘’You wanted the brownies—‘’

‘’Couch’’ he repeats, in Russian this time. Ilya lowers his shoulders and obeys, waiting for Shane to clean up a bit. When Shane joins him, Ilya is looking at the ceiling, arms crossed, feet on the coffee table. Shane usually pouts about that last habit; this time, he copies Ilya, settling himself next to him. They’re not even touching, leaving looking at each other. Ilya stays quiet for a while, just breathing. Shane almost thinks he just had second thoughts on speaking about it, but then Shane hears, lower than a murmur: ‘’I found her. When it was already too late. Sometimes I think what would have happened if I had arrived earlier’’ Shane is really proud of the phrasing here, but it’s probably not the right time ‘’Like, in time. But I think I will go crazy if I keep thinking about it for the rest of my life, so. I try not to.’’

‘’Yeah, that’s probably for the best. No one would have asked you to do something’’ he admits at the ceiling ‘’Not even her. These decisions have… Nuances, I think’’ Ilya scrunches his nose in confusion ‘’Like, it’s not black or white. Leaving you must have been one of the toughest decisions she has ever made.’’

‘’I do not know what to think about that. Sometimes the possibility that she stayed as much as possible just for me is a great consolation. Sometimes I hate it. I hate thinking that all the good memories I have of her were probably a sacrifice. Or… I don’t know. Something with a deadline on.’’

‘’I think it’s far more complicated than that. I’m sorry I don’t know how.’’

‘’I told you. It is okay. I like how you answer. The few people I told all of this always try to say something good, or right, something to tell me they understand. I like that you let me know how you do not. I am happy you do not’’ he swears, before taking another shallow breath ‘’And my father didn’t know what to do, too. He was alone with me, my brother and a potential scandal. Suicide is a shame for a family. So he started to… Like, bet everything on us. He succeeded with my brother. Not with me.’’

‘’You were about to join police, too?’’

‘’No. He wanted to make me an hockey player. And I was good’’ Ilya slowly closes his eyes, almost talking to himself ‘’I was really good. The best. Every time I think I don’t play hockey I feel like I am missing an organ. But I did it for me. And for my mother. I… No matter how much I loved it, I needed to be something he hadn’t chose. Something even a bit different, that had my name on it. After losing my mother, I couldn’t think of doing anything my father wanted from me. Especially because he wanted me to be the idol of Russia. To be a trophy in his career. I promised her he wouldn’t have had me like he had her.’’

‘’I think your mother just wanted you to be happy. Even if it meant to play hockey.’’

‘’Play hockey would have made be happy, yes. But also, I don’t know. Something complicated. Listening to my father would have killed me, too. Sooner or later, I mean. But that is not important’’ he shrugs ‘’He died of Dementia. He had these days where he wasn’t lucid and called from me again, and again, and again. He didn’t wanted no one else. Then he came back to himself and yelled because I was there, and I was a disgrace to the family. I had a work opportunity and decided to go to USA to have the money to help him, but it was my brother the one taking care of him in Moscow. That’s why he hates me, because I trapped him with our sick father. Even if I would have given everything to be there. Maybe from the wrong reasons’’ he resonates, unsure ‘’When he was not lucid, he loved me. And for me it was enough. I now know it shouldn’t be. And he’s dead, so I don’t have, like, any possibility to fix that. Ever. Makes me wonder a lot about what I did and didn’t do when he was still alive. He had… What is called? A grudge. And I probably had it, too. But I was healthy, and I should have fought more to be in Moscow. Maybe.’’

Yeah, Shane is definitely crying, now. The cracked ceiling looks blurry, and his lower lip is strangely trembling. Ilya doesn’t need all of this right now, so Shane tries to pull himself together. Slowly, he reaches for his shirt, tugging the sleeve with the slightest touch of his fingers, giving Ilya space to decide what to do. The other crawls to him, his back tensed, until he falls with his head in Shane’s lap. Shane sinks his hand in Ilya’s curls, gently massaging his scalp. Ilya’s hand is now on Shane’s knee; he squeezes. He doesn’t ask if that’s okay, he just relaxes in Shane’s hold. ‘’You are really brave’’ he whispers, wandering with the other hand on his shoulder blades. Ilya huffs:

‘’I am not. I am just living the best I can. For her more than for me. I don’t want you to think she was weak’’ he pleads, voice uneven. Maybe he’s crying, and he just doesn’t want Shane to notice. ‘’She wasn’t. She was funny, and brave, and really clever. She adored me and I adored her. She loved cakes and biscuits. I remember all her recipes. But her voice…’’ Ilya is circling his index on Shane’s knee, now  ‘’I do not know. Sometimes I remember something and I know the words, but the sound of her voice is fading. It is terrifying. I feel like a part of me is fading, too. The version of me she has met. She was the best person in the entire world.’’

‘’No one deserved her but you, then’’ it’s Shane’s soft reply. He untangles Ilya’s curls, ripping a pleased hum from him, and they stay quiet for a bit. ‘’Do you want to watch something? A Disney movie, maybe? I could stand an episode of 90 Days Fiancé, even. For you.’’

Ilya is still circling his knee. ‘’I want you to read for me, if that is okay.’’

Shane blinks: he’s noticing just now one of his books abandoned on the coffee table, not far from his feet. To the Lighthouse by Woolf. ‘’Of course I can’’ he assures. Ilya reaches out for the book, passing it to Shane before gaining back his place on his lap. Shane flips through the pages: ‘’I’m on chapter four, but I’ve already read it, so… I can start from the top. I mean, they’re not exactly chapters, but three sections that—‘’

‘’I do not really care. I care about your voice. Start where you want.’’

Ilya’s English is dancing on his tongue, unsure. It usually happens when it’s nervous, but he has carefully avoided using Russian the entire time. ‘’Okay’’, Shane flips the book one more time, finding the right page. His left hand is still in Ilya’s hair, and that’s where it stays the whole time. Ilya is probably asleep after ten pages, but Shane keeps on reading for a while, until his voice is hoarse, just to swim into Ilya’s warmth for a little bit longer.

*****

The door softly clicks, then opens. It closes just seconds later with the same, almost inaudible sound. The house gobbles Shane with its presence: the lights, the strong smells from the kitchen, the soft cracking of the wood pavements, the subtle warmth coming from the walls, the air freshener plugged in the hallway. Ocean and citrus.   

Shane wants to rip it off himself.

The door is hard against his back, holding the last traces of the thick cold outside. The world is motionless. Or maybe Shane is? Maybe all his organs are about to stop their slow breathing, the only apparently unbreakable rhythm of their nature. He’s hopelessly holding to the knob, but everything is sharp, caging his body in the bare structure of Shane’s bones. That’s it, that’s the problem: Shane’s leaking. Dripping from his fingernails, his ribcage, his eyes, like he’s trying to run away. Somewhere no one — voices, smells, noises — will ever reach him. Where do I run? How do I run? Where, how, where, how, where, whe—

‘’Shane? Are you back, yes?’’

Reality erupts again. A sweet scent coming from the kitchen, unknown voices in the living room. A static light on the coffee table, coating Ilya in white, pale blue, then deep red. It’s only the reflection of the screen, but it looks like they’re disrupting him, only to piece him back together in a shape Shane doesn’t recognise. Muffled steps are suddenly approaching him, tied to Ilya’s voice: ‘’I have made another cheesecake! A nice girl uploaded a tutorial on YouTube. Weird accent, good recipe. It had subtitles. It was pretty easy, I have already… Shane?’’

His mind is suddenly empty. Static. A low buzz brushes his ears; Shane squints his eyes, unfocused. His throat is burning for some reason, and the harsh sensation haunts him, tangles him in his own tongue. He has to get a grip on himself, quickly. He’s not alone. Ilya’s there. ‘’Yes’’, he spits, kicking his shoes off. He discards his jacket, then his bag, holding back the need to hug himself, holding thigh. I’m drifting away. I’m not entirely here. Where am I? Shane? Shane?

‘’Shane?’’

His name, again, in that familiar, now soft voice. Soft, and strained with a sudden worry. Ilya is attentively scanning him now: ‘’Is everything okay?’’ the way Ilya says okay, with that strong k and the long a, twists something sweet and familiar in his chest, but it lasts a second ‘’You are pale. Are you sick? Is work okay? I told you I can punch people.’’

‘’I’m fine, Ilya.’’

‘’You don’t look fine.’’

‘’But I am.’’

‘’Are you sure you are not sick? Maybe if you… Uh, lay down?’’

‘’No need. Just tired.’’

‘’That’s why I told you to lay down.’’

‘’And I told you— No’’ he blurts out, pressing himself on the front door, harder than before. Ilya’s hand stays in the air just a second, before falling against his side. Shane is still slurring, breath clumsy: ‘’No, no, please, I’m all dirty.’’

Ilya’s gaze is right on his face, now. ‘’Dirty?’’ he echoes, careful this time ‘’I don’t see dirty. Where? Do you need help? I can go to your room and bring you a change of clothes. I will leave them in the bathroom. Have you eaten? Because I think there are—‘’

‘’Ilya, shut the fuck up. You have to shut up now, right now, Jesus, just shut up.’’

It’s like his mouth is twisted in cruel angles and violent words, grotesques shapes between his teeth. Shane has always needed words. That’s why he has chose to study Literature. When he was little, Shane had eaten pages and pages written by others to find new words to explain himself. It was crucial to hold such a knowledge, translating his thoughts and needs into something valuable. He had always felt the gap between how everyone was capable of freely express themselves and him. His crumbled words, pieces of thoughts, seemed always misplaced. So, Shane needed to learn more. Learning meant to have the weapons everyone else seemed to gain by birth. Shane only had to fight with twice the effort, sometimes even more, to get them. It was no big deal. That’s what his life is all about. To learn and adjust. To mimic others. To place a smile, a laugh, in the right moments. Apparently natural, but strictly programmed. Even when all that tiredness did nothing much than widen the ravine between Shane and the whole world. 

In days like these, though, even words are slipping out of his reach. Shane is tired, sore, soaked with all the things he had to put up with in a single day. The shift of control is almost sending him into a spiral. He hates when his grip becomes slippery, when it glides away. When he becomes insufferable.

Oh, God. He’s been insufferable to Ilya. His eyes are now watery, but he bites his cheek, heavily breathing. ‘’I’m sorry’’ he croaks. He knows he’s crying, he knows his voice is swallowed, wobbly. Shame crawls his skin like a gelid wave. ‘’I’m sorry, Ilya, I’m so sorry, that was so rude, and I am not rude, never, sorry, sorry, that was so—‘’

‘’No, no, Shane, it is okay’’ Ilya is particularly still. His hands have a brief twitch, then nothing. ‘’I— Can I talk?’’

‘’Of course. Sorry. Of course you can.’’

‘’Okay. I won’t touch. What do you need?’’

Shane’s legs won’t hold him for long. His neck is burning, his skin is tickling, but he acts like he’s not even aware of it. Even if he’s aware of everything. ‘’Turn off the TV. And… Few light. In the house. Please.’’

‘’Yes. I will be right back.’’

Shane shatters exactly when Ilya is out of sight. He sinks to his knees, before dragging the remains of his body to his chest, fingers biting his legs like claws. He can smell the city on him, the public transports, the hands who briefly touched his shoulder to greet him still stained on his sweater. Everyone who grazed his arms or spoke too loudly or crossed his personal space. The smog, the polluted air on his skin, the faded sun, and then the usual cold, holding onto him after sunset. Shane can’t hold all of this. Why is someone asking him to hold all of this? 

The house is quiet. The TV is now off, together with the lights. In a brief flick, Ilya turns on the salt lamp there in the entrance. It’s one of Rose’s presents; now the hallway is coated in an almost buttery light. ‘’Do you want to eat?’’ he asks, carefully. Shane dares looking at him: Ilya is crouched at a safe distance, hands on his own knees, eyes on Shane. 

He knows how he looks like. He can almost see himself from the outside: pale skin, eyes wide and unfocused, filled with unshed tears, like he’s a terrified animal corned in the wild. Shane shakes his head in denial, chest heavy with words, and anger, and something else, something muddy and unpleasant, right on his lungs. He feels like his mouth is full of sand. ‘’I want a shower’’, it’s all he’s able to say. A hot shower always helps. Shane has learned how to reach the perfect temperature to not burn himself, and yet feeling clean. He needs his unscented products and his white noises and his favourite hoodie. 

Ilya nods, but he doesn’t move. ‘’Okay’’, and again, the familiar accent soothes his ears. He’s about to ask Ilya to keep talking, but he’s too ashamed to. Especially after how he shut him up just minutes ago. Shane hates when he can’t pinpoint why he wants something. He’s usually so in control of himself and his emotions, that not knowing why he feels or craves things worsen his spiral. So, he pushes the need away. He’s lucky enough to ear Ilya speaking again anyway: ‘’Do you want me to do something? I can check your diet and make dinner.’’

It is a reasonable option. Ilya is really trying to come up with something by working with what he already knows about Shane. There’s an effort; if Shane has drawn a pattern, Ilya is just trying to follow it. What Ilya can’t imagine is that Shane needs the exact opposite right now. He couldn’t stand being caged by anything else, even his own diet, usually followed almost like a cult. He has learned, through the years, that the best way to overcome a meltdown is to indulge in it as much as he can. Shane tries to meet his needs at his best, even if the aftermath usually drains him. ‘’No’’ he croaks, trying to find some grip on the floor. ‘’No, I— Shower first. I’ll decide later.’’

‘’Okay. I’ll move’’, and with that, Ilya is back on his legs, before shifting on the side, leaving the hallway free for Shane. Shane, who just looks at the long walk, eyes empty. I don’t want to do it, his mind screams. It’s a walk of shame, Ilya will stare at your trembling limbs and you’ll look ridiculous. You already are. You look like a child, you are a fucking child with your fucking needs and problems and no one is like this but you because there is something twisted in you and everyone will know and—

‘’Shane. Shane, please. Please.’’

Ilya is holding him by the shoulders, now. Shane just growls, feeling a vague pain radiating from his scalp. He was probably hitting the door with his head while rocking, without even notice. ‘’Sorry’’, he munches, lips trembling. Ilya briefly touches his neck:

‘’Are you hurt?’’

‘’No. No— Shower, please.’’

‘’Yes. Okay, I will help. What is the problem, what do you need? Small sentences.’’

‘’My hoodie. The green one. I need my hoodie.’’

‘’Okay. Before or after shower? After’’ he answers himself at Shane’s horrified look ‘’After, obviously. Do you want to go to the bathroom when I don’t watch you?’’ Shane barely nods, mortified ‘’Okay. I have plan. Now I go to your room and I find hoodie. You go to the shower. When I hear the water, I will come in and leave the clothes. No one looks at no one. When you are done— You tell me. I can go in my room or I can wait you in the kitchen. No difference for me, I swear.’’

‘’Kitchen’’ he pleads. 

‘’Kitchen it is. And we talk about eating something, yes? Diet, not diet, I do not care. I will go now, okay?’’ and slowly, like he’s holding glass, Ilya lets go off him. They exchange a nod, before Ilya disappears in Shane’s room.

Shane can finally stand up, now. He does, holding himself on the front door, body wry like a broken puppet. That’s quite like it. Shane has sorted hundreds of wires to function, and sometimes they just snap, leaving him motionless, heavy on the ground. He quietly walks to the bathroom, trying to pick up the pieces back, hold them together. Once he’s alone, with only the mirror light on, he strips out of his clothes. He’d usually fold them neatly, but tonight he just squeezes them in a ball before hitting the laundry basket. His hold on them is so thigh his fingers hurt right after he lets them go. Shane slides into the shower box, turning the water on, curtains heavy around him. The steam quickly gathers around his frame, the hot water finally washing away the entire day from his fractured body. Before reaching for his products, he slowly hits the shower tray, knees burning. He bites his lower lip, waiting for the door to open. Waiting for the last intrusion.

Soon after, the door slightly cracks open. A soft sound, something being left on the shelf right next to the mirror. Shane is motionless until the door closes again, but that takes at least a couple of seconds. Like Ilya has scanned the bathroom, looking for signs of Shane’s presence, before giving up and leaving. Now that he’s completely, utterly alone, Shane lets out a quiet sob before sinking in his hands and letting the exhaustion taking over him, bursting into tears in a single, painful tear. He cries and cries and cries, water boiling and tapping on his back, fists in his hair, nose buried in the skin of his knee, pressing on he bone. It helps, it really does.

Mechanically, he takes care of his body, then of his hair. Every touch is a quiet I’m sorry for how tense he has been the entire day. His muscles are burning, and yet loosing. As he said, coming down is exhausting, his head is pounding and his limbs are heavy like stone. Shane softly massages his face, now gentle. I’m sorry if I’m harsh. I’m trying my best. Some days it’s just difficult, and that’s okay. You are okay. 

Once out of the shower, he dries himself and slips into his clothes, before taking care of his hair. His skin is flustered, puffed around the eyes, and his neck is hurting. Ilya had brought, together with his hoodie, a pair of sweatpants, socks and boxers. Flying over the implications of Ilya bringing him his underwear, he finally shows up in the kitchen. His roommate, as they have agreed, waits there. ‘’Dinner?’’ it’s his first, straight-up question. Shane slips on a stool:

‘’I thought you said there was cake.’’

Ilya lights up at that tone: ‘’Yes! Do you want a slice?’’

Shane would rather leave a slice for the fridge and eat the entire cheesecake himself, but that’s probably just a nervous stimulus. He goes for: ‘’Of course I do. What flavour?’’

‘’You said you don’t like when cakes are too sweet, so I did a coffee one.’’

‘’Thank you’’, he breathes, looking at the slice now right in front of him. Ilya hums, dismissively, taking the spot right next to Shane, who still hasn’t touched his plate. ‘’Work was a problem today?’’, Ilya tries, probably encouraged by Shane’s calm. Shane plays with the fork without really trying to taste the cheesecake, not yet. He feels like he owns Ilya some sort of explanation for whatever just happened. ‘’Yes. But no’’, great start, seriously. He clears his voice: ‘’I… It’s more complicated than that. Sometimes I am… Overwhelmed. It’s like being on the beach’’ he supplies at Ilya’s questioning look ‘’On the shore, laid down. And then a wave comes and you know you won’t drawn, but you are really, really close to. The sensation comes and goes until you can’t take it anymore. So you crawl away, up to the dry sand, but it’s difficult, and tiring. That’s how I feel sometimes, because… Because noises are bugging me and I talk with too many people and everyone is interfering in my space and… And it is a lot to deal with. I am a lot to deal with. I’m sorry you had to witness that, but I still have troubles in… Crumbling quietly, I suppose. Without making too much noise.’’

‘’You don’t have to be sorry, I don’t want to hear that. And I do not like quiet. You can crumble screaming if you want. And I can help if you talk with me. I don’t… It’s bad. When you go somewhere I’m not sure I can follow. You shouldn’t.’’

Shane takes his time to make those words sink in him. Once they do, it’s like feeling a warm blanket on his shoulders, his arms. Like something else is containing him now. ‘’I am… Well. Kinda used to do it alone.’’

Ilya shrugs: ‘’Things always change.’’

‘’That’s the problem for me.’’

‘’Oh, so I am problem?’’

Which is a fair question. Shane recalls how, not even an hour ago, Ilya’s voice represented the only, thin thread which sewed him to his house, his life. ‘’No’’, he resonates, too afraid to say everything else, to think about it, even. He’s not sure he’s ready to face the eventuality of such a scary, yet undefined change in his life. Shane tells himself that Ilya is just good at it. He’s a good friend, more observant than anyone would think. It’s not like there’s something special, quietly lying underneath their skins. Or Shane’s. Not at all. It’s not something he thinks he’s allowed to hope. Or daydream. Or crave.

‘’Good. Now try the cheesecake. You look better’’ Ilya insists, after another long look. He takes the fork, cutting a bite using its side. Then, in Russian: ‘’Few people are that pretty when they cry, after all.’’

Shane snaps with a Russian insult that literally means condom. Ilya laughs, pleased, apparently sure that Shane’s burning cheeks are due to his unusual cursing. Shane won’t surely discourage that.

*****

There’s an idea buzzing around Shane’s head.

It’s quite like a mosquito. Il flies in the room, and you catch only glimpses of it. But it’s there. Insistent. Present. Impossible to ignore. 

Shane is having some difficulties in shaping this idea as he should. He knows that it is not a big deal, at least apparently. What truly challenges him is that, no matter how much he tells himself it’s just a thought like any other, deep down he knows it’s not. He knows what lies beneath it, what it implies. A problem, he may call it, that’s bugging him for some weeks now. Even though Shane is pushing it as far away as possible.

It’s mid-February, and Shane wants Ilya to meet his friends. He doesn’t know how to articulate the matter: should they go out? Because Shane would rather have them at their place. He could discuss it with Ilya but, well. He has to present the idea to him in the first place. And it’s not like Shane is nervous about it. Not at all. He’s just… Waiting for the right time, while he resolves how to phrase it. He doesn’t want to let it sound like a big deal. Which is not. At all. He doesn’t want Ilya to think it is, most of all.

The occasion falls in front of him on a Thursday: a call from Ilya while Shane is at the grocery shop. ‘’Yes, I’ve found your list’’ it’s Shane’s greeting ‘’I’m shopping for you too. But try to use the Latin alphabet next time. Cyrillic is still quite difficult for me.’’

Ilya’s voice comes relieved through the phone: ‘’So you are not busy?’’

‘’Uh, we could say that. Is everything okay?’’

‘’I went to the arena for a meeting after the gym. I used public transport, but now they are… Eh, they decided not to do their job.’’

‘’It’s called a strike, you asshole’’, a new voice chimes from the phone. It must be right next to Ilya, because Shane hears it quite clearly. It’s a strangely familiar one. Ilya snaps away from Shane:

‘’You have to die and be born again to insult me, Barrett. I am sorry if I have to speak your shitty language to help you doing your lame job. You skated like an injured granny on drugs today.’’

A whistle, probably from a third person there with them. ‘’Aren’t you such a ray of sunshine?’’, it’s what Barrett — Troy Barrett? From the Ottawa Centaurs? — replies, unimpressed. Another voice, way younger, drops a quick comment:

‘’He has been in a great mood so far, to be fair.’’

‘’Probably because he has planned the most exhausting practice ever. He’s always like that when he makes us suffer.’’

‘’I only have ideas, you ungrateful idiot. I am not your coach, yes? Stop fucking jumping on my balls.’’

‘’Oh, so it worked?’’

‘’It always works. It is a pity you don’t put all this effort in playing your fucking sport. At least you must make Harris here really happy.’’

‘’Okay, kids, time’s up’’ a third, unknown voice jumps in ‘’And you’re still on the phone, Roz.’’

‘’Fuck. Look what you made me do, Barrett. It is somehow always your fault. Shane? Are you still there?’’

Shane collects himself: ‘’Yes. You want a lift, then?’’

‘’That would be great’’ a pause, then, in Russian ‘’I was hoping you were still at home. We could’ve gone to the grocery shop together.’’

‘’Whoa, your roommate is Russian too?’’ it’s Barrett’s impressed comment. Ilya replies in English:

‘’Why the fuck are you listening to my private conversation? Mind your own business before I punch you.’’

Shane interrupts: ‘’It’s called eavesdropping, Ilya. And you should really stop considering punching people.’’

‘’You just came up with that word.’’

‘’I didn’t. Listen, I’m coming. I’ve grabbed, like, two things. We’ll come back here together. Give me twenty minutes, alright?’’

‘’That is perfect. We will be in the parking lot. I am the handsome man with blonde hair.’’

Voices and laughs on the other line. ‘’See you soon’’, it’s Ilya’s closure, before hanging up. Shane blankly stares at the phone, not sure how to react. A lot of things are pushing on the back of his teeth, all together. 

While driving to the arena, Shane taps his fingers on the steering wheel. Why had Ilya used Russian only for that single sentence? And why was he so harsh with his friends? Because Shane it’s assuming they were his friends. Apart from what he said, he really sounded in a good mood, after all. Otherwise, he would have told Shane to hurry up in Russian, because he was with insufferable colleagues he wanted to get rid of. Not that Shane had minded Ilya’s cursing in the first place: that stern tone really suits him. Does weird things to Shane’s stomach, too. Not that he minds. And he doesn’t mind what he’s heard, too: he’s probably being paranoid. It’s one of Shane’s classics. 

Right after his arriving, he spots Ilya in the smoking area. He also immediately recognises who’s with him: Luca Haas and Troy Barrett, both players for the Centaurs, and Harris Drover, Social Media Manager and, up to recent news, Troy’s boyfriend. Shane, who is not so fond of using socials in general, has cheered their announcement for days on both Instagram and Twitter. He would be eager to tell them so, how their gesture is important for both the LGBT Community and the League, but he’s paralysed right on the spot. He should have told Ilya to reach him, instead of doing the opposite without even announcing his arrival. Shane was just thinking about reaching Ilya, like a complete idiot. Like someone who doesn’t need a couple of deep breaths before meeting someone new. Nevermind two local celebrities. He’s about to go back and text Ilya instead.

Ilya, who chooses that exact moment to spot him. ‘’Shane!’’, he greets, waving at him with his cigarette. Maybe he’ll just wave at the others, too, before heading out to him. ‘’Come say hi!’’

Whatever.

Shane almost cries at how Troy has one arm loosely around Harris’ waist. He just hopes he doesn’t look too weird about it. ‘’Hello’’, and he’s always a little bit too conscious of what it means to be introduced to more than one person. Shane doesn’t come closer, acknowledging everyone with a quick wave. Ilya immediately fills the space with his presence: ‘’Try not to be all ass now. Barrett, I am talking to you. This is—‘’

‘’Shane’’ it’s Harris’ guess, too quick to be unintentional ‘’Yes, we supposed. Ilya talks a lot about you.’’

‘’Oh’’, it’s all he says. Ilya looks basically unimpressed:

‘’Of course I do. You are the only person I know apart from them. And we live together.’’

‘’Not what he meant’’, he hears Troy correcting under his breath. Harris elbows him, before smiling wildly at Shane: ‘’I’m Harris Drover, by the way. And these are Troy and Luca—‘’

‘’Shane is big fan. No reason to introduce.’’

‘’Shut up, Roz, we’re being polite. We’ve been telling Rozanov, here, to invite you over when we hang out! We couldn’t wait to meet the poor guy who keeps up with this arse.’’

Shane had… Well, no idea of the invite in the first place. Ilya looks at him, now uneasy, but doesn’t bite back, not this time. Shane’s next smile is tense: ‘’My bad. I’m usually pretty busy’’, that’s what he settles for. Ilya rapidly joins with:

‘’Yes. He is professor at uOttawa.’’

‘’I am still not’’ Shane hastily argues ‘’Just an assistant.’’

‘’That’s so cool! That’s how you know Russian?’’ Luca inquires. It could be read as a defiance, if only Haas had the face for it. He seems more like a curious student invited to a senior year party instead. Shane hesitates, hardly balanced on his own legs:

‘’Uh, no. I have an English Literature major. Ilya is teaching me Russian just for...’’ fun? Hobby? Convenience? They all taste wrong. Shane would love to say Because the closer I am to him, the better, but that’s something he’ll bring to the grave with him. 

‘’We teach each other’’, Ilya completes, proud. He’s discarding his cigarette’s stub while he keeps on with: ‘’That is why my English is way better than yours. You are caveman, I am teached—‘’

‘’Still taught.’’

‘’— By professor. See? I do wrong, he fix. Dream team. Nothing like you on the ice. I have to remember to some of you that we are playing for the same team. That is why I encourage putting pucks down everyone’s throats. It is called… Ah, da. Exposure therapy.’’

Shane sighs: ‘’I believe that’s—‘’

‘’Seriously, how do you put up with this guy?’’

Troy’s grinning, but the question still stands unanswered for a while. How does Shane?, they wonder. Shane, who apparently Ilya always talks about with his colleagues, the same colleagues who have been waiting to meet him, who had invited him over. Several times. Invites Shane had no idea of. At all. Right now, he doesn’t put up with Ilya, far from it. Not when every sentence is making him excessively aware of two colliding realities he had ignored so far. Realities that Ilya had hidden. ‘’He’s good’’, few words, dry. They might have no idea, but Ilya’s eyes snap at him. Like something has just clicked in his mind. Harris laughs, unaware:

‘’Good? Jesus, you must be a Saint, dude. I would rather die than living with Roz.’’

‘’I can’t call it a practice if he doesn’t piss me off, that’s for sure’’ Troy supplies, scrolling his shoulders. Luca nods, going along:

‘’Roz showed me I’m not hating at my full potential.’’

‘’You are incapable of hating, Haas. If we are not careful enough, someone will slam you in the barrier and you will vomit rainbow. You will risk this team a report for underage players.’’

‘’I’m not underaged!’’

‘’You look like it, and you still smell and cry like a baby’’ Ilya huffs, one second before messing up his hair with an hand, smiling. Luca complaints, or pretends to, but he doesn’t shy away from Ilya’s touch, who suddenly shoves him away, grinning ‘’Okay. Now we go. We are busy with adult people things to do.’’

‘’If you are an adult, we’re done’’, it’s Troy’s wit comment.

‘’I am adult, Barrett. And Harris still has problems bringing you over bars. They can’t even believe you are allowed to drive.’’

‘’Who even taught you the verb allowed?’’

‘’I had nice chat with your mum. We go’’ Ilya repeats, gathering his gym bag from the floor, where it has been the whole time. He tilts his head to speak to Shane, in Russian: ‘’I’ll make you a cake for your kindness. I just need a couple of things.’’

Shane pretends not to hear it. ‘’It’s been nice, guys’’, he chimes, saying his goodbyes with a flick of his chin. 

‘’Bye, see you!’’

‘’Nice to meet you bud!’’

‘’Come at the next home game! Or when we hang out!’’

Shane’s entire back tenses. When they hang out, right. When Ilya will probably come up with an excuse to dismiss him. Or won’t tell Shane at all, even. He’s thrilled at the idea.

They go back to the grocery store in silence. Ilya tries speaking only once: ‘’No need to go to work today? They don’t need you? Because good for me.’’

Shane doesn’t even answer.

Once they find a parking spot, he gets out of the car without waiting for him. Ilya immediately follows: ‘’You are mad at me’’, he states, after slamming the door. Shane replies, eyes fixed on the entrance:

‘’I’m not. Grab a cart and let’s be fast. I want to go home.’’

‘’Then let’s go home! Who cares about groceries. We will order something—‘’

‘’You know I hate that.’’

‘’Then I will cook.’’

‘’I know you hate that.’’

‘’I hate that you are mad’’ a hand grabs his shoulder, stopping him. Ilya’s face is crumbled with concern: ‘’You can’t be mad at me.’’

Shane is that close to punching him. What the fuck does that even mean? ‘’Watch me, Ilya’’ he hisses, before wriggling out of his hold. ‘’Shane!’’ he protests, right on his back ‘’Fuck. I meant that… I meant— I hate that you’re mad at me’’ he lets out, in Russian ‘’I don’t know what I’ve done. Please, tell me. We can talk about it, yes? Let’s go home. I’ll fix this and then I’ll go shopping groceries myself. You’ll stay home and—‘’

‘’Stop fucking speaking Russian, Ilya. Jesus.’’

Ilya stills. There in the parking lot, with the first light of the afternoon washing over him. So perfect it’s surreal. Shane would love seeing him eaten by the concrete under their shoes. ‘’You said you understood’’ he whispers, unsure ‘’That I needed to be free to express myself better. That is why you wanted to learn. That is why I was using it.’’

And now Shane feels guilty. Of course he does. But instead of apologising, he looks away, jaw tense: ‘’Yeah, I know’’, he mutters, trying to stabilise himself on the ground. Strong emotions such as disappointment or anger are always difficult for him to deal with. He feels them like a weight on his chest, something Shane has no control over it. He wants to scream, and cry, just for the sake of it. The idea of confronting Ilya disgusts him, especially when the eventuality of bursting in tears is getting closer and closer. It’s all tight and thorny, and moving in his own emotions is like joining enemy territory. You’ll never know where’s the bomb until you walk on it. Exactly when it’s already exploding under your feet.

They’re still facing each other like two idiots, though. ‘’Shane’’, Ilya echoes himself ‘’That is okay, we will talk English—‘’

‘’You can talk as you please. I mean’’ he considers after a pause ‘’You already do, so.’’

Ilya blinks at his words: ‘’What does this mean? Is it something those assholes have said? Because I can deal with that. It is no problem. Just tell me—‘’

‘’Cut the bullshit, Ilya. They were fine. They invited me over, after all’’ Shane feels his entire body tingling with doubt. His tongue is guided by rage and dismay, completely out of his control. His eyes are burning, but he tries to dismiss the lump in is throat, failing. Shane inquires, voice faint: ‘’Why did they invite me over? And why you’ve never told me about it? It’s because you’re… Jesus, I don’t know. Ashamed? That’s why you don’t treat me like you treat them? Because you think I’m weak, because you think I can’t take your sarcastic jokes like they do? Because Shane’s a fucking baby who will hold a grudge for one stupid pun. Or maybe— It’s what happened in January, isn’t it? So what, I have one fucking bad day in front of you and now I can’t meet your friends, or take a lame joke without crying on the damn floor?’’, and he’s screaming. He know he is. Shane realises he’s thinking all this shit in the exact moment it comes out of his mouth. Ilya has seen Shane in one of his lowest moments, and the aftermath is punching him now, after almost a month. Exactly when Shane had thought to use the ride home to drop to Ilya the idea of inviting Shane’s friends over. It’s almost comical, from outside. Right when Shane is almost convinced to let Ilya slip into his life once and for all, reality washes him like a bucket of cold water. Ilya’s friends wanted to meet him since ages. Ilya has never mentioned it. Ilya is different — wit, sarcastic, almost insufferable — with everyone else but him. Ilya, whose Shane considers one of his easiest bonds, one of the most solid, has been treating him like a kid since… When? Since they met? When he has started learning about Shane’s insecurities? Shane’s problems? When Shane showed them in plain sight, almost bare in front of Ilya, stripped to the bone?

You gave all this to him, a voice echoes in his mind, through the fog of his own tears, You trusted him. That’s what you always do. You and your fucking, childish mistakes. All this effort, just to be treated like a baby, a whining thing to hide from his real friends.

Ilya hasn’t answered yet. And in the midst of it all, they’re still in the parking lot, sun lowering, wind rising. A woman walks past them, giving at the scene one questioning look, before sighing and keeping on her path. ‘’Do you even— Do you even realise how bad I felt? All their questions about how you are insufferable and unbearable, how do I keep up with you, how does it feel to deal with such an asshole… And their invites! They expected me to know about them! I must’ve looked like a fool, or like a fucking pain in the ass! While I had no idea they were insisting so much! What have you told them? Have you invented some crazy stories to mask your lame roommate? Why have you even told me to join you all? You literally built this with your own hands and now I can’t be mad at you?’’

Ilya comes one step closer: ‘’Shane, I was not thinking about all of this. You are looking in a completely wrong direction. I called you over because I wanted you to meet them. So much. And’’ Ilya grunts, running a hand through his own hair ‘’And I have never invited you because most of them are jerks. Not Troy, or Harris, or Haasy, but some of them are. Rude and loud and bad mannered. And we always go in very crowded bars, or clubs, or I don’t know, pubs where there are a lot of TVs all on sports games. You would hate that.’’

‘’Oh, so you don’t want to babysit me. Clear. Nice way to—’’

‘’What? Hollander, let me fucking talk now’’ Ilya snaps, and Shane closes his mouth, tongue still venomous ‘’You don’t get to put words in my mouth because it will make you feel better. I do not care if that is what you think, I will not give breath to it just because you want to.’’

‘’That literally doesn’t mean anything.’’

‘’It does, and now shut up. It is unfair, you are unfair with me. I understand that what happened upsets you, but the point is— You can’t just say that— Not when— Fucking hell’’ he curses in Russian, looking up for a second. Shane indulges:

‘’You know you can talk Russian, right? I was being a dick—‘’

‘’No. Maybe if you hear it in English you will understand how this is important. If you think something about me — like, I don’t want you to meet my friends —, if you have a doubt, we talk. You do not put words in my mouth because you need to hear them from me. I will not give a body to your paranoia. And I will not let you do it in front of me. It is not about babysitting’’ he takes up again, after a deep breath ‘’It is about enjoy the night. I know that you will not, and that is okay. I will not, too, thinking you are doing something you do not like for me. Not because I will be mad, but because I will be sorry. That is why I do not invite you. It is not worth your pain. Nothing is. Not my stupid friends, not anything else.’’

Shane tries to absorb what he has just heard. Overcoming the diffidence, a part of him urges with the desire of drinking those words like Holy Water. No one has never been so meticulously, quietly attentive towards him. Not before Ilya. That’s what he’d like to say. Please, read me whole, translate me, do the best for me, even when I don’t know what the best is.

He lets out a tired: ‘’Then what about your attitude?’’

‘’It is not attitude. And it is not an act. I am rude, I told you so when I met you. And I am not a liar. My friends know it, they know how I am. And with people I do not like, it is even better. They hate me and I have a lot of fun. Sometimes I am like that with you, too.’’

‘’Yes, but… Not always. You don’t mess around with me.’’

Maybe it’s just the young afternoon light, or maybe Ilya is blushing right in front of him. Just the tip of his ears, but still. It’s there and Shane doesn’t even remember what he was mad about. ‘’When you are upset, you scrunch your nose and narrow your eyes. Like, eh, kitten. But when you are pleased, you blush and your freckles stand out. That is way better. Is… How you say? Personal preference’’ Ilya clears his throat, hopeful ‘’So. That is all my reasons. I am sorry if you have discovered that this way. Not you or the guys could have know. And I was not thinking. Sorry again. Are we okay? Can we go inside?’’

Shane considers it all for several seconds, then nods, still sore by unshed tears. Ilya invites him without touching his skin, one arm open for reach. Shane follows his lead, squirming his eyes when he meets the heavy lights of the entrance. Immediately, a pair of sunglasses waves in front of his nose, tied to Ilya’s long fingers. ‘’Here. I do not need them.’’

‘’Thanks’’, he manages, voice hoarse. It’s obvious he was about to cry, but Ilya is softly subtle about noticing it. He grabs a cart, waiting for Shane to join him. ‘’You have list. Do you still want cake? We can do cake tonight after dinner.’’

Another nod. Shane doesn’t say a word for a while.

They’re looking for fresh tomatoes when Shane speaks again: ‘’I was thinking…’’, but he’s still coming down from the fight, so it’s difficult even to phrase it without wobbling. The sunglasses are definitely helpful. Guilt is now curling in his chest: he’d been too much, and he’d flashed all his insecurities, his meanness, over Ilya, just because he was the easiest target, more than the real one. Shane would have had his paranoias about their friendship anyway, and yet he’d shoved them right on Ilya’s face, instead of seeking for some form of confrontation. And now Ilya had to explain it all to him. He had to trace the right boundaries for the both of them. Fuck. Shane should have apologised first.

Ilya doesn’t rush him. He’s testing some avocados, grabbing them in his hold, apparently ignoring him. Shane knows he’s not. He’s just waiting. ‘’I really wanted to… You know, introduce you to my friends. They always ask about you, too, and I wanted to… Hm, hear what you think about it. If you could ever consider it.’’

Ilya gets rid of the avocado pretty quickly. ‘’You mean the Pikes? And Rose Landry, right?’’

‘’Yes. We could… Have them over our place. And now you could invite Harris and Troy, too. I’d even go for Luca, but—‘’

‘’Haas still thinks he’s a kid. He will have panic attack if I invite him, and then I have to rush him to ER, night is ruined and my boss is mad at me. Let him hang out with other rookies for a while. The team is good to him. But Harris is a good idea, and Barrett is a consequence’’ he flatly jokes. He’s staring at him again: one second later, he reaches for his own sunglasses, hovering them on Shane’s forehead to look at him. His palm is still shielding from the white lights there in the aisle. ‘’You still have your afflicted face’’, he states. Shane looks at him:

‘’Afflicted? How do you even—‘’

‘’I sometimes flip through your many books. Are you still mad at me?’’ Ilya inquires, letting go on the sunglasses. Shane almost whines at the loss of warmth coming from his palm. Almost, though.

‘’No. No, I… I’m sorry, actually. For acting so childish, and… For yelling. I shouldn’t have to. You—‘’, Shane suddenly cuts himself. He was about to say something really stupid. You shouldn’t be the only mature one in this relationship. He knows that the word relationship itself has many meanings, most of them far from romantic, but putting it between them right now craves a hole in his heart. A very small one, but still. Shane can feel the emptiness passing through it. Probably because sometimes he’s crucially aware of how that’s not what him and Ilya have. Or ever will have. But he never allows himself to dig in that thought. Shane clears his throat: ‘’It was unpleasant, that is all. And… Open to misunderstandings.’’

‘’Yes. I should have told you about the invites. Discuss it.’’

‘’I would have probably said no anyway’’, Shane reassures. Ilya doesn’t argue, and that’s for the best. Especially when Shane would have said Or maybe I could’ve said yes, but only because I know you’d be here with me. I’d be safe. Or even: I’d say no, but only because if your friends don’t like me, I’m not so sure you would chose me over them. Again: Seeing how your treat others would remind me how you treat me. And I have too many questions about that. And so many answers I don’t like.

And only one I’d sell my soul for. But I can’t allow myself to think about it.

‘’It is a big misunderstanding. We misunderstood. It’s fine. Let’s grab everything we need and let’s head home’’ Ilya resolves, in Russian. Shane answers almost automatically:

‘’We’ve run out of Ginger Ale.’’

Ilya’s smile flashes him like an entire galaxy: ‘’Already covered that for you’’, he implies, pointing at the cans in their cart only with his chin. Shane stares at them for a whole second.

That last answer keeps pushing. Shane basically swallows it. 

*****

‘’Wow, Roz. You need notes for how things are called? What is this post-it?’’

‘’Get the fuck out of my house, Barrett.’’

‘’Ilya’’, Shane snaps, tone only half-serious. 

Ilya purses his lips, but doesn’t answer, preferring stirring the stew instead. It’s meat-based, well seasoned and with a side of mashed potatoes. The smell is actually delicious, and prepping with Ilya before the others arrived has been fun. Domestic, even. After almost five months of living together, they are quite acquainted with each other’s presence. They barely need to talk: Ilya has found the recipe, and Shane has settled for doing the most boring steps, saving Ilya from it. Shane loved chopping vegetables, potatoes, carrots and celery for the stew, the neat order of it all; Ilya was determined to season the meat perfectly, checking the taste of it every time. It’s almost ready now, Ilya is adding a pinch of rosemary keeping him away with one arm, now that the smell of the entire pot might be a little too much for Shane. Shane, who’s nestled on one of the stools, playing with his can of Ginger Ale, finally relaxed. The thought of having all those people chatting and meeting each others in front of him spun in his mind for several days, but there was no need of being so anxious, after all. Rose and Jackie are lovely as always, and Hayden has already clicked with Troy, talking about hockey and stuff. Harris is very interested in Ilya’s cooking, asking several question on the dish. Ilya supplies as he can, tone mostly bored. ‘’Ask Shane, he probably has learned it by memory now’’, he jokes, and Harris elbows him.

‘’Shut up, Roz. I still have no clue of how Shane here hasn’t murdered you yet.’’

‘’Two bedrooms is the key’’ Shane reveals, unhurried ‘’He just disappears at some point.’’

A rag almost hits him, but Ilya’s not an animal, so at least it’s one of the clear ones. The attack doesn’t muffle Harris’ pleased laugh. Facing what Troy has said just one minute earlier, Shane clarifies: ‘’The notes in Russian are for me. I’m learning the language. There are also notes in English around— Those are Ilya’s.’’

Shane has meant to sound casual, but the silence that follows his words betrays him. ‘’You’re learning Russian?’’ Rose echoes, cheek in her palm. She’s on the opposite side of the kitchen island. ‘’Since when? You never mentioned.’’

‘’Uh— November’’, Shane blurts, low. Harris blinks:

‘’Hasn’t Ilya moved here in October?’’

‘’Wow, Harris. So interested in my private life. Are you having troubles with Barrett?’’, both Hayden and Jackie burst out laughing at Ilya’s joke, brushing away the topic in the first place. Shane looks at Ilya’s back, his shirt and the small curls on the nape of his neck, the ones that Shane would love to mindlessly twist on his finger. Maybe with Ilya’s head again in his lap. His hand on Shane’s knee, comforting. 

If Shane didn’t know better, he’d think Ilya is nervous about meeting his friends, but that’s not remotely possible. Ilya is never nervous. Even if he has been almost surgical in shopping the groceries for the night. Even if he hasn’t left Shane’s side once. Always checking with him what he’d just said, always giving a second look, a quick nod to Shane or himself. If he wanted to be bold, Shane would have guessed that Ilya was trying to make a good impression on his friends. But there was no reason to believe it, so. Shane is simply daydreaming because he can.

Like there was any risk, though. Since their arrival, Jackie and Rose haven’t stop chatting with Ilya, all big smiles and pleased faces. Jackie, being grown up bilingual, has yanked Shane’s shirt right after Ilya’s bubbly greeting: ‘’In another universe’’ she joked in French ‘’I’d totally ask you to introduce us. Have you seen him?’’

‘’We live together, Jackie.’’

‘’You must be God’s strongest soldier. And I’m saying this as a happily married woman. We can still set up Rose, though’’, she winked. Shane cringed at the possibility, but said nothing back.

And now, in the same language, Hayden’s wife asks: ‘’And what’s your favourite, Shane? Russian, French or English?’’

‘’I think there’s a clear answer to that’’, Shane smiles, exactly when Ilya’s head snaps:

‘’Hey. No languages I can’t understand. I can’t reach you there.’’

‘’You’re such a baby’’, it’s Shane dismissive comment. Troy jumps in:

‘’Told you so. You must’ve got the patience of a martyr.’’

‘’What is martyr, Shane?’’

‘’Don’t worry about it’’, he pleads, and Hayden chuckles at Ilya’s furrowed expression. Neither Rose or Jackie are laughing, though: they exchange a quick glance, noticed only by Shane himself. He’s about to investigate, when Ilya turns his back to the stew: ‘’Okay, all’s ready. Go sit, me and Shane will serve.’’

Shane rolls his eyes, right before jumping off the stool and joining Ilya. Harris grabs the wine, the others take care of the glasses. ‘’What is a martyr?’’, Ilya brings out again, as soon as they’re alone ‘’Do I have to go for Barrett?’’

‘’Oh, God, shut up. It’s… You know, people who die, usually tortured, to defend their religion or beliefs.’’

‘’Oh, muchenik, yes. Wait— Why are you a muchenik? Because you live with me?’’

‘’We could say s— Shit’’, Shane hisses, retiring his hand to his chest. He was reaching for a dipper, and he must’ve brushed his skin against the still burning handle. Ilya immediately grabs his wrist, studying the soft mark on the side of his palm:

‘’Careful, zolotse. Still very hot.’’

The Russian, unknown word tingles in Shane’s ears: ‘’What was that? I’ve never heard it before.’’

Ilya blinks, apparently surprised: ‘’It’s like— A nice way to say you’re clumsy’’, he almost stutters, looking for the plates. Shane rises his eyebrows:

‘’Nope. That’s definitely a lie. You taught me all the insults already.’’

‘’Not true. Not lie. Just a man of many qualities. Now take the plates.’’

They’re both inundated by compliments for the stew: Ilya diverges most of them towards Shane, but he does the same and it’s far more convincing, so that’s a tie. ‘’Is this typical back in Russia, Ilya?’’, Rose asks, curious. Ilya scrunches his nose, and Shane interferes:

‘’It’s just a random recipe, Rosie.’’

‘’Russia is for dishes such as this. Like… Rich ones’’ it’s Ilya’s answer, gesturing in the air, one second too late lo look sincerely relaxed ‘’It is mostly due to the cold. We have a lot of soups, a lot of vegetables… Mushrooms, cabbage, things like that.’’

‘’You should cook for the entire team’’ it’s Troy’s suggestion ‘’If you are this good, I mean.’’

‘’I would rather peel my skin off. That would be a good soup.’’

‘’You’re hideous.’’

‘’Don’t know what that means. If it makes you so upset, be it.’’

The laugh rising up from the entire table pushes away the faint shadow of Ilya’s past that was lowering over them. Jackie still questions about Ilya’s Russian and how and when he uses it, and the man gets to talk about Svetlana and her job in Boston, this time loose and happy. ‘’I talk Russian only with her’’ it’s Ilya’s vague statement, even if the fact that he hasn’t any contact with his family is silently clear by now ‘’And Shane, of course.’’

‘’And how’s Shane’s Russian?’’ Hayden takes a sip of his glass ‘’You have to convince me this man is not capable of learning everything he wants.’’

‘’Because I’m not’’ Shane underlines, shy. Ilya denies with a quick sound:

‘’Not true. You are a very quick learner. Your accent is good.’’

‘’Only because I practice everyday with a native—‘’

‘’Not the point. Always said you are boring genius. We speak Russian just fine’’ Ilya promises, nodding. Harris give into a smile:

‘’I would have never suspected you were the compliment type, Roz.’’

‘’You want some too?’’ Ilya rises and eyebrow ‘’Barrett here is not doing it for you?’’

Rose’s giggling perfectly diverts the attention from Shane’s pink cheeks. Especially when Ilya’s knee has been pressed the entire time against his, softly bouncing, more a caress than a nervous tic. Every time Shane flinches for a loud comment, every time a particularly savoury spoonful creeps through his mouth, it’s there. And if a part of him is trying to ignore it, the other is melting on the spot for Ilya’s warm radiance against his jeans.

The night is a blast. They chat and laugh and talk about a lot of things, hockey and work and babies (Pikes’ ones, since both Ilya and Harris have insisted for some pictures), comfortable between the couch, the carpet and the armchair, emptying two bottles of wine next to a card game that lights up Ilya and Hayden’s competitive vein. They leave their place in a tornado of kisses on the cheek and warm hugs, coats and scarfs against the cold. ‘’I can’t believe I met the Troy Barrett’’, Hayden mutters in his shoulder. Shane just laughs and pats his back. He has to tell Ilya about that.

Once alone, though, they take a second to breathe, savouring the sudden silence. Shane has still a hand on the knob when Ilya asks: ‘’Do you need a minute?’’

Shane finds himself completely relaxed. He flashes Ilya a smile: ‘’No. I’m good, actually. That was great, no? I really had fun.’’

‘’Me too. Jackie and Rose are really lovely, they had a lot of advices for my curls. And they also had insisted on skincare.’’

‘’I insist on skincare, too!’’, it’s Shane’s protest, while they walk back in the kitchen to tidy up the place. Ilya grabs the dirty plates, opening the dishwasher with only one hand:

‘’Yes, but women insist differently. They make it look like a favour you have to do to them.’’

Shane huffs a laugh: ‘’Yeah, that’s usually how I feel with them, too.’’

‘’Still. Lovely ladies. And Hayden is not so bad, too, but I sense we’re really different.’’

‘’That’s an understatement, for sure. Do you ever think you’re too harsh on Troy?’’

‘’Never. I know he enjoys. Harris surely does.’’

‘’They’re truly adorable, you know? Troy has this thing—‘’

‘’Do you ever miss talking French?’’

The question drops between them like a stone. Shane looks up from where he was collecting dirty cutlery, meeting Ilya’s gaze on the spot. Shane tilts his head: ‘’What do you mean?’’

‘’You were speaking French with Jackie earlier. Do you miss it? Because you are learning Russian, but I never tried speaking French.’’

‘’Because you are already busy with English, silly. And… No, I think?’’ he assumes, shrugging his shoulders ‘’I have bilingual colleagues. We often speak French. And I’ve spoke French through all my teens. I’ve always had bilingual friends at some point, I think. And me and Jackie use it a lot. Pisses the hell off out of Hayd’’, he jokes, handing the spoons to Ilya. They’re quickly discarded in the dishwasher, as Ilya says:

‘’So you can speak well? Pretty much as you speak English?’’

‘’Sort of.’’

‘’Like?’’

There’s something, here. Something slightly out of Shane’s reach. He has barely noticed how Ilya has ben attentive on Shane speaking French. To be fair, Shane himself sometimes forgets when he uses either English or French with Jackie. They’re staring at each other now, on the two sides of the kitchen island, Shane with his hands on the edge, balancing, Ilya standing next to the open dishwasher. Shane’s mind spins, then settles, on how they are quietly chatting in their kitchen after having their friends over, sharing opinions and impressions. On how Ilya has tried to touch him through the night, with his knee, the bare tip of his fingers, the ghostly presence of his elbow on the table. On how he has prayed that his friends liked Ilya, because he wouldn’t have been able to split himself for them. Not when his heart started singing in relief at how Ilya has been analysing the hockey season with Troy and Hayden, how Rose has shown Ilya her favourite recipe blog, how Jackie has been talking about his kids at Ilya’s softened look. How Ilya commented the picture of Arthur, their barely one year old, almost whispering, like he’d been afraid to wake him up. How Shane’s mind was racing in chanting Please, please stay like this forever. Do all of this for me forever. I need them to like you. I don’t know what I’ll do if you’ll ever rip yourself out of this. You need to stay here and hold me in place. I know where I am because I know where you are. I’ll drift away if you don’t hold me. Please. Please, forever, please.

The realisation quietly hits him. Like a single thug of something really heavy reaching the bottom of the sea. Against all odds, it’s there. It has found its spot. And it will be an hell of a fatigue to bring it back to the light, only to discard it. Push it away. Shane has in his mouth the bitter taste of something he’s acknowledging just to take distance from it. Because it’s too much— If he’ll ever start breathing it, it will melt into the soft material of his heart until even Shane won’t be able to tell them apart, remember who he was before. And he can’t. It’s too risky, too dangerous. Too close to losing Ilya for something such as stupid as falling in love with him.

Shane is circling his index on the marble, looking at the movement, when he answers in French: ‘’I think I am a little bit obsessed with you. Even more than that, I think I’d rebuild myself if you asked. If I could, I’d hide with you in the remotest place on earth, just to be able to say I’m the only one who knows where you are. I’m not so sure you’d follow me, though.’’

When he looks up, Ilya’s eyes are still fixed on him. The dishwasher has started beeping, probably opened for too long now. Ilya clearly doesn’t care. ‘’What was that?’’

Shane chuckles, hiding the bitterness: ‘’Just perfectly explained you how to do that dishwasher program you always mess up. Have fun guessing it. I need a shower’’, he says, taking some steps back. Ilya’s eyes go wide:

‘’Hollander! Come back here!’’

‘’T’es adorable et je suis condamné, Ilya!’’

*****

It’s an ambush. 

Shane is being trapped.

When Rose has texted him to get lunch together, Shane accepted in a blink of an eye. The appointment is in the usual cafe, where they always grab the same bagels, Shane’s favourites in entire Ottawa. That’s why today, during his lunch break from university, Shane comes in, welcomed by the bell singing on the door and the smell of fresh coffee, and immediately spots Rose.

And Jackie.

The two women are on the same side of the table, leaving the only empty chair for him. On the opposite margin. Like a court bench. Ready to give his deposition. Being questioned. 

Two glasses of ice tea sit graciously on the white table cloth, right next to a little bouquet of blue flowers. Shane clears his throat: ‘’Hi’’, he says, clumsy finding his spot on the chair. He’s clearly confused about Jackie being there. Not disappointed, it’s clear, he would neve..r. But he immediately spots the atmosphere. Rose smiles brightly at him: ‘’Hi, Shaney. I met Jackie down the road and invited her over! Hope you don’t mind…’’

Sure thing. ‘’Who are you talking to?’’ he tries to joke, but he’s nervous. It’s been five days since they have been over for dinner. They text every day. They frequently call. Shane knows there are no breaking news in sight, nothing urgent to discuss.

Apart from Ilya. This must be about Ilya. 

Jackie’s voice crushes into his ears. We can still set up Rose. Of course. Rose has been mesmerised by Ilya — how could she not? —, and she wants his number, or his socials. Or a straight up invitation to their place, just her this time, to work on Ilya properly, testing the waters. And Jackie is there a support. As a witness, even. How could you not notice, Shane? They were checking each other the whole night! Oh, sorry, his bad, he was probably too busy pushing away the enormous, ridiculous crush he’s feeding since months. For the aforementioned roommate.

Shane’s crush is none of Ilya’s business, by the way. It’s not like he’ll ever know. He can’t afford himself a crush for his roommate, leaving for someone like Ilya. Someone who’s outgoing and extrovert, so handsome it’s unreal, and also kind, witty, clever, successful and intuitive, someone who could have anyone and that will never settle for Shane. Shane, even too aware of how he looks like as a friend. Or as a boyfriend.

He’s discrete, as he said. Private. Showing himself to a friend is a matter; doing the same to a partner another. Shane is clingy, needy, exposed up to the bone, incapable of hiding the gulps of his heart, the intimate movements of his skin, his desire of merging with the other’s body, until there’s no more difference, just a puddle of limbs and organs. All his insecurities, his difficult days, his fears, what Shane is, wildly exposed. A difficult outcome, equally irreversible, to open himself like a pomegranate on a spotless, fancy cloth. I can be beautiful, I know. But I am also a lot. I can be worth the mess. 

Shane stares at an imprecise point of the wall behind Rose and Jackie. It’s a cascade of fake flowers, covering the entire surface. Sweet pink, and then butter yellow. Jackie sighs after a sip of her ice tea: ‘’Come on, honey. We all know why we’re here.’’

It’s already late, then. Maybe Ilya has done everything behind Shane’s back, following Rose on Instagram, sliding in her DMs. They’ll be the cutest couple by the beginning of spring. Always hanging around at Shane and Ilya’s place. In front of Shane, who will be happy for them, of course, because he loves Rose and… Well. Ilya, too.

‘’Yes’’, and his voice is vaguely hoarse. He thanks a waiter for a glass of tea— Not ever remembering ordering it. He plays with his own fingers, shoulders tense: ‘’I mean, no. It’s clear you have something to tell me, so… Shoot. I’m here.’’

Rose blinks, lowering on the table: ‘’Shane, babe. You really have no idea?’’

‘’I guess I’ve been distracted’’ he lies, already tired ‘’You know how I am.’’

‘’But—‘’ Jackie almost stutters ‘’You can’t be that blind.’’

Rose nods at her words, frenetically: ‘’I mean, it was there. Oh, God’’ she breathes, a hand on her chest, giving a second look to Shane’s pale face ‘’You really have no idea.’’

‘’That’s what I’ve been trying to say.’’

‘’But Shane—‘’

‘’You mean you haven’t notice Ilya? At all?’’ Rose cuts Jackie off, eyes wide as coins. Shane simply shrugs. He would rather eat raw meat than keep on going with this spectacle. Not when both women are looking at him like he suddenly has two heads and five arms, one coming straight up from his back. Shane doesn’t even have the words, let alone the strength. ‘’Nothing’’ he swears, voice even ‘’What about Ilya?’’

‘’Men’’, it’s all Jackie spits. Shane is about to leave, too strained to act unaffected, when Rose basically erupts:

‘’Shane. Shane, babe, that man is crazy about you. Like, straight up madness.’’

‘’Straight is a strong word’’, it’s Jackie’s note. Rose snaps:

‘’Sweetie, not know. We’re awakening the kid.’’

Even if Jackie puffs out a laugh, he has no reaction. Shane simply stares at them. Yet, at least in his mind, he’s suddenly split in two.

He’d love to believe that, and whichever side of his soul is choosing to do so it’s almost eager to ask. What have you noticed? Is this true? You’d swear? Please say you would. Say I’ve been blind all this time. Let me have this. Just this. If I’m lucky enough, I won’t ask for everything else.

But it’s a weak, insecure side. One that hardly believes that Ilya would ever consider him in such a tender, soft light. A side devoured, threatened by the other one, which cuts him short in an almost telegraphic tone, We both know that’s impossible. It is sickening to hope, Shane. You’ll be disappointed, you always are, and then you cry, and whine, and you try to mend pieces of you that you have carefully broke on purpose. Stop this nonsense right now. They don’t know Ilya; you do. That’s why we assure you they’re completely wrong. You didn’t actually believe it, do you? 

Well. For a split second, maybe. Just to taste the sweetness in his mouth right before spitting it away, refusing it. 

Shane softly gulps: ‘’That’s… No. There must be a misunderstanding’’ both women look at him with wide eyes ‘’It’s… It’s just how Ilya is. Very outgoing and such. It might look like that, but we’re just good friends.’’

‘’Shane—‘’

They’re interrupted by the waitress. Shane forces his order out of his throat, fighting stones on his tongue. He’s uncomfortable, and he wants to leave. Not to university, he’d be too upset to work, too. Recollecting Ilya’s schedule in his mind, the one pinned on the fridge, he realises he must be home by now. He also realises that’s exactly where he’d like to be, too. Baking something, maybe. Shane has decided, since the dinner, to never touch the matter again. Almost confessing to Ilya in French was bold, and stupid, enough; also relieving enough to allow never mention it again, not to Ilya, but to himself. It would have faded away, with time and effort. Ilya would have found someone soon. He would have introduced them. Shane would have had all the reasons to forget his feelings in the first place.

(He couldn’t stop himself thinking that forgetting his feelings for Ilya meant forgetting a part of himself, something that had grown, and felt, and breathed. Even without touching him, Ilya had created something from Shane, only to tear it off. Give it back, he would have prayed. And then, no, no, please, sorry, it’s yours, have it, sorry.) 

‘’Shane’’, and it’s Rose again. A hand reaches for his. Jackie and Rose must know how uncomfortable he is right now, and they look nothing but sympathetic. ‘’Shane, honey, we wouldn’t have cornered you here if we weren’t sure. If I had Harris’ number, I’d ask him, too. Please, sweetheart, tell me you don’t think Ilya could never like you.’’

Shane stays perfectly quiet, a little bird caught sneaking out of the nest. Rose squeezes her hold: ‘’Shane, seriously— I mean it almost as a sister. You are brilliant. So brilliant I can’t almost look at you. You are kind, and mindful like no one. You notice, you care, you are present and funny and successful—‘’

‘’And hot.’’

‘’And you are so sweet to Jackie’s kids—‘’

‘’You are also hot.’’

‘’You value what you say. You give the right weight to everyone’s emotions—‘’

‘’Rose is forgetting you are really hot—‘’

‘’Jackie! I think you’ve made your point clear.’’

‘’I’m just saying that Shane is obviously all of that, but Ilya was definitely not looking at Shane’s kindness last night. You should wear those jeans more often, by the way’’ she winks, grinning. Shane feels his neck burning.

‘’I’m sure he wasn’t—‘’

‘’Shane’’ Rose sighs, defeated ‘’Believe me. He was almost shameless.’’

‘’Right? And all the Shane does this, Shane can do that, Shane says’’ Jackie poorly mocks a broken Russian accent ‘’All the touching, all the staring. And the fact that you are learning Russian? You never mentioned!’’

‘’It’s not a big deal. I… I did it for him, that’s all’’, the tries, dismissive. Like Shane has ever been dismissive about anything in his life. He dares taking a bite of his bagel: the familiar taste is comforting enough to help him not burst in tears. Rose insists after a sip of her glass:

‘’Shane, babe, if you ever thought of having feelings for Ilya…’’

‘’I’d really like not to talk about it.’’

‘’Deal. But I know you. You are too harsh on yourself. Please just… Take note of what we said, okay? As a reference. Like, in the back of your head. Maybe you’ll see things more clearly, or you’ll just come to us saying we were wrong. We’ll have a good laugh. End of the story.’’

‘’But please’’, Jackie insists, now sweet ‘’Do not exile Ilya where he can’t reach back to you. It’s not up to you shape him.’’

I will not give a body to your paranoia. Shane nods, taking another bite. He needs his mouth to be full, otherwise he’ll drip on the table, too tired to do anything else. ‘’Fine’’, he grants, trying to sound even. Probably failing. Rose smiles despite it all, retiring her hand. She has left a faint mark on Shane’s fingers. Like she wanted to tell him Other people can touch you. They’ll do it just to hold you together. 

Later that night, Shane is in front of the kitchen calendar, pen in his hand. ‘’What are you scribbling?’’, comes from Ilya’s voice, somewhere behind is back. Scribbling is Ilya’s favourite word of the week. Shane has initiated him to Scrabble and he’s already dealing with the consequences.

Shane taps on the paper: ‘’It’s Jackie and Hayden’s anniversary next Thursday. They asked me to babysit the kids— They’ll bring them here, probably. I meant to let you know later.’’

As a matter of fact, Jackie dropped the favour at some point during the rest of their lunch. Not that Shane would have been difficult to convince: he loved the Pikes, and he couldn’t wait to spend a night with the twins. Arthur would have probably slept for most of the time, but he was a curious, quiet boy, that in some ways reminded Shane of himself, even if it was too early to say it. They’ll probably watch a Disney movie after a good pasta, before drawing and listening to uncle Shane’s stories. Jade and Ruby will sleep in no time, probably against him. Shane has some sort of hidden talent, with them.

Ilya is at Shane’s side, now: ‘’Cool. What do we do?’’

Shane almost snaps his head at him: ‘’Who’s we?’’

Which is a really stupid question, even if Ilya is smiling, one corner trembling with tenderness. ‘’Uh, us. Me and you.’’

‘’Jackie asked me.’’

‘’Yes, I have ears, I do hear you. But I also live here.’’

‘’I… I just assumed you would’ve go out.’’

Ilya is playing with his crucifix, and insists: ‘’Why? I love kids. I want to meet the twins, and Arthur. I am sure lovely Jackie has no problem, and I don’t think Hayden has voice in the matter.’’

‘’Wha—‘’

‘’You heard. I will stay, unless you do not want to.’’

Shane gulps, but it’s almost inaudible: ‘’No. I want to. It can be… Nice.’’

‘’Very nice, yes. I am very good with kids. Plus, how do you think you will handle three kids?’’

‘’Well, Arthur is one. He’ll be sleeping all night.’’

‘’Still. Two twins. One for you and one for me. It is a shame if we lose Jackie’s kids.’’

Shane huffs a laugh: ‘’We can’t lose kids in the house, Ilya. But, excellent use of the verb here.’’

Ilya looks smug, all of a sudden. ‘’Thank you. I have good professor with beautiful freckles. A bit distracting, but I can manage. If I really… Hm, concentrate.’’

That almost cuts out Shane’s brain entirely. 

Next week, Jackie has been informed of Ilya’s joining their night. The answer to Shane’s text was:

Jackie: omg i knew it i KNEW it.

Jackie: sorry. u said no talking

Jackie: he’s practicing for you 2 lol

Shane: We’re both men, J.

Jackie: that literally doesn’t matter

Jackie: ilya’s intentions are pure. he’ll find his way :p

When the doorbell rings, Shane is immediately at the door. ‘’Uncle Shane!’’ Ruby squeaks, as soon as she sees him: she has a read sweater, identical to Jade’s. Jackie is in a wonderful blue dress and elegant heels, hair soft swirls on the shoulders, shiny earrings glistering in the evening light. She’s elegant and bright as a star, equally mesmerising. ‘’Hello, sweetie— And J, you’re breathtaking’’, he swears, lowering a hand to Ruby’s hair, still tangled on Shane’s legs. Jackie smiles:

‘’Thanks, dove. Hayden is in the car and says hi. Hello, Ilya’’, she adds, peeking over Shane. Ilya is resting a shoulder over the wall, hand on his pockets. 

‘’Hi, Jackie. You are out of this world and Hayden is very lucky man.’’

‘’You’re too sweet.’’

‘’Uncle Shane’’ Jade tugs his finger, eyes wide, whispering ‘’There’s a stranger in your living room.’’

Jackie chuckles, while pushing Arthur’s stroller inside. The baby is peacefully asleep. ‘’This is Ilya, girls. He lives with uncle Shane.’’

‘’Shane’’ Ilya sounds suddenly outraged ‘’You had not warned the princesses about our night?’’

‘’Princesses?’’ Jade breathes, looking around. Ruby blinks:

‘’Where are the princesses? Can we meet them?’’

Jackie is still fixing Arthur’s blanket, cooing sweetnesses to not wake him up. Ilya lowers at Jade and Ruby’s level, knees bent: ‘’But you are, of course. It seems obvious to me. I know for a fact that every girl with a name of a precious stone is princess. It is unbelievable you are not aware. Shane! We need to fix this.’’

Shane’s heart is so full he’s not sure he’ll ever answer to that. He checks on Arthur, dragging his eyes away from Ilya’s sight with the twins. He hears anyway: ‘’Your voice is weird’’, Ruby states, now curious. Jade retorts:

‘’But your curls are really cute.’’

‘’Oh, they’re in good hands’’, Jackie leaves Arthur with a soft caress, before heading back out the door ‘’We won’t be late. We know they’re a lot to handle.’’

‘’Stay out as you want. Happy anniversary!’’

‘’Have fun! Spend all Hayden’s money!’’ Ilya has now the girls at his sides, almost conspiring with them. Jade has a tiny hand in Ilya’s hair, gently playing, and Shane is about to join her while he closes the door on Jackie. He’d love to crouch down there, too, sliding in Ilya’s arms, holding the girls with his nape nestled on Ilya’s shoulder. On the floor, tangled all together. 

He checks Arthur again, instead, before reasoning to leave him right next to the couch while he’s still asleep. Jackie has left a bag with diapers and formula ready to use; Shane had already babysat, and he knows what to do. ‘’What will we have for dinner, Ilya?’’ Ruby wonders, pronouncing his name as e-lee-a. Jade trots behind them, eyes glistering at Ilya, hand softly clinging on his sweatpants. They settle on the couch, too, Ruby gathering his knees to press herself in the corner, Jade right next to Arthur’s stroller.

‘’Hamburger and mashed potatoes.’’

‘’Bleah, potatoes.’’

‘’No food deserves a bleah, Jade’’, Shane admonishes her gently, opening an arm right away to welcome her, sit on the carpet. ‘’Now: dinner first, then movie night. And if you are good enough, we might have some candies in store for you.’’

‘’Real candies’’ Ilya swears, tempting ‘’Nothing like whatever your uncle feeds himself. And now go wash your hands before eating. Who comes back first will splash the mashed potatoes in the plate.’’

They both sprint for the bathroom, laughing, and Shane mutters: ‘’Jade is the one with the ponytails.’’

Ilya sighs in relief: ‘’Thank God. It was getting difficult.’’

‘’And they won’t play with food.’’

‘’Oh my God, Hollander, you are so boring.’’

They have dinner all together in the kitchen: Ruby and Jade are both attending ballet class, and they’re more than excited to talk about it. They mime movements with their hands and explain various exercises, dominating their attention the whole time. Ilya compliments their jumps and arabesques, asking for a demonstration in the kitchen’s aisle. The twins are so engaged that they do not complain about the mashed potatoes at all, and that seemed exactly Ilya’s goal, who has his plate still untouched. Shane nudges him:

‘’Eat. I’ll deal with them for a while.’’

‘’I am fine.’’

‘’It’s getting cold. Come on.’’

Right after that, Jade and Ruby are debating about what film they should watch. Ilya’s recent interest with Disney had came up during dinner, condition that made the girls’ decision significantly crucial. ‘’We need to show him the best Disney movie’’, Ruby declares, dead serious. Jade follows her with a comic pout:

‘’But which one? They’re all amazing!’’

‘’I know! We need something funny and… Like, you can’t stop watching it.’’

‘’Entertaining’’ Ilya supplies, grinning, sit right in the middle of the argument ‘’I know that word. Means exactly that.’’

The twins whisper to each others for another couple of minutes— Not exactly whispering, so much that when they’re over both Ilya and Shane are already looking at them. ‘’What about The Princess and the Frog? You don’t know it, right?’’

Ilya’s face is motionless, even if an angle of his mouth trembles in laughter. ‘’Never heard it in my life’’, he swears, hand on his chest. Shane quietly rolls his eyes, fond: that’s probably one of their classics. Seen exactly on that couch dozens of times. ‘’I am so much like him’’, Ilya used to say, pointing at Naveen ‘’Handsome, successful, charismatic. The whole lot.’’

‘’You are nothing like him. And he’s presumptuous.’’

‘’That is not real word.’’

‘’It is. I’ll look for the Russian later. I’m basically saying he’s a bit of an asshole’’ Shane paused ‘’So, yeah. Maybe you are like him.’’

‘’Fuck you, Hollander.’’

‘’That’s the point.’’

During the first half an hour of the movie, Ruby and Jade find a comfortable position between Shane and Ilya’s bodies: Ruby is still in the corner, legs swinging over Ilya’s thigh; Jade has her head resting on Shane’s stomach, hands playing with his sweater. The lights are low, Shane is petting Jade’s hair almost absently, and Ilya and Ruby are whispering about Naveen’s charm in the first scene, cheeks close. Shane is about to come up with some stupid joke, when a soft cry creeps through the room.

‘’Oh’’, Jade whispers, leaving Shane all the space to stand up. He’s immediately on the stroller’s side, looking at Arthur’s wide eyes, his tiny hand trying to grab thin air. ‘’There’s no need to cry, bud’’ he coos, scooping him immediately in his arms ‘’I’m here, sweetie. Uncle Shane’s here, yes? Are you hungry? I have some milk ready for you.’’

‘’We’re all here, Arthie’’, Ruby calls, reaching for her baby brother. The film is now paused, and they’re all looking at them: Ilya has his gaze firmly tied on Shane, never leaving him, not even when Jade comes closer and tickles his brother’s foot, trying to make him laugh. Arthur fists Shane’s sweater, sniffing: ‘’Hi’’, he murmurs, voice watery. Ruby handles him his blanket, soaked with Jackie’s perfume. Shane leaves a soft kiss at his temple:

‘’See? No need to panic, pumpkin. Time for some good milk.’’

Arthur is quite similar to Shane, he has learned in the last year. Obviously, Shane has been ecstatic at the idea of being an uncle since Jade and Ruby’s announcement, and he loves his nephews equally, so much that it can barely fit in his heart. He has read dozens of books about how to be a perfect uncle, or what were the essentials needs of a newborn. In the same way, though, Jade and Ruby are a lovely mixture of Jackie’s boldness and Hayden’s charisma. They are loud, and chatty, and petty straightforward, for being only five. That’s also probably because they’re two, and they’d never been alone for one second of their lives so far. Shane, beating all expectations, could never be tired of being around his girls: they’re a good opposite of his personality, and yet he loves them too dearly to care. Their pinched laughs, their stubborn and childish arguments, could never either stress him or bore him. That’s what love does to some people.

Arthur, on the other hand, is quiet even when he cries. He has never screamed or made a scene for something, he’s shy and fearful, even, the kind of baby who smiles at strangers before hiding in the shoulder who’s holding him. Jackie has been afraid of his quietness, but the doctor reassured her that it was just a matter of time, or otherwise personality. ‘’There’s nothing wrong with him’’, Shane said one night. Jackie immediately guessed what he was implying:

‘’There’s nothing wrong with you, too. I’d love to see Arthur turn out like you.’’

Twenty minutes later, Shane and Arthur are on the couch, movie still paused, the girls hovering over them to watch at their baby brother. Arthur stares at Ilya, though, the feeding bottle hold by Shane, and waves with the hand that’s not still hooked up at Shane’s sweater. Ilya caresses his leg, grinning:

‘’Hello to you, malysh. You are very lucky little guy, nestled there’’, he sing-songs, tickling Arthur with his long index. Arthur grabs it in one swift movement, holding it there, still sucking his formula. ‘’All good, malysh, you can have it.’’

Once Arthur is done with the formula, Shane starts pacing around, Arthur’s cheek on his shoulder, patting his back and bouncing on his knees. ‘’One little burp and you’re done, pumpkin’’ Arthur is probably drooling on him, but again, Shane doesn’t care— And he also has a cloth draped on his shoulder ‘’And then some more sleep, yes? I’m not leaving you.’’

‘’Yes’’, Arthur slurs, already sleepy. Ilya is entertaining the girls, all three of them around the coffee table, and Shane can’t help but following their heated conversation: ‘’You can’t tell Ilya how it ends!’’, it’s Jade’s compliant, while she’s doodling on some paper Shane had stocked for them. Ruby puffs: ‘’It’s always the same! Ilya is clever and he likes movies...’’

‘’Thank you, lapochka.’’

‘’… So he must know that the princess always ends up with the prince! Those are the rules!’’

‘’But now he won’t watch the movie with us!’’

‘’Who told you that, sweetheart? Of course I will’’, those in Russian were probably endearments, too, but hearing Ilya saying it in English with such a fond, thick tone flips his heart (twice) ‘’Even if probably it will be their kiss to… Uhm, fix it all.’’

Like Ilya hasn’t learned the script by memory. In December. ‘’Because they are in love’’, Ruby explains, obvious ‘’That’s how it works.’’

‘’Even if Naveen likes to make her angry’’, Jade mumbles, like’s some personal matter.

‘’Ah, but that is where I can teach you something, umnitsa. Boys usually like to make the girls they like a bit angry. I will be very clear: you always have to be treated like princesses. That is really important and you need to know. But it can happen that making you angry is a little joke. When it is funny for the both of you. When people are angry are sometimes really cute.’’

‘’That’s what you do, Ilya?’’

‘’A little bit. It is difficult for me to explain how I act. I am… Shane, what is that word I still can’t pronounce?’’

Shane fixes Arthur’s cloth, checking on his sleep: ‘’Spontaneous.’’

‘’That. Thank you. So, that I do not know. You should ask to the person I like.’’

It’s in this precise moment that Shane almost breaks his neck to look at Ilya. Arthur waddles in his hold, seeking comfort, and Shane holds onto him like he’s about to fall for miles, in his house pavement and then down in the bare earth. He scans Ilya’s face, looking for some sort of ironic glimpse. Maybe he’s just joking, or throwing a show. Like he fucking always does.

He’s too busy holding the girls’ reaction, though. ‘’You like someone, Ilya?’’ Ruby is basically jumping on the spot ‘’We want to know everything!’’

‘’Yes, please, Ilya, tell us!’’

‘’Can we see a picture? It’s another princess?’’

‘’Ah, niet, I know only two of them, and they are right here. I have an idea’’, and then, Ilya grabs Shane’s heart shaped post-its, that Shane himself has forgot on the coffee table that evening ‘’I will write it here and you will read it. Then, it goes in the trash. But only if you promise to keep the secret, or I will tell Santa about you two.’’

‘’You know Santa?’’ Jade breathes, before Ruby interrupting:

‘’It’s not important now! We won’t say a word, Ilya. Promise of princesses.’’

‘’Why on the post-it?’’, Shane blurts before he can help it, voice higher than expected. He has Arthur secured on his chest, and he’s afraid of putting him back in the stroller. What if he collapses on his knees? Because something is telling him that Ilya is not playing. At all. Not when his hand reaches for a crayon, before kneeling between the twins and inviting them with a wide gesture of his arm. ‘’Because it is private matter, Hollander’’ Ilya shushes him, grin wide on his face ‘’A secret between me and my princesses.’’

‘’Who really like their uncle and who’ll probably tell him soon’’ he tries, failing in sounding casual, leaving ironic. He would have loved to have it sound like he’s playing with Ilya, but his heavy tongue, his hold breath, betray him. He suddenly feels hot, but also weirdly cold down his spine. Like Shane is only inches away from a deep, violent cut in his heart, his whole life. Knowing that there’s a name, right there, a name of a real person who’s not him and that will have Ilya like he’ll never experience— Yeah. He almost wants to puke.

Shane is focusing on adjusting Arthur in his stroller when excited giggles explode in the living room. ‘’I said secret!’’ Ilya reminds, but he’s clearly laughing, too. When Shane is back, the post-its are clear, and the one Ilya used disappeared somewhere Shane couldn’t reach, or even guess. The twins look at him with their best I know something you don’t expression, before insisting on continuing their movie night. This time, Shane sits on the armchair, telling Ilya it’s probably for the best, if he has to check on Arthur again.

‘’You did just fine before. When you were here’’, it’s Ilya’s protest. Shane cuts him off flatly:

‘’I’ll stay here. You can take the couch with the girls.’’

Shane kind of zones out after that. He still has his eyes on the twins, but in a cold, mechanic way. Even if Ilya’s sight, with both Jade and Ruby soon asleep at his sides, clenches his heart like it’s suddenly made of stone. Especially when Ilya is still focused on the movie, one hand of Ruby’s head, the other adjusting Jade’s knees almost on his lap. He manoeuvres them with sweetness and ease, checking at their relaxed faces. 

He knew it was only a matter of time. Ilya is always around, always talking with someone, always engaged in some unforgettable night out in clubs, pubs, bars. He is clever and charming and wit, quick in his biting answers, sarcastic enough to not be hated, shushed. And he’s also caring, attentive, too mindful for Shane’s own good, for his fragile heart to suffer it, managing it just fine. Well, he doesn’t know if his heart is truly fragile, though. Sometimes Shane is sure that’s just a fist of unbreakable nerves, rigid by tension and mistrust. Probably because what lays behind it’s far too precious and delicate, weak, to be touched. Threatened, even. Shane’s armour is so thick because he’s well aware of how he’s secretly, easily breakable. And once you’re in, getting out is quite the challenge.

Ilya is in. Shane knows, and had known for a while. He just slipped inside before Shane could realise the intrusion, prevent it. He’s breathing in a corner, without disturbing, or making a mess; simply existing. Mending things around, settling new boundaries, now that Ilya stands far from everyone else Shane had ever met. Ilya has something like that, too. With someone else.

When Jackie and Hayden arrive to get the girls, Shane is the only one standing up: ‘’Told you it was convenient’’, but Ilya doesn’t answer, not this time. Jackie insist of taking a picture of Ruby and Jade asleep on Ilya, before leaving them to Hayden while she takes the stroller. ‘’Thank you so much, guys’’ she whispers, probably for the twelfth time. Shane dispels her words with a wave of his hand:

‘’Nonsense. You guys had fun?’’

‘’It was the most perfect night.’’

‘’Your girls are angels’’ it’s Ilya’s words ‘’Ask us the favour every time you want. Even if it’s not to see Pike—‘’

‘’Ilya’’, Shane snaps, but Jackie laughs, cheeks pink.

‘’You two are a lifesaver. I’ll leave you clean up the mess. Goodnight, boys.’’

Shane closes the door when Ilya is already busy tidying up the kitchen. There’s a soft rattling of dishes from there, while Shane is about to collect the girls’ drawings to pin them on the fridge.

That’s exactly when he spots a post-it folded on the coffee table.

No. Not a post-it.

The post-it. The one used by Ilya when he—

He shouldn’t. He knows all too well that he shouldn’t. Not when is far from Shane’s business who Ilya is into, especially when he has never mentioned it before, not even considering their friendship, their bond. This is a big, fat intrusion of Ilya’s privacy, something is not up to Shane to know.

Well.

Unless Ilya never knows about it.

Ilya is not famous for his spotless organisation. This means that he probably has no idea that the post-it is there in the first place. He was probably about to throw it away when it slipped from his hand, or his pocket. And now it’s there, where it surely wasn’t before. Shane would have noticed it; he would’ve burn it with his gaze. And now, he has the probably one time possibility to learn that name indirectly from Ilya. Even if he knows that’s unfair. A part of him swears how it’s equally unfair that someone else has gained the only thing he has dared to hope about. This won’t hurt anybody but him, and Shane is wounded enough anyway. At the very least, he will know. It will be a good way to get the idea of loving Ilya out of his head.

He crouches, hesitating. With one, swift movement to push away his indecision, he grabs the post-it. His tongue is heavy, dry; his heart has never been faster. This is what is all about. This (couple of letters written with a purple crayon) is the thin, yet clear line between him and Ilya. Between the sour reminder of never, never giving in too much. Not when coming back up sounds so impossible.

Shane reads the name.

Twice. Three times. Then, four.

He even mouths it.

And his mind blanks.

‘’That is not supposed to be any of your business.’’

Ilya’s voice is somehow amused. Shane looks up, skin gelid as fresh snow, lips trembling. Caught in the very act of snooping. The post-it is still unfolded in his hand, paper familiar and thin against his fingertips. He’s hyperaware of everything. And he also has to say something. ‘’You’re right’’, he blurts, voice uneven ‘’You— Yes. Right. Sorry. It was there…’’

‘’Shane’’ Ilya’s voice grounds him immediately. He’s rested against the wall, arms crossed, like he’s witnessing a really hilarious show. His grin tells such. ‘’Are you really apologising now?’’

‘’I… Yes, I am. Because you’re right.’’

‘’Oh, God. Shane, do me a favour’’ he indulges, patient ‘’What is the name on the post-it?’’

An heartbeat. Two.

Silence. Then:

‘’Um. It’s… It’s mine. But that’s not possible.’’

Ilya raises his eyebrows, even more pleased, apparently. ‘’It is not? This is weird. I though that was my post-it.’’

‘’It is. Well, technically the pad is mine, but—‘’

‘’Written by me.’’

‘’Yes. But—‘’

‘’And that is your name. You have read it a lot of times.’’

‘’What? Only four, asshole.’’

‘’Five. You just checked. There you go, now is six. My point is: you said that is impossible, and yet you have post-it. Why is it impossible then?’’

‘’Because— Because’’ it’s all Shane has to say. Tired, shy; ashamed, even. ‘’Because I know how I am. I am… Well, a lot. I don’t like to hang out like you, I’m strict and a bit obsessive, I have my paranoid, fucked up routine, I don’t like loud noises or crowded places and I’m constantly aware of how I can be a mess if I want to. I have fucking bad days and I don’t like to talk about how I feel. I wouldn’t advice to have a crush on me for shit. You should know by now how annoying I am. And there’s no cure to that. Sometimes I don’t stand myself, and I don’t see how someone like you could.’’

Shane catches his breath, but he has nothing else to say, mouth dry. Ilya is still unbothered. ‘’Are you done?’’, it’s his soft question. Shane looks at his knees:

‘’Uh, yes. I’m done.’’

‘’Good. I thought you were about to faint’’, he admits, leaving the wall. He walk towards Shane with slow, deliberate steps, and Shane tenses his shoulders, his legs, but doesn’t move, doesn’t even try to. Ilya is now right in front of him, staring from above, eyes deeply focused, pupils blown, a faint smile on his lips. He then does the last thing Shane could have expected.

He drops on his knees. 

It’s not quiet, or even careful. One second Ilya is shadowing on Shane, the other he’s a little bit under his eye level. ‘’What—‘’, but he’s even more speechless when Ilya’s hands reach for his thighs, gently roaming. It’s like he’s testing, wondering if Shane will smack him away. He doesn’t, of course, and Ilya gently carves his space between his legs, face serious, and yet relaxed. He grazes at Shane’s jeans, then asks: ‘’When is my next shift?’’ 

The question is absolutely pointless at Shane’s ears. Ilya’s fingers hook up under Shane’s knees, guiding him closer: ‘’Shane’’, he calls, squeezing a bit. Shane’s ankles unconsciously cross behind Ilya, still loose, skin tingling at his touch, vaguely heated. Shane’s hands tremble seeking Ilya’s neck, but they stay in place, rested behind him on the couch. ‘’You…’’, he’s too close. That’s confusing. His mind moves through the fog: ‘’You have a meeting tomorrow night and a game in the weekend. Ilya—‘’

‘’Good. What’s my favourite movie?’’

One hand is on his hip now, soothing. Shane is trying to tell himself that he’s always him, and that’s always Ilya, even now that his thumb is circling his hipbone. ‘’Do you want the real answer or the one you tell everyone?’’, he whispers, barely swinging, missing his chest for a couple of inches. Ilya almost meets his nose:

‘’The real one.’’

‘’Easy. The Lady and the Tramp.’’

‘’And how do I like to get my coffee?’’

‘’With too much sugar.’’

‘’The answer, Hollander.’’

‘’Four spoons. You shouldn’t make it so public.’’

‘’Mhm. What is my favourite hoodie?’’

‘’Blue Adidas one.’’

‘’What do I like to do when I am sad?’’

‘’It depends. You have a favourite blanket, but you’re usually really quiet. There’s always some trash TV involved, no matter how much I fight you about it.’’

‘’You love it. In secret.’’

‘’I do not.’’

Ilya’s hands never stopped moving, in the meantime. Shane is basically whispering at his nose, way too distracted by Ilya’s lips, eyes half closed. ‘’And if I talk Russian, do you understand me?’’, and he tightens his grip, strong fingers digging in his skin. Shane bites his lip, then nods. ‘’Ah-ah. Words.’’

‘’Yes.’’

‘’And have I ever asked you all these things? Have I ever explained them to you? When I arrived here with my ridiculous English?’’

‘’It was never ridiculous.’’

‘’Just a little bit, before your help. Now answer.’’

Shane hesitates: ‘’No. No, you never—‘’

‘’I never, yes. You noticed, you always notice. Because you care. You care more than anyone else in this world. So much that you have learned another language to help me, so much that you… It’s like— There’s…’’ but then, Ilya scoffs, tugging Shane’s legs around him. ‘’It’s like reality is shaped on you. You… You rule it. Even when everything it’s a mess, and it happens, it happens a lot. I just come back here to you and all is fine again. You are the only fixed point when I see everything shaking. You know… You just know where all of my pieces go. Even when I do not, or even when they are wounding me. You know my order better than me. I will do everything in this world to learn yours.’’

‘’You know it better than everyone’’, it’s Shane weak answer. His vision is somehow blurred now, even if he reaches at Ilya’s neck with shaky hands. The skin under his palms is burning, comforting like the first glimpse of motherland after months navigating. Shane feels back home, now. ‘’I think there is room for improving’’, he implies, looking at his lips. Shane tugs him, giggling:

‘’Who the fuck told you that saying?’’

‘’Ah, I read your boring newspaper when you are not looking. I also know your iPad code.’’

‘’You do? I’ve never told you that!’’

‘’No, you did. In your sleep. You say a lot of funny things if I ask nicely.’’

‘’Fuck you’’ he breathes, eyes probably big as lakes. Ilya’s lips moving to speak are way too distracting to keep bickering. Shane mumbles: ‘’I’d do it anyway’’, tilting his hand to slide his fingers in Ilya’s curls, tentative. He pulls him closer, clasping him with his legs, just one second before meeting Ilya’s mouth halfway. 

Ilya softly moans in his mouth, tentatively sliding his tongue against Shane’s, pressing him on the couch. Shane can now pull his hair in his fist, tilting Ilya’s head with the faintest touch of his fingers on his jaw, whimpering for his back now pressed on the couch, chest tight for the lack of air. Shane’s legs are now holding on Ilya, trying to be closer, closer, closer. He whines, too light-headed to be embarrassed, incapable of being as pressed at Ilya as he’d like, cheeks burning. ‘’It’s not enough’’, he sighs mindlessly, still holding his face, hand pressed in the middle of his shoulder blades. Ilya gently bites his swollen lip, sliding both palms under his legs, lifting him up in his arms in one swift movement. ‘’Better, yes’’, Shane mouths against his neck, meeting him again with a wet, sweet sound.

‘’No— No, what are you doing?’’, he interrupts just seconds later, panting. They’re in the hallway, and Ilya has just walked past his own bedroom, hands imprinted on Shane’s thighs. Shane has been fast enough to grasp at the door jamb, restraining them both. Ilya blinks, his hazel eyes almost drowned by black, wide pupils, his hair now messy, the skin of his neck flaming under Shane’s trembling fingers. 

‘’I… I was going to your room.’’

‘’Yeah, I noticed. Why?’’

‘’Because you have your sheets. You like your sheets.’’

Oh, God. Shane is about to drop on his knees, and for nothing remotely close to Ilya’s confession. ‘’I don’t care’’ he swears, grazing his thumb to Ilya’s lower lip ‘’Actually, I couldn’t care less right now. I want to be soaked in them, I— I want to smell like you tomorrow.’’

‘’Fuck, Shane’’, he hears, one second before being pressed to the wall. Ilya kisses him with unhurried eagerness, probably trying to map him, remembering the path he has already walked in another life. Shane’s chest is almost exploding, one single step and he’s done, his ribs will bloom like petals and he’ll be exposed, pulsing, and Ilya will see the single, crimson thread that sews his name to Shane’s heart. He’s not scared of it, not anymore. He used to be terrified of anyone discovering how easy to love Shane is, but with Ilya is different. It’s like seeing dawn creeping through heavy curtains: the sun had always been there, it has just won the barrier, pouring its light on the room after years of darkness. Gentle fingers are unfolding him, and for the first time they’re dipped in gold.

Shane roughly rolls his hips, tearing a moan out of Ilya: ‘’Bed’’, Shane pleads, mouth still on him, eager to learn every sound, every contraction of the body against his. His back is hurting from the unpleasant friction against the door, but it’s a faint, almost far pain. 

Ilya rushes them to the bed, dropping him like he’s made of glass. Shane hasn’t left his hips: ‘’I’m not fragile’’, he growls, keeping him impossibly close. Ilya presses a kiss to his nose:

‘’No. Not fragile’’ he agrees, voice hoarse ‘’Precious, yes.’’

His accent is thicker than ever, tingling on Shane’s heated skin. Ilya mouths at his neck, kissing, biting, the ghostly trace of his teeth, the touch of his tongue. ‘’Your skin is really sensitive’’, Ilya points out, delighted. He briefly sucks at Shane’s jaw, pressing there: ‘’Oh, God, are you even real? Am I dreaming?’’ Ilya slurs, nose pressed on his collarbone ‘’Where were you all this time I needed you?’’

‘’Here, here, I was here’’, Shane presses a hand on his chest, right on his furiously beating heart. Then, a grin: ‘’Well, look at that. You must really like me.’’

Like Shane has not been trying to melt their bodies together for the last twenty minutes now. A wet, open kiss on his chin makes him shiver, before Ilya cradles his cheek, caressing the hollow under his eye, expression spellbound, adoring: ‘’I thought Ottawa would have been fun’’ he admits, sliding to his neck, caging it, voice uneven ‘’Clubs, new people, everything. Then you open the door with these eyes and I am done. Knees on the ground.’’

Shane deliberately flutters his eyelashes, looking him through them: ‘’Silly me thinking it was for my amazing personality.’’

‘’The one you were shaming on the couch?’’ Ilya inquires, descending on his chest, knuckles on his ribs now ‘’And about that. Never again in front of me.’’

‘’I can’t promise that.’’

‘’Oh, believe me’’ a quick pull of his jeans loops ‘’Five minutes, and you’ll promise way more. Or beg, I do not know. I am creative man’’, he shrugs, grinning before kissing him again. Shane’s head drowns in the sheets, body quivering with anticipation. ‘’Ilya’’, he begs, suddenly in need of his attention ‘’Ilya, I— Please, please’’, and there’s words stuck in his teeth, a thought scattered on his tongue, tripping on his voice before going out. 

A soft, long kiss on the corner of his lips: ‘’Everything, krasavitsa.’’

‘’I… I need you to swallow me whole’’ he prays against his cheek, searching for his eyes. As predictable as it is, Ilya’s are confused, and yet determined. ‘’I need it. I need to be under your skin and I’ll hide somewhere and they’ll never find me again. And you’ll be the only one to know, ever, ever’’, he gulps, seeking for his gaze again, hands shaking in his hair. He’s sure there must be some cavity in Ilya small enough to welcome him, protect him, hosting him like the last missing piece. Like they had always walked with this hollow between their ribs, traces of someone else’s arriving. Shane has found his way.

‘’Please’’, he repeats, disarmed under his weight, legs still around him. Shane gently bites his lip, barely speaking: ‘’I don’t want to remember how to be one anymore.’’

Ilya seems to breathe him in, drinking his smell. ‘’You will not’’, he swears at his ear shell, fingers firm behind his head. Shane basically melts at his tone ‘’Never.’’

Through the night, Ilya does more than that. It’s like seeing a wanderer going back to its idol.

and the voices that implore

’’you should be doing more’’

to you I can admit

that I’m just too soft for all of it

‘’So, guys. What about the spare room?’’

Shane blinks: ‘’… Spare room? What spare room?’’

‘’This house has two bedrooms, right?’’

‘’Yes. And as far as I know, they’re bot taken.’’

‘’What are you saying, Pike? We need new roommate? Because I do not like to share.’’

‘’Ilya, babe, I don’t think he’s…’’

‘’And I also bite.’’

Hayden raises his hands: ‘’No one bites anyone! I was just wondering. Because, you know, you live together and now you also… Well, are together.’’

‘’It’s been a month, Hayd. It would be rushed and stupid to live in only one bedroom when we have plenty of space and we deal with rent just fine. Plus, I don’t know how many people would be comfortable living with a couple. I know I would not like ho have a stranger in…’’ Shane clears his throat, feeling his cheeks heated ‘’In our house, yes.’’

Ilya squeezes his hips, silently agreeing, but Jackie’s voice interrupts: ‘’So, Ilya still sleeps in his bedroom? Even now that you two are together? Because that would be a big waste of such an arrangement.’’

‘’What is arrangement?’’

‘’He’s messing with you. He perfectly knows what that means—‘’

‘’Me and Shane are not arrangement’’ precisely ‘’We are together, as you said. And Shane is not allowed to sleep alone, so. It is… How do you say? Forbidden. By law. I grab him by the ankles and drag him.’’

‘’But two rooms are working just fine’’ Hayden mumbles under his breath. Shane glares at him:

‘’Yes, Hayd, they are, thank you.’’

‘’Whatever. I’m not the one sit on the guy.’’

‘’Thank God you are not. My stomach couldn’t take it, it is sensible to terrible scenes’’, it’s Ilya’s quick response. Shane rolls his eyes, sharing a smile with Jackie, right before stretching out to rearrange the snacks on the kitchen island. Ilya’s fingers put him back in place, gripping on his hips, Shane’s back against his chest, one arm now draped around him. ‘’I was not talking about you, moy lyubimyy. You stay right here as long as you want.’’

He punctuates his words with a quick kiss on his jaw, up where he can reach. ‘’It’s almost ready’’, Harris jumps in, busy at the stoves ‘’Just a couple of minutes.’’

‘’Use my kitchen as you please’’, Shane jokes, welcoming Ilya’s cheek on his shoulder. He then rubs his face, trying to push away some of the weariness still all over him. Ilya notices, because of course he does, and murmurs, caressing his leg: ‘’Are you okay, my dearest? I can kick them out right now. We’ll be completely alone. We can watch your favourite movie. Or even a boring documentary. Just say the word.’’

Ilya’s Russian does miracles on his tensed muscles. ‘’I’m fine’’, he promises in the same language ‘’No need to kick anyone out. You just want an excuse to throw hands for me.’’

‘’I’d fight for your honour every time. And I’d also win. I’m a great fighter.’’

‘’Please, never prove yourself on that. I’d have an heart attack.’’

‘’Mhm, no. You would be probably turned on.’’

‘’You are so full of yourself, sometimes.’’

‘’Yes. And you were full of me this morn—‘’

‘What did he just say?’’, Rose asks, laughing at Shane’s smack on Ilya’s arm. Shane growls, face burning like the sun:

‘’Something terribly inadequate, as always.’’

‘’Ohh, using big words on me’’ Ilya moans, tilting his head to the ceiling ‘’I am in trouble, Rose, do not mind my misery. Terrible boyfriend who needs to beg for sorry.’’

It has to be said, Ilya is everything but a terrible boyfriend. In the last month, Shane has learned what luck is all about. Not money, not a good career, nothing that could be close to soft lips waking him up in the morning, firm hands keeping him in place when he’s fidgeting, trembling, stern voice guiding him in the blur. ‘’Go where you want’’, Ilya said once in his hair, arm sealed around him, palms regulating Shane’s shallow breaths ‘’Up until I can reach back to you. Or you will make me follow you anywhere.’’

Shane had turned his head to look back at him: ‘’Would you?’’, he murmured, unsure. His head was exploding; his tensed muscles just beginning to ease. He could feel his cheeks, already wet, tingling with now familiar heat. The day passing had made him sore, like Shane was trying to walk without his bones, through thick amber sticking to his flabby limbs. Ilya was massaging his scalp when he said: ‘’Even when we don’t know where we are anymore.’’

Shane had pressed his other cheek to Ilya’s bicep under him. That answer was more than enough.

It was not just that, obviously. They are — physically are, almost transfigured, as if they were trying to merge with the air they are breathing, the space they are filling — the early mornings where Shane wakes up first only to make coffee and breakfast; the night outs where Ilya holds his hand and thumbs his knuckles; the evenings where Shane, sit on his lap, reads out loud with him Ilya’s working documents, listening to him doing the same, hearing if Ilya has understood everything, like he always does. They are Shane who shaves Ilya’s beard on Sundays, balanced on the sink with his boyfriend’s body between his legs, squeaking: ‘’If you keep tickling me, I will literally disfigure you.’’

‘’Ah, on purpose? Do you want ugly boyfriend?’’

‘’What? Are you insane? Of course not on purpose!’’

‘’Then I am okay with that. And I trust you’’ a quick kiss on the tip of his nose ‘’You really know when to laugh without cutting my face as mango cubes.’’

It’s Ilya, sometimes too tired to speak, tongue too heavy, too poisoned by his past still perched on it, who lays silent with his head on Shane’s legs. Sometimes they speak in Russian, sometimes they don’t speak at all. Sometimes Ilya’s mother floats between them, but it’s never unwelcome, weighted, or sad. It’s tender like cats stretching in the dying sun, or the gentle swinging of boats on the spring sea. Shane swears there’s a certain smell in the air every time, roses and salt, a hint of oranges, but it’s probably just his imagination.

It’s always Ilya, tracing his back with a single, long finger. Shane searching his moles, learning them, knowing where they are only to soothe them with his lips. Sometimes it’s frenetic, sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it’s the gentle tracing of his tongue and the feather kisses of his lips, the strong presence of Ilya’s hold on his hipbones while he unfolds him, always asking for permission, always worshipping him like he can’t believe his luck, the sweet promise of drowning in Shane’s body, claiming him his. It’s sweet, and rough, and filthy, and unhurried. It’s everything he craves when he feels too much, or too little. They readjust themselves together, until it’s quite impossible to tell them apart.

That evening, around four, Ilya had called. ‘’Moya lyubov’, I am afraid we have forgot about Harris.’’

Shane’s only answer was a soft moan. Ilya was right. It was one of Shane’s bad days. The ones he sensed on him as soon as he woke up, in how the lights, the sounds, smells and flavours were dancing in his mouth. The week had been just a cruel piling up of little, upsetting things— Missing the bus once, seeing his favourite coat teared on a seam, stressful meetings at work with new coworkers, too loud and touchy for Shane’s nerves. Everything had fallen on him at once, but he was keeping himself in place at the prospective of the weekend, finally alone with Ilya. Ilya and their couch and a good movie and a cake, if he was lucky, his boyfriend’s shirt (Shane has built an habit in digging in Ilya’s closet just to find everything soaked in his perfume and then steal it) and no one around. Maybe, together with the hope to be blessed enough to moan Ilya’s name before going to bed. He could’ve deal with the real world for a Friday.

If only they hadn’t promised a night to their place. Harris was eager to show them a new recipe — he is an excellent cook, Shane has to admit —, and they have offered the flat to hang out. That night. At their place. ‘’I will call Harris with an excuse’’, Ilya said, without waiting for a true response ‘’I will say that you are ill. Or I am. Extremely contagious. Or I will just brag about my need to be alone with you. It is not lie, it will work.’’

‘’It’s nonsense. Jackie and Hayd have probably already called the babysitter.’’

‘’I will pay for the night if she complains. I do not care. I care about you. So, use your pretty voice to talk to me. You want to be alone, yes? This week has been so mean to you.’’

Shane had pressed his forehead to the cold window he was right next to. It was relieving, just a bit. ‘’It’s fine if you’re there’’, he admitted, voice strained. He never uses this tone with everyone. This, the weakness and the tiredness, is meant just for Ilya to see. ‘’If I can… I don’t know. Even just look at you. I know I’ll feel better. It’s like— You regulate me, somehow. Sorry. The bit about staring was fucking weird’’ he blurted, ashamed ‘’And you’re not even supposed to bear it all, so… It’s not like I’m asking you to! More like— It’s about your presence. You filling the room as it is. I think. Sorry. What were you saying? Ilya?’’ he faintly called, after hearing no response.

‘’Nothing’’, Ilya promised, too quick ‘’Nothing, sweetheart. I am the one who is sorry. Sometimes you talk and I have to tell myself not to knee on the ground. I still do not know who I have prayed to be so lucky.’’

‘’You’re insufferable’’, Shane whispered softly, before clearing his throat: ‘’Come here when you’re done? We can leave together, do some shopping for tonight. I’m quite sure we need beers. And I’d like to introduce you to some of my colleagues.’’

‘’I would love that, baby.’’

‘’Good. And please— No cold Russian impression. They’ll think I’m really affiliated with mafia.’’

‘’That is just who I am, solnyshko. The world can’t know how mushy I am for you.’’

‘’Just for me’’, Shane intoned, relieved. His discomfort was already mostly gone. 

‘’Always, rodnoy.’’

Right now, that seems Ilya’s goal for the night. He is still talking to Rose, still messing with Troy and Hayden, still chatting with Harris, and still beaming at Jackie’s compliments. But a hand is always on Shane, on his back, shoulder, leg, thigh, knee. There are lips which pops on his knuckles, the crown of his hair, his scalp, his forehead, the tip of his nose. While they’re seated, acclaiming Harris’ cooking, Ilya eats with his left hand only to hold Shane’s leg the entire time. ‘’Are you hiding a severed hand, Rozanov?’’, Troy says after a sip of beer. Shane just laughs, amused, and Ilya checks his reaction before speaking:

‘’You are lucky my boyfriend enjoys your humour, Barrett. Count your days.’’

‘’Oh, I’m sure Shane would always have my back.’’

‘’No need to worry, man.’’

Troy raises his eyebrows at Ilya, smug: ‘’See?’’

‘’I very much do, I like looking at him. You, I do not know. Just do not see too much, or I will take care of you eyeballs.’’

‘’Aww’’, it’s Jackie’s low comment ‘’Look at him. He’s almost growling’’, and a laugh escapes Rose’s mouth.

‘’But he doesn’t bite as he’d like to make you all think’’ Shane slides one hand in Ilya’s curls, using the support to bring him closer, kissing the corner of his lips ‘’It’s just scene.’’

‘’Now you shut up, too’’, Ilya snaps, but it’s far too different from how he talks at Troy to be believable. Shane giggles and tilts his head, kissing him swiftly on the lips. ‘’Stop being a menace’’, he whispers, welcoming him on his shoulder. Ilya ducks his head, relieved, and Harris’ comment arrives far at Shane’s ears:

‘’I can’t believe he just does that to Rozy.’’

Rose mutters, voice fond: ‘’Oh, no. I firmly do.’’

Just a while later, they’re all in the living room, following an intense card game between Hayden and Harris. Rose is on the carpet, talking with Jackie and drinking wine; Troy is right next to Harris, sometimes peeking at his cards, even if Hayden tells him not to. Everyone is busy enough to leave Shane alone, or maybe it’s just Ilya almost wrapped around him, hands on his hips, chin on his forehead. Shane is starting to feel sleepy, eyes closing, eyelashes fluttering. Ilya’s heart is right in his ear, against his cheek, a strong, precise lullaby. The dearest of them all. Shane is caressing his leg when a thought hits him: ‘’Hey’’, he says, voice low, raspy. Ilya immediately looks at him. Shane continues: ‘’Your brother is not calling anymore.’’

That’s true. Ilya is now receiving calls only from Svetlana, apart from everyone he knows there in Ottawa. Shane had the pleasure to meet her the week before: perfect curls, perfect smile, confident and brilliant, just like Ilya, dressed in a nice wool dress which matched her skin tone deliciously. They acted like siblings, nudging one another, joking, even insulting. ‘’I knew my Ilyushka was done for’’ she admitted, sure. They were all speaking in Russian, and she couldn’t look more pleased of it. She was also speaking very clearly, though, probably to help Shane understanding. ‘’Always speaking about you, even when he was surrounded by new things to do, and with a tone I have never heard before. I told him’’ and then, she switched to English ‘’That man could drag you straight to Hell and you would beg for a kiss in the meantime. And I knew I was right.’’

Shane’s head snapped to Ilya’s. He shrugged, smiling: ‘’Told you she was teaching me very interesting words.’’

‘’Yes’’ Ilya is now petting his head ‘’I have blocked the number. But he is not that stupid, I think. Might as well change it for once. Would you help me in that? I bet it is boring thing you would love to do.’’

‘’Blocked?’’ Shane echoes, now looking at him ‘’But, Ilya… You won’t have calls from home anymore.’’

A thumb caresses his jaw, pensive, almost like Ilya has not heard him at all. Chirping of their friends are still bubbling in the room, which had never seemed less empty, or cold. Shane is not a spectator anymore, he’s playing in the show, and he even enjoys it. He loves it. Almost as much as he loves Ilya doing the same next to him.

His boyfriend cradles his face, probably grasping Shane’s happiness burning in his eyes. A soft kiss on his forehead makes his eyelashes flutter: ‘’What is this nonsense, my love?’’, Ilya is speaking at his cheek, finding the way for his soul ‘’My home’s right here.’’