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July 2017 — Ottawa
Ilya had turned off every siren, every flashing light, and every alarm bell warning him how dangerous it would be to spend two weeks alone with Shane Hollander.
A few stolen fucks here and there had been enough when it was all they had. Ilya never thought he’d get more. Not even when he was reckless with relief in a Florida hotel room, practically begging:
When will I have you for as long as I want?
He hadn’t believed it was possible, and neither had Shane. Yet, here they were.
Ilya had been at his cottage for four days and every waking moment had been saturated with Shane. If a fortnight was all he could get he wouldn’t waste his chance to take everything he wanted from him, and give him everything in return.
Well, almost everything, he wasn’t about to ruin it by being too honest.
Shane, on the other hand, might be on course to ruin things for an entirely different reason. His complexion had been growing more pallid, and the dark circles under his eyes more prominent, by the hour.
Shane had been making them brunch earlier that day — eggs, bacon, avocado on toast — when Ilya had noticed. He’d initially put it down to spilling Shane’s brain out through his cock thrice that morning. The first as a special treat to wake him up, the second while he was buried inside him, and the third in the shower because he couldn’t resist and simply wanted to see if Shane could. And he had. Weakly and with barely anything to show for it. It still counted.
Shane looked exhausted, but more than post-sex tired — Ilya knew that look. This was different.
He wasn’t coughing or sneezing, but something was… off.
Ilya was miffed. He hadn’t travelled all the way to beautiful, butt-fuck-nowhere Ontario to play nurse. He would. If he had to. But he would do so begrudgingly and with constant complaint.
Ilya poured himself a glass of water, took a few sips and watched Shane prepare dinner.
It was only 3pm yet Shane was committed to cooking homemade sausage rolls and was adamant he needed to make the puff pastry now so it had time to chill.
Shane had already measured the flour into the food processor and was staring at the recipe book again, concentrating, his eyes scanning the same line repeatedly.
Ilya refilled the glass and tapped his shoulder.
“Thanks,” Shane said, taking the drink and putting it down immediately.
Ilya frowned.
Shane read the line again, index finger trailing underneath the words. He walked back to the island bench and asked, “What do you wanna do this afternoon? There’s still the kayaks, or we can re-match Montreal v Boston, or play something different if you like?”
Ilya skimmed the recipe then walked over to watch him weigh and cut the cold butter into cubes.
“Hmm, PlayStation sounds good.” Ilya decided that keeping him inside would be the best bet. If he was getting a cold, Ilya didn’t want him getting congested, losing his balance and capsizing in the rocky shallows.
“Do you need me to do anything?” Ilya asked as he scattered half the butter into the flour.
“No. Sit down. Go watch some TV or something.”
It wasn’t the first time Shane had dismissed him. Ilya buried his hands in his pockets and stayed where he was.
“Shane,” Ilya said, the hint of urgency in his voice made him look up. “It’s half a teaspoon, not half a cup.”
Shane’s hand, poised and ready to pour, stilled, “Shit. Is it?”
“Very confident. Yes.”
Shane put down the measuring cup full of salt and re-checked the recipe in the bookstand behind him.
Ilya grabbed the metal stand from beside the stove, carrying it to where Shane was working.
“Ah. That makes it so much easier. I can’t believe I never thought to do that before.”
“Because you think everything is glued down and cannot be moved from its place.”
“I do not,” Shane huffed.
Ilya knocked his hip with his own, “You do. Let me help before you create playdough pastry.”
“No. You are my guest,” Shane said firmly.
Ilya’s jaw clenched, grinding down his instinct to bite back. He didn’t want to be Shane’s guest anymore. He didn’t know what he wanted exactly — something with no pretence, or roles, or labels. They had enough of those everywhere else. He didn’t want them here too. Although, one label had rattled in his head since the first night, it had danced through the plumes of wood smoke, and had lazed beside them in bed.
It was a ludicrous, deluded state of mind that he needed to snap out of.
“You try to give all your guests heart attacks?” Ilya asked, arms folded.
Shane snorted, his cheeks tinged with embarrassment, and it was the most he’d looked like himself all afternoon.
“Only the ones I like,” Shane admitted, casual and easy.
Ilya’s frustration evaporated instantly. Christ. He was doomed. He shifted his weight closer to Shane and started to pour the cup of cooking salt back into the bag.
A memory, so faint he couldn’t be sure it was real, skirted across the back of his mind. Moscow. December. 1998. Maybe. Below freezing outside. Not much warmer inside. His mother’s goulash, too hot and too salty. He’d pulled a face. She’d laughed and repeated an old Russian superstition:
Yesli yeda slishkom solonaya, znachit, tot, kto yeyo prigotovil, vlyublon.
Ilya spilt some of the salt over the edge of the bag, it rained down the side of the plastic.
He pushed down the memory and her voice — which sounded more like his own than hers — and used the edge of one hand to scoop the salt across the bench and into his open palm.
“Wait,” Shane stopped him. He dipped his fingers into the small pile, pinched some grains between his fingers and threw them over his left shoulder.
Ilya didn’t want to consider what his face was doing, something halfway between stricken and fond.
“Habit,” Shane explained quickly, he shook it off like it was nothing. Maybe it was nothing to him. Something he’d learnt from his grandmother that stuck. But the words were out of Ilya’s mouth before he could stop them.
“In Russia, people say adding too much salt to someone’s food means you’re distracted and in love.”
Shane was blushing again.
Ilya wanted to tease him, rile him up: Are you secretly in love with me, Hollander? But Ilya couldn’t joke about that, simply because he couldn’t bear the answer.
Shane, tester of all of Ilya’s limits, did something far more brave; he dipped his fingers back into Ilya’s palm and sprinkled a little extra salt into the flour.
Ilya felt the rash urge to tip the entire bag upside down into the mixture.
See, there, I said it too. Now what do we do?
He couldn’t bring himself to follow through. He couldn't look at him either. He tipped his hand over the bag and brushed the salt inside.
Ilya eventually stole a glance at him as he pulsed the food processor. If he was disappointed, he didn’t show it, but the colour was slowly draining from his cheeks again.
Ilya grabbed the abandoned glass of water and handed it to him. Shane accepted it with a small, knowing smile and took a few sips.
Maybe he didn’t need to over-salt their food to give himself away.
*
Half an hour later they were on opposite sides of the couch, controllers in their hands, Super Smash Bros. loaded up on the TV.
Shane’s shit-talk was terrible at the best of times, but it got progressively worse the longer they played. Ilya’s jabs and jeers either went over his head or his comebacks missed the mark entirely. As for his play, he cycled through his trio of Pokémon an embarrassing amount of times and his combos backfired more often than not.
“Did not realise it was your first time playing this game,” Ilya ribbed when Shane sent his little turtle spinning off the platform all by himself.
“It’s not.”
Ilya rolled his eyes and paused the game.
“You are sick,” Ilya declared, because Shane clearly wasn’t going to admit it.
“What? No I’m not.”
“You have not called me asshole this whole time.”
“Okay, I’ll start now. Come on,” Shane gripped his controller, ready to get his dragon to breathe fire at Sonic.
“Hollander,” Ilya insisted. “You look like shit.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“If you’re not sick, what is it then?”
“Nothing.”
“Is it your broken bones?” Ilya tapped his collarbone.
Shane hadn’t needed surgery but if Ilya’s bruised ribs were still giving him grief he’d hazard a guess Shane’s old fracture wasn’t without its moments.
“Want a massage?” Ilya asked. He really was ruined, for there wasn’t a hint of promiscuity in his offer.
“My collarbone isn’t broken anymore, Ilya. I’m fine.”
“Terrible liar. Can’t even look at me.”
Shane’s shoulders dropped, “It’s nothing, just a bit of a headache, it’ll pass.”
“Has been hours.”
Shane collapsed against the back of the couch and closed his eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ilya asked.
“What? And be a terrible host wasting our time together by saying my stupid head hurts and all I want to do is lay down,” Shane rolled his head to finally look at him, “I don’t think so.”
“You need sleep, you take sleep. Otherwise you’ll get worse.” Ilya exited the game and powered down the console.
“I don’t need—”
“Up,” Ilya cut him off and took the controller out of his hands, replacing them with his own.
He pulled Shane to his feet. “Tell me sooner, next time. Screens are bad for sore heads.”
“Okay,” Shane didn’t fight Ilya and let him lead him to the bedroom.
Shane curled up on his side of the bed while Ilya used the remote to select the blackout setting for the blinds.
After his eyes adjusted to the near darkness, he looked over to the bed, Shane already looked better, like the act of no longer pretending he was fine had eased a different kind of ache.
“I’ll be back,” Ilya said.
Ilya went downstairs again to grab the glass of water and the blanket he seemed to like most off the back of the couch. He made a pit stop in the ensuite, popping out two Ibuprofen from the pack he’d glimpsed when snooping the first night. Ilya returned to Shane, who sat up enough to swallow down the pills before settling back down again.
Ilya draped the blanket over Shane, tucking it under his chin.
“Sladkiye sny,” Ilya whispered into his hair as kissed the top of his head.
Shane let out a rumble, wriggling into his pillow. Ilya stepped back and around the bed towards the door.
“Where are you going?”
Ilya could feel Shane looking over his shoulder at him. He didn’t turn around.
“Letting you rest.”
Ilya had always assumed Shane would be a light sleeper. He hadn’t had nearly enough one night stands to know how to sleep with someone next to him. Ilya wasn’t offended that Shane slept better alone. It would give him something to fix by the end of his trip.
Shane was pouting, Ilya could hear it when he said: “Stay. For a bit.”
Ilya shook his head and looked back at him, “Cuddles later,” he tried not to visibly cringe at how pathetic he sounded, promising something so juvenile.
“I just need thirty minutes,” Shane decided and moved to pick up his phone as if he were about to set an alarm.
“Nuh-uh,” Ilya stepped back up to him and snatched it out of his hand.
“Hey!”
“No screens.”
“I was—”
“Going to sleep.” Ilya pocketed his phone. He kissed his lips – to shut up any attempt at a rebuttal – then his forehead to make him heal faster. “Good,” he whispered when Shane didn’t protest and left before Shane decided to complain, or convince him to stay.
*
It was strange being left to his own devices in Shane Hollander’s house.
What were his boundaries?
Did he have any?
Shane had told him to make himself at home, but would take every opportunity to remind him he’s only visiting.
Ilya hadn’t worked out — besides the obvious cardio — since the day before he left Boston. He could do with some proper exercise.
He headed over to Shane’s kitted out training facility, did a few stretches, then strapped his hands and gloved up. He pounded Shane’s punching bag until the muscles in his back strained and his arms trembled.
After he got enough feeling back in his hands, he fired up Shane’s treadmill and sprinted away from all the reasons he was tense when he was supposed to be relaxed. He increased the incline.
He was dripping by the time he finished the three-hundred metre cool down.
Rather than taking the risk of waking Shane by showering, Ilya headed down to the lake, stripped down to his underwear and dove into the water. He swam a lazy backstroke to the rocks and back to wash off the sweat and bring his heart rate down.
Ilya stretched out like a starfish, letting the sun warm the droplets that clung to his chest and face.
How on earth were they going to get back to what they were before this? Because they had to, right? What other option did they have?
Ilya shifted his weight into his hips until he sank under the surface.
*
Half an hour would have passed three times over by the time Ilya grabbed his towel off the deck railing.
Maybe he should check on Shane.
He dried off, leaving his clothes in a pile by the door and walked quietly through the cottage. Tiptoeing up the stairs, he pushed open the bedroom door. Shane had rolled towards the middle of the bed, facing him, his breathing deep and loud and undisturbed.
Ilya wanted to climb onto the bed, pull him to his chest, and lie that Roger Crowell had called and told him hockey had been cancelled forever. Sad, but means we never have to leave and we can live here for good, yes?
He quashed the irrational urge and snuck into the walk-in wardrobe instead. He counted the drawers in the dark until he found the one Shane had cleared out for him. He felt around for a dry pair of underwear and clean shorts. He thought about foregoing a shirt but his hands reached up and tugged one of Shane’s sweaters off the hanger. He got changed, stole one more glance at the zonked Shane and closed the door behind him.
It was nearing 6pm. Ilya considered chucking on ESPN or playing some NHL 17. But that wouldn’t be productive. Ilya wanted to be productive. He wandered into the kitchen, his eyes landed on the open recipe book in the stand. He pushed up the sleeves of the one-size-too-small jumper and got to work.
Ilya followed the rest of the instructions loosely and prepared the sausage roll filling.
He divided and rolled out the dough and portioned the filling into chunky lines. He closed and crimped the sides and made a little heart out of off-cut pastry.
He scrunched his nose and squished the dough between his fingers, tearing it in half, he moulded it into an 8 and a 1. Much better.
Egg washed and with a sprinkling of salt and sesame seeds Ilya slid the tray into the oven and set the timer.
There was still a handful of the pastry left because apparently Ilya had been too generous when he scooped out the filling.
He rolled out the leftover dough into a thin sheet, cut it into strips and twisted them into a helix. Shane wouldn’t own a deep fryer, there was no point looking for one. Ilya contemplated pouring a vat’s worth of cooking oil into Shane’s wok but he probably wouldn’t appreciate that. He settled for laying the strips of pastry on a tray and chucking them on the lower shelf of the oven to bake. Prosti, babushka
*
Ilya was placing the improvised khvorost on the wire rack to cool when he heard footsteps coming down the stairs. He flicked on the kettle as Shane trudged, messy haired and flushed, into the kitchen. Ilya was struck with the ridiculous realisation that he’d missed him.
“Have a good nap?” Ilya asked drizzling honey and a generous amount of sugar onto the puffy, golden ribbons.
“Mm-hmm. What’s all this?” Shane asked and stood beside him, close enough to rest his head on his shoulder. Ilya’s arm instinctively curled around his waist.
“Dessert. Dinner will be ready soon.”
“Dinner? What’s the time?”
Ilya pulled out Shane’s phone from his pocket and checked, “Ten-to-seven,” he passed his phone over to him.
Shane checked for himself, and pulled back enough to look at him, face stern. “Ilya, I said half an hour! Why didn’t you wake me?”
“I didn’t realise the time,” he lied.
Shane looked ready to argue; Ilya continued before he could.
“You were snoring and drooling when I checked on you.”
“I was not.”
“Would never dream of waking sleeping beauty,” Ilya smoothed a tuft of his hair back into place and brushed his knuckles down the pillow-creased side of Shane’s face. Definitely a good sleep.
“Don’t. I’m mad at you,” Shane tried to frown but his eyes were very soft, “I’m not going to be able to get any sleep tonight.”
“Ah-ha, my master plan has worked!” Ilya winked.
The kettle clicked. He turned around and poured the boiling water into the mug he’d set out earlier.
“How’s your head?” Ilya asked.
“Yeah, better. Thank you.”
“Good. You can show me later.”
“Huh?”
Ilya turned around and leant against the counter. He poked his tongue suggestively into the inside of his cheek, adding a lewd motion with his hand for full effect.
“Fuck off!”
“Ah, you are better,” Ilya knew his face was giving away too much. Too happy. Too fond.
Shane shook his head, “You’re so immature.”
He looked so much prettier with colour in his cheeks.
“Go, sit. I will bring food soon.”
Shane squared his shoulders and opened his mouth.
“Do not say I am a guest,” Ilya squeezed out the lemon and ginger teabag and topped up the mug with cold water.
“But you are,” Shane’s brow furrowed, taking the drink from him.
“Yes, but…” Ilya trailed off. “It doesn’t matter,” he snatched the jar of honey and went to put it back in the pantry; Shane grabbed him by the crook of the elbow.
“Hey.”
Ilya didn’t say anything.
“Did I do something wrong?” Shane asked, letting him go.
Sometimes, very rarely, he wished Shane would just read his mind and understand. The rest of the time, it was his greatest fear.
Ilya took a breath and met his eye, “I don’t want to be your guest, Shane.”
“Okay,” Shane chewed on the word carefully, like he wasn’t sure how to digest Ilya’s meaning. He blew on his hot tea, brow furrowed in thought as he took a sip.
Ilya huffed and pushed through the discomfort of speaking, “I want to be… even, with you,” it wasn’t the right word, he used his hand to gesture between them. It wasn’t enough. “Like on the ice,” he added.
“Equals?” Shane offered and Ilya nodded.
“Yes. That. I want you to stop being perfect host and relax. Let me help.” As the words left his mouth, he considered perhaps he was being a hypocrite. If he had Shane in his house for two weeks, there’s no way he’d be lifting a finger.
“Oh,” Shane flushed, burying his face in his tea again.
“Sit down?” Ilya encouraged.
Shane nodded and moved around the island to sit on the bar stool.
“I’m sorry,” he said when he was settled.
“Why sorry?” Ilya asked and put the honey and sugar away.
“For being such a control freak,” Shane wrapped his hands around his steaming mug.
“Not a freak,” Ilya said firmly, “You do not have to try so hard. Is only me.”
Shane laughed, muttering something Ilya didn’t catch. Shaking his head he said, louder, “I wasn’t. I have never been this comfortable when anyone else has stayed here.”
Ilya’s heart somersaulted in his chest, and then, “You’ve had many visitors then? Lots of sex parties?”
“Yeah, of course, orgies all summer long.”
“Very happy for you, Hollander.”
“They’d all walk around wearing my Montreal sweaters too.”
Ilya looked down and noticed the small white logo for the first time.
“It got cold.”
It hadn’t.
It smelt like Shane’s washing powder and Shane but he was never going to admit that’s why he grabbed it.
Shane nodded slowly, like he didn’t believe him for a second. He sipped on his tea and watched Ilya as he pottered around his kitchen, getting out the plates and dividing up the leftover garden salad from the night before.
He got out two sets of cutlery and poured them each a glass of water to have with their dinner and handed them to Shane who set the dining table.
Rather than sitting back down on the stool, Shane padded into the kitchen to where Ilya was washing the dishes by hand. He didn’t dare try and load Shane’s dishwasher. Shane put his near empty mug onto the sink’s edge.
“Can you wash this too, please?”
Ilya hummed and Shane wrapped his arms around his middle, kissed the back of his neck and nestled into his curls. He rocked to and fro as Ilya reached from the sink over to the dish-drainer and back again. Shane pushed up onto his tiptoes and leant over his shoulder to kiss the hinge of his jaw.
“Thank you,” Shane whispered against his ear then kissed lightly down the side of his neck as he lowered himself back down onto his heels.
Ilya exhaled and finished by washing his mug. He spun around, grabbed Shane’s hips with wet, sudsy hands and walked him towards the island bench.
“Maybe I should get headaches more often,” Shane said wistfully. “Big, sexy, Russian looking after me. I could get used to this,” Shane’s blush crept across his cheeks as he realised the inference behind his words.
Ilya squeezed his hips. “Mm-hmm, I could get used to this too,” he brushed his nose against Shane’s as he leant closer. He had his hands under his thighs, lifting him onto the island when the timer went off.
Shane clearly expected Ilya to ignore the obnoxious buzzing and kiss him, but Ilya abandoned him, leaving Shane’s legs to flail and his lips to chase after his.
Ilya turned off the timer and the oven, and was back between Shane’s legs, before Shane could so much as grumble.
Shane sighed into the kiss Ilya branded against his mouth, wrapping his arms and legs around him tightly.
Ilya’s hands were all over his back, curling into his hair. He wanted to lay him down, press him into the stone countertop, but Shane would get a metal bookstand to the back of the skull and Ilya would cop an earful: this is why things have their place, Rozanov.
So Ilya settled for smiling into their kiss like an idiot. Shane left his lips to kiss across his cheek and down his neck again. This time he pulled the edge of his sweater to the side and latched onto the fleshy juncture of Ilya’s shoulder, sucking a deep bruise that felt just the right side of painful.
Christ, he’d be able to see it, feel it, for days. Shane sunk his teeth in for good measure, Ilya flinched, hissing.
“Okay, okay,” Ilya breathed, ragged and unconvincing. “Mark me up later, kotik. First, dinner.”
Shane tightened his legs around his waist. Not done with him, he poured everything unsaid into the swipe of his tongue, and the tug of his hair. Ilya did the same because it was too late for anything less.
Shane pulled back to take a single breath then leant in again, kissing him once more, hard and desperate. Ilya stumbled when Shane eventually pushed him backwards to hop off the island, he adjusted his shorts and wordlessly went to sit at the dining table.
Ilya caught his breath, chewed the giddy smile out of his bottom lip and finished plating their food.
He smirked to himself as he spun Shane’s plate around in front of him.
Ilya pulled out the chair beside him as Shane snorted a laugh.
“Very artistic,” Shane praised, sliced the 81 in half and took a bite.
Ilya stabbed a few leaves of salad and waited for his reaction. Shane took another bite, then reached for his water.
Ilya raised a brow at him expectantly, Shane smiled.
“It’s good. A bit…” he trailed off. Pausing. Glass halfway to his mouth.
Shane’s eyes flickered across Ilya’s face, looking everywhere. His eyes, his lips, his eyebrows, searching. Ilya gave him an easy, crooked smile, as if his heart wasn’t pounding in his chest.
Shane’s throat worked down a hard swallow. He licked his kiss-swollen lips, mushing them together. He fought back a grin as he raised his glass the rest of the way and took a long sip.