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Ilya doesn’t like Mothers’ Day.
The world around him celebrates, and he doesn’t have it in him to join. Being a florist doesn’t help, because he can’t escape the people coming in, gleefully requesting a bouquet for the occasion.
(It helps a little when he recognizes the few who are like him; the ones whose polite smiles never quite reach their ears, the ones who ask for flowers almost too calmly, too softly, hoping Ilya pretends to miss the redness around their eyes. He puts extra care in those kinds of bouquets.)
It’s always really busy too, and Ilya appreciates it, of course. But it also means he feels pinpricks at the back of his eyes for the whole time, and carries on with the promise of the big and embarrassing cry he’ll allow himself at the end of the day, and that tomorrow will be back to normal.
Today is Mothers’ Day and it's been Mothers’ Day for long enough that Ilya is exhausted—so much so that he'd been considering closing shop early, but then the bell above the door chimes, and his dreams of an early evening vanish.
He still puts on his most accommodating smile and looks up, the words ‘Hello’ and ‘what can I do for you?’ on the tip of his tongue.
The man standing in the doorway is so stunning that none of the words make it out.
He’s got these beautiful brown eyes and what Ilya is pretty sure are freckles, and he’s wearing an awfully boring grey suit, which makes him look even more dashing somehow. He also doesn’t seem to realize that Ilya hasn’t said a single word in the last ten seconds.
“Hi. I’d like to get my mom a bouquet but I don’t know what goes well together…” The man purses his lips, and Ilya can't look away. “Could you recommend anything?”
Ilya has never felt the need to commit another person’s voice to his memory this badly.
“...Yes, of course. Could you tell me about her? Does not have to be much. Favorite flower…favorite color…these sorts of things.”
This, he knows how to do; Ilya falls back into mindless conversation, the kind he’s had a million times and does not require much thinking. He doesn’t trust himself to form any kind of non-flower related sentence around this man anyway.
He walks the man around his shop, musing to himself as he picks whatever flowers he thinks will fit the description he’s been given. The man follows him—he doesn’t have to, and Ilya is tempted to tell him as such, but he gets a whiff of the man’s cologne when they are close, so he keeps that to himself. He looks so out of his element, cheeks pink and nodding at whatever small comment Ilya makes (“Tulips could work too, probably,” “...Sure!”) and Ilya has to bite his lips to refrain from smiling at each of his interjections.
He wraps the bouquet with care, spending more time thinking about the disposition of the arrangement than he should, and aligning the wrapping paper with minutiae he never knew he had. He thinks it's a little ridiculous—but is it really, when he feels the man’s gaze over him, studying his every move, and he is flooded with the need to impress him, whichever way he can?
“They’re beautiful, thank you.”
Ilya knows they are—it’s his job to make sure of it, and he’s really fucking good at it. But somehow, coming from this man, the compliment lands better than anything a floral design competition jury could manage. He wants to know what he finds so beautiful about them, he wants to ask Oh really? What do you like about it? Is it the color palette? I like it too. I worked really hard on the foliage too, but I want to know what you think about it. What else? What elseWhatelse
He is—thankfully—sane enough to not say any of that. Instead, he mutters a small ‘Thank you’, and feels his own cheeks heat up, even though he’s convinced everyone he knows it’s not in his Russian nature.
He fetches a blank card from under his working station. “Do you want to write something for her?”
“Oh no, my handwriting is really bad, I don’t think she wants to see that.” The man laughs, and Ilya loves the sound so much he wants to hear it again and again.
“It’s okay, I can write it for you, it wouldn’t be first time.” Ilya waves him off with a hand. The man nods. “What should I write?”
He looks away for a moment. “Uh…I’m not sure actually. ‘You’re the best, I love you’? It’s not very creative, but—”
“No, I think it’s great.” Ilya smiles and he hopes the man can tell that he means it.
(His own mom would probably think so too, were he able to give her flowers again. He wonders if she would smile the same way she did twenty years ago, if she would still hug him and say ‘My Ilyushenka, you’re too sweet—I love you too, always!’. He wonders.)
Ilya makes a quick affair of writing the message in practiced cursive.
“From…?” he asks, as he lifts the pen.
“I’m sorry, what?”
Ilya pointedly glances back at the card. “Your name. So I can sign.”
The man nods, “Right, sorry… Shane.”
Ilya notices a blush forms on Shane’s cheeks, and he’s pretty sure he’s sporting a matching one. Shane. Shane. He writes the name with more care than necessary, his pen gliding softly around each letter. Shane.
When Shane leaves, bouquet in hand and the soft chime of the bell behind him, Ilya tests the syllables on his tongue, and lets the air in his shop fill with the scent of flowers and the sound of his name.
Shane.
☙∙❀∙❧
Ilya hadn’t expected to see him again.
Most people that come to his shop for holidays or special occasions and anniversaries usually don’t come back until the next year on the same date. That’s always been part of his job, and Ilya had never thought he’d struggle to make peace with that—though it’s a little easier to disregard people not coming back for your flowers when they don’t look like six feet of beautiful brown eyes and boring suits. Ilya is aware he doesn’t know anything about Shane except the sound of his voice and the pattern of his freckles—he supposes it makes him a shallow man; he finds he doesn’t care.
So Ilya laments to himself about not seeing Shane again until the next Mothers’ Day. Possibly the next Mothers’ Day, he rectifies; Shane owes him and his flowers no loyalty, and there’s even a chance he’ll find a better florist with better arrangements, and Ilya will never get to hear Shane’s laugh again and he’ll spend a lifetime thinking What if? and wondering how the beautiful man with the freckles and the suit is doing because he never saw him again.
Thankfully for Ilya, this never happens, because the door to his store opens and Ilya is hit with a wave of déjà-vu.
“Hi,” Shane’s voice is almost drowned by the sound of the chime, but Ilya has spent enough time committing it to memory that he still recognizes it. He’s once again in a suit with a boring colorway—navy, this time—, and his smile is the same and the way Ilya’s heart skips a beat is the same.
“Hello…Shane, right?” He feigns hesitancy, pretends that the syllables are foreign on his tongue, even though they feel anything but. It earns him a handsome smile from Shane.
“You remembered,” How could I not?, Ilya thinks. “My mom loved the flowers by the way.”
“So much that she sent you to get more?” Ilya jokes, because it’s easier than accepting the compliment. And also because a simple ‘Thank you’ wouldn’t have made Shane laugh the way he does.
“No, this time it’s all me,” His smile is almost boyish. Ilya finds it very cute. “It’s my boyfriend and I’s anniversary tonight and I’d like to get him some flowers.”
“...Ah.”
Ilya supposes he should have seen that coming.
How foolish of him, to assume that someone like Shane would ever go unromanced and uncherished. That Ilya could be more than one in many, glancing at him from afar. And how infuriating, that there is a man out there who’s known Shane in ways he never might.
Ilya is pretty sure he feels his eye twitch. He’s aware he isn’t supposed to react so strongly to Shane’s relationship announcement, considering it’s their second time meeting, but he can't help it.
He tries his best at a smile that he thinks looks polite enough. Assumably, he isn’t very good at it, because he witnesses Shane’s bashful smile leave his face almost in real time. He looks almost…upset? One might even say offended.
Then it dawns on him: Shane thinks Ilya’s pissed off because he’s dating a man, not because he’s dating a man.
Shane’s frown deepens, “Is there a prob—”
“Ah, no no,” Ilya laughs awkwardly, as he scrambles for a way to salvage…whatever this is. “It’s great, congratulations. Was just surprised. Besides, I'm also…” Ilya gestures towards himself.
I’m also into men? I’m also into you?
“What— Oh.”
“Yes. So… I will, uh, make bouquet for your lucky boy.” Ilya uselessly points at his work station. Shane acquiesces, and that’s that.
Ilya puts even more care than usual in the bouquet, probably out of spite—mostly out of jealousy. It’s childish, and he knows that Shane won’t ever look at his fucking peonies and think ‘These are so gorgeous, I definitely ought to leave my partner for this random florist I met twice’.
Whatever.
If he deliberately chooses flowers with awful upkeep that will wilt easily, and writes James’ name sloppier than he normally would, then it’s no one’s business but his.
☙∙❀∙❧
Surprisingly enough, Shane comes back. Not just once, but on a fairly regular basis too.
(By regular, Ilya means that Shane shows up every Thursday around seventeen o’clock without fail. He always has a suit on, though sometimes the jacket is draped over his forearm, which Ilya always appreciates because he gets to—professionally and politely—ogle him.)
Shane also always has a James-related reason when he comes in. The first time, it’s because he and James are going for dinner.
Ilya would actually rather gouge his eyes out than listen to anything about this faceless man he loathes, but his desire to drink every word that comes out of Shane’s mouth outweighs everything else, so he listens with a smile.
And while Ilya is very kind to Shane, he has no intention to be kind to James. He will make a bouquet for him and it will be beautiful, sure, but the flowers themselves don't have to mean anything positive. So he looks around the different pots he keeps his flowers in, hoping for something decent enough.
Ilya settles on marigolds and tansies. Resentment and hostility.
It’s utterly petty and equally useless, considering James probably doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the meaning of flowers, but Ilya finds it particularly funny.
Within a few minutes, he has the whole thing arranged, wrapped and—poorly—signed. He hands it to Shane, and pretends that it doesn’t burn like a million suns when their fingers brush.
That’s it. Shane will say ‘Thank you’ and Ilya will say ‘No problem’ and Shane will leave, and Ilya doesn't know it yet, but they will see each other next week, and the week after that and so on. But for now, Shane is still here, and he hasn’t thanked Ilya yet, and Ilya is unsure there will ever be a next time, so he scrambles for something to say.
“So…twice in two weeks, huh?” He nods towards the flowers. They’re gorgeous, with many hues of oranges and yellows and greens. He’s almost jealous.
Shane looks down at them, and shrugs, “It just…feels like the proper thing to do, y’know? Especially since I’m taking him out and all…”
The proper thing to do. What an interesting choice of words. Ilya doesn’t comment on it.
“Very romantic of you, I like it,” At that, Shane’s cheeks dust with that shade of pink Ilya likes. He wants to see it deepen. “I hope he, ah, returns the favor, at least?”
There. Shane flushes crimson, surely assuming Ilya meant something inappropriate. “What?”
“I hope he buys you flowers too.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Shane chuckles as he realizes Ilya asked him that way on purpose. “…Not really? It’s not really his thing, I think.”
If Ilya didn’t think of James as an idiot before, he certainly does now.
He shrugs, “Shame.”
“Well, I—”
Shane’s phone rings.
“Sorry, it’s James, I have to—,” Ilya waves him off and Shane answers the call with a “Hi babe” that makes Ilya wish he’d added a hundred more tansies.
He doesn't catch much of what James says, but he does catch the way it makes Shane frown, and he hates it. “No, I told you I had something to do before picking you up—” Shane looks down at the bouquet in his arm. “How was I supposed to know you finished early— …Okay, okay, I’m leaving now.”
Shane turns to Ilya and mouths, “I have to go, thank you!” For an instant, his frown leaves his face and his smile is brighter than anything Ilya’s ever seen. He looks best like this, Ilya decides.
Ilya waves him bye, and watches Shane’s brows knit together again, as he tells his boyfriend, “Yes, I’ll be there soon. Give me, like, fifteen…”
Next time I’ll do a thousand fucking tansies.
Another time, it's five minutes before seventeen and Ilya is smoking right outside of his shop.
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
It’s gotten warm enough that Shane doesn’t even wear suit jackets anymore; he’ll show up, his crisp white button down with its sleeves rolled at the elbows, his tie loosened and a button opened at the neck, and— Wow. It's starting to get borderline unhealthy for Ilya to be so infatuated with Shane. He should start looking for a cardiologist or something.
Maybe a lung doctor too, he thinks as he takes a drag of his cigarette. “Hello to you too Shane.”
Shane smiles, unfazed by Ilya’s comment. “Hi. I didn’t know you smoked.”
“Yes,” he angles the cigarette towards Shane. “You?” He asks, mostly out of politeness. His gut tells him Shane isn’t a smoker, and he’s usually right at guessing these things.
Shane leans against the well next to him. “Oh no. I tried when I was younger but uh,”—he chuckles—“not for me.”
That actually surprises Ilya. He’d expected Shane to be a proper good boy, the kind to hand his assignments a week early and do all the assigned reading without a complaint. Now Ilya gets to picture a younger Shane (In high school? Surely not. University, perhaps?) trying his first ever cigarette. Did he borrow it from a friend, or did he buy himself an entire pack, only for it to remain unfinished? Did he inhale too much and sputter, the way Ilya had done on his first try? Or did he feel the burning in his throat and lungs, thinking ‘Why would anyone do this to themselves?’ and put the cigarette out?
“Huh.” Ilya takes another drag.
“What, is that surprising?”
Smoke billows out of his mouth, “That you tried? Yes, a little. You just don't seem like the type.”
Shane looks down at himself, taking in his—very—well-fitting gray slacks, and smiles, “I guess that’s true,” He glances back up towards Ilya. “But that’s rich coming from you.”
Ilya’s first instinct is to disagree, but then he catches the dark green of his apron in the corner of his vision. It probably does look a little oxymoronic, him escaping the scent of flowers for that of tobacco. It’s funny, he thinks, that Shane doesn’t know that his smoking predates his florist endeavors by over a decade.
Ilya has spent so long living in his own head he’s forgotten the kind of person he’s become—and that person happens to be someone whose job is handling delicate things like flowers, and who’s become kinder to others, and hopefully himself too. It’s strange to think that smoking could seem so out of character for him now.
“Touché,” he nods. “But you know what the smokers say…stress or whatever.”
Shane hums, unconvinced. “Stress, right. What’s got you so stressed then?”
“Oh, so many things. But also lately, there’s this one customer.”
“...Who?”
“Some guy,” His interest piqued, Shane cocks an eyebrow. “He’s so strange. He wears these suits even in the middle of summer, and he comes every Thursday, doesn’t miss a week.” Recognition passes through Shane’s eyes, and he chuckles. It’s the best sound Ilya’s ever heard. “And he never knows what he wants so I basically have to do all the work for him…”
“Hey!”
Ilya looks up from his cigarette and into Shane’s eyes. He can’t quite contain the tenderness when he says, “He makes me so stressed.”
“I think you secretly like that guy.” You think?
“Depends. Does he know what flowers he’s getting today?”
Shane gives him an apologetic look as his answer. Ilya groans.
“Ugh, I hate you,” Shane laughs. He looks so beautiful. “Come on, I'll see what I can do.”
(Shane looks even more beautiful than usual and that makes Ilya hate James even more than usual, so he adds a few more snapdragon and wolfsbane in today’s bouquet. He hopes the fury and the misery reach him tenfold.)
Another time, Ilya is too busy helping a charming old lady to notice Shane come in.
She’s lovely and hilarious, and she needs a few flowers for her husband who broke his leg and is still in the hospital. Ilya calls her young and beautiful twice and she laughs along and says she might leave her husband for him if he keeps it up. Ilya has a soft spot for old ladies.
The bell chimes and he forgets to pay attention because Ruth is considering what dessert to bring Ilya the next time she comes by—she maintains he ‘clearly isn’t eating enough’.
“Hey— Oh sorry.”
Both Ilya and Ruth turn their heads towards the door.
What the hell.
Shane is wearing glasses. His tie is loose enough that Ilya can see his collarbones, and his sleeves are rolled to show his forearms but Ilya cannot look away from Shane’s face. Glasses. With a black and metal frame, perched on the bridge of his freckled nose. What the fuck.
Ruth has turned back to him, and Ilya thinks he can hear something about cake flavors, but his eyes are still stuck on Shane. He seems unaware of the absolute epiphany Ilya is experiencing; he smiles and waves and mouths “Hi!” and Ilya’s gaze hasn’t moved.
Glasses.
It takes him way too much effort to tear his eyes away from Shane, but he does so because he really likes Ruth, and he’d also really like to finish doing his job (and he’d like to know if she settled on carrot cake or chocolate cake).
Every minute or so, he can’t help but steal a few glances towards Shane’s direction. He’s settled near the door, reading all the names of the flowers stored there, in that attentive manner of his.
There are countless thoughts coursing through Ilya’s mind, such as When the fuck did he start wearing glasses? but also Wait, has he always worn glasses? Like those I-wear-them-only-when-I-read-something people?, which turns into Maybe he reads little books before bed with his glasses on…God, I’d kill to know.
And then he thinks of James. James who gets to hold Shane’s hand and receives countless flowers from him. James who gets to kiss Shane even though the bastard probably takes him for granted. James who knows if Shane wears his glasses before bed. James who’s definitely seen Shane in his glasses before.
As he waves Ruth goodbye and wishes her husband a speedy recovery, Ilya thinks There is not a layer of hell deep enough for you James.
☙∙❀∙❧
“Hey,” Shane practically waltzes in, completely at ease.
It’s not Thursday. (Ilya checks his phone twice for the date and— yep, definitely Tuesday. That’s weird.)
He thinks Don’t ask, Ilya.
“What’s up? Date night got postponed again?” He asks anyway.
Ilya is already staring at Shane’s lips when he purses them. “No, nothing like that. Do you have…dandelions?” Shane asks, tapping his fingers on the counter.
“Do I have dandelions?” Ilya looks around. “What do you think I sell, Shane, car engines?”
“I don’t know, I was trying to be polite!”
That draws a laugh out of Ilya. “Very Canadian of you,” he nods to himself. “Try again.”
“What?”
“Ask me properly and I’ll get them for you. The dandelions.”
It’s quite easy to toy with Shane, Ilya has noticed. He can’t help but want to bother him, and push his buttons a little. He should be concerned that his way to flirt with Shane is comparable to pulling a girl’s pigtails at recess, though he’s having too much fun to care.
Unfortunately for Ilya, Shane doesn’t sputter and grumble like he’d expected him to. Not at all. Unfortunately for Ilya, Shane nods with a whispered ‘Okay’ and then stares him down with his big beautiful eyes, before asking, “Ilya, could you make me a bouquet of dandelions? Please.”
Holy shit.
He said Please. Shane, with his pink freckled cheeks, said Ilya and Please, and Ilya thinks that Earth could stop spinning this instant and he’d die a happy man. He swallows. He racks his brain for something ordinary and cool and normal to say in response but he comes up with absolutely nothing, so he just nods.
He doesn’t remember getting up and picking the dandelions, nor does he remember wrapping the bouquet and handing it to Shane. (What he does remember is the shape of Shane’s smile and the length of his eyelashes when he accepted the flowers, which is an unfair comparison because that’s not something he can ever forget.)
Once again, Shane lingers at the counter even though he should be long gone. Ilya starts preparing an order—staring continuously at Shane isn’t so good for business after all—, but he finds himself stealing glances at the dandelions in Shane’s arms. It takes him a while to find what has him so perplexed.
“I think it’s the first time you asked for something specific,” he notes. And even though he dreads the answer, Ilya still asks, “Did James ask for them this time?”
“Ah, uh— no. It's for a friend’s theater performance, I want to support her, y'know,” Shane smiles, but it is a short-lived one. “James and I…we broke up actually.”
Ilya thinks James is a fucking idiot.
It’s also the best day of his life.
He thinks he hears fireworks. Or church bells. Or both.
There’s a part of him that feels bad at finding joy in what is essentially Shane’s relationship misfortune, but isn’t there some sort of silver lining hiding in there somewhere? He is convinced Shane can do better anyway. (If the ‘better’ happens to be six foot one, Russian and a florist, well.)
“Oh I'm sorry.” Ilya has to bite the inside of his cheek to hide his grin. He thinks he sounds apologetic enough.
“It's okay. We weren't very…compatible, anyway.”
Ilya hums in pretend-understanding, and cuts the stem of a chrysanthemum.
☙∙❀∙❧
“I, uh…I didn’t come for flowers today.”
It's a Wednesday and it’s early afternoon, and Ilya isn’t surprised to see Shane on not-Thursdays anymore. He’s still surprised to hear him say that.
“Oh.”
“Yeah, I went to that coffee place down the street, and they messed up my order and I had them remake it but I kept the first one because I felt really bad and I thought since I’m in the neighborhood, Imightaswell—” Shane takes a breath. “Anyways. Would you like some coffee?” he asks, holding out a cup to Ilya.
A moment passes, then Ilya breaks into a smile. “Of course Shane. Do you want to sit in the back with me?”
They sit in Ilya’s storage room, which also serves as his break room. The coffee Shane brought him is a latte with what he thinks is ‘too much sugar’ and that Ilya describes as ‘a little bland’; Ilya tells Shane his usual order and chuckles when he blanches at the ‘ungodly’ amount of syrup and whipped cream.
There’s a few seconds of awkward silence as they both play with their drinks. Ilya racks his brain for something interesting to say, but he keeps falling short—he can’t seem to find a middle ground between ‘I snorted cocaine off a girl’s back once’ and ‘Lately I’ve been really into sudoku puzzles’.
In the end, Shane is the one who keeps the conversation alive.
“I’ve been meaning to ask… Why did you want to be a florist?”
Ilya can’t help the snort that escapes him, “Is it bad if I say I didn’t want to be one?”
The question is rhetorical—Shane still considers it. Ilya finds his frown really endearing. “...Not really?”
Ilya plays with the ice in his cup as he replies, “I grew up in Russia, you can probably tell with my accent. I was…huge troublemaker when I was a kid,” He smiles fondly. “No one knew what to do with me. So my father sent me away to Canada for university. He probably meant it as punishment or something. It was, for a bit. Ottawa is fucking boring compared to Moscow.”
Shane laughs, “Not much to do here, that’s for sure.”
“Then I realized I could, how you say, get back at him? My father is very old-fashioned, very strict. Wanted big things for me. So I looked for any job that would piss him off the most. It was either this”—Ilya points around him—“or circus performer.”
For a beat there is nothing but the sound of Ilya putting his cup back on the table. Then Shane asks, “...Wait, you’re serious?”
Ilya chuckles. “Oh, yes. But I really like it now, so.”
“That’s—” Shane laughs in disbelief. “That’s good. Did your dad ever come around?”
“Not really, no. Maybe towards the end, but he never said anything to me about it.”
Shane frowns—albeit very cutely—, and Ilya realizes his mistake. “‘The end’? Is he…?”
“Dead? Yes.”
“I’m sorry—”
“It’s okay. We weren’t…very close, obviously.” Ilya is hit with a shiver of unease, and he shrugs it away. “What about you, Shane? What do you do that requires so many big businessman suits?”
Shane glances down at himself. “I mean, the suits aren’t required, but I’m a hockey team analyst.”
Ilya takes a sip from his coffee. “And what is that?” The name is rather self-explanatory, but he just wants Shane to explain it in detail. Over several hours if possible.
“I use team and individual player stats to see what can be better about their game, basically. If a player’s in a slump, I can tell where. If a team starts losing too badly, I can tell why. That kind of stuff.” Shane’s smile is a strange mix of bashful and proud. Ilya wants to bite him.
He hums around his straw, “I see. What team do you work with?”
“The Centaurs.”
Ilya wants to say that it’s really impressive that Shane is working at NHL level, that it means he’s extremely competent and whatnot. Instead what comes out is—
“I’m sorry for you. They’re really bad.”
The laugh Shane lets out is a very surprised one. “And now it’s my job to figure out why so they can become good.”
Ilya grimaces, “You have a lot of faith in them. Maybe too much, I think.” He’d watched a few of their games at a very empty Canadian Tire Centre. Even with his meagre peewee league memories, he could tell that a lot of these guys couldn’t fucking play.
“Eh…I do my best at the job, but it’s not like I’m rooting for them personally.”
“Ah, so you are sabotaging your team,” Ilya grins.
“...No?” God, he’s so cute when he takes my jokes seriously. “And I mean, I love the organization, but they're not ‘my’ team.”
“Oh? So you are sabotaging them.” Ilya smiles. Exasperated, Shane shakes his head. “Who are you rooting for then?”
“Montréal. Obviously.” At that Ilya makes a face. “What? You think there's a better team out there than the Voyageurs?”
“I mean…” Ilya starts. Shane squints at him. “The Bears have been—”
“Don't even try to finish that sentence.”
“What? They made it to the conference final this season and I'm pretty sure Montréal was swept in the first round by—”
“Ilya.”
“Okay okay,” Ilya concedes. “No more talking about Boston’s obviously better blue line this year—”
“Oh my fucking god.”
☙∙❀∙❧
-begin of chat-
To: Shane
Ilya:
John Klingberg #3 Worst Turnovers Compilation[watch on YouTube]
shane are u sure you can save this team
Shane:
Oh my god
Yeah it gets pretty ridiculous
Ilya:
Ottawa Centaurs Finish Season Last In League With Least Amount Of Goals Scored
did they try this
Shane:
😂😂😂
I'll let them know
-end of chat-
☙∙❀∙❧
-begin of chat-
To: Shane
Ilya:
John Klingberg traded to the San Francisco Seals in exchange of 2019 2nd Round Pick
XAXAXAXAXAXAAXXAXA
shane did you have something to do with this?????
Shane:
Not telling :)
-end of chat-
☙∙❀∙❧
They meet for lunch for the first time. They don’t really…do that, meet somewhere that doesn’t smell like peonies and lilies and roses. There's been a lot of new things for them recently—talking about their childhood, texting each other random shit, and now going for lunch together. It’s really weird. Ilya loves it.
He does know Shane now, and it makes Ilya like him even more. He knows where Shane went for college, his favorite ice cream flavor, and that he gets upset when he doesn't get the day’s Wordle in less than four tries (“Ilya there were no vowels this time. I didn't know that was possible. What the fuck is a myrrh. My day is ruined.”).
Perhaps learning so much about Shane has made Ilya greedier—the more he discovers about him, the more he realizes there is yet to discover. The more he knows, the more he wants to know.
Or maybe Ilya is just nosy. Either way, he asks—
“What happened between you and James?”
Ilya plays with the straw in his drink, sloshing the ice cubes around. He’s been refraining from breaching the James topic for the past hour, but now both of their plates are empty and he can tell Shane is running out of things to say. He’s also dying to know.
“What?”
“You never told me. It’s fine if you don’t want to, but I’m…curious.” And isn’t that the understatement of the year.
“It’s fine, I don't mind,” Shane waves him off. “He…He said I’d become distant? That I wasn’t trying as hard for us anymore— which made me really fucking angry because I realized that I had been the only one actually trying, y’know?” He’s biting his thumbnail as he speaks—another habit of his Ilya noticed. “So I got mad at him too, told him that he’d never tried in the first place. Next thing I know we’re having this huge fight and—” Shane chuckles, almost like he’s reliving the scene as he retells it, “It’s gonna sound really mean, but in the middle of it, I just realized I didn’t care. I imagined us fighting like that in fifteen years, and instead of feeling sad, I just thought that it would be a waste of my life for this guy, that instead…I could have been with someone I—”
Their eyes meet. Almost immediately, Shane looks away.
“...with someone else. So I broke up with him. I don’t even think I loved him now that I think about it, it was probably just convenience and a sense of duty, I guess.”
Convenience and duty.
Ilya thinks back to the second time they met, back when he’d heard Shane say ‘It just feels like the proper thing to do’ and he hadn’t known why it bothered him so much.
Shane had been giving so much of himself, in the name of everything but love. He’d wanted to be dependable, surely, to be a good boyfriend, Ilya has no doubt. But had James ever thought to return that sentiment? Had James ever looked at Shane, truly looked, and thought he also ought to be a good man to Shane? Had he never seen the way Shane’s eyes turn golden in the light, had he never felt his chest tighten at every one of his smiles, had he never ached to hear his voice when he’s not in the room?
It pains Ilya to know that Shane had to put effort in a person that wasn’t doing the same. It also pains Ilya to know that Shane was being anything but cherished by someone he shared a life with.
There’s no way he can say all of this. He lacks the proper words in the right language, and worse, he lacks the courage.
“What a fucking asshole,” he manages. “Fuck that guy.”
Shane laughs. Ilya’s chest hurts.
“Yeah, fuck that guy.”
☙∙❀∙❧
“—and she kept getting on my case about the fucking complaint when I told her a million times it wasn’t even my fault!”
Ilya looks up from the laundry he’s folding. He usually Facetimes Sveta when he needs someone to talk his ear off in the background—especially since she always has very good workplace gossip to share.
“Didn't she literally fuck up that shipment thing last month? And she's lecturing you?” he frowns as he places the towel on top of the pile. His phone is out of reach, propped on his nightstand, but he catches a glimpse of her rolling her eyes.
“That’s literally what I said to Vicky over lunch yesterday,” she groans. “By the way, I tried this new Russian place with her, we fucking destroyed the pelmeni, I’m telling you. You have to come with me when you visit.” Before Ilya can agree, she squints and adds, “If you even remember the way to the airport, you asshole.”
“Sorry we’re not all loaded, Miss Luxury Cars,” Ilya grabs his phone and settles against his pillows. He can see her shake her head as she laughs, and thinks that he misses seeing her laugh in person. “I’ll see if I can figure something out for next month.”
“Yeah yeah yeah, promises, promises.”
He’s about to retort when his phone buzzes with a text from Shane. It reads ‘Are you free on Sunday? I want to go skating again! :-)’. Instead of the emoticon he pictures Shane’s small smile he does when he asks anything of Ilya, and since Ilya can’t ever refuse him, he replies ‘yesss what time?? ill let you win the speed race this time)))’ almost instantly.
He probably isn’t subtle at all, because Sveta asks, “Ilyushka…who was that?”
“Who was who.”
“Someone just texted you. Who was it.” She squints at him through the screen, and he knows that Sveta won’t give up until she gets a proper answer. He tries nonetheless.
“...No one, fuck you.” It earns him a snort and an eye roll.
“I hope he’s pretty at least…”
“What the fuck does that mean? I'll have you know I have amazing taste in m—” Wait. “How did you know it was a man?”
Sveta cocks an eyebrow, “How long have I known you again?”
“...That’s fair.” Ilya concedes.
“So, what’s his name?”
“Shane. He came by the shop many times and we got…close.” He says, barely fighting off a smile.
“How close are we talking?” She asks, wiggling her eyebrows.
“Not what you’re thinking,” He replies, even though he’d love for Sveta to be right. “We’re…friends, probably. But—”
“But you want to be more.”
“...Yes, no, probably. I don’t know,” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “He was dating this guy when we met. Grade A asshole, couldn’t fucking stand him. They broke up a few months ago, but I don’t know if that means we can… Whatever.” He can’t finish his train of thought, but he knows Sveta will understand anyway—she always does.
I don’t know if that means there’s a chance for me. I don’t know if that means I had a part in them calling it quits. I don’t know if I deserve to be presumptuous enough to think so. I don’t know if he even wants me that way. I don’t know if it’s too soon for him. I don’t know if it’ll ever be the right moment. I don’t know. I don’t know.
She nods, and gives him a bittersweet smile. “For what it’s worth, I think you should still try.”
His phone buzzes again. Shane’s text reads ‘LET me win??? We’ll see about that >:)’
Ilya smiles. “Maybe.”
☙∙❀∙❧
-begin of chat-
To: Shane
Shane:
Hey I need a flower that means “Stop replying to my emails like I’m fucking stupid and do your fucking job properly instead of fucking around all day long I’ve reached my limit with you”
Ilya:
does not exist yet :/
i will invent it for you
will name it angrykittenarium
Shane:
Real funny Ilya
Ilya:
)))
(wolfsbane, snapdragon, marigold)
Shane:
Thanks
Taking notes for when my colleague’s birthday rolls around and I can be passive aggressive in peace
Ilya:
is hilarious when u get
vindtice
vindcitvie
vindi
you know
Shane:
Vindictive*
He really deserves it though
Ilya:
im sure
when is ur birthday?
Shane:
It’s already passed unfortunately
It was on may 10th
Ilya:
fuck((
wait
may 10th was mothers day this year
Shane:
You remember that?
Ilya:
is one of the busiest days for florists so yes))
you should have said
would have given you free bouquet
on the house
for pretty boy with freckles
Shane:
I appreciate it but i don’t think that’s good for business haha
You can always get me next year eh?
Ilya:
no
come by tomorrow
i will make up for lost time
Shane:
You really don’t have to do that
Ilya:
i know
is whole point
so
come tomorrow at 19
or i’ll be really sad((
and the flowers will be sad too
and they will all wilt
(((
Shane:
Alright alright
I’ll be there
Ilya:
thank u)
-end of chat-
☙∙❀∙❧
‘I’ll be there’, Shane’s message reads. Ilya has checked it an unbelievable amount of times in the last twenty-four hours—he’s afraid that if he stops checking, it’ll stop being real.
You’re being ridiculous, he thinks as he puts his phone down.
Ilya is second-guessing himself. He really shouldn’t, he has no real reason to, but it’s three minutes before their agreed time and he thinks he’s going to be sick.
The thing is, Ilya cares a lot. He pretends he doesn’t and he puts on the nonchalant persona everyone around him has gotten used to, but when it comes to Shane, he can never pretend for long. His mother had described him as ‘having so much love to give’, and he’d been too young to fully grasp what she meant, but now he’s twenty-seven and there are balloons floating to the ceiling and he’s wearing a stupid ‘Happy birthday!’ hat even though he’s a few months too late.
He’s learned over the years that he's just setting himself up for heartbreak, yet he keeps caring. He can’t help it when it comes to Shane anyway.
“Hey— Oh my god.”
The door opens with a chime, and Ilya’s heart starts thrumming against his ribcage in the same rhythm as the bell. Shane looks softer, surely because of the faded blue hoodie that’s replacing his usual suit and tie—maybe also because of the glasses Ilya still can’t get used to. His eyes are stuck on the dozens of balloons on the ceiling as he lets the door close behind him in a soft thud. He makes his way towards Ilya, not without grabbing a few loose balloon strings and watching them float back up as he releases them.
Eventually Shane lowers his gaze, and when their eyes meet, Ilya almost forgets his words.
“Happy birthday, Shane.”
“This is— You’re crazy.” Shane smiles fondly. Ilya wants to argue that this is the least he could do. Instead he shrugs.
He points to Ilya’s hat, “Do I get one too?”
“Oh yes of course,” Ilya nods, as seriously as he can manage. He reaches below the counter, where he’d left an extra one. “Now we can match.”
Shane grabs the hat, and chuckles as he realizes the little drawings on it are those of hockey players. He puts it on, and cocks an eyebrow. “How do I look?”
Breathtaking.
“Ridiculous.”
At that, Shane laughs. Ilya knows that laugh; it’s one he doesn’t hear often from Shane, but it’s the kind that comes from deep within, the kind that Ilya can almost pinpoint where in Shane’s belly it came out of.
Shane looks around once more, “So you have the balloons and the hat,” He counts to two on his hand, then pauses before drawing out a third finger. “What’s next, a three-tier cake?”
Ilya can tell there’s a joke in there. Unfortunately for Shane, Ilya doesn’t joke about these kinds of things. He simply holds out a finger—“Wait here.”—and goes into the break room.
He ignores Shane’s “Ilya, I was joking, you didn’t actually have to—” and comes back with a single slice of cake on a paper plate. “Wait, is this—”
Ilya fishes his lighter from his pocket, and with a flick of his thumb, lights the lone candle on the cake.
“I can’t bake so I got it from the coffee place you like.” Ilya says, matter-of-factly. It’s going to rain tomorrow. I need to sharpen my scissors again. I remember your favorite café even though you’ve only mentioned it once in passing.
Shane stares at the cake for a moment. “Fuck Ilya, I don’t even know what to say.”
Shane looks up and Ilya can see the flame of the candle reflected in his eyes, as well as the soft glow it leaves on his cheeks, and Ilya doesn’t know how much more of it he can handle. “You should make a wish, before the candle melts all in your cake.”
“Shit, you’re right.”
So Shane clasps his hands, and Ilya stares as them for longer than he should. They’re really nice hands, he thinks. Shane leans over the counter, and Ilya wonders how it would feel to hold Shane’s hand. Ilya watches Shane’s pouty lips blow over the candle, and he wishes that their hands fit together like they were always meant to.
“What did you wish for?” Ilya’s voice comes out softer than he'll ever admit.
Shane fake-gasps. “I'm not supposed to tell you! What if it doesn't come true?” He smiles and puts the candle away.
Can I hold your hand?, Ilya wants to ask.
“If your wish has anything to do with the Voyageurs winning the cup then please tell me. Tell me right now actually.”
Shane rolls his eyes, “No, and I'm still not telling you.”
On his first bite of the cake, Shane lets out a sound that’s halfway between a sigh and a moan. Ilya ignores it as best as he can.
“It’s good?”
Instead of answering, Shane simply cuts up another piece with his fork and presents it to Ilya, “I don’t know, you tell me.” His smile is flirty and dashing and Ilya can’t stop staring.
“You don't have to— It’s all for you, Shane.”
Shane shrugs. The fork is still inches away from Ilya’s mouth. “You got it for me, you should at least get to try some.”
Ilya shakes his head with a smile. “Alright,” He doesn't have to, but he lightly holds Shane’s wrist as he bites around the fork. The touch burns as usual. He realizes embarrassingly late that this is the same fork Shane has been eating with—Ilya wonders if this bite tastes so good because he’s tasting Shane too. He hums appreciatively, even though the cake is blander than he'd like. Shane surely notices, if his amused smile is anything to go by.
Though he’s done eating, Ilya feels something on the side on his mouth, and he’s pretty sure it’s a crumb. He’s barely registered it himself, when he feels Shane’s warm hand against his cheek and his thumb swiping at the corner of his mouth. Shane’s hands are quite big, and that much isn’t news to Ilya. But to feel his entire cheek warm up from Shane’s hold? That’s very new and very nice. It’s not even the best part, Ilya realizes; there is a certain softness with which Shane’s thumb grazes his bottom lip, and somehow Ilya knows he’ll feel the phantom touch even hours later.
Ilya swallows, and Shane’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second before he lifts his hand off Ilya's face.
“Sorry, you had…” The words die in Shane’s throat.
Suddenly Shane’s eyes are too brown, his freckles too many. Shane’s hand is still suspended in the air, exactly like this moment they're sharing and that Ilya doesn't know what to do about.
In the end, he runs away.
“I, uh,” he swallows around nothing—not even air. “I have something else for you too. It’s, it's in the back,” My god Ilya, who cares? “I'll go get it.” He nods to no one in particular, and he turns away, his metaphorical tail between his legs.
When he comes back and he feels like he can breathe again, he is holding a bouquet in one hand and a rectangular box in the other.
“Ilya…” Shane grumbles. Ilya shoots him down with a look. You deserve this, so shut up and take it.
Shane grabs the flowers and takes a proper look at them. Chrysanthemums, daffodils, and some lone smaller flowers are tastefully arranged in navy blue wrapping paper.
“Thank you. They're beautiful, as always.”
Ilya ignores the shiver he feels at the praise and nods towards the box, “You'll like this one more.”
Shane eyes him with a certain glint in his eyes, and gently puts the flowers down on the counter. While he opens the box, Ilya gets to see the exact moment Shane realizes what's inside. He feels deeply satisfied as Shane holds up the signed heritage Voyageurs jersey with a gasp.
“You— This—,” Shane keeps looking between the jersey and Ilya. “How?”
Ilya grins, “I have this friend. We grew up together in Russia. She knows everything about hockey, and she knows people too. I, how you say, pulled some strings?”
Shane bites the corner of his lip. It might be a trick of the light, but Ilya thinks his eyes have gotten misty. “Ilya, you hate the Voyageurs.”
And once again, very matter-of-factly, Ilya says—
“Yes, but you like them.”
(And I like you. I like you so much and I want you to know, I’m dying for you to know. I want to tell you every time I think about you, which is practically all the time, but I’m a coward and I’m sorry. I’d rather have you like this than not at all, so I’m sorry I can’t bring myself to tell you.)
Shane eventually puts the jersey on. His eyes flash with something Ilya can’t name.
☙∙❀∙❧
-begin of chat-
To: Shane
Shane:
10 Flowers with Negative Connotation — The Last One Will Shock You!
Ilya
Ilya:
yes 🙂
Shane:
Why do I recognize most of these
Ilya:
no idea
maybe ur psychic
Shane:
That’s weird because I have a picture in my camera roll of a bouquet I got for James three months ago that has at least 3 flowers from the article
Ilya:
🤔🤔
how strange
Shane:
Ilya.
Ilya:
ok ok fine
maybe i really fucking hated that guy
but is not my fault
he was so mean to you 😒
Shane:
That's not true
Ilya:
cancelled on u on a date that he planned
did not know ur bagel order
(which i remembered on second try by the way)
forgot ur moms birthday and you had to cover for him
also
and worse of all
never got u flowers
Shane:
Okay maybe he wasn’t the best boyfriend
But you can’t just do that
Ilya:
already did 🤷🏼♂️
Shane:
Ilya… Please be serious about this
That was really childish of you and you know it
Ilya:
👍
Shane:
Ilya
Ilya:
no its ok
fuck me for caring about u i guess
next boyfriend that treats u like shit i make him a bouquet with 6 million roses instead 👍
Shane:
That’s not what I meant oh my god
Ilya come on
-end of chat-
☙∙❀∙❧
The same day, Shane calls him. Ilya is being petty, so he picks up on the fifth ring instead of the second.
“Ilya! Hey,” Shane sounds relieved that he answered, as if he’d been expecting Ilya to fully ignore him. Ilya feels a little bit like an ass. “Listen, I’m sorry, I know you care a lot about me, and you were frustrated on my behalf, and—”
There are many things in this world Ilya considers to sound a bit off—wrong, even. Forks scraping on ceramic. Chalk screeching on a blackboard. Shane Hollander apologizing for any reason.
“No, I’m sorry. You’re right, it wasn’t very…professional of me.”
“...Oh. Thank you.” Once again, Shane sounds…surprised? Ilya realizes Shane was really not expecting him to apologize back. He definitely feels like an ass now.
“I—”
“To be fair…it was a little bit funny.” Oh?
Ilya smirks, and presses the phone closer to his ear. “Just a little bit?”
“...Small sized bit.”
“Hm, more like regular bit funny.”
“I just forgave you and you’re trying to bargain with me? Sir you’re already on thin ice.” Shane laughs through the speaker, directly against his ear, and Ilya can’t help but shiver. “Alright, I’ll give you ‘regular bit funny’, but only if you let me come over so I can beat your ass at NHL 17.”
“You are not beating anything, but sure.”
“It’s funny you say that because I’m pretty sure last time you were the one begging for a rematch—”
Ilya hangs up.
(Shane calls again immediately—Ilya doesn't even wait for it to ring to answer.)
☙∙❀∙❧
Shane is at his doorstep. It’s also Sunday and it’s way too fucking early and What the hell is Shane doing here. He’s got something behind his back that he’s trying to hide and he’s doing an awful job at it but it’s too early for Ilya to actually care. Maybe at a more normal time he would have said ‘Hi Shane, it’s so great seeing you, what brought you to my house this morning? Want to come in and have a drink?’
Instead what comes out is—
“Shane, what the fuck are you doing here?”
For a second Shane looks confused. “You…gave me your building code last time we hung out? You said I could come by whenever? Fuck, did I misunderstand?”
Ilya pinches the bridge of his nose. “No, no, I don’t mean— Shane, what time is it.”
Shane frees one of his hands and checks his watch. “Uh, nine seventeen?”
“Nine seventeen. Gospodi.”
Shane’s smile is sheepish. “Sorry, but this is really important.”
Ilya doesn’t tell Shane that important or not, he still would listen. He leans against the doorframe and cocks an eyebrow. “And this has nothing to do with what you’re hiding from me?”
“Shut up. Maybe.” He grimaces, “I don’t know how to say this without—”
“Shane. It’s okay.”
“Right,” Shane smiles awkwardly. He pulls out what’s hidden behind him to reveal a bouquet of daffodils. “I, uh, I’ve been meaning to do this for a while actually, but I was never quite sure if I’d been reading this”—He gestures between them—”wrong. I guess I’ll say it anyway— I really like you, Ilya. I like you so much and it scares me sometimes. I wholeheartedly believe you’re the best thing that happened to me this year, and I tried really hard to find flowers that could convey that, and these were the best I could find,” He says, as he extends the bouquet towards Ilya. “A-And I’m sorry I showed up unannounced at fucking nine seventeen but I needed to say this now or I would have lost my mind, and I—”
Ilya tries to listen, he really does. But his heart is beating in his ears and the only thing he remembers is I really like you, Ilya. You're the best thing that happened to me. I like you so much. You’re the best thing that happened to me. It scares me sometimes. You’re (still) the best thing that happened to me.
“Please stop talking.”
“Huh?”
Ilya takes the flowers from Shane’s outstretched hands. “I would really like to kiss you right now, and I can’t do that if you’re rambling. So please, stop talking.”
Shane swallows.
“Fuck.”
—is what he says before he grabs Ilya by the back of his neck, and presses their mouths together in a searing kiss. Ilya feels himself losing his balance and finds that Shane’s waist under his hand makes for the perfect anchor. He learns pretty quickly that Shane’s lips are as plush as they look, and that his freckles look even more beautiful up close. He thanks all the gods he knows that Shane runs hot, because the hand under his jaw is burning him in the best of ways. Shane leaves a trail of heat under his ear, on his nape and around his waist, and Ilya loves that he can feel Shane’s touch even after it’s left him.
They kiss and they kiss and Ilya’s tongue finds Shane’s, and it’s all he’s ever needed, but somehow also not enough—he needs to feel Shane everywhere, to taste not only his lips but also under his jaw, right against his ear, and all over his neck. He’s delirious with it, and going by how pink-cheeked they both are when they separate, Ilya thinks Shane might be too.
He looks down at the flowers in his hand, takes in their gorgeous yellow hues, and he can’t help the giddy smile that forms on his lips. There’s so much he wants to say, but his heart is already splitting open and he doesn’t have any of the right words.
He schools his expression into something more serious, “So… You cheat on me with other florist.”
Shane rolls his eyes. His smile betrays him. “Alright, give me my flowers back you ungrateful asshole.” He goes to grab them but Ilya angles the bouquet away almost immediately.
“Ah, no no no, this is mine now. Not as beautiful as my flowers but they will have to do,” Shane is profoundly exasperated, but he smiles at Ilya with so much fondness that Ilya can’t even keep the act up. “Thank you. Come on,” He drops a single kiss on Shane’s lips, and gestures inside. “I’m not done with you.”
Ilya has kissed many people in his life. Still, he never realized one could become addicted to kissing the way he has just now.
He drags Shane by the waist as they make their way inside and What a nice waist, Ilya thinks to himself. Shane loses his balance when he toes his shoes off and stumbles right into Ilya’s arm and onto his lips. Ilya bites Shane’s jaw, and he thinks that he never wants to separate from him. At some point, they pass by Ilya’s dinner table, and Thank god, because he can put the flowers down and hold Shane in both of his arms. His lips ravage Shane’s neck and his hands explore Shane’s back and Ilya is convinced he’s found heaven.
They curse against each other’s lips and Ilya intertwines his hand with Shane’s and he can’t help but exhale when he realizes that they fit. He kisses all over Shane’s neck, and he realizes that he fits there too. Shane tilts his head back and grabs at Ilya’s waist and he fits.
Ilya thought he’d have to carve a space for himself in Shane’s embrace, not realizing there was one all along.
‘You’re the best thing that happened to me.’
Me too, Ilya wants to say. Then he realizes he can.
His lips leave Shane’s. Ilya watches Shane’s eyes flutter open, and he says, “I like you too. I like you so much, Shane…”
Ilya caresses Shane’s cheekbone with this thumb and Shane chases the touch. “Tell me again.”
And who is Ilya to ever refuse Shane?
“I like you,” Ilya whispers against Shane’s neck. “I like you,” Ilya says as he kisses his favorite freckle. “I like you,” as he bites on Shane’s earlobe.
I like you. I like you. I like you. I like you I like you I likeyouIlikeyouIlikeyouI—
(Shane whispers the same words against Ilya's moles a minute later.)
“So…when did you realize you like me?”
It feels childish of Ilya to ask—especially with his head pillowed against Shane’s bare chest, and those same warm hands running through his hair.
Shane considers the question. “Deep down? Probably from the first time I saw you. Realistically? When you prepared a fake-birthday party for me just for the hell of it.”
Ilya frowns, “It was not fake. Was very real, only…a little delayed.”
That gets a laugh out of Shane. Ilya feels him vibrate beneath him—it’s nice. “Right. But…yeah, I think I realized when you gifted me the Voyageurs jersey. I knew you cared about me, but I realized how much you cared, and it…hit me that I cared the same way too.”
Ilya’s eyes prickle a bit. He’d been so scared to be too much for Shane, but he’d ended up being just enough in the end.
He kisses Shane’s chest absent-mindedly. “So you showed up at my house at nine in the morning with daffodils.”
Another laugh. “Listen, I panicked, okay? I woke up this morning and I was like ‘it has to be now’ and the more I waited the more I was second-guessing myself so I just…yeah.”
Ilya looks up. “You know what daffodils mean?”
‘I like you, and there’s a chance you don’t feel the same about me. I like you, and this is my last resort.’
Shane runs his hand through Ilya’s hair. “Yeah, I looked it up.”
Ilya doesn’t say that he’d gifted Shane some in his birthday flowers. He also doesn’t say that his love for him has become so all-consuming that he will now forever associate their vibrant yellows with Shane, that daffodils have stopped existing by themselves and will always exist in Shane’s orbit. That now that Shane has been brave enough for the both of them, he will never look at daffodils and not think of loved he is, how lucky he is.
Instead he says, “They’re my favorite.”
Shane kisses him. Against his lips, he whispers, “Mine too.”