Chapter Text
March, 2017
The hospital smells like latex gloves and hand sanitizer, with something faint and underlying that reminds Shane of his high school’s cafeteria. It makes him nauseous. The morphine makes him nauseous, too, but it’s better than the uncut pain, which made him sick enough earlier that he vomited in the ambulance.
He’s vaguely anxious before the surgery, but mostly he’s in and out, slightly high on pain medication with the dull throbbing of his arm in the background at all times. He talks to his mom; his coach, briefly. The team medic, Joel, is there for awhile. Then he’s gone and Shane tries to sleep.
Rose: Shane! Are you okay? We saw the game.
His phone is on the bed next to him and he sees the text around midnight. He doesn’t manage to type a response until about an hour later, one-handed.
Shane: yes don’t worry, broken arm going into surgery early morning
Rose: I’m so sorry, babe. I’m sure they’re taking care of you but can I do anything?
—tell Ilya to call me I want to see his face please ask him tell him what’s going on tell him I don’t know what will happen to the season or the team I want to hear his voice—
Shane: thank u no I’m just trying to sleep until then for now
Rose: you talked to your parents?
Shane: yeah
Rose: when will you fly home?
Shane: not sure maybe a day or 2 after surgery
Rose: okay, I’m going to update Svetlana and Ilya, is that okay?
Shane: fine
Rose: get some rest. Talk soon. Text or call me any time
Shane: ty
Around six a.m. they wheel him to the OR, and it turns out to be the best part of his day: a solid nap, and a nerve block that doesn’t start to wear off until some time in the middle of the following night.
Shane hangs on to his phone with his good hand, his left hand. His parents are anxious for an update, but they’ll get it from the team, after the surgeons are done. Shane doesn’t have to do anything except lie there and let everyone else do their jobs. It’s very strange, but he’s too tired to keep his eyes open.
They give him some jello and some ginger ale once the anesthesiologist clears it, and his arm is still pleasantly numb enough that he enjoys the way the jello melts on his tongue, the fizz of ginger ale, familiar and comforting.
Shane: ginger ale is everybody’s favorite drink in the hospital|
He doesn’t hear from Ilya that day.
Rose: How are you doing there, my love?
He manages to respond after about ninety minutes, even though he sees the text and picks it up as soon as his phone buzzes. Such a fucking idiot.
Shane: done with surgery just have to wait now
Rose: call me any time, I don’t have rehearsal until tomorrow
Shane: thanks. I’m okay
She calls him around dinner time, and Shane is awake and manages to answer it because food services has just brought him a tray of food, sort of food, and he’s sitting there trying to get himself to put a bite of something into his mouth.
“Shane, oh my god, do you have a minute? How are you doing?”
He clears his throat, suddenly near tears.
—did you talk to Ilya why hasn’t he texted me doesn’t he want to know what’s going on how much it hurts doesn’t he want to talk to me—
“I’m really okay,” he tells her, and it’s basically true. Especially now, with the pain in his arm under control and the knowledge that the bones are back where they’re supposed to be. It had been surprisingly disturbing, although he couldn’t see it—the fact that they were, as the orthopedist put it, “displaced.”
“The surgery went well, they said.”
“Does it hurt super bad?”
—I want to I need to tell him what Nowak was saying to me and before the game the other people yelling that word at me from behind the glass, fuck—
“Uh, not right now, but yeah, it was pretty bad. Could have been worse, though.”
“Well, yeah, but this sucks, I’m so sorry. How long will you be out?”
“I don’t know exactly—” A wave of exhaustion hits him square in the chest and he closes his eyes, leans his head back against the thin hospital pillow. “I gotta go, I think. Sorry. I’m—I’m sorry. Just tired.”
“Oh my god, of course. Okay. I hope you can get some rest. Call or text whenever.”
“Okay,” Shane says numbly. “Thanks. Talk to you later.”
He manages to sleep for a few hours, a strange, drugged sleep and afterwards he’s even more groggy. Sometime around midnight, his arm starts to wake up: pins and needles, strange and foreign. The sensation makes him want to wiggle his fingers.
“We’re going to give you some oral pain medications soon,” his nurse, Lisa, tells him when he mentions it at some unknown hour of the early morning. “We want to stay on top of it for now, the first few days are usually the worst.”
He sits in the hospital bed and tries to feel grateful that it’s not his leg. At least he can get to the bathroom on his own. At least he’ll be able to walk around, once he gets home.
And his mother will be there, which in theory will be comforting. Shane’s very lucky. His parents are so great. Even if his mom had texted him a link, that very morning, to the ESPN article about him that had just been published. He hadn’t clicked on it. He’d been in the fucking PACU.
Shane talks to Joel the medic the next morning, after the orthopedic team agrees to discharge him that afternoon. By seven o’clock they’re boarding their flight, by eight o’clock Shane is gritting his teeth against the pain in his arm and looking out the window at the distant lights of Eastern Texas, then Arkansas. The night is clear and he can see swathes of black and dots of light, towns and cities and buildings with people and families so far down below him. He is sitting with Joel, a guy he’s worked with peripherally for years, a guy who knows almost nothing about him other than a catalogue of previous injuries (diagnosed concussions x 2, possible concussion x 1; ankle contusion x 3; various bruised and broken ribs, black eyes).
Joel knows Shane is gay the same way the entire world knows. Maybe there isn’t much else to know, Shane thinks. Maybe he’s a great hockey player in a body that is one injury away from useless; maybe beneath that, other than this deep well of wanting, there isn’t much to know.
Thirty thousand feet above the ground, it feels like maybe nobody knows him at all.
***
The morning after Shane’s injury, Ilya’s phone sends him a notification about an ESPN news article.
He has kept himself out of Shane’s texts; he can’t keep himself from looking for updates. Partly he is hoping for news on the fucker who had illegally cross-checked Shane yesterday—he hasn’t seen anything yet about how many games the suspension will last. He hasn’t seen anything yet about the disgusting words yelled at Shane before it happened.
The Devils’ Greatest Asset: How Shane Hollander conquered the MLH
He sees paragraphs about Shane’s background, a blurb about his childhood. A summary of his career highlights, the awards, the records. And he sees photographs.
Young Shane, just drafted. Shane after he came out—was outed. He skips over that. A sentence or two about his friendship with Rose, and then several paragraphs about Ilya. Apparently, no other person has shaped Shane’s career as much as Ilya Rozanov.
The Hollander-Rozanov rivalry has elevated both players, he reads. After being drafted one and two in 2009, they have continuously pushed each other towards the top. While it’s hard to predict who will win the scoring race during any given season, it’s always highly competitive as long as the two of them are on the ice.
Off the ice, it may be a different story. Hollander and Rozanov have been spotted together socially in recent months, mostly with friends. It seems they’re able to put aside the competition during off-hours. We contacted Rose Landry, curious about the relationship between Hollander and Rozanov. She had no comment.
There’s a photo, and Ilya pauses to examine it.
They were in a restaurant, he remembers. Rose and Svetlana were there, but they aren’t in the picture. The picture is of Ilya, laughing, looking off to one side. His shoulder is touching Shane’s, and Shane is smiling, soft eyes, a big smile. He’s smiling at Ilya. His linen shirt is wrinkled and undone at the collar, the sleeves rolled up.
He looks—fucking happy. Ilya swallows. Oh God.
He knows what he would think if he saw this photo. If he wasn’t in it. If he saw a photo of Shane Hollander smiling like that at a man in a restaurant.
The truth is that Svetlana had said something incredibly rude about one of the players Ilya had beaten the night before, so rude that she had put them into hysterics, both of them, Ilya and Shane—but this is the way it looks: Shane is fucking beaming. At him. At the person who has “shaped Hollander’s hockey career more than anyone else; more than coaches, his mother, or any other player.” And Ilya remembers that night, remembers the sharpness of his drink, the absolutely out-of-pocket comments coming from Svetlana’s mouth, the way Shane had belly-laughed, the way Ilya had too.
Shane will hate this. Ilya hates it for him. He thinks of him at home with a broken arm, unable to even get dressed by himself, seeing this article, reading it the way strangers are reading it. He wonders if Derek is around, if they had ever gotten together, if he’s at Shane’s apartment—maybe Rose is there—if they’re reassuring him, if Shane would ever talk to a boyfriend about Ilya. He said he wouldn’t and Ilya believed him, but things can change, and who could blame him, really? Everybody needs someone to talk to.
Ilya’s throat aches. He has a pit in his stomach and he knows he needs to eat something. He puts his phone down.
***
Shane: Hi
Ilya stares blankly at his phone screen. It’s 2:14 a.m.
Shane: I hope u r asleep
Shane: I’m sorry to text u right now I’m just awake bc of shit
Shane: I don’t
Shane: sorry
Shane: fucking splint
Shane: …
Ilya watches the bubbles appear and disappear. He slowly types out a reply.
Ilya: does it hurt?
Shane: yeah
Shane: but they gave me meds
Ilya: medicine helps? are you okay?
Shane: no Im
Shane: I don’t know if I’ll come back
Shane: yeah it helps. I took one a little while ago
Ilya: You will come back, of course you will. Your arm will heal, will be okay
Shane: its my right arm
Shane: ok. Yeah
Shane: how r u
Shane: …
Shane: …
Shane: why didn’t u text me before
Shane: or call
Shane: I’ve been home since Friday
Shane: Ilya
Ilya’s heart races as he watches the messages come through.
Ilya: I’m sorry
Ilya: you saw the article?
Shane: yeah I saw it. Did u see it?
Shane: did u see the pic of us?
Ilya: …
Shane: I hope it didn’t fuck things up for u
Shane: I don’t think anyone knows
Shane: about us
Shane: I know it would be dangerous for u
Shane: I’m sorry I’m
Shane: oops
Ilya: No, Shane. That’s not why I am upset about it
Shane: ur upset?
Ilya: aren’t you?
Shane: no I just
Shane: worried. I don’t want anything bad to happen
Shane: but its cool. I’m really ok
Ilya: Shane
Shane: …
Shane: …
Shane: just been rough the past few days
Ilya swallows the lump in his throat.
Ilya: I’m sorry I didn’t call
Ilya: didn’t realize you would want that
Ilya: I am also worried
Shane: u don’t need to worry though promise I won’t tell anyone about us hooking up. I swear I never would, so u don’t need to worry. Not even rose
Shane: there was only one pic, not anything else that would be bad for u, right?
Shane: there’s no proof or anything so I hope u
Shane: Hope it doesn’t cause problems
Ilya: No
Ilya: I’m not worried about that
Shane: since we aren’t hanging out now anymore then even if there are some other photos from before I think it will be ok
Ilya: ah
Ilya: it’s what you want?
Shane: it hurts when I use my right hand to text
Shane: I’m sorry
Shane: I really do want good things for u
Shane: so like the opposite of what is happening bc of me
Shane: I'm sorry. I do understand why u didn’t text
Shane: just really wanted to talk to you
Ilya: wait
Ilya: Shane
***
The following lunchtime, Shane spends a mortified hour reading and rereading that text exchange in which he accused Ilya of ignoring him and then forgave him for doing absolutely nothing wrong. And apologized for a bunch of shit, his desperation so completely on display it makes him cringe.
Fuck. He should have given his phone to his mother when she gave him his pain pill. Waiting for it to kick in always takes longer than he expects. The pain keeps him awake; then it eases up and he has a tiny burst of energy, and a strange floaty feeling that makes him feel okay about sending messages like “why didn’t you text me” to someone who clearly would rather just stay away from him. As if that’s a reasonable question.
Rose: Shane, babe, can we come over today just for a bit? We could watch a movie or something.
Shane: Okay, yeah. My mom is heading back to Ottawa soon
Rose: Perfect timing then. 4 p.m. ish okay? Svetlana too
Shane: yes okay. See u then
When he opens the door to Rose’s knock he is suddenly so happy to see her he practically falls into her arms, lets her carefully hug him, as tightly as she can. It feels so nice to be near someone other than hospital staff and his mother; he squeezes his eyes shut and lets it happen. When he opens them he sees Svetlana and also Ilya, who is lingering behind them, halfway turned down the hallway, shuffling his feet and shoving his hands into his pockets, looking like he’s waiting for something awful.
Shane’s breath catches; he wasn’t expecting this. He meets Rose’s eyes and she smiles, squeezing his good hand, peering into his eyes briefly before moving into the apartment. Svetlana comes next, and puts both her hands on his face and kisses his cheek, saying, “We brought soup. And Ilya.”
Ilya comes a little closer, into the entryway, and Shane gets enough of a look to see tired eyes and a few days’ worth of stubble.
“Hi,” Shane says. “Come in?”
“Okay,” Ilya says slowly, like he expected Shane to send him back down the hall to the elevator. “How is—how—”
Shane steps backwards. “You want some soup?”
He turns to see Rose unloading some Tupperware containers onto his countertop.
“Okay,” Ilya says again, behind him.
“Shane, come sit over here.” Svetlana directs him to the kitchen island. “You need anything?”
“No. Thank you.” Shane stands for a second. Ilya is still near the door. In his peripheral vision Shane sees him kick off his shoes and put them carefully on the shoe rack.
“How are you guys? Thanks for coming.” He clears his throat. “This is really nice of you.”
He moves slowly to sit down, and Ilya follows. Shane remembers the last time Ilya was here—just a few weeks ago; in thirty seconds flat Shane had been pressed face-first against the living room wall, Ilya’s hands fumbling with his pants, his erection pushing against Shane’s ass. Everything always felt so fucking good, with him—big hands, strong arms, Ilya’s voice murmuring Russian in his ear, probably filthy stuff that Shane couldn’t understand but turned him on anyway. They didn’t make it to the bed for the first round, but they had later. And in between, Ilya had even eaten some of Shane’s food. He had bitched about it, but he’d eaten it, and then he had proceeded to google “macrobiotic diet” and given Shane all kinds of shit, saying things like “this is actually how some birds eat, I think it is proven to cause early death in humans,” and “imagine how fast you would be if you had McDonald’s in you, cows are very strong, Hollander, would be helpful.” Shane had just scoffed and rolled his eyes, watching Ilya’s shit-eating grin. He thought they had been happy here, that evening. The apartment had been warm, and private, they’d had—fun. Ilya had seemed happy.
He doesn’t seem happy now. Shane has to stop thinking about it, stop remembering it; he hasn’t been able to yet, but he has to keep trying. It’s the only way he’s going to get used to the idea that it won’t be happening again, the two of them. The sooner he starts, the sooner he can move on and stop feeling so absolutely shitty.
“Here,” says Svetlana, putting a bowl of soup in front of him. Shane hasn’t been hungry all day until now, but the heat of it sends savory steam into his face and he picks up the spoon she hands him. Starts to eat slowly, so he doesn’t spill soup all over himself.
“How is your arm feeling?” Ilya asks him quietly. Svetlana puts a bowl in front of him as well.
“Oh. It’s okay. I’m still taking—they gave me pain medicine. Oh, yeah, I told you that already. But anyway, probably a little better now. And, um … starting PT in another couple of days. They say maybe twelve weeks recovery, so—I’ll be back next season.”
“Of course,” Ilya murmurs, looking away.
It occurs to Shane that if they are no longer doing—whatever—if they’re no longer anything, he should stop talking about hockey with Ilya. They were never friends, before; just competitors. He shouldn’t share the details, he shouldn’t share any specifics about his injury or recovery timeline. He shouldn’t share anything. It’s such an inexplicably sad thought that Shane blinks away tears and turns his face down to his soup bowl. The Percocet makes him weird. He’s been fragile and groggy, which feels horrible, but when he doesn’t take it he’s an uncomfortable, useless mess.
“What do you want to watch, Shane? Wanna watch a movie in a bit?” Rose helps herself to a seltzer from the fridge.
“Yes, let’s watch something. Something funny,” Svetlana says.
“Sure,” Shane responds. Will Ilya stay to watch a movie on his fucking couch?
“We should watch Best in Show,” Svetlana tells them. “There are lots of dogs.” She nudges Ilya with her knee. “I think it’s on Netflix.”
“Sure,” Shane says again. Ilya nods.
He hands Svetlana the remote a few minutes later and settles into the couch. She folds a blanket over him sweetly, and instructs Ilya to sit in between the two of them. Shane can barely keep his eyes open, his head is so heavy and Ilya’s shoulder is right there, it would be so easy—but he doesn’t. The room darkens as the sun sets.
In the middle of the movie, Rose gets up and goes to his laundry room, bringing a giant basket of clean laundry back and sitting on the floor to fold it. Shane is too tired to stop her. It’s so much better than having everything in a jumble, and folding clothes with one hand is very slow.
“Thanks,” he tells her, and she smiles at him.
“What else can I do?”
“Nothing else,” he says seriously. “This has been so nice. Thank you.”
“I’m shocked Yuna didn’t fold this before she left today.”
“She did a lot while she was here. And she’s coming back soon, I think. Maybe tomorrow.”
“How has that been?”
“Well,” Shane says. “Good—you know. I mean, it was so helpful, for sure. It’s—it’s probably good she went home for a bit, though.” Ilya is still sitting next to him and Shane does not go into more detail about how his mother has taken care of him the last few days.
Rose grabs her phone. “Derek said—”
Svetlana grabs the phone. “What did he say? Let me see this.”
Ilya folds his arms across his chest.
“What?” Shane asks awkwardly. “Did he see the game?”
“Yeah, I think so. A bunch of people have texted me, actually. My family. A few others—want me to put this stuff away?” Rose gestures to the laundry, folded neatly in the basket.
“No, that’s okay.”
As Svetlana and Rose are leaving, Rose gestures to the basket of clean, folded clothes on the floor.
“Ilya,” she says, “can you make sure these get put into drawers?”
“I don’t need—I’m fine,” Shane says quickly.
“But opening drawers with one hand is hard.”
“Yes,” Ilya says, “it’s fine, I can help. It will only take a minute.”
Shane’s face feels tight. He hugs Rose goodbye and thanks her again.
Ilya follows him into the bedroom, holding the basket.
“Just open the top drawer first, please, and I’ll put the clothes away,” Shane tells him. “Thank you.” This is painful. Painfully awkward. He wonders if it’ll be the last time Ilya will be here, in his bedroom. Assisting Shane with his fucking laundry.
“Okay,” Ilya says, and does as he’s been asked, and Shane puts everything away one-handed.
“Shane,” Ilya says, when he’s almost done.
“Can you please just close that? Thanks.”
Ilya closes the drawers carefully. Shane watches his hands, meets his gaze for a moment, looking at his tense face as he turns.
“Okay,” Shane says. “Thanks. Um, I did want to say that I’m sorry about all the texts last night … or this morning, I guess. That was … I had taken some pain medicine and it makes me a little, um, weird, but that’s not really an excuse because it’s not like I was super out of it or anything. Just … sorry.” He avoids Ilya’s eyes.
“Shane,” Ilya says again. “It’s okay, it wasn’t—I was happy to hear from you. Well, not happy about—”
“You don’t have to say that,” Shane interrupts. “I know that like … this whole—thing we’ve been doing isn’t exactly something you want or need in your life right now. Or maybe ever, I get that. I was just … I missed you.” The last part comes out low and he clamps his mouth shut. He hadn’t really meant to say that, it wasn't exactly part of the plan. But really, what does he have to lose, now, with Ilya?
“You missed me.” Ilya’s voice is flat, disbelieving.
“Yeah. I mean, we were talking every day. Texting. So yeah. I don’t think it’s that crazy—I mean I know we were never like—”
“What about Derek?”
Shane has been staring at Ilya’s socked foot and slowly lifts his gaze.
“What?”
“You told me you did not want to do this anymore. With me. You said we are not ‘hanging out’ anymore.” He has the nerve to make air quotes with both hands.
“Oh, well, yeah, because …”
“Is this what you want? You want to—end it.” Ilya sounds irritated, which makes Shane a little irritated. His tongue is suddenly too big for his mouth.
“Uh, I thought because of that article and the photo of us and everything. And after Toronto—just—I know you can’t come out, it’s too risky, right? For you.”
“The article.”
“Yeah, I mean you said—I thought you said you’d never be able to go home again, basically! So like, obviously, we couldn’t be together. For real. Not that you ever wanted that. But the article made it sound like … it looked like someone was trying to talk about us, and that seemed—bad. We need to avoid that.”
“I do not care about the fucking article! Except I thought—”
“But then why didn’t you fucking even just text me?” Shane is suddenly almost shouting and he winces. “I’m sorry. That was … sorry.”
Ilya turns his body fully toward Shane, color rising in his face. He shoves his hands into his pockets.
“You thought I do not want to see you because of some stupid picture of us?”
“Yes! Maybe. I don’t know.”
“You said we are not hanging out. I thought maybe—maybe this was because you are seeing someone else. Derek. With the nice … family.”
“No, Ilya, what the fuck?”
Ilya throws up his hands. “I don’t know! Svetlana told me—she told me—I thought you—I don’t know.”
“You were the one who didn’t get in touch.” Shane hates himself for how petulant it sounds, like a little kid complaining. You started it.
Ilya flinches. One hand moves in a quick jerk towards Shane, then pulls back.
“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. “I’m sorry, okay? I wanted to, so much. I can’t even explain how much. I didn’t think. I didn’t think you wanted it. Please … please believe me.”
“Okay,” Shane says. His eyelids feel heavy. He’s not sure what to make of this. “Okay. I need to sit down.” He goes to the bed and sits on the edge of it, leaning back on his good hand.
“I’m not seeing Derek.” He is incredibly tired. “I know you thought I should, but I’m not.”
“I never thought you should, fuck, Shane. Come on.”
“It seemed like you did.” Shane closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to think about Derek anymore. He wants to lie down and go to sleep, and he wants Ilya to lie down and sleep next to him, and he wants it to be normal, and fun, and he wants …
“You’re in pain? Can you take more medicine?” Ilya comes closer, sits next to him.
“No, I’m fine.” His arm is throbbing, and he can take some ibuprofen soon, he thinks. He needs to check the medication schedule his mom left him. Like he’s a child, which, well. It’s actually been super helpful, though.
“I’m not worried about Russia,” Ilya says suddenly. Shane leans back and lets his body rest on the mattress, rubbing his face with his good hand. His splinted arm rests on his chest in the sling.
“What?”
“I said I’m not worried about Russia. Not really.”
“But—I know it would be—you said … I thought your dad was sick.”
“Yes.”
“I think maybe people are already talking about us. Which—I’m sorry about that. And I told you I get it. It doesn’t make sense for us to be … anything. You know what I mean.” He knows how bad it can be, how much neither of them want the media speculating, asking questions. And now he knows about Russia, too.
“If I come out, yes, would be hard to go back home, but it is maybe worth it, if you wanted—” He stops. “If you wanted …”
“If I wanted what? What do you want?” Shane asks. He has been staring fixedly at Ilya’s hands.
“I want … ” Ilya whispers. “I know it’s crazy. I don’t even—I just want—” He stops and swallows, looking away, hands in his lap, one thumb rubbing the other.
“What’s crazy?” Shane’s heart starts beating faster.
“Like … to be together?” He sounds so completely miserable that Shane almost misses the actual words. There’s a long, silent pause as he tries to process this. Ilya sniffs and rubs his face, leans forward on his knees.
“Together, like … together for real?”
“If it’s what you want, then yes.” His voice is very quiet.
Shane reaches out his good hand and puts it on the back of Ilya’s neck, gently, without squeezing. He feels the ends of soft hair against his fingertips.
“But,” he starts. “I don’t—you said we can’t. I thought that’s what you said. We don’t … we don’t go on dates.”
Ilya huffs a small laugh. “I know, Hollander, I know I said that.”
“But you want to.”
“I want … fuck.” Ilya turns his head and grabs Shane’s hand, bringing it to his own face. “I, um. I just want … just … to get to be with you, for real. Like … boyfriends?” His cheeks are as pink as Shane has ever seen them, skin warm underneath Shane’s palm, and he closes his eyes. “I don’t know how,” he adds quickly. “Have never done it really.”
“Me neither,” Shane murmurs. Ilya’s eyes are still squeezed shut. He inhales. “But I want it too. So much. Ilya.” The truth of these words settles deeply into him, and this is not the first time he’s felt it, but it’s the first time it’s made him feel something other than a weird sort of grief. Ilya moves Shane’s hand, brings it to his mouth, covers it in kisses, presses it to his own face. He looks at Shane’s face, and there are tears in his eyes.
“Fuck. Really? Me.”
Shane leans against him, letting his forehead drop onto Ilya’s shoulder. “Yes, you. Please. I missed you. I wanted you so fucking much.”
Strong arms wrap around him, carefully, and Shane can feel Ilya’s heart pounding.
“I missed you too. Shane. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. You have pain?”
“No.” Shane tips his face and plants open-mouthed kisses on Ilya’s neck, his cheek. “I mean—yes. But it’s fine. Don’t go anywhere. Please. Please stay.”
Ilya pulls away and Shane wraps his good arm, still strong, around him, pulling him back in, saying, “please, Ilya, come here” and Ilya says “yes, okay, yes,” and kisses him, holding his face so gently that Shane thinks he might cry.
A little while later, after Ilya has given Shane his ibuprofen and helped him put toothpaste on his toothbrush (“I can do it, you don’t need to … okay—thanks”) … after he has handed him his pajamas and they’re lying in bed together, Shane runs his good hand through Ilya’s hair and enjoys watching his eyelids droop. It’s silent except for their breathing.
“I love you,” he whispers, so quietly he thinks maybe Ilya didn’t hear, and that would be okay, he just needs to say it out loud, for once, because it’s true. Just needs to speak it into the air. But Ilya’s eyes pop open.
“What?” His face is only about two inches from Shane’s.
“You heard me,” Shane says. “Right?”
“Say it again,” he requests, and he still looks so tired, but so happy, too, Shane can’t help smiling back. “I am not sure I did hear.”
“I said I love you, you asshole.” He thinks—maybe it’s okay if Ilya doesn’t say it back, he can feel it—he thinks he can, anyway, he thinks he already knows. Ilya closes the space between them and kisses him, on the shoulder, the neck, the mouth.
“I love you, too,” he murmurs. Shane lets it sink in for another quiet minute.
“Close your eyes.” Shane guides Ilya’s head back onto his shoulder, puts his fingers back into those curls. Ilya hums a little, and soon they’re both asleep.
***
June, 2017
“This one,” Ilya says, clicking the photo, pulling up an image of a tiny, ratty-looking dog with giant bulging eyes. “Look at him, Shane!”
“Oh, Jesus,” Shane mutters. “Okay, what does it say?”
Ilya reads the blurb about the dog, a mixed breed (“no shit”), will need plenty of patience and training, mostly housebroken. Shane groans.
“Please,” he says. “Please can we find one that won’t piss all over the apartment?”
Ilya sighs loudly. “Fine.”
“Ilya …”
“I know, I know. You’re right. Okay.”
The website with local adoptable dogs is updated frequently, and it makes Ilya so happy just to look at the photos that Shane doesn’t bother to redirect him anymore. He’s rolling with it. His boyfriend needs a dog. This is a thing they’re doing.
Ilya gasps. “Shane, look.” It’s a beautiful white and black dog with spots on her face. “Great Pyrenees mix,” Ilya reads. “Looks like you! Freckles.”
Shane looks and only scoffs a little. “Well, that’s a pretty dog, so I’ll take it as a compliment, I guess.” Ilya puts his phone down and turns, pulling Shane over to straddle his lap, wrapping his arms around him and squeezing. The splint is finally gone. Overall, the recovery from this injury has been better than Shane could have ever imagined. He can’t complain.
“You are prettier,” Ilya mumbles into his neck. “But we should go meet that dog, I think.” He pulls back to look at Shane hopefully.
“What did the website say? Housebroken?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t even look!”
Ilya picks up his phone again. “See: Housebroken, walks beautifully on a leash. Gentle and friendly. Ready for her forever home.”
“They’re all ready for their forever homes.” Shane pauses. “She is really cute, though.”
“Okay,” Ilya says. “We will go on Thursday. After PT, yes?”
“Yeah.” Shane leans forward to kiss him. “Okay. God, I can’t believe we’re gonna do it. You know what this means.”
“Yes. You will have to make extra portions of all your food so she can eat like you, but Shane, she needs red meat. She cannot live on smoothies and tofu and all that shit.”
“She does not need red meat. But no, that’s not what this means,” Shane murmurs. Ilya is shifting around a little underneath him, making Shane squirm.
“Mmm, it means you will have company on runs now, way too ass-early in the morning, you can stop begging me to go with you every day, yes?”
Shane puts his hands on Ilya’s face, squishing it gently, and rolls his hips down.
“I do not beg.”
“Mmm, sometimes you do.” Shane feels himself flush.
“No.” He can feel Ilya, hard underneath him, and looks at his mouth, which curls up into a smile.
“Okay,” Ilya groans softly. “Fuck, Hollander. What does it mean.”
“It means,” Shane starts, trying not to get too distracted, “it means you better be really sure about this. It’s like having a baby with someone, Ilya. You don’t want to adopt a dog with the wrong person. It could be a disaster.” He tries to keep a straight face. Strangely, he’s never been so sure about anything in his entire life as he is about this whole situation. Ilya looks at him seriously.
“No,” he whispers, against Shane’s mouth. “No disaster. I love you so much. Best decision ever,” and Shane knows he doesn’t mean the dog.
“I love you so much too,” he says back, watching Ilya’s face, running a thumb over his lip. “But listen. You are dealing with all of the dog shit.”
“We will see.”
Shane’s phone buzzes and he leans over to grab it. “My mom texted, hang on.” Ilya squeezes his hips, rocking them together. “Ilya … fuck. Okay, she wants to know if we wanna have dinner with her and my dad next week. They’re coming here for a few days.” He looks back at Ilya. “We don’t have to, but … I mean. It could be nice? Um. If you want. It could be a good way to ease into it, you know, before we go up to the cottage.”
“Yes,” Ilya says slowly, before taking a deep breath. It’s new, they haven’t done this yet, with his parents, and Shane doesn’t want to push him, but—“Tell her okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yes,” Ilya murmurs, pulling Shane down and kissing him. “Anything.”
Shane occasionally worries, faintly, that Ilya quite literally means anything, that he would do anything Shane wants, anything he asks. He has to be careful, he thinks. Ilya’s heart is so—fucking precious, so soft—and he’s learning more about that almost every day. He wraps his arms around his boyfriend and hugs him close.
They’re still on the couch when Svetlana and Rose knock on the door.
“Fuck,” Ilya groans. “I did not have time to take your pants off.” Shane laughs.
“I gave Rose’s name to the guy downstairs awhile ago. I can’t tell her she has to call first now because we’re fucking half the time they come over here.”
“You could. I am very sexy, she would understand.”
Shane pulls himself off and adjusts his pants, taking a few deep breaths. “You good?”
Ilya whines a little and Shane goes to the door.
“Shane! Oh my God, you’re not even dressed. Aren’t we going out?”
“I’m dressed,” he protests, looking down at his t-shirt and joggers.
“Ilyusha,” Svetlana scolds, looking him up and down. “I thought I could count on you, at least.”
“Hey,” Shane says halfheartedly. Ilya stands up, comes over and wraps his arms around him, shoving his head onto Shane’s shoulder.
“I just want to stay here,” he says. “Tired.”
Svetlana shoves him. “Stop it, you know it’ll be fun once we’re there.” She looks at Shane. “Jesus Christ, you’re like an old married couple now. You’re rubbing off on him, Shane.” She sounds disappointed. “I was hoping it would be the other way around.”
“Goes both ways,” Ilya mumbles, still attached to Shane. “Rubbing off.”
Shane blushes and untangles himself. “Okay, well. It sounds like we are going out. So. I’ll go … change. I guess.”
Ilya follows him into the bedroom and offers to help him get dressed.
“My arm is healed,” Shane reminds him. “Worry about yourself.” But Ilya doesn’t really have anything here—not a lot of clothes, anyway, his stuff is mostly still back at his place.
“You could—um,” Shane starts. “You should bring some more stuff over here, if you want. Like more extra clothes.” He goes to the closet. “There’s plenty of space here.” He gestures to the shelf he’s emptied out.
Ilya looks at him. “You made that space for me.” His eyes start to gleam.
“Well, no, this closet is huge … there’s always been …”
“No, you cleared it out. Just for me. My clothes.” Ilya is moving slowly towards him and he pulls off his shirt and tosses it to the floor. Shane watches the muscles in his arms and chest flex and feels his mouth go a little dry. But then he can’t help laughing.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Changing my shirt.”
“Into what?”
“I’ll find something.”
And he does, but first Shane is pushed against the wall and kissed within an inch of his life. And, well. He really can’t complain.
***
The Pyrenees mix with spots on her face comes with the name Georgia, and on the drive home they argue about whether or not they’ll change it. In the meantime, she’s strapped safely into the back of Ilya’s SUV.
“I guess maybe it’s good you have so many cars,” Shane comments. “I guess this will be actually useful now that we have a dog.”
Now that we have a dog echoes around them, and Ilya slows carefully for a red light, turning his head only after the car has come to a complete stop. Their dog has her head resting on the back seat, peering at them, looking attentive. A little uncertain. The seat in front of her, behind Ilya and Shane, is full of her new things: bed, food, toys.
“Don’t worry,” he tells her. “You have the best dad, he will take such good care of you. Everything will be good now.”
“What are you saying to her?” Shane asks.
“I told her I will send a picture to Derek,” he says, sneaking a look over at him.
“What?”
“Yes, we can take it when we get home, the three of us. I will tell him, here is the dog Shane Hollander and I just adopted together. Because he is my boyfriend and loves me very much. And begs me to fuck him every day.”
“You will not. And I do not. Jesus. He doesn’t give a shit about me, Ilya.” Shane’s voice is annoyed, but his face is soft. Ilya just laughs. Never in a million years could he have anticipated this day. This life. Shane.
“Vesnushka,” he says.
“What?”
Ilya reaches over and touches Shane’s cheek, then grabs his hand. “Is a perfect name for her.”
“What does it mean?”
Ilya smiles. “Freckle,” he says.
The light turns green.