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Ilya Rozanov was a fucking idiot.

This was not new information. He had heard it all his life, had it screamed in his face, muttered at him in passing, flung out in a hissing whisper, every variation, from essentially every authority figure he'd ever encountered. His father, his older brother, his coaches, his team captains, all of them chanting an endless litany that was a catalogue of his own mistakes, misjudgments, and misdeeds.

He hadn't let it bother him, or if it did, at least he had never shown it. But then, he'd never had a fuckup quite like this.

This time, it was all true, correct, real. This time, his idiocy was going to have dire consequences.

Ilya Rozanov was going to die. And it was his own fucking idiot fault.

He stood in the middle of a small clearing, a fractional disruption of the endless sea of trees around him. He'd been working his way here for half an hour, clambering laboriously through a twisting course of dense greenery and tripping roots, dragging his exhausted body toward this slightly brighter glow that had beckoned like a beacon. That had looked, from a distance, like some kind of hope.

It wasn't. It was just a clearing, not a way out, not the start of a path, not any sign of civilization or even one single fucking other person anywhere in his vicinity.

He was lost. Alone. Fucking clueless. An idiot.

He was also sweating continuously, sometimes hot and sometimes cold, and he hadn't had any water in... he didn't know. He didn't even have a fucking watch on, so he couldn't tell. All he had was a dead-battery phone, the clothes on his back, and his fucking deficient brain to try to get out of this mess. He was rapidly losing hope that these things would be enough.

Out of any other ideas, he sat down in the middle of the clearing, then laid down flat on his back, stared up at the cloudless blue sky, sun shining serene and unbothered while he contemplated the end of his own stupid existence.

A brief recounting of the errors that had brought him here passed through his mind.

1) He had agreed to come on this trip in the first place. "You need to touch grass, brother," Marley had said as he'd hyped up the wilderness adventure like it was going to be some kind of fucking vision quest. And why had that even appealed? Ilya was perfectly satisfied with his life -- never more so than in this moment, as it became clear he was going to lose it. He'd accomplished every goal he'd aligned in his sights -- moving to the U.S., playing professional hockey, winning a couple of Cups, becoming rich and famous and hated and adored in equal measure. He'd had everything, and he had risked it all to come to the woods because of... what? Some vague restless feeling of emptiness he couldn't shake? That he'd thought fucking nature would cure? Idiot.

2) He had gotten very stoned on the second night of the trip. The woods, at that point, had not come close to curing anything. He was annoyed by the wilderness, its prickliness, its lack of amenities, its endless sameness -- trees, trees, more trees, everywhere he looked. Annoyed by Marley and his other teammates acting like gathering little sticks and building a fucking campfire was some life accomplishment, howling at the sliver of moon overhead like they were wolves, trying to jostle him from his grim dislike of the situation (that he had put himself in, idiot) to no avail. He had smoked one joint alone behind the group of tents, wandered away a little to escape their hooting noise, smoked half of another. Wandered farther. Found himself entranced, then, by that sliver of moon, felt he should be closer to it, climbed a nearby rise, pushing through needle-prickling trees to get to the top, stared up for a while. Felt that thrumming need inside for... for something. Wondered if the moon could be the answer, in the stupid fake-philosophical way he always got when he was high. Wandered some more. Fucking idiot.

3) He had not recognized the danger. Because he was stoned, yes, maybe, but also because he was unequipped. Uninformed. Unprepared. (An idiot.) He had never even camped in a tidy little sanctioned campground by some lake somewhere; it had never appealed. He had heard the guide's warnings, hadn't really considered them as applying directly to himself. That was why they'd paid for the guide, yes? To manage things, to keep them shielded from whatever vague risks might loom, nothing for him to worry about. This veneer of safety had made him heedless, unconcerned. His own idiot fault. He had wandered so far that by the time his brain had been alert enough to think of turning back, he had no conception of the direction from which he'd come. He'd strained his eyes, ears, mind, trying to remember, trying to pick up any flicker of evidence of people, noise, correct orientation, but... nothing. Crucially, stupidly, he'd picked a direction anyway, feeling the pressing need to go, move, somewhere, had stalked through the dark like an increasingly worried/scared/terrified automaton, finding nothing, feeling worse, pushing on. Now, he knew. He'd picked incorrectly, taken himself ever farther from safety, from salvation. Should have stayed put and yelled for help, despite how entirely against his instincts that would have felt. Irredeemable fucking idiot.

4) He had misjudged the size of the wilderness, which sounded too stupid to even exist as a mistake someone could make, but he'd made it. He'd kept walking, even after he'd realized, even as the night slowly gleamed into morning, because now he was so far that walking in a correct direction didn't even matter anymore, because there was no way he was getting back. Now he could only move forward, he'd thought, because he couldn't just sit and wait. They were searching for him, probably, but he could not rely on being saved, he had to move, find something, surely a road or a trail or a way would appear if he just kept moving, looking, trying. But the wilderness was larger than he'd ever conceived, and now it was clear that he had only wandered deeper in, not anywhere close to coming out. Stupid fucking hopeless idiot.

Dead idiot.

That's what they would say about him, when they gave up searching, gave him up for lost. Not out loud, not officially. The news headlines would say other things: tragic, sad, gone too soon. They would list his accomplishments, emphasize his impact on the hockey world, transcribe mournful quotations from teammates and coaches. But privately, quietly, that's what they would say: What a fucking idiot. And they would be right.

His stomach rumbled with hunger and his throat burned for water and his sweaty, depleted body ached, and his mind was constantly halfway between a clamor of terror and a numb, silent resignation. He thought about staying where he was, just lying in this clearing until he expired, because what was the point? He couldn't escape this trap of his own making.

But then the fear pushed harder and he sat up, scrambled up to his feet. Turned in a slow circle, wondered if climbing a tree would help him pick a new direction. Wondered if he even knew how to climb a tree anymore. They were tall here, thick, beastly, not like the domesticated city-adjacent trees of his childhood.

He studied them for a moment, finally approached the likeliest-looking one. It had some low horizontal branches, enough to give him a start, and it seemed to grow just a bit taller than its neighbors, maybe enough to give him some kind of vantage point. He grasped at the branches, rough bark prickling into his hands, and hauled himself up with tired arms.

He climbed. Slowly, clinging, hesitating at each step, because this sad attempt was the best plan he'd come up with, and he didn't want to screw it up. Finally, he reached as close to the top as he could get, the tree bending a bit in a way that plainly discouraged him from going higher. But he was high enough now to get a bit of a view, a look around the surrounding areas, to hope for something that would point to out.

Trees. Trees, trees, more trees. Endless, an ocean of green. Not a road, not a path, not a hope. A waste of time and effort. Another mistake.

He slumped, clinging to the rough branches, sticky sap gluing his hands. Let his eyes drop closed, his forehead thump against the trunk of the tree.

Back down, then. Couldn't stay here. He would have to think of something else.

He climbed down, slow, careful, arms and legs shaking in a way that scared him. He got about halfway, put a foot on an outstretched limb, let his weight settle on it.

He heard the crack before he felt the drop, the give, the undoing of solidity underneath him. Then he was falling, clutching frantically at air, a shout of panic tearing from his mouth, but nothing saved him. He was falling, and he hit the ground with the kind of jarring crunch that told him that was wrong, that was not good, and pain flashed out from his ribs, his side, his leg, and he knew he'd just made everything that much worse.

He'd been dead before, anyway. But now -- testing his leg, wincing at the pain in his side -- he was not even half-a-hope still alive. Now he was sitting-still dead, and there was no hope left at all.

Shane Hollander went to the woods because he liked the quiet.

Not the quiet of his neatly appointed apartment in Ottawa, where city noises pressed in at the windows. Not the quiet of his small government office at Parks Canada, where co-workers could stop by at any moment and interrupt his concentration. Not the quiet of his parents' cottage on the lake, where he could always be pulled into dinner prep or a hockey game on TV or an evening game of cards.

He liked those quiets, too. But nothing was like the ringing silence of these deep woods, far up in the Northwest Territories. Not another soul within a few days' hike, no noises that weren't woven seamlessly into the hushed fabric of what came naturally. Nothing asked of him but the preparations he painstakingly planned, his focused attention on his routine of necessary daily tasks, and the constant, still awareness of his surroundings.

The quiet was what had lured him into the woods as a teenager, in those painful weeks and months post-injury, post-hockey, nearly post-life, when he'd felt like just about everything he'd been living for had been irrevocably snatched away forever. At least in the quiet of the woods, he couldn't hear the things people had always seemed to say.

You're so young, there's so much life to live, you'll find your way, hockey isn't everything, at least you're still walking, consider yourself lucky, it could have been worse, are you okay, are you really okay, are you going to be okay.

In the woods, there had been none of that, no one trying to appease him, no one looking at him for reassurance that he could only fake-provide because he really didn't think he was going to be anything like okay.

In the woods there was quiet, and solitude, and skills he could gather and practice and master, and ways to plan and focus and pay attention so that things didn't catch him by surprise. And if they managed to surprise him anyway, because nature was essentially unmanageable that way, he had contingencies and he liked the challenge of it and he could cope.

Now, all these years later, some of the things people had said he knew to be true. He had, in fact, been... okay. He had a nice job as a resource manager for the national parks service, something that allowed him to support the protection of wilderness areas in his own small way, and that offered him several weeks of vacation time each year to spend in the wilderness. He had his parents, his friends, his somewhat viable dating life.

He had survived it. Hockey hadn't been everything. (It had been a lot.) It could have been worse. (He was still functioning.) He had found his way. (As long as you considered running to the woods alone every few months to be a way.)

(Which he did.)

So on this particular day, a Tuesday, two days in to this particular multi-day escape from civilization, Shane was sitting on a fallen log he'd dragged to his campsite, in front of the shelter he'd built from tarp and cut boughs, boiling water from the nearby stream over the campfire he'd started, feeding an occasional bit of beef jerky to his dog, Champ, and listening to the quiet.

Until it wasn't quiet anymore.

The sound was just for a moment, and not very nearby. Something like a shout, distinctly human in tone, and maybe the faint afterecho of a thudding thump.

He stood up automatically, then went still, ears straining. Nothing followed. He could orient loosely to the direction the noise had come from, but there was no further sound from that direction, and he started to wonder if maybe he'd imagined it. It didn't seem likely to be real. He knew from his research that there were occasional groups of adventure campers in this zone, but not as deep in as he liked to go; encountering them would be unprecedented in his experience.

But Champ had stood up, too, and her ears were cocked in a way that meant she had also heard something. They looked at each other for a moment, man and dog, and then Shane said, out loud, jarring in the stillness: "Fuck."

Because there was his afternoon ruined. He'd had a plan: work on the shelter, cut more firewood, see if he could catch anything in the stream for a fresh dinner. Now his afternoon was going to be: burn a lot of energy in a pointless tramp around the woods trying to solve the mystery of an unexpected noise, because he wouldn't be able to stop worrying about it if he didn't.

He geared up. Multi-tool, serrated knife, hatchet all into slots on his belt. Bear spray, first aid kit, emergency sat phone into pockets of his cargo pants. Full water jug hooked to his belt loop. Compass in his hand. He banked his fire carefully, secured any loose items around the camp, took a deep breath, and started out, Champ trotting along beside him.

He aimed in the direction of the sound he'd heard, watched his compass, identified landmarks, kept careful mental notes of the path back to his camp. His breathing was even, heart rate steady; he didn't expect to find anything. Still, he listened more carefully than usual, pausing every few steps to quiet the rustle of his footsteps and hear if there was anything to hear.

He heard nothing. He kept going, kept marking his path, following a methodical back-and-forth grid and looking for any signs of unusual disturbance. Champ stayed with him, a comfort if not much help. She wasn't a tracking dog, she was a pity rescue he'd been unable to resist, barely seemed to have a sense of smell, often managed to get lost in the courtyard of his apartment complex. She wouldn't find anything, but he was still glad she was here.

Two hours later, he was convinced. Whatever it was, it had been a fluke, an anomaly, nothing he needed to investigate further. If ithad been a person, somehow, out here shouting in the deep woods, they'd have made some more noise by now, would be calling out for help if they needed it.

Sighing over the wasted afternoon, he turned back toward camp, ready to abandon his careful grid to take the quickest, most direct route back. Maybe he could still get a little fishing in before he lost all the light.

Then he heard it. A mutter of sound, off to his left, in an area he hadn't quite reached in his grid. His heart thumped a little. Definitely a human voice, but not shouting for help. Instead it was a low, tuneless kind of... chant? Or like, singing, maybe? If the person couldn't sing?

He crashed forward, through the undergrowth, toward the sound, which seemed to be coming from a small clearing up ahead. He broke through the last of the surrounding trees and came to a stop with a jolt at the edge of the clearing. Champ barked once in excitement.

There was a man. He was lying on his back in the middle of the clearing, and he appeared to be smoking a joint. He was singing softly, tunelessly, in what sounded a little bit like Spanish.

He looked up sharply as Shane crashed to a halt, as Champ let out her one bark. His eyes met Shane's. His features came into focus.

There, in the middle of the deep woods, smoking a joint and rattling the quiet with his weird song, was Ilya fucking Rozanov.

Ilya was a little high again. He'd found the second unsmoked half of his joint still somehow intact in his pocket, after the fall from the tree, after he'd stared at the sky grimacing at the pain for a bit and waiting for death.

Despite how bad he felt, death was taking a while to arrive. He got bored. He remembered the joint, located the lighter. Figured, might as well.

A song had come into his mind, popular on the radio that summer, and he'd started singing it, garbling the Spanish lyrics he didn't really know, only singing out clearly when he got to the main word he knew, that everyone knew.

"Despacito," he warbled out into the fading light of afternoon, made himself laugh a little with how bad it sounded.

Maybe his impending death watch would be funnier than he'd imagined. The pot was probably helping with that. He wished he had more.

He wished for a lot of things, actually, although there was no point thinking about that. He wished that his mother hadn't died so long ago. Abruptly he felt teary -- also probably from the pot -- and swerved his thoughts in a different direction. He wished he had a very large glass of cold water. And a steak. Also not a helpful thought. He wished he had someone in his life who would look for him, look out for him, save him when he needed saving, not just now but so many times, when he knew how to seem fine but was not fine, he wished...

He shut all of that down, sucked at the joint, blew out a plume of smoke, sang, "Despacito, caro respy rahr du kway jo something..."

He heard a noise, a crashing through the trees, the sharp bark of a dog. He froze, looked up, barely daring to hope.

There was a man at the edge of the clearing.

A fucking human. In the fucking wilderness. Out of nowhere. A man, there was a man, someone was here, he was not alone, he was not going to die alone.

He sat up fast, groaned at the pain in his side, his ribs, otherwise ignored it. He had to know if this man was real or a figment of his pot-addled imagination.

"You are real?" he asked, eyes wide.

The man looked at him like he was being weird. His eyes were dark, brown, pretty, not that it mattered because what mattered was that they existed. If he was real.

"Am I real?" the man asked, his voice low and a little rasping, like he hadn't used it in a while. "Yes, I am real. Are you for real? What the fuck are you doing?"

Ilya sucked in a deep breath, elated at the reality of this man. The breath made him cough -- the pot's fault, again -- and coughing made him wince with the pain in his ribs, and he got scared that amid all the breathing and coughing and wincing the man would disappear before Ilya could latch on to him with all the desperation in his heart.

"I am lost," he finally managed to say. "I am hurt. I need help."

These were not words he was used to saying. Even in his current dire predicament, they felt strange coming from his mouth.

"So you're... smoking a joint about it?" the man asked, frowning at him.

Ilya remembered the joint still pinched between his thumb and forefinger, barely anything by now. He squashed it into the grass beside him, discarded it. Before he could speak again, the man frowned harder and stepped toward him.

"Well, don't do that," he grumbled. He smashed the tiny smidgen of pot and paper with his heavy boot, ground it out carefully, completely. Then he reached into one of the many pockets attached to his pants and produced a small green plastic bag. He unfolded it, stuck his hand inside, picked up the roach, inverted the bag, tied it closed, and tucked it back into his pocket, grimacing in distaste the whole time.

Ilya watched all of this with amazement. "You carry little trash bags in woods?" he heard himself ask, like that was the important question now, rather than, oh, perhaps, Will you please save my life?

"It's for the dog," the man said, looking annoyed. He gestured slightly toward the wiry little dog a few feet away, who was staring with interest at Ilya in a way that made Ilya want to scoop it up into his arms. "For the... poop and stuff."

Despite everything, this made Ilya laugh a little. (Pot's fault again?) They were literally in the woods, where bears proverbially took their shits, and this man was picking up his dog's crap in little bags like he was a responsible dad strolling around a city park?

The man looked at him sharply, clearly even more irritated.

"Ah. Yes," Ilya said, nodding soberly as if he hadn't just been laughing, as if he could wipe the memory of the ill-advised laughter from the man's mind. Then, turning to more important matters, he added, "Will you help me?"

"Obviously," the man said. "I'm not just going to leave you here."

He did not look pleased about it, but Ilya didn't care. He let out a sigh of relief that made his lungs feel like they were collapsing, let his head fall forward a little. "Thank you."

The man blew out his own long breath, though it did not sound like relief.

"Okay, so, where are you injured?" he asked, crouching down to Ilya's level like Ilya was a child or a stray dog. Ilya didn't mind, as he felt like howling and throwing himself on this man's mercy anyway.

This close, Ilya noticed more about the man's face. Nothing had ever been more irrelevant, but the man was very attractive, it was simply a fact, there to be noticed. He looked to be about Ilya's age, early to mid-twenties, dark silky hair, finely cut features, those liquid brown eyes, very plush lips, and a spray of intriguing freckles across the bridge of his nose.

Yes, irrelevant. Life and death matters were ongoing.

"Ah, my ribs, I think, maybe some bruising on my side. And my leg, knee and ankle..." He bent his injured leg a little, felt the sharp twinges of pain that he'd been testing for every so often while he was waiting for death. Still the same, not any better, ankle maybe a little stiffer, more swollen.

"Can I take a look?" the man asked, nodding toward Ilya's body, and Ilya raised his hands out of the way, giving permission.

The man reached for the hem of Ilya's T-shirt and lifted it, expression focused as he studied the side of Ilya's torso. He reached out with one hand -- a very large hand, Ilya noticed, couldn't help noticing, it was only natural to notice -- and pressed it experimentally against Ilya's side, probing gently at the ribs with the tips of his fingers. Ilya flinched, and the man made an unreadable kind of grunting sound.

"You are a doctor?" Ilya asked, unable to believe his luck if so, but the man shook his head, once, eyes still on Ilya's body.

"No, just some first aid training. I don't think any ribs are broken, but you're going to have a hell of a bruise."

Ilya gave a little shrug. It hurt his ribs. "I am used to it."

He thought the man might ask why, wondered if he should volunteer the information, wasn't sure it would help or hurt him in this situation. Good news, I am useless idiot famous professional hockey player who got into life-threatening mess, would you like my autograph?

But the man didn't ask, just moved on, dropping down to his knees and reaching over to pick up Ilya's foot. He pushed up the hem of Ilya's jeans to expose the ankle, which was, in fact, pretty swollen. The man pressed his long fingers into the swelling, rotated the foot a little, and Ilya just managed to suppress a hiss of pain.

"Sprained, maybe," the man pronounced, slid his hands up to Ilya's knee, not bothering to try to push the jeans up -- they were clearly too fitted for that. Ilya wondered, wildly, if the man would ask him to take his pants off altogether, and felt a small, entirely inappropriate thrill about the idea.

He must be really very high right now. His thoughts were not logical for the situation.

He forced himself to be serious, to focus on the pain as the man bent his knee a few times, testing the hinge of the joint. Then he set Ilya's leg down gently back on the grass, sat back on his heels, palms on his broad thighs.

"Well, I think you'll live," he said. "Do you think you can walk?"

Ilya instinctively bristled a little, felt the impulse to say, I am a professional athlete, I walk better than anyone you have ever met, which was insanely stupid given that he was so unable to walk he had been awaiting his imminent doom before this savior had appeared.

"I... maybe, I don't know. With help, maybe. How far?" was what he actually managed to say.

The man tilted his head, those plush lips twisting a little. "It's a pretty fair hike. If you can't, I can rig something up, maybe a drag litter." His dark eyes were already flicking around the clearing, as if he were constructing some contraption in his mind.

Ilya had no idea what a "drag litter" might be, but he did not care at all for the "drag" part of it. However much pain walking might cause him, it had to be better than being dragged through the bumpy fucking woods.

"I can walk, I will do it," he said, already struggling up, pushing himself up to his uninjured knee.

"Hang on, hang on," the man said, his hand falling on Ilya's arm. "Let's just take it slow, okay? Before we start, do you need some water? When's the last time you ate anything?"

Ilya's heart felt like it would burst at the idea of water. In his rush of relief about not dying, he'd almost forgotten the parched tightness of his throat. "Yes, water, please, if you have."

The man reached for a clip attached to a belt loop of his pants, produced a tantalizingly large jug of water that Ilya had somehow failed to notice until now. His eyes went wide as he reached for it, but the man held it back a little.

"Just... go slow. Try little sips at first. If you drink a lot at once, you might throw it up."

"I will not," Ilya said, grasping at the jug. He twisted off the cap, brought the container to his lips and drank thirstily, swallowing several gulps. It was not the tall glass of cold water from his wishes -- it was lukewarm, tasted strangely flat -- but it felt blissful on his lips, his tongue, his throat, better than the most expensive vodka he'd ever had.

"Whoa, hang on, slow down," the man said, wrenching the jug away from him. Ilya had to work hard not to glare at him resentfully. "I said go slow."

"Sorry," Ilya said, scrunching his face in a show of regret, though he didn't regret it all, only wanted to do it again. "More, please," he said, beckoning with his hand.

The man looked at him in exasperation, but he grudgingly held the jug out again. "Slow this time," he reminded.

Ilya nodded, reached for the jug again. As he did, slack-limbed clumsy, his hand fell against the man's hand, slid over it as he retracted the bottle. Their eyes met, and just for a moment, the man's pretty liquid warm brown eyes went wide. Ilya thought... wellllllll.

He took more careful sips this time, watched the man over the bottle as he drank. Ilya was a little high, a lot rattled, dehydrated and depleted and still half-scared... but he wasn't blind.

He drank until he couldn't anymore, until he had all he could want or manage. Then he replaced the cap on the bottle and handed it back to the man.

"What is your name?" he asked.

The man, focused on reclipping the bottle to his belt, flicked a glance up at him. "Shane."

Ilya smiled, a memory surfacing in his mind. "Shaaaaaane," he intoned. "You are gun man."

The man -- Shane -- frowned at him. "What? No, I'm not, I never use guns, I don't..." He stopped, lips flattening. "Oh. You mean the movie."

"Yes, old American movie, I saw once. Cowboy movie. You are Cowboy Shane."

Shane rolled his eyes. "Just regular Shane is fine."

"Okay, Regular Shane. I am Ilya."

Shane didn't show any flicker of recognition at the name -- Ilya was watching. Probably not a hockey follower, then. Not that it mattered. Ilya was being rescued, he was at his worst. Now was not the time to discuss his Corsi with some superfan.

"Great," was all Shane said, brushing off the knees of his pants a little as he stood up. "You ready to try walking now?"

Ilya was ready. Ilya was saved. Ilya was not going to die.

He was a little high, a lot grateful, and suddenly maybe a bit excessively fond of this man, his savior, Regular Shane, with his tiny trash bags and his freckles and his eyes.

And that was before Shane leaned down, wrapped a thick arm around Ilya's waist, shoved a solid shoulder under his armpit, and hoisted him to his feet like it was nothing at all.

Ilya thought: Wellllllll.

Shane was having a lot of problems at once, and the biggest one was pressed in close to his side, draping the heavy weight of his body over Shane's, and probably about to puke up the half-gallon of water he'd swallowed in one go.

The other problems were, in rough order:

- His peaceful, relaxing, solitary wilderness escape had turned into a rescue mission.

- The person he was rescuing (Ilya fucking Rozanov!) was injured, and it was rapidly becoming clear that the injuries, while not life-threatening, were enough to prevent him from walking very far on his own power.

- Shane's scheduled rendezvous with the chartered boat pickup that would bring him back to civilization wasn't for several more days. He could use the sat phone to call the boat in sooner, but:

- The hike to the boat pickup rendezvous involved miles of difficult terrain, and Ilya fucking Rozanov was in no shape to manage it. Shane could support his weight for long enough to get them back to his primitive camp, but not for miles.

- He was going to have to spend the next several days with Ilya fucking Rozanov, presumably nursing him back to health.

- Ilya fucking Rozanov.

The real issue was that a problem like Ilya fucking Rozanov was the kind of thing Shane usually escaped to the woods to cope with, and now even the remote wilderness was not far enough to escape him. Because he was here. In the wilderness. Currently wrapped around Shane's body in a way Shane was very determinedly not thinking of as "intimate."

Ilya fucking Rozanov: The person who made all the old pain flare up inside Shane the worst. The person he could only typically contemplate in small, measured doses, usually limited to Montreal-Boston games that Shane watched with a careful one-half of his attention. The person who was, though he had not the faintest idea of it, Shane's nemesis.

Shane had seen the first article about Rozanov just after his second knee surgery, during the most painful part of his physical therapy, during the time when it was becoming ever more undeniable that he could never go back, that it would never happen, but before he'd shaken loose of his all-consuming hockey obsession. He was still reading everything, all the news, scouting reports, prospect chatter, scouring all the sites where he'd dreamed of seeing his own name becoming more and more discussed.

Instead, it was Rozanov who emerged, taking up the space Shane had expected to fill. Rozanov: Same age, same position, same projected draft year, same extraordinary potential. His name, his face, became a haunting, the epicenter of all Shane's ruined hopes. The person who had gotten everything. Who was living Shane's life. The one Shane should have had, could have had, if not--

"Is much further?" Rozanov asked, the words coming from between clenched teeth.

He was in pain, clearly, and Shane... Shane was a good person. He was a helpful person -- he was helping now, even in this situation, even this specific individual. Shane was not the kind of person who took any satisfaction in someone else's pain. He did not.

Even if... well, the dark, angry little undercurrent of spite that ran deep inside his veins, he couldn't help that. That wasn't him, even if it was there, a part of him he hadn't quite been able to banish or muffle completely despite all the well-intentioned therapists and doctors who had tried to put all his good-person pieces back together.

They were back together. He was a good person. He just had... sore spots.

And Ilya fucking Rozanov -- phenomenally talented, undeservedly lucky, irritatingly cocky, infuriatingly beautiful -- just by existing, pressed on every one of them.

But that didn't change the current situation even a little bit.

"It's a little farther," Shane answered, pulling to a halt. "Do you need to rest? We can stop for a minute, if you need to."

Rozanov's expression twisted a little, like he was torn, but after a beat, he nodded. "I think... maybe. Yes."

He lowered himself slowly to the ground, clutching at Shane's shoulder, and Shane did his best to help him settle gently onto a relatively flat area of undergrowth, next to a broad tree trunk he could lean again.

(See? Shane was helping.)

Champ decided to take an interest in Rozanov then, wandering over with wary eyes, looking up at Shane now and then for confirmation that she was okay.

He's an asshole, Shane felt like telling her, if he could speak dog, but go ahead.

Seemingly satisfied with whatever his face was doing, she inched closer, and Rozanov held out a hand, palm down, for her to sniff, which she did, despite the fact that her nose usually seemed to be there just for decoration, as far as Shane could tell.

She let Rozanov pet her, which Shane tried not to view as a betrayal.

"What is the dog's name?" Rozanov asked, careful fingers under Champ's chin.

"Uh, Champ," Shane said, feeling a little embarrassed about the name, the fact that he'd given it to her for, like, encouragement reasons that seemed a little foolishly sentimental every time he had to say it out loud. But whatever. Not like he cared what Rozanov thought of his dog-naming skills. "Her name's Champ," he said again, almost defiantly.

Rozanov nodded, stroked gently over Champ's head, rubbing one of her silky ears between his thumb and forefinger, murmuring something low and sweet-sounding to her in Russian, and Shane didn't have any particular reaction to that, officially.

He was not having reactions to many things, officially, not right now, because he was too busy managing the big, unignorable reaction that was clenching his stomach and impacting his breathing and could be generally described as: Oh no, not this.

Despite the fact that oh yes, this was happening, Ilya fucking Rozanov was actually right here, though Shane had no idea how or why or what he had ever done to deserve it. No sense getting upset about it. He was just going to have to deal with it. Was dealing with it. Would deal with it.

"How the hell did you end up out here, anyway?" he asked.

Rozanov looked up at him, scratching under Champ's chin again, and his face creased into a kind of grimace. "I am a fucking idiot."

Shane felt a little ripple of shock at the words. He didn't know what he'd expected, exactly -- maybe a tale of woe, maybe a litany of complaints, or a list of grievances and the names of everyone attached to them. Not this simple, self-deprecating declaration, even if Shane was a little inclined to agree with it.

"What happened?" he asked, trying with all the good-person fairness and decency inside himself to reserve judgment, to make allowances, to generously provide the benefit of the doubt.

Rozanov dropped his head back against the tree trunk, rested his hand against Champ's wiry-furred side. "Went camping with group. Got too high. Wandered away from camp. Got lost. Kept moving. Walked all night, into next day. Climbed tree. Fell. Waited to die."

His ocean-blue eyes caught Shane's, and the frankness in them was... a little arresting. "Fucking idiot behavior, start to finish," he summarized.

Well. Yes. Shane didn't say it out loud.

"You ever been in the woods before?" he asked instead, although he felt sure he already knew the answer, based on Rozanov's own recital of his actions and the fact that he was wearing designer jeans, expensive-looking sneakers, and a thin T-shirt in the deep wilderness. He must have been very cold overnight, Shane thought suddenly, and the mental image attached to the thought gave him a weird -- brief -- pang of sympathy.

Rozanov shook his head, his dark blond curls scrubbing against the tree bark. "City person," he said, with no particular pride. "The outdoors, I think, is not for me."

He looked up again, then, his eyes locking with Shane's. Shane felt caught in it, pinned, seen in some gut-striking way he couldn't name, but he couldn't look away from it.

"I thought I would die," Rozanov said, his voice low and gravelly. "Would have died, I think. If not for you. So, thank you."

Various replies entered Shane's mind: Don't thank me yet, we're still in the wild, it's not over, a lot could still go wrong.

But he didn't say those things, because he knew they didn't matter. Whether he wanted it or not, whether he was a good person or not, whether this was his nemesis or not, he knew one thing with startling clarity: Ilya fucking Rozanov was not going to die, not as long as Shane was around to do anything about it.

Rozanov was making a weird face, though, his eyes going tight and his mouth turning down. Then he gently pushed Champ back a little bit, said, "I think, maybe," leaned over to his side, and puked up about half a gallon of water.

Ilya was alive and grateful, and the last thing he would ever think to do was complain about anything his new hero, Regular Shane, did or said or provided.

That said, he was maybe a little... surprised? By the final destination of their long, painful, ridiculously conjoined walk through the fucking woods.

He hadn't thought he'd formed any expectations, really, had been too busy managing pain, feeling relief about not dying, vomiting water, and registering small but unignorable details about Shane's shoulders and arms and torso and face. But when they had finally arrived at what Shane called "camp," Ilya realized that he had, in fact, been entertaining some vague ideas about what was to come. Had hopes of a cozy cabin with a pleasant little chimney curling smoke out the top, maybe, or perhaps a nice yurt with sturdy cots, or even just a basic fucking tent like the one he'd slept in for his single night with the adventure group.

No. What Shane had in his "camp" was: a big piece of plastic tied between some trees, supported by some cut-off branches, and... that was about it. Okay, also: a little place where a fire was sort of half-heartedly smoldering. And a dead log for sitting on.

Ilya was sitting on it, for lack of any other place to sit that wasn't flat on the ground, and reminding himself that he could be dead right now, and that would almost certainly be worse than this.

It was fine, it was temporary. Shane had said he had a satellite phone, he could call for help. Meanwhile, he had sat Ilya on the dead log and given him a (small) container of water to replace what Ilya had vomited, along with a little bag of what Ilya was rapidly learning was the worst trail mix that had ever been conceived. Not that he was complaining! He was starving; he ate the trail mix. Even if it was primarily unsalted almonds and dry sunflower seeds, and only the occasional shriveled cranberry for flavor. He took a small sip of water after each handful; it was fine.

Shane had retreated to a location he had called "in the shelter" that Ilya thought of as "under the big piece of plastic," and he was digging into the most enormous backpack Ilya had ever seen. It looked like it must weigh one thousand kilos, and the fact that Shane had apparently hiked for hours through the woods while carrying it was impressive, especially given that Ilya had become exhausted from hiking while carrying only his dead phone in his pocket.

When Shane emerged from the "shelter," he was carrying several things, bringing them to Ilya.

"I have this, for your knee," he said, holding up a black elastic knee sleeve. "And we can wrap your ankle," he added, lifting a roll of stretchy-looking bandage. "And I have painkillers." He showed Ilya a small pill bottle.

Ilya stared. "You run medical supply store from backpack?" he asked. "Is why it's so big?"

Shane gave him a flat look. "I just like to be prepared. Do you want these or not?"

Ilya wanted them. Wasn't sure how he would use them given his impractical jeans. But Shane had a solution for that, too.

"Oh, you can change into these, if you want," he said, offering the last of the items in his hands. It was a neatly rolled piece of fabric that turned out to be, when Ilya unrolled it, a pair of basketball shorts.

It was such an onslaught of competence that Ilya felt faintly dazzled. Grateful, again. Impressed, again. Maybe a little turned on. Again.

"Yes, okay. Thank you," he said, reaching to unbutton his jeans, and Shane dropped all of the things on the ground and turned away.

"Just going to check on Champ," he muttered.

Ilya paused with his hands on his zipper, analyzing this reaction. Homophobic bro-culture cannot-bear-to-see-another-man-undress reaction? Too interested so must look away reaction? Or was it, what did they call it, gay panic reaction?

He thought of the widening of Shane's eyes when their hands had touched, felt fairly sure he knew which one it was. Felt some small regret that he would not be around to find out for sure.

Never mind. He was alive and would soon be back to civilization, where there were plenty of pretty people who would not require him to guess about their level of interest in his pants removal.

He kicked off his shoes, swapped his jeans for the shorts, which were only a little tight in the ass area, and carefully slid the elastic sleeve over his foot, pulling it upward until it surrounded his knee with gentle, relieving compression. It was a high-quality brace, not something picked up at a local drugstore. Not the kind of thing a person happened to pack in a backpack for no reason.

He noted it and dismissed it. Not his business if Regular Shane had knee problems.

Shane had wandered back now that Ilya was fully clothed again.

"I can do your ankle if you want," he said, gesturing toward the bandage roll. "I've had some practice with that kind of wrap."

Okay, so maybe Shane had knee and ankle problems. Still not Ilya's business.

He should say no to this offer, of course. He was certainly capable of wrapping his own ankle, even if he was accustomed to others doing such things for him -- team trainers and physios always managing his injuries from the ice. And Shane had already saved his life, was actively in the process of saving it still, tending to all his needs so competently; he should not ask for more.

But, he reasoned, he was weakened. He had had an ordeal. Of his own making, but still. Harrowing.

"Okay," he said, stretching his leg out in Shane's direction.

Shane dropped to his knees -- easily, fluidly, Ilya noted with interest -- and with businesslike efficiency lifted Ilya's foot to rest on top of his broad thigh. Ilya resisted the urge to dig his heel in a little, to test the strength of the muscle there.

This was medical attention. He should not be inappropriate. He would be good.

"Uh, we should probably," Shane said, hesitating. He swallowed, looked at Ilya, a flick of those dark, liquid eyes. "It'd probably wrap better without the sock?"

Ilya shrugged a little, did not move. "Yes? Okay."

Shane did not move either, for a moment. Then he gave his head a very small shake. "Yeah. Right. Okay."

Ilya was, despite everything, not prepared for the sensation of Shane's fingertips sliding under the edge of his sock, against his skin, carefully pulling and peeling the fabric away until his foot was suddenly, almost startlingly, naked.

His foot.

This should not be erotic.

He forced himself to be still, naked foot resting on Shane's muscular thigh, as Shane's careful fingers began to wrap the bandage around his ankle, under the arch of his foot. He reminded himself of his harrowing ordeal. Of his vulnerable position. Of... of respectfulness.

He looked away from Shane's face, from his large hands on Ilya's bare skin, looked up at the trees, always more trees to look at here. But it did not help to be blind and unprepared for the next touch, only made his nerve endings more aware somehow.

Okay, yes, this was not normal behavior. Time to leave the woods.

Shane finished the bandage -- it felt perfectly wrapped, and again, the compression felt soothing, dulled the throbbing pain a bit -- and set Ilya's foot gently on the ground. He stood up, turned away.

"You should, uh, take those painkillers," he said. "That'll help more than anything, I think."

Ilya nodded, reached for the pill bottle, swallowed two tablets with the last of the water from the small container. Put his sock back on. Put his shoes back on. Was normal.

"Okay," Shane said, clapping his hands together. "So, your group is probably looking for you. We should see if we can get in touch with them, let them know you're okay."

Ilya nodded. "Yes, and..." He made a small waving gesture with his hand, meant to encompass get me the fuck out of these woods.

But Shane just looked at him, dark eyebrows lifted. "And?"

"Call for help?" Ilya said, not sure why this explanation was needed. "Someone to... come get me."

"Oh," Shane said, his expression a mix of comprehension and maybe a pinch of regret. "Well, yeah, um. I don't actually think that's... going to be possible."

Ilya leveled a look at him. "What, I live here now?"

"Well, for a few days, at least?" Shane answered. "There's no way out of here except walking, and -- you can't walk."

"But..." Ilya's mind raced. "There are helicopters, rescue things? Or... I don't know -- people could walk in, help me walk out."

"That's not really how it works," Shane said. "There's not, like, a rescue service that does that or anything, not up here. It's too remote, not enough people come here."

Ah, Ilya understood the problem now. Shane did not know who he was, what kind of resources were at his disposal. It was a little awkward to explain, but...

"Ah, yes, but. I think they will do. For me."

Shane's eyebrows lifted again. "Oh? What... makes you think that?"

Yes, this was very uncomfortable. Ilya did not want to sound like an asshole, but he also did not want to stay in the fucking woods.

"I am... I have money. I am well-known. I can pay for whatever, there are people who will want to do this."

Shane had a look on his face that Ilya could not read, but it did not seem to be the face of someone who was convinced, or optimistic, or even a little impressed with his reported fame and wealth.

"Okay, sure," Shane said, pulling a small, rectangular brick of a device from one of his many pockets. "I guess we'll find out. Do you know anyone's number that I could call? The tour company you went out with, maybe?"

Of course Ilya did not know anyone's number; all the numbers -- for Marley, his other teammates, the tour company -- were in his phone, which was dead in his pocket. He did not even remember the name of the guide who had been leading their group.

He looked at Shane, feeling always more stupid and unequipped, held his hands up helplessly.

Shane nodded. "That's fine, I'll call someone, they can look into it, figure out how to get in touch with your people."

Ilya nodded, grateful again, and Shane pressed buttons on the phone, waiting as a call connected.

"Yeah, hi Tom," he said when whoever it was answered. "It's Shane Hollander."

Hollander, Ilya thought, storing it away, for some reason, with the other Shane facts in his head: the eyes, the freckles, the capable hands, the tiny trash bags, the probable knee and ankle problems.

"No, no, I'm fine," Shane was saying. "Just a bit of a situation. Found a lost camper who got separated from his group."

Got separated. That was politely diplomatic.

"Right, no, but he's injured, can't walk out." A pause, then. "No, I know, but it might be a special case."

Then Shane looked right at Ilya as he spoke his next words into the phone. "It's Ilya Rozanov. Yes, the hockey player. Yes, Boston Raiders, that Ilya Rozanov."

Something in Ilya's stomach boiled and fizzed; he had no way to identify the feeling, but it was...

He had known. Shane had known who he was the whole time, and he had still made him explain about his money, his fame, like an idiot.

Ilya stored away a new fact in his mental catalogue: Shane Hollander was an asshole.

Just because Shane was a good person -- and he was, he was -- didn't mean he couldn't take some satisfaction in Rozanov being wrong, a lot.

He wasn't gloating about it. He was building up the fire to boil more water because he needed more now that there were two of them, especially if Rozanov was going to puke up his portion again.

He looked like he might, or might just puke in general, as he held the little sat phone to his ear, face all pulled tight in a grimace, clearly furious at the person on the other end of the call.

"I am not expert!" he was nearly shouting. "I do not spend all day thinking of ways to rescue people from woods, but someone should. It is an emergency! Response to emergency cannot be, oh well, stay there in... in emergency-causing area."

A little pause, then, "No, I understand, there is no place for helicopter to land, because of trees, fucking trees everywhere I look. But it could hover, yes? This is what helicopters do, famously? Hover, drop down little... I don't know, fucking -- hook or whatever?"

Another pause, another explosion. "What do you mean, you don't know where I am? I am in woods, figure it out, trace this call or something, fuck. Or... I will make a signal fire, a big one--"

"You're not setting a big fire in the middle of the woods," Shane felt obligated to interject.

Rozanov sent him a poisonous glare, and Shane tried to hide the way it made him chuckle.

He didn't have to try that hard, because whatever was being said on the other end of the call made Rozanov close his eyes, scrub a hand over his face.

When he spoke again, though, his voice was calmer, albeit laced with bitter resignation. "Fine, yes, whatever. Oh yes, please, take your time, figure out resources, make a plan. Do not worry for me, I am nothing, who cares?"

He stabbed aggressively at the end button to hang up the call, dropped his shoulders, let his head fall back. He was sitting on the ground next to the fallen log, and his head hung so far back his curls brushed against the peeling bark.

"They are not coming," he said, in a dull, flat tone. "Not today, at least, maybe not for many days. I am officially your problem, Shane Hollander."

Shane, who had comprehended this truth a couple of hours ago, only said, quietly, "I know."

Rozanov sat up again, turned his head to look glumly over at him. "Why do you do camping like this? Is dangerous, no one knows where you are, cannot find you. What if you were injured, needed help?"

"Then I'd figure it out," Shane said with a shrug.

"But you could make it easier, safer. Make like a... what is thing pilots do, like ah... flight plan. So people know where you will be. Or bring GPS tracker with you. Why do you not do this?"

Shane shook his head, eyes on the fire instead of on Rozanov. He didn't want to explain, didn't think he even had the words to explain what he liked about it, what he wanted from it, the feeling of being disconnected from the rest of the world, the test of it, the critical factor of relying on his own ability to manage it.

It wasn't the first time he'd had these questions pushed at him, of course. His parents, his friends, everyone in his life hated that he did this, did it this way, and he hated that it scared them but that didn't change the fact that he needed it, even if he couldn't make anyone else understand.

"That's just not how I do it," he said, which was enough of the truth for Ilya fucking Rozanov.

But Rozanov was looking at him, those piercing eyes locked on him with intensity behind them. "Mr. Prepared," he said, voice low. "You have brought everything you own in enormous backpack, planned for every possibility, but you do not do this. What is the reason?"

Shane stood up from his crouch by the fire, which was now blazing bright, grabbed the water pot by its handle. "I'm going for water. Watch the fire, will you?"

"Watch it do what?" Rozanov asked of his retreating back. "You want me to just sit here and look at it?"

Shane didn't bother responding, just made his way the short distance to the stream, glad of the thick barrier of trees between him and his uninvited guest.

By the time he came back to camp, Rozanov was quiet, lying back with his head on the log, staring up at the darkening sky. Shane kept busy, boiling the water, pulling out dehydrated meal packs for dinner, cutting some extra firewood. He'd only brought one bowl, so he piled Rozanov's portion of the dinner into it and handed it over, ate his own from the pot he'd boiled it in. In this way, they passed a decent span of time in near-silence, which was an optimal fucking outcome as far as Shane was concerned.

Anyway, Rozanov seemed more interested in talking to Champ, who had staked out a space for herself next to Rozanov in a way that rankled Shane's nerves. It was probably just because Rozanov kept sneaking her bits of food from his bowl, but it annoyed Shane enough that he finally said something.

"You shouldn't feed her that. She has her own food," he said, pointing out the portion of kibble he'd already set out, which Champ was pretty much ignoring.

"I don't mind to share," Rozanov said with a shrug. "She is a good girl."

"That's not the point. Human food's not good for dogs," Shane said, despite the fact that he'd been feeding Champ some of his beef jerky only a few hours ago. Rozanov didn't know that, and he didn't need to know.

Rozanov looked a little darkly skeptical, but he didn't say anything. To Shane, anyway. He did murmur something in Russian to Champ, and Shane had the strong sense that it was some criticism about Shane's style of pet care. But he couldn't prove anything, since he didn't speak Russian, and he didn't want make a big deal about it like Rozanov was getting under his skin. Even if he... sort of was.

Anyway, he had a bigger problem, one his mind couldn't stop turning over, even though he already knew no magical new solution to it was going to appear. His eyes kept flicking over to the shelter, where he'd spread out a wide-enough blanket of pine boughs to soften and insulate the ground, but on top of that...

Well, on top of that was his sleeping bag. His one, singular, solitary sleeping bag, the only bedding or source of nighttime warmth he'd brought. If he'd known he was going to be hosting an aggravating Russian hockey player with a body like a fucking god and a face like something from a painting, he'd have prepared for it, brought extra blankets or something. But since he hadn't known, and since the nighttime temperatures here could easily drop into Celsius single digits even in summer... well. There was a problem.

The fact that he had never been able to ignore how attractive Ilya Rozanov was had always rankled him. Not because it was gay, he was fine with that, found many men attractive and even acted on it when he felt up to it. But he'd never, never wanted to find this man attractive, not Rozanov, cocky bastard, lucky fucker, dark reminder of his own shredded potential. It wasn't fair.

It was a fact, though, and being this close to him, this... unavoidably personal with him, having him here in a place where Shane was only ever alone, seeing him unexpectedly vulnerable, it was... Well, he could admit it, needed to face it. It was making the unwanted attraction worse. Which was pretty gross of him, made him a creep, the kind of sick-minded person who would get hot over someone helpless in his care, and he wasn't going to act on anything, but that didn't change the fact that the unwelcome feelings were there.

And there was only one sleeping bag, and it was going to get cold, and he... what was he supposed to do about that?

He closed his eyes for a moment, tried to picture it, just to see if there was a strategy, a way he could... position, maybe? Or some -- he didn't know -- modesty barrier he could rig up between them? No, that would be too fucking weird. He'd just have to concentrate, somehow. Not let any... evidence become apparent. Because that would be beyond creepy, beyond mortifying, unbearable, really. For Rozanov to know that Shane found him...

He sighed, opened his eyes. Picturing it had definitely been a mistake, because now he was flushed and skin-prickling and half-hard like a creep, fuck.

Maybe he'd just stay up all night. Give the sleeping bag to Rozanov, keep the fire going, hope he didn't fall asleep face-first in it overnight. He couldn't do that every night, of course, but maybe he could sleep during the day, like taking shifts. He'd never been able to sleep in the bright of day before, hadn't brought the eye mask he sometimes wore to sleep in his apartment, but he could manage, probably, if he got tired enough.

As if reading his mind, partially anyway, Rozanov spoke then, from his position on the other side of the fire. "I should sleep, probably. What is procedure for outdoors sleeping?"

Shane stood up without answering, went to dig in his backpack again. He came back with an extra toothbrush he'd brought just in case the first one he'd packed started to feel gross, held it out to Rozanov along with a small tube of toothpaste.

"Here," was all he said.

Rozanov looked up at him in dark disbelief, and Shane shook the offering a little, trying to hand it more emphatically.

"It's a new toothbrush. I brought an extra."

It made Rozanov chuckle, a low sound in his throat that Shane did not have any physical reaction to beyond a rising sense of irritation that Rozanov kept laughing at him.

"Of course you did," Rozanov said. "I was thinking sleep, personally, but you are right, dental health cannot be neglected."

He took the items from Shane's hand, squeezed toothpaste onto the brush, began brushing his teeth right where he sat, looking at Shane the whole time. When he was finished, he leaned over to spit a wad of foam behind him, rinsed his mouth and the brush with the water jug that sat between them, and held the toothbrush and the tube up as if expecting Shane to take them.

He supposed he would take them, since there wasn't a place for Rozanov to set them down, but it felt strange, touching something that had just been in someone else's mouth. Probably not as strange as it should have, though.

Shane tucked them back into the backpack, closed the backpack up to heft it over to the bear hang he'd set up several yards away, where he stored it at night to keep any animals away from the shelter. He had a whole pre-sleep routine for himself, usually, involving not just tooth-brushing but face-washing and clothes changing and preparations for the next day, but he supposed it didn't matter tonight, since he wasn't going to sleep.

"Okay, you can sleep here," he said, thumbing backward toward the shelter as he emerged from it. "So just... knock yourself out."

Rozanov nodded, stood, took a limping couple of steps toward the shelter. Stopped. Took in, presumably, the single sleeping bag.

He looked at Shane, and Shane made himself meet his eyes like nothing was unusual.

"I am not taking your bed," Rozanov said, voice low.

"It's not a bed," Shane pointed out.

Rozanov rolled his eyes. "Your sleeping place, whatever. You think I am an asshole? Get myself lost, make you rescue me, then take your sleeping bag and leave you in the cold?"

"I'll be fine," Shane said, heaving the backpack up to carry it the short distance to the bear hang. "Just get some sleep."

"No," Rozanov said, wincing as he lowered himself to sit down by the fire again. "You don't sleep, I don't sleep."

He said it simply, matter-of-fact, like there was no argument that could persuade him. Shane felt a burn of... something, irritation, frustration, low in his gut.

"Don't be difficult," he said, glaring at Rozanov.

"Is not difficult," Rozanov said, leaning back on his hands, then wincing when the position hurt his ribs, sat forward again. "Is called solidarity."

"Well, I didn't ask for solidarity."

"And I did not ask to be stranded in the fucking woods. We do not always get what we want."

Shane felt his jaw muscles locking up. For Rozanov, of all people, to say those words to him...

He took a breath, got hold of himself with effort.

"It's not big enough for two people, okay?" he gritted out. "Just go sleep. I'll sleep later."

Rozanov looked over at the shelter, his gaze assessing. "Is big enough. We can fit."

Shane shot him a dark look, didn't respond.

"Oh, is too close quarters for you?" Rozanov asked, leaning in a bit, his tone a little mocking. "What, you can't touch another man? You are homophobic."

Shane felt a flare of anger, the stress of the whole day, the whole situation, boiling up inside him. "I think I'm a little too gay to be homophobic," he spat out.

Well, there. It was out there now, and Rozanov could deal with it. Shane stared at him, defiant, waiting for whatever his response would be.

It wasn't what he expected.

Rozanov shrugged, the movement light. "Ah, perfect. I am too bisexual to be homophobic. So, there is no problem, then."

Shane stared at him, feeling like his insides were melting. He was... that couldn't... he...

He couldn't seem to form any words, too overloaded with tangled thoughts and skittering sensations in his body and... and flat-out surprise.

Rozanov was unfazed by the whole exchange. He struggled back up to his feet with a groan, made a beckoning gesture with his hand. "Come on, we sleep, doesn't have to be weird. We can go back-to-back, if it will help."

Shane stared after him for a moment, mind spinning. On one hand, he couldn't believe he was actually contemplating this. On the other hand, he could just... be an adult about it? They were in this situation, there was really no other practical solution. And anyway, if he made much more of a fuss about it, wouldn't that make it seem like he wasn't sure he could trust himself pressed against Rozanov's body?

"Fine," he said, finding his voice at last. "Just, go ahead. I'll be there in a minute."

Well, that was a weird thing to say, too familiar, almost intimate, like a bedtime analogue to "Honey, I'm home" or something. But it was too late to reel it back now.

Rozanov didn't react anyway, settling his bulk into the sleeping bag, frowning at the pine boughs like they were offending him.

Shane got his things from the backpack, washed his face, brushed his teeth. Hung up the backpack. Came back to the shelter and got Champ settled into her dog bed. Took off his heavy boots but didn't bother changing clothes because he was not about to remove even one article of clothing right now.

Then he steadied himself, took a breath, walked to the sleeping bag.

Rozanov was lying on his side, facing out as promised, and Shane eyed the sliver of space that was his to somehow slide into.

He just... wasn't sure he could do this. Maybe the staying up all night plan was the way to go, after all.

Rozanov, eyes closed, made an impatient sound. "Hollander, don't be so fucking boring," he said. "Just get in."

Shane wasn't sure why that worked, but he found himself clenching his jaw, lowering his body, and squirming his way into the sleeping bag.

It was... tight. He could fit, but he was absolutely pressed into Rozanov, shoulders bumping, the round swell of Rozanov's ass squeezed right up against his own.

He held himself very still, closed his eyes for good measure, tried determinedly to think of anything but the body pressing into his.

Slowly, over long minutes, what began as excruciating began to lapse into tolerable, then fine, then... maybe a little bit all right. Rozanov was warm against the chill creeping into the night air, and the soft, even sound of his breathing began to work like a gentle metronome on Shane's brain, every exhalation seeming to say, okay, okay, okay.

He thought he might actually be able to sleep this way, thought Rozanov might already be asleep. Then, low and deep, Rozanov spoke; Shane could feel the vibration of it along his own back.

"Thank you for not letting me die."

Shane thought of saying: You've already thanked me, you don't have to keep saying it. Or maybe just, It's fine, whatever. Or maybe he shouldn't respond at all.

What he said, finally, quiet in the darkness, was, "You're welcome."

And he was a little surprised to find that... he kind of meant it.

Ilya woke the next morning in the outdoors, lying on scattered tree materials, a stab of barely-dawn sunlight in his eyes, squashed into a sleeping bag with a near stranger: all objectively terrible conditions.

He felt extraordinary.

He lay there blinking for long moments, taking a little inventory of his body and his mind.

Body: bad. He had apparently lain unmoving for the entire night -- not surprising given there was essentially no room to move -- and now he was a little achy and sore all over. Worse, naturally, at the pain points -- ribs, knee, ankle, all still thudding with sharp discomfort. His dick was mostly hard; this was not unusual for a morning. Probably nothing to do with the warm, firm body pressed all along the back of his own.

Mind: weird? Clear, untroubled, small rush of joy at being alive. Impulse to look up at the increasingly familiar view of endless trees and watch leaves fluttering in the soft morning light. Quiet. Not the boring kind of quiet. A calm, still, rested feeling he was not used to waking up with.

The feeling continued as he slid and scooted his way out of the sleeping bag, trying (unsuccessfully) not to wake Shane, who began to make stirring noises. Ilya disappeared a little way into the woods (not far, keeping careful track of his hobbling steps) to piss behind a tree, saw a squirrel, felt unreasonably pleased.

He hobbled back, sat on the dead log, stretched his arms and legs as much as he could without his injuries protesting, loosening his stiff muscles, wondered when he would start to fret about how much longer he would be here, about when he could get home.

Home was a strange word, when he tried to align it with his house in Boston. He could imagine sinking into the comforts there -- soft bed, all his favorite foods, continuous comfortable temperature. He could not imagine it containing the feelings that a word like "home" should invoke. Not that he had much direct experience with those kind of home-feelings. If they truly existed.

Anyway. Surprisingly good morning.

Shane got up, disappeared for a while, came back to retrieve the backpack from where he had... hung it from a tree overnight? Dug in the backpack, sanitized his hands, wordlessly brought Ilya the sanitizer, the toothbrush, the tube of toothpaste, the jug of water. Ilya accepted them all with blinking surprise, used them, returned them. Petted Champ for a while as Shane stirred the banked fire back to life.

"I can help," Ilya said as Shane grabbed the pot he used for boiling water and started to walk away, presumably to wherever he was getting water from.

It was the first time Ilya had spoken all morning, and his voice sounded croaky from disuse. He cleared his throat and tried again.

"Give me something to do, I will help."

Shane hesitated, flicked a glance at him, didn't speak. Ilya felt he could see some sort of checklist running behind Shane's eyes, a comparison of tasks to be done and Ilya's potential ability to do them.

He knew he wouldn't be good for much; he had already thoroughly proved his lack of capability with outdoors things. Even his usual fallback -- brute strength -- was not much use here, since Shane seemed as strong or possibly stronger? And anyway, Ilya was stupidly injured, confining his already limited usefulness. But he wanted to do something, was beginning to feel itchy with the position of contributing nothing.

Shane went to the backpack. Ilya watched him, feeling the urge to spread the entire pack open and explore its secrets. What hadn't Shane packed, brought, tucked into one of the many compartments? What little surprises might it contain? The idea of it seemed suddenly absurdly alluring, though Ilya had never before in his life felt compelled to examine another person's luggage.

Shane came back bearing items, as usual. This time: a different pot, a cooking spoon, a smallish sealed bag of what looked like oatmeal, and the water jug.

"Mix the water in until it looks right, boil it for about ten minutes," he said, handing the items over. That was all the instruction he provided before retrieving the water pot and heading away, Champ trotting along with him.

Ilya looked at the items he was now holding, feeling unsure. He had made oatmeal before, but mostly in a microwave. Still, this couldn't be too different, surely. The oatmeal he made at home even came in little pouches, almost the same as this sealed bag.

He set the pot carefully on the ground, poured in the contents of the bag. It was not only oatmeal flakes, but also nuts, dried fruit, a dusting of what might be cinnamon. His stomach rumbled at the thought of food, his body still feeling half-starved depleted because he'd spent most of yesterday without eating.

He poured in water. Immediately too much. Fuck. He stirred everything around, hoping it would thicken up, but it remained thin and watery, the bits of fruit floating to the top like shipwreck survivors bobbing in the ocean.

Well. Nothing he could do about that now. He would just boil it extra, hope that would solve it.

Next problem was getting it over the fire. Shane had a little contraption made of three sticks that he placed over the fire when he was boiling water, or when he'd made dinner last night. Ilya could see it, over by the shelter. He picked up the pot, began to hobble toward the stick-contraption, immediately sloshed a good portion of watery oat mixture over the side of the pot. Fuck.

He wiped the side of the pot with his hand, wiped his hand on his pants, kicked dirt over the spilled portion. Hobbled more carefully toward the stick-contraption, carefully keeping the pot level this time as he limped along.

He had to put the pot down to deal with the stick-contraption, which was folded up somehow, not in its triangular standing formation. He separated the sticks, assuming they would lock in to some tripod position, but they just spread all the way out in his hands, so that he was holding a flat disk of pointed sticks. Fuck.

He carried the unwieldy arrangement of sticks over to the fire, worked on getting it to hold its tripod shape by digging the sticks into the ground around the fire, nearly burned his hand in the licking flames. Fuck.

Okay, okay. He straightened up for a minute, took a breath. He was fucking everything up, and Shane would be back soon, and this was not a good look. He needed to... what was the phrase the rookies liked? Yes. Lock in.

He focused, retrieved the pot, managed to hang the handle of it from the little hook on the tripod so that the pot dangled over the fire. Waited for boiling, which needed to happen immediately because of the too-much-water problem.

It did not happen immediately. This pot needed a lid to cover his mistake.

He felt, again, the urge to go searching through the mysterious backpack, but he could hear Shane returning from getting water, so he sat down on the ground near the fire, hoping to shield the view of the watery pot with his body.

It did not work. Shane brought the pot of water directly to the fire, looked at the oatmeal pot dangling there. Looked at Ilya.

"Is how we make it in Russia," Ilya explained, shrugging a little.

Shane made a little sound, like a small scoffing laugh. "You had one job, Rozanov."

Cute, that little laugh, that little remark. It made something feel gleaming in Ilya's eyes. He leaned back on his hands, even though it hurt his fucking ribs, because he knew how it made his shoulders look.

"No, my one job is hockey, and I am very good at that." Then he leveled a look at Shane. "But you already knew that, Hollander."

Shane gave a little lift of his eyebrows, didn't respond, but there was something almost like a smirk pulling at those plush lips.

"Why did you not say you knew who I was?" Ilya asked.

"Didn't seem relevant," Shane said, still with the little smirk. "I would've helped you anyway. Not just because you're..." He paused, put on a drawling imitation of Ilya's accent, "well-known. With people who will want to do this."

Ilya's jaw dropped a little; he couldn't tell if he wanted to smile or frown. "You use my words against me? You force me to explain, and now you mock me for it?"

Shane smiled all the way now, sort of sharply happy-looking. Ilya blinked at the sight of it.

"It was funny," Shane said.

Something hot and prickling pulled at Ilya's gut. He tilted his head, studied that smile, dropped his voice a little. "I think you are a little bit of a brat, Regular Shane."

Shane's smile faded a little, but not into a frown. He looked at Ilya, his eyes flicking down for a single, fleeting moment, then gave a little one-shouldered shrug and turned away.

Ilya watched him go, thinking of large grabbable muscles, big competent hands, little scoffing laugh. Felt his mind turning, his body stir.

Okay, so Ilya was not good with outdoors things or breakfast things. And he could not play hockey here.

But there was something else he was good at.

And since it appeared he was going to be staying for a while... maybe, there was no reason he could not put those skills to use.

Not as compensation -- he did not consider himself an offering to be given to repay a debt, even a debt of life-saving magnitude. But... for mutual enjoyment. For pleasant entertainment. For something interesting to do in the middle of the fucking woods.

If Shane wanted that, of course. Ilya suffered no illusions about his own level of attractiveness, and he now had confirmation that Shane was definitely in the category of people who would find him attractive. But still, that did not mean it was absolute, decided. A person could be gay and asexual, for instance. Ilya knew things, he was not an animal.

He thought of the widening of the eyes, the dropping of items, the little glance downward. Not conclusive. To pursue anything with intention, he needed to be sure. Could not afford -- and would not desire -- to make himself an unwanted pest to the person currently maintaining his continued existence among the living.

But he could test, maybe. Collect evidence. He had ways.

Yes. It was a surprisingly enjoyable morning.

It would be best, Shane determined, if he thought of Rozanov like a dependent he would list on a tax form.

Not like a child, because his thoughts were definitely not...

Never mind that. The point was, like it or not, Rozanov was dependent on him. Could barely walk, had no supplies, apparently didn't even know how to make oatmeal. Was stuck here, and that was partially Shane's fault, with his stubborn insistence on being off the map, unable to locate.

So, that was it. He would be helpful and trustworthy and responsible. Period.

Even if... well, he didn't think Rozanov was flirting, exactly. Shane had seen (against his will, against his better judgment) plenty of Rozanov's media interviews, his particular way of chirping on the ice. He knew very well that Rozanov just had that way about him, a special perception for how to get under someone's skin. That was all it was, if it sometimes seemed like Rozanov's eyes were lingering, or if some of the things he said could be... otherwise interpreted.

He had said he was bisexual, leaving nothing to interpret there, which was still sort of a flooring fact for Shane to have in his brain. (Very much in his brain, too much, he needed to stop thinking about that.) But that was just... well, it was the way he had said it, dropping it with a shrug, so easily. Not an intentional thing, not meaningful. Shane hadn't announced that he was gay with the thought in his mind: and so now you want to fuck me, right? So Rozanov hadn't made his declaration any differently.

Just because two people were potentially sexually compatible...

Anyway, the point was, he knew how to approach it. Dependent. Tax form. Helpful.

He cut more firewood, the eternal task. Waited for the oatmeal to boil for long enough to be reasonably considered a food rather than a drink. Put the fresh water from the stream on to boil, another constant chore. He didn't mind it, never did, especially not now when keeping busy was a particularly good idea.

They ate the oatmeal, Rozanov from the bowl and Shane from the pot, and it was fine, still a bit watery but edible. The quiet between them as they ate was fine, too. Shane didn't have anything to say, was used to not talking in the woods except for a few words to Champ now and then, was probably better off without any more interpretable remarks from Rozanov.

Until...

"Oh, no," Rozanov said. "Look what I have done."

Shane looked. Rozanov was frowning down at his T-shirt, where a messy glop of oatmeal had landed right about in the area of his abs.

"So stupid of me," Rozanov went on. "My only shirt." He sighed heavily. "Oh well. At least is nice day outside, yes?"

Then he pulled off the shirt.

Shane might have lost control of his brain for a moment. Certainly of his eyes, which could not be unfastened from the sight of Rozanov stretching up to pull the shirt over his head, abs flexing, huge swells of pectorals shifting as he moved. Big, sculpted, naked shoulders coming into view. Bare arms with intricate bands of muscle, lines of vein, doing fascinating things as they lifted.

An image formed in Shane's mind against his will, unwanted: his hands on those arms, stroking over that chest, down those abs. For a moment he was unable to see anything else.

Rozanov draped the shirt over the fallen log, picked up his oatmeal, resumed eating. Shane forced his eyes to move, looked up to find Rozanov staring right at him.

He must not flush, he must stay calm, he must...

He dropped the oatmeal pot with a clatter. "I can get you another shirt," he said, springing to his feet and heading for the relative protection of the shelter.

It was a shirt, oh my god, he had seen countless shirtless men in innocent contexts -- his junior hockey days, the gym, basketball pickup games at the park, the half-marathon he'd run last year. He did not stare, he had years of practice not looking or being seen to look, but now, because of Ilya fucking Rozanov, he was being attacked by unwanted mental images and acting like a fucking weirdo with no self-control? What the fuck?

He counted his breaths, dug through the backpack, found a spare shirt (long sleeves, only prudent, it could get cold), brought it back to the fire, tossed it to Rozanov without looking. Picked up his oatmeal again.

Rozanov said, "Thank you," and Shane could see -- from the corner of his eye, he was not looking -- that he unrolled the shirt, examined it, did not put it on, placed it on the log next to his stained T-shirt.

"I was thinking," Rozanov began, after a while.

Shane did his best to make his face look attentive while his eyes stayed locked on his oatmeal. Waited for more words, although what he was waiting for, he didn't know. It wasn't like Rozanov was going to say, I was thinking since we're both here and sexually compatible we might as well suck each others' dicks, so why exactly was his own mind coming up with these stupid fucking ideas? He didn't even like this man.

"There is a place you go for water, yes?" Rozanov asked, and Shane was not disappointed, that was a perfectly reasonable question for someone to ask.

"Uh, yeah," he said, nodding to his oatmeal. "A stream not far away."

"Is okay for bathing?" Rozanov asked.

Instantly, another mental image exploded in Shane's head, not of his own free will: Rozanov naked, glistening with water, droplets running down powerful thighs, droplets that Shane could catch with his tongue.

Fuck.

"I am feeling," Rozanov went on, "not my best. All night and day walking through woods, very sweaty. Bath would be nice."

The stream was okay for bathing, Shane had bathed in the stream yesterday morning. It had a deeper pool in one area, and he had packed environmentally friendly soap that would not disturb the local ecosystem. So yes, sure, Rozanov could bathe, naked, as baths were traditionally done, no reason he couldn't, no objection Shane could seem to think of. Except...

"Uh, it's pretty cold," he said. "Like, a little icy. Not very comfortable."

But Rozanov shook his head, grinning. "Ah, I am Russian, the cold is nothing to me."

Okay, so this was happening, then. Fine, fine. Shane was an adult who was in charge of his own mind.

"Uh, sure, then," he said. "I mean, I can get you soap, and the stream's just a little bit that way." He pointed to the west. "You'll hear the sound of running water, you can't miss it."

Rozanov hummed, a low sound. "I would not want to risk getting lost again. Also, not sure I can walk so far -- the knee, the ankle. You can take me there?"

Shane didn't answer for a moment, could feel his jaw muscles clenching as he tried to think, come up with... an escape from this situation. But what could he say? No, I will not help you walk?

It was fine, it was fine. He would just keep... not looking. Maybe he could turn his brain off entirely somehow. Had he brought any hard drugs in his backpack?

"Yeah, yep, sure," he said to his oatmeal. "I've got to wash the breakfast things anyway, so yeah. Whenever you're ready."

"I am ready," Rozanov said immediately, handing over his bowl.

Shane stacked it into the oatmeal pot -- he wasn't hungry anymore, anyway -- went to get the soap from the backpack, the bar of environmentally friendly soap that he had slid all over his body that was going to be sliding all over Rozanov's body, which was fine, and he gathered up the breakfast things and made himself walk over to where Rozanov (still shirtless) was sitting.

He summoned all his good-helpful-person energy and aligned himself with Rozanov's injured side, careful not to press into the dark bruising along his ribs, and got his shoulder wedged into Rozanov's (naked) armpit. Rozanov slung his arm across Shane's back, hand gripping, and gave a long, low groan as he pulled himself to his feet.

Another mental image bloomed, unavoidable, he was not in control of this: Rozanov groaning just like that as Shane took him in his mouth...

No. Stop. Shane flinched, cursed silently, blanked his mind, got them moving.

Champ trotted along with them, which was good; Shane kept his eyes on her, needed to make sure she didn't get lost on the short walk anyway. Rozanov must have been in a lot of pain, though, because he kept making those groaning noises that seemed like they'd been created in a sound studio to short-circuit Shane's brain and shoot down his body to his dick. He kept going grimly on, eyes on Champ, tried to keep his head turned away so he wouldn't inhale the scent of Rozanov's body like a fucking creep.

Finally they reached the stream, and he lowered Rozanov to sit at the edge of it as hastily as he safely could, tossed the soap onto the grass next to him, went downstream a bit to scour out the breakfast things.

He wasn't looking, he wasn't picturing it, but he could hear all of it, the shuffle of fabric as Rozanov got undressed, the liquid sound of him entering the water, the little yelp he gave at the icy temperature.

Shane found himself smirking a little at the sound, a welcome relief, a way to be normal about this.

"I thought cold was nothing to Russians," he called out.

Rozanov, splashing around a bit, called back, "You did not hear me complaining. Is like ice bath in locker room, good for injuries. You should try it."

Right, great idea. Exactly what he should do was tear off all his clothes and join Rozanov in the water-- no, not picturing it.

"I'm not injured," he pointed out.

"You may have inflammation," Rozanov said, pronouncing the word carefully. "You wouldn't even know, only shows up on blood tests. Could be dangerous. Cold is good for that, too."

"I eat a lot of anti-inflammatory foods, actually," Shane said. "I think I'm fine."

Rozanov gave what sounded like a heavy sigh, for some reason. Then he said, "Ah, Shane, I have forgotten the soap. I left it on the ground there."

Shane rinsed off the last of the oatmeal and shook the dishes dry a bit, settling them on the grassy bank. "Okay? So get it?"

"But my knee, it is killing me. Can you bring it?"

Shane sighed, feeling put-upon, feeling cursed, but... the man was injured. What was he supposed to do?

"I thought the cold was helping with that," he said, but he stood up and walked back upstream. He located the soap, picked it up, turned his eyes toward (naked) Rozanov just enough to get a general sense of his position. "Here, catch."

"No, wait!" Rozanov said. "If you throw, and I miss, soap will be lost. I will never forgive myself." He paused, then said darkly, "Unless you have packed extra, which you probably did."

"I didn't pack extra," Shane said, irritated. "But you're a professional athlete, I think you can catch it."

"Hold on, wait, let me get closer," Rozanov said, which was terrible news, a terrible idea, because closer was where the water was lower, and Shane really didn't need...

Too late, Rozanov was striding through the water, not seeming to have any trouble with his knee now for whatever reason, and Shane had to crouch there, holding the soap out with his arm extended as far as it would go and his eyes carefully averted. He stayed like that until he felt the brush of Rozanov's fingers against his own.

"Thank you," Rozanov said, and sort of... lingered there for a moment. Finally, he turned away, began walking back into the deeper part of the stream, and Shane...

He looked. Just for a second. He didn't mean to, but his eyes just... looked. And...

Jesus Christ.

The back view, sculpted traps, lats, sliding planes of muscle slipping into narrow waist, top swell of rounded--

Shane heard himself make a small, involuntary sound, a choked little noise in his throat. He shot up to a stand, went blindly back to where he'd left the breakfast dishes, told himself to get a fucking grip.

What the fuck. He did not like this man. Rozanov was his nemesis. Even if they weren't in this weird situation where Shane was obligated to not be a fucking creep, he wasn't going to toss aside his well-established dislike of a person just because they had a nice ass.

Jesus fuck, a really very nice ass, what the fuck.

Not the point. Also not the point was that Rozanov, so far, hadn't been exactly what Shane had expected. Not that he'd expected anything, because he'd definitely never imagined himself in this scenario, but if he had, he would not have pictured Rozanov being... kind of okay-seeming? A little bit funny. And self-deprecating. And not really that much of an egomaniacal asshole at all. So far, at least?

But still, it was Rozanov, the person he'd spent more energy hating and envying and screaming internally about than anyone else in his life, and he couldn't just adjust his ideas so easily. They were foundational ideas. They were important, necessary ideas in a way that he understood, and if it turned out that they weren't exactly entirely true in real life, then what did that say about the rest of his ideas?

He was not ready to think about that; he did not want to be thinking about any of this. He wanted a quiet, solitary wilderness escape, and he wasn't going to get that, but that didn't mean he had to start casting away all his long-held beliefs and turning into a new fucking person.

He just had to get a grip.

So he did, while he waited for Rozanov to finish his bath and get dressed. While he helped Rozanov limp back to camp, bodies pressed together, new and different scent of Rozanov mostly avoided. While he spent the rest of the morning methodically going through his chores, finding things for Rozanov to do that he couldn't possibly fuck up (feed Champ, transfer cooled water to the jug, watch the fire).

After lunch, which Shane prepared (he did not ask Rozanov to help; Rozanov did not offer), Rozanov began to yawn and stretch.

"Feeling so sleepy," he said, looking toward the sleeping bag in the shelter. "I might nap. You? Feeling tired?"

Shane had a suppress a strangled little laugh, because yes, sure, napping together, what an idea. Exactly what he needed was to spend more time squeezed up against Rozanov's body.

It was good, though, because this was an opportunity to spend some time away from Rozanov not thinking about, not looking at, not picturing... well, anything.

"No, go ahead," Shane said. "I think I'll try some fishing, see if I can catch anything for dinner."

It sort of seemed like Rozanov had a glum look about him at that point, but then, he had said he was tired. Shane gathered up the fishing gear and spent a peaceful -- if unproductive -- hour at the stream.

When he came back, Rozanov was not asleep, and the sleeping bag didn't even look like it had been used. Rozanov was on the sat phone again, talking in Russian this time, looking put out. Shane stayed toward the edges of camp to give him privacy, even though he didn't know any Russian so wasn't in danger of unintentional eavesdropping.

After Rozanov ended the call, Shane -- needing something to keep busy with -- brought out a woodcarving project he'd started on his last trip to the woods. He was making a chess set, carving all the pieces by hand, mostly just for carving practice because he didn't actually know the rules of chess very well. It was a useful activity, as it kept his hands and his eyes and his mind occupied.

But what he probably should have done was find a project for Rozanov, because he was apparently bored enough to start interrogating Shane with a string of personal questions.

"You are out?" he asked first, abruptly and without preamble.

"Out of what?" Shane asked, still carving but briefly pausing to wonder if he'd run out of anything he needed. He didn't think so; he'd packed plenty of supplies.

"No, out, like... out. To your family, your friends?" Rozanov paused, then added. "As gay, I mean."

Oh. Right. Shane felt a little annoyed; there was no reason Rozanov needed to know that. But... maybe he was looking for advice. Maybe he was interested in coming out himself.

"Yeah, they all know," Shane said. He tried to think of something encouraging to add. "It was fine. Everyone was supportive."

Should he add a you can do it kind of message? An it gets better, maybe?

But he honestly didn't know what the reception would be to a professional hockey player coming out, so he decided maybe platitudes were not the way to go.

It was kind of weird to think about, actually. If he had ended up playing, the way he'd meant to, the way he was supposed to have done, he would've had to deal with that. Being gay, in a league that certainly didn't seem very friendly to it. It... probably wouldn't have been great. Somehow he had never really considered it that closely.

He didn't have time to consider it much at all before Rozanov asked another question.

"You have boyfriend? Partner?"

Shane did turn to look at him then, because come on. That was really personal.

Although, maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was a normal question, a just-making-conversation question. People did ask him, sometimes, at work or whatever. Probably it was just Shane being weird because he didn't have a boyfriend, hadn't been all that successful at long-term things. Possibly because he liked to spend several weeks of the year alone in the woods.

Anyway, whatever, he didn't want to talk to Rozanov about it.

"No," he said, and left it at that.

"But dating sometimes, yes?" Rozanov asked next. "On the apps, maybe?"

What the fuck? Shane could feel his face flushing a little, because "on the apps" made him think about Grindr, and Grindr made him think about hook-ups, and then all he could picture was hooking up with Rozanov, which was not--

"I think I'm going boil some more water," Shane said, abandoning his half-formed chess piece and heading back to the stream.

The rest of the day passed quietly. Rozanov didn't talk much, and if Shane could sometimes feel Rozanov's eyes on him, with maybe that strange kind of intensity in them, he did not look, and he did not picture things, and he did not let his mind linger at all. It was an effort, a bit exhausting, frankly, but he did it, and he reminded himself he was used to managing his way through things that wanted to drain the life out of him. He could do this. It was only a few more days, and surely tomorrow would be better, and the day after that; he would get used to it and stop losing his fucking mind every time Rozanov moved or talked or existed.

And then, after dinner, when he'd almost made it through the whole day and had only the uncomfortable sleeping bag situation to get through before he could drop into unconsciousness, Rozanov started groaning again.

He was sitting on the fallen log, stretching out his shoulders, and making noises far too similar to how he might sound if he was losing his mind with pleasure, and Shane wanted to press his face into the dirt and scream. Why, why had this whole entire day felt like it was designed to torture him? It was his own fault, he knew, for reacting the way he was, but why couldn't he turn it off?

"Shoulders so tight," Rozanov said, voice low. "Killing me. Wish there was something I could do."

And Shane scraped up every last bit of helpfulness inside him and said, "I can recommend some stretches, if you want."

Rozanov stopped moving, went silent, stared at him across the fire with a flat look on his face. Then he let out a deep, heavy sigh, let his head fall forward, let his hands dangle limply between his knees.

"Okay," he said softly, almost like he was talking to himself. "This is hopeless. I give up."

Shane wasn't sure if the words were meant for him, but he asked anyway. "What's hopeless? Do you need something?"

Rozanov made an impatient huffing noise. "Yes, Hollander, I need something. I need you to go and look in your magic backpack and tell me if you find in there even one little clue that will tell me what you are thinking in your head."

Shane had already halfway stood up to look in the backpack before he realized Rozanov was speaking metaphorically. He sat back down.

"What are you talking about?" he asked.

Rozanov looked at him, his eyes gleaming frankly in the firelight. "You saved my life -- you are saving it. I am grateful. I don't want to make you uncomfortable. All day I am trying, starting a little subtle, becoming less subtle, thinking I cannot be more obvious, but nothing, I know nothing, I cannot tell."

Shane was so confused. "Can't tell what?"

"If you want to have sex with me," Rozanov said flatly.

Everything inside Shane roared up at once into a shrill tornado of feelings, questions, hot sensations, worries, confusion.

"What?" was all he could say, one dumb question that barely scratched the surface of all the frantic energy suddenly whirling around in his head.

Rozanov shook his head, held out a hand. "No, wait. I think I need to be more clear. I would like to have sex with you -- only if you want to. I cannot tell if this is something you want. If not, is okay, I will not mention again. If so, please, tell me so I can stop wondering."

Wait. Wait. The fuck?

"You... want to have sex with me?" he repeated, like an idiot, because he was still processing and he felt like he had to say something.

"Ideally," Rozanov said, making a little palm-up hand gesture. "We are stuck in woods together for many days, you are very hot, I am very hot. Seems like a good idea to me. But if this is not what you want, you can just say, is fine."

Holy shit.

Something else occurred to him. "Wait, you were doing stuff on purpose? Like, all day?"

Rozanov looked at him, held out both hands, a sort of universal signal that meant: Duh.

"I... need a minute," Shane managed to say.

Rozanov flapped a careless hand at him. "Yes, take your time." Then he scrubbed his hand briefly over his face, like he was the one who had suffered through a day-long sexual torment nexus.

Shane stood up, went over to the shelter, stared at the tarp, took some breaths. Waited while everything settled into his mind.

Good news: Maybe he wasn't an inappropriate creep after all.

Bad news: He didn't know what to do with this information.

Good news: Rozanov wanted to have sex. He could have sex with Rozanov.

Bad news: He hated Rozanov. Didn't he?

Good news: He didn't have to have sex with Rozanov if he didn't want to (he wanted to) or if he thought it would not be a good idea. It didn't have to be awkward either way.

Bad news: It was already the most awkward anything had ever been in his life.

He went a few rounds in this way, turned things over rationally, worked through it until the correct, logical, responsible choice was clear. He turned back to the fire.

Rozanov, who had sat quietly all this time, petting Champ and waiting patiently, looked at him with a slight lift to his eyebrows.

"I think that would be a bad idea," Shane said, his voice even and sure. "Given the circumstances."

Rozanov didn't react for a single beat, and then he nodded, shrugged in a nonchalant way. "Sure. Fine. Thank you for the information."

Then he stood up, limped past Shane on his way to the shelter, clapped him on the shoulder in a friendly way. "Time for sleep. We can forget this."

Right. Forgetting it. That was the goal.

Shane did his pre-sleep routine, got Champ settled, contemplated the sleeping bag with Rozanov already in it with dread, because how was he supposed to forget it? Forced himself to walk over and wriggle his way inside.

And...did not forget it. Could not, in fact, seem to remember anything else he'd ever done or thought about in his life. He was not okay. He did not think he would be able to sleep at all. His brain was endlessly turning and turning, and his body was... burning? Hot, hyperaware, thrumming with sensation and impulses and want.

It was only then, in the dark and close confines of the sleeping bag, with Rozanov's body pressed against his own, that he realized he had forgotten one critical factor in all his rational, logical considerations.

He really, really wanted to.

"I think I changed my mind," he said out loud into the darkness.

And Rozanov, in a voice that rumbled through Shane's back, said, "Thank fucking god."

Shane felt frozen, locked in place, and not just because the sleeping bag was kind of pinning him in like a straitjacket.

He felt like... now that the words were out there, he wasn't sure what to do. He'd said them, he'd meant them, but the day-long struggle to suppress his persistent sex-based thoughts about Rozanov was still with him, somehow, and he wasn't sure how to convert his mind from trying-not-to-think-about-it mode into just-doing-it mode.

Rozanov seemed to have some ideas, though, because he was moving, or trying to, shifting his body around with an annoyed grunt.

"I hate your sleeping bag, Hollander," he said.

"It's top of the line," Shane argued. He had done weeks of research on this. "Down-filled, Gore-Tex, -2C EN rating."

"Does it come with a fucking zipper?" Rozanov said. "I feel like snake trying to shed skin."

That made Shane laugh; he felt a little suddenly giddy, actually, and the laughing seemed to shake him out of his frozen state. He found the zipper on his side of the bag, pulled it all the way down so that the whole thing could spread out and lie flat underneath them.

"Better?" he asked, shifting to turn to his other side so he could look at Rozanov, who had also turned over. Who was wincing.

"Ah, yes, except I am lying on bruised ribs now," Rozanov said, sitting up a little.

"Oh, do you want to... switch sides?" Shane offered.

Rozanov sighed. "Yes, all right. This is worst fucking sex setup I have ever seen," he complained.

"Well, it's not for sex, asshole," Shane said. "I was out here alone, remember?"

Rozanov crawled over him as Shane tried to duck under his body, sliding over until he was on the other side of the now spread-out bag.

"Mr. Prepared," Rozanov grumbled. "You did not ever once think you might meet hot lost camper in woods?"

"No, I really didn't," Shane laughed, dodging Rozanov's elbow.

Rozanov settled down with a flop on his uninjured side.

"Now I am exhausted," he said. "Give me one minute."

Shane leaned up on his elbow, frowned down at him. "Aren't you a professional athlete? Why's your conditioning so shit?"

Rozanov glared up at him. "I am injured! I had harrowing ordeal! And is off-season anyway!"

Shane made a scoffing sound. "You need more bag skates."

Rozanov's face went almost to outrage. "That is a terrible thing to wish on a person. What do you know of bag skates? Have you ever tried them?"

Fuck. He shouldn't have said that. It made him abruptly tense, like he had slipped too close to the edge of revealing things he wanted buried permanently. He swallowed, cleared his throat, searched for the light, laughing place he'd just accidentally dropped out of.

"Well. I'm just saying. I would've thought you'd have more stamina."

Rozanov pulled in a breath, and even in the dark Shane could see the gleam in his eyes. "Such a little brat," he breathed.

It sparked and fizzed under Shane's skin, this teasing, the way Rozanov looked at him. He wanted more of that, less of accidental almost-revelations.

"Little?" he asked, eyebrows up. "I think I'm as big as you are."

Rozanov grinned like a wolf, pressed his hips forward into Shane's with intention. "I guess we will see."

Shane forgot everything for a moment: how to tease, how to speak, almost how to breathe. All he could think was: yes, that, and he pushed a little into the contact, wanting--

But Rozanov stilled him, a hand falling on his hip and squeezing. "But, first," he said. "You said you think you changed your mind. This is very good news for me, but I think, given circumstances, would be better if you know for sure. I cannot have you casting me back into wilderness if you have regrets. Sex is important, but... more important to me is remaining alive."

"Fuck off," Shane said, shoving at Rozanov's shoulder a little. Or, he'd meant it to be a shove, but once his hand was there it didn't want to move away again. He left it, gripped in to the meat of Rozanov's muscle, tried to remember what he'd meant to say. "I'm not going to cast you into the wilderness. I'm not an asshole."

Rozanov gave a little twist of his lips. "You made fun of my accent," he pointed out. He didn't look mad about it; he shifted closer, his thighs rubbing against Shane's.

"No, I made fun of your ego," Shane said, trying to keep his voice steady, though his breathing was out of rhythm.

"Still, kind of asshole behavior," Rozanov said, his eyes in the dark tracking over Shane's face, flicking down to his throat.

It was difficult to think with those eyes on him, hungry, gleaming. And Shane could look back at him now, the way he hadn't been letting himself all day, and that was... distracting. Fuck, Rozanov was just so... dizzyingly hot.

"Well, sorry," was all he could think to say.

Rozanov's hand on his hip tightened, slid back and down, squeezed. "Is okay. I can think of ways you can make it up to me."

Shane's heartbeat was thudding hard in his chest, blood rushing, skin heating, prickling with every increasing point of contact between them. He tugged at Rozanov's shoulder, tried to grasp at words. "You mean, other than saving your life?"

Rozanov grinned, made a dismissive little shake of his head. "Was so long ago. Barely counts."

"It was yesterday," Shane pointed out.

They were close now, chests pressed together, legs tangled, hard line of Rozanov's dick just brushing against his own. Shane felt hot, burning, like his body was on fire, like he would turn to fucking lava if he didn't get his mouth on Rozanov's immediately.

He leaned in; Rozanov lifted a hand, gripped Shane's jaw between thumb and fingers, holding him back. "You are sure," he said, voice low and dark.

Shane wasn't sure of anything, still thought it might be a bad idea, couldn't remember exactly why, didn't care anyway. He just had a feeling, burning inside like he'd swallowed a star, and it said I have to and he was listening.

"Shut the fuck up," he said, pushing forward against the grip, pushing past it, getting his mouth on Rozanov's before he could think again of why he shouldn't.

Hot slide of Rozanov's tongue in his mouth, Rozanov's hand on his ass, pulling him closer, and Shane felt a wave of hot relief ripple through his whole body, like every restraint that had been holding him back was abruptly flung away. He pushed in, half climbed on top of Rozanov, his hands reaching for all the places he had been trying so hard not to think about all day -- shoulders, chest, abs, sliding under the stupid long-sleeved shirt he'd thought was such a good idea. And Rozanov... fuck.

Rozanov was kissing him like... like he'd fucking invented kissing or something, hungry, hot, licking into his mouth, sucking at his tongue, fuck, how was he so good at that? It made Shane immediately dizzy, disoriented, a surging pulse of need knocking his brain half-offline. He heard himself make a sound in his throat, like a protest, against what he wasn't sure, maybe against the fact that he'd lived his whole life without this fucking electric feeling, like Rozanov and his mouth and his hands and the hard bulk of his body were a live-wire current, shocking his system.

Rozanov gave one of those deep, aching groans, not pain this time -- wait, had it ever been pain? whatever, whatever, he didn't care -- and just like it had all day, it rolled through Shane like a throb, clenching his gut and swelling his dick, an almost painful squeeze of pressure that he could only manage by shoving his hips against Rozanov's hard thigh, what the fuck, what the fuck, this was... he couldn't...

Rozanov pulled back with a sharp breath, looked at him in the dark with blinking eyes, almost taken aback. He pushed a thumb at Shane's lower lip, almost studying it, muttered "Shane," like he was reminding himself, like they'd just fucking met or something.

Shane didn't know what it was about, didn't care, just wanted his mouth back where it had been, wanted to fall back in, wanted the mind-numbing pleasure of Rozanov's tongue filling his mouth. He swallowed Rozanov's thumb instead, a substitute, watched the flare of Rozanov's eyes, gleaming, closed his own eyes against the satisfying push of pressure on his tongue, moaned about it because he couldn't help it. Rozanov gave a little hiss of indrawn breath, pulled his thumb away and pressed his mouth in its place, fervently, tongue thrusting in.

It was what Shane wanted but not enough. His body squirmed against Rozanov, hands grasping at the swell of his arms, clutching down his sides, pressing his hips in. Rozanov grunted, moved, planting both hands on Shane's ass and dragging him over, on top of Rozanov's stretched-out body, pushed one leg -- his good leg, it must be, Shane thought dazedly -- between Shane's, clasped on to Shane's hips and pressed down, ground up against him.

Shane shuddered into Rozanov's mouth, a long juddering moan pulled out of him by the achingly hot drag. He gripped at Rozanov's shoulders, broke away from his mouth for a moment to pant out a breath, eyes squeezing, the searing slide of friction, even though the fabric, almost too much to handle.

He could come like this, thought he might be too close already, flinching clench of muscles in his abs already telling him to do nothing but this, more, harder.

But he wanted... more, not just this, not so soon. He gathered himself, pushed away, down, sliding his body flush against Rozanov's, feeling every hard plane of muscle beneath him as he moved. Got a hand frantic on Rozanov's shirt and shoved it up, moved his mouth down, stopping briefly at every place he needed to press his tongue to -- hard bead of nipple, lower swell of pec, crease of abs, trail of dark hair disappearing into shorts and briefs, which were easy to yank and tug out of the way.

He paused then to breathe, to stare for a moment. Jesus Christ, Rozanov's cock -- hard and long and thick, fuck. He hadn't expected -- did this man have to have fucking everything, what the hell?

"Fuck, I hate you," he heard himself say, which was maybe wrong for the moment, but Rozanov laughed, sounding breathless.

"Yes, I can tell," he said, voice low and laced with something like amusement.

Mocking him, fine, because Shane was maybe losing it a little, but he didn't care, felt past worrying about what Rozanov would think of him, as long as he could keep going. He settled himself between Rozanov's legs, half-collapsed there, let his forehead rest in the crease of Rozanov's thigh and just breathed in for a moment, rubbed his cheek against the hard length of Rozanov's cock.

Above him, Rozanov was almost panting, neck straining as he lifted his head to look down. "Fuck, Shane, you love it," he said, teeth clenched, and Shane felt a wave of hot, dirty shamelessness roll through him. It made his cheeks flush and his dick twitch and his gut twist with fierce wanting because he did love it and he was not sorry about it.

"Yeah," was all he said to Rozanov, and then he took him in his mouth, just a little, wrapping his lips around the tip and sliding his tongue in a slow, exploratory circle around the head, dipping into the slit, tasting it, losing himself in it. He heard Rozanov suck in air, felt Rozanov's hands sliding into his hair, gripping into it. It was a light touch, but it made Shane think of being held in place, and the idea of that made his own dick swell so hard he had to get a hand on it, just to squeeze through his pants, just for a minute.

But Rozanov knocked at Shane's hand with his knee. "We are doing me or you now?" he said, voice breathless but dark. "Focus, Shane."

Oh fuck, Shane felt light-headed for a second, heard himself whimper with his mouth full of Rozanov's dick, squeezed his own once more and let it go.

Focus, he could focus. He would show Rozanov what focus could look like. He took his time, sliding down, tongue out to stroke along the underside, long sucking pull back up, took it deeper, loosening his jaw, keen concentration on the opening of his throat, and only Rozanov's gasping breath and muttered curses could draw his attention away.

"Fuck, fuck, Shane," Rozanov was saying, hands tightening on Shane's hair, hips thrusting shallowly, small quick jerks like he couldn't help himself.

It made Shane hungrier, made him starving, quickening his pace and keeping his focus and dragging lips and tongue and cheeks until Rozanov was bucking underneath him, hissing and yanking at his hair.

"I am..." Rozanov said, voice half-broken, "If you don't want..."

Shane wanted, fiercely, wrapped his hands around Rozanov's hips and clung on, mouth and throat working, pushing it, making it happen as Rozanov descended to a place of low, throaty sounds, body jolting and then clenching to stiff stillness as he came, groaning, hand spasming tight in Shane's hair. Shane pulled back slightly to feel it in his mouth, wanted the jetting spray of it on his tongue, tasted it, sighed around it, swallowed it. Kept going softly, lips and tongue stroking, until Rozanov hissed and pulled out, until he had to let go.

"Fucking Christ, Hollander," Rozanov said, sounding wrecked. "Is there anything you can't fucking do?"

Shane rolled over, rested the back of his head on Rozanov's thigh, feeling blissed out and chest-tingling satisfied even though his own dick was still achingly hard-swollen and straining in his pants. He felt a little dazed, undone by the mind-swimming feeling of it. But he tried to consider the question.

His first thought: I can't play hockey anymore. He shook his head, brushed the words away. He wasn't going to say that.

"I can't whistle," he said at last, still a little out of breath.

Rozanov shifted under him, like he was sitting up to look at him. "What?"

"I've never been able to do it, I don't know why," Shane said.

"What the fuck does that--" Rozanov broke off. "No, never mind, do not answer. Come here."

He grasped at Shane's shoulders, trying to pull at him, groaning when the stretch hurt his ribs, and Shane scrambled up. Rozanov grabbed him by the back of the neck and kissed him again as soon as his mouth was close enough, hard, hungry, turned him, pressed him onto his back, grabbing at his chest and squeezing.

Rozanov broke away, breathing hard. "Such a show-off. You are not the only one who can do things, Mr. Perfect."

He leaned in, licked at Shane's neck, bit at his collarbone, one hand stroking down to pull up his shirt, trail over his abs, and Shane already felt gut-punched, panting, throbbing with wanting, anticipation, but he swallowed, reached for words.

"Is this... going to be... like the oatmeal?" he managed.

Rozanov pinched his nipple, hard, and Shane's whole body bucked in reaction.

"Fucking brat," Rozanov muttered, and he pushed himself down with a hand on Shane's chest, draped his body over Shane's thighs, weight pressing in, holding him down. He unfasted Shane's pants with nimble fingers, tugged his briefs out of the way, wrapped a hand around his dick, then leaned in to lick a curling tongue from base to tip.

Shane's body bowed, back arching up, eyes squeezing closed, legs pinned, heartbeat wild in his chest, and then Rozanov's wet, tight mouth was on him, immediately relentless, deep, fast, intense perfect suction, a hand shoved deeper into his pants to pluck at and roll his balls, fucking onslaught of hot driving pleasure. Shane was helpless, felt reduced to nothing but his cock and the searing sucking friction of Rozanov's mouth, Ilya fucking Rozanov, his hot, chirping, cocky fucking mouth, what the fuck. It was happening way too fast and Shane did not have the slightest shred of control. He could only pant, thrust, grab his fists onto anything, hang on, oh fuck oh fuck.

It shot through him, out of him, hot pulsing release, waves of it, rippling his whole body, concentrated flood of pleasure where Rozanov's mouth was still sucking, pulling more sensation out of him, making him thrash and moan, mindless.

Rozanov let him go at just the right moment, on the edge of too much, and Shane felt all his stiff contracted muscles collapse at once, leaving him boneless, brainless, sprawled out loose and juddering as aftershocks thumped through him. Rozanov slapped him on the chest, making him jump, then shifted up to flop down next to him.

"Better than oatmeal?" Rozanov asked, a little breathless.

Shane wanted to say... something. A smart-ass remark was called for. He had nothing.

"Much better," he answered honestly, and he couldn't open his eyes, but he heard Rozanov huff a little laugh next to him.

"You know you are holding a branch in your hand," Rozanov remarked, after a moment.

Shane opened his eyes in confusion, wondering if this was some euphemism he didn't understand, looked down to see he had clutched at one of the pine boughs he'd laid out for padding, still had it gripped in his hand.

He tossed it away. His hand was a little sticky from it.

"Fuck," he said. "We're going to have to redo the whole bedding setup."

Next to him, Rozanov blew out a breath. "Well, at least it was not very good to begin with."

Shane couldn't even muster the energy to be annoyed.

It was not long before Ilya realized that he had been, again, a little bit of an idiot.

He had spent the whole day fixated, frustrated, focused on his goal, pulling out every approach he could think of to give Shane an opportunity to respond, give him a hint, indicate interest. The struggle of it had held his attention so firmly that he had failed to think beyond this moment; all his imaginings had stopped at the point of mutual pleasure.

And that mission had been fucking accomplished. He supposed he should not have been surprised that Shane Hollander of the giant backpack and the tiny trash bags and the earned knowledge of how to make three sticks into a tripod contraption would also take his blowjob skills very seriously. But fuck, he hadn't expected all of that. Regular Shane was so competent, steady, sure... but this fucking different creature... so fucking gone for it. Hot, wanting, driven by it, helpless for it... It was a little shattering to discover. Intense. Good, yes. Obviously. But... a little... rattling inside.

Ilya did not feel normal.

And now... now it was sleeping time. Sleeping together time. Sleeping together in one tight fucking sausage casing of a sleeping bag time.

Which... hadn't been so bad last night. (It hadn't exactly been good, even if he had woken up inexplicably in a cheerful mood.) But that was before they had hooked up, hooked up like that, and now everything was different.

Ilya was not, in any case, a sleep-over-after-hookups kind of person. He was a get in a cab, call an Uber, walk fucking home if he had to kind of person, committed to maintaining appropriate distance, uninterested in the prospect of being unconscious and exposed with someone he'd just fucked.

But here, in the fucking woods, there was no choice. The sex part was over, he had gotten what he'd wanted, more than he'd expected, actually, confusing, almost jarring. And there was nowhere else to go.

It made him uncomfortable, tense, itchy as he laboriously helped Shane recreate his exacting layout of tree branches for sleeping on. As he brushed his teeth with the supplies Shane handed over, like they had some established routine now. He had not been pleased to be stranded in the wilderness before, but his relief over not dying, his gratitude about being saved, had warded off the worst of any trapped/stuck feelings, and that was all undone now.

He should not be here. He should not be squeezing himself with a second person into a one-person sleeping bag right after that second person had just been sucking his dick like... like it was his favorite fucking thing to do in the world.

And what if... what if Shane was the kind of person who wanted to cuddle after sex? Ilya felt a shudder inside. No, not that. He could not have that. He could not have their bodies all tangled together while he tried to sleep. They were separate, unconnected individuals who had no real tie but circumstance and general horniness to bring them together. This was not anything else, and he could not have anyone mistaking that.

Sex changed things; he knew that from long experience. He'd still rushed headlong at it like a heedless fucking idiot.

Well, now he would suffer.

He delayed it as long as he could, petting Champ in her little dog bed until Shane was already tucked in, back on his usual side of the reassembled sleeping bag, facing out like before. He looked over at Ilya with a little frown.

"Aren't you going to sleep?" he asked.

Ilya didn't know what to say, could not articulate this is too uncomfortable now that I sucked your dick out loud, gave a little shrug.

"Maybe... I will just sleep here," he offered. "Is not so bad."

Shane sat up on one elbow, leveled a look at him. "Rozanov, don't be stupid. You'll fucking freeze."

Ilya remembered his night of walking lost through the woods, shivering in his thin T-shirt, only the constant forward motion of his body and the heat of his fevered panic keeping him a little insulated from the night's sharp chill. But he shook his head.

"Does not seem that cold to me. And I am Russian, so."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Shane said.

"Will be fine," Ilya said. "I think, is better this way."

Shane stared at him for a moment, his face pinched-up annoyed. Then he sat up, scooted out of the sleeping bag, walked over and sat down on the other side of Champ's dog bed.

"What are you doing?" Ilya asked flatly.

"You don't sleep, I don't sleep," Shane said, drawing his knees up and resting his arms on top of them, getting comfortable.

"No. Don't fucking do this."

"Too late," Shane said, eyes forward, jaw set stubbornly. "Solidarity, you fucker."

That almost made Ilya laugh, and if anything, that was worse than the sleeping bag. He did not want solidarity, or laughs, or cozy late-night chatting by a dog bed. He needed to fucking leave. But he couldn't even go for a walk -- partly because he was scared of getting lost again, partly because his fucking leg didn't work.

"Look," Shane said. "I'm not thinking that we're fucking boyfriends now or something, if that's what you're freaking out about."

"I am not freaking out," Ilya denied reflexively. "Russians do not do this."

"Sure," Shane said, skepticism evident. "Listen, that"-- he jerked his head toward the sleeping bag -- "was all fine, but it doesn't have to be weird. I don't even like you."

Ilya felt his head draw back; he wasn't sure what to react to first. The "fine" as a descriptor for -- in his highly experienced opinion -- some unusually hot sexual activity, or the "I don't even like you" that held a surprising sting.

"You don't like me?" was what he asked, a stupid, vulnerable thing to say. He barely managed, at the last moment, to inject some irony, a mocking tone to his voice.

Why had he asked? Who even cared?

But Shane sent him such a bitterly dark look in response that Ilya felt his breath catch a little. What the fuck?

Then Shane sighed, rubbed at his eye a little. "Look, I was probably right in the first place; it was a bad idea. Let's just forget it, and get some sleep."

Ilya stared at him, some tight feeling in his chest. Anger, maybe, or defiance. He didn't know what to do with the feeling, couldn't parse it out into a normal reaction, couldn't seem to brush it off, couldn't fucking go anywhere to be out of this situation.

Well. At least he knew Shane wouldn't try to cuddle with him.

"Whatever. Fine," he said at last.

They maneuvered into the sleeping bag, not speaking, not looking at each other, though their bodies were unavoidably pressed so close there was no room to move.

Ilya felt... bad. All the good things about the day -- the squirrel he'd seen, the sunlight through trees, the frustrating but fascinating little game of trying to tempt Hollander, the hot fucking blowjob -- were all burned away now. He was sleeping closer to another person than he had in his entire adult life, and he felt more alone than ever.

I don't even like you. It rang through his head, for no fucking reason.

He fell asleep, finally, fitful and irritated, and the last thought in his mind was: What the fuck had he ever done to Shane Hollander?

Ilya woke up alone the next morning.

He must have slept heavily in the end, because Shane had somehow extricated himself from the sleeping bag without waking him. Now he was gone, no sign of him, or Champ either.

So. Perfect. Just what Ilya had wanted.

Shane wasn't gone, Ilya was not left on his own; the giant backpack was still in its place. Shane would not have left that behind, if he had really been leaving.

He struggled out of the sleeping bag, rolled to his feet, wincing, noting the ankle still swollen, knee still stiff and achy, ribs still protesting. Went to piss. Didn't see a squirrel or anything good.

He felt strangely hesitant, then, about approaching the backpack -- Shane's domain, his property, what would he think of someone he didn't even like rifling through it? Decided he didn't care, why should he? Located the pocket with the usual supplies -- hand sanitizer, toothbrush, toothpaste. Used them, put them back where he'd found them.

He sat on the dead log for a while, stretching his limbs out, rewrapping the bandage on his ankle, the silence feeling echoing in his ears. Listened for sounds of... of a person nearby somewhere. Heard nothing. It was fine. Wherever Shane had gone, it wasn't his business.

After what felt like a long time of pointless... waiting, he supposed, was what he was doing, he stood up. He would try the oatmeal again, if there was more. Carefully, this time.

He found more, tucked into a different pocket, and he successfully suppressed the urge to look through the other compartments -- not his property, not his concern. At least he wouldn't have to manage the stick-contraption this time; it was already set up over the banked fire, fresh water already boiled, now cooling in the pot hanging from the hook.

He moved it, set it carefully aside to pour later into the jug, which was still there, near the shelter, along with the other pot, the cooking spoon, the bowl. So maybe Shane had intended to be gone for a while. Probably enjoying his time away from people he disliked. Good for him.

He poured the oatmeal into the pot, added water -- slowly, so slowly, he had never gone so slowly in all his life -- stirring and pouring little splashes of water until it was just enough. Stirred up the fire the way he'd seen Shane do it, adding small sticks from the pile nearby until it was licking flames again. Put the pot on the hook to wait for it to boil.

There was no way, he assumed, that Shane could have gotten lost in the woods. Whatever his faults might be -- fucking rudeness seemed to be one of them -- he was not an Ilya-level fucking idiot who did not know how to keep himself safe in the wilderness. And if for some reason Shane never returned to the camp, what the fuck was Ilya supposed to do about it? He was not about to go out looking for him; he'd only get lost himself, and he couldn't even walk anyway. And, besides, Ilya would be fine without him. He knew how to make the oatmeal now, he had the backpack, all the supplies, the satellite phone. Everything was fine.

Anyway, Shane would be back. Probably annoyingly soon.

Given that certainty, he wasn't sure, then, why his chest gave some weird flipping feeling when he heard, some time later, the sound of Champ's single bark of greeting, the quiet footsteps of someone following after her.

He looked up to see Shane emerging from the trees, a bundle of long, sturdy tree branches tucked under his arm. It hit Ilya like a slap how good he looked, eyes/mouth/freckles, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, sturdy competent body that Ilya had now felt under his hands, that he could have felt again if he hadn't been so stupid.

Why had he gotten so itchy and weird last night? Ilya prided himself on keeping his cool, didn't get rattled on the ice, in front of media, at public appearances, nothing. But he had thoroughly lost it at the prospect of a post-sex sleeping bag? What a fucking idiot.

But probably it didn't matter, anyway. Maybe he would never have had another chance in the first place, because Shane didn't like him.

Their eyes met, briefly. They looked away.

Ilya was already eating his portion of the oatmeal, belatedly swallowing the spoonful he'd put into his mouth. Reached for something careless to say.

"Thought maybe you got lost," he said, keeping his tone light. "I have heard that can happen to people."

"I don't get lost," Shane said. He sounded a little raspy, the way he sometimes seemed to if he hadn't been talking for a while. "I just needed to find something, had to go farther than I expected."

Ilya looked at the bundle of wood Shane was setting down near the shelter. Lifted his eyebrows. "Ah, yes. I am sure you had to walk a long way to find some sticks."

Shane made a huffing sound, maybe a laugh, maybe annoyance. "I needed a certain kind, all right?"

He approached the fire then, looked down at the cooking pot. "You made the oatmeal," he observed.

Ilya acknowledged it with a wave of his hand. "Does it meet your standards, Chef Hollander?"

He asked it like a joke, because it was. So why exactly did he have a feeling like he was waiting with interest for the answer?

"Looks good," was all Shane said, and Ilya hated that he still felt a small swell of satisfaction inside.

Shane took the pot of oatmeal off the fire and brought it to the dead log, placing it on the ground because it was too hot to touch except for the handle. Ilya stood up to go toward the shelter, held out his empty bowl as he passed by.

"I am finished. You can use the bowl if you want."

Shane looked at the bowl but didn't take it, and Ilya could somehow hear what he was thinking: This bowl is dirty. This bowl has been used.

"I did not lick the bowl," Ilya said, with a touch of impatience. He refrained from pointing out that he had licked the inside of Shane's mouth only last night, and Shane had not seemed to mind it. At the time. "Has only had oatmeal in it -- you put more oatmeal in it, is same thing."

Shane nodded, took the bowl, his face flushing a little, like he was embarrassed about his hesitation. Ilya watched the pink spread along his cheeks, under his freckles, wondered if Shane had flushed like that last night. It had been too dark; he hadn't been able to see.

He moved away abruptly. He should not be thinking of things like that. They had forgotten it. Not happening again.

He felt a little exhausted, suddenly, even though he'd only been awake a little while. He went to the pot of boiled water and sat down by it, started pouring it into the jug. He could feel Shane's eyes on him as he did, probably worried he would spill it. He concentrated like he was in fucking game five of a Cup final, did not lose one drop.

When that was done, he couldn't think of anything else he could do that would be useful, so he gave in to the dragging feeling he was having and laid himself out on top of the sleeping bag, stared up at the big piece of plastic.

It felt like, a little bit, in that moment, that he was being tortured. Silence and sameness all around, stuck in place, disliked and unwanted. Maybe he had really died in that clearing and this was a little woodsy hell, just for him. Or maybe he was still there, slowly dying, and all of this -- the camp, Shane, the things they'd done last night -- was just one of those vivid hallucinations people sometimes had when they started to die. He had seen something about that, a video he'd watched, the way the brain could simply invent--

He was startled from his thoughts by the feeling of a small, warm body settling next to his. He lifted his head to see Champ stretched out beside him on the sleeping bag, her wiry-furred back pressed against his thigh. He blinked down at her, surprised, absurdly pleased.

He had always loved dogs, but had never had the opportunity to have his own, had never napped with one. His father had always absolutely forbidden the idea, complaining that the last thing he needed was another mouth to feed, another creature in the house making messes and causing problems. Ilya had given up on it then, and with his life of constant travel now, he hadn't seriously considered it again. But this feeling of a small warm body seeking him out...

He wondered if Shane would say something, object. He had insisted, when Ilya had asked about it, that Champ was happy sleeping in her own bed, and anyway he often seemed irritated when Ilya gave her extra attention, like he was protective, like Ilya would mess up Shane's dog like he messed up so many other things.

But Shane didn't say anything, and Ilya let himself reach a hand down to pet Champ's head softly. She immediately rolled to her back, baring her belly, waiting, trusting. He stroked his fingers across the soft, delicate skin there, felt himself smiling a little even though his throat felt a bit tight. He wanted to roll to his side and clutch her in close, but he felt instinctively that he should not push too far, want too much; he might scare her off entirely. So he stayed there, one hand gently on her belly, closed his eyes and listened to whatever noise Shane was making as he began to do something with the bundle of sticks he had walked so far to find.

Maybe he wasn't in hell. Maybe he wasn't dead or dying. Maybe he just needed a dog, and a fucking nap.

Shane had slept two nights with Rozanov, but he had never seen him sleeping until that morning. The way they slept -- back to back, facing away -- meant that he'd had no view of Rozanov's face at rest.

Not that he was watching him sleep -- not this morning, when he'd woken up first and wriggled carefully free of the sleeping bag, not now while Rozanov was napping. He could just see him, if he glanced up from his work, could note the difference in the lines and contours of his face when it wasn't making some expression at him.

It looked softer, sleep-slack and fine-boned. Sort of vulnerable. Shane wasn't sure he liked it; it made his chest feel weird. But he did keep glancing up.

Probably it was related to whatever knot of feelings was caught in his stomach about... about everything. A night's sleep hadn't helped him untangle it. Neither had the long walk through the woods looking for willow boughs.

It was a bad idea. Let's forget it. I don't even like you.

Maybe he wished he hadn't said those things, but he couldn't exactly take them back. They were true, correct. Or at least, he thought they were.

But if he hadn't... he just wished... he hadn't even...

His gaze flicked over to Rozanov again, helplessly, landing on the width of his shoulders, the column of his throat, his big hand resting relaxed and easy on Champ's belly. He hadn't even gotten to see him properly, not in the light, hadn't done even close to everything he'd wanted, and instead he had opened his mouth and spit out words to push it all away, push away the feeling that he was the one being rejected, the hot pulse of angry shame that Rozanov apparently couldn't even stand the thought of touching him once it was over. He'd had to say something, couldn't linger in that ugly unbalanced simmer of feelings.

Maybe he regretted it, but he couldn't untangle it all, and maybe it didn't matter anyway if Rozanov didn't want...

Whatever. Stupid. He didn't have words and couldn't identify feelings and was sick of turning it over.

He was making a chair about it instead. Some kind of fucked-up peace offering, maybe. Something to do, anyway.

He'd made bushcraft chairs before; it wasn't a complicated process once you found the right kind of branches, the right mix of dry and green wood for stability and flex, then stripped them, cut them to size, lashed them firmly with tarred bank line in the A-frame formation, clove hitch knots for the main frame, stopper knots for the ends. Crossbeams next, secured with square lashings, and then the second A-frame was the same as the first, methodical cutting, joining, and lashing. He lost himself in it for a while, fiddled maybe too long over the slats for the seat and backrest, but the whole thing took less than an hour and a half. Rozanov slept the whole time.

Shane tested it out -- the last thing he wanted was to hand it over and have it collapse under Rozanov, maybe injuring him again. He thought they weighed about the same, so he sat without taking particular care, kind of flopping down the way he imagined Rozanov might, bounced and shifted around a bit to make sure everything was holding. It felt secure, he was pretty sure--

"What the fuck is that?" Rozanov said.

Shane startled, shot to his feet, took a steadying breath and looked over at Rozanov.

He was sitting up on the sleeping bag, sleep-squinty eyes peering over at the chair.

"Uh, it's a chair," Shane said, stupidly, because... obviously. But Rozanov had asked.

"Where did you get a chair in the middle of woods?" Rozanov asked. "You packed this, too, in giant backpack?"

Shane almost laughed. "No, I just made it."

Rozanov rolled to his feet, somehow graceful despite his injuries, hobbled a few steps closer to look at the chair. He nodded his head slowly.

"Of course, you make furniture, too. What is next? New jacket made from pine needles? Refrigerator out of dirt?"

Shane thought he could probably make a jacket from pine needles, but he wasn't sure anyone would want to wear it. He didn't think Rozanov really wanted answers to those questions, though.

"Well, I'm not sure it really classifies as furniture," Shane said. "It's just a bushcraft chair. It's not fancy or anything. But you can sit on it."

Rozanov nodded but made no move to sit down, so Shane tried again.

"I mean, go ahead, if you want."

"You want me to sit in the chair?" Rozanov asked, looking a little puzzled. "What, to test it, or...?"

"No, I mean... I tested it. It's all right, it'll hold."

"Okay, so?"

Shane wasn't sure where the disconnect was coming from in this conversation. Had he not said it right? Was this an English-to-Russian translation problem?

"So go ahead?" he tried.

Rozanov seemed as confused as Shane was. "I don't understand. Why do you want me to sit in your chair?"

Shane shook his head. "It's not my chair. It's your chair."

"Umm, no. I did not make it," Rozanov said, frowning.

"No, I know. I made it -- for you. It's for you."

Rozanov looked at him sharply, his head drawing back a little, something unreadable in his eyes. "You made a chair for me," he said at last, his voice flat.

"Yeah. I mean, because of your leg or whatever. It should be more comfortable than..." He gestured toward the fallen log. "And it can be in the water, so I figured, if the cold helps the injuries, we could bring it to the stream, and you could sit there, and, like, soak or something, without having to stand up."

Rozanov looked weird. His eyes were troubled, his lips pressed flat, his breathing a little off. It made Shane's stomach-knot of feelings ache a little.

"Will you just sit down?" he said, his tone coming out more demanding than he'd intended.

Rozanov looked at him narrow-eyed, but he sat, almost grandly, held his arms out, palms up. "Fine, I am sitting. Happy now?"

"Great," Shane shot back. What the fuck was he even doing? He felt the urge to stalk back into the woods, go looking for something else, anything to exit this fucked-up conversation which was not turning out like he'd... well, he hadn't hoped for anything, but this...

He huffed out a frustrated breath, turned to go -- somewhere. Rozanov's low voice stopped him.

"Hollander. Why did you make me a chair?"

Shane turned back, feeling like he was going crazy. He couldn't keep talking about this stupid fucking chair.

"Because -- your leg. I thought you needed something to--" he started, but Rozanov cut him off with a sharp motion of his hand.

"What do you care what I need?" His eyes looked dark, angry, and when he spoke again, he enunciated every word distinctly. "You don't. Even. Like me."

Shane stared. Swallowed. Had that really bothered him? Because why would Rozanov care if Shane liked him or not, when he was the one who had...

Anyway, it didn't matter. Shane had a hundred reasons to not like Rozanov, but he wasn't going to be getting into the exhaustive fucking list with the man himself. It was private, it was Shane's, he didn't talk to anyone about it, specifically not, never, this person.

But if Rozanov was going to... fucking hang on to it or whatever... then he had to say something. To end this conversation. To undo whatever mistake he'd made with the dumb chair idea.

"It's not that serious, okay?" he tried. "I just..." He took in a breath, suddenly inspired. "I'm a Metros fan."

"What?" Rozanov eyed him narrowly. Surprised. Skeptical.

"I root for the fucking Metros, okay? You're, like, the enemy."

"You are from Montreal?" Rozanov asked.

Shane shook his head. "No, I'm from Ottawa, but the Centaurs fucking suck. And my family's always been Metros fans. It's just... a thing."

"This is what you meant? Just... a hockey thing?" Rozanov said, watching Shane intently.

Shane felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny, the heaviness of all the things he wasn't saying like a looming shadow he had to shield behind the controlled stance of his body.

"Yeah, it's just a hockey thing."

Which... wasn't untrue, really, even if it wasn't nearly all the truth.

Rozanov sat back in the chair, folded his arms. Shane tried, really tried, not to notice the way it made Rozanov's biceps bulge, the way it drew his shirt tight over his shoulders, the way his big thighs splayed out as he leaned back. It still thumped into his bloodstream anyway.

"I understand this," Rozanov said after a moment. "Many people hate me because they choose to root for terrible teams."

Shane shook his head, a little scoffing breath escaping him.

Rozanov wasn't done, though. "But I don't think this is all you meant," he added, still looking at Shane with that intense glint in his eyes, like he could see through skin and bone to the cracked and bleeding casing around Shane's heart.

It made him feel panicky, weak with apprehension. "It's all I meant," he managed.

Rozanov shook his head, slow and sure. "You are a bad liar."

"I'm not lying," Shane said, hearing his voice go up in pitch, felt his heartbeat tripping higher, felt like throwing dirt in Rozanov's sharp eyes and running into the forest.

"I think--" Rozanov started, and Shane couldn't take another thing, couldn't stand another moment pinned in that gaze, didn't want to hear whatever came out of that mouth next.

He shut it up, the only way he could think of. He slung himself at Rozanov, straddled his broad thighs, pressed his weight into him, pressed his mouth into his.

The chair groaned in protest, Rozanov jerked in surprise, made a muffled, incomprehensible sound. Shane blocked out everything, didn't care if the chair collapsed under their joined weight, didn't care if Rozanov choked on his tongue, didn't care if the woods burst into sudden flames around them, as long as he didn't have to answer any more questions, or think about his tangle of feelings, or do anything but get them both lost in the only place where none of the rest of anything seemed to matter.

Ilya didn't want this.

No. That was not true. He wanted this -- Hollander pressing his heavy weight onto him, hot plush mouth on his, slight desperate noise in his throat that shot straight down Ilya's spine like a lightning bolt.

He didn't want it like this -- a ploy, a distraction. To hide something that was still very much nagging inside Ilya -- the words, the bitter look Shane had sliced at him, whatever was truly behind them. He was used to being hated by opposing teams' fans, delighted in it most of the time, knew the particular weight and feel of it, and that was not... whatever he had felt from Shane. Not personal, nothing that could slide under his skin and take root there.

But... now that it was happening, he could not bring himself to stop it. He felt a little sick inside, the something-wrong feeling of it pulling at his gut, but his hands clamped to Shane's hips automatically, dragged him in closer, and his mouth and tongue were heavily involved in the kiss before he could think of it. To be desired was not the same as to be liked, but he knew this, was familiar with its shape, contained within himself everything needed to be wanted and to be worthy of the wanting.

He leaned into it, licking into Shane's mouth, sucking at that pouting lower lip, shifting Shane's hips and adjusting his own position so that the simple press of contact became a slow, grinding, frictional slide. He listened to the sounds Shane made -- tight, gasping breaths here, shuddering little moans there -- read the flex and press of his body for signs, anticipated what Shane would like and made sure to be there providing it. All of this ran like a strategy in his mind, practiced, nearly polished, but it wasn't enough to drown out the edge of need building inside him. He didn't want to feel it -- so much simpler, easier to just run the mechanics until they could both get off -- but it was happening in spite of him, fingers reaching to drag hard over Shane's jaw, holding him in place so he could get more of him, deeper, longer.

Shane was tugging at Ilya's shirt, then lifting it, then shoving at it, nearly resentful, and Ilya pulled back and broke free to pull it over his head. Shane's hands fell on his chest immediately, stroking and squeezing, and his eyes were so wide and fascinated it lit something fierce inside Ilya. He had tried all day yesterday to make Shane look at him this way, but now that he had it, those eyes on him with such focused concentration in the bright sunlit day, he realized he had not been prepared for it. It made him hungry in a way he almost didn't recognize, that unswerving attention, the possessive clutch of Shane's hands, and he heard himself make a sound, a needy kind of groan, almost embarrassing, and he grabbed at the back of Shane's neck and brought him to his mouth again, where any further sounds would be swallowed in the lush, delicious hot wet slide of lips and tongue.

Frantic little noises were spilling out of Shane now, through every small gap where the seal of their kiss slid and broke, and he was jerking his hips, ragged impatient thrusts that stroked the ridge of his cock against Ilya's, hot, thrilling, but not nearly enough with layers of clothing between them. There was not a way, not enough space in this odd little triangle of a chair for everything Ilya wanted, but he plucked at the fastening of Shane's pants, tugged and shoved aside the barriers between them until he could get the hot slick hardness of Shane's cock in his hand.

Shane groaned, body arching into Ilya's hand, pulled his mouth free to rest his forehead against Ilya's shoulder, panting, looking down at Ilya's hand on him.

"This is what you wanted?" Ilya said, his voice coming out demanding, almost angry. "Want me to get you off, Hollander?"

"Fuck, Rozanov," was all Shane had time to moan before Ilya had his mouth again, couldn't resist it, drinking up Shane's shivery breaths, the jolt of his body as Ilya stroked him. Fuck, he was so... wanting it, undone by it, and wanting was not the same as liking but the way Shane wanted it...

It sent a surge of thumping need through Ilya's whole body, a ripple of gripping sensation so insistent he heard himself growl into Shane's mouth, had to pull his hand free to fumble and shove at his own shorts, had to grab and squeeze himself just for a fucking moment's relief. He broke free of the kiss, didn't want to but needed -- just to see, just to manage -- shifted his hips again, the back of the chair scraping along his spine as he maneuvered, licked at his hand mindlessly, got it stretched and clasped around them both.

"Fuck, fuck," Shane breathed, body lurching in reaction, mouth still pressed close to Ilya's, panting with him, his cock leaking steadily, making all the friction sliding between them slippery and messy and fuck Ilya was not going to take much longer, could feel the tight drawing up of his balls, the tense flex of his abs, it was too much, Shane making a long jagged moaning sound and thrusting roughly into Ilya's hand, against his bursting cock, and Ilya only had time to groan a filthy string of words into Shane's open mouth, come on me, let me see it, I want it, fucking do it and Shane went urgent, wild for two more thrusts and then stiffened, crying out loud, and the sound of it, the look of his face twisted in wrenching pleasure sent Ilya gasping, coming, throbbing with it, hand frantic pulling and drawing it out of them both.

He threw his head back, banging too hard against the rough point at the top of the chair frame, heaving for breath, clutching at Shane's back like a reflex, pulling him in tight and squeezing, rutting his hips against him as the pulsing feeling peaked and slowly descended.

Shane sagged against him for a long moment, head buried in Ilya's neck, his gulping breaths fanning over Ilya's chest, his whole body trembling a little like he'd overtaxed every muscle he had. For a while, that was all Ilya could register, Shane's shuddering body held tight to his own, and some feeling in the fading aftershocks of release like he'd earned something, won something, an almost vicious triumph rushing in his blood.

It faded, more quickly than he wanted, his head clearing and the white-noise hiss in his ears dissipating. Details began to emerge -- rough wood pressed and scraping on his back, prickling numbness in his thighs where Shane's weight pressed down, a drenching of come on his belly, Shane's shirt sticking wetly to it.

It emerged that he was clinging to Shane, arms cinched around his back, and Ilya dropped his hold, let his arms fall. Shane sat up slowly, almost dazedly, hands pushing against Ilya's shoulders for purchase or balance, resting there for a moment before he pushed again, pushed away, staggered to his feet.

He was still breathing hard, and Ilya breathed too, for a moment, rubbing at the tingles of his slowly waking thighs, head back and eyes half-shut, watching Shane. Was that fine, he wanted to ask, wanted to press against the bruise of it, but he felt... reluctant, somehow, to stir it up again, whatever had happened last night. He did not want to go back to that place now, on the other side of this.

Shane was looking down at his soaked shirt, frowning a little. "That's... two shirts... I've got to wash now," he said, like a complaint, still panting. "I didn't... bring enough clothes for this."

It almost made Ilya laugh, that this was his concern. Instead he made his own complaint, a small risk that he didn’t really let himself consider. "Then take your fucking clothes off next time, let me see you for once."

That brought Shane's eyes to his, and something passed over his face -- hungry, almost hopeful -- there and gone in a flash, but Ilya was watching closely, and it made his jaw clench, almost made him want to surge up and grab him again, but... he was injured. Spent. Covered in come.

But. Okay. Truce, maybe. If he could trade that look for the dark one last night, whatever it had been, maybe he could let it be.

He heaved himself forward, standing on shaky legs, knee throbbing. "Come on. We can go to the stream, get clean, wash shirts."

"We should bring the chair so you can soak," Shane said, almost absently, back to plucking his wet shirt away from his skin. "I can't believe it didn't break."

Ilya nodded at him. "Yes yes, you made a good chair. Don't brag about it."

It might be, now, his favorite chair. But he didn't say that out loud.

By the time Shane reached the stream, Rozanov's half-naked body draped over his own half-naked body (he'd taken the shirt off, the wet stickiness of it was unendurable), dragging the still-somehow-assembled chair, keeping an eye on Champ so she didn't get lost, he was done thinking about it.

Yeah, there could be a next time.

Maybe it was a little fucked up, having sex with someone who depended on you, even with their enthusiastic consent. Definitely it was fucked up when that person was Ilya fucking Rozanov, and the dark and complicated feelings you had attached to that person were sort of eating away at your insides.

But, just... whatever. He wasn't strong enough to resist it, was tired of the circling swoop of his own thoughts that never led to any resolution he could stick to.

He would just turn it off. His brain. His doubts. He was, after all, used to carefully not thinking about certain things. Especially where Rozanov was concerned.

So after he'd gotten Rozanov settled at the edge of the stream, he pulled off his boots and socks and kicked off his pants and... and just had one fucking deep breath and then shucked off his underwear and walked into the cold water, dragging the chair with him. Rozanov could look if he wanted to see him, and probably it was the icy temperature of the water making him shiver a little, not the idea of that.

He got the chair settled, dug into the streambed where the water would reach Rozanov's chest when he sat in it, ankle, knee, and ribs all submerged. Then he sloshed back toward the shore to retrieve the soap he'd left in one of the pockets of his pants. Rozanov was still on the grass, leaned back on his hands, shoulders and arms looking insanely huge, eyes half-lidded but watchful, tracking. Shane could feel himself flushing -- cheeks, ears, neck going hot -- but he couldn't do anything about that.

"Aren't you getting in?" he asked.

Rozanov made a humming sound. "I am busy right now."

Shane scoffed. "Busy being a pervert, you mean?"

"Is not perverted to look at you when I have already sucked your dick," Rozanov pointed out, popping his eyebrows.

Shane's face got hotter. He was pretty sure the water was too cold for any other part of his body to react.

He kept his expression very neutral. "You need help getting in?" he asked, holding out a hand, just a gesture; he wasn't near enough to touch.

Rozanov grinned his wolfish grin. "Yes, come closer. I need help."

Shane came closer. Reached out his arm. Waited for Rozanov to grab it, for his own hand to lock around Rozanov's forearm. Then he yanked, pivoted, watched in delight as Rozanov pitched sideways into the water and submerged, arms and legs waving in reflex.

Rozanov burst up out of the water, curls drenched and flattened. "Fucking asshole," he breathed, pushing himself up, gasping a little from the cold shock.

"What?" Shane asked innocently, fighting a smile. "You wanted help getting in, now you're in. You're welcome."

"And my clothes are wet," Rozanov complained, half-standing to pluck at the soaked basketball shorts dragging low on his hips. "You want me naked so bad you have to ruin my outfit? You could just ask, Hollander." He aimed a splash Shane's way.

"Those shorts needed a wash anyway," Shane pointed out, ducking away from the splash. "They've got oatmeal on them. I don't even want to know how you managed that."

"They have come on them, too," Rozanov said. "And I think you know how that happened."

Shane squinted, put on a thinking face. "No, can't think... did something happen? Nothing memorable comes to mind."

Rozanov lunged at him, one arm locking across Shane's chest as he dove, dragging Shane backward into the water. Shane struggled briefly, lost his footing on the slick streambed, fell on his ass, the cold water heaving up to his neck, Rozanov half on top of him, grinning gleeful like a child.

"Fuck off," Shane said, spluttering, shoving at him half-heartedly. "You want both of us injured? How am I going to drag your ass around if I can't walk?"

Rozanov's hands moved to clutch at Shane's waist under the water, thumbs rubbing over his skin almost absently. "We will make... what did you call it? Drag contraption. Champ will pull us through woods like reindeer."

Shane couldn't help laughing a little. "Like reindeer? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Like for Santa," he said, lifting one hand to make a you know kind of gesture. "Americans are obsessed with Santa and his reindeer, you know this."

"I'm Canadian," Shane pointed out.

Rozanov rolled his eyes. "I think even Canadians believe in Santa."

"Not Canadians over the age of eight," Shane said, finally shoving two hundred pounds of ridiculous hockey player off of him. "Go sit in your chair and soak, I didn't drag it all the way here like one of Santa's reindeer for you to ignore it."

Rozanov groaned in protest, but he pulled himself through the water with his hands, twisted to rest against the chair. "Good thing chair is in water. Probably had come on it, too."

"Stop talking about come," Shane said, aiming for grumpiness.

"Stop coming everywhere, and I will."

Shane felt himself blush again. "Stop making me, then," he shot back, not really thinking through the implications.

But Rozanov just laughed and kicked water at him. "I don't think is what you want."

There was no arguing with that, he guessed. He pushed himself up to his feet and sloshed back over to the bank of the stream, where he'd left the small pile of clothes to wash -- Rozanov's T-shirt, the shirt Shane had just been wearing, then, on further consideration, everything else he'd just been wearing. He had to take a minute to empty everything out of the pockets of his cargo pants, a process Rozanov seemed to be watching with interest.

Shane braced himself for whatever remark Rozanov was going to make about the sheer number of items Shane had to free from the pockets, but when he did speak, Rozanov didn't mention any of that at all.

"Your knee," he said, voice a little low, more serious than before. "What happened?"

Shane swallowed. He'd been so generally flustered about being naked in front of Rozanov that he hadn't considered this specific part of being naked. Of course it was noticeable. The scars were ugly, still thick even after years, not as faded as the doctors had promised. Not that it mattered; the look of it was not what bothered him.

"Uh, sports injury," he said, because he didn't know what else would account for it. "Long time ago."

But it was the wrong thing to say, because a quick glance told him Rozanov's eyes had lit with interest. "You played a sport? What did you play?"

Think of a sport, Shane told himself sternly. Any sport. Not hockey. Another sport. ANY other sport. Just think of one. Just SAY A SPORT, fuck.

"Uh, swimming," was what came out of his mouth. Which was fucking idiotic. Did swimmers even get injuries like his? How could you get hurt in the water? More relevant was that he knew absolutely fuck-all about competitive swimming. He knew how to swim, and that was about it.

And Rozanov looked ever more interested. "Ah, my friend Sveta was a swimmer, when we were younger. Backstroke specialist. I went to so many of those meets. What was your event?"

He had the impulse to say backstroke, because that was suddenly the only swimming stroke he could think of, but that seemed too obvious of a lie. He'd watched the Olympics before, for fuck's sake, he could think of other swimming things.

"Uh, just a lot of different ones, I guess." God, he really was a bad liar.

"How did the injury happen?" the apparently super fucking curious Rozanov asked.

"Long story," Shane said, waving a hand and casting about for any distraction. He finished emptying his pockets and dragged all the clothes into the water. "You want to give me your pants and stuff? I can wash them."

That did serve as an effective distraction, in that Rozanov got involved with leering at him as he stripped off his shorts and underwear, flinging them in Shane's direction. Gradually, as Shane soaped and scrubbed and rinsed and spread the various items out on the grass to dry, his heart rate returned to normal. Near miss, though. He should probably avoid the subject of hockey entirely. And remember to pretend to know about swimming, in case it came up again.

He used the soap on himself, tossed it to Rozanov, who insisted on making a big show of washing himself suggestively, which was... also an effective distraction. A few minutes later, Shane found himself spread out on the grass like the laundry, Rozanov half on top of him, sucking on his neck and squeezing at various parts of his body. Most particularly his ass, which, now that he had seen it, Rozanov seemed to have a particular interest in. Shane... could relate.

"Your pants with one million pockets are a very effective disguise," Rozanov said, disapproval clear in his tone.

"Once again, I was out here by myself," Shane said, only panting a little. "No one was looking at my ass."

"Does not matter," Rozanov grumbled. "Ass like this should always be showcased. On principle."

He gave it another squeeze and slid his fingertips a little into the cleft. It made Shane jolt, and Rozanov groaned.

"I want this ass, Hollander," he said, right into Shane's neck. The words, the sound buzzed up into Shane's brain and made him feel dizzy, made his dick twitch.

Rozanov slid his hand over to it and gave it a few lazy strokes, like that would help his argument, which... okay.

"You will let me?" Rozanov asked, biting at the crease where neck met shoulder. Everything inside Shane felt hot and melting, his dick leaking at the attention of Rozanov's hand.

"Uh, fuck," he managed, half-breathless, mind spinning up a new series of images that made it difficult to remember words. "I don't, uh. I don't... have anything."

Rozanov groaned again, pressed his face into Shane's neck. "Shane, whole giant backpack, not one bottle of lube? What the fuck?"

"I was out here alone," Shane reminded him. Again.

He felt Rozanov's heartfelt sigh gust across his chest. "You bring extra toothbrush, knee brace, probably white noise machine for fake nature sounds while in nature, but fail to think of essentials. And I suppose no condoms, either."

Shane inhaled sharply, remembering. "Well... actually."

Rozanov lifted his head to look at him. "Actually? You brought condoms? For your trip alone in the woods? Hmm, who is the pervert now?"

"Shut up," Shane said. "They can be useful for a lot of things."

Rozanov was eyeing him very skeptically, so Shane felt obliged to elaborate.

"Seriously! You can carry water in them, or use them for first aid, or... lots of things. It's pretty standard to have some in a pack."

Rozanov raised an eyebrow. "Hmm, I think you are one of those people who uses them for jerking off because is less messy, yes?"

Shane blew out a breath. "Fuck off, just sometimes. Anyway, I think I might have, like, three?"

Rozanov collapsed again. "Three? That is all? Fuck."

"Better than nothing," Shane said, feeling defensive.

"Yes, I am not complaining," Rozanov said into Shane's chest. "And there must be something in nature to use for lube. You are Mr. Woodsman, think of something. What can we do? I don't know -- crush up mushrooms? What?"

"I don't know," Shane said, laughing a little despite the many distracting sensations happening in his body. "I've never... they didn't cover this in bushcraft training."

Rozanov chuckled low. "They should have. Bushcraft."

"Oh my god," Shane said, rolling his eyes.

"You will figure it out," Rozanov said, sounding resolute. "You are so capable, Regular Shane. And I will give you blowjob for inspiration."

And Shane figured... that was worth a try.

Ilya had not thought the woods could get any more boring, but Shane Hollander had found a way.

"This numbered dial is called the bezel, and that's what you're going to use to set your bearing," Shane was saying.

Or something like that. Ilya was finding it difficult to concentrate because it was so flatly uninteresting, and also because Shane had produced from the magic backpack a pair of reading glasses, and he was wearing them and looking very serious and speaking very earnestly about the clear plastic compass he was holding. He looked a little like a no-nonsense high school math teacher, which should not have been sexy to anyone but was in fact awakening in Ilya some sort of previously undiscovered hot-for-math-teacher kink.

Maybe it was to do with the fact that ever since he had learned of the existence of the three condoms, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about them. His urge to rifle through Shane's backpack (literally and metaphorically) had never been stronger.

But Shane seemed to feel no urgency about that topic, or about the making-lube-from-nature problem, and had instead firmly decided that the best use of the afternoon ahead of them would involve Ilya learning some basic navigation skills so that he wouldn't get lost again. Ilya had tried dissuading him from this idea, pointing out that he had no intention of leaving the campsite for any reason except to follow Shane somewhere, even when he was able to walk more than a few steps on his own. (Soon, maybe, he hoped? The soak in cold water had seemed to help a little.)

Still, Shane had insisted, had brought out the glasses and the compass and a pen and some paper, had started efficiently clearing a flat section of dirt near the fire and spreading out the paper to sketch out a map with sure, confident strokes of the pen. And unfortunately for Ilya, something about Shane's shift into competence mode had rendered him temporarily unable to argue effectively.

So he was sitting patiently, back on the dead log because the chair was still quite wet from being in the stream, and pretending to listen while he admired the glasses and the competent hands, and simultaneously tried to surreptitiously convince Champ, with little motions of his hands, to climb into his lap.

"So, now that you know all that, how would you start?" Shane said.

Ilya sniffed, focused his eyes on the map Shane had drawn. He had not realized there would be a quiz.

"Ah, I am not sure I understood it all. My English," he added with a shrug. "Maybe explain again?"

Shane looked annoyed. "Your English is fine, you've been in the U.S. for seven years. You just weren't listening."

"Oh, I see, you have been following my career very closely," Ilya teased, as a diversion. "You know my draft ranking, my plus-minus rating, my shooting percentage every season..."

He waited for Shane to tell him to fuck off, maybe was teasing with that intention, because he had discovered it was fun to see Shane pretend to be grumpy when he was, perhaps, a little amused.

But the look Shane sent him seemed genuinely angry, a flash of condemnation in it. It was not the dark and bitter slicing glare of last night, but... maybe a cousin to it. Ilya sucked in a little air, felt a bit unsteady, felt the instability of his own situation.

He had liked it, the way they had been in the water, roughhousing and playful. Shane had even laughed a little, though it had seemed pulled out of him a bit unwillingly. Still, it had been lighter, easier, and Ilya had had the feeling that they had maybe moved past something or reached some better understanding. Now he felt back to uncertainty, like he was always on the verge of unexpectedly making Shane angry for reasons he could not quite discern.

Was it hockey talk that made him upset? Maybe he was really that rabid of a Metros fan.

Or maybe he just cared very deeply about navigation.

"Sorry," Ilya said, holding his hands up, pacifying. "I will listen better."

He did try to pay more attention, then, as Shane explained about true north and orienteering lines and reading the bearing. Ilya got a little lost in the part about declination, which made him feel that he would like to decline to learn any more about it. There was a little rhyme about "red in the shed," which he did like, and he dutifully practiced folding the map that Shane had drawn, holding his thumb as instructed in the correct place to mark his location, which Shane said was called "map contact" instead of something simple like the "you are here" of a shopping center kiosk display.

"It's like an anchor," Shane tried to explain. "So you don't lose your place, you always know where you are."

Ilya nodded, like he agreed. But inside, privately, he knew that none of this explanation was necessary. Because he felt very sure that, map or compass or thumb correctly placed or not, he would never be able to navigate his way out of these woods on his own.

Still, he agreed to try using the compass, mostly because that involved walking around and that involved wrapping himself around Shane's body in the way Ilya found ever-increasingly enjoyable. He was not, in the usual way of things, a fan of relying on assistance just to move his fucking body around, but there was something a little warming about letting himself sink into the sturdy support of Shane's shoulders, letting himself be turned and directed and bolstered up. Even if he did have to listen to long explanations about sightlines and correct orientation position to get to enjoy it.

After a while, though, when his brain felt spilling over with information he did not ever plan to use, he tried another diversion. He was a little apprehensive about it, given how his last attempt had gone. He did not want to provoke another irate look from those pretty, dark eyes, so he made sure it was not about hockey and was not too transparently not about compasses.

"Why do you know all this?" he asked, still leaning his weight onto Shane. His knee and ankle were complaining, but he didn't want to sit yet. He liked being up-close to Shane's face, where he could look at his glasses and study his freckles in detail. "This is your job?"

Shane looked at him briefly, seemed to register how close their faces were, looked down at the compass again. "Uh, no. I work for Parks Canada."

Ilya shook his head. "Parks... like, swingset and slides?"

"No, like, national parks. Wilderness areas and stuff."

Ilya lifted his free hand to gesture around them. "So... like this."

Shane huffed a little, nodded. "Well, kind of, yes, but I don't do this. I have an office job. In the city."

"So why do you know every detail of compass and map? Why did you learn this?"

"I just like it."

Ilya waited for more, but he was learning quickly that Shane was not one to offer detailed explanations unless they involved boring things Ilya did not particularly care to know. He wasn't sure why he particularly cared to know this, beyond its simple use as a diversion. Why he wanted to press for it. But he did it anyway.

"But why?" he prompted.

Shane looked at him again, a flick of a glance behind the glasses, not quite readable, but at least not dark or angry this time. Still, Ilya wasn't sure he would answer. Finally, Shane sighed.

"Just... listen," he said.

Ilya was listening, with interest, even, but Shane didn't say any more. Instead he lifted his hand and gestured loosely at the air around them.

Oh. Yes. This. Stillness. Occasional noise of bird or small creature. Small sighing of wind through trees. Not silence or emptiness, exactly, but still some deep echo of... of nothing, no one, vast unconcerned hush. It made Ilya feel shivery, a bit, exposed and unanchored. Shane liked this?

"You have to listen out here," Shane said. "You have to get your mind quiet so you can hear, and that's..."

He didn't finish the sentence, and Ilya wondered if that was all he would say.

Then, after a long moment, he added, "Being out here, it just makes me feel like... nothing matters." He said it quiet and low, and that, too, made Ilya feel shivery. He had, many times in his life, felt that nothing mattered, and he had never enjoyed the feeling. But Shane's face was different now, relaxed and easy and open in a way Ilya had not seen before.

It made him feel... something. Too many things, maybe, anxious and comforted and puzzled and apprehending all at once, rolled into some sensation he could not recognize.

What he knew was that he did not belong here, was hopelessly out of place and out of his depth. But Shane...

Sure and sturdy Regular Shane. He knew things. He was not intimidated by the remote, uncaring vastness. He could master it with his tools and his capability and his steadiness. And Ilya knew that whether he wanted to be or not, Shane was Ilya's compass, his bearing, his map contact. He would rather press his thumb to Shane's navel, or his dick, or his freckles, knew that this would serve him better than a useless piece of paper he could barely understand.

Shane looked back at him, eyes searching behind the glasses, and Ilya thought of kissing him, was maybe always a little bit thinking of kissing him now, and Shane's eyes dropped and Ilya wondered if maybe it was the same for him.

Then Shane said, "I think you got a little sunburned," frowning, and his voice was not carrying the tone that Ilya was beginning to learn meant he wanted it.

Ilya sighed, let Shane walk him back over to the log and lower him down to sit on it, tried to resign himself to more compass talk.

But Shane was heading to the backpack. "I have some aloe vera gel for that," he said over his shoulder as he went.

Ilya looked up, inhaling sharply. "You have aloe vera gel?" he asked, and he did not know what was in Shane's mind, but there was only one thought in Ilya's, namely: Lube problem solved?

Shane's steps slowed, stopped. He swung his head around to look at Ilya, eyes widening.

"I have a whole bottle," he said.

And there. That. That was the voice Ilya wanted to hear.

Shane had not adopted Champ because he thought she was cute (she was, but in a weird and wiry way), or because he needed a dog (he really had not), or because he thought she would improve his life (his life was fine, he did not need anything, he was handling it). He had adopted her because she had no other takers, and because she had no apparent sense of smell or direction, and because she had been in the animal shelter (that he hadn't even meant to go to) for so long that she had a distinct air about her of having given up. He could relate.

So he had adopted her, and he had given her a strong name to hearten her up, and he had learned to love her quirks and her habits and the little ripples of difference she had made in his life and in his heart. But at the moment, the thing he loved most about her was her calm and incurious nature that made her alarmingly oblivious to various dangers but could also render her entirely unaware of things happening that she really should not be witness to.

Right now, for example, she was stretched out and snoring near the fallen log and so not at all conscious of the fact that Shane was laid out on his stomach naked on the sleeping bag or that Rozanov had his face pressed to Shane's ass and was licking into it like he was starving. Shane, after this fleeting notion of Champ-related gratitude, was not able to hold on to any other thoughts, too busy gripping at the sleeping bag and trying not to come just from this.

"Rozanov, you gotta stop," he managed to gasp out. "If you want..."

Rozanov pulled his head back, panting a little. "Oh I want, believe me."

Shane let his forehead thump onto the sleeping bag, tried to get his breathing back into working order as he listened to Rozanov scrabbling around for the aloe vera bottle. He felt another flash of gratitude, this time for the gel that he had packed for burns -- water-based, alcohol-free, perfect, thank god -- and for the fact that he'd noticed Rozanov's slight sunburn, which had reminded him of the existence of the gel. Then Rozanov was pressing two slick fingertips to Shane's rim, and he lost the ability to think again.

Rozanov's brain was still working, though, because he stopped, muttered something that sounded like "bad angle," and patted at Shane's hip.

"Turn over, on your back," he said.

Shane, grateful again, now for the clear instruction, pitched his body over in a hasty pivot onto his back. Rozanov was on him right away, hitching Shane's legs apart, mouthing at his chest, fingers sliding down and pressing in. Shane was immediately gone again, making an embarrassing shuddering moan about the hot thrilling intrusion, hips lifting pathetically to get more. He didn't really care, couldn't stop anyway even if he did. He had a moment to wonder, fast, bewildered, why it had to feel this good, why it had to be Rozanov who made it this good, and then Rozanov curled his fingers up and tapped, electrifying perfect pressure against his prostate, and Shane bucked and squirmed, his body alive with sensation and howling for more.

"Just do it, now, it's fine, come on," he panted, grabbing at Rozanov's shoulders, trying to haul him over, get him to line up, but Rozanov leaned his bulk into Shane and wouldn't move, had the nerve to chuckle a little.

"We have three condoms only, you think I will waste one with rushing?" he said, fingers moving almost leisurely inside, like he was not dying for it the way Shane felt dying for it.

The injustice of it burned in Shane's chest, and he wished for one fervent moment that he had the ability to be casual, tried to resolve to relax and be cool, but then Rozanov stroked forward again and made everything light up inside him, and he gave up, couldn't help it, let himself twist and whimper even though he could feel Rozanov's eyes on him, his piercing attention, like he was making a scientific study of Shane's body and the sounds he made and whatever was happening to his face, and it was half-humiliating but fuck if it wasn't also so blindingly hot Shane could hardly bear it.

It went on for so long Shane thought he actually might die, Rozanov backing off every time he seemed to sense Shane was close to some edge, then driving back in again with more fingers, more pressure, more intensity, just when Shane thought maybe he was getting a grip, unpredictably stroking or licking his cock to make him gasp and jolt. It was torture, obviously, and Shane told himself that Rozanov was some kind of sadist who happened to work with pleasure instead of pain, though that did not explain why Shane was enjoying it so fucking much.

Finally, when Shane was almost teary with roaring hot sensations and terrible wanting and needing and not quite getting, Rozanov withdrew his hand, smacked a wet kiss at his chest, and patted at him again.

"Up now, need you on top, can't be on my knee," he said, and he at least had the decency to sound a little wrecked about it all.

Shane was almost disoriented to be asked to do anything after the long onslaught of just feeling and coping with it all, but he scrambled up fast so Rozanov could roll over and slide under him, and then Rozanov had the lack of decency to laugh a little about his haste.

"Someone is eager," he said, grinning as Shane essentially flung a leg over to straddle him.

"Oh please fuck off," Shane groaned, even as he trapped Rozanov under him so firmly he couldn't have moved away if he'd tried.

"Didn't even let me get condom on," Rozanov pointed out, and for a wild second Shane felt like spitting out who cares, whatever, just do it, but he pulled himself together with effort and gritted out, "I'll do it, fuck" and looked around for wherever the condom had ended up.

He found it shuffled in amidst the pine boughs, leaned over to snatch it up along with the aloe bottle, but before he could even straighten up again Rozanov got a slick hand on Shane's dick and started stroking lazily. It made Shane freeze, his whole body locking up half leaned-over as he focused hard on not coming on the spot.

"Fuck, stop," he said, voice strangled, and Rozanov, infuriating fucker, chuckled again.

"Cannot help myself, you are so easy," he said, in what sounded like a tone of admiration.

Shane was still mad about it, but he was too blindingly turned on to bitch about it, concentrated instead on getting his own body out of the way so he could get the condom on Rozanov, an act that only served to remind him how big Rozanov's cock was, fuck, and the look of it, the feel of it under his hand as he slicked lube over the condom almost made him feel faint with need and hot anticipation.

He must have made a sound about it, because Rozanov grabbed his arms and dragged him up, staring at his mouth, thumbing roughly at his lower lip, murmuring something in Russian, and Shane didn't know what it meant and he didn't care, he just couldn't wait anymore.

"Please can we just --" and he rocked his hips against Rozanov, and Rozanov said, "Yes, fuck, yes," and he reached down to hold himself, held on to Shane's hip and guided him down and...

"Oh fuck, oh fuck," Shane heard himself say, helplessly, eyes squeezed shut and body clenching in waves, overpowering stretch and fullness, Rozanov gripping at his hips and holding him up, muttering slow, go slow, easy easy but Shane didn't want slow, didn't want any more of Rozanov's infuriating gentle extended patience, didn't want easy, he wanted hard and now, and he shoved Rozanov's hands off and sank down.

"What the fuck, Shane," Rozanov groaned, and Shane just had the mental capacity to note with sharp satisfaction how fucking ruined Rozanov looked, eyes slammed shut and mouth twisting in pleasure, felt a dizzying sense of triumph about it, and again when Rozanov jerked his hips, bucking up sharply like he couldn't stop himself.

He couldn't focus on it for long, everything in him telling him to move, to chase the feeling and the pace and the angle he needed until he was breathless with it, head swimming and body tightening and hot exhilarating pressure building until he felt blind, mindless with it, rolling his hips, grasping at Rozanov's shoulders and shoving himself down, Rozanov's panting grunts ringing in his ears, Rozanov's hands tight, rough, grabbing at his hips, and then he felt Rozanov go still and straining under him, pressing upward hard, and Shane pushed himself back and leaned into it and got a hand on his own dick for one two three frantic strokes and he burst over, pulsing, wailing, filled and spilling and almost weeping with the joy of hot release.

Rozanov grabbed at his neck, yanked him down while he was still coming, the last hot jets of it squeezed between them as Rozanov kissed him, sucked at his tongue, bit at his mouth, and Shane felt like he was nothing but his lit-up body, every nerve ending sparking with thumping satisfaction, aching relief, delicious grinding flood of pleasure.

Fuck. What the fuck.

He had to breathe, tore his mouth away, pushed up on shaky arms and let his head hang just to pant for a few moments, Rozanov gasping underneath him, still touching him, hands running over his back and sides, squeezing and gripping at random places.

When Shane finally felt like he could move, he did it in one burst, pushing himself away with hands and knees until Rozanov was out of him, rolled over, fell onto his back on the carpet of pine boughs, still breathing hard, body still tingling and thudding all over.

Rozanov was flattened as well, arms stretched up over his head, chest rising and sinking with his quick breaths.

"I take it back, Hollander," he said after a while, voice low and spent. "I love your sleeping bag."

"Glad you're enjoying it," Shane said, shifting uncomfortably against the prickling pine needles beneath him.

"I am," Rozanov said with a deep, satisfied sigh. "I am enjoying the wilderness much more than I expected."

"You're hilarious," Shane said, aiming for cutting sarcasm but landing on something softer, somehow. It was just kind of difficult to be annoyed with someone after... all that.

They dragged themselves back to life, slowly, Rozanov using his discarded shirt to wipe things up a little, Shane complaining because he'd have to wash it, Rozanov throwing the now-damp shirt at his face, Shane dodging it just in time. They used one of Shane's little trash bags to dispose of the condom, and Rozanov looked at it a little sadly and said, "Only two left," with an almost mournful tone, and Shane wanted to make fun of him for it, but found he also was feeling a pinch of regret.

They got half-dressed and made dinner, Rozanov sneaking probably a third of his portion to Champ in a way that Shane tolerated with only a little rolling of his eyes. He could feel himself trying to reset inside, to get back to some normal state, to recall his long-held bitter dislike and figure out how to square it with why he felt so fucking good every time Rozanov touched him. He kept looking over at Rozanov, as if reminding himself about his face would bring all the righteous anger back, but it didn't really work. The mouth of that face, the eyes of that face, had just been so... on him. And it didn't help that Rozanov was grinning at Champ all the time and murmuring Russian to her in sweet tones, like he was just some person who was soft and nice and cared about dogs, like he wasn't an arrogant asshole who'd gotten everything Shane had ever wanted and had shrugged about it like it was nothing.

Whatever. It was a good trick, and Shane knew he shouldn't fall for it. This was probably how Rozanov was always getting all those women to fall into bed with him. Besides the obvious, well, way he looked and all.

He tried to push it all out of his mind, since thinking about it wasn't helping anyway, and when they were getting ready for bed Rozanov said, "Let's make a deal, no one gets weird about sleeping tonight," and Shane, feeling too drained and distracted to argue, just nodded.

Since they had to reassemble the pine bough bedding anyway, they ended up trying a new configuration for the sleeping setup, layering some clothes from the backpack over the branches so they could just use the spread-out sleeping bag as a cover. Shane wasn't sure about it -- he knew heat loss to the ground was a real concern -- but it wasn't so cold out that he thought they'd freeze or anything. They could try it for one night, anyway, and it was more comfortable to have a little more room, to lie down side-by-side instead of pressed back-to-back.

But once they were lying there, he couldn't seem to even think about sleep. His mind kept circling, trying to reconcile things, pressing on the question of who is this fucking guy like a loose tooth he couldn't stop poking at with his tongue.

"What was your draft day like?" he found himself asking, abruptly into the dark.

Stupid fucking question. He'd told himself to avoid the subject of hockey, since every time it came up he could feel all his own badly buried issues trying to claw their way out into the open air. And what was the point of it?

It was like he wanted to hurt himself, like the pain of hearing about Rozanov's triumph would cauterize closed some bleeding thing inside him. So fucking dumb. It was just... he had dreamed, fantasized, wished and worked for his own version of that day for so long, and he hadn't gotten it and Rozanov had, and it felt like... like Rozanov owed him some accounting of it. So he would know for sure what exactly he'd missed out on.

Even though he knew it was going to hurt.

Rozanov didn't answer, and Shane thought for a minute maybe he'd fallen asleep, but in this new sleeping position he could actually look over at him, and when he did, he could see Rozanov's eyes were open, a faint gleam from the banked fire reflecting there.

"It was... great," Rozanov said at last, lifting his fingers in some kind of gesture, then dropping them again. "First pick. What I wanted."

That... wasn't enough.

"But like, how did it feel?" Shane asked.

Rozanov flicked a glance over at him in the dark. "Why are you asking?"

Shane looked away, up at the tarp overhead. "I don't know. I'm just curious. Seems like it would be a pretty big deal."

Rozanov blew out a long, slow breath, and then he shifted, rolled over onto his side, braced his head on his propped-up hand. It was his injured side, and he winced a little about it, but he didn't move, just looked at Shane with an expression Shane couldn't read in the darkness.

"Sometimes," Rozanov began slowly, almost carefully, "I think maybe when I talk about hockey, or if you think about my hockey, you get... a little upset. And we agreed no drama for sleeping tonight."

Shane's breath caught a little in his chest, his face going hot. "What? No I don't. I'm not upset."

"Is okay," Rozanov said lightly. "If you are big Metros fan like you said. I just think, maybe is not a good topic."

Rozanov was right, Shane knew it, and he should have left it there, should have dropped it, but now on top of everything else he felt exposed, caught out, and the feeling rankled under his skin.

"Oh, so now you're in charge of what I can talk about?" Shane said, hearing the throb of anger, defensiveness in his tone.

Rozanov sighed and flopped back down on his back. "See? Now you are upset."

"I'm not upset," Shane said, sitting up on his elbows, so annoyed he couldn't even make his voice sound not-upset, even though he knew that was the right play. "I'm just fucking curious, all right?"

"Shane," Rozanov said, his voice low, like a warning.

But Shane couldn't stop himself. The feeling that he deserved this was burning in him, like Rozanov not telling him was the same as Shane not getting to have it in the first place.

"It's not a big deal, I just want to know. It just seems like it would be a really important, special day in your life, and most people don't get to have days like that in their lives, and I just wondered. That's all. It doesn't seem like a big fucking deal for you to just tell me."

Rozanov sat up all the way, looked down at him angrily. "Fine, you want to know? I was happy, because I would get to play in the U.S., get the fuck out of Russia, get away from my family. I was uncomfortable, because everyone wanted me to talk into microphones and my English was not so good. And then my fucking father told my coach to watch out because I would be lazy, and that felt like shit. Okay? Happy? That's what you wanted?"

Shane stared at him, completely blank and frozen inside. He couldn't... he couldn't think of anything at all to say.

Rozanov flopped back down, muttering in Russian, rolled over to his other side so Shane was looking at the back of him after all.

Shane tried to breathe, his heart thumping wildly in his chest like he'd been sprinting. That was... that was not what he had wanted. That was not the story he had imagined at all, and it didn't provide the burn of satisfying pain he'd stupidly wanted, it didn't fix anything. If anything it made it worse, because now he felt like the asshole, and that wasn't fair, he hadn't known any of that, how could he have known?

But he'd asked, he'd had to ask, and now he felt more jumbled than ever, alongside a new gut-churning sense of being wrong that made him feel faintly sick inside.

He should apologize, probably. He didn't think he could. Apologize to Rozanov? That was like, a fucking hare apologizing to a wolverine because it wasn't tasty enough to eat.

But he had to say something. "I didn't mean," he started, not even sure where he was going, but Rozanov cut him off before he could figure it out.

"Fuck off, Hollander," he said, voice dark and cold.

There wasn't anywhere to fuck off to, though, so Shane just went silent instead. It was a long, long time before he was able to sleep.

The next morning was... awkward.

They moved through it without touching, without making eye contact, only speaking when it was absolutely necessary.

Shane knew it was on him to apologize. He'd caused the whole thing the night before, so that was the way it had to work, he understood the social rules.

But he just... couldn't. Couldn't bring himself to do it, found that instead of apologetic words, what was trapped and crowded behind his teeth was the stupid but insistent urge to ask Rozanov what it had been like to win the Cup. He knew that was idiotic, but he still felt it, felt that surely that memory wouldn't be a bad one like the draft day story, so maybe he could ask, knew he shouldn't ask, didn't trust himself to open his mouth in any case because he really wasn't sure what was going to come out.

So after breakfast, he decided to just get out of camp for a while, give himself some space and time. Maybe when he got back he'd have things more arranged in his head.

Rozanov was petting Champ a little listlessly, quiet, sitting on the fallen log, even though the chair was right there and it was dry now, no reason he couldn't be sitting on it, but it wasn't like Shane was going to bring it up.

"I'm going to be gone for a little while," he said instead, turning his head in Rozanov's direction but not really looking at him. "Gonna gather some stuff," he added, lifting the foraging bag attached to his belt, though he wasn't sure why. Not like Rozanov cared what he did, especially when it came to survival skills. Yesterday he'd thought he might have to get naked to keep Rozanov's attention on the navigation lesson.

Although, to be fair, that probably wouldn't have helped either of them concentrate.

Even now, even just quickly glancing at Rozanov, he couldn't help noticing how fucking good he looked. Always, apparently, even after days in the woods, curls all disarranged from sleep, scruff of beard growing out. Somehow he just looked hotter than ever, and if Shane could've kept his own mouth shut and his mind under control, he could've just enjoyed all that, but no, the buzzing misalignment of his feelings about Rozanov wouldn't let him fucking relax about it.

Rozanov lifted a hand, a "whatever" kind of gesture. "I am not your keeper, Hollander," he said, stopping just short of an eye roll. "I don't need to know."

And yeah. That. That was why he couldn't relax about it. Because Rozanov could be sort of okay and funny and maybe unexpectedly attentive about sex, but there was part of him that was an asshole, and Shane knew he hadn't been wrong about that.

"It's called being polite, Rozanov," Shane said. "Maybe you should look into it."

Rozanov's eyebrows went up, and he nodded, eyes tightening. "Oh? You give lessons in this, too? Tell me, where in your class does it tell about how polite it is to ask people invasive fucking questions, huh?"

Shane felt the slap of it, the rising burn of defensive anger inside, tried to breathe through it. Fuck it, this was why he was trying to leave in the first place. He shook his head.

"Come on, Champ," he said, beckoning to her instead of looking at Rozanov. "Let's go."

And Champ... hesitated. She stood up, looked at Shane, the person who had rescued her, the person who took care of her every single day, the person who was, right now, inviting her to run around in the woods -- her favorite fucking thing -- and then she looked at Rozanov. Like she was torn.

Rozanov, of course, grinned about it. "Ah, looks like someone has a new favorite person."

Shane knew he shouldn't take the bait, but he already knew he wasn't in control of his mouth at the moment.

"She fucking doesn't. It's just because you give her food all the time."

"I don't have any food now," Rozanov said, shrugging. "And yet..."

"Champ, come here," Shane said, more firmly, his temper flaring when she just stood there.

Rozanov laughed, and it burned under Shane's skin like a fever.

"Maybe," Rozanov said, eyes gleaming with a little spite, "if I ever get out of these fucking woods, I will take her with me. Maybe she would be happier."

It felt, unreasonably, like a spike in his chest, and for a horrifying moment Shane felt a little well of tears trying to press up out of his eyes, and he was not going to fucking have that, so he shoved down his feelings and sharpened his mind and stalked over to his backpack.

"You know what?" he said over his shoulder as he dug out the paper and pen he'd used yesterday. "Let me fucking help you."

He flipped the paper over to the unused side and started marking out lines, bearing, direction with crisp strokes. He already had it all in his head to reasonable accuracy, so why the fuck not? When he was done, he marched over to Rozanov and held out the paper.

"Here. Since you're such a huge fucking deal, call your people and tell them to come find you. This is how I'll get to the boat pickup, so if they reverse it, maybe they can get close enough to where you are. It's gonna be a huge fucking pain in the ass for them, but they're probably used to that with you. And better them than me."

Rozanov didn't take the paper, just stared up at him, eyes stormy, jaw working. Finally, Shane threw it at his feet and turned away.

"Let's go, Champ," he said, with enough force that the little dog listened, finally, came trotting after him.

His mind and his gut churned as he stalked through the woods, barely remembering to make mental notes about his path and keep track of the way back to camp. Whatever. He probably wouldn't even need it, would probably be able to just follow the sounds of the emergency airlift Rozanov was going to call in with all his fucking fame and money.

Shane hadn't even wanted the money, particularly, hadn't cared about the fame. He'd just wanted to play, but no, it all went to the guy who just wanted to use hockey as a way to cash checks and get laid. Rozanov probably didn't even care about the game at all.

He stopped, huffed out a long, ragged breath, crashed backward to lean against a tree, buried his face in his hands.

Fuck. He knew that wasn't true. He had, unfortunately, seen Rozanov play, a lot. Nobody was that good if they didn't love it at least a little bit. And he'd said... whatever. That thing about wanting to get away from Russia and his family, the thing about his dad. So... probably hockey wasn't just about money and sex for him.

God, he felt like his stomach was nothing but knots. He knew he was being a dick, knew it was his own messed-up resentment eating away at him inside, knew that it...

It wasn't Rozanov's fault.

That was it, really. The thing he didn't want to look at. Rozanov was a lucky fucker, yes. But maybe not in every way. And anyway, his luck hadn't canceled out Shane's, hadn't caused the fucking unlucky thing that had happened to him.

He knew that. He had always known that. It was just easier when he could kind of believe it anyway.

But Rozanov, it turned out, was... a person. Maybe, okay, sometimes kind of an asshole. He was allowed to be. Shane certainly hadn't been at his best the last few days. Or the last few... years, maybe.

He dropped his hands, lifted his head, looked up at the trees and the sky overhead. Then he closed his eyes and breathed for a few minutes, listening to the quiet that always steadied him, made him remember that he was a small, small part of the world, which meant his problems were small, too.

It was very still. No helicopter on the way just yet, then. Which meant he still had time to apologize, to say the things he should've said to Rozanov last night, or at least this morning. It didn't matter, he guessed, since Rozanov was leaving and they would never see each other again, but it would be the right thing to do anyway.

It was very still, he realized, head dropping down as he frowned. Because there should have been at least noises of...

Oh fuck, where was Champ?

He straightened up, pushing off the tree, heart beginning to thump in his chest. He scanned the area around him, turning in a complete circle -- nothing.

"Champ!" he shouted, although she wasn't really very reliable about responding to her name. Nothing. No sign of her.

He started moving, back the way he'd come, crashing through the undergrowth, looking behind every tree, still calling for her, his heart banging around in his chest and his pulse racing in a way he hadn't felt in a long time.

"Champ!" he hollered again, or tried to. It came out a little strangled, because his throat was tight. His lungs were tight, he realized with a straining gasp.

Oh fuck, on top of everything, it was... fuck, no. Happening again.

He had to stop, brace his hands on his knees and wheeze. No, fuck, not what he needed right now. He hadn't had a panic attack in years, not since... everything, because what was there to panic about when he'd already lost it all? That was what he'd thought. But now this horrible familiar choking fear rising up was...

No, no. He would not. It was fine, he was fine, he would find her, she wasn't gone, she was here somewhere, he just had to keep--

He pushed himself upright again as a realization hit him, started moving even while his head felt dizzy, reeling from lack of air. She'd gone back to camp, probably -- she'd wanted to stay there anyway. He should've just let her, fuck. Why had he gotten into a dumb fucking argument about it when he should've just--

Never mind. He would go now, retrace his steps, look everywhere along the way, but it was okay, she would be there when he got there, he was sure, he was sure, he was sure.

God, he really wanted to be sure.

Ilya did not pick up the piece of paper. He did not go to the backpack to find the satellite phone.

At the moment, he could not do anything but sit on the dead log and think about one question: What the fuck was Shane Hollander's fucking problem?

He had been a bit gruff, a little irritable from the moment he had found Ilya in the clearing, but Ilya had excused it. Ilya, after all, was the problem, the idiot causing the situation, and he had done his best to be so polite, respectful, appreciative, had figured, okay, well, this man is easily annoyed, maybe a bit uptight, maybe not so good with people. Explains why he's out in the woods by himself. And Ilya could not afford to be choosy about who rescued him, anyway.

But then, sometimes, Shane could be funny, a little bratty, sort of playful. Sometimes he was stern, all about business, kind of bossy. Sometimes -- sex times -- he was so hot and so fucking gone for it, it made Ilya want to fuck him every different way he could think of just to see what he would be like.

And sometimes he was angry, suddenly angry, a landmine buried deep, and Ilya never knew when he would step in the wrong place. And then last night, so weird and insistent, pushing at Ilya with his fucking questions and his indignation until Ilya had spilled out things he hadn't meant to say, and it was just...

Fuck. Whatever. He didn't have to figure it out.

Whatever else Hollander was, he was right -- if there was any way Ilya could leave, he should leave. As soon as fucking possible.

He snatched up the paper off the ground and tried to make sense of it, tried to remember what Hollander had told him about maps and navigation, but his mind was a heave of feelings that didn't want to focus, and anyway he wasn't sure how he would ever translate the scratchings on this paper well enough to be able to tell someone over a phone what it meant, how to find him.

And would they, even? If he paid enough, maybe. Otherwise, who would work so hard to find him? His parents were dead, his fucking brother was not an option, of course. His team didn't need him any time soon, they wouldn't care. Even Sveta was back in Russia for the summer; what could she do from there?

It was not a surprise to him, this feeling of being so... alone in the world. He knew the facts of his own life. He just didn't think about it very much. He was not often confronted with it in this way. But ever since he had come on this cursed fucking trip, the reality of it was always flinging itself in his face.

All the more reason to get the fuck home.

So, he would pay. He would pay his manager extra to manage it, pay whatever it cost to hire whoever could--

He heard the sound of thudding footsteps, fast, coming through the trees, and he looked up sharply. It could only be Shane -- there was no one else fucking here -- but it sounded... why would he...

Shane burst through the line of trees, eyes wild, looking all around the camp, and then he stopped short, leaned over to clutch at his knees, gasping for air, his face all creased-up and crumpled.

What the fuck.

"Hollander, what is happening?" Ilya said, standing up fast, wincing at the tenderness in his knee and ankle. "Is something chasing you, what the fuck?"

Abruptly he remembered the adventure camping guide saying something about bears, like what to do if there were bears, and if there were bears at that camp, probably there were bears at this one, and why hadn't he listened about the bears, and why didn't Shane know what to do about bears because surely running from them was not--

"Champ," Shane said, still panting for air, his voice sounding strange and strangled. "Is she here?"

Ilya, adrenaline pumping from the possible bears, bewildered by the question, looked around, as if she might be sitting at his feet and he hadn't noticed. "What? No. Why would she..."

Shane collapsed further, into a crouch, wheezed out a single word: "Fuck."

Ilya felt anger beginning to boil up inside him. "Hollander, you lost Champ? Champ is lost in woods? You fucking --"

"I lost her, fuck," Shane gasped out, still with the strained, rasping voice, grabbing his head with both hands. "Have to watch her, all the time, I know that, she gets--" a little pause to pant out two quick breaths "--she gets lost outside my fucking apartment, but I didn't -- fuck, fuck."

Ilya stared. This was a Shane he had not yet seen.

He struggled with a brief war of impulses, emotions. This Shane was clearly distraught, and Ilya needed to do something about that, but also he was angry at Shane already and now more angry because if something happened to Champ...

He shook his head, began to limp over to Shane. "Okay, okay," he said, trying to inject some calm into his voice, crouching down with a wince for his injured leg as he reached him. He placed one hand cautiously on Shane's back, patted at him a little.

"Okay, is okay. Listen. We will find her."

"I looked," Shane croaked out, breath heaving. "I looked... everywhere... on the way. I thought she might... come back here, but... fuck."

Shane's breathing seemed too heavy to be from running, should've been slowing down by now, but if anything it seemed worse, more ragged. Panicking, maybe.

Ilya had seen it before, occasionally. Rookies, sometimes, before their first game. He knew some ways to help, breathing techniques, things like that, but they took a while to work, and there wasn't really time for that if Champ was out there alone. His chest pinched, thinking of his own harrowing ordeal, thinking of Champ feeling afraid.

They needed to go, find her. Right now. And Shane needed a sharp distraction.

He gave Shane's back a final decisive pat. "Okay. I will go. I will find her."

Shane dropped his hands from his head, looked up, face already pinching into confusion. "What? No, you can't--"

"I will go," Ilya repeated, starting to limp toward the treeline where Shane had burst out of it. "You wait here."

"What the fuck?" Shane said, straightening up to stand. "Rozanov, stop. You can't just walk into the woods, you don't know what you're doing. And you can't even walk."

Ilya kept moving but glanced back. Ah, good. Shane looked annoyed now, his face a little flushed, his breathing evening out.

"I can walk," he argued. "Look, I am walking. Does not hurt."

It hurt like a motherfucker. He tried not to let it show.

"Will you just--" Shane hurried after him, caught up easily. "Go sit down."

"No," Ilya said, limping continuously.

"You're just going to slow me down. I can go faster without you."

His voice didn't even sound strained now. He was back to being some more familiar version of himself -- maybe halfway between Stern Shane and Angry Shane, and that was fine. Anything was better than the Incapacitated-With-Panic Shane that had made Ilya's stomach feel weird and hollow.

"You already tried fast, yes?" Ilya said. "So, we try slow. We look, and we listen, like you said."

Shane, walking stiffly beside him, shook his head. "What do you mean, like I said?"

"Yesterday, you said, in the woods you have to listen. Get a quiet mind and listen. So we will do that. And we will find her. Is how you found me, yes? Listening?"

He wished he felt as confident as he was trying to sound. He was just saying things, anything he could think of, to help Shane feel calm and to push down his own worry for Champ. In truth, he was nervous about leaving the camp -- the only place in the vast woods he had begun to feel halfway comfortable or safe. He didn't want to get lost again, didn't want to make his leg worse when it was only just beginning to heal. Did not want to encounter any fucking bears.

But Shane had stopped panicking, and if he would stop protesting, they could go together. Less scary that way.

Shane was looking at him with a strange expression on his face, but after a moment, he nodded.

"Okay. Yeah. We can... we can try that," he said.

Ilya waved an arm, motioning for Shane to take the lead, since Ilya certainly did not know where the fuck he was going, and Shane nodded again and set out.

They walked slowly, spreading out a little but always within sight of each other. Quiet steps, looking around every tree, combing through the thickest clumps of undergrowth, calling out Champ's name and stopping to listen for any response. Ilya's heart was thumping in his ears, but he strained to listen, tried to quiet his own fears -- for Champ, for being out in the tangled dimness of the woods, for the increasingly bleak look on Shane's face every time Ilya glanced over. His leg throbbed with every step, but he pressed his mouth closed against any sound of pain, kept going.

"Champ!" Ilya called, again, stopped to listen, and then--

A little sound, so quiet, but... metallic. Little jingling sound.

His eyes shot to Shane's, and Shane was looking back at him, eyes wide with the first sign of hope.

Shane moved in the direction of the sound, and Ilya followed, both of them calling for Champ now and then, listening for that faint jingle of her collar, a little louder every time. Then, abruptly, Shane made a noise -- a ragged little cry of relief -- and dropped to the ground, laid flat out on his stomach, and reached.

Ilya got there a moment later, looked down to see some sort of burrowed-out hole in the ground, and there, at the bottom of it, curled up and comfortable and blinking up at them calmly, was Champ.

Ilya felt everything in his body -- shoulders neck arms lungs -- drop in relief, and Shane was scrabbling his arms down into the hole and clutching at Champ with both hands, pulling her up, dragging her into his body, rolling onto his back and hugging her to his chest.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry." He repeated it over and over as Champ licked contentedly at his face.

Ilya watched, leaning against a tree, feeling his throat getting tight and looking for some way to make it normal again.

"Wow," he said, folding his arms. "Two rescues in one week. Will have to call you Hero Shane now."

Shane blew out a pained breath. "Shut the fuck up, I'm not a fucking hero, I'm the one who lost her."

"And found her. And she is fine. Is all okay now."

Shane sat up, still cradling Champ against his chest, closed his eyes and took a few steadying breaths.

"I wouldn't have found her without you," he said, opening his eyes to look up at Ilya. "I was... freaking out. Like, locked up. I wouldn't have been able to..." He broke off, shook his head.

"You would," Ilya said, shrugging, uncomfortable. "You would have worked it out. Is not..." Now he was the one who couldn't finish his sentence.

They stayed like that for a few moments, quiet, everything too awkwardly sincere and emotional for talking, and then Shane made it worse.

"I'm sorry," he said in a gust of breath. "About last night, I shouldn't have... I'm sorry about a lot of things. I've been..."

"No, is okay," Ilya said, shaking his head. He couldn't bear this, could not handle this heartfelt kind of apology now, not on top of everything from today already choking in his throat -- anger and feeling alone in the world and worry for Champ and worry for Shane. It was piling up on him, crushing his chest, making him feel unaccountably shaky.

"No, it's not," Shane said, firmly, resolute. "I wanted to say it, even before..." he clutched at Champ to indicate what he meant. "I've been acting like a dick, and it's not your fault, and I'm sorry."

Ilya shook his head again. "No, I was... I made you mad, before. If I hadn't, maybe you wouldn't have lost her in the first place."

"What?" Shane said, incredulous. "No. It's not your fault. That was all me. And listen, if you want to... do the whole thing, call in your people, I mean, if you haven't already. I'll help. I'll talk to them, try to make sure they can find you."

Ilya sniffed, let out a quiet little ragged gasp of a breath. Tried to steady himself. Tried to shrug.

"Well, I think... would be very expensive. Helicopter. Rescue team. I am rich, but. Not made of money."

Shane nodded, looked serious. "Yeah. I mean, it would probably cost a lot. Helicopters are... not cheap."

"Yes. And, also... my leg is still hurt, so."

Shane scowled at that, scrambling up to his feet, tucking Champ under one arm. "I knew it was hurting, you asshole. Jesus, we walked like a mile, you're such an idiot. Come here."

He got his free arm around Ilya's waist, pulled him in to lean on his shoulder, and Ilya felt...

Well. That he had never been called an asshole and an idiot with such unbearably tender concern.

By the time they got back to camp, checked Champ for any hidden injuries, lavished her with attention and treats, and got her settled, she seemed to have forgotten the whole thing had even happened.

Rozanov had not. He was looking around at the camp, eyes flicking over its boundaries like he was searching for hidden dangers.

"This is not safe," he said, leaning forward in his chair, hands clasped between his knees. "We need security system for Champ."

It was... a little endearing, maybe. Now that the drama of his own stupid fucking mistake was over and Shane felt calmer, he wasn't concerned for Champ's safety, but it was sort of touching that Rozanov was.

"It's okay, she'll be fine," he said, trying to sound reassuring.

But Rozanov's eyes were wide, kind of intense. "Shane, we cannot watch her every second. She could wander off."

"She doesn't wander off," Shane said, shaking his head. "It's just when you take her with you somewhere, you have to watch her because she gets lost. But as long as we're in camp, she won't go anywhere."

This was one of Champ's quirks that he knew well. She wasn't curious, not at all inclined to go off investigating. She just had a startling lack of awareness of her surroundings that apparently extended to an inability to detect abandoned animal burrows in the ground that she was about to fall into.

Rozanov was not convinced. "You don't know that. We can't risk that she gets lost again. Or what if there are bears, if they come into camp?"

"If a bear comes into camp, we have bigger problems than just Champ. But I have bear spray, and a bear horn, it'll be all right."

Rozanov huffed out a breath. "I hate the outdoors," he muttered. Then, "And a bear could eat Champ in one bite. She needs... armor. Bear-proof armor."

Shane laughed. "Well, sorry, I didn't pack a little suit of armor for my dog."

"Is not funny," Rozanov said darkly. "At the very least we need to know she cannot accidentally leave camp and we don't notice."

"Well, what do you want to do? I'm not going to, like, tie her up."

Rozanov drew his head back, looking repulsed at the idea. "Of course not. You think I would chain her like... like circus elephant?"

"I don't know what you would do, but I'm telling you, it's okay. She will be fine."

Rozanov snapped his fingers, like he'd had a flash of genius. "If she had something on her collar, we would hear if she moves around. Like a... warning bell. You have this?"

Shane held up both hands, at a loss. "No?"

"We can find something. Let me look in backpack."

It was sweet and all, but Shane could feel himself starting to get annoyed. "Rozanov. Get a grip. It's fine."

"Hollander, this is important," Rozanov shot back. "She is your dog, you have to protect her, take care of her."

Shane felt a flare of anger. For Ilya fucking Rozanov to tell him that he didn't--

He stopped himself, took a breath. Right. He wasn't doing that anymore. Rozanov was a person. A concerned person. Not a symbol, not a scapegoat for him to dump his feelings on. He could do this, could realign it in his head. Okay.

He went over to the chair, put a hand on Rozanov's shoulder, looked at him seriously. "Hey. Listen. I promise, it's okay. She's going to be fine, we don't need to do anything extra."

Rozanov shifted back so that Shane's hand fell away, folded his arms. Looked disgruntled. "You don't know that."

Shane pushed down his irritation again, tried to think. Had an idea. "Okay. How about this? I'll make you a deal."

"What kind of deal?" Rozanov asked, looking up at him with narrowed eyes.

"I'll consider the 'warning bell' idea, if you... learn to make a fire."

Rozanov groaned, leaned over dramatically in his chair like the idea made him want to fold in on himself. "Hollander, I don't need to know this. We already have a fire, you are obsessed with not letting it go out all the way."

"Because it's a pain in the ass to restart. But it's something you should know how to do if you're going to be out in the wild."

"I am not here voluntarily," Rozanov pointed out. "And once I leave, I will never return. I do not need fire-making skills."

He was... probably right. There was no real reason he had to know, to learn it. Shane wasn't sure why he even wanted to teach him, or why he'd felt so insistent about the navigation lesson the day before. There was just something... a little itchy about it, under his skin. The idea of Rozanov being so unequipped. Shane had just found himself thinking, now and then, about how Rozanov had been lost, alone, no way to... to do things, deal with things. How, if Shane hadn't happened to find him, he might very well have...

He shook his head. He didn't totally understand it. He just knew he felt... strongly about it.

He tried a different approach. "Well, if you don't think you can do it," he said with a shrug.

Like he'd hoped, Rozanov's expression darkened. "I could do it," he said, scoffing. "Cannot be difficult, cavemen figured it out. I just don't need to. Is stupid."

Shane nodded, lifted a shoulder. "It can be pretty tricky. It's okay, if you don't feel up to it."

Rozanov looked at him flatly. "I am not an idiot, Shane. You think, whatever is called, reverse... mind trick will work on me?"

Shane smiled at him. "I don't know what you're talking about. Besides, come on -- I know you think it's boring out here. What else have you got to do?"

Rozanov's eyes got a little gleam, flicked up and down Shane's body. His eyebrows popped a little. "I can think of things to do. Not boring at all."

Shane kept smiling, although he felt his skin flash suddenly hot. "Hmm... no idea what you mean," he said.

Rozanov looked at him, eyes keen, ran his tongue along his lower lip thoughtfully. "Okay. I will make fire. And when I do, I want... reward."

The words jolted in Shane's gut, a sharp clench of excitement. "What do you mean? The deal is, if you do it, we can talk about the thing with Champ's collar."

"No, is bad deal," Rozanov said, shaking his head. "That is serious security concern being dealt with, which you are too stubborn to do otherwise. That is not reward for me."

Shane had no idea why this idea was so fucking hot; it wasn't like he wasn't already intending to... do stuff with Rozanov again. But something about it being on the line, a challenge, a reward... it made his throat feel dry and his skin feel tight.

"What... did you have in mind?"

Rozanov smiled a little, tipped his head. "I think you know."

Shane shrugged, drawing it out. "Could be anything, I guess. Extra oatmeal? Maybe a footstool to go with your chair?"

"Ah, Mr. Comedian," Rozanov said, nodding a little. He sat forward in his chair, regarded Shane seriously. "I was thinking more... that hot fucking mouth on my dick."

Shane swallowed, heart rate kicking up crazily. "Oh. Yeah, I guess we could... do that."

And suddenly he was extremely, completely extra-invested in helping Rozanov learn how to make a fire.

Ilya was genuinely beginning to wonder if there was something deficient about his brain. So much idiot behavior in the last few days, and this was just one more example of it.

He was fairly confident now that he could talk Shane into sucking his dick anytime he wanted without much effort -- as long as Shane wasn't angry with him, which presumably could happen at any time, but didn't seem to be happening at the moment. And yet, he had made it into a stupid fucking challenge that meant he had to perform laborious tasks to get what he wanted. He had already proved himself to be useless with outdoors things, and this would surely be no different. He would figure it out, eventually, because he was determined and incentivized, but certainly he would fuck it up in a million ways first, and it was going to be very irritating.

And, now that he'd brought up the reward and seen the hungry little flare in Shane's eyes, the tight swallow of his throat, it was all Ilya could think about, but he very annoyingly had to try to keep his mind instead on learning boring skills he didn't even want to know about.

But... Shane had seemed so intent on teaching him to do it. Like he would be all smiling and happy if Ilya just gave in and learned it. Or whatever. Ilya supposed he would just go along with it. To be polite to his host.

His host was currently bustling around, gathering materials, while Ilya sat on the ground where Shane had indicated, stretching out his injured leg and watching Champ to be sure she didn't leave the camp. She didn't seem in danger of leaving; she was asleep near the shelter with all four of her paws in the air. But still. Vigilance.

"Okay," Shane said, dropping down to sit on the ground nearby, setting a pile of items in front of him. "So, let me just explain what everything is, and then we'll go over how it works, and then you can try it."

Ilya sighed. "Fine," he said, tucking his uninjured leg up toward his body so he could lean in. "I have to spin little stick in my hands until it bursts into flame, like in movies?"

Shane laughed a little. "Oh, no way, I wouldn't make you do that. Hand drills are insane, that's only for real emergencies, if you don't have anything else. Even a bow drill could take all afternoon. This won't be that hard. We've got tools."

He held up what looked like a tube of metal. "This is a ferro rod. Technically a ferrocerium rod, because it's made from iron -- and I don't know if you know this, but the Latin for iron is ferrum, so that's the ferro part -- but it's also mixed with cerium, which is this rare-earth metal that's very pyrophoric -- and that just means that it catches on fire really easily--"

He stopped, perhaps noting the continuous widening of Ilya's eyes. Cleared his throat.

"Actually, that doesn't really matter. This is a... firestarter, let's say. Basically, you're going to scrape it, and it's going to make sparks."

"Okay," Ilya said, trying to forget everything Shane had said previously, because if he tried to remember Latin terms on top of English, he was never getting through this.

After that, Shane mostly stuck to visual demonstration, showing Ilya how to make an airy little nest of flammable materials, how to hold the firestarter tube thing, how to use the back of a knife to scrape along its length. He did this by pantomime, apparently not wanting to strike any real sparks in case it gave Ilya an unfair head start, which made Ilya roll his eyes. Shane was, unsurprisingly, a stickler for the rules of their challenge.

Once Shane seemed confident he had given Ilya every explanation he could possibly want (or more, Ilya thought privately), he handed over the materials and sat back to watch.

Dutifully, Ilya began to assemble his own little bird nest of whatever Shane had brought, some bark scrapings and... he couldn't remember what else. He looked at Shane when he felt done, hoping for clues, but Shane merely shrugged, leaving him on his own. He was smiling, though, looking kind of cutely satisfied with himself, so Ilya took that as a positive sign.

He poked the end of the firestarter into the nest, gripped it by the handle at the top, and brought the straight edge of the knife-back to rest against the rod, near the top. He glanced again at Shane in case he'd already messed something up, but Shane didn't intervene, just watched carefully, so Ilya proceeded. Remembering his misadventures with the oatmeal, he thought -- careful, slow -- and dragged the knife down with aching deliberateness.

Nothing happened. Well, a few little flecks of dark material scattered down onto the nest, but no sparks. He looked up at Shane.

Yes, something wrong there, he could see it in Shane's eyes. He looked torn, like he was holding himself back from intervening with difficulty, like a person who could hardly bear to watch someone do something all wrong. Ilya could relate, a little. It was how he felt watching inferior hockey players on the ice.

"Is that how I did it?" Shane asked, quietly, like he couldn't stop himself from giving some direction.

Ilya thought back, remembered the motion Shane had demonstrated. He settled the knife at the top of the rod again, went faster this time, just a quick, short scrape. A flare of a spark or two did jump off this time, and his heart thumped, watching the little nest to see if it would catch on fire. It didn't.

He sighed. "You know, you are missing prime flirting opportunity," he told Shane, with maybe some small hope he could distract him from the whole endeavor.

Shane frowned, looked a little intrigued. "Oh yeah? How so?"

"When you are teaching someone to do something, like with hands," Ilya explained, "you come around behind them, wrap your arms around them, hold their hands with your hands. Is obvious. You never saw pottery movie?"

"What pottery movie?" Shane looked very confused.

"Like, with the people, doing pottery, sitting like that."

Shane scrunched up his nose in thought. Kind of cute. "Do you mean Ghost? That's not even what was happening there."

"Whatever, is still good technique. You are not even trying."

Shane laughed a little. "Well, no offense, but I'm not sure I need it. It kind of seems like maybe you're a sure thing."

Ilya sat back, huffed. "Oh, you take me for granted?"

"Well, I am kind of your only option at the moment," Shane said, and he looked... a little brightly happy about it. It made something burn in Ilya's chest, a surge of some feeling that made it hard to remember, for a moment, any other option he had ever had.

For just a moment. He looked down at the fire materials again, tried to re-focus. He chipped fruitlessly at the firestarter again, his mind not really one hundred percent on the task.

"The thing about a ferro rod," Shane said then, apparently unable to resist giving more input, "is that the size of it makes a difference. The more surface area you have to work with -- and that means both length and, uh, well I guess 'girth' is the right term? -- the more sparks you can make."

Ilya sat back, looking at Shane flatly. "So what you are telling me is that size matters, and longer and girthier is better, for this rod, that you use instead drilling?" He clicked his tongue. "I should not be surprised. Bushcraft is so dirty."

Shane rolled his eyes, but he looked like he was trying not to smile. "Just give it one long stroke down. I mean -- you know what I mean. Shut up."

Ilya chuckled but did as instructed, resetting the knife and pulling it down with a long, not-too-slow movement. A little shower of sparks rained down this time, and he watched avidly, with more tension than he expected, as one little area of the nest began to burn. He leaned in and blew on it gently, like Shane had told him, and with a sudden rush, the whole bundle of the nest swooshed into a dancing flame.

He looked up at Shane, felt himself smiling, felt a surprising little thrill in his chest. It was nothing -- he had used a tool correctly, whatever -- but he felt absurdly like celebrating. Fleetingly, he remembered his teammates hooting over the fire they'd made back at the adventure camp, his own scorn about it. Perhaps he had been... kind of an asshole, on reflection.

"Feather sticks, feather sticks," Shane was urging, reminding, though he was smiling, too.

Ilya grabbed at the little pile of curling wood shavings, held one just over the flames until it caught, dropped it, repeated the process a few times until he had a real, if small, blaze occurring in front of him.

"That's it," Shane said, clapping his hands together in a pleased way. He stood up, carefully picked up the now-very-much-burning nest of materials and dropped it into the main fire. Then he turned to Ilya with a little gleam in his eye.

"Not so bad, right?" he said. "Learning new things can be fun."

Ilya leaned back on his hands, smiling back at him. "Rewards can also be fun," he said, watching Shane's eyes sharpen on him in a way that made Ilya's body tighten deliciously.

But he held up a hand. "First -- security system. We must protect Champ."

And Shane sighed, but he had no choice. Ilya had won.

It was kind of hilarious to Shane that Rozanov thought he had won. That he was strutting around the camp gloating about it like he'd pulled one over on Shane or shown him up somehow. Meanwhile Shane had managed to teach Rozanov how to start a fire, just like he'd wanted, and he'd had the singular experience of watching Rozanov's face transform from frowning irritation to almost gleeful satisfaction when he'd succeeded. It had been surprisingly... affecting, somehow.

Anyway. As for the reward... well, it wasn't like Shane was going to complain about that.

True, he'd had to give in on the Champ thing, which was frankly a little silly and certainly unnecessary, but it wasn't hurting Champ or anything. And if it made Rozanov relax about it all, it was probably worth it. Shane had done a little mental inventory of his backpack and had dug out a few spare carabiners, which Rozanov had attached to Champ's collar in a jingling chain. They made plenty of noise when Champ moved around, but it didn't seem to bother her, and Rozanov seemed satisfied with it as an early-warning system to detect Champ trying to steal out of camp, which she definitely was not going to do, but whatever.

Rozanov was sitting in his chair, sprawled out grandly like a king on a throne, watching Champ jingle around with a smug smile on his face.

"I am a genius. An inventor. Everyone should have this for their dog," he said. Humbly.

Shane was letting him run with it. "Yes, you have a dizzying intellect."

Rozanov shot a look at him. "Okay, Hollander. I can quote movies, too. I am king of the world or whatever."

Shane huffed a laugh, stepped toward him, a sparking feeling beginning to prickle under his skin. "You still got the Ghost thing wrong."

"Hmm, I was right in spirit," Rozanov said.

"In spirit," Shane said, smiling. "Nice ghost pun." He took another step closer, felt a little flush of heat rising up his neck.

"This is fun," Rozanov said, eyes glinting. "But. I think we are forgetting something important."

Shane moved in again, almost close enough to touch, slotting himself just at the edge of the space between Rozanov's spread knees. He pretended to consider. "I don't think so. I was just about to start lunch -- is that what you were thinking of?"

Rozanov grinned, lifted a shoulder. "In a way."

They held there for a moment, eyes on each other, both of them still kind of smiling, and it felt... sort of weird. Good, light, a buzzing anticipation spreading warm all through his body, but... different. Shane swallowed, let his eyes drop down to the strong column of Rozanov's throat, the bulk of his shoulders, the broad planes of his chest. Still the same, magnetically beautiful, mouth-wateringly hot, and he could have all of that under his hands and his mouth, and the idea of it burned inside him, again, the way it... did. But.

This was the first time he was going to touch, really touch Rozanov without feeling like he was fighting off the grudge he'd held against him, and that didn't really matter, maybe, because it had never really had anything to do with the sex part, or it shouldn't have. But it still felt kind of... new. To think, here is a person, he likes my dog, he makes me laugh, he built a fire for the first time, and not... Ilya fucking Rozanov, with that I-wish-I-could-resist-this kind of bruise underneath it. He didn't want to resist it, now. He just... wanted it. Simple. Clear. And still as fucking undeniable as ever.

He sank down to his knees, sliding his hands up Rozanov's thighs, looked up at him, body already thumping with hot desire.

Rozanov's eyes were on him, intent, breath a little quickened. He reached a hand out, stroked his thumb over Shane's jaw, fingers sliding back to grasp his neck.

"You are okay?" he asked, low, quiet. "Your knee?"

It almost made Shane flinch, the careful concern about... a thing he still didn't want to talk about, or think about. A thing he'd lied about. He shook it off fast before Rozanov could ask more about it, before he had to fucking... make some stupid shit up about swimming or something.

"It's fine," he said, and pressed his face between Rozanov's legs so he wouldn't be thinking at all anymore.

Rozanov pulled in a quick breath as Shane mouthed at the hard length of him through the fabric of his shorts, his hands falling into Shane's hair, stroking through it, with a soft mutter of words Shane didn't understand. Shane felt crowded with sensations already, the feel of Rozanov's fucking thick cock so close, almost but not quite in his reach, sharply gratifying but teasingly held back. He couldn't stand it for long, reached up to grab at his waistband and tug, Rozanov shifting with a grunt to help him.

Shane sat back for just a moment once the clothes were out of his way, staring, half-mesmerized, felt himself move in without thought, licked along the side of it, dragged his lips along the length, Rozanov hissing above him, clutching again at his hair. He looked up then, met Rozanov's tight, burning gaze, opened his mouth and dropped his tongue and sank around the tip, watched the way Rozanov's face furrowed in reaction--

A jingling noise broke his concentration, and, hardly registering he was doing it, Shane pulled back, turned to look. Rozanov's head turned at the same moment.

It was Champ, flipping over from her back to her belly, her chain of carabiners clinking as she moved.

"Fuck," Rozanov muttered above him, and Shane shook his head, shook off the distraction. Sank back down, mouth sliding lower, hands on Rozanov's thighs, squeezing. Rozanov was groaning immediately, head falling back against the chair, a hand on Shane's dropped jaw, fingers stroking loosely. Shane took him deeper, moaning at the fullness of his mouth, slicking his tongue against the underside in slow, rhythmic waves.

"Shane, fuck," Rozanov said, almost a gasp, twisting a little in the chair as his hips flexed, trying to lift. Shane slid his hands up and around them, fingers grasping into the solid, round curves of his ass, anchoring him, anchoring himself, feeling like he could live in this hot delicious slide and fullness, only wanted more of it, dragged back, sank deeper every stroke, losing himself in the steady push and sucking pull and the fragmenting choppiness of Rozanov's stuttering breaths above him, the rolling flex of muscle at Rozanov's hips as he thrust up into--

The jingling sound again, and Shane couldn't help it, an automatic response, his head pulled back, pulled off, and turned. Above, Rozanov's head turned again, too, even as he made a sound like he was dying.

Champ got to her feet, shook herself briskly, chain of carabiners tinkling merrily, then flopped back down again two feet away from her original position.

Shane sighed out a harsh, exasperated breath. "Fuck, sorry," he said.

"Is okay," Rozanov panted. "Just, can you..."

"Right, yeah," Shane said, trying to find his place again, trying to dive back in and find that lost place where his head felt quiet and his body felt consumed. It took a minute, but only a minute, and he was floating again, lips and tongue and hollowed cheeks dragging and throat flexing at the kiss of pressure, Rozanov groaning, body tensing--

He heard the jingling sound, told himself not to move, not to look, but instinct already had him jerking back, just a stumble in his rhythm, and Rozanov pressed his hips up helplessly and made a noise like a sob. Shane recovered, dropped back into the deep sucking stroking slide, his mind only a little rattled, slid a hand down to cup and gently squeeze at Rozanov's balls, and Rozanov's body arched and stiffened and twisted and he cried out, hard and guttural, and Shane felt the hot flood pulsing in his mouth, swallowed and sucked and hummed in pleasure around it, finally.

Rozanov collapsed back into the chair, legs sprawled and spine crooked, breath a harsh rasp, and Shane pulled off and rested his chin on the top of Rozanov's thigh, catching his breath, trying to stop the little grin that wanted to steal over his face.

"Don't say it," Rozanov said after a moment, when he could talk.

"I didn't say anything," Shane said, but there was laughter in his voice he couldn't suppress.

Rozanov groaned. "Fine. Whatever. Maybe I am not a genius inventor. That was fucking torture."

Shane did laugh then, rolling his face against Rozanov's thigh for a moment. "Can I take that stupid thing off her now?"

"Yes, fuck, fine," Rozanov said, a little mournful. "All that noise and she barely even moved."

"I told you," Shane said, still chuckling as he pushed himself up, started to head over to Champ to relieve her of the carabiner chain.

Rozanov caught him by the wrist. "And then come back," he said. "I am not done with you."

Shane smiled, feeling... so weirdly light inside. Not like everything -- or anything -- about his life was different, or... or fixed, or whatever, not that his life even needed to be fixed, but just. Just like... Well. Maybe he wasn't the one who'd gotten the reward, but he still felt, somehow, like he'd won.

When Shane woke up the next morning, the first thing he registered, before he'd even opened his eyes, was warmth. Kind of weird, because sleeping underneath the spread-out sleeping bag had not proved to be very heat-insulating, and he'd woken up a little chilled the morning before. But this morning he felt very warm, and entirely cozy.

The second thing he noticed was the pattering sound of rain on the tarp above him, a soft, steady tapping that lulled him, gently encouraged him to sink back into the warm, cozy feeling he was having and ignore everything else.

The third thing...

His eyes popped open and his body tensed a bit as he realized his hand was flung-out spread across Rozanov's abs, and his face was sort of... buried? In Rozanov's side?

They weren't really touching otherwise -- the rest of his body had obediently stayed in place on his side of the nest of clothes and pine boughs underneath him, and Rozanov, apparently still fast asleep, was sprawled flat on his back, his near arm flopped out above his head.

Shane felt his heart thud a little, felt frozen in place, not sure if the more undetectable thing to do would be to pull away with maximum speed or try to slowly, carefully disengage.

It wasn't like he thought Rozanov would be mad or whatever. They were allowed to touch, they had been touching, that was for sure. But not like this, like, outside of a sex context. They had been touching at specific times, for specific purposes, and this, even though it hadn't been voluntary or conscious, felt like crossing some line.

He decided the slow approach was best -- a sudden movement would surely be more noticeable, would wake Rozanov, and then maybe everything would be awkward, and Shane was really kind of tired of things between them being awkward and tense. Surely they could manage one day where they didn't argue and nobody got upset, right? But this was not the way to start it off.

He pulled his face away first, incrementally unpeeling his forehead and cheek from the soft T-shirt along the side of Rozanov's torso until that point of contact was broken and he'd achieved a little bit of distance, as much as he could without moving his hand and arm. He took a breath. Right. Hand next. He lifted it, finger by finger, then the palm, then the wrist, until he was hovering his whole hand a millimeter above Rozanov's body, ready to draw back slowly--

Rozanov made a grunting sound in his sleep, and his flopped-up arm crashed down, narrowly avoiding Shane's face, landing on top of Shane's arm, pinning his hand back down where it had been.

Fuck. He'd been so close.

He risked a glance up at Rozanov, but his eyes were still closed, face still relaxed in a sleep-slack way, so nothing had really gone wrong yet. But Shane's hand was trapped, and if he tried to disentangle it now, surely that would wake Rozanov, and it would be...

A long sigh gusted through him then, the tension leaving his body in one swift collapse, and he just... decided he didn't care. Whatever. It was a hand. They would survive a hand, probably, and he was so warm and the rain was so lulling, and the prospect of a rainy day meant less to do and nowhere to go, and... he let his eyes drift closed and listened to the pattering raindrops, and he was asleep again in seconds.

Waking up again later was only slightly chaotic. His eyes blinked open, and he noticed his hand was still there, noticed his arm was slightly numb from being pinned under Rozanov's, noticed Rozanov was awake and looking at him.

Shane looked at his hand, and after a moment of indecision, just said, "Oh," and pulled it back, Rozanov lifting his arm a little to free him but not commenting on it at all. So, it was fine. It was a hand. Whatever.

Shane rolled over onto his back, rubbed at his forearm a little to bring it back to life, stared up at the weak light filtering through the tarp, the shadows of raindrops splashing down.

"Raining," Rozanov observed.

"Yep," Shane agreed.

"What happens when it rains?" Rozanov asked.

Shane stretched, a long one, arms overhead and toes curling, then collapsed back into looseness. "Well, water vapor in clouds gets heavy and falls to the ground, and that's called precip--"

He broke off with a little yelp as Rozanov kicked him under the sleeping bag.

"Smart ass," Rozanov said. "I mean, what happens for the camp?"

Shane yawned, twisted his neck a little to stretch the muscles there. He felt very rested. "Not a lot, if it rains all day. We can't really make a fire 'cause everything's wet, don't need to boil water 'cause we can just collect it, shouldn't really go anywhere 'cause if we get wet it'll take forever to get dry again."

Rozanov took a moment to absorb this. Then he said, "Lazy day."

Shane nodded, hummed his agreement.

Rozanov rolled his head a little to look over at him. "I did not know Shane Hollander was allowed to have lazy days. Always so busy."

Shane felt a flare of irritation. "I can have whatever I want," he said shortly. Which was stupid, not even true, and -- he sighed -- maybe a little too combative. A day, one single day, without arguing, without tension. That was the goal. So he added, "But, yes. Usually I like to keep busy. But sometimes it just rains, and then you don't have much of a choice."

Rozanov nodded, his curls scuffing against the flannel shirt that was spread out under his head. "Okay. So we stay in the shelter. We can... find things to do."

Shane's eyes cut over to him, caught the slight smirk pulling at Rozanov's mouth, felt a ripple of interest slide honey-like through his body.

But... first he wanted the backpack. It might be a rainy day, and a lazy day, but there were still some things that had to be done, and he needed the backpack for pretty much all of them. He sat up, eyed the distance to the bear hang, wondered how soaked he was going to get retrieving it. The rain was not a downpour, but it was thumping down steadily, and if he ran out into it -- which was really the only option -- everything he was wearing was going to get wet along with him. Unless... well.

He pushed up to his feet and pulled his shirt over his head, folding it into a little square that he dropped onto the sleeping bag.

Rozanov sat up on his elbows. "Oh, we are starting immediately?" He did not look upset about it.

"Fuck off," Shane said, without any heat. He dropped his shorts, folded them, placed them on top of the shirt, shoved his feet into his boots. "I've got to go get the backpack. I don't want all my clothes to get wet."

Then he took off at a jog, covered the short distance, and got the backpack to the ground as quickly as he could. When he came jogging back in underwear and boots, the backpack strapped to his back, Rozanov was watching with interest.

"Hot, Hollander," he commented. "I like this fashion choice."

Shane dropped the backpack in its spot and stepped closer, shaking his wet hair in Rozanov's direction in retaliation. Rozanov squawked and rolled away, hands up to shield himself as Shane laughed at him.

He kicked off his boots and got his clothes back on -- maybe not for long, but he was not really a sit-around-in-underwear kind of person -- then dug into the backpack for supplies. He handed over toothbrush and toothpaste and a thin plastic rain poncho to Rozanov, sent him off into the rain. When he reappeared, Shane took the poncho and his own turn in the rain, bringing Champ with him, toweling her off with a spare shirt when they returned and getting her settled with some kibble and her water dish. Then he dug into the backpack again to look through the options for a human breakfast that didn't require heating up.

Rozanov groaned when Shane pulled out a good-sized bag of trail mix.

"Nooo, Shane," he said, reaching for the bag and examining it with a bleak expression. "Not this trail mix. It is an abomination."

Shane thought about being annoyed, decided to sigh about it instead. "It's very healthy."

"Is very dry," Rozanov said, shaking his head. "I could drink all the rain coming from the sky and it would still not be enough to cope with this trail mix."

Shane laughed a little. "Well, we don't have that many options without a fire."

"There must be something," Rozanov said. "Lazy day means day for... indulging. Not for sad trail mix." His eyes lit up then. "Let me look through the backpack. I will find a better option."

"I don't know," Shane said, grimacing a little. "I've got it all organized. If you start going through it, it's going to make a big mess."

Rozanov shrugged. "So? Then we clean it up. There is plenty of time. Please, Shane. I want to know the secrets of the backpack."

Shane sighed, dropped his head a little. He'd spent so long packing the backpack in the particular way he'd developed over many trips to the wilderness, and it made him feel a little itchy to think of it all spilled out and disorganized. But... Rozanov looked so excited, sitting cross-legged on top of the sleeping bag, with his eyes all hopeful. And it was true that they had nothing but time.

He nodded. "Fine. Knock yourself out."

Rozanov lunged forward, grabbing the backpack and tipping it onto its side. He was thorough, Shane would give him that, going through each compartment and dragging out everything, keeping up a running stream of questions and commentary as he did.

This is a lot of batteries, what are they even for? You had water purifying tablets this whole time? Why are you constantly boiling water? Two compasses? You love compasses too much, it is a sickness. I have never seen you wear this hat, and that is good, it is very ugly. What is duct tape for? Wait, never mind, duct tape is for everything. Really, Shane? A book on the wilderness when you are already in the wilderness? This is an obsession.

He went through the food stash with particular interest, complaining about so many dehydrated meal packs and almost all are salmon-based? and nearly crowing in triumph when he located and dug out the small bag of hard candy Shane had thrown in as an afterthought.

"Shane, you have candy," he breathed, shaking the bag gleefully, like it was a scandal. "You were holding out on me."

"Well, you can't have candy for breakfast," Shane pointed out, but Rozanov had already unwrapped a piece and popped it happily into his mouth.

"Lazy day," Rozanov said around the candy. "No rules apply on lazy day."

"I think we have different definitions of what a lazy day involves," Shane said, but he didn't feel upset about it. Rozanov's enthusiasm was kind of irresistibly charming, even when he was sitting in the middle of a giant mess of his own making, items strewn across the sleeping bag with wild abandon.

In the end, they settled on protein bars for breakfast, which Rozanov declared were lacking in chocolate, but otherwise ate without complaint. They sat side-by-side on top of the spread-out sleeping bag to eat, looking out to watch the rain dripping down. It gave Shane a strangely comfortable feeling, tucked in the little pocket of space under the tarp, safe and dry in the middle of the big, wet world. Even the ruin of his backpack organizational system strewn all around him didn't really bother him too much. He wanted to tidy it up, put everything back in its proper place, but he didn't feel very pressed about it at the moment. Time seemed slower, somehow, with an entire day stretching out ahead of him, Champ snoring in her bed and making her small dream-twitches, and Rozanov...

Well, Rozanov was in a chatty mood, apparently.

"What is the worst thing that has happened to you in the woods?" he asked, nudging Shane's knee with his own. "Bear attack? Poison ivy in crotch? Near-death from boredom?"

Shane laughed a little, then pretended to think. "Well, there was this one time I had to rescue this super-annoying Russian hockey player," he said, and Rozanov crashed into him with a shoulder, knocking him half-sideways.

"A very lucky day for you, I think," Rozanov said, licking protein bar crumbs off his thumb in a way that should've seemed gross, but somehow made Shane observe it with interest. "You would have been so bored without me. No one to be your student, to take all your wilderness training classes."

That was... not completely untrue. He wasn't usually bored in the woods, since quiet stillness was what he came here for, but... he had to admit there had been some high points to having Rozanov around.

"What is your real worst story?" Rozanov pressed, but Shane shook his head.

"You just want me to trash-talk the woods, but I like it here."

Rozanov seemed to consider that, leaned back on his hands and regarded him thoughtfully. "Okay. Best story, then."

"In the woods?"

"Or anywhere." Rozanov shrugged, unwrapping another piece of candy. "Best day of your life."

Shane blew out a breath. "That's a big question."

"Take your time," Rozanov said, with an expansive wave of his arm. "My schedule is very open."

Shane thought about it. There were hockey stories, of course, but even the biggest triumphs there -- captainships, the U15 championship, the first time a scout had come to a game specifically for him -- were tinged with failure now, all dimmed and darkened with the subsequent abrupt end of all his hopes. And in any case... well, he had loved hockey, had been consumed with it, but he wasn't sure it had made him happy all that often. Every success, every step forward was dismissed almost as soon as it arrived, his eyes already moving to the next goal, the next need, an endless striving for more and better that meant it hadn't made him happy so much as hungry.

Would it have always been that way, if he'd kept playing? What would have felt like enough?

He had no idea, didn't want to think about it, couldn't talk about hockey with Rozanov anyway.

He cast his mind further back, to before everything had become about hockey, when it was just a thing he did and not the whole point of his life. A story came to him. It was dumb, but the silence was stretching out too long now, so...

"I can't figure out the best day of my life, that's too hard," he said, shaking his head. "But there was one day, I was about seven, I think, and we went to this water park -- me and my parents. I was so excited, and there was this one really big waterslide -- it had, like, a bunch of loops and circles and stuff. I'd been getting hyped up about it for days. And so that was the first thing I wanted to do, and my dad went up with me -- we climbed all the stairs and stuff, and the whole way up, I was getting... like, scared. Like it hadn't really hit me how high up it was going to be."

He'd said all of that in one big go, the stupidness of the story registering more and more as he told it, and he stopped for a moment, trying to figure out how to summarize the rest of it quickly so it'd be over. But when he glanced over at Rozanov, he didn't look bored or like, scornful or whatever. He looked... interested. And they weren't exactly pressed for time. So he took a breath and went on.

"Anyway, we got to the top, and I just... couldn't do it. I was totally freaked out, really scared. And my dad, of course, was like, it's no big deal, we'll just go back down, so we did, but it was... awful. I felt like everyone was looking at me the whole way down, just knowing I was a big loser or whatever."

He looked at Rozanov again. His face had kind of creased in sympathy.

"This story has a happy ending, yes?" Rozanov asked. "If this sad-boy story is your best day, you are breaking my heart."

Shane laughed a little. "It has a happy ending, yes. Okay, so we got back down and we found my mom, and she was, you know, comforting and stuff. But she said, basically, that if I didn't do it, if I didn't try again, that I might... regret it. And that sounds basic, but it hadn't really occurred to me? I mean, I was seven, I hadn't spent a lot of time thinking about regrets. But it just hit me, like, if I didn't try to do this thing that I wanted, because I was afraid..."

He shook his head, unable to explain it better. "Anyway, we went back up, and... I did it. It wasn't even that scary, actually. It was fun. And I felt like... I don't know. So good. Like I could do anything. I know it's dumb, but I've thought about it a lot, like, times when I got scared. Like: I did the waterslide, and it wasn't bad, so maybe this'll be like that? I don't know, it's stupid. A fucking waterslide, I know."

"Is not stupid," Rozanov said. "That's what being brave is, yes? When you're scared but you do it anyway? Is a good thing to learn about yourself."

Shane shrugged, still feeling embarrassed about it. He wasn't even sure why he'd told that story, except that he hadn't been able to think of anything else. He could now, of course. Birthdays, vacations, his first kiss, that time he'd see a bunch of wolf pups playing -- all crowded into his head as better options than a fucking waterslide story. But it was too late now.

At least Rozanov was being nice about it. He was smiling a little, looking out at the rain. "You have nice parents," he said. "Only child?"

"Yeah," Shane said. "Just me. And yeah, they are nice. Sometimes I think if it wasn't for them--"

He broke off whatever sentence had been about to come out of his mouth, shook his head, rerouted. "If it wasn't for them, I wouldn't be so lucky," he managed to finish, lamely. Before Rozanov could call him on it -- if he was going to, just in case he decided to -- Shane pushed through it with a question.

"What about you?"

Rozanov didn't answer for a moment, still looking out at the rain. Then he sniffed, shook his head. "Ah, no. I have a brother."

"Oh, that's cool," Shane said. "But I mean, your parents -- are they... nice?"

As soon as he said it, he remembered -- the thing Rozanov had said before about his dad -- and he felt like kicking himself, wished he could call back the words. "I mean..." he tried, no idea what to add.

"No," Rozanov said crisply, shaking his head. Then he added, "Well. My father was not. My mother was... yes. Nice."

Shane caught the use of past tense, felt even shittier than he had a moment ago. Great, now he'd asked a stupid, insensitive question and reminded Rozanov of his nice, dead mom. He was on fire today.

Rozanov didn't add anything else, and Shane thought, best to let it go. But then he remembered how his mom had been, when his grandmother had died -- how she liked to tell stories about her, how she didn't want her to be forgotten. So he took a little risk, wondering if Rozanov would get prickly like he had about the draft day story, would tell him to fuck off, if the day would be ruined because Shane couldn't keep his questions to himself. But he just felt like he should ask.

"Was she... part of your best day?"

Rozanov looked over at him a little sharply, his mouth kind of tight, and Shane tried to look back with an expression that said both "you don't have to tell me" and "you can tell me" at the same time, which was a pretty complicated expression to pull off when he wasn't always that aware of what his face was doing.

But maybe the rainy day was working on Rozanov like it apparently was on Shane, making everything seem kind of hazy, quiet, safe. He turned his eyes back to the rain, reached up absently to tug on the necklace he always wore. Shane hadn't really thought about it before, that necklace with the cross pendant. He'd seen it in Rozanov's post-game media interviews, in photos of him, had figured it was just a Russian variation on the standard jock chain. For the first time it occurred to Shane that it might be a family thing, that it could be connected to Rozanov's mom.

Before he could consider it further, Rozanov started to speak.

"She was funny," he said, his voice low. "When I was a kid, I was always... making a mess."

Shane took another little risk, looked around at the backpack innards spilled around them, smiled. "You don't say."

Rozanov -- luckily -- smiled back, huffed a little acknowledgement. "Yes, you see. It made my father very angry, he hated a mess. But if he wasn't there, my mother, she would make a song about it. Like a joke."

"A song?" Shane tried to picture his own mom... singing, about a mess. He couldn't put it together.

"Like a funny song. So, if I dropped my food on the ground, she would sing, like, oh, Ilya, now the food is all over my feet, now my shoes are made of food, Ilya the birds will come and eat my shoes, and what will I do?"

He looked over at Shane, who must have been making some kind of baffled face, because he smiled, ducked his head a little. "Maybe makes more sense in Russian. Anyway, it was a way, like, if I got upset about making the mess, the song was to make me not... not worry. To laugh instead. So. Those were good days."

It was such a nice story, so unexpectedly sweet, from this person Shane had long considered a menace, an asshole, a heedless arrogant dick... it was so nice. Shane wasn't sure why, then, it made his chest feel kind of painful, like it was tight and split-open at the same time.

He had never imagined Rozanov as a kid, as... as Ilya, a person with a dad who got angry about messes and a mom who sang funny made-up songs to him so he wouldn't worry. He could feel himself staring, the idea of it, Ilya, ringing through his head. He took a breath, wanting to ask more: when had his mom died, and how, and was he okay with--

"We should play your chess game," Rozanov said abruptly, reaching for the pouch of half-carved wooden pieces that was lying near the gutted backpack.

"Oh, well, it's not really finished," Shane started, but Rozanov was already shaking out the pouch and picking up the pieces to examine them closely.

It made Shane a little tense; he wasn't that good of a carver, although he was working to improve, and even the ones he'd finished didn't look as good as they had in his head when he'd planned them. The unfinished ones ranged from misshapen little figures to raw stumps of wood. Not that it mattered, because...

"And I don't actually know how to play," he said, feeling kind of stupid about it.

Rozanov shot him a look. "Ah, I have done it. I have found the one thing Regular Shane does not know how to do."

"Shut up," Shane said, even though he was smiling a little.

"But why do you make a chess set when you don't play chess? I would say you need more hobbies, Hollander, but maybe you need less."

"Shut up," Shane said again. "It's mostly for carving practice. And I was planning to learn once it was all finished."

"Hmm, is okay," Rozanov said, shrugging. He pulled over the wilderness book for a flat surface, began setting the various pieces on it in haphazard lines. "I don't know, either. But we can make up our own rules."

"Make up the rules?" Shane asked, unaware he must have sounded a little aghast until Rozanov shot a grin at him.

"Yes, it is allowed. You know all rules were made up by someone, sometime," Rozanov pointed out.

Shane... hadn't really thought about that. He guessed it was true, even if it felt a little unsettling.

"Okay," Rozanov said, shifting himself to sit on one side of the improvised chess board. "These guy, little stumps, they can't move at all. They are just... like, blockers."

"Defensemen," Shane said automatically, because some stupid part of his brain could not ever fully let go of hockey.

Rozanov laughed, though. "Yes, true. They just sit there and get in the way. And these guys -- " he pointed at the pieces Shane had tried to carve into little castles -- "they are like bulldozers. They get in front of opponent piece, they can go straight through and knock down everyone in the line."

"Defensemen," Shane said again, and Rozanov laughed again.

"And these ones," he continued, apparently very into his fake-chess role-assigning mode, pointing at the vaguely horse-like carved ones, "can teleport three squares, any direction."

Shane almost said "forwards," but what he was really thinking about was Rozanov on the ice, so fast, unpredictable, always appearing in places the opposing team didn't expect, popping up like magic to grin and chirp and steal the puck.

He kept the thought to himself.

"What about the king and queen?" he asked instead, pointing to the tallest pieces that he'd tried to carve with crowns on top.

"Ah, no, we do not support monarchy in our game," Rozanov said, waving a hand. "This one is called..." He paused thoughtfully with his finger on the king piece. "Mr. Big-Step. He can only move to the opposite side of the board, and he can kick off whoever is there. And this one," he added, poking at the queen piece, "is Mother Nature. She can make a storm whenever she wants, and it knocks three opponent pieces off the board."

"That's ridiculous," Shane argued. "That's way out of balance. You could just use her every turn and knock off all the pieces, and the game'll be over in two minutes."

"Okay, okay," Rozanov said, hands up. "I can take constructive feedback. So, new rule: You can only use Mother Nature one time every five turns."

"Ten turns, at least," Shane argued, shuffling over to sit at the other end of the board.

"Ugh, you are no fun," Rozanov complained. "But, fine. Ten turns. Now, we play."

The game was complete chaos, as they both kept forgetting the newly assigned piece movements, and losing count of how many turns had passed since a Mother Nature had been played, and the pieces kept toppling over on the makeshift board, and they hadn't really established how points were awarded or what winning looked like. They argued and laughed and sabotaged each other, and when they'd gotten through three haphazard rounds, Shane realized he'd barely looked up from the board or noticed anything but the little wooden pieces and Rozanov's grinning face for... however long it had been.

He had decided, though, that the game -- now officially christened "SmashChess" after Rozanov had tried to teach Shane the Russian word for "crazy" and Shane had only been able to pick up a syllable that sounded a little like "smash" -- was a really fucking good time.

"Your problem," Ilya said to Shane around the remnants of the driest mouthful of trail mix he'd ever eaten, "is that you do not appreciate art."

Yes, he had given in about the trail mix. It was still an abomination, but they truly did not have many options for food that didn't need to be heated, and it was well past lunchtime now, rain was still falling steadily, and he was starving.

Currently, he was dropping handfuls of it into his mouth while lying flat on his back, chewing for as long as he could stand it, then pouring in water from the small water bottle to force it all down. In the process, he was drizzling a fair amount of both trail mix and water onto himself and the sleeping bag beneath him, and he expected at any moment that Shane would start complaining about it. So far, all he had said was, "You're going to choke to death like that," a warning Ilya had not heeded because he was a risk-taker and he could handle it.

But Shane had said nothing about the mess. That could only be because he was being nice, after Ilya had foolishly shared the story about his mother and the songs.

He had not meant to say it, or to talk about his family at all. Especially not after hearing about Shane's perfect, loving, faultless parents. Of course, he'd said, his father was nice about the waterslide. His mother was, you know, comforting and stuff, like this was an afterthought, expected, understood. This was not a person who could relate to Ilya's own tangle of dysfunction, was someone who would feel only pity for him if he knew, and Ilya hadn't intended to share anything at all.

But... when Shane had asked about his mother, it had just felt... wrong. Not to say something about her, something good. She deserved that much, even if it had felt uncomfortable to talk about it.

"I don't think you can call reality TV art," Shane said with a roll of his eyes. He was eating his trail mix sitting up, sensibly, but Ilya did notice he was also drinking plenty of water to work his way through it.

"It is about love," Ilya argued. "And about the human condition -- and that is the soul of art."

"It's a dating show where everyone's always getting into hot tubs," Shane said. "That's not love, and it's not art."

"Ah, so you have watched it," Ilya said, pointing the water bottle at him in triumph. It made a little more water slosh onto the sleeping bag, and he watched Shane's eyes track the spill, watched the slight tightening of his mouth in response. It was almost its own little game -- not as fun as SumasshedshiyChess, but nearly so -- to see Shane struggle to overlook Ilya's messiness. Ilya should not take advantage, but there was something about it that he liked, that Shane would tolerate things that made him uncomfortable -- the mess, the backpack examination, the made-up rules for a made-up game. That he would find a way to make room for these things, for the sake of the nice day they were, for once, having.

"I've seen, like, two episodes," Shane said. "My friend loves it, so it's on over at her house sometimes. I don't watch it."

"No, you are too pure, only hiking in nature for your entertainment."

"I like hiking!" Shane said. "There's nothing wrong with that, and it's way better than sitting catatonic in front of a screen."

"It is walking," Ilya said flatly. "Walking and looking at trees. This is not entertaining. Where is the drama, the excitement?"

Shane lifted a shoulder. "I don't know, I'd say you managed to find plenty of drama and excitement while hiking through the woods."

Ilya sat up, shoving the bag of trail mix away and brushing loose seeds off his shirt. "No, no. You cannot claim that for hiking -- that was not hiking. That was hazardous idiot ramble through dangerous terrain. Drama is built-in when you almost die, that is not standard hiking conditions."

He reached for the miraculous little bag of candy -- Shane Hollander had brought candy to the woods, Ilya still could not believe it -- and unwrapped a piece, which made Shane change his line of argument, probably because he knew he was losing the TV vs. hiking debate.

"Are you seriously going to eat more of that?" he asked, a little incredulous, or pretending to be. "You know that's, like, pure sugar. If you normally eat this much candy you're not going to have any teeth left by the time you're thirty."

"I play hockey," Ilya reminded him around the candy in his mouth. "I cannot be too worried about keeping my teeth."

As soon as the words were out, he wished he hadn't said them. He'd meant to carefully avoid the topic of hockey all day, or forever, maybe, given that it seemed to trigger some negative reaction in Shane almost every time it came up. He watched carefully, a little clutch of tension in his chest, but Shane, after a fraught moment's pause, only shook his head.

And then came out with the most unexpected sentence Ilya had ever heard.

"Have you ever thought about the fact that when you eat hard candy, you're basically just flavoring your own spit?"

Ilya stared at him, mouth dropping open a little. "What the fuck? Hollander, what is wrong with you? That is disgusting."

"Yeah, I know. That's what I'm saying," Shane said.

"You brought this candy," Ilya said, shaking the bag at him. "It is your candy. You cannot shame me now for my spit-flavoring."

"I'm not shaming anybody," Shane said, leaning back on his hands. "You're free to make your spit taste like whatever you want. Enjoy."

He was being funny, but that did not mean that Ilya missed the little undertone to the words, that little something in his voice that meant... he was thinking about it.

Ilya was thinking about it, had been for a while, had also not missed the sight of the two remaining condoms when he had unpacked everything in the backpack. They were tucked away in their compartment again now -- Shane had fussed over packing everything back into its place for nearly an hour -- but Ilya had not forgotten them. It had almost been another game, waiting to see if Shane would bring it up first, if Ilya could wait until he did.

He decided... talking about someone's spit probably counted, yes? As a sex mention? He thought so, probably. Close enough.

"You brought this candy," he said again, his tone casual. "You packed it, in carefully planned backpack. Must have been for a reason. And yet, you have not had even one piece."

Shane shrugged, but his eyes were a little... intent, flicking from Ilya's eyes down to his mouth, back up again. "I just don't eat candy very often. Just every once in a while."

Ilya nodded. "I think you should have some. I think... now is a good time."

"Maybe," Shane said, and his eyes went to the bag of candy.

Ilya picked it up and tossed it.... behind him, over by the backpack. "Oops, my mistake. But is okay. I can share."

He rolled up onto his hands and knees -- his knee protested, he ignored it -- and crawled toward Shane, holding the piece of candy jutted out between his teeth. He couldn't help smiling, watching the war that seemed to be happening behind Shane's eyes as he got closer -- the discomfort with the idea of taking used candy from someone else's mouth, the flare of interest in the very same idea.

He got closer, and Shane dodged away, his nose crinkling, half-laughing and half-disgusted, but Ilya reached out and took his jaw between finger and thumb, held him still.

"Open," he said around the candy clenched in this teeth.

Shane went very still, eyes flaring wide for a flash. For a moment nothing happened, but Ilya was patient, let him work his way through it.

Then Shane opened his mouth, tongue dropped a little, and Ilya felt a surge of gratified heat. He pressed forward, pushed the candy and his tongue into Shane's mouth.

It was a weird kiss, the candy clacking between them, but sweet with strawberry flavor and searingly hot, the way Shane had taken it, the way his hands came up to grab at Ilya's arms and drag him closer.

Ilya pulled his mouth away, used his thumb to push at Shane's lower lip, sealing his mouth closed. "You finish that for me," he said. Then he pushed Shane back onto the sleeping bag, crawled on top of him, licking at his neck, listening to the soft little moans already starting in his throat, feeling them vibrate under his own candy-sticky tongue.

He should get things now, he knew, dig in the backpack for the condom and the gel -- he knew exactly where they were tucked away, after his thorough backpack survey -- because he wasn't going to want to stop for them later. The problem was that he didn't want to stop for them now, his body already tight with anticipation, sliding against Shane's, his hands already grasping at Shane's shirt to pull it off and out of the way, his mouth already latching on, wanting to taste him everywhere -- long delicious line of his throat, pliable slope of his shoulder, firm squeezable planes of muscle on his chest.

Shane was already half-gone, eyes closed, mouth locked sucking at the candy, muffled noises spilling out as he shifted, twisted a little under Ilya's hands and mouth. He was so... fuck. It made Ilya want to bite at him, to eat him like the candy, to swallow his entire hot, responsive, wanting body and drink up his unguarded sounds.

Shane had his hands slipped up under the back of Ilya's shirt, was grabbing on to him but pushing at the shirt, too, so Ilya sat back for a moment to strip it off, toss it away -- only being careful not to throw it onto a sleeping Champ or out into the rain -- dropped back down and slid his hands under Shane's body to gather him up, almost lifting him, pressing him up into the open-mouth kisses Ilya was raining down on him -- dropping at the freckles on his cheek, sliding against the rough rasp of stubble on his jaw, licking at his plump, pursed lips still suction-tight with the candy. He felt he could do only this all day, just licking, kissing, tasting, touching, lazy rainy-day exploration until he knew every freckle and facet of Shane's body and had touched them all with his tongue.

But Shane was moaning louder now, pushing up under him, hands grabbing and squeezing at Ilya's chest, at his ass, impatience -- need -- evident in every move. He couldn't speak, mouth concentrated working on the candy -- because Ilya had told him to finish it, he realized with a dizzying rush -- but his body was demanding, and Ilya was in no mood to refuse. He slid down, tugging off Shane's shorts and briefs with sharp, efficient motions as he kissed and sucked at his abs, dragged his hands along the meat of Shane's thighs, spreading them, pushing them apart and slotting himself between them. Because he knew Shane was going to buck up wild underneath him, he pressed his forearms into the creases of Shane's hips before he put his mouth on him, held him there as he swallowed him down, his hard, long, supple body straining and spasming under him, head dropping back, muffled closed-mouth wail trapped in his throat.

Ilya worked him slowly, thoroughly, lips dragging, tongue circling, pinning his hips harder when he tried to thrust up. Fuck, it was too delicious to have him this way, to give him pleasure mercilessly and watch him, feel him helplessly respond. He went faster, pushing him closer to the edge, then stopped, pulled away, squeezing a hand at the base of his dick while Shane moaned agonizingly.

"Lazy day, remember?" Ilya said, grinning at him, and Shane groaned and threw an arm over his face, breath heaving, hips twitching. Ilya did it again, and then again, until Shane -- maybe he'd finished the candy, maybe he'd swallowed it, at least he hadn't choked himself on it, which had been a little worry in Ilya's mind -- finally roared at him.

"Jesus, are you trying to kill me? Please, fuck," he half-shouted, panting.

"Yes, okay," Ilya said, half-breathless, stomach clutching, dick twitching hard, and he rolled up to his feet to get to the backpack, stripping off his shorts and underwear as he went.

Shane was sitting up on his elbows when Ilya turned back, and his eyes dropped and held at the sight of Ilya's cock, mouth flatteringly falling open a little. Ilya felt a surge of fierce desire to push himself between those hot, plush lips, but he knew he was too strung-out, too close from watching Shane almost lose himself so many times, and he didn't want to come like that now.

He dropped to his knees again -- fuck, ouch -- got the gel on his fingers, leaned in to take Shane's candy-sweet mouth with his own, kissing deep, hungrily as he slipped his hand into the cleft of Shane's ass, circling gently over his hole, and Shane groaned around his tongue, pulled his mouth free.

"Please just don't take forever, please, god, I want it," he mumbled, then lunged for Ilya's mouth again, and Ilya had to fight off a wave of lust so ripping searing inside him he thought he might pass out.

He pulled himself together with difficulty. "Will go as slow as I want," he said, trying not to make it sound like a desperate gasp. "And you will take it, whatever I want, yes?" He pushed one finger inside, for emphasis.

It made Shane whimper, his dick flexing and spurting between them, and that was answer enough for Ilya, but it was so... fuck, he liked this little game but it was working against him, he wanted to be inside Shane immediately, but he also wanted Shane begging for it, knew Shane wanted to be begging for it, fuck, he would have to find patience somewhere. It had to be perfect, he would not have many chances for this -- only two condoms left, and they were most definitely about to use one, and then -- what? He could only fuck Shane one more time? Like, forever?

What was going to happen after this, after the woods? The thought swam through his reeling mind, and it felt alien inside him, this wanting more, a strange thing clutching at him, but he shook it away, could not think of that now, or maybe ever. He kissed Shane hard again instead of thinking, worked his fingers inside him relentlessly until Shane was hissing and lurching under him and yes, finally, really begging.

Ilya got the condom on and coated with shaking fingers, got Shane flipped over and positioned so he could fuck him from behind, as deep as he wanted, it hurt his fucking knee but he did not care, worked himself in, groaning at the achingly tight hot squeeze and Shane below him pushing back into it rough and heedless, wanting more and more until Ilya thought maybe he could forget everything in his life but this fiery sweet ache gripping him, building wildly as he thrust hard, dragging at Shane's shoulders with his hands, Shane moaning continuously with his face half-crushed into the sleeping bag, eyes squeezed closed. Ilya couldn't wait, couldn't last, got his hand around desperate to Shane's cock and slicked over it, squeezing, muttering fucking come, Shane, come on and Shane did, fuck, crying out, spilling over Ilya's hand and clenching around Ilya's dick in a blinding rush of pressing gripping pleasure, and Ilya was coming, thrusting deep, fuck fuck, everything dragged out of him in grinding overwhelming pulses.

He could not stay upright for long after, his body going lax, spent, his knee screaming, and he was wishing anyway he'd picked some way he could've kept kissing Shane the whole time. He pulled out, tossed the condom out into the rain, fell over on his side and grabbed for Shane, tugging him in to kiss his gasping mouth. They stayed like that for a while, spent and messy but kissing anyway for the half-breathless pleasure of it, until it was too cold in the darkening afternoon to stay naked and sprawled.

It didn't stop raining for the rest of the afternoon, the rest of the night. They found things to eat, found things to do, and Ilya did not feel normal but he could not bring himself to care. He even resorted to listening to Shane reading out loud from his boring wilderness book for a while. Shane wore a headlamp and his glasses while he read; he looked ridiculous and unfathomably hot at the same time, and every time Ilya looked over at him it made him smile helplessly.

And when they settled in to sleep, Ilya on his back and Shane curled over on his side, Ilya didn't overthink it. He reached for Shane's hand, put it back on his own belly where he had found it that morning, and closed his eyes.

So what? It was a hand. So he liked it? Big deal. Whatever.

There was no more rain when Ilya woke up the next morning, but there was more touching.

He opened his eyes to find himself tucked over onto his good side, with all of Shane burrowed against the back of him, from feet to neck. He held very still for a few moments to evaluate the sensation.

It was... fine, he decided, his heart thumping a bit. It wasn't precisely cuddling, because Shane seemed to have his arms drawn in to his chest -- Ilya could feel his curled fists against his own back -- and that was, of course, okay. Better, probably, he thought, because this way he did not feel entangled or obstructed, but there was a bloom of warmth down the back of him that had, most likely, contributed to a good night's sleep in the outdoors.

So. Acceptable.

And it would be easy now, he imagined, to roll over and reach for Shane, wake him up with some suggestive touch, have him blushing and moaning before he was even fully awake, and Ilya liked the idea of that very much.

The problem was that he had consumed so much water the day before, trying to cope with the trail mix, that he now had to piss so badly he wasn't entirely confident he was going to make it out of the shelter. He certainly wasn't in a position to try anything sexy now, and that meant, he supposed, he would have to give up this chance, along with this feeling of... whatever it was. Warmth. Comfortable warmth.

He rolled up with a sigh and a wince for his aching bladder, tried to slide out from the cover of the sleeping bag without letting too much of the slightly chill morning air slip under it, went to his usual spot. Lingered for a moment, watching two squirrels chasing each other madly up and around a tree, and looking at a small bird that peered back at him with a beady eye.

When he returned, Shane was up, had retrieved the backpack, and was standing near the waterlogged fire pit brushing his teeth. He had the sanitizer, the toothpaste, and Ilya's toothbrush clutched in his free hand, held them out wordlessly as Ilya approached. They brushed in silence, the quiet chirping and rustling sounds of the woods surrounding them, Champ taking a slow stroll around the camp's perimeter to check for new smells, though she did not seem to be very good, in general, at smelling.

After they had both rinsed, Ilya held out a hand for Shane's toothbrush, intending to put everything back in the backpack, but he hesitated for a moment. Thought about what he had wanted first thing this morning. Thought about yesterday, when he had held himself back from touching for most of the day. Thought he could try... an experiment, maybe.

He stepped closer to Shane, slid his free hand over the T-shirt at Shane's waist, anchored it on his hip. Shane was looking at him, eyes still a little sleep-soft, and he didn't move or have any visible reaction beyond a slight parting of his lips as Ilya leaned in and pressed his mouth to his, soft, slow, the tip of his tongue just licking shallowly inside.

Ilya pulled back, squeezed at Shane's hip, and went to put the toothbrushes and toothpaste away.

It was not revolutionary. They had obviously kissed before. Yes, maybe they had not only kissed, in that soft kind of way that felt a little bit new, but. Okay. No one had died.

Shane, for one, seemed totally normal.

"We should go fishing," he said, crouching down to scrape wet ashes out of the firepit with the blade of his hatchet. "It's a good skill for you to learn."

Ilya sighed. Was it worth protesting that he didn't need another wilderness skill? He didn't like the idea of fishing; it sounded like it would be filled with boredom and potential sliminess. But he was well aware at this point that all Shane would need to do was put on his glasses and his bossy expression, and Ilya would be helpless to resist.

He tried anyway. "Fishing seems like a lot of standing. I think I am not ready. My leg, so injured."

"It didn't seem to be bothering you when you were fucking me on your knees last night," Shane pointed out, his tone so startlingly frank that it made Ilya bark out an unexpected laugh.

Shane glanced up at him, a pointed look. "If you can handle that, I think you can handle fishing. And if we're lucky, we can have fresh fish for lunch."

"As opposed to dehydrated fish for lunch," Ilya muttered gloomily, thinking of the many salmon-based meal packs.

"Shut up, it's good for you," Shane said, and he looked so huffy about it that Ilya had to go over and kiss him again, because, apparently, it was a thing he could do now.

So they went to the stream, dragging the chair along because Shane said I won't make you stand the whole time, I'm not a monster, and carrying the fishing gear Shane had pulled from the backpack, and both keeping a close eye on Champ. Ilya found his leg was improved enough, despite the disregard he'd shown for his knee the night before, that he could possibly have walked the distance on his own, but he didn't mention it, kept his arm gripped around Shane's shoulders, leaned his weight on him as usual.

He wondered: when his leg was all the way better, would they leave? Shane had maybe mentioned his original planned departure date, back on that first day, but Ilya hadn't retained it, had been, well, a little high, but also full of expectations of leaving as immediately as possible. Now he wasn't sure, felt hesitant to ask, because what if Shane said something like, "We can leave right now, if you're ready," and then he didn't know exactly what he would say in response. Easier to avoid the question, to limp through the days and not think about it too much.

They dropped everything at the bank of the stream, including their clothes, and got in the water first thing, because they were both in need of a bath. It was still icy cold, of course, not an encouraging temperature for lingering, but Ilya could not keep his eyes off of Shane. He wanted to tackle him again, to splash him and play and put his hands on him under the water, but Shane was washing himself with businesslike efficiency, and Ilya thought: Get a grip on yourself.

Shane looked up then, at the opposite bank of the stream, and his eyes went wide. "Fuck, is that a bear?" he said.

Ilya felt a drop in his stomach and a jolt of adrenaline as he whipped around to see... nothing.

And Shane crashed into him from behind, knocking him face-first into the icy water. Ilya came up spluttering, outraged, gleeful, already sweeping his arms over the surface of the water for revenge splashes. It devolved into mayhem from there, shoving, wrestling, laughing and taunting, bodies slick and sliding in the cool embrace of the water, until finally Shane hoisted Ilya's whole body in the grapple-locked cage of his arms and half-carried, half-flung him onto the grassy bank, leaving Ilya gasping and faintly dazzled.

Shane flung himself onto the grass next, out of breath, chest heaving, and Ilya rolled on top of him immediately, kissing, stroking, filling his hands with Shane's body, feeling that he could not touch him enough, could not press in to him enough. Shane's big, capable hands were on him, dragging at his shoulders, sliding and gripping over his ass, clutching him in close, and Ilya felt hot and shivery at once, witlessly light-headed and deliciously heavy-handed. He couldn't even bring himself to formulate a move, to run the usual calculus of performance, just found himself rutting helplessly against Shane's thick thigh, sucking his tongue, the hard line of Shane's cock trapped against his abs, the wetness of their bodies giving just enough slide and friction to bring them panting heaving breathless to the edge and over it.

He dropped his head and his whole weight onto Shane, who was groaning under him, spent and sprawled.

"I know, don't tell me," Ilya said after a moment, when he had enough breath to speak. "We have to get back in again. Was worth it."

"Yeah," Shane breathed. After a moment, he added firmly, "And then we're fishing."

Ilya groaned and rolled his way back into the stream, flopping into the water with a splash.

Shane sat up on his elbows to look down at him, eyes blinking slow and half-hazy. "You should probably wait until you've caught your breath to get in," he warned, still panting a little himself.

Ilya was not concerned, swirling his hands in the water in lazy circles. "Is okay. If I start to drown, you can save me, Mr. Expert Swimmer."

Shane squinted at him. "What? I'm not an expert swimmer."

"Oh, you were the worst on your team?" Ilya teased.

Shane's face did something strange, a ripple of confusion followed by a sudden realization. "Oh, right. Swim team."

Ilya laughed at him. "Shane, fuck. Orgasm so good you forget your whole life?"

Shane let his body drop back to the ground. "Yeah. Guess so."

"Hmm, don't worry, I will make you forget your own name the next time I fuck you," Ilya said, trying for thrilling and sexy but abruptly remembering the one remaining condom. The fact that the next time could be the last time.

Which was... not as thrilling and sexy as he would have liked.

Half an hour later, they were dressed again and set up for fishing, a little upstream from where they'd bathed, and Ilya was sitting in the chair, trying to patiently listen as Shane explained the process.

His mind was distracting him, though, constantly lobbing up ideas for how he could touch Shane, how they could be physically in contact. It wasn't even to get off again, although... well, yes, he wouldn't mind. But more it was... he wanted Shane to sit on his lap while he talked. He wanted to bite at the firm swell of Shane's calf. He wanted to lick at Shane's freckles like a puppy. It was upsetting, as if a dam had burst inside him, making him weird and needy, improvident, disgusting to himself, and he wanted to fix it but he wanted the touching more.

He was holding Champ instead, cradling her to his chest and sneaking her bits of the beef jerky that Shane liked to pretend he didn't give her sometimes, which Ilya had hidden in his pocket before they left camp.

"You're going to have to put her down to do this," Shane said. "You know that, right?"

Ilya widened his eyes innocently. "Yes, fine. I was just holding her for one minute."

He set Champ carefully on the ground, where she immediately flopped over comfortably on her back, and he took the thing Shane was holding out to him.

It wasn't a fishing pole; Shane didn't do that kind of fishing, apparently. (He had said -- hilariously given the size and densely packed contents of the backpack -- that it would've been too much to bring a whole fishing rod.) Instead he did this that he called handline fishing, which Ilya had initially expected would involve dangling his hand into the water and trying to snatch up a fish like a bear; he had seen this in a TV show once, had watched it with mildly horrified fascination.

But no. What Shane had was a wooden stick thing that looked a little like a rolling pin, or maybe a pepper grinder. It had a handle and a bunch of fishing line wrapped around one end, and that was about all there was to it.

"Okay, so I set it all up for you," Shane said, pointing to the things he'd tied to the line, which he had called sinkers and a float. "Now we just need to bait the hook, and then you can try casting it."

Ilya looked at him sternly. "I am not putting a worm on the hook," he said.

Shane shook his head. "You can't possibly be that squeamish," he said, bumping against Ilya's shoulder with his hip. Ilya couldn't stop himself from leaning in a bit, prolonging the contact.

But he still argued the point. "Is not squeamish -- it is cruel to the worm. Why should a poor worm be dragged into this? He did not ask for it. Is not fair."

Shane held up a questioning hand. "Okay? The fish didn't ask for it, either, but that's not stopping you."

"No, it is not stopping you," Ilya clarified. "I would stop any time, but you will not let me. But I draw the line at worm torture."

Shane huffed a laugh. "What exactly do you plan to use for bait, then?"

Ilya dug into his pocket and pulled out a bit of beef jerky he had not yet fed to Champ, showing it off to Shane with eyebrows up. "Ah, you see? I have thought ahead."

"Isn't that just cow torture?" Shane asked.

"No. Well, maybe. But cow is already dead, nothing we can do. We can honor his sacrifice by saving a worm."

"It's not going to work," Shane warned. "It's not the right kind of bait for these fish."

Ilya shrugged and concentrated on threading the bit of jerky onto the hook. "We will see."

Shane was rolling his eyes a little, but he stepped back and waved Ilya up. "You should probably stand up for the casting," he advised. "You can sit down again once it's in the water."

Ilya complied, because there was no getting out of it anyway, and because it had looked easy when Shane had demonstrated it. He balanced his weight, gathered the line into his right hand along with the rolling pin thing, took a breath, and flicked an underhand toss forward, letting go of the gathered line but holding on to the handle. The line, led by hook, weights, and float, unfurled across the water, traveling a fair distance, almost to the far edge of the stream, and dropped neatly in with a soft plunking sound.

"That was good," Shane said, seeming a little surprised.

Ilya almost said, I am a professional athlete, but he didn't want to upset Shane with a hockey mention, so he merely shrugged with great humility and sat back down in his chair.

"So the thing about fishing," Shane said, "is that it requires patience. Sometimes you can wait for an hour or two or even more without a single bite, so you have--"

"Whoa!" Ilya said, feeling the tug on the line Shane had described, jerking sharply backward on the rolling pin as Shane had instructed. "I think there is something."

"What the fuck?" Shane said, staring down at the line pulling taut out of the water. "Are you serious?"

Ilya could feel a grin splitting his face. "I am a natural!" he exclaimed happily, jumping up to his feet and circling the rolling pin in his hand to reel in the line. It required some effort, some speed; whatever was on his line felt heavier than he'd expected. He kept going, reeling the line in and pulling it closer, until it was right at the edge of the water.

"Back up, back up," Shane was saying, voice filled with excitement if still a little disbelief. "Drag it onto land, don't let it slip off now."

Ilya stepped backward, careful to avoid Champ, who was still sprawled on the ground, oblivious to the commotion. The fish -- long, narrow, speckled brownish -- came flapping out of the water and onto the grassy bank, thrashing furiously.

Ilya looked at Shane, his eyes wide with amazement, and Shane stepped forward, kneeled down, and decisively smashed the head of the wriggling fish with the butt-end of his knife. Its movements slowed, then twitched to a stop.

"I caught a fish," Ilya breathed.

"Yeah, you fucking did," Shane said. "Northern Pike, has to be twenty inches at least. What the fuck."

"Beef jerky," Ilya said with smug satisfaction. "The superior bait."

Shane rolled his eyes. "More like beginner's luck. Try it again and see if you get so lucky."

"Why would I do that?" Ilya said. "I have triumphed. You wanted me to learn fishing, I have learned. I am great at it."

"Well, I can see this is going to make you insufferable," Shane said, half-exasperated and, maybe, Ilya thought, half-fond.

Which did, Ilya could admit, make him a little insufferable, especially when Shane fished for an hour and caught nothing, even after he irritably gave in and tried using the beef jerky bait. Ilya sat in his chair the whole time, leaning over to pet Champ's belly and calling out tips and advice that he made up on the spot to watch Shane's face crease with huffy annoyance.

After Shane gave up on catching anything, he cleaned Ilya's fish on the rocks at the edge of the stream, casting the guts -- Ilya had definitely been right about sliminess -- into the water. He looked up at Ilya from where he was crouched.

"You want to eat the eyeballs?" he asked, knife poised at the fish's head. "They're really good for you, and it's kind of like a wilderness rite of passage. Everybody does it."

Ilya watched him narrowly. He suspected Shane thought he was setting some trap, either so he could mock him for squeamishness again, or trick him into eating something disgusting.

But clearly, Shane did not know about ukha, the soup of Ilya's homeland, traditionally served complete with a whole fish head. This was not Ilya's first encounter with eyeballs.

So he shrugged. "Okay, sure."

As he'd anticipated, Shane's own eyes widened a little, but he gamely pried out the nearest eyeball and held it out -- squishy, raw, bits of it dangling -- with a smug, challenging expression.

Ilya leaned forward, plucked it from his hand, and popped it immediately into his mouth.

Shane's face transformed into horror. "Oh my fucking god, you did not."

Ilya chewed, smiled around the chewing. "Is tasty, and good for the brain, yes?"

"Ilya, that's so gross," Shane said, his voice rising in pitch. "It's not even cooked, oh my god. There could be parasites."

He was so overcome with revulsion that he did not seem to register what he'd said -- that he had, for the first time, called Ilya by his first name only.

It registered for Ilya. He had not been waiting for it, or thinking of it at all, had not been aware of wanting it. Shane rarely called him anything; there were only the two of them, so his name was not required in everyday use. But now that he had heard it, now that Shane had used it, unguarded, unnoticed... it felt like... something.

He could feel a softness in his eyes, a smile pulling at his chewing mouth. He swallowed, leaned forward in his chair, and with a strange and tender feeling in his heart, said, "Gimme kiss."

Shane, of course, made gagging sounds, refused, laughingly vowed to never kiss Ilya again. Ilya pursued him, chased him around the grassy bank, caught him, pinned him. And made sure he immediately broke his no-kissing vow.

It was weird, Shane had to admit. What they were doing.

It was one thing -- an already very mind-blowingly weird thing in itself, in fact -- that he was basically living in the woods with Ilya Rozanov, and having sex with him, and teaching him to fish, and playing made-up chess with him, and, fucking... learning about his mother's songs from his childhood, for fuck's sake. All of that was so supremely strange and unexpected and so outside of any reality Shane could ever have imagined that he kind of couldn't make the unfathomable shape of it fit into his mind.

But this, right now? Had to be the weirdest.

Somehow he had found himself stretched out on the sleeping bag, back propped against the backpack, reading aloud from his wilderness book with Ilya's head on his stomach and his own hand trailing through Ilya's curls.

That was... Well. It had just been a really strange couple of days.

He didn't know how to think about it beyond identifying the bizarrely off-kilter facts of it, which he was kind of trying not to do very much, because if he thought about it, it seemed objectively insane.

But if he didn't think about it and more just kind of... felt about it. Well. It felt... nice.

So nice that he didn't want it to stop, was just letting himself kind of float along with it, half-bewildered all the time but with no idea what to do about that. It was like one of those dreams where, like, your middle school science teacher was drinking coffee with a goose while you were taking a call from Batman on your work phone, a ridiculous pile of impossible mismatched circumstances that somehow made perfect sense in the logic of the dream. In the dream, you just accepted it and carried on. That's what he was doing.

Because whatever else it was, it was fun, all the laughing and teasing and sex and talking and kissing, and it really felt like he hadn't had very much fun in a pretty long time, and Ilya -- and when had he started thinking of him as Ilya in his head and not Rozanov, he didn't even know, couldn't identify the exact moment -- but Ilya was so affectionate and handsy and funny in a way that seemed so out of character from all his fierce mayhem on the ice and his swaggering cockiness in the media, it was weird but it was nice and Shane didn't know what to do about it so he was doing nothing and just letting it happen.

Anyway, it was just for now. A strange interlude, contained in this bubble that was totally outside of real life. And like a dream, it wouldn't impact the actual matter of life once they woke up. He had no illusions that this thing, whatever it was, could survive the intrusion of their actual lives and the differences between them.

But, just for now... it was nice.

"The spruce grouse can be identified almost as much by the distinctive sound of its wings as by its call, particularly since the males of the species rarely vocalize," he read, still lightly marveling that Ilya was even a little bit interested in hearing any of this.

Although maybe he wasn't really listening, because he only reacted to any part of the reading when Shane lifted his hand out of his curls to turn a page, at which point Ilya would make a low, discontented sound until he put his hand back. Shane didn't mind, liked the soft, springy texture of the curls, liked the soothing repetition of winding them lightly around his fingertips, liked the anchoring weight of Ilya's head resting against his belly. It was getting late, the darkness fully settled in around the headlamp glow in the shelter, and he felt exactly as small and safe and surrounded as he always liked to feel in the woods. Just, maybe, not as alone as he usually felt.

Anyway. The spruce grouse.

He focused his eyes on the page in front of him, opened his mouth to read more about the features of the bird in question, but before he could speak, Ilya reached a hand out and traced a finger over one of the thick scars on Shane's knee.

"How did the injury happen?" he asked, his voice low and soft.

Shane felt his stomach tighten under Ilya's head, felt a little dread pooling there. Ilya's face was turned away from him, his body flung out perpendicular to Shane's, so he didn't have to look in his eyes or anything, but it was still, obviously, an uncomfortable topic that he didn't want to linger on.

"Uh, I told you. A sports thing," he said, his mind already racing ahead to look for a way to change the subject.

"Yes, swimming thing, you said. But how? Was it very bad?" Ilya half-rolled his head to look back at him, and that was definitely worse. His eyes looked soft in the glow reflecting off the tarp above. Like, concerned. Sympathetic. It made Shane feel like squirming.

"No, it wasn't..." he started, but then stopped, because the scars were too pronounced, probably, for him to convincingly pass it off as a minor thing. He didn't know what to say, knew he would be awkward and weird if he tried to lie, couldn't even think of a good lie anyway. Helplessly, he settled on a version of the truth.

"Yeah, it was bad, but... I don't really like to talk about it."

Ilya held his gaze for a beat, then nodded, rolled his head back to flatten his cheek against Shane's stomach again. "Yes, okay," he said, accepting it so simply, and Shane felt a wave of gratitude so visceral it ran like a ripple across his chest.

"You know, is funny," Ilya said, carrying on so Shane didn't have to talk -- another little mercy that Shane felt in the cavity of his chest, "one of my worst injuries wasn't even from..." he paused, briefly, a little hitch in his words before he hurried on, "from hockey. It was from jumping from a roof."

Shane put the book aside, took off his glasses, and hung the headlamp from a hook on the tarp above. He sat up a little, Ilya's head shifting with him. "What the fuck? You jumped off a roof? When?"

"When I was thirteen. Was not a very high roof." He lifted the shoulder he wasn't lying on. "But. High enough to break my arm in two places."

"Fuck," Shane breathed, a complicated whirl of emotions beginning to stir up inside him. "Why did you do it?"

"I was an idiot. Some other idiots dared me. And I thought... I could make it, I think."

Shane felt a rushing in his ears, like all his blood was flooding into his brain to try to make sense of this. He sat up a little more, pulled his hand out of Ilya's hair. "But what about hockey? Didn't you... I mean, you were already playing then."

"Of course," Ilya said, his tone light. "Had already paid all the fees for the season. No refunds. My father was very angry."

"But..." Shane said, and then he couldn't come up with anything else to say. It was just... unbelievable to him. Too hard to even formulate words about, particularly in the... fucking casual way Rozanov was doing. Like he didn't even care, like it didn't matter that he'd taken himself out for probably a whole season, injured himself on purpose for something stupid, when Shane would never have, would've given anything for--

And it didn't even matter, because Rozanov had still gotten everything, everything Shane had lost.

His breathing was off. His head felt dizzy. He felt bitter anger rolling up from his gut, seeming to originate from the point where Rozanov's head was pressing. "Well that was really fucking stupid," he said.

Rozanov rolled to look at him again, frowning a little. "Yes. Well. I was a teenager. Not known for smart decisions."

"I wouldn't have done that at thirteen," Shane muttered.

Rozanov looked away. "Maybe you didn't have my reasons," he said, his voice darker now.

Shane huffed. "What reasons could there possibly be? You had hockey, and you must have been pretty fucking good by then. Probably already had scouts looking at you. You had your whole career to think about, everything, all of it ahead of you. Why would you risk fucking that up? For a stupid fucking dare?"

Rozanov sat up abruptly, didn't look at him, drew his knees up and hunched over to wrap his arms around them. When he spoke again, his voice was icy. "You know, I already got this lecture from my father, at the time. I don't fucking need it again."

Shane felt like poison was eating a hole in his stomach, like he was going to be sick from it. "I'm not lecturing, I'm just asking. I'm just trying to understand what the fuck would make you want to do something so fucking stupid that could jeopardize the one thing that--"

Rozanov whipped around to glare at him. "Because my mother was fucking dead, okay? Because she killed herself, and I found her fucking body, just a few months before that, and I was not exactly doing very well. That was my reason, okay?"

Everything inside Shane went absolutely still, cold, slapped breathless with shock. "No," he said, like a reflex, like the denial was punched out of him.

Rozanov -- no, fuck -- Ilya looked at him with a flat, furious stare. "Fucking yes, Shane."

Then he pushed himself up, went to stand, and Shane -- moved. On instinct, no thought, only urgency. He lurched forward and grabbed Ilya by the shoulders before he could get all the way up, pulled him down, wrapped his arms around him, squeezed into the back of him, held on as tight as he could.

"No, don't. Please. Please. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, Ilya. Please. Don't go."

Ilya was rigid in his arms, straining against the hold for two, three, four breaths. Shane closed his eyes and gripped, feeling like his body, his strength, was all he had left to try to manage, salvage, what his stupid fucking words had done.

"Let me go," Ilya said, but his voice sounded small, and his body was already losing its tension.

"No," Shane said, squeezing tighter, burying his face between Ilya's shoulder blades. "Don't, please. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that happened, and I'm sorry I said all that stupid shit. I'm so sorry."

Ilya stopped fighting then, collapsing abruptly to sit down again, letting himself be contained within Shane's arms, although he was not leaning into it, not touching back, and Shane could still feel the anger radiating off him in waves.

He had to do more, something else to fix it. His mind scrambled for ideas -- anything, anything, he would do whatever Ilya needed. He thought about Ilya's story, about his mother's songs, the sweetness and the sadness of it now making his chest ache even more, and he threw out a desperate attempt.

"Do you want to... talk about her? Or... about you? How that... how that was?" he tried.

Ilya was silent for a few more moments. Then he leaned away, pulling himself free of Shane's grip so he could turn, looked at him with that awful angry hurt in his eyes, and Shane wanted to fucking... fuck, start crying or something, he didn't know. It just sucked so bad, that look. He hated it.

"No," Ilya said at last, his voice cool and quiet. "I don't want to talk about her, or me. I want to talk about you."

Immediately, a layer of cold dread laid itself in Shane's gut, right alongside the desperate regret and the tender ache and everything else.

"Just tell me," Ilya said, shaking his head. "Whatever it is you haven't told me, whatever makes you -- like that. Just tell me now. I know there is something."

Shane closed his eyes, swallowed hard around the tight strangle of pain in his throat. He couldn't... Ilya wouldn't understand, or would pity him. And it was too...

But hadn't he just thought... that he would do anything?

Fuck.

He scrubbed his hands over his face, breathing open-mouthed and ragged. Settled his palms to squeeze against his eyes.

"I didn't hurt my knee fucking swimming, Ilya."

A pause. Then, "Why did you lie to me?" Ilya said, deadly calm.

It rang through Shane's head -- why did you lie to me, why did you lie to me -- so personal that way, like the lie was one thing and the receiver of the lie was a whole different thing, and it was true, now, maybe, that the person mattered more than the lie, but had it been true when he'd said it? And did that even matter, since the lie was still going on?

He wasn't even making sense to himself. He pulled in a long breath and pushed at his eyes.

"Because it was hockey. I played hockey. I got hurt playing hockey. And then I couldn't play anymore."

The shelter felt vibrating with the silence between them, a beat, two, three, of nothing but that tense hush as the words were flung out and absorbed, sinking in like a rock thrown into water.

"Oh," Ilya said, and now his voice was so quiet, almost... sad. "And I am nothing but hockey to you?"

Shane pushed his hands up to clutch at his hair, felt like screaming the no that was howling in his heart, but there was, he knew there was still some part of him that hadn't really let it go, the old pain, the old resentment, and he couldn't say that, even now, even to this person, this version of Ilya that was a whole different thing. How could he say it -- you stole my life and I hated you -- when all he wanted to do was fix things, make it go back to five fucking minutes ago when he hadn't yet opened his mouth to ruin it?

He dropped his hands, took a breath. Tried to say some part of it, the part that wouldn't hurt any more than it had to.

"No. Of course not. It's just... hard for me. I really loved it. I really wanted it. I thought..."

"You were good?" Ilya said into the silence when Shane's words failed.

What could he say to that? What was the point of dragging out his list of meaningless accomplishments that he'd worked so hard for, that could've added up to something but hadn't mattered at all in the end. They still didn't matter now.

He shrugged instead.

Ilya said, "When was the injury? How?"

Shane sighed. "I was fifteen, almost sixteen. Took a bad hit, at high speed, then a bad fall on the same knee. Fucked up my ankle, too, but the knee..." He shook his head. "We tried a bunch of stuff, but it just never would... I couldn't skate the same."

He didn't want to go over the surgeries and the rehab and the treatments, all the hope, all the misery when the hope bled away. It led right back to here; there was no different outcome and he had learned very well that talking about it did not change even one thing.

"I'm sorry that I get... sensitive about it," he said instead. "I guess I'm just... fucking jealous sometimes."

That was mild, a more palatable version of the truth, and he knew it, and it was all he could bring himself to say.

It seemed to help, a little. Ilya sat back, his body loosened. He nodded.

"I have seen it, with a lot of guys," he said. "Guys who wanted it, didn't get it. It is hard."

Shane closed his eyes just briefly. He wasn't, he hadn't been, just a guy who wanted it and wasn't good enough, that wasn't right, burned a little, didn't touch the core of the wounded ache of unfairness inside him. But... what was the fucking difference?

"Yeah," he said. "It is. It was hard." Because that was the fucking truth.

"And you didn't want to tell me this?" Ilya asked, still looking a little raw. "Even after..." He shrugged, let that hang in the air.

Shane didn't know how that sentence was supposed to end. After what, exactly? Because did either of them actually have a clue what the fuck they were doing out here in the woods?

But also, he did kind of know.

"I just thought... that I didn't want to look like a fucking loser, I guess."

"Shane," Ilya said, gentle, admonishing, and he reached out a hand, rested it on Shane's fucked-up knee, and it stung all the sore places inside Shane's chest but also filled him with a relief so overwhelming that he felt like collapsing. He did kind of collapse, then, half-falling over and letting himself lean into Ilya, tucking his head into Ilya's chest and resting there, thinking, maybe this is not fucked beyond repair, whatever it is.

"You saved my fucking life," Ilya said, sliding an arm around his back. "You can do everything, you know everything. You think I give a shit you can't play hockey?"

I give a shit, Shane thought, but he didn't say it.

They stayed just like that for a while, curled together in a huddle, and Shane felt abraded raw and also safely held in a way he had never felt before in his life.

"Do you want to talk about your mom, though?" he asked after a while, careful, quiet.

Ilya hummed a little. "No, not... not right now."

"I'm really sorry, though," Shane said, a blanket apology for... for everything.

"Yes," Ilya said. "Is okay."

It wasn't okay, not really, but Shane just wanted... something. Some way to think it could be.

"Did you really believe I hurt my knee swimming? I thought that was such a stupid fucking lie."

Ilya gave a little huff, almost a laugh. "I trusted you."

Shane closed his eyes, feeling the stab of that, but Ilya went on, his voice calm, normal.

"I thought... I don't know. Maybe... you got tangled in a lane line? Rival swimmer attacked you with a hammer? Shark in the water? I don't know. Figured it must have been some big story."

Ridiculously, that made Shane laugh, which for a moment there he had kind of never expected to do again. "Well, that was generous of you. I'm such a bad fucking liar."

"So don't do it again," Ilya said, and his tone was light, but the words...

Shane didn't answer, just squeezed his eyes shut and leaned in harder, thinking I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry until his head felt spinning.

They moved, finally, got up to get ready for sleep, and Ilya looked at the sleeping bag and the haphazard blanket of spread-out clothes beneath it and said, "Gets cold at night. We should, maybe, do sleeping bag like it was before."

Shane, eager to give Ilya anything, whatever he wanted, nodded. "Okay, if you want. Yeah."

It wasn't like before, though, because instead of sleeping back-to-back, they did the opposite, face-to-face, pressed together, limbs tangled, as close as they could get. And Shane thought he had never felt warmer or more relieved in his whole fucking life.

Shane felt, the next day, a lingering sense of anxious concern about everything with Ilya. Like he was looking -- like he needed to look -- for ways to continue to apologize, or at least to show he was apologetic.

Ilya mostly seemed fine. At the moment, just after lunch, he was tossing bits of beef jerky to Champ, energetically trying to teach her how to catch them in the air. The treats were mainly just kind of bouncing off her face, which made Ilya wince every time, but Champ didn't seem to mind; she was eating them happily once they hit the ground. And no matter how often she missed, Ilya never seemed to flag in his optimistic belief that she was just about to get the hang of it. He looked pretty happy.

But that morning, when they'd woken up all wrapped around each other in the sleeping bag, Ilya had started kissing him as soon as his eyes were open, and when Shane made vague noises about brushing teeth first, Ilya had looked so disappointed that Shane had given in immediately. Then, moments later, when Ilya's hands had moved lower and Shane had -- breathlessly, weakly -- protested that the inside of the sleeping bag was so difficult to clean, Ilya had said, "Shane, please," with such sad eyes that Shane had thought, okay, what the hell, he'd figure something out. And after that, sprawled out and panting, Ilya had said how tired he felt, that he felt weak, and had to hold out a hand for Shane to help him up to his feet.

He just, overall, seemed a little tender about it all. It stabbed at Shane a bit every time, and he found himself hurrying to agree with anything Ilya suggested. He'd even pulled out some of the steak-based dehydrated meal packs for lunch, and there were only a few of those, and he typically reserved them only for dinners.

Looking at him right then, Shane decided they should do something nice, get out of camp for a while, now that Ilya was walking so much better. Shane had found a pretty big blueberry patch when he'd gone looking for the willow boughs for the chair; it was a bit of a walk, but they could go slow, and he would help Ilya as much as he needed. He didn't really mind it at all now, anyway, having Ilya leaning on him, pressed in close.

So they gathered up supplies and the foraging bag, put the carabiner chain on Champ for extra security, and made their way through the woods to look for blueberries.

They found them -- a lot of them -- and sat down on the ground to pick them. Ilya was eating as many as Shane was putting in the foraging bag, and throwing plenty to Champ (those bounced off her face, too). Which was fine; Shane wasn't really trying to save up a large stash of them or anything. Ilya seemed very excited to have any kind of food variety beyond the rations they'd been eating for days, and Shane was happy to see him happy, even though it made him feel... something. A little chill of unease, maybe, the reminder that the strict sameness of Shane's usual food and usual routine was limiting, constricting for Ilya.

But he tried to shake off the feeling when Ilya squiggled around to stretch out his body and plop his head onto Shane's lap, looking up at the sky.

"I am too tired for picking any more," Ilya declared. "You can feed me blueberries like a baby bird," he added, opening his mouth expectantly.

"You're ridiculous," Shane informed him, but he felt himself smiling, and he did obediently drop a blueberry into Ilya's open mouth. "And you are going to choke eating like that if you make a habit of it."

Ilya swallowed the blueberry and sighed. "Then you can save me. Again. I am sure that you know CPR, and Heimlich maneuver. And I already know you have plenty of practice with mouth-to-mouth," he said, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Wow, you are such a dork," Shane said, marveling, and far too fondly. He was just still kind of floored by it, this playful and goofy side of Ilya, would never have predicted it or guessed it was underneath the public image he'd fixated on for so long.

But obviously he hadn't known a fucking thing.

"No, no," Ilya protested. "These blueberries are very sweet, so you have to only tell me sweet things, to match."

"Okay," Shane said, thinking for a moment. "One cup of blueberries has about fifteen grams of sugar. That's pretty sweet."

"No, smart ass," Ilya said crossly, lifting a shoulder to thump it into Shane's leg. "Sweet things about me. You have to say, Ilya, you are the hottest person I've ever seen, and you are very brave to be in woods where bears live, and you fuck me better than anyone has in my whole life."

Shane had the urge to reply with something snarky, to say, "Ilya, you have the biggest ego I've ever encountered," but he still felt the anxious concern, didn't want to do anything to upset the nice moment they were having. And, well... he was pretty certain everything Ilya had said was absolutely true anyway.

He leaned down and kissed Ilya's forehead, and said, "Ilya, you are the hottest person I've ever seen, and you're very brave, and you are the best I've ever had."

He straightened up again, and Ilya looked up at him, an almost stricken expression in his eyes for a moment. Then he blinked, sniffed a little, and said, "And play with my hair."

So Shane did, abandoning the blueberry picking to wind his fingers in Ilya's curls.

Then Ilya, looking up at the sky, said, "And... sing me a song like my mother would."

Shane froze up for a moment, his hand stilling in Ilya's hair. He would... he wanted to do whatever Ilya wanted, but he wasn't sure... this seemed a little...

He peered down at Ilya's face, suddenly noting a little glint in his eye, a small curve of his lips.

He pulled his hand back and shoved at Ilya's shoulder. "Ilya, what the fuck! Hang on -- have you been messing with me all day?"

Ilya gave up on restraint, grinned gleefully and huffed out a laugh. "I can't help it, you are so easy, Mr. Guilty Eyes."

Shane shoved him again, pushing him fully off his lap and then twisting and lunging over to straddle him, pinning him down. "You fucking asshole, I thought you were sad."

Ilya blinked up at him, all innocence. "I am sad. I need everything I want all the time to be happy."

"You fucking don't," Shane said, digging into Ilya's side with his fingers, making him yelp.

They launched into a little wrestling match then, pushing and gripping, rolling over a few times, grinning and laughing and getting scratched by blueberry shrubs until they were both out of breath.

Ilya, who had ended up more or less on top, although they were both kind of sprawled flat, was smiling triumphantly.

"I am the winner, so you have to be not mad anymore."

"You didn't win anything," Shane argued. "And I can still be mad -- you fucking tricked me. I was worried."

Ilya shrugged. "I just wanted you to be nice to me," he said, maybe a little contrite.

Shane softened. "I'm nice to you."

"Not always," Ilya muttered, and Shane melted a little more.

He wrapped his arms around Ilya and squeezed him. "Okay, I'll be nice." Then, after a pause, he added, "I'm not singing a fucking song, though."

Ilya barked a laugh and flipped himself over so they were both looking up at the sky, his head propped against Shane's shoulder.

"It is... kind of okay, this place," Ilya said after a moment. "I can see why you like it."

Shane nudged his shoulder up a little to jostle Ilya's head. "I thought you hated the outdoors."

Ilya grunted. "Yes, well. There should not be bears. Or places for Champ to get lost. And it is very boring. But... not as bad as I thought."

He rolled his head to look at Shane. "When did you first come here?"

Shane thought for a moment, trying to figure out how much he wanted to say, since it all edged up on the sore spot of his hockey injury. But... he didn't want to be weird about it anymore, not after last night, felt tired of concealing and being careful. He'd already said most of the worst of it, anyway.

"When I was seventeen," he said, and when Ilya looked surprised, maybe a bit alarmed, he added, "Not by myself. I went with a group, kind of like the one you came with, but more focused on learning bushcraft skills and survival stuff."

"What made you want to?" Ilya asked.

"It was my mom's idea," he admitted. "I'd done a couple of little things, just camping, overnight stuff near Ottawa, but she found out about this expedition group and thought it would be good for me. It was after the... you know, after hockey was over. I guess I wasn't in the best place, like, mentally."

"But you liked it," Ilya asked, his voice quiet. "This place, coming here."

"Yeah. It just felt like... I was in a different world. Like, maybe, if I learned enough, I could... be a different person."

"And you are," Ilya said. "Shane Hollander, expert in wilderness things."

Shane swallowed, feeling a pang in his chest. He was, he guessed. He had worked hard to acquire every bit of knowledge he had now, had experienced more exciting and challenging and fulfilling days in the woods than he could count, still felt like there was so much more to learn and do. It had been a consuming thing for him, reading every book and taking every skills class and filling his head with new information, pushing and testing himself with new objectives, new goals. Trying to prove to himself, maybe, that having failed at one thing didn't mean he'd fail at everything.

But it had never really stopped feeling like a consolation prize. There was some stubborn part of him that had never let go of the what-ifs, the should-have-beens. If his hockey dreams had come true, he would never have had any of this, but as much as he loved the wilderness, he'd always known he would've traded it in an instant if he could.

And what would have happened then? Would he have been happy? Would he have been a closeted, anxious mess, always striving, never satisfied with his success?

Would Ilya still have come here, and gotten lost, and had no one to find him?

He closed his eyes, trying to push away the impossible-to-answer questions. Whatever could have happened, this was what he had gotten, and that truth had always landed on him like a weight he had to carry on his shoulders forever. He wasn't sure, then, why it felt a little lighter, thinking about it now.

He opened his eyes and looked at Ilya. "Well, I keep telling you -- learning is fun. And speaking of learning..."

Ilya frowned, then groaned. "Nooo, Shane. No more lessons."

"Yep," Shane said, pushing Ilya's head gently off his shoulder so he could sit up. He reached into one of the pockets on his pants and pulled out a folded piece of paper, a pen, and one of the compasses, which he'd stashed there before leaving camp. "I'm going to make a map, and you are going to get us back to camp."

"You said you would be nice," Ilya complained from his position flat on the ground.

"This is nice," Shane countered. "I'm teaching you things that could save your life."

"I told you, I don't need it," Ilya said, sitting up. He reached his hand out, bracketed it along Shane's face, pressed his thumb into the scattering of freckles on his cheek. "Map contact," he said. "I remember. You are all the map I need."

Then he leaned in, pressed a gentle kiss to Shane's mouth. Shane felt the now-familiar pull of it, wanted to sink in to it... but he had a goal to achieve.

He pulled back. "That's sweet. But you're still doing this."

Ilya dropped his hand, groaning again. "But I did not pay any attention on the way here."

"I know," Shane laughed. "So you'll have to use the map. Come on, you've got to find the bearing and then follow it." He sketched quickly, drawing the current position and the destination in swift lines.

Ilya watched, hooking his chin over Shane's shoulder. "This is not even a real map. How am I supposed to know true north on this, it is chicken scratchings."

Shane looked at him, impressed he remembered that much. "If it's a map I'm drawing, you can always assume true north is straight at the top. So that makes it easy. And don't forget the declination, you're going to want to adjust for about sixteen degrees east."

He finished the map and handed it over, along with the compass. Ilya took them, still looking a little dejected.

"Is a good thing I like you, Regular Shane," he said, frowning at the map.

Shane couldn't help smiling at his grumpy expression. "I like you, too. Now get to work."

Apart from the deliciously dirty sex, these days in the woods had been the most wholesome of Ilya's entire life.

He was outdoors constantly, breathing the freshest air he'd ever tasted. He was eating only healthy things -- including fish and berries collected directly from nature, like he was a wild animal or a homesteading influencer. He had not had a drink of alcohol or even one single cigarette in days, had not looked at his phone, woke every morning at the crack of dawn, and was learning Boy Scout skills like maps and fire-making.

None of this was, precisely, by his own choice. But still. He felt he should get credit for his remarkably clean living.

It was why, he assumed, that just after he successfully navigated them back to camp, he could not immediately identify the shrill chirping sound coming from one of the many pockets of Shane's pants.

Ah yes, the satellite phone was ringing. Ilya was now so pure and so disconnected from the nefarious influence of modern technology that he had not even recognized it.

Shane had no such issue, clearly, as he quickly disentangled himself from where he was supporting Ilya's weight to retrieve the phone from his pocket and take the call.

"Shane Hollander," he answered, very businesslike, and Ilya was grinning about this level of formality out in the woods -- until Shane held the phone out to him.

"It's for you," Shane said. "I think it's your manager?"

For some reason, the words made Ilya's stomach drop a little. Not because he had a problem with his manager -- Isaak was fine, had been taking care of Ilya's career things since he'd come to the U.S. He was a little old and slow, always seemed depressed, and maybe Ilya had mainly chosen him because he spoke Russian, which had been very helpful in the early days. But he handled most things with reasonable efficiency.

Still, it felt... jarring, this sudden intervening of Ilya's real life into the strange and undefined world he had been living in for days. He should have been expecting it, but it was as if he had forgotten entirely that his manager had ever intended to call him again, or even existed.

He took the phone, remembered to hold it with the antenna pointing to the sky as Shane had told him. "Isaak?"

"Ilya," Isaak said, sounding, as always, as if he'd just come from the funeral of a beloved family pet. "How are you holding up? Surviving out there?"

No thanks to you, Ilya thought. If he'd had to rely on Isaak to save him from the woods, he'd have been nothing but a ragged skeleton by now.

"I am fine," he said shortly.

"Good, good. And how is the leg? You will need to start your pre-season conditioning soon, so I hope you'll be in shape for it."

Ilya felt irritated, decided not to comment on it. "Why are you calling, Isaak?"

"Oh. Well, it's good news," Isaak said morosely. "It took some doing, but we have a rescue crew put together now. Very good men, they can do the job. I know it took longer than we hoped, but, you know, working across international lines. And we had the weekend in there, that slowed things down."

Ilya felt entirely disoriented. He had no idea what day it even was now, or when a weekend might have occurred. He had never called Isaak back after their initial discussions, had not been supposing him to still be working out a plan. He had, somehow, put all of it out of his mind entirely.

"Okay, and what is the plan?" he asked.

"They can come tomorrow," Isaak said, and Ilya felt a surge of... something, hot and forceful, in his gut, in his chest.

Tomorrow. That was, suddenly, very soon, and he faltered a little on his bad leg, walked over to go and sit in the chair, feeling a little winded.

He looked over at Shane, who was standing now at the farthest edge of the camp, turned away, giving him privacy, presumably, although Ilya was speaking to Isaak in Russian out of habit.

Tomorrow, he thought.

It was what he had wanted, of course. To leave the woods. To be lifted away from this unfamiliar, dangerous place, to get back home where he knew how everything worked, knew how he worked, knew what was expected of him and what he wanted.

Didn't he?

He had come here, on the trip, looking for something in the first place. But, of course, that had been a misguided impulse that had nearly ended in his early death.

And Shane...

What was there to think about, in terms of Shane? He didn't know, wasn't clear on anything, all of it seeming, abruptly, as gauzy and insubstantial as a feverish mirage. He wanted--

"But it would help," Isaak continued, as Ilya's thoughts flashed lightning-quick and erratic through his brain, "if you could provide some guidance, so at least they know in which direction to look. They have spoken to the boat charter service, so they have a starting point, but more information would be helpful. Can this person you're with provide that?"

Ilya thought of the map Shane had sketched and thrown at Ilya's feet, what he'd said that day. The map information could lead rescuers to him, and Shane would talk to them, help them find the location. Ilya could go home. Tomorrow.

The faint static from the phone pressed at his ear, demanding a response. He spoke, to say something, to answer.

"Yes, let me ask my..." There he hesitated. Friend? Lover? He couldn't say either of those. "My rescuer. I will call you back."

He ended the call, sat back in the chair. Shane, who had busied himself with some task, turned to look up from it.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

He felt he was seeing Shane through the wrong end of a telescope, suddenly. Moments ago, Shane had felt so close, so... essential. They had been laughing, playful, light. When they had kissed, back there with the blueberries, even though Shane had pulled away, Ilya had felt the traces of his wanting. And wanting was not the same as liking, but Shane had said--

"Ilya?" Shane asked, stepping closer. His eyes looked wary, his jaw a little set.

"My manager," Ilya started, felt the words stick in his throat.

Uncertainty, doubt swamped him abruptly. What was this game he had been playing, following feelings and ignoring questions and acting as if the ending did not exist, could not touch him? Everything ended, there was no steadiness, no continuation, not for him.

He knew that, deep inside where he hadn't been looking. But he'd thought, probably illogically, that there would be more... more time.

But now a decision was here, slapping sharply at him, and all the things he'd been willfully, heedlessly avoiding suddenly required his immediate attention, and the only thing clear to him was that... he wasn't ready to go.

He would go. It would end, he knew. But... now? Tomorrow? Already? Couldn't he have just a little more of... of whatever this had been?

Did Shane want that? Shane had come to the woods to be alone, had rescued Ilya unwillingly, had clearly resented his presence. Ilya knew why, now, and did not hold it against him. Not even the lying, although it had hurt more than Ilya had expected. But Ilya understood the impossibility of spilling painful truths, certainly did not make a habit of opening his own secrets to strangers -- and he had been a stranger. Maybe he still was.

And maybe he had provoked and aggravated Shane enough, maybe Shane would, after all, be relieved for him to go now. Tomorrow. So he could salvage whatever was left of the quiet, peaceful trip he had planned.

But there was the sweetness of today, even if it was inspired by guilty feelings. And Shane had said: I like you, too.

He had also said, of course: I don't even like you.

Which one was the truth, now? And how could Ilya find out without spilling out his own painful truths?

"My manager says they can send a crew for me," he finally managed to say. "Tomorrow," he added, watching Shane so closely.

Shane's face did not give him much. The set of his jaw maybe tightened, but his eyes did not flicker. His body did not move.

"Oh," he said. One syllable that revealed less than nothing.

"When," Ilya tried, "when do you leave here?"

Shane shook his head a little. "Oh, uh. Thursday. I thought... I thought you knew that."

Ilya, helpless and lost as always in these woods, lifted a hand. "I don't know what today is," he admitted.

It made Shane smile a little, and the sight of it twisted everything inside Ilya with rash hope.

"It's Monday," he said.

Ilya nodded. Swallowed. Tried to think of the right words. "So. Leave on Tuesday, leave on Thursday. Is not... much difference."

There was a pause in which Shane didn't move at all. Then he nodded, a small, tight shifting of his head. "Right. Right. I guess it doesn't really matter."

That didn't sound exactly the same as what Ilya had said, but he wasn't sure what it meant. He felt sort of sweaty, prickly, a dizzying swoop of not-knowing in his stomach. He had to try again.

"And you... prefer it to be Tuesday?" he managed.

That made Shane's face react. He blinked, drew back. "Me?"

"You are my... host," Ilya said. "Only seems polite to know what would be best for you."

"But what do you--" Shane started.

He stopped sharply, and Ilya could see him pull in a long breath, his shoulders rising with it. Then he stepped closer, until his legs were brushing Ilya's knees, although his eyes were elsewhere, looking up toward the sky, a little squinted.

"Well, I think..." Shane stopped again, swallowed, and Ilya felt he might burst out of his entire skin with the waiting. "I think there's still a lot of things you could learn out here."

Ilya's shoulders collapsed, everything inside him dropped into sudden, loose relief. He tried to grasp at casualness even as his heart thumped painfully in his chest.

"Yes, is true. You have not taught me even one of the probably five hundred kinds of knots you know how to tie."

Shane did look at him then, and he was smiling. "I do know a lot of knots, actually."

Ilya sniffed, nodded. "Could be useful. Could... tie opposing teams' skate laces together, maybe."

He wondered, with a stab of worry, if this hockey mention would upset everything he felt like he'd just somehow clawed back.

But Shane only huffed a little laugh. "Be honest, you'd probably just use it for sex stuff."

Ilya felt his face splitting into a wide smile. "Well then I definitely should learn."

Shane was smiling broadly, too. They were two idiots, looking at each other and smiling. What had Ilya's life become?

"I could definitely teach you," Shane said. "If you wanted to stay 'til Thursday."

"I could stay," Ilya said with a shrug. "Save money on rescue crew, learn important skills. Seems, like... sensible."

Shane nodded. "It'd be good for you, to be sensible. For once."

Ilya narrowed his eyes. "Oh, you are mocking me now?"

"Well, you did get yourself lost in the wilderness, so..."

Ilya made to stand up. "Ah, I see how it is. Maybe I will leave tomorrow after all," he said, but Shane caught him with a hand to his chest, pushed him back onto the chair. Climbed on top of him, straddling his lap.

"No, I think you should stay," Shane said, sliding his hands into Ilya's hair, pressing a kiss to his mouth.

Ilya caught him around the waist, hands gripping, pulling him in, leaning into the kiss, breaking it only to say, "Sensible."

"Yeah, sensible," Shane murmured, then went back to kissing him.

Ilya lost himself in the kiss, in Shane, in the press of his body and the heat of his mouth. Tried to ignore that this decision was maybe the least sensible of his life -- because none of this made any sense at all.

But he didn't have to think about that right now. He had until Thursday. He could think about it then.

It was Tuesday, which meant three days left, including today.

But really it was two days, including today, because Thursday was going to be a long, early-morning hike, and then a boat ride, and then...

So two full days left, and Ilya was strongly of the opinion that both of them should be spent constantly naked, or at least kissing, or at the very least touching. And so far things had gone his way, starting with morning wake-up (Shane had completely given up on protesting about the sleeping bag clean-up problem; maybe he would be throwing it away when he got home, despite it being top of the line and rated for whatever the fuck he had said) and continuing through the rest of the morning and into midday, with only small interruptions for breakfast and lunch.

But then Shane had insisted on going to bathe at the stream and then putting on clothes and doing productivity and learning, which was typical but still grievously unjust in Ilya's mind. He had bargained his way down to merely observing as Shane practiced his wood carving, which had worked primarily because Shane did not seem to trust Ilya to handle the wood-carving knife at all. It was a fair point, Ilya had to concede; the knife looked very sharp, and a knife-related medical emergency would definitely throw a damper on his sex plans. And once he had arranged things as he wanted -- Ilya leaning on the backpack, Shane sat in front of him between his legs -- he could wrap himself around Shane's back and watch his capable hands at work, and that was acceptable enough.

Was it sensible? Was it advisable? To be so... entwined, in a way that he had never been with another person in his life? Maybe not. But he had never been stranded in the wilderness before, either. Had never almost died in a clearing, had never used a compass, had never made a fire or caught a fish before this. He was having new experiences, that was fine.

And he was going to think about all of that on Thursday, but for now...

"What would you be doing now if you were at home?" he asked, hands tucked under the front of Shane's T-shirt, chin resting on Shane's shoulder to watch his careful carving.

Shane paused to squint upward, checking the position of the sun. "Right now? It's Tuesday, getting close to three o'clock in Ottawa. I'd be at work."

"At your desk?" Ilya asked, trying to picture it. "You have your own office?"

"Yeah," Shane said, returning to his carving. He was working on a chess piece that was beginning to take on the vague shape of a pawn. "It's not big or fancy or anything, but yeah."

"And what work would you be doing?"

Shane laughed at that. "Trust me, you don't want to know -- it would definitely be boring. Something involving spreadsheets, probably, or maybe a department meeting. Why? What would you be doing?"

Ilya found this topic much less interesting when it was aimed at him, but he thought about it. Three o'clock in Boston, too, a summer Tuesday afternoon with no obligations.

He shrugged, even though Shane couldn't see it. "Probably working out, maybe."

"Do you go to a gym?" Shane asked, focused on his carving.

"Ah, no. I have a home gym."

Shane lifted his head, laughed a little. "Oh, right, I'm a fucking idiot. For a second there I forgot you're fucking loaded."

Ilya didn't know what to say to that. Shane went on, anyway.

"You must have a really nice house," he said. "Did you buy it or get it built?"

"I just bought it," Ilya said. Another shrug. He didn't feel like discussing his house, or picturing its large, sometimes echoing spaces. "I don't care much about things like that."

Shane glanced back at him with a teasing look. "What, like material things? Don't you have, like, twenty ridiculous sports cars?"

"Is not twenty," Ilya said, a little defensively. "Is just maybe five. And they are not ridiculous, they are very sexy."

"Can you even drive those in the winter, though? It snows a lot in Boston, right?"

"I have a Land Rover for that. Why, what car do you have?"

Shane huffed. "I mean, it's not exactly a fair comparison. I have a Jeep."

Ilya groaned. "Oh, Shane. No."

"What? It's practical, I can take it to the woods if I go somewhere nearby. And it's good in the snow."

"This is tragic," Ilya said. He almost added, I will take you car shopping, but that would mean...

Shane said, "Well, I guess we have pretty different lives."

Neither of them spoke for a moment, that sentence hanging between them.

Then Shane seemed to rally, returning to his questions.

"What else would you do today? Or like, tonight. You'd go out or something?"

Ilya thought about it, a little reluctantly. He had, in fact, spent many Tuesday nights alone in his house, watching terrible television and scrolling on his phone until he was tired enough for sleeping. He did go out, some nights, went drinking, danced, hooked up. It was just... more recently it had sometimes felt like more effort for less reward.

"Maybe," he said finally. "Tuesday night... is not exactly a big party night."

"Well, the press makes it sound like you never stop partying," Shane said. "I guess they don't know how much you like reading maps and playing made-up chess," he added, being funny. A joke.

It made Ilya's chest feel achy.

"They don't really know me," he said, his voice coming out a little flat.

Shane left off his carving for a moment, reached a hand to press on Ilya's thigh. "What's that like, being in the media all the time?"

Ilya hummed a little. "It's... whatever. When I was younger I thought it was exciting, all the attention, like... people cared about what I was doing, who I was with, clothes I was wearing. Felt like a big deal, or important, or something. But now it feels a little... like, they don't care about me, they just want drama, or to catch me doing something I shouldn't, or... I don't know."

He blinked, surprised at himself for saying all of that. Being with Shane had a strange way of lulling him, disarming his usual defenses. It was... not exactly bad. A little scary.

"I'm sorry, that sounds kind of rough," Shane said softly. He gave Ilya's leg another squeeze and returned to carving. "Tell me something good, then. Like what's your favorite thing to do? I mean, it's hockey, probably, but like, if you're not busy with that."

Ilya should have an answer for that. That was a basic life question. It should be easy. But it felt... not right, somehow, to say something like drinking in clubs or fucking random strangers. He didn't want to say those things, but he couldn't think of what else.

"Tell me yours first," he said instead, leaning in to press his lips just lightly to the base of Shane's neck.

Shane leaned into the kiss a little, his head tilting as he sighed. "I guess... I mean, the woods and all, I go camping pretty often. Not big trips like this one, but just weekends and stuff. And Rose -- that's my friend from work -- she made me join this movie club? It's like a book club, but we watch movies instead, and everyone is always picking the weirdest fucking shit, but we talk about it after and it's pretty fun. Oh, and I do trivia nights sometimes with some friends from college. I see my parents pretty often, for dinner and stuff."

He paused, looked back. "Oh, wait, I was supposed to pick one thing, right? Fuck, sorry. I guess -- the woods. Big surprise, right?"

Ilya tried to laugh a little, to respond as expected, but this neat summary of Shane's life, so easily reeled off, made him feel slightly off-balance. Shane had interests, friends, family, so many things he loved. It was--

"Okay, now yours," Shane said.

Ilya swallowed, tried to think. His life could not be this fucking empty of good things, it felt ridiculous. He remembered how afraid he had been about dying in the clearing, how rich and full his life had seemed then. But it was all hockey he had thought of -- winning Cups, being famous, having money. Why did that look so pale and thin now, next to Shane's cozy list?

"I like... dogs. Like, when I see dogs in the park," he said at last.

Fucking pathetic, that was not an answer. Looking at other people's dogs, briefly passing? That was his favorite good thing in life? For fuck's sake.

"And traveling," he added hastily, before Shane could consider his first answer for too long, could recognize its threadbare sadness. "Going on trips."

Shane laughed a little. "Just not to the wilderness, right? Never again."

And that, too, made a pang in Ilya's gut, and what the fuck was the matter with him right now? Never again going to the wilderness was precisely his goal and his intention. It was not... not a reason to feel so...

"Do you go back to Russia a lot?" Shane asked then.

Ilya sighed. "Mr. Curious," he said. "You have so many questions."

Shane elbowed backward, shoving lightly against Ilya's side. "You started it. And you hardly ever talk about yourself. I've already told you lots of stuff about my life."

"Yes, like your glory days on the swim team," Ilya said, a little sourly, feeling unreasonably itchy in his skin.

Shane twisted around to look at him, his eyes stricken. "Hey, don't do that. You know I'm sorry about that. And I have told you, like, real things, since then."

It was true, and... probably Ilya was being an asshole, trying to dig at Shane to deflect his questions. He didn't want to talk about his life, all its ugly sides and weak spots, did not like the feeling of acknowledging that all of that was part of him, below the surface he knew how to keep mirror-smooth.

But he also did not like Shane looking at him that way, hurt in his eyes, and maybe some little hope in them, too.

"Sorry," Ilya muttered, and he leaned in with a squeeze at Shane's middle. Shane sank back into it, and then it felt easier, a little, to talk. "I have already said some things that, you know, are not so good about my life, so it's not easy for me, but... But no, I don't go to Russia anymore. I used to go every summer, but my--"

He stopped, cleared his throat. "My father died, a few months ago. He was sick a long time, and before that I was mostly going to check on him, but... now I don't have to, so."

Shane put his carving things down and twisted around again, this time all the way so he could look right at Ilya. It was sweet and... and disconcerting, and Ilya didn't know where to put his eyes.

"Hey, I'm sorry about your dad," Shane said. "I know you've said some things, like, maybe he wasn't..."

Ilya heaved a sigh. "He was not a good person," he supplied, nodding. "But, still is a little strange that he is..." He didn't know how to finish, or how to describe the paradox of trying to grieve his father, who had never offered any protection at all and yet had still existed in Ilya's mind as some sort of shield, an overhead layer of defense against total unsheltered existence in the world.

"And your brother?" Shane asked softly. "Do you see him at all?"

Ah, the hits just kept coming. Ilya felt he could sit there all day and spill out tales of woe about his life, depressing everything about the day, betraying his own scarred origins, and that was not the impression he wanted to leave Shane to remember him by. But how could he answer except with the truth, with Shane's eyes on him so earnestly?

"No, we don't get along. He is an asshole, and..." He shook his head, ran out of words.

Shane completed the sentence. "And you're not."

He said it so confidently, with such assurance, that it tightened Ilya's throat painfully, and now he really had hit his limit for personal and emotional conversation, so he reached for the easiest thing, the nicest thing, the thing they had that didn't have to brush against their real lives or the gulf that stretched between them. Shane had his loving family and his nice friends and his full, rich life, and Ilya was a fucked-up orphan with fleeting connections and an echoing house, and those things did not fit together. But their bodies did, and that was something, and he would take it, wanted it, needed it even if it was all that he would get.

So he put his hand on Shane's jaw, stroked his thumb over those plush lips. "Yes, you are right. I am such a good person, so patiently learning all your lessons, but I think maybe I have learned enough about wood carving now?"

Shane rolled his eyes, but his lips under Ilya's thumb were curving up a little. "I barely even did any wood carving. What could you possibly have learned?"

"I have learned," Ilya insisted, leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of Shane's mouth. "I know things about wood carving now."

"Name one thing you learned about wood carving," Shane challenged, even as he leaned in, his eyes dropping closed.

Ilya smiled, pushed at Shane's chin to open his mouth so he could slide his tongue inside. "I learned that it takes too fucking long."

There had to be something wrong with Shane's brain or his body, because there was no way that kissing Ilya should still feel this good.

There had been a lot of kissing, just in general, and today specifically -- to the point that he had even begun to have vague worries about -- he didn't know -- possible dental implications? To having someone else's tongue in your mouth that much? Was that a thing?

It wasn't like he was going to stop if so, but it just amazed him that they had kissed that much and still, every time Ilya so much as brushed his lips against him, he immediately felt like he might sustain some kind of internal injury if he didn't get to suck on Ilya's tongue right away and for as long as he wanted. Which seemed to be... infinitely?

God, this was so fucked-up. They were leaving on Thursday, and that was almost certainly the last he was ever going to see of Ilya Rozanov, hockey superstar and millionaire and noted playboy and... and goofy joke-maker and dog merchandise inventor and absolute glutton for candy. The things he knew about Ilya now did not fit with his public image -- Ilya was more than that, he knew that now, and Ilya had his own problems, of course he did. Shane remembered how he had secretly, spitefully enjoyed Ilya's pain, that first day, and it made him feel sick to think of now, because hearing about Ilya's family, about anything that seemed like it could hurt him, made Shane feel like... like kicking something, or someone, or anyone who tried to do anything that would make Ilya feel bad.

And okay, yeah, none of that fit with the public image, but it didn't cancel out the reality of the situation, either. Ilya had a whole life to return to -- big, exciting, special -- his fancy house and his impractical cars, going out to clubs and traveling and being a fucking hockey god. What the fuck could someone like Shane ever offer to compete with all of that? What did he think, that Ilya would want to come with him to fucking movie club? Fuck.

Maybe that was part of it, why he couldn't seem to get enough of Ilya's mouth and hands and body right now, because he knew it was a limited-time offer, a wildly improbable situation that could never be repeated, and he had to take as much as he could get now to last the rest of his fucking life.

Or maybe Ilya was just a fucking sex wizard, because everything he did made Shane so achingly turned-on he couldn't even think straight. Which was fine, probably best, because thinking about the whole situation made him feel bad, and he was trying not to do it anyway. There would be plenty of time for thinking about it after Thursday, more time than he wanted, no doubt.

For now, he surrendered, let the pleasant white-noise static fill his brain and sweep away his capacity to think or worry or conceive of any moment that wasn't this right now, Ilya sucking at his neck, pressing him back onto the sleeping bag, thoughtfully remembering to move the wood-carving things out of the way because Shane had forgotten they existed.

Ilya crawled on top of him, settled between his legs in a way that immediately made Shane breathless, the feel of Ilya hard against him right there enough to send his heartrate spiking. Ilya was kissing him, hands sliding under Shane's shirt to grab at his chest, but otherwise not even so much as rubbing himself against Shane, and Shane could sense that Ilya was settling in for one of his long, thorough explorations, which were hot and delicious but also torturously slow, licking and kissing and touching for ages, like they had all the time in the world, and they didn't, and anyway Shane never felt like it was fast enough because he always wanted more, right away.

He slid both hands into Ilya's hair and gripped, kissing him as hard and deep as he could, thrusting his hips up for friction, trying to inspire more urgency, just more everything, started pulling at Ilya's shirt so he could get his eyes and his hands and his mouth on his skin, the width of his chest, the bulky curves of his shoulders. Ilya obligingly pulled it off but then went right back to slow and languid, pushing up Shane's shirt, sliding himself down to lick and suck at one of his nipples, grazing it with his teeth, and it made Shane twist and arch, pressing up into it. Ilya moved his mouth lower, and Shane gasped hopefully, but Ilya just stayed right there, licking at his abs and squeezing his chest, thumbing over his other nipple in an almost dreamy rhythm.

Shane tried thrusting up again, into Ilya's belly that was pressed against him now, but Ilya just pushed a hand against his hip, holding him down.

"Please, come on, can you just..." Shane started, and Ilya lifted his head, his expression serene but his eyes glittering sharply.

"Impatient," he said, smacking a wet kiss at Shane's navel. "Greedy."

"Yes," Shane admitted, like a hiss. "You can't... you can't go so slow, it's too -- I think it might be genuinely bad for my health or something."

Ilya chuckled. "Oh, you are Doctor Shane now? It won't hurt you. And you need to learn patience," he added, dragging the word out, squeezing at Shane's hip, fingers stroking down to dig into the meat of his ass. "You want it to be over so soon? You have more important things to be doing?"

"No," Shane said sulkily, and he didn't want it to be over, but it was going to be over, which was why he needed it now.

Ilya hummed. "Correct," he said. "Now be good or I will take an hour before I even touch your dick."

"No," Shane said again, moaning this time. "You already did that this morning, please, Ilya, don't."

"And you came so hard," Ilya said, stroking his hand up Shane's chest again, up to his neck, pushing his shirt up until it tangled around his throat. "All the way up here. Thought it would go in your mouth, maybe. You would like that, yes? We can try again."

A wave of urgent lust rippled through Shane's body at the hot, dirty words, the low growl of Ilya's voice saying them.

"Fuck, he said, heartfelt, writhing a little with the feeling, and he reached a hand between them to get at his dick himself, but Ilya knocked his hand away, clicking his tongue in reproach.

"Cheating," he said, voice light but serious. "This is my job, not yours."

"Well, then fucking do it, fuck," Shane said, feeling like his dick was about to rip through his pants, straining for more touch, more friction, more sensation.

Ilya laughed. "So bratty," he said, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Shane's belly, but he did at least slide his hand down, tracing lightly over Shane's dick through the fabric.

It was almost worst, this feathering touch, and Shane pushed up into it hopefully, but Ilya adjusted, keeping the contact minimal, teasing.

Shane groaned, long and low. "Why do you like to do this to me so much? It's fucking mean."

"Hush, you like it," Ilya said, his voice assured. "And I like seeing you like this, so desperate."

He pushed himself up abruptly, almost a lunge forward, sliding his body along Shane's until they were eye-to-eye again, grinding himself against Shane with sudden, forceful pressure that made Shane gasp and try to buck up into it.

"You want me so much?" Ilya asked, his eyes dark, intent on Shane's.

"Yes, I want it, I want you," Shane said, no hesitation, only the honest fucking truth. He half-sat up, abs straining, to get his mouth to Ilya's, slung an arm around his neck to pull him down, closer, heavier on top of him. He kissed him hard, deep, filthy, grabbing at his shoulders, his neck, his hair, grinding upward against his dick, as if he could transfer it, the frenzy he was feeling, that he always felt with Ilya, could pass it to him through the press of their bodies.

He broke the kiss, gasped into Ilya's mouth. "I want you, Ilya." Kissed him again. "I want you. Want you to fuck me, please."

Ilya groaned, pushed his hips down roughly, and Shane could feel the throb of his cock against him even through their clothes.

But Ilya shook his head. "No, not today. We have only one left." He paused to lick at Shane's neck, bite at his earlobe, panting a little. "Have to save it, for tomorrow."

For tomorrow, he said, but what he meant, Shane knew, was for the last day, the last time, and it fucking stung inside Shane's chest, and it felt -- something -- too out of reach, too precarious, like if he didn't get it right now he might lose it entirely, and he had to have it.

"No, listen," he said, body twisting under Ilya's, trying to think, come up with some way to argue, to convince -- difficult when his brain was half static and half frantic need. What he came up with, ultimately, was, "We could just do it now."

Ilya half laughed, half moaned like he was in pain, but he pushed himself up with his hands, starting to pull away, like he was refusing, and Shane couldn't take it, couldn't have that. He reached up and looped his arms around him and dragged him back down, clamping on to him, pouring out words and pressing them into him between kisses at his cheek, his neck, his mouth.

"No, no, listen, please, I'll do anything, whatever you want, I'll suck you so good first, I'll open myself up for you, you won't even have to do anything, I'll do everything, just please, please. I want you so bad, need you now. Don't make me wait, please, Ilya."

Ilya pulled back just enough to look at him, and his face was so tense with hungry need, his eyes hot and sharp.

"Fuck, Shane," he said, his voice rough. "You need it, have to have it?"

"Yes, please," Shane said, pressing up into him in a rolling wave of his body. "Now, today, not later, I can't wait."

Ilya dropped his head onto Shane's shoulder, muttered in Russian, swearing maybe, harsh and sharp. Then he pushed up out of Shane's grip, went up to his knees.

"Yes, okay, we will do it, what you said, all of that," he said, leaned and stretched for the backpack to get the gel and the one precious condom. Shane felt flattened with relief and surging with a fresh wave of hot, straining anticipation.

Then Ilya said, "If you earn it."

Shane went still, not sure if he was more dismayed or wildly excited by this addition. "What?" he asked, breathless.

"Impress me," Ilya said, almost a growl, dropping back on his heels, tossing the items he'd pulled out of the backpack onto the sleeping bag. He grinned sharply, almost feral. "I made a fire for you, caught a fish, read a map. I did everything you wanted. Now is my turn. Show me what you can do, and I will tell you if it is good enough for me to fuck you, fill you up with my cock like you need."

It made Shane's whole body quake, the challenge of it, the idea of earning it, the hot, thrilling words in Ilya's hot fucking mouth, all of it wrapping together to make him so blindingly turned on that his dick jerked, spurted inside his clothes, and for a gasping half-second he thought he was going to come on the spot.

He had to close his eyes for a minute to get himself together, but then he pushed himself up to his knees. "I can do it," he said, low and determined.

Ilya shrugged, though his face was still tight, his breathing harsh through his nose. "Prove it," he said, eyes fierce. "Show me how much you want me."

Shane had never felt so fucking motivated in all his life, to get what he wanted, to get Ilya, to show him, to give him something he wouldn't forget when this was over. He had the urge to wildly tear off his clothes and just -- do everything, immediately, but he knew he had to slow himself down, find some calm, or he would just be a fucking trembling mess, and he had work to do now.

So he breathed, slowed his thoughts, got to his feet. Tugged off his shirt, folded it, dropped it to the side, and then his pants. He shifted his body, only in briefs now, so he was closer to Ilya, who was still on his knees -- not close enough to touch, but enough to tease, suggest. Enjoyed the way Ilya's gaze dropped down to the bulge in his underwear. Shane rubbed a hand over it, trying to go slow, palming up from the base, gripping a little, watching the way Ilya's eyes tracked the movement.

"You see what you do to me?" he asked, low and quiet. Ilya nodded, half-lidded eyes locked on, a little hitch in his breathing.

Shane reached inside his already damp underwear, got a hand on himself, couldn't stop a moan. With his other hand, he tugged the underwear down just a little, enough to show the tip, his hand on it, worked himself a little, half-hidden under the cloth.

"Let me see," Ilya said, almost breathless.

Shane pulled the underwear down, just another inch, and Ilya made a frustrated noise.

"Fucking tease. Show me," he said.

Shane's dick jumped in his hand, and he was not going to be able to keep touching it if Ilya was going to look at him like that, fuck. He swallowed, shoved the underwear all the way down, and, groaning, took his hand away at the same time. Ilya glared up at him, looking so annoyed Shane would've laughed if he wasn't so fucking close to losing it. And now his dick was right there, so close to that beautiful mouth, and he knew very well what that mouth could do, and he could not keeping thinking about that.

Okay, okay. He sucked in air, blew it out slowly. Sank down to his knees and leaned in to kiss Ilya, because he just needed to suck on his tongue for a minute, just for... for steadiness. He pressed in to his mouth, drinking up the low groan Ilya gave, but when Ilya got a hand up to the back of his neck to pull him in, Shane ducked out of the hold, pulled back. Ilya leaned after him, but Shane braced him with a hand on his chest.

"No, you stay there. Let me show you."

God, Ilya's face looked so fucking wrecked already, and Shane felt a little thrill of triumph and anticipation. He was going to ace this fucking challenge, and he wasn't done yet.

He shifted, got onto his back on the sleeping bag, dragging one hand down his chest as he reached for the bottle of aloe gel with his other hand. He got it open, spilled a little over his fingers, pulled his legs up and slid his hand down between them, keeping his eyes on Ilya, who was quiet, intensely focused.

He tapped at his rim, feeling the cool slickness of the gel, his body heating at the contact, at the idea of what was coming next. He gritted his teeth, torn between racing through it as quickly as possible so he could get what he wanted, or dragging it out slowly because the way Ilya was watching him, those hot, hungry eyes so focused on him, made him shiver, made him want to put on a show so he could get more of that.

Compromise, he decided, moaning a little as he worked the first fingertip inside. It already felt so good -- the pressure, the anticipation, the watchful eyes -- that he couldn't stand too much of it, he was already so worked up his dick was throbbing. So, just enough, not too much. He concentrated, had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, gasping around the sensation of it.

"This is where you want me," Ilya said, low and gravelly, and Shane snapped his eyes open to look at him.

His jaw was flexing, eyes hot, hand gripping himself through his shorts.

"Yeah, Ilya, right here," Shane breathed, working in another finger. "Want you in me, want you to stretch me, fill me up. I'll be so tight for you, it'll be so good, I swear."

Ilya's face creased like he was in pain. "Fuck, Shane."

Shane could feel himself sinking into it, body flexing, noises he couldn't hold back spilling out of him. He pulled out, pushed back in with three fingers, rushing it a little now, pushing through the ache of it because he was ready, so fucking ready, so fucking--

He pulled his hand away, unable to stop a little juddering wail at the feeling, and dropped his legs, careful not to even brush against his dick because he felt like he might come from a strong gust of wind at the moment. He pushed up onto his knees, panting a little, looked at Ilya.

"Up on your feet," he said, gesturing with his hand. "I want to be on my knees for you."

Ilya let out a ragged breath, scrubbed a hand over face. "Shane, you will fucking kill me." But he got to his feet, staggering a little.

"No," Shane said, crawling toward him. "I saved your life, you can't die. At least not until you fuck me again."

Ilya let out something between a laugh and a choking sound, pushing his shorts and underwear off and away.

Shane didn't bother going slow now -- he was too close, and the sight of Ilya's big cock in front of him made a tight clench of hunger spasm though him. He got a hand on it, got his mouth on it, stretching over the tip and thrusting his tongue along the underside. Ilya groaned, his hips hitching forward, hands falling into Shane's hair, gripping in. Shane focused hard, swirling his tongue, dragging his lips, feeling the motion of Ilya's hips under his hands as they twitched helplessly forward.

Shane pulled back, looked up. "You can fuck my mouth if you want," he said, and Ilya moaned and pulled his hair so tight it made Shane's eyes water. "But you can't come, not like this," he warned, trying for sternness, which was difficult when he was so breathlessly turned-on he felt like his whole body was on fire, burning with fucking wanting, mind spinning.

Ilya made a sound like a sob and collapsed to his knees, pushing into Shane, pushing him back onto the sleeping bag, falling on top of him and shoving his face into his neck, hot panting breaths fanning over his skin.

"Yes, fuck, I have to fuck you, please, now," he said, grinding his hips down, the hard length of him burrowing against Shane's thigh.

Shane wanted to savor his victory, wanted to say -- something, ask if he'd earned it, make Ilya say it -- but he couldn't even speak, body jolting with frantic need, whimpering when Ilya pulled back and found the condom, started to roll it on one-handed, reached for the gel with his other hand. Shane couldn't keep still, his body rolling up like that could make Ilya go faster, but Ilya was going fast and he was back in seconds, crushing down between Shane's thighs, pushing his legs up to his chest.

"Need you, fuck," Ilya said, mouth dropping to Shane's to suck and bite. "You are ready, you are sure?"

Shane felt like his jaw was locked, could barely grit out a please please, and then Ilya was pressing against him, panting above him, and finally, finally pushing in, groaning low and long. Shane threw his head back, all the air in his lungs pushed out, hot stretch and fullness shorting out his brain. Ilya grabbed at the underside of his thigh, pushed it further, tilted his hips, and oh, fuck, the perfect angle and pressure lit everything inside Shane like a lightning bolt, flaring, intense pulsing of pleasure.

"Oh, fuck," Ilya moaned, a ragged sound. "Like this, yes?"

Shane tried to answer, but all that came out of him was a sound, a long jagged wail that he could not stop, but he grabbed at Ilya's arms and squeezed, pulled, and Ilya began to move, slow thrusts at first, speeding up, each one bearing down perfectly at just the right place, and Shane couldn't think, couldn't stop making the noise, couldn't be anything but the rolling gathering wave of thundering ecstasy.

It was too fucking good, overwhelming everything, and every time Ilya moved inside him it burned hotter, higher, crazy-making escalation driving frantically through him until--

"Shane, look at me," Ilya gritted out above him, and Shane looked up, looked into Ilya's burning fierce gaze, and gasped, came, hard, seizing, pulsing out of him in ropes, and Ilya watched it, mouth dropping open, shoved inside him hard and rough and frantic and then stilled, seated deep, body stiff as he cried out face-clenched and straining.

Shane got his voice back then but could only manage to say, "Holy shit, holy fuck," his body collapsing loose and thumping with syrupy throbs, so fucking good he didn't want to move in case he interrupted it. Ilya was moving, burrowing his upper body into Shane's chest, gasping, still thrusting in sharp little jerks as Shane let his legs fall heavy to the ground.

For long moments they just held there, pressed so close, breath heaving and bodies shuddering with waves of deep, satisfying release, riding it out together, too much for words or thoughts or anything but this, us, the miraculous thing they'd made with each other.

Finally Ilya moved a little, rolling his head against Shane's neck like he was shaking his head.

"Fuck, Shane," he breathed. "How the fuck are you like this, fuck."

"Like what?" Shane said, still panting a little but slowing down now, eyes closed at the heady sensation of Ilya's body pressing him down, the drifty fucked-out bliss of his brain.

"Fucking perfect," Ilya said, sounding a little put out about it.

Shane smiled, dragged a hand lazily over Ilya's back, dampened with sweat. "You didn't think I could do it?"

"No, I knew you would," Ilya said, half-muffled where his face was pushing into Shane's neck. "So good at everything, is fucking impossible not to--"

He broke off, groaned instead, pushed himself up enough to pull out and toss the condom to the side.

They both looked at it for a moment. The last one.

Fuck. Maybe Shane hadn't exactly thought this through.

Ilya collapsed onto the ground next to him, kissed at his neck, his shoulder, trailed his fingers through the mess of come on Shane's abs, his chest, looking at it almost regretfully. Shane still felt some distance away from worrying about cleaning up, although he knew he would be registering the sticky and uncomfortable sensations soon. At the moment, he just felt a little distracted by calculating the time they had left and what exactly that time could contain.

Ilya's mind seemed to be elsewhere. He pulled himself a little away, rolled onto his back, eyes on the tarp overhead, apparently thinking about... hockey, because what he said next was, "You watched the Cup final this season?"

Shane blinked, trying to orient himself to the conversation. "Uh, yeah. I always watch."

That wasn't precisely true, because he hadn't been able to make himself watch every bit of the Raiders' wins, torn between wanting to see it happen and not being able to stand looking at it. But there was no need to get into that, not now.

"Kind of... interesting," Ilya said. "What happened."

Shane brought his mind back to the topic, still feeling a little slow in his thinking. "Oh, you mean the whole Scott Hunter thing?"

It had landed on him, of course, the way it had on everyone, the shock of a Cup-winning professional hockey player bringing his boyfriend onto the ice, but he... hadn't really let it land on him in particular. Maybe, if he'd been able to play, it would've had implications for him, but since he hadn't been able to, it had just felt like one more item in the pile of things about hockey that would never apply to him. He wasn't sure why Ilya was bringing it up now, though, unless it was just... well. What they'd just done. Pretty gay. So, on-topic.

"Yes," Ilya confirmed, nodding a little. "It felt like... I understood it, a little. When I won, it was..."

Shane's chest tightened, waiting for the rest. He'd wanted this, before, had wanted to know, had never intended to ask about it after... after everything that had changed between them. But he had still wondered, wondered now if it would feel like anything, if it would change something inside him.

"It was a little strange," Ilya said finally. "To be celebrating, big moment, feeling like... it was everything. And then it was time for the families to join in, come on the ice."

He stopped again, and Shane felt a little throb of understanding, of pain. "You didn't have any family there?" he asked, keeping his voice soft.

Ilya shrugged. "I didn't expect them, or even want them there. But it was..." He paused, and Shane felt the burn of it inside. Of course, the story he'd imagined and the real one weren't aligned, again. He'd been such a fucking idiot for so long, thinking Ilya had everything.

He reached a hand over, stroked over Ilya's chest, wishing he could pull out any ache that might linger there.

Ilya looked over at him then, and his eyes were... Shane couldn't tell. It felt like Ilya was trying to say something, send some silent message, and Shane wasn't good at those so he tensed, waiting, watching carefully.

"So, I understood, maybe," Ilya said at last. "Why Hunter did that, took such a risk. It was a very big risk. Took... a lot of courage. But, I can see..." He stopped again, took a breath. "Sometimes things seem... scary. Or, maybe, impossible. And sometimes, they are. But."

He looked at Shane as if he was asking a question, or waiting for some answer, but Shane didn't know what the question was, or what he was trying to say.

Ilya took a big breath, his chest rising with it. "I just wonder if... if what he did, Hunter, if it really would change things, or not. Like, for hockey... or for people in hockey."

It hit Shane, then, all at once. What Ilya meant. The message he was sending. His heart sank, and his stomach clenched.

Right. Of course. This was not a surprise. Shane already knew, had always understood that this thing they were doing was not going to be a real thing, not in the real world, out of the woods and into their actual lives. He knew that. Not even because of what the hockey world would think about it, although that was certainly a factor -- clearly a big factor for Ilya, despite whatever Scott Hunter had done that maybe could change things, at least a little. But this whole thing between them was already impossible anyway, so it wasn't like...

Maybe it was just the fact that Ilya thought he had to tell him, thought he wouldn't get it -- maybe that was what stung so much about it that Shane felt a mortifying wet tightness in his eyes just then.

He rolled away before any of that could show, reaching toward the backpack to grab for the ever-dwindling supply of wet wipes he had stashed in a pocket. Reached for some way to answer, to turn the conversation before they had to actually confront it for real, say it out loud, all the things that would happen. Or... that wouldn't happen. He knew. He just didn't want to think about it now. They still had time, and he didn't want... he didn't want to do this. Not until Thursday. Not until he had to.

He forced himself to laugh a little. "Wow. Never thought I'd see the day you'd be saying something nice about Scott Hunter," he said, occupying himself with wiping at his chest. "Aren't you always chirping him in the press about being an old man?"

Ilya didn't respond right away, took the fresh wet wipe Shane handed him in silence, sat up a little and took a breath.

Shane continued, fast, before his conversational pivot could fail and they'd be back to the things he didn't want to talk about, didn't want to look at yet. "I remember seeing some post-game press clip like a year ago, after you beat the Admirals -- and you said maybe he hadn't played well because he was sad about all his cousins dying from the meteor that killed all the dinosaurs."

He laughed about it a little, and it seemed to work, to break the tense moment from before.

Ilya let out a long sigh. "Wasn't exactly that. I said his good friends, not cousins." He paused for a moment, shrugged. "And I said maybe his T-Rex arms were too short to use his hockey stick correctly."

Shane laughed, relieved to be back to lightness, the clench of his chest loosening. "You're such an asshole."

"You are laughing," Ilya pointed out. "I think you like it."

"I never said you weren't a funny asshole," Shane said, standing up and reaching for his clothes. "Come on, let's go fishing while we still have some light left. I bet I can catch more than you."

And that was all it took to reset, to get things back on track. They still had time. They still had more.

They didn't have to think about it yet.

Shane had an agenda for Wednesday.

Not something he'd written down, or something he planned to reveal to Ilya, but a fairly detailed mental checklist of things to do, ways to fill the last real day and night with activity and purpose and fun, all in service of avoiding one thing: painful conversations.

They'd come too close to it yesterday, and after spending another night wrapped up in Ilya's arms, he felt more nervy and raw about it than ever -- worried that Ilya would feel compelled to break the news to him gently, to look at him with sad, pitying eyes and explain all the reasons they couldn't see each other again. He didn't -- he couldn't hear that, not out loud. It was all already ringing in his head anyway, but actually hearing the words from Ilya's mouth... no.

Not to mention that he was not very confident he would be able to respond correctly if Ilya did say those things. He knew the right words, had practiced them in his head just in case it did happen despite his best efforts -- some variation of I understand, of course, that makes perfect sense, you're right. Maybe followed by a firm, friendly handshake, if that seemed right in the moment.

But what if, in the moment, he didn't say all of that? What if instead he got all overwhelmed and lost his focus and did some horrible, mortifying thing like ask Ilya to reconsider, or try to list counterpoints and arguments for why it could work, or just start fucking begging like a pathetic loser? Then he'd have the rest of his life to remember that, and that wasn't what he wanted his memories of Ilya to look like.

So, instead, the agenda: all good things, fun things, things they would enjoy, nice things for the last memories they would ever make. And things that kept them busy, so there would be less opportunity for talking.

He hadn't slept very well because of all this planning, his mind racing with ideas and preparations, but still his eyes had popped open at the first sounds of Ilya waking in the early light of dawn, wanting to be ready for anything.

And when Ilya gave him a full-body squeeze, lifted his head from where it had been burrowed in against Shane's chest, looked at him with soft eyes, and said -- in a serious sort of way that might be a precursor to more serious words -- "Good morning," Shane was quick to say, "Hey, good morning," in return and then lean in hastily for a kiss.

It escalated rapidly, as things had tended to do between them in the first light of morning over the last few days, and before Shane's sleep-deprived brain could even fully log all the sensations his body was experiencing, his shorts were tangled up around his thighs inside the sleeping bag and his precome-slick dick was in Ilya's firm hand.

This is good, he had the presence of mind to think distantly, because it was really difficult to say anything during this that wasn't, like, oh, fuck, Ilya or something, and most of the time his mouth was busy doing stuff with Ilya's mouth, so they both couldn't talk, and that was ideal, really.

Unfortunately -- on many levels -- he couldn't last very long under the sliding grip of Ilya's hand and the hot suction of Ilya's mouth on his neck, and even including the gasping moments afterward when his brain was kind of... not there, it didn't take up much time at all. So then he struggled around to unzip the sleeping bag and fold it out of the way, determined to take his time and subject Ilya to the longest, most torturously slow blowjob of his whole life -- partly to kill time, partly in retaliation for the agonizingly languid things Ilya was always doing to him. But then once he was actually down there, laid out between Ilya's thighs, just licking the tip and maybe sucking it a little bit, his mind kept saying more very insistently like it wasn't working right, and somehow, before he knew it, he was practically all the way down and flexing his throat like he was starving for it and, well, that didn't end up taking very long, either.

He was a little disappointed in himself, honestly, but it was hard to feel that bad about it because it had been insanely hot, the way Ilya had been groaning and huffing, his body clenching, thrusting up and pulling at Shane's hair when he came. So, that was definitely a good memory they'd just made, and that was part of Shane's goals for the day, too. So it was fine, actually.

After, when Ilya had dragged him up and they had kissed and touched for a little while, catching their breath, Ilya pulled away a little and stroked Shane's face with his hand and said, voice low, "Shane..."

Shane swallowed and pushed himself up to a sitting position and said, "Hey, you should go see if that squirrel you like is around this morning."

Ilya had been talking about this squirrel for days now, reporting on it most mornings with supreme confidence that it was always the same squirrel, even though there were a lot of squirrels in the woods and they mostly looked exactly alike to Shane. Ilya even called it "my squirrel" and referred to a second squirrel he sometimes saw as "my squirrel's friend," like he really could tell the difference between them.

So it was a good tactic, and as Ilya headed out into the trees, Shane went to retrieve the backpack from the bear hang and reminded himself to lock in on the agenda.

For the next little while, they were busy with morning things -- no one could talk with a toothbrush in their mouth -- and then Shane put Ilya on oatmeal-making duty (he was an expert at it now) while he went to get more water from the stream to boil after the oatmeal was done. He didn't want to spend much of the day away from Ilya -- the whole point was to have a good last day together -- but he would take it in a pinch.

After breakfast clean-up was done, Shane brought out the last of the beef jerky and convinced Ilya to give Champ training another try, so then he spent the next hour watching Ilya's enthusiastic attempts to teach Champ to learn various commands like "sit" and "roll over." Champ was only really good at "stay," and Shane was pretty sure that was only because she just didn't feel inclined to move, but Ilya took that one as a victory and made an appreciative fuss over the little dog. Shane felt like he was taking a little video of it in his mind -- Ilya's face, smiling and proud, the way he talked to Champ so earnestly and encouragingly. That would be a nice memory.

They walked to the blueberry patch after that, Ilya still leaning his weight on Shane as if he hadn't just been running and jumping around the camp trying to encourage Champ. His leg was clearly fine by now, but Shane didn't mind the closeness, tried to memorize the exact sensation of Ilya's arm across his shoulders, the width of his waist and how it fit into the curve of Shane's hand. At the same time, he kept an eye on Champ in her jingling carabiner chain and kept up a running stream of commentary about whatever they were passing: That's a spruce tree -- did you know you can make tea from the tips of the branches? You just boil them, some people add honey but I don't think you need it, especially if you get the new growth in the spring. It tastes good, kind of like citrus, and it's really good for you -- lots of vitamin C. It can actually prevent scurvy. Anything he could think of, just to keep the space between them filled up with innocuous words.

The blueberry patch was kind of a gamble, he knew -- a danger zone where they'd already had one sort of heartfelt conversation, but he'd worked out a strategy for avoiding that this time.

"Let's do a contest," he said, setting out his foraging bag and handing Ilya an improvised one that Shane had fashioned from one of his T-shirts. "Let's see who can collect the most in the next -- I don't know -- thirty minutes? An hour? We can count them at the end."

Ilya looked at him a little strangely. "Why do you want to collect so many? You think we will eat them all today?"

Well, that was a fair fucking point. He shrugged. "I don't know, just seems like it could be fun. And if we don't eat them all, we can just leave them in camp. Something will eat them, after we're..." He paused, felt like kicking himself. He'd just dragged the conversation to exactly where he didn't want it to go.

Ilya was looking at him, kind of... kind of looking at him. "Shane, after today--" he started.

Shane hopped to his feet. "Oh, I know. Let's see how many you can catch in your mouth. You were trying to get Champ to do it last time, but I bet you can't even catch one."

Feeling a touch hysterical, he flung a blueberry at Ilya's face. It bounced off his nose, and Ilya looked at him like he was insane.

"What the fuck?" Ilya said.

Okay, that had gone weird, but the only way through now was to commit. Shane tossed another blueberry. This one glanced off Ilya's temple.

"You're not even trying," he said, and Ilya, looking a little irritated, picked a blueberry and hucked it toward Shane's face in retaliation.

Shane dove forward -- feeling a surge of adrenaline like this was as crucial as any hockey game he'd ever played -- and managed to catch the blueberry in his mouth. He hooted, lifted his arms over his head in celebration, and showed Ilya the blueberry on his tongue.

"Motherfucker," Ilya said, but he scrambled to his feet. "Give me another. I can catch it."

So then it was on, and it was actually very fun. They laughed a lot and got competitive and argued about the score and about what kinds of throws counted and which ones were cheating, and before Shane knew it, another happy hour had passed, and he figured they could go back to camp. He did another nature guide routine on the way back, this time telling Ilya about a tamarack tree they passed. Did you know the tamarack is the only conifer that loses its needles in winter? You can make a tea from it, too, and some people think it's good for arthritis, although I haven't exactly been able to test that since I don't have arthritis. It's got seeds that squirrels like to eat -- hey, maybe we'll see your squirrel friend. Oh, did you know squirrels can locate food stashes even if they're buried under an entire foot of snow? And so on.

It was close enough to lunchtime when they got back, so he put Ilya on cooking duty again while he busied himself with reorganizing the now significantly lighter backpack -- almost all the dehydrated food packs had been eaten now, but he had a fair amount of trash to pack out, so he made sure that was all secured in one of the larger garbage bags he'd brought. And then it was time to eat, and eating was another one of those things that made it difficult to talk because your mouth was busy, so that went fine.

And after that was all over and the dishes cleaned off with water from the jug, he immediately proposed a game of SmashChess, because they had only played a couple of times since inventing it, and he wanted to make sure they had at least one more chance. Also, it was a very absorbing game -- at least the way they played -- so it should ward off any unrelated conversational attempts.

Ilya was looking at him again, though, while Shane pulled the half-carved pieces and the book from the backpack. He looked... kind of concerned this time.

"You are okay?" Ilya asked, frowning a little.

Shane wasn't sure he was okay. He felt almost breathless, his heart seemed to be beating faster than normal, and he was definitely experiencing the ragged, wired aftereffects of a night with too little sleep. But so far everything about the day was working out exactly like he'd hoped, and he wasn't about to give up now.

"Sure, I'm fine," he said, kneeling down to start setting up the board on top of the sleeping bag. His hands were shaking just a little, but he didn't think Ilya could see that from where he was standing by the fire.

But Ilya came nearer, watching him closely, then knelt down right in front of him, the makeshift game board between them. Shane kept his focus on setting up the pieces, until Ilya put a hand under his chin and gently pulled his face up so there was no choice but to meet his eyes.

It wasn't a hardship, of course -- he loved, well, he liked Ilya's eyes, their shifting blue-green shades, their different moods and levels of intensity. They just were a little too perceptive, sometimes, and Shane felt, had always felt, since that first day, that Ilya could see things that Shane was usually able to mask pretty well. He had no idea what Ilya might be seeing in his eyes right now, but he figured the main thing Ilya was looking for was reassurance, so he spoke again.

"Honestly, I'm fine," he said, reaching out to squeeze at Ilya's wrist below the hand holding his face. "I didn't get a great night's sleep, so maybe I'm a little tired, but it's no big deal."

Ilya was still regarding him too seriously, and Shane felt the welling up of that half-frantic feeling he'd been having all day. "Let's just play, okay?" he said quickly before Ilya could speak. "It'll be fun."

"Do you think..." Ilya began, and Shane's stomach clenched, wondering if this was it and if so, how he could stop it. "We should talk?" Ilya finished, looking uncertain.

Shane took a slow, careful breath. "Uh, sure, yeah. But... after, okay? Let's play first. Oh, I had a idea for the blockers -- what if we make a rule that if they fall over, they go, like, invisible for one turn, and you can go through them?"

Ilya dropped his hand, nodded. Sat down so they could play.

Shane sat, too, feeling like he'd had a narrow escape. With any luck, they would play for long enough that Ilya would forget all about talking, and in any case, as soon as they were done, Shane planned to propose the next item on the agenda as if he'd forgotten all about it, and they could just keep going from there.

And if all else failed, they could just start kissing. It had always worked before.

If Ilya hadn't thoroughly examined every corner and compartment of the backpack, he might have wondered if Shane had hidden some drugs in there somewhere. Because he was acting a little coked-up.

He had been buzzing all day, talking far more than usual, pelting Ilya with both blueberries and facts about nature, and suggesting a new activity with almost manic cheer every time there might have been a natural lull in the day. Shane liked to keep busy, yes, but this was a new level. A not-normal level.

So, Ilya thought, it was either secret drugs that Shane had kept hidden up until now -- although where he might have hidden them, Ilya couldn't imagine, since he had done some pretty thorough cavity searches -- or Shane was freaking out a little bit.

Ilya was freaking out a little bit. Had been freaking out a little bit since the previous afternoon, when Shane had fucking... seduced him in a way that had made Ilya's body feel like it was burning and his brain feel like it was melting. He had been reduced by it, somehow, simplified down to a wanting so fierce and pure that there were no other thoughts, no other considerations, only Shane at the center of a focused roar of need.

A little intense, yes. And after, the thought of it being the last time, the thought of this last day, all of that had left him feeling shaken and... concerned.

That was the word for it, maybe. Just concerned about what, and where, and how they were going to go on now, with the way his insides felt very tense, and with the way their time was rapidly depleting, and with the way that there seemed to be words inside of him that wanted to be outside of him, but every time he thought he might at least try to open his mouth and see what they were, exactly, Shane would find some way to make it feel impossible, and then Ilya would lose his nerve.

Because if it wasn't a doing-drugs thing, then it seemed very much like Shane did not want to hear the words that might be trying to escape from Ilya's mouth.

But he wasn't sure that was going to be enough to stop them, because although he had a sense that they were not very smart, and maybe they would not be very welcome, they were at least very persistent, pushing at him all the time to just stop being a fucking chickenshit and say them.

I don't want it to be over.

Yes. He was pretty sure those were the words.

He didn't know what they meant, exactly, and he didn't know if they would matter if he said them. But the feeling of them aching in his chest -- that he knew with increasing familiarity and certainty as the day went on. Every time Shane touched him, or said something that made him laugh, or smiled, or rattled off one of his boring nature facts about fucking scurvy or arthritis, Ilya felt the chest-ache intensify to something piercing, and it made him a little terrified that the feeling existed at all and terrified that by this time tomorrow, there wouldn't be any Shane in front of him to make the feeling happen anymore.

By late afternoon, he was a fucking mess inside. They had finished the chess playing after several rounds, and as Ilya had half-feared and half-expected, Shane hadn't brought up the idea of talking about anything, so Ilya hadn't brought it up, either. Then they had spent a pretty fucking grim hour disassembling the chair that Shane had made so that they could return the materials "back to nature," as Shane had put it. This involved Shane cutting the chair's bindings with his knife while Ilya made trips back and forth to the trees, carting the wood pieces away and trying not to view the whole thing as a depressing fucking metaphor.

Shane had proposed a bath after that -- the last bath, the last trip to the stream entirely, probably, because they had already boiled a lot of water to be ready for the long hike tomorrow -- and once they were in the water Ilya was really very sure that he was going to just say it then, because the sight of Shane's naked body made him feel the most fucked-up combination of insanely turned on and stupidly mournful, and that was not okay, but before he could even start to speak, Shane was kissing him and grabbing at him and pressing in to his body, and Ilya was only fucking human so he did that instead of saying a word.

He could not regret what they'd done yesterday, but he did wish fiercely that he still somehow had that last condom now, or that he'd had the foresight to bring some with him when he'd wandered away from the adventure camp, or that Shane would lose his mind enough to let him do it anyway because what he wanted more than anything at that moment was to be as close as he could get, all the way inside, deep, like he could leave some lasting impression or become such a part of Shane that he couldn't possibly be sent away. But that was fucking idiotic, and anyway they didn't have the last condom anymore and they hadn't even brought the aloe gel to the stream so the whole thing wasn't even worth thinking about.

He went to his knees instead, right there in the shallower water, and got his mouth on Shane and did his absolute fucking best, all the things he had learned made Shane get breathless and trembling and loud, his hands in Ilya's hair as Ilya looked up to watch Shane's face go slack with pleasure and then tight with desperation as he came, crying out, hips rocking forward and eyes squeezed closed, and Ilya remembered how he had come the day before with his eyes burning right into Ilya's, and he wanted to say look at me right then but his mouth was full and all he could do was hold on and hold on.

Shane dropped to his knees after and kissed him again, then pushed him back out of the water and onto the grassy bank, used his mouth, that fucking beautiful, perfect mouth, and Ilya could only lie there and take it until he couldn't take it anymore, couldn't hold back, the sweet hot, relentless bliss of Shane working, pulling, dragging it out of him until Ilya lost his mind entirely. He couldn't even think about words, then, gasping and collapsed on the grass, and Shane pressed kisses into his belly and rubbed his face there, his breath hot against Ilya's wet skin.

And then he said, "Hey, let's go fishing," and patted at Ilya's chest and got up to get the fishing gear.

Ilya wanted to grab him and pin him and make him listen, right then, but his legs felt like jelly and his brain felt gluey and slow, so he just nodded and dragged on his clothes and got ready to go fucking fishing.

There was only the one handline reel, so Shane went first, baiting and casting and keeping up a steady stream of chatter about fishing tips that Ilya wasn't really listening to. He was sitting on the bank, on the flat part away from the rocks that lined that part of the stream, and thinking, really thinking, about what he wanted, and what he wanted to say -- what he was going to say, what he was just about to say.

"Oh, fuck, I think I got one!" Shane shouted happily, and Ilya broke from his trance of fixated thoughts to shake himself back to the moment, watched Shane's determined, delighted face as he reeled in some kind of big fish, clapped his hands and made the appropriate noises of enthusiasm as Shane dragged the fish onto land.

Shane got to work cleaning the fish right away, down at the water's edge, slicing and cutting away all the gross parts and explaining things about the process, but Ilya was turning over another process in his head.

He lived in Boston. Shane lived in Ottawa. That was a problem. But, not an impossible one. They could still see each other, sometimes. Ilya had money, he could go to fucking Ottawa whenever he wanted. As long as he didn't have practice, or games, or travel to other places that weren't Ottawa, which he did have a lot of the fucking time, but there was some time he could find. And also... well, people moved, got different jobs. That was a thing that people did. Maybe they didn't do it after spending a handful of days together on an unplanned rescue situation in the woods, okay, that part was less normal, but it was possible. If the people wanted it to be.

And Shane was gay and out, and Ilya was a hockey player, and that was a problem. He would never ask Shane to be a secret, and it might be a little complicated, but if ancient grandfather Scott fucking Hunter could deal with it, Ilya certainly fucking could, if he had reason to, if Shane wanted...

And that was the fucking question, wasn't it? Everything came down to if Shane even wanted it -- Shane with his family and his friends and his interests, his whole full life that maybe didn't even have any room for... but would he make room for...

Did he even want it? Did he want it? Did he want more the way Ilya wanted more?

He had to say it. He was going to say it. Shane stood up, finished with cleaning the fish, which he held in one hand, the messy knife clutched in his other hand, and Ilya thought say it now, just fucking do it, and he said, "Shane, I have to say something," and Shane looked sharply back at him and just for a second, their eyes met, and Shane's face flashed with worry and a shaky-looking weariness, and Ilya's heart clenched, and then Shane was moving--

Shane was slipping, suddenly, boots sliding on the wet rocks as he turned too fast, and Ilya jerked to a stand and made some kind of shout, ran toward him, but it was not fast enough. Shane's feet shot out behind him, hands scrambling with all he was holding, and he pitched forward and fell into the water with a splash.

Ilya got there a second later, reached for him even as Shane pushed himself up, but his face was crumpled in a weird way, and Ilya looked down, frantically, looked everywhere for the problem until he found it.

The knife. The knife from Shane's hand. It wasn't in his hand. It was in his leg. Stabbed into his leg, into his thigh, deep.

The knife was in his fucking leg.

There was a moment -- a stupid, pointless moment -- when Ilya stared at the knife sunk into Shane's leg, stood frozen staring at it, muscles locked and heart clenched, a moment when the only thing in his brain was the thought: This is what happens when you try to ask for what you want.

Fucking self-indulgent shit, it made him furious, it shook him loose, and he moved, trying to pull Shane fully upright out of the water so they could do something, so they could fucking fix this, they had to just fix it and he wasn't sure how but--

"Shit," Shane said abruptly, his voice tight and strangled, and then he reached down and yanked the knife out of his thigh.

"No, don't--" Ilya said, but it was already too late, the knife was out, Shane was holding it looking wild-eyed, and blood was already welling up from the wound in a sickening gush that poured out over his knee.

"Fuck, Shane," Ilya said, a frantic feeling rushing up from his stomach to grip his chest, because he was pretty sure that was wrong, he wasn't sure but he was pretty sure--

"Oh, shit," Shane said, looking at the knife in his hand. "I shouldn't have -- that wasn't right."

"I know, yes, I know," Ilya said, and fuck his chest felt so tight. "But--

"It wasn't clean," Shane said, crouched over, looking up at Ilya with those wide eyes. "It wasn't clean, though, it had -- the fish. But fuck, I don't think I -- should I... fuck, do I put it back in?"

Okay, okay. Shane was not thinking right, he was freaking out or shocked or something. Ilya tried to gasp a steadying breath, tried to think.

"No, no. Let me have the knife," he said, first off, to start, before Shane could do something insane like plunge it back into his leg. Shane just kept looking at him, so Ilya pushed his hand right in front of him. "Shane, give it to me, give me knife, right now."

Shane's fingers slowly uncurled from around the handle, and Ilya pulled the knife carefully away from him and then dropped onto the grass. Okay, okay, next thing, next thing.

"Come and sit, sit here," he said, hauling Shane out of the water onto the stream bank, turning him, settling him down carefully on the grass.

Shane was staring down at his leg, at the blood, because there was a lot, and more coming all the time. "Fuck, that's a lot of blood, okay."

"What do we do? Tell me," Ilya said, kneeling down on the grass next to him. "Pressure? We put pressure to stop bleeding?"

He'd been cut deep by a skate blade once, on his arm, right between the elbow pad and glove, in a tangle of crash-falling bodies, the medics had to come on the ice, and he was trying to remember everything they had done, even though this was not the same, even though that had been years ago and he hadn't paid enough fucking attention at the time, fuck.

Shane shook his head, blew out a breath, seemed to be trying to gather himself. "Okay, yes, pressure, that's right. Let me, okay, we need, I think, something... for the blood." He tugged at his wet shirt, like he was trying to pull it off, and Ilya pushed his hands away as gently as he could.

"No, no, let me," he said, yanking his own T-shirt off over his head, wrapping it around his hand in a loose bundle. "I just... press down?" He hovered his hands above the bleeding wound, uncertain, scared, determined all at once.

"Yeah," Shane nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. "It's going to fucking hurt, fuck, but yeah, just push down, kind of like, on both sides, just push down hard and hold, and you have to -- for a long time. At least, I think fifteen minutes? Twenty? Fuck, I can't remember exactly."

"Yes, okay," Ilya said, trying to breathe, steady himself. "You can hold on to my arm, you can squeeze it for the pain, if it helps." He dragged in one more big breath and pushed his hands and the shirt into the wound, pressing as firmly as he thought he could without hurting more.

It hurt more. Shane yelled a little, his body jolting, but he grabbed on to Ilya's arm and squeezed, so hard it made Ilya gasp even though he tried not to react, and then they were both just grimly holding on, bodies and jaws locked, the only sound their harsh breathing and an occasional muttered curse from Shane. Ilya pressed and pressed, watching the blood soak into the shirt in a way that made his skin skitter with chills, feeling the ache of where Shane was gripping his arm, his mind racing ahead to what to do, what to do next.

The bleeding was the main problem, he thought. Stopping the bleeding was the main thing, to make sure there wasn't too much bleeding, because what the fuck were they going to do if there was too much bleeding, and what the fuck were they going to do anyway because they were out in the fucking nowhere woods and this was definitely a hospital situation but that wasn't happening so what the fuck.

Shane would know. Shane had first-aid training, and Ilya was fucking useless as always, but he could do what Shane said, he would do fucking anything, and they would figure it out, it would be okay, but they had to be calm. Shane had to be calm, to think, to direct things, and Ilya could at least help with that.

"Listen, let's breathe, okay?" he offered, trying to get Shane to open his eyes and look at him. He thought about the panicking rookies, the breathing techniques -- Shane wasn't quite panicking but he wasn't quite right, either -- and Ilya needed him to be right, to be all right, he just needed him to be okay right now and... and fucking forever.

Shane didn't open his eyes, but he nodded. "Yeah, okay, we can do that. Probably... good."

"Okay, good," Ilya said. He did not move from his position, did not lessen the pressure he was pushing down, but he tried to focus his mind. "Box breathing, yes? Four count in, hold for four, four count out, hold again. Okay? Ready?"

Shane nodded again, and they both breathed in, a silent count of four between them, held, gusted out the breath, held. Started again. The rhythm worked between them immediately, a pattern they could follow in wordless accord, and they kept going, kept going, Ilya still holding the pressure, Shane still gripping Ilya's arm, for how long Ilya could not say. He was prepared to live in that moment forever, if it would help, just holding and breathing, in that moment where everything was still basically okay, if they just kept breathing and holding on.

"Okay," Shane said at last, and he opened his eyes, and they looked a little less wide and wild now. "Okay. So, I think, the good thing is, the wound is toward the outside of the leg, so that means it didn't hit the big artery, that's on the inside," he said, sounding like he was reeling off facts as they appeared in his mind. "So the bleeding should stop. Maybe already has."

Ilya looked down at his hands, at the blood-soaked shirt. It was so wet and crimson now he couldn't tell if there was still more blood coming. "We should check?"

"No," Shane said immediately. "We leave it there for now, because..." He thought for a moment, nodded. "Because if it's clotting, that could disturb the clot. But then we need to clean the wound, bandage it, pressure bandage if we can. Maybe a splint to keep it immobilized."

He leaned back abruptly, letting go of Ilya's arm, lying down flat on his back. "I should be elevating it, really, but this should be a little better."

Ilya nodded, watching the bloody shirt, looking for more blood trickling out because it had all moved when Shane moved, but he didn't see any more blood, he didn't think, it was too hard to tell. But at least Shane was talking now, remembering things, thank fuck. Ilya could do things but he could not be in charge, could not have Shane's well-being in his fucking idiot hands, he would fuck everything up way too much.

"Shane, you need a hospital, I think. Can we call for help? Call the boat now, to take you? Or... a helicopter?"

Shane had his eyes closed again, but he shook his head, hair scuffing against the grass. "I don't think so. It's going to be dark soon, and either way we'd have to hike to the pickup spot, and I don't think it'd be smart to try hiking in the dark. We'll just have to... get through the night, and then we'll figure out how to do it in the morning. The boat'll be here then anyway."

He looked up at Ilya then. "We need the first aid kit. Can you bring it? I don't want to move too much until it's bandaged."

"Of course, yes," Ilya nodded. "You think now is okay? To stop pressure?"

"I think so," Shane said, though he didn't sound one hundred percent sure.

Ilya took a breath, eased back onto his heels, letting off the pressure in slow degrees. He watched closely for a long, anxious moment, but he didn't see a stream of fresh blood leaking from under the wadded wet mess of the shirt, so... that was good?

"Okay, looks okay I think," he reported. "I will go now."

As he moved to push up to his feet, Shane grabbed for his arm again. "And... you'll come back," he said. Not a question, exactly, but he looked... kind of scared.

Ilya scowled at him, blew out an impatient breath. "No, I think I will wander through woods again instead. Was so much fun the first time. Fucking hell, Shane."

"Okay," Shane said, huffing the smallest little laugh. "Okay, good."

Ilya moved, fast, made it back to the camp, looked around wildly for things he needed. Wet wipes first, just to get the blood off his hands, so he wouldn't get blood on everything else. Then the first aid kit -- he knew where it lived in the backpack now. The wrap he had used on his ankle in the first few days, that would help, maybe. The jug of boiled water, the soap, the bottle of painkillers. What else?

He couldn't think of anything, didn't want to take any more time. He could run here again if he needed to, but now he wanted to be back at the stream.

The thought of Shane bleeding again, bleeding more while he'd been gone, pushed him on, and he reached the streambank breathless, his knee twinging a little but he did not care at all.

But Shane seemed okay, nothing looked different. Ilya sank down next to him, dropping all the things, catching his breath, waiting for instructions.

The next little bit passed in a grim kind of blur. They tried to take Shane's pants off, but as soon as he moved around more, the blood started welling up again, so then Shane directed Ilya to cut away the one leg of his pants with the knife, which Ilya did not want to do and which did not seem safe -- Shane hadn't even wanted him to handle the little wood-carving knife, and this one was so much bigger and had already hurt Shane once -- but Shane insisted very calmly and firmly, so Ilya did it, gritting his jaw so hard the whole time he thought his teeth might break even without too much candy or too much hockey.

Then there was cleaning the wound, pouring water over it, which made Shane hiss and his muscles clench, which made the blood ooze a little again, which meant more cleaning. There were little alcohol wipes in the first aid kit, but they were not particularly useful battling against the thick wells of blood, and there was antibiotic ointment, but it was impossible to apply around the slow sludge of bleeding. Ilya felt worried about the fact that the dirty knife had gone deep into the flesh and there was no way to clean out inside the wound, but there was nothing to be done about that for now. He cleaned and wiped and did as much as he could, feeling sweaty and in over his head the whole time.

At least there were clean bandages, and he put the antibiotic ointment on them, got them fastened on and bound over with the stretchy bandage that he'd used on his ankle, then it was done, for now, even though he could already see some spots of blood seeping out, staining even the outer bandage a little. It was slow seeping, but it was happening. But Shane said it would be okay, and Ilya certainly didn't know any better, so he kept his mouth shut about it.

The next problem was getting Shane back to camp, and Shane was talking about making a splint and how maybe he could hop on his good leg, and Ilya lost his patience and his grip on his freaked-out frustration and simply squatted down and lifted Shane up into his arms like a newlywed bride.

He couldn't do it quietly -- Shane was staggeringly heavy, and he was moving all around protesting, demanding that Ilya put him down -- so Ilya had to groan about it, but he didn't listen to Shane, just said, "Be still and shut the fuck up," and Shane, finally, did, and Ilya told Champ, gasping, to stay -- she knew that command now -- and he stomped his way back to camp feeling like his knee and his lungs and his heart might all explode at once, but they made it.

He got Shane settled on the sleeping bag, ran back to the stream to collect Champ (she stayed, good girl, best wonderful girl) and the other things, brought everything back, and knelt down near the sleeping bag to figure out what was next.

Shane looked crazy in his wet shirt and his one-legged pants, and his leg was beginning to swell around the compress of the bandage, and when Ilya tried to shift him to get the shirt off him, he moaned a little at the movement.

"It hurts?" Ilya said, easing the shirt off and flinging it away. "You need the painkillers, we forgot."

Shane just nodded as Ilya settled him back on the sleeping bag, eyes closed, so Ilya got the pills and the water and helped him sit up a little again so he could swallow them down.

"What else? What next?" he asked, his heart still beating frantically in his chest.

"Just rest, I think," Shane said. He looked exhausted, the skin on his face flushed and tight, his hair sticking up in all directions. "Let me just rest for a bit, and then I'll think of what else."

Ilya pressed his lips together, feeling a blade of worry in his stomach. Rest was fine, maybe good, but Shane had lost a lot of blood, and was there some point where losing that much blood and then lying down to rest was...? Fuck. He didn't know, could only trust in Shane now, but Shane wasn't quite Shane at the moment, and that scared the fucking shit out of him.

"Okay," he said finally, stroking a hand over Shane's hair, smoothing it down like that would fix anything. "Yes, okay, you rest. Don't worry, you can rest, is okay."

Shane stirred just a little. "You'll stay here?"

Ilya dropped his head. Where the fuck did Shane keep thinking he was going to go? Even if there was anywhere to go in these fucking woods, why would he go, why would he ever fucking go?

But out loud, he just said, "Yes, of course. I'm right here," and tried not to think about how it all sounded like one of those scenes in a war movie where one of the army people was about to fucking die.

That wasn't happening. Shane would be okay. He would. Ilya would just... make sure of it.

He didn't know what the fuck he was doing or how he would manage it, but he would figure it the fuck out. Because Shane fucking Hollander was not going to die, not as long as Ilya was around to do anything about it.

It was a horribly long night, and Ilya spent almost all of it trying to think of useful things to do and then doing them.

He kept the fire going so that Shane wouldn't be cold. He knew how to feed it now, where to place the new wood so it would catch, so the air would circulate, so it would burn long and bright and warm.

He got out the satellite phone and traced back through its rudimentary call log, found the number for the charter boat service, and got fucking voicemail when he called, which was infuriating, that they would not still be working when Shane was fucking injured, but he managed to leave a reasonably calm and rational fucking voicemail asking them to please arrive as soon as possible and to bring medical help with them.

He made sure Champ had food and water, got her settled in her bed as full darkness set in around them.

He made dinner and woke Shane up, got him to eat a little of it, not much but some, sat him up at steady intervals after that for water and painkillers.

He packed away all the food things and took the backpack to the bear hang and hoisted it the way Shane did -- this was not a night for taking chances on a fucking bear coming into camp, on top of everything else.

Through all of it, Shane seemed... more or less okay. He was very tired, possibly because he had lost a terrifying amount of his fucking blood, and he kept dropping into sleep so deep it scared Ilya every time, but whenever Ilya woke him, he blinked back to life and was himself, if a pale and muted version.

Finally it got so late and Ilya's exhaustion so heavy that he stretched himself out next to Shane, careful not to jostle his leg, pressed into his side so he could grip on to him carefully, and fell into a tense, fitful sleep.

He woke at dawn feeling sweaty, overheated, and for a frantic moment he feared the fire he'd fed had been too much, had spread, that everything was on fire, because of him, his fault. But when he jerked his head up to look around, he saw the camp was fine, the fire was smoldering low, Champ was safe in her bed. And Shane...

Shane was the fire. Hot to the touch, burning against Ilya where their bodies pressed together.

Ilya sat up, cursing, looked at Shane's leg, which was more swollen now, the skin on either side of the wrapped bandage taut and flushed.

Fucking hell, fucking no. For a moment Ilya had to just sit there, clutching his hair, sinking into the realization that he had half-hoped that morning would be better, that Shane would be better, that resting would fix something, but instead it was worse, Shane was worse, feverish, probably infected now.

Okay, okay. Think of something useful.

He found the water bottle and the painkillers, reached over to stroke Shane's hair.

"Shane," he said softly, watching as his eyes blinked open, hazy and bloodshot.

Shane made a soft sound in his throat as Ilya pressed a hand over his forehead, his cheek.

"Can you wake up? I think you have fever," Ilya said. "Time for more painkiller, I think. Will help."

Shane blinked slowly, made a little movement like a nod. "Okay."

He didn't resist when Ilya gathered up his body and pulled him up a little, put the pills in his mouth, poured water to wash them down. Sighed out heavily when Ilya laid him back down.

"Don't feel very good," Shane said, his voice strained.

"I know, I know," Ilya said, patting at him like that would help anything.

What next? Food? Should you eat with fever? Certainly you should eat if you were about to hike miles through the woods, but how could Shane do that? He couldn't, obviously, and Ilya couldn't carry him the whole way because just carrying him from the stream had nearly killed him. But they had to, they had to get to the boat, or Shane would never get better, and everything would be so much worse that he couldn't even think of it.

"Shane, I don't know what to do," Ilya whispered, feeling pathetic, feeling fucking useless, wishing not for the first time that he was a whole different person who had made all different choices in life.

"The boat," Shane said, eyes closed, and Ilya nodded even though Shane couldn't see.

"I know, the boat, but the boat is very far, and I don't know how we will get there."

"Walk. We can walk," Shane said, and Ilya felt sure he didn't know what he was saying now, because how?

Ilya rubbed a hand over his face, feeling himself losing his grip, sinking in to the sick fear in his heart.

"Shane, this is so fucked. I don't know what I'm doing, and I don't want to fuck everything up, and I need you to tell me, but you're too sick to tell me now, and I don't know what is going to happen because I don't know what to fucking do."

There was a silence after this outburst, during which Ilya felt like a stupid fucking useless whiny baby, and then Shane said, low and raspy, "Do... something."

Ilya looked at him, sighed, a little irritated despite the frantic concern in his heart. "Okay, thank you. Very helpful."

"If you..." Shane blinked a few times, like he was concentrating. "If you can't do what you want, at least do... something."

This was very annoying. Ilya was looking for practical guidance, ideally step-by-step procedures, not inspirational mottos. But that seemed to be all Shane was capable of at the moment.

So. Well. Great. Do something. That was all the advice he was going to get, so sure. Why the fuck not? Do something, better than doing fucking nothing and letting everything get worse by default.

He stood up, feeling oddly galvanized by the terrible, meaningless advice, because yes. What the fuck else could he do besides something? So that's what he would do.

He made a list in his head, and it was a jumble of: put a fresh bandage on, throw shit into the backpack, get some clothes on Shane and on himself for hiking through the fucking woods, make a leash for Champ, gather everyone up, and get the fuck out of the woods.

But which way was out, exactly? His heart felt cold in his chest as he remembered he didn't know where to go, which way or how far or what exactly they were even looking for, and the last time he'd wandered through the woods trying to find something he had almost fucking died.

But, fuck it. He hadn't died, he'd found Shane, or Shane had found him, and that had been, in the end, a positive fucking development.

And he had a map. It wasn't a very good one, scratched out in a fury when Shane had wanted him to leave, but it was something, more than Shane could provide now, and it had to still be here because there wasn't anywhere else for things to be.

He had to go through the trash bag inside the backpack to find it, in the end, but that was not so bad because Shane was, maybe predictably, very neat even with his trash. It made Ilya laugh a little although his head was pounding with anxiety, sorting through the neatly stacked empty food containers and the tiny trash bags tidily tied off. He found the paper, still readable, if he could get his fucking head together enough to read it. And he just fucking... would.

He sat on the ground, flattened out the map, got one of the two fucking compasses, and closed his eyes to remember everything Shane had made him learn.

Align the compass from the start point to the end point, which Shane had helpfully marked with two big fucking Xs and an arrow in between.

Turn the dial thing so the little lines point to true north, map north, which Shane had said would always be at the top.

Read the number where the arrow on the dial was pointing. 90, maybe? Shane, ever precise, had written 92 next to the Xs.

Shane said, with the blueberries, the declination was 16 degrees east, which meant annoying subtraction of 16 from 92, so the bearing was 76.

Now time for "red in the shed." He stood up, held the compass flat, turned until the needle settled in between the red brackets.

And the arrow points the way.

For good luck, he folded the makeshift map, pressed his thumb hard into the big X marking the camp, closed his eyes, and hoped, for a fervent moment, that he wasn't as much of a fucking idiot as he had been before, before this time in the woods, before all his lessons. Before Shane.

Ilya had never carried so many things in his whole fucking life. Even full hockey gear would feel like nothing compared to the insane amount of things he had loaded onto his body now.

On his back: The backpack, loaded with everything he had crammed into it in a hasty breakdown of the camp, partly because he knew Shane would want all his things, partly because Ilya wasn't sure what they might need if things went crazily wrong during the hike.

In his pockets: The satellite phone, in case the boat people called back, or in case Ilya needed to call them again. The bear spray, in case of fucking bears.

Clipped to the belt loops of his stupid fucking tight-fitting jeans, the only pants with belt loops he had: The water jug. The bear horn. A length of cord that he'd tied to Champ's collar, because he couldn't watch her carefully while he was doing everything else, and he was not fucking losing her.

In his hand: The compass. The folded map.

On all of the rest of him, draped across him, snugged against his side, gripped in the clasp of his arm: Shane's burning, staggering body, freshly bandaged and carefully dressed and only half-aware of what was going on.

He cast one last look over the camp, barely anything now that the tarp was gone and the fire was doused and the sleeping bag was rolled up behind him. Just a small clearing in the woods, with a dead log for sitting on, if anyone was there to sit. Just the place where everything had happened, everything he had never expected, everything he never could have imagined.

He shook his head, lifted the compass, carefully turned Shane toward the bearing, found his sightline. Time to go.

It was bad almost immediately. Shane kept saying, "I'm fine, I can walk," but the woods were a tangle of undergrowth and branches and uneven ground, and every step through it was clearly hurting him, even though Ilya was bearing up as much of his weight as he possibly could. They staggered on, both breathing hard and already sweaty, Champ's leash getting tangled on every fucking thing they passed so that Ilya had to work it free again and again, the backpack and Shane's weight pressing on him like ten extra layers of gravity. They kept going.

Ilya didn't know how much time had passed before they stopped for the first time, sank down, drank water, but after that it seemed like the walking intervals got a little shorter each time between breaks, and he worried about time. The boat wouldn't leave, he assumed, if it arrived long before they got to the pickup spot, even if the boat people hadn't listened to his voicemail. It was not a fucking city bus on a schedule, it was here for Shane, surely it wouldn't just fuck off again if Shane didn't appear, but still he felt tense and rushed, torn between letting Shane rest more and pushing on.

They pushed on, and Shane's head began to loll forward, his body becoming more listless and slow, until Ilya felt like he was the only thing holding him upright. He worried that he should have made the drag contraption Shane had contemplated for him back at the start, but he didn't know how, of course, and the woods were so thick he wasn't sure how it would have worked anyway.

He worried about fucking bears, and every time he heard so much as a rustle in the brush that sounded even slightly near them, he grabbed for the bear horn at his waist and blew a quick, loud burst on it, just in case, because why the fuck not, might as well be extra careful. It had the added benefit of startling Shane every time, which made Ilya wince in apology, but it did seem to revive Shane a bit, for a moment, and he would walk a few more determined steps before sinking back into pained sluggishness again.

He worried about the infection, how fast it might spread, the fever and what it was doing to Shane, the time it was all taking, and whether it was too much. They'd been walking for -- he didn't know -- hours, it felt like? But everything was warped and impossible in the dim green of the trees, no way to see the sun, nothing to do but go and go, his back and his legs and his arms and his fucking knee aching and his heart seeming permanently clutched in his chest.

By the sixth rest break, maybe the seventh, he was beginning to falter and flag. It felt like it would never end, that he would never get Shane to safety. Maybe he had picked the wrong direction after all, fucked up the map or the compass, forgotten something important. With Shane sat on the ground and propped up against a tree trunk, Ilya checked it all again, spread out the map, ran through the steps. Came to the same conclusion. So whether he was wrong or not, he wasn't going to get any more right.

This time, when he tried to lift Shane back on to his feet, he wouldn't go.

"I can't, I can't," Shane said, keeping his eyes closed, shaking his head against the bark of the tree behind him. "Too tired. It hurts, hurts too much."

Ilya felt his face pinching in distress, felt his heart thudding in his chest. He looked around, peering through the woods as hard as he could. If they were close, maybe he could run ahead and find the boat, get the boat people, bring them back here and they could all carry Shane?

But if they weren't close -- and how could he know? -- he might lose Shane in the woods and never find him again. He couldn't risk it.

"Come on, please, Shane, you can," he said, crouching down to get under his arm again. "Come on, it's not much farther now. Let me lift you, please."

Shane's body spilled sideways, out of his reach. "No, no, I can't."

Ilya pulled him back upright, held on to him, tucked his own face into Shane's burning-hot neck just for a moment, felt the tugging fingers of despair, batted them away. Had an idea.

A stupid idea, so dumb, but since he didn't have any others, he would try it.

"Okay, listen," he said, hitching his arm around Shane and heaving upward. "We're going to do like the army people, okay? They march and sing a song. We will do that, it will help."

"No, no singing," Shane groaned, but at least it distracted him enough that he let Ilya drag him up to his feet again.

"Yes, it is good, you know this song, everyone knows. I say 'too hot,' and you say 'hot damn.' Ready?" He got them moving again, sang out I'm too hot, in his tuneless warble.

Shane didn't sing anything, scowled instead, but he was taking stumbling steps forward now.

"Come on, do the beat then, just do the doo-doo-doo part, you can do that. Call the police and the fireman, I'm too hot, hot damn, you know this, yes? Gonna piss myself, I'm so pretty."

Shane lifted his head, snorting faintly. "That's not the lyric."

"Oh, now you are the expert on this song? You won't even sing," Ilya complained.

"Not an expert," Shane mumbled. "But it's not piss myself. It's kiss myself."

He had taken five or six good steps during this argument, so Ilya was not conceding the point.

"Hmm, I am pretty sure he is pissing. He is so excited to be pretty. Cannot contain himself."

"That doesn't even make sense," Shane said. Still walking. Hissing and huffing a little in pain, but walking.

"Whole song makes no sense," Ilya argued. "He also sings he is bad at managing money, which has nothing to do with anything else."

Shane shook his head. "What?"

"And I'm bad about that money," Ilya sang out, as best he could with his chest heaving from exertion. "Is what it says."

"That's not right," Shane said, still moving, at least a little distracted from his suffering.

"So sing it right then," Ilya challenged, but Shane shook his head again.

"Not singing."

So Ilya sang, wrong lyrics and all, whatever, tried fruitlessly to get Shane to do at least the "woo" response parts, kept singing, matching their steps to the beat in his head. When he finished the song, he sang it again, because he couldn't think of another, sang it again after that, until his world was narrowed down to the endless trees and his many worries and the ten extra layers of gravity and the driving tempo of a single idiotic pop song.

He was on his fifth run-through of the section he sang as uptown fuck you up when he saw it. The thinning of the woods, the changing of the light, and up ahead, through the sparser trees... the glimmer of sunlight on water.

He stopped singing because the only thing in his head was the word and the feeling and the prayer that was: Please.

They broke through the treeline and onto the pebbled shore, and there was a boat, and Ilya thought he might die of relief right on the spot.

But not before he got Shane into that fucking boat.

The boat people helped, they carried Shane together for the last stretch, got him into the boat, got Champ into the boat. Ilya got into the boat, dropped everything he'd been holding, and collapsed next to Shane, feeling more exhausted, depleted, emptied out than he had ever been. He had just enough energy to reach down for Champ, to hold her against his chest so she would be safe when the boat started moving.

Shane stirred against him, clutched at his fingers. "Please don't go, Ilya," he murmured, voice so soft, almost slurred. "Stay with me, okay?"

Ilya sighed the longest sigh of his life and let his head fall back against the seat. "I don't know, you didn't sing with me, so..."

Shane gave something like a laugh, lips curving just slightly. "Not fucking singing," he managed.

Ilya squeezed at Shane's hand with the last strength he had left. "Is okay, just a joke. Nothing will make me go, I promise. I will not go anywhere, except with you."

Shane squeezed him back weakly, and in that moment, Ilya meant it with his whole heart, every word, not just for now or for the hospital the boat would take them to, but more, more, much much more.

In television shows Ilya had watched, hospitals were always places of buzzing urgency, split-second decisions, last-minute heroics. His real-life experience with hospitals had not been like that.

When his father had died, it had taken an excruciating length of weeks for him to do so, long enough that Ilya had time to travel to Russia to be there for it, even after Alexei delayed telling him that anything was going on for days and days.

Sometimes, privately, shamefully, he wished Alexei had delayed longer, wished he'd missed it all, because sitting in a hospital room watching the withered husk that had been his father slowly desiccate into death had been... well, one of the lower points of his life.

And like his father's death, everything about the hospital had moved slowly, everything had involved waiting -- for consultations, for test results, for the specific staff member who could provide the specific kind of transport for a specific kind of scan. The interruptions were constant but the forward movement on anything was painfully protracted.

That was his experience of real-life hospitals, and this hospital in Canada that had swallowed Shane seemed no different. Though they had assessed Shane right away and expediently hooked him up to various IVs and monitors, there had still been paperwork at admission -- a shock of banal mundanity after their dramatic escape from the woods. He'd had to delve into the backpack for Shane's wallet and ID, feeling bewildered that the urgent business of saving Shane's life involved accurate documentation completed under buzzing fluorescent lights.

He knew the hospital staff were competent -- certainly more so than he was -- and he was glad to have Shane in their capable hands now. But still he wished he had some way to transfer the immediacy of his concern to their belabored operational regimen.

He couldn't complain, though. They had made many allowances for the unusual situation already -- finding a safe storage space for Shane's giant backpack, letting Ilya wait by his side during the many, many waiting parts even though he wasn't a family member, and -- most notably -- allowing Ilya to keep Champ with him, since there really wasn't any other place for her to go. They had insisted on giving him a medical evaluation, even though he'd dismissed his own injuries as minor and not worth considering, had given him painkillers and an ice pack and a supportive wrap on his knee. They had even allocated to him a small consult room to wait in now that Shane was undergoing the surgery to fix his leg -- a little square of a room with a window to the main waiting area, a table and chairs, and enough space on the floor for him to make a blanket nest for Champ to rest on.

Had his celebrity had anything to do with this special treatment? Maybe. Canadians cared about hockey, and he had signed some autographs, had even smiled for a few pictures, although he was certain he had rarely looked less photogenic or felt less like smiling in his life. It didn't matter, he didn't care, only wanted to do whatever meant he could be there waiting when Shane was out of surgery and out of any danger.

So he was waiting. There was a phone-charging cord in the little room, so he had charged the phone he hadn't thought about in days, grimaced at the number of notifications, ignored almost all of them. He'd sent brief texts to Sveta and Marley just to say yes, I am alive and left the rest of it for later. He had never felt less like scrolling, not even to pass the endless waiting time. Instead he put his head on his folded arms on the table and closed his exhaustion-stinging eyes.

He only discovered that he had fallen asleep when he heard the door to the little room opening, heard Champ give a single bark of greeting. He lifted his head hastily, expecting to see a nurse or a doctor with a report on Shane's condition. Instead, he found himself looking into the surprised, wary faces of two people who, he realized instantly, could only be Shane's nice parents. He remembered, now, that Shane had given their information to one of the hospital people right at the beginning; they must have gotten on a plane almost immediately.

He could see Shane in their faces -- the mother's liquid-dark, assessing eyes, the father's sturdy frame and firm jaw, and in both of them, the slightly pinched expression Shane had so often regarded Ilya with at first: not quite hostility, certainly not welcome.

Ah, yes. Metros fans.

He pushed up to his feet, belatedly feeling the unfamiliar urge to make a positive impression, although his disheveled state was doing him no favors.

"You are the Hollanders?" he asked, clearing his throat when the words came out raspy.

Neither responded for a moment, both still staring at him as if they were too shocked to speak. At last, Shane's mother blinked several times rapidly and tilted her head just slightly.

"I'm sorry," she said. "What the fuck is going on?"

Before he could formulate a response to that, Shane's father stepped forward, offering his hand. "David Hollander," he said, his grip steady as he shook Ilya's hand. "The folks at the desk said you brought Shane in?"

His voice rose gently at the end, the questioning tone making it clear this was his more restrained version of the same thing his wife had asked.

"Ilya Rozanov," Ilya supplied, although it was clear they knew that. "And, yes. Is... a long story, maybe."

Shane's mother stepped into the room then, blowing out a breath. "I would imagine it is. Yuna Hollander," she added, lifting her hand in a small wave rather than offering it to him. Ilya nodded in response. "How exactly did this happen?" she asked.

They sat at the little table, and Ilya tried to explain. It took a few tries.

The concise, censored version included his wandering away from the adventure camp (he left out the part about getting high, for respectfulness), included Shane finding him, rescuing him, the trouble with having no way to track their location. (The Hollanders exchanged exasperated glances about that, he noted.) It did not include the conflicts they'd had, the closeness they'd found, the... well, all the fucking. He knew Shane was out to his parents, but still he figured Shane would prefer to decide for himself how much his family learned about his wilderness sex life.

Then he told about the knife injury, the first aid attempts, the fever. The struggle through the woods, the boat. He kept it brief, to spare them the harrowing feeling of it, ended with a summary of the hospital part and what the doctors had said so far.

"So, he's going to be all right?" Yuna asked. She had sat through the entire recounting with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, and he could see her squeezing her hands together now.

He shrugged a little, to indicate his own ultimate ignorance. "They think so. The cut was deep, and not clean, but seems like it did not hit a major artery or nerve place, and the infection can be cleared, so..."

She blew out a short breath. "So it could have been worse."

"Could have been worse," he echoed, nodding.

David leaned forward and looked at him frankly. "It sounds to me like it was pretty bad, though. I think Shane would have been in real trouble if you hadn't been there."

Ilya waved that away. "Or maybe it wouldn't have happened at all, if I hadn't been there. He is so careful. Maybe I... made him lose focus." He swallowed hard, feeling a twist in his stomach at saying aloud the idea that had been haunting his thoughts.

David reached out and patted his shoulder. "I'm sure that's not true, son," he said, so kindly it made Ilya's eyes feel suddenly stinging. "It was an accident, not anybody's fault. And you did a good job."

Ilya shook his head, felt like squirming with discomfort at the unearned praise. "I did almost nothing. Shane was the one who knew everything, what to do. I just..." He let it trail off, unable to say more.

"So he was conscious and alert for all of that?" Yuna asked.

Ilya nodded, although "alert" might be a bit of a generous description for most of the staggering walk through the woods. "Yes, he was conscious. Giving me advice."

Yuna lifted her eyebrows. "What kind of advice? How to get someone with an injury through the woods?"

Well. Now that he was being pinned down about it, he wasn't sure what to say, since Shane had been pretty out of it for a lot of the time. "Ah, well..." He remembered Shane's inspirational motto, grasped at that. "How to keep going, maybe? He said, if you can't do what you want, do something." He shrugged, felt a little embarrassed. "Sounds simple but... it did help."

Yuna's eyes had gone a little glossy, and she blinked, flashed a look over at her husband. "Oh. That's..." She cleared her throat, blinked again. "That's something I used to say to him."

She pressed her lips together, and Ilya felt a strange churn of emotions inside, with the idea that she had been there in the woods, in a way, helping Shane, helping Ilya, though he had never met her. He remembered Shane's story about the waterslide, her words that had helped him then. Wondered... what it must have been like, to have a mother's guidance for so long in your life. What he could have learned from his own mother, if she...

Ah, fuck, he was getting way too fucking emotional now. Okay.

He took a long breath, gave a short nod. "Well. It was... helpful. Thank you."

"Oh," she said, a little breath of a word. "I'm... I'm glad."

There was a soft knock at the door then, and all of them turned toward it, all of them, maybe, relieved at the sudden distraction.

A woman in scrubs and a surgical cap leaned in through the doorway. "Are you the Hollanders?"

Ilya kept silent, feeling no right to count himself among that group, but Yuna stood up, hands clasping again. Ilya felt his heart squeezing like her hands as he waited for the news.

"Yes, we are," Yuna said. "Is Shane okay?"

The woman smiled and entered the room properly. "Hi, I'm Dr. Tremblay, and yes, Shane is doing just fine. We've got him all patched up, and he's in post-op recovery right now. You should be able to see him in about an hour."

A collective sigh of relief swept through the room, and Yuna unclasped her hands, reached over to squeeze one of David's, even as she launched into a number of follow-up questions for the doctor.

Ilya didn't quite follow all of it, his brain so overtired that he was processing language more slowly than usual, especially language filled with complicated medical terms. He sat back in his seat, letting himself feel the flood of reassurance loosening his whole body, letting himself know and believe that it was okay, that Shane was okay, that all his fears of having done all the wrong things could be set down now.

David gave him another pat on the shoulder. "You should be proud," he said. "You saved him."

It was, again, too much -- too much kindness, too much credit. Ilya shook his head. "He saved me first. You should be proud, of him."

David's eyes gleamed, and he smiled. "Well, I am. Always. But in case I haven't said it already -- thank you, Rozanov."

Ilya tried to nod, tried to accept it. "Ilya," he offered, and David nodded back.

"Ilya," he repeated.

There was a little flurry of activity then, as the doctor left, and Yuna and David began to discuss logistics, and Ilya lingered at the table a little uncomfortably. He wasn't sure of his place, now, or what Shane's parents would think of his continuing to wait with them. He didn't know how he would explain it if they asked, only knew that he could not leave, because he had promised he would stay.

It was decided that David would take Champ and stay with her at the hotel the Hollanders had booked -- apparently the hospital's patience for having a dog on the premises was stretched to its limit. Ilya took a moment to say goodbye to the little dog, crouching down to stroke her ears and pour out praise for her in Russian, because he was embarrassed to say it all in English in front of Shane's parents, to display all of his sentiment and attachment so openly. He wondered how it would be when he could see Shane again. Would he be able to mask all the swelling feelings in his heart? Would Shane want him to?

And then, with all of those thoughts echoing in his head, he found himself alone in the little room with Shane's mother, seated at the little table with her, trying to think of a safe and neutral conversation topic. And... she seemed to be staring at him.

He endured it for as long as he could, keeping his eyes fastened on an informational poster on the wall about the pain scale, hoping she would look away or say something, but when she didn't do either one, he finally turned to look at her, lifting his eyebrows just slightly.

She stiffened a little, gave an apologetic little smile. "Sorry, if I was staring. It's just... a little surreal."

He didn't know what she meant, exactly. Because he was famous, in the hockey world, at least? Maybe she had never met a C-list celebrity before.

He tried to smile in return. "Shane said you are big hockey fans."

She tilted her head a little, lifted her fingertips off the table. "Well, yes. I mean, it would be strange -- coincidental, I guess -- to show up to a hospital where my son is being treated and find a professional hockey player with him. But, I mean. For it to be you..."

Again, he felt a disconnect, something not clear in her words. But he tried to hold up his end of the conversation.

"Yes, Shane mentioned he used to play."

She made a sound, a sort of hissing out of breath between her teeth. "Ha. Yes. That's one way of putting it. Understatement, of course. He never did get comfortable with talking about... Well, you know. How great he was."

Ilya felt a little slither of something cold, like a trickle of icy water down his spine. He swallowed, studied Yuna for a moment, turned over her words. "He was... great?"

She nodded, giving him an almost humorous look of understanding. "He undersold it, didn't he? He always does, always did, even before..." She cleared her throat. "Well, anyway. Yes, he was great. Astonishingly great." Her eyes took on a faraway look then, as if she was slipping into the past. "He was a prodigy, actually. They were already throwing around terms like 'generational talent' when he was only, oh, twelve or thirteen. And he would have been, trust me. I know -- you'll think it's a mother's bias, but I know hockey. And I know he would have been one of the greatest to ever play the game."

Ilya absorbed this speech with a slow-dawning feeling of... horror, almost. One of the greatest to ever play? A prodigy? A generational talent? Shane had not told him anything like this, had only said that he had loved it, that he had wanted it. If this was true... how much harder must the loss have been? It made his chest feel, suddenly, like a weight had settled on it. And he wondered... why had Shane not said?

Before he could think further, Yuna was pulling her phone out of her purse. "You don't believe me," she said almost playfully, pointing at him, maybe interpreting whatever look of confusion was on his face as disbelief. "But I can show you."

She fiddled with her phone, searching for something, while Ilya blinked, his head spinning a little.

"He hates that I still have all these videos up on YouTube," she went on, continuing to poke at the screen. "But I keep telling him, this was a big part of your life, a special part, and you'll want to look back at all these someday. So I haven't taken any of them down. Let me see, which one... Oh, yes. Watch this."

She handed over her phone, smiling in a satisfied way, and Ilya took it with half-numb fingers, his eyes briefly registering the channel name "ShaneHollanderHockey" before focusing on the video itself.

It began with a close zoom on Shane's face, looking impossibly young, and fiercely determined. Then the camera pulled back a bit to set the scene: Shane at center, perfectly poised, bent for the face-off against an opponent largely disregarded, out of frame, the focus steadily remaining on the teenager looking so deadly serious as he waited for the puck to drop. Ilya felt himself sitting forward in his chair, his breath catching in his chest.

The puck dropped, and Shane moved, an icily precise hook of his stick that sent the puck flying back and to his left, and the camera's angle widened to capture the action as the winger scrambled to intercept the puck's surprisingly forceful slide. Meanwhile Shane was bursting off the dot, explosive speed hurtling him down the ice too fast, even, for the pace of play -- he had to slide and dawdle at the blue line, waiting for the puck. When it arrived, wobbling toward his stick, he snatched it impatiently, passed it over the line, chased it down, spun beautifully to evade a defender, and whipped it toward the goal with a crack of his stick. Ilya watched, breathless, as the puck barreled like a cannon shot over the helpless young goalie's shoulder and crashed into the back of the net.

As soon as it was over, Ilya's thumb slid automatically to the playback bar, pulling it back to watch it all again. He watched a third time, silent, lost in it, in the beauty of Shane's precise, powerful movements, his accuracy, his timing, the intuitive flow of it all. It wasn't quite major-league-level play, he was only a kid, but it was shocking, astonishing, better than anything Ilya had ever seen from a teenager. Better than he had been as a teenager.

What the fuck, Shane?

He glanced up at Yuna, who was giving him a look that plainly said told you so, and then she smiled, a little apologetically, and took her phone out of his hand, even as he fought the urge to snatch it back, to watch every video she had ever loaded on that channel.

"Sorry to go on about it," she said, tucking her phone away again. "I know I get carried away -- it really bothers Shane. But I guess, once a hockey mom, always a hockey mom, and it was hard for all of us, when... well."

Ilya cleared his throat, tried to clear his head. "Yes, Shane told me, about the injury."

But had he, though? He had said maybe two sentences about it, really, and given how he had clearly undersold his playing ability, Ilya felt swamped with uncertainty about everything Shane had said. Or had not said.

Yuna flashed an unreadable look at him. "Did he? That's surprising. He hates talking about it, which... well, I understand. But for him to tell you..."

There it was again, that emphasis, that you, as if Ilya was a special case, of particular significance.

He leaned forward a little in his seat. "Why not tell me?" he asked, hoping it came out casual, not betraying the strange chill that had settled over his skin.

She shrugged, laughed a little. "Well, just, you know. Because he hates your guts."

It landed in his stomach like a bomb detonating, and he held himself very still, his mind flashing back to Shane's face, that night, that dark and bitter glare, I don't even like you, the sucker-punch of it hitting again now, harder.

She hadn't said he hates the Raiders or he's such a Metros fan. He hates your guts, she said, you specifically, you you you, like it was obvious, understood. Shane hated him, specifically?

Something of it must have registered on his face, because Yuna sat up straight, reached a hand over as if she meant to pat at him. "Oh, no, I didn't mean... I'm sorry, that was a very stupid thing to say. I'm sure he doesn't... I don't mean that he... I mean, it's not personal, obviously he doesn't know you, it's just..."

He shook his head, still bewildered, sick, needing to know. "Just what?"

She held her hands up, helplessly. "Sort of symbolic, I guess? I don't know, he never wants to talk about it much, but, you know, you were the same age, would've been in the same draft class, played the same position. You were the big deal, the first pick, the one everyone was talking about, and we'd always assumed that would be Shane, so I think it's just... but it's not about you, really. I think it's just easier to have a... a target for it, or... I don't know. I'm not saying this right. I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have said that, that was very rude of me. Obviously I'm very grateful -- we're all very grateful for what you've done for Shane."

He could barely hear her, a white noise hiss rising in his ears that seemed to drown out the entire world around him as his thoughts spun, images of Shane's furious face, the memory of his pushing questions about the draft, the sudden anger that would leap out of him. Shane had said I'm just fucking jealous sometimes, but that had not been all of it, clearly, not nearly all.

It was personal, it was Ilya, and it was hatred. Pain, loss, grief, all centered on him.

This was what he was to Shane.

Or... had been? Had it changed?

He felt a sharp jolt of longing in his gut, in his chest, heart leaping at the idea that maybe... maybe it wasn't anymore, maybe everything was different now -- with the woods, the things they'd done. Shane had said, don't go and stay with me and Ilya hadn't thought he meant just for the hospital but...

Could it really change? To have hated someone, to have seen them as nothing but a source of misery and pain...

And that, of course, he understood. What had he been all his life but an origin point of pain for others? For his mother who could not endure it, for his father and brother who could barely stand the sight of him, for everyone he had ever disappointed--

He cleared his throat abruptly. "No, is fine. I understand. No need to apologize."

She grimaced a little. "Well, I feel like an idiot." She braced her hands on the table and took a big breath. "Anyway, I guess the good news is that Shane's going to be fine," she said, clearly ready to divert the topic of conversation.

Ilya was ready as well. His whole body felt like it was being violently clamped in an iron fist -- the little room, Yuna's eyes on him, the very air around him pressing on his skin, his bones, his heart. It was all he could do to hold himself together, to appear normal, to keep his expression blank. He would not be able to do it much longer, he knew.

"I am glad he will make a full recovery," he said carefully. "And, now that I know that, I think... I need to go. My manager, my friends... they have been very worried for me, so... I should. I should go."

He stood up, pocketing his phone, his heart thudding dully in his chest. Yuna stood as well.

"Oh, of course. Yes. Well, thank you, for everything. And for staying this long. I know Shane would appreciate that."

He could not think of what Shane would appreciate, or want, or need. He didn't know anything anymore, could not bear to let his mind linger on the topic. He made for the door, wrenched it open, paused to look back just once.

"Tell him... Tell him, get well soon," he said, uselessly.

And then he pushed himself through the door.

He registered nothing as he walked through the hospital waiting area, as he went through the doors to the outside. He walked, blindly, pushing on, only trying to get far enough, to find some place, to get to somewhere that wouldn't feel like... like this.

Shane had not felt normal for a couple of days now, so waking up dazed and woozy and disoriented in a post-op recovery room should not have been so bad.

He had been some version of panicky, pained, sluggish, and out of it since the knife had plunged with breathtaking agony into his thigh, unable to think clearly, adrenaline spiking and crashing in succession, his usual calm deliberation slipping continually out of his grasp in a way that felt alien, and quietly terrifying.

Thank fucking god Ilya had been there. Shane didn't remember every detail, but he knew with a pressing and overwhelming certainty that Ilya had dragged him out of those woods with incredible force of will, had gotten him here. Had saved his fucking life.

Ilya. Just the thought of him made Shane's heart squeeze inside his chest, an impossible-to-process mess of feelings churning there -- longing, fondness, pride, desire, gratitude, all tangled and swollen, almost painful to press on, almost too sweet and too frightening to think about.

And Shane had not been able to think about it before, either, and he had ruined their last day after all. First with his frantic attempts to avoid talking -- and how fucking idiotic, now that he looked back at it. Why hadn't he just faced it, just said it, just flayed his stupid heart open and admitted it? What the fuck was it ever going to get him to try to preserve his stupid pride? And then, all of it -- his mostly sleepless night, his wired nerves, his desperation to avoid the pain -- all of that had led to all of this, his stupid mistake with the knife, the mess he'd dragged them both into, the weight of responsibility he had flung onto Ilya's shoulders, because he had been too weak to handle it.

On top of everything else, he felt mad, angry at himself, embarrassed, and desperately sorry about it all.

But Ilya had carried it. He had done everything, figured out everything, and Shane felt so grateful and so impressed and so proud it made hot, prickling tears spring up in his eyes. Fuck, Ilya.

And he had said he would stay, he had promised. The knowledge of that settled into Shane's chest like a sigh of relief. Ilya was here, somewhere in this building, and knowing that made it possible for Shane to tolerate being here, being back in a hospital, the place he hated most.

He knew hospitals well, of course, knew the procedures, was intimately familiar with the necessity of surrendering to them, turning his body over to other people to manage, hoping for the best in a situation where he had absolutely no control.

In his experience, of course, the best had never been achieved, so he was prepared to be disappointed, prepared to endure whatever the process would be, prepared to manage the discomfort and distress of being here. But mostly, he just wanted it to be over. Mostly, he just wanted to see Ilya, and grab for his hand, and say thank you. And say, again, don't go.

Even if he had no right to ask that, he was going to ask, and fuck everything else. After all, it had worked before.

So he waited, feeling sleepy and loopy and hopeful and pleased, despite the ordeal he'd been through. Waited for the hospital to churn at its methodical pace, waited to be rolled into whatever room they had assigned him, waited until he could see Ilya again.

It was funny, kind of, that for the first time since he'd gone into the woods, he wished he had his cell phone. He could be texting Ilya right now, if he had it, because probably Ilya had charged his phone by now. Of course, he didn't have Ilya's number, he realized with a quiet little laugh. Funny, that they had shared so much but never exchanged numbers -- why would they have?

But if he did have his number, and if he had any idea where his own phone was right now, what would he say? What would his first-ever text to Ilya be?

Maybe something straightforward, so Ilya would tease him about being too formal. Hello, this is Shane Hollander.

Maybe something logistical, probably what Ilya would expect from him. How's Champ? Where'd you put my backpack?

Maybe something lighthearted, so he could imagine Ilya smiling at his screen. Didn't die, 10/10 would recommend getting dragged out of the woods by a hot Russian hockey player.

Maybe something heartfelt, so Ilya would know exactly what he was feeling. Hey, now that you saved my life, can I buy you dinner as a thank you, and maybe buy you a lot of dinners, and maybe we can just keep having dinners together for a very long time, if I promise they won't all be dehydrated fish?

Probably not that last one. He wasn't sure he was quite brave enough to commit all of that to the unforgiving permanence of a text.

But... maybe he was.

Finally, the recovery room nurse declared him fit to be sent to his room, and the staff came to roll him away, down corridors that were like all other hospital corridors, overhead lights glaring in his eyes, but he didn't care, only cared about what was coming next.

As soon as he was installed in his room, he tried to sit up a little, looked for the little button that would lift up the head of the bed, asked about whether his -- he wasn't even sure how to phrase it, landed on "friend" -- whether his friend could come into the room, was given a smile and a reassurance. Waited some more, head still fuzzy, hands antsy, happy anticipation tightening in his chest despite the feverish sick feeling still making him a little dizzy.

When the door to his room opened, his heart jolted, some fierce feeling of yes spilling over, and he started to say, "Ily--"

And then into the room walked... his mother.

Oh. Right. He had forgotten, in the blur of hospital admission, that they'd asked him about family to call. And it was nice to see her, nice that his parents had flown out right away, that they were here now. But...

He sat up a little more in the bed. "Mom, you're here."

She smiled, her eyes threatening tears a little, rushed over to give him a hug. "Oh, honey, we were so worried. You're okay? You feel all right?"

"Yeah, mom, I feel fine," he said, letting her squeeze him in a hug. She let go and stood by his bed, holding on to his hand, looking hungry for reassurance. He gave her a little more, trying to organize his swoopy thoughts.

"I mean, I know I'm not feeling much pain yet -- they gave me drugs. And I think I'm a little dehydrated, maybe? But yeah, I feel okay."

He couldn't hold out any longer. "Where's... where's Dad? And, uh... Ilya?"

It kind of struck him then -- he had no idea what his parents would think, hadn't considered what their reaction might be to knowing he had, well, formed some kind of relationship with Ilya Rozanov, of all people. Had they met him? Talked to him? What exactly had been happening while he was unconscious and unaware?

His mom smiled. "Oh, your dad's here, but he's at the hotel -- he took Champ and he's staying with her there. The hospital people were not too thrilled about having a dog hanging around, as you can imagine."

When she didn't say more, he prompted her, impatience and a cold little fear beginning to tighten in his gut. "And... Ilya?" he said again.

"Oh, yes," she said, giving a little laugh. "That was a bit of a shock, I have to admit. Ilya Rozanov -- unbelievable! But against all odds, he seems... well, he was nice. And obviously we're very grateful to him. For bringing you here, and everything."

"But where is he?" he asked, again, wishing she would get to the point of it all because he was starting to have a feeling, a not-good feeling, maybe a very bad feeling that--

"Well, he left," she said. "I mean, he stayed until he heard you were out of surgery, that you were going to be okay. But then, well, he said he had to go -- his friends have been worried about him, I guess. I'm sure he has a million things to do."

Shane felt like he'd been punched in the throat, everything tightening there with a painful drawing-in that seemed to defy whatever drugs were otherwise numbing his system.

Ilya... left? He was just... gone? But... he had said...

But then, they hadn't really clarified what it meant, had they? Don't go... until I'm at the hospital? Until I'm out of danger? Until you just... feel like you've done enough, until you get bored, until you just want to leave and get back to your life, your real life, your big and special life that doesn't include fucking nobodies that you fucked in the woods a couple of times?

Jesus. What the fuck.

"Did he... did he say anything?" he asked his mom, who was busy now reading the white board near his bed, the one listing nurses' names and shift times.

She looked over, thought about it for a moment. "Oh, yes. He said get well soon."

Right. Right. Get well soon, of course. Like handing over a pre-printed greeting card with nothing written on the inside. Generic. Basic. Polite.

He wasn't sure... he didn't know... he didn't have a handle yet on all of the breathless choking suffocating feelings spinning up inside him right now. But he was pretty sure that he was not going to be feeling well. Not anytime soon.

~Six weeks later~

The beautiful thing about mapping out a good spreadsheet was that it required concentration. When Shane was absorbed in a precisely ordered grid of rows and columns, his mind fixed on questions of logical flow and efficient organization of data, there was very little room for anything else. He wasn't thinking about being anywhere else, or doing anything else, or being with... anyone else. He was hardly even aware of where he actually was, the quiet confines of his office and the chattering of colleagues outside his open door fading to a background hum as his eyes slid methodically over calculations and itemizations--

"Shane!" Rose sing-songed from his door, somehow turning his name into two syllables. "How's your Monday? How was your weekend?"

Shane leaned back, concentration broken, and pulled off his glasses, smiling at the sight of his friend despite the interruption.

Until he registered what she was holding. A clear plastic cup with a straw, and inside it... a distinctly blue-hued smoothie.

"Oh, uh..." he gave a pointed, pained look at the cup, and Rose looked down at it in surprise, then realization.

"Oh, sorry babes! Give me two seconds."

Without another word, she disappeared from the threshold of his office, returning a moment later without the smoothie and coming in to drop down into the guest chair on the other side of his desk.

"Sorry," he felt compelled to say, even though he knew she understood. "It's just... blueberries."

She shook her head. "No no, totally. That was my bad. I wasn't even thinking."

He swallowed, nodding, feeling embarrassed and appreciative in equal measure.

He knew it wasn't... normal. The stuff he was doing. His little coping mechanisms. Like the fact that he'd rented an entire storage unit -- the smallest, most affordable one he could find, but still an entire fucking storage unit -- just to house his backpack and camping supplies, because he couldn't stand to have them in his apartment. Like the fact that he'd completely rerouted his neighborhood runs with Champ to avoid the section of the nearby park where people gathered at little tables to play chess. Like the fact that the sight or smell or taste of blueberries, or oatmeal, or fucking hard candy for that matter, made his stomach churn with a sick feeling to the point that he'd had to eliminate them entirely from his diet, and his general whereabouts.

It wasn't normal, and it certainly was a lot to ask of a friend like Rose, and he did not feel great about any of it. But his new therapist had said that he was allowed to ask for things that might seem "crazy," if they helped him and didn't hurt anyone else.

The idea that he was allowed -- encouraged -- to ask for help at all was still something he was getting used to. But it did make things a little easier. Helped him keep his focus, keep his mind relatively clear, keep moving forward.

"Well, thanks," he said, kind of lamely, then quickly changed the subject. "My weekend was good. Did a lot of errands, went to the movies with my dad. How about you?"

She groaned. "Well, the Tinder date was terrible. Told me I should work on 'cultivating my womanly energy.'" She gave a shudder, and Shane grimaced in sympathy.

"But I'm not saying that to discourage you!" she added, sitting forward in her seat. "I still think you should let me help you set up a profile."

He sighed. "Come on, Rose."

He didn't have to say more than that, because she knew. She knew the whole thing, or at least the rough outline of it all. She knew how fucking stupid he'd been, to let himself get emotionally attached to his celebrity forest hookup, to let himself hope that it could be more than that, to reap the consequences when it all ended exactly as he should have expected -- had expected, really, deep down -- that it was always going to end.

She gave him a sad look. "How are you really doing? Is it... any better?"

He laughed a little, not very happily. "Since we talked on Friday? No, not much better." He took a fortifying breath. "But it's fine. I'm doing everything I can, and I'm sure I'll be... fine."

It had been a wake-up call, if nothing else. His unlikely encounter with Ilya Rozanov had brought into sharp focus his own unresolved feelings about hockey, forcing him to acknowledge that he'd never worked through all the disappointment and loss and grief properly. He was trying to do that now. Trying to truly appreciate the life he'd built in the alternative, all the joys and rewards he had always unthinkingly relegated to second-best. He had a lot to be grateful for -- he could see that now.

The issue was that he had a new problem now, which he had more or less labeled in his mind as "idiotic heartbreak," and sometimes it pressed on him so heavily, despite all his effort and energy and elaborate workarounds, that he felt like the gasping ripped-up place in his chest might debilitate him forever, but... Well, as he was learning, nobody's life was perfect.

"And you still don't think you should... try to get in touch?" Rose asked, so so gently he could tell she was one breath away from apologizing for even saying it. Again.

He tried to be patient, even as he gave her a flat look. "He doesn't want to hear from me," he said firmly, maybe as much for his own benefit as for hers. "And I don't have a way to get in touch with him anyway, even if I... fucking lost my mind and decided it was a good idea."

"Instagram DM?" she suggested with a meek little shrug.

He sighed. "I don't even have Instagram, and I'm not going to set up some brand-new account -- he probably wouldn't even believe it was really me."

She gave a small smile, half-hopeful, half-tentative. "We could still try the PR thing."

He had to close his eyes for a moment to steady himself.

There had been calls from reporters, media outlets. Not a huge surprise. Ilya was a star, and word had spread about his wilderness camping misadventure, and, tangentially, the involvement of a random Parks Canada employee, especially after a few people from the hospital had posted pictures online. There had been confusion, initially, conflicting reports -- some saying Ilya was a hero, some saying he'd almost died, nobody seeming to quite understand that both things could be true. Eventually, the narrative had coalesced around the story of Ilya's near-death experience, and everyone had wanted more details. So yeah, he'd gotten a lot of calls.

Rose had fielded it all for him, since she worked in the organization's public relations department, and he truly appreciated that. Less appreciated was her repeated suggestion that he should take advantage of the opportunity to set up some kind of joint interview.

He had steadfastly refused. The last thing he wanted to do was force Ilya to see him again for some fucking PR clown show. He couldn't imagine anything more humiliating, or more agonizingly awkward, but Rose couldn't quite seem to let the idea go. Even when he had finally agreed to issue a short, bland media statement to put the whole thing to rest, she had begged him to let her include some kind of encoded "Ilya, please call me" verbiage, and she'd been severely disappointed that he hadn't allowed it.

He'd been glad -- well, not glad. Vindicated was a better word, maybe, when Ilya had released his own statement a few days later. No, correction -- when his management team had issued a statement on his behalf, expressing gratitude to all Ilya's well-wishers and, as an aside, to Shane for his assistance with rescue efforts. That was it. Brief, impersonal, not even from Ilya himself. It had certainly been no secret coded I-miss-you love letter.

So he was relieved he hadn't let Rose talk him into that embarrassing nightmare. And he certainly wasn't going to reconsider his decision now.

He opened his eyes and tried to keep his tone even. "Could you maybe stop suggesting that?"

She nodded, looking chastened, but still she pressed her lips together for a moment before asking, with a wince, "Any more mystery voicemails?"

"Rose," he said, a little heated, and she held up her hands.

"Sorry, sorry. Never mind. I won't ask again. Listen, I did come in here for a work reason. Do you have the figures on the wildfire preparedness outcomes? I've got to start drafting that press release if we're getting it out for the end of summer season."

With relief, he shifted easily into work talk mode, which luckily kept his mind off the whole voicemail thing. Mostly.

They weren't even voicemails. They were, like, the ghosts of voicemails. Long, silent recordings that showed up on his work phone at irregular intervals, incoming number blocked, no information available at all about who the caller might be, and the recordings certainly gave no hint -- not a word, not even a breath. The messages were so silent as to suggest some glitch in the system rather than any human involvement, which was exactly what Shane considered them to be. Just a malfunction, an annoying systemic hiccup that was best ignored, since he couldn't think of a way to solve it. Nothing more than that.

That didn't exactly explain why he listened to every one of them in their entirety, concentrating on the silence with keen intensity. But... that was just a glitch in his own system. Also not worth thinking about.

So he kept not thinking about it, all the way through another workday, all the way home, all the way through his late afternoon walk with Champ and through dinner and into the long, quiet stretch of evening. That was when it got... a little more difficult, not thinking about it. Before, he had spent a lot of evenings reading wilderness books, researching supplies he might want to buy, even practicing skills if they were indoor-appropriate. Now he just... couldn't. When he tried, it felt as excruciatingly painful as the knife in his leg -- a stab of agony that made him have to stand up and walk a few laps around his apartment just to try to shake it off. He needed something else to do, to fill the time.

When he'd mentioned this to his therapist, she'd had a legitimately bizarre idea.

"What about hockey?" she'd asked, and he had looked at her like she'd suggested, "What about visiting the moon?" or "How about crying from your ears instead of your eyes?"

"I can't... I can't play hockey," he'd answered, bewildered. "That's kind of, like, everything we've been talking about?" Had she not been taking notes?

"You can't play professional hockey," she'd corrected gently. "But there are amateur leagues, pickup games. I looked it up, actually, and there's a Friday-night drop-in game at a rink not ten minutes from here."

He had recoiled entirely at the idea. First of all, no. He'd lost the chance to be one of the greatest players the game had ever seen, and now a fucking beer league was supposed to be an adequate substitute? Where nobody took it seriously, and there was no point, and the effort he'd poured into becoming the best was entirely... optional? Why? Why would he ever do that? The whole idea of it seemed like an unbearable comedown, a joke, another humiliation, and he was well-stocked on those at the moment.

And that was the other thing she didn't seem to understand, maybe because he hadn't really told her. He was trying to keep his life confined to things that didn't remind him of Ilya, and hockey -- even base-level community hockey for losers -- was the main thing Ilya was about.

As soon as he'd had that thought, a memory had flashed into his mind: Ilya's sad voice and wounded expression. And I am nothing but hockey to you?

Fuck, he didn't want to be thinking about things like that, even in therapy where you were allowed -- encouraged -- to burst into fucking tears, he didn't want to be doing that anymore. He should've been past that by now.

And no, for the record, Ilya was not only hockey to him, but he was inextricably tied to hockey, and both of them now ranked as two of the most crushing disappointments of his life, and he really didn't see how strapping on skates again for the first time in years was supposed to help with any of that.

So he'd had his own idea instead, and now he had The Hobbies. A full slate of new and exciting activities to try any time the quiet of his apartment seemed to settle too heavily on his shoulders, on his mind, on his heart. He was working through them resolutely, trying to find something that would stick or at least not be a complete disaster. True, so far all he had to show for his efforts was an apple tart he had burned beyond recognition, a ukulele with a now-broken string that had given him painful blisters on his fingertips, and a watercolor painting of a sunset that looked like someone had vomited Hot Cheetos onto a canvas. But he was trying, he wasn't giving up, he had to have something to keep his mind and his hands occupied.

He was just a little worried that he was running through the list of hobby ideas at an alarming rate of failure, and that he might end up becoming one of those model train guys whose entire living space was filled with tiny locomotives and miniature scenery. He didn't want to be a train guy. He wanted to be normal. He wanted to be okay.

It just increasingly seemed like it wasn't up to him. Although, who else it could be up to, he couldn't say. There was no one else here. Just him. Nobody else in his apartment, in his life... Well, no, that wasn't true. He had lots of people in his life, lots of people who cared about him. Just not the one person who...

But it wasn't like he'd ever expected that, not really. Stupid to even think about. Ilya fucking Rozanov, sitting here in his boring two-bedroom apartment in Ottawa, on the couch he'd bought at IKEA, maybe watching one of those dumb reality TV shows they'd talked about? Ilya, making the half-surprised, half-delighted face he made just before he laughed at something Shane had said? Ilya, clutching at him in that kind of desperate way he did when he was about to come, hands and face and body straining like he would die if he couldn't get closer, as close as possible? Ilya here with him, talking to him, making him laugh, teasing him, holding him, kissing him, fucking him, staying with him? That was... it wasn't even... he'd never...

Oh fuck. What was he doing? How long had he been sitting here, hobbyless? And when had he started fucking crying?

He was not that fucking delusional -- he wasn't. His brain could spin up any number of impossible scenarios, but that didn't mean any of them had ever had any chance of coming true, and he knew that. He'd just thought...

Well, he'd at least thought Ilya would take five fucking minutes to say goodbye.

Right. There was that stab of agony again, right on cue. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and blew it out slowly.

He looked over at Champ to see if she felt like doing one of those intuitive animal moves he'd seen dogs do in videos, like maybe coming over to put a paw on his leg and gaze up at him adoringly to remind him he was loved. But she was lying on the floor near the bookcase, completely occupied in licking the spine of one of his old hockey books that he'd relegated to the lowest shelf.

Absurdly, it still made his heart swell with love for her. She wasn't a normal dog -- she was kind of oblivious, and she liked her space and her alone time, and if he went over and sat down near her now, she'd probably get up and go trotting into the kitchen to check her food bowl just in case. But, fuck, he wasn't normal either, especially these days. At least she was here, a comforting presence, and she wasn't going anywhere. No wonder she'd been so good at the "stay" command.

Okay, fuck, he wasn't thinking about that. He took another big breath, wiped his face dry, and stood up from his stupid IKEA couch.

Then he went into his kitchen to attempt to make pasta from scratch. It would probably be a floury nightmare, but at least it was better than model trains.

And a hell of a lot better than sitting around weeping like a fucking loser.

Ilya was maybe, possibly, about to accidentally set his entire house on fire when his phone notified him that someone was approaching his front door. He wasn't sure for a moment which one was the bigger emergency.

The fire was probably a little bit more of an immediate emergency, so he focused on that.

He had not thought it all the way through, that was the problem, although he had tried. He had bought a thing called a tabletop fire pit for a safe place to work on his fire-making skills from the comfort of his couch, a place he'd found increasingly difficult to leave in recent weeks. He still thought it was a good idea, but, he conceded, as he frantically looked around for a glass of water or anything else to douse the spreading flames, he probably should have cleared the coffee table of leftover McDonald's napkins before he'd started.

Shane would have thought to do that. Shane would have had a fire extinguisher nearby. Or, more likely, he would have discouraged the whole idea from the beginning.

But, as he knew with aching familiarity, Shane was not here. Ilya was, as usual, on his own.

Except for whoever was now ringing the doorbell -- whoever had somehow gotten past the security gates at the end of his driveway. Maybe someone he'd given the code to before, or maybe he'd just forgotten to close them.

Anyway. There was a fire.

He swore sharply in Russian and snatched up a mostly full bottle of green Gatorade he'd left on an end table, twisted off the cap, and splashed its contents over the burgeoning fire currently engulfing the grease-stained napkins. The whole thing fizzled out into a soggy, charred mess.

He took a breath. The doorbell rang again. Yes. Emergency number two.

This emergency was a couple of different problems rolled into one, because first of all he didn't want to see anyone and had made a point of seeing as few people as possible for the last several weeks.

He was showing up for his pre-season development training, he wasn't a complete idiot. He still had a job to do and a living to earn, and training camp was starting in a few days, and he would be there and in reasonable shape for it -- even his knee was mostly healed now. True, he was handling the conditioning work in the most perfunctory way possible, but he was doing it. He was just, the rest of the time, staying in his house and not talking to anyone.

Second of all, even if he wanted to have visitors, which he did not, his house was currently in no shape to be seen by anyone who didn't understand his circumstances. Not only because of the mess he'd just made of the coffee table, but because of... all the other things.

But the doorbell was chiming repeatedly now, and there was knocking alongside it, so he went to the door to try to get rid of whoever it was as quickly as possible. A look through the peephole made him groan.

He opened the door just slightly and peered out. "What do you want, Marley?"

Marleau shoved at the door, and Ilya was so unprepared for it that he stumbled back without thinking, and then Marley was shouldering past him into the house, saying, "Don't even fuck with me, dude, you haven't answered a call or a text..."

His voice trailed off, and then he said, "What the fuck?" his eyes wide as he took in the kitchen and living area.

Ilya sighed and gave up on any notion of trying to tackle Marleau before he could see it all. Too late now. He couldn't think of anything to say, so he just stayed there silently near the door, knowing how... odd it must look.

The big tarp he'd suspended over the couch, supported by long cords he'd haphazardly duct-taped to walls and windows to make it stay up. The sleeping bag unfurled over the couch cushions. The tabletop fire pit and the evidence of his just-averted fiery mishap splashed across the coffee table.

There was also a big map of Canada spread across his kitchen island, with a compass on top of it. And a messy mesh of cording he'd tied up between the handle of the oven and a drawer pull, which he had been trying to clumsily weave into a gill net, following along with a YouTube video. And a book about the wilderness left open on the counter, because he'd never really heard all the details about the spruce grouse, in the end. And... maybe a few other things.

"Is that a fucking axe?" Marley asked, pointing to the tool resting on the dining table, still in its safety sheath because Ilya had worried -- with perhaps his last remaining brain cell -- that he might injure himself if he actually tried to use it.

He scrubbed his hands over his face. "Why are you here, Marleau?"

Marleau turned to look at him, hands on his hips and his face still dropped in shock. "What do you mean, why am I here? Nobody has seen you for weeks, dude. You don't answer calls or texts, you're not in the group chat, you don't go out. I was worried maybe you got lost again or some shit, but now that I'm here I'm actually, like..." He paused to draw in a big breath, and then he said, "Dude, did I fucking break you?"

Ilya sighed again, a long, deep sigh that seemed to come from the very bottom of his lungs. Or maybe his soul. He went over to the couch and sat heavily on top of the sleeping bag, pushing the big, mostly empty backpack off the end cushion in case Marley wanted to sit, too.

"What does that mean?" he asked wearily. "You did nothing, and I am not broken."

"Uh, can I beg to fucking differ, brother? This shit?" He waved a hand around to encompass, well, everything. "This is not normal. And I'm the one who dragged you on that fucking camping trip. You think I don't already feel guilty as hell about that? I thought you were going to die out there when you wandered off, and then I was so fucking relieved when you didn't, but now..." He took another look around, seemed to be grasping for words, but when he spoke, it was only to say, again, "What the fuck?"

"It is nothing," Ilya said, though he had the feeling a casual deflection was not really going to carry him through this interaction. Still worth a try. "I have developed an interest, that is all."

Marley plopped down on the couch where the backpack had been. "Dude, your house looks like a fucking REI threw up everywhere. This seems like a little more than an interest. What exactly happened out there? Are you, like, traumatized? You've never even really explained what the fuck went down with all that."

This was true. He hadn't talked about it, to anyone. Had not cared to address it, even when his manager had pressed him to talk to the media or at least issue some kind of statement.

Shane had done that -- or, he supposed, the government organization he worked for had done it. Ilya had read every word, could recall even now the quote attributed to Shane.

"I was in a position to help, and I was happy to do so, as I would have done for anyone in a similar circumstance."

That was what he'd said, and then the statement had ended with a request for privacy. Ilya could hardly conceive of a more effective way for anyone to say, with Canadian politeness, "Leave me the fuck alone."

Not that he had truly expected anything else. Shane hated him, after all.

Never mind. He had to deal with Marleau right now.

"Listen. I am just learning things, okay? I was out there, I didn't know anything. Felt like... I could stand to learn. In case it ever happened again, I would know things."

This was mostly a lie, of course, but Marleau would not know that. Ilya still had no intention of ever venturing near the wilderness again, had no rational reason for wanting all of these things around him, or for practicing useless skills he would not need. He only knew it made him feel pathetically better to be surrounded in this way.

It hadn't started right away. After he'd left the hospital, as he'd made his way back to Boston, he had organized in his mind firm plans for settling back into his life. He would call his teammates, go out, or have people over to celebrate his return to civilization. He would drink and dance and fuck someone, or multiple someones, and it would feel like home, and he would be normal again, a version of himself he recognized, and his time in the woods would be a fast-fading memory.

But by the time he'd stumbled exhausted through the front door of his house, all of his resolution had wilted, and the plans he'd made had felt like acid in his stomach. He had settled for just the drinking part, which had helped a little, but the bed that he had so looked forward to sleeping in again had felt too big and too cold, and that was how he'd found himself on a camping goods website at four in the morning ordering a sleeping bag, and then it had all spiraled from there.

"You are not really doing a great job convincing me you're not traumatized, man," Marleau said, shaking his head. "And anyway, didn't you, like, save somebody's life or something? Or was it the other way around? News was real confusing on that. But whatever -- the point is, you survived. You knew enough to survive. You should feel good about that. Not, like... whatever the fuck this is."

Ilya sank back against the couch cushions, feeling exhausted. Fine, he had survived. He had learned things. He had helped Shane. Good, he was glad for that. But... wouldn't they both have been better off if it had never happened? Shane would never have hurt himself if Ilya hadn't been there, being a continual problem. And for his own part... Well, what was the benefit of having had a moment's hold on that feeling, that he could be someone needed, someone necessary, someone worth counting on? What was he supposed to do with the fact that he had believed it, for a little while -- that it had made him believe, so briefly, that he could stay, that someone would want that, would rely on that?

He had walked away, in the end, and it hadn't mattered at all, to anyone else. So what was he supposed to think now?

"News doesn't know anything," he finally told Marley, with a sigh. "Was not that dramatic. I am fine."

But Marley, sitting on the edge of the couch, was still frowning, his eyes flicking from the tarp overhead to the green-tinged mess on the coffee table to... the TV.

Which was currently paused on a still frame from a video, the incident with the coffee table fire having apparently jostled the remote enough to wake up the screen. A close-up of Shane's young face in his helmet dominated the display, but the channel name ShaneHollanderHockey was also visible at the top of the screen.

Marleau stared at it for a moment. "Shane Hollander," he said. "Wait, isn't that the name of the guy you rescued, or who rescued you, whatever it was? I thought he was an adult. And, like, a park ranger or something. Is he a kid? He plays hockey? What the fuck is going on?"

Ilya didn't have anything to say to that string of nonsense, felt the urge to grab the Gatorade-spattered remote and turn off the TV, felt a stronger urge to leave it how it was. He had already seen all the videos too many times to count, knew that in this one, seconds after this tight shot of Shane's face, he would race down the ice with the puck on his stick, find an opening between the skates of two defenders, and score with improbable finesse. But still, he didn't want to lose his place in the repetitive cycle of videos. There were a lot of them, and they were organized by date, showing a clear progression as Shane aged from a near-toddler slipping around on the ice to the almost spookily competent teenager he'd been right before his injury. Yuna Hollander had done a very thorough job with her documentation.

He pulled his eyes from the screen, flicked a glance at Marleau, who was still looking back and forth between Ilya and the TV, as if he were putting things together, or trying to with his probably multiply-concussed hockey player brain.

"Dude, you know if you need to talk about something, you can talk to me. Right?"

Ilya shot him his iciest, flattest glare, feeling his jaw tightening as a flare of irritation took momentary precedence over all the other emotions he was regularly pushing down. The last thing he wanted to do was talk. He wouldn't be in this situation if there hadn't been so much talking, if he'd never talked to Shane, if he'd only fucked him for a while like he'd planned, if he hadn't learned how funny he was, how smart, how he knew everything, how soft and sweet he could be, how he carried around that wounded ache inside him about hockey. If he hadn't gotten to know him -- or, at least, imagined that he had...

Or if he'd never talked to Shane's mother, never heard the words he hates your guts, he might be still wrapped in some deluded idea that Shane might want more, could even now be with him somewhere, paining him, pressing on all his sore spots -- but unknowingly, blissful in his ignorance, and it was shameful that he would want anything that would hurt Shane, but part of him did, all the same.

Maybe the talking didn't even matter. Maybe he was stupid to think he could have fucked Shane even once and not been molecularly altered by the experience, but he could have tried it. And anyway, talking now wasn't going to help a single fucking thing.

"I don't want to talk," he told Marleau, coldly. "This isn't your business. You should go."

But Marleau said, with annoying sincerity and alarming insight, "I am your friend, man. And if there's something you think, maybe people might judge you for, or... I mean, I can't speak for all the guys on the team, you know some of those assholes are fucking stupid, but... Well, you know I thought what Hunter did--"

"Shut your idiot face, Marley," Ilya said, standing up. "It is time for you to go." He made a waving motion toward the door.

Marleau, used to Ilya's hot and cold attitude and his chirping, did not have any particular reaction to this. He said, simply, "Fuck off, dude. I am worried about you."

Ilya felt like groaning again, didn't like the uncomfortable warmth in his chest, didn't want to feel comforted or cared about. He just wanted to sit in his house, alone, and look at his camping shit and watch his videos and maybe, occasionally, pull up the Parks Canada website and stare at Shane's short employee biography and the awkward-looking headshot alongside it. And the office phone number underneath it.

And, if he got drunk enough, if it got late enough that there was no chance anyone would answer, he might call that number, carefully blocking his own outgoing number first, just to hear the recorded version of Shane's voice, and then shove his phone under a pillow for a while until the recording ran out of time and disconnected the call.

That wasn't so fucking terrible, was it? There were a lot of worse things he could be doing. He could be booking a flight to Ottawa, tracking down Shane at his office, trying to talk him into something that was bad for him, I know what I am to you, I know it hurts you, can't we just at least fuck sometimes anyway, something?

Fucking disgusting.

By comparison, this that he was doing was a lot better. Still fucked-up, yes, but only fucking up Ilya and nobody else, and he was used to being a fucked-up mess. He could handle it, and not let any of it spill into Shane's nice life, and Shane could keep hating him from a distance, and that was fine, absolutely fine.

He pulled in a breath and tried to calm everything inside him, to project confidence and resolution.

"I am fine," he told Marleau, shaking his head dismissively. "This is just... hmmm... I am Russian. What is the word? Eccentric, sometimes. I do big things, is nothing. No need for you to worry."

Marleau squinted up at him from the couch. "Was that a Jeep I saw in the driveway? Did you buy a fucking Jeep, man?"

Fine, so he had bought a fucking Jeep. Whatever.

"Is just a rental," he lied. "Wanted to see if it was as bad as I imagined, and I was right. Now, time to go," he said again, waving toward the door more insistently. This time, Marleau stood up, albeit slowly, and still looking skeptical. Ilya kept up a steady line of chatter as he steered him to the door with hands on his shoulders.

"I will see you at training camp, you will see. Everything is fine, I am still the best at hockey, will terrify the rookies, will make you cry because you can't keep up."

"Okay, man," Marleau said doubtfully as Ilya opened the door and practically pushed him out of it with a hand at his back. "But if you do want to talk, you know you can call me--"

"Yes, yes," Ilya interrupted, giving a small wave. "Goodbye, see you later."

He closed the door behind Marleau, turned to lean against it, blew out a breath.

Looked around at the fake wilderness bullshit strewn all around his house. Felt pathetic. Didn't have any idea how to fix it.

Went to wipe off his coffee table so he could try the fire-making one more time.

~Two weeks later~

This was so fucking stupid.

Shane had done a lot of dumb shit since leaving the woods. Just last week, for instance, he had spent several hours over a few different evenings trying to master a video game he'd bought on impulse that seemed to require a lot of elaborate fighting moves just to survive. That was unfortunate for him, since he could barely get his guy to walk around without scraping along a bunch of walls, and he kept getting absolutely slaughtered by something called an asylum demon that was supposed to still be part of the tutorial stage. He had once had enviable hand-eye coordination, but either that was gone now, or it did not translate through the electronic controls of a video game. He had finally quit forever in frustration when the whole thing had made him feel like a terminally incompetent dumbass.

But that wasn't stupider than this. It wasn't more idiotic than dragging his old, ill-fitting hockey gear out of his parents' garage, and driving with it to the local rink, and putting it all on, and standing outside the gate actually contemplating stepping onto the ice.

He felt sick. He felt nervous, and he wasn't even sure what outcome -- if he did try this -- he was more worried about. Would it be worse to learn that he sucked at hockey now, after years off the ice, with his knee the way it permanently was now? Or worse to learn that he was still good at hockey, even though he would never be good enough again?

He didn't really want to find out, did not want to be here, felt overstimulated and shaken up just from standing in a rink again, with its too-familiar smells of rubber and sweat and the cold, chemical tang of the ice, with its sounds that still lived in his dreams half the time -- the scrape of skate blades and the sharp claps of pucks on sticks as players warmed up. He was already sweating in his old gear, and it all felt at least half a size too small, pinching and tugging where it had once sat on him like a second skin.

Dumb fucking idea. But here he was.

Maybe he just wanted to prove something to his therapist -- that he was really trying, that he could push through anything, that he deserved a gold medal for being the best at therapy, something.

Maybe he was trying to follow his mom's advice -- doing something because he couldn't do what he wanted.

But he knew the real reason, and it was simply that he could not stand another night in the quiet of his apartment, and The Hobbies were not getting the job done, and going to the gym and movie club and trivia night and dinner with his parents was all fine but it wasn't shaking him free of the grip of feeling fucking miserable and bleak about...

Well. Anyway. Here he was. Because he didn't know what else to fucking try. That slight edge of desperation was the only thing keeping him from turning around right now and shedding all his gear and getting back into his car, because he did not like this, it was too much, and he didn't think--

"Hey, you playing drop-in?" a voice asked from his left.

He turned to look at the speaker, a kid who looked like he might be fifteen or sixteen, fully kitted out in his gear, looking at Shane with an expectant air.

Shane wasn't sure what exactly he was waiting for. He looked down at his own gear, thought the answer should be obvious. Although, to be fair, he was still teetering on the edge of that question in his mind.

"I, uh. I signed up," he finally said. Then, because it seemed only fair, he turned the question around. "You?"

"Hell, yeah," the kid answered, grinning. "Gonna show these old dudes how a real player does it." He paused, looked at Shane questioningly. "No offense though, man. I mean, you're kinda old, but not as old as a lot of the guys that come to these."

Shane couldn't help smiling a little at that, but he was thinking back to the rules he'd studied on the rink's website. "Isn't this game eighteen and up?" he asked, shooting his own questioning look at the kid.

"Yeah, and I'm eighteen," the kid said, looking offended. "What, do I not look it? I am, dude. I just graduated. Miss my fucking high school team, too -- we were fucking badass." He shook his head, a little ruefully, and then said, "So what's up, man, you wanna go?"

He hopped over the boards, not bothering with the gate, and landed on the ice, pivoting immediately to look back at Shane.

Shane... did not really want to go. But he wasn't sure, now, how he would explain the fact that he'd signed up and driven here and put all his gear on, only to turn away at the last second, to a kid who looked like he'd never once had a devastating emotional crisis, so he just...

He just opened the gate. Put a skate on the ice. Took a fucking breath. And pushed off.

A couple of hours later, he had... well, a lot of new information.

He was drenched in sweat, and his lungs felt cold and fiery at the same time, and his leg muscles were trembling with overuse, especially around his knee and in the area where he had not that long ago taken a knife to the thigh, but... he didn't fucking suck at hockey.

He'd been a little rusty, sure, a little wobbly at first, but it had come back, fuck had it come back, the muscle memory of years and years of training and practices and games flooding through his body like a waterfall, reflexes kicking in as he got caught up in the rhythm of play and his self-conscious overthinking went quiet, mind sharpening with swift, automatic analysis of plays, puck movement, probabilities.

And the gameplay had been shockingly intense. He had expected -- both from his own uninformed notions and from the "old guys" cracks the kid, Adrian, had been making -- that the play would be shaggy, loose, full of stoppages and sloppy passes and rule violations. But fuck, no. The game was fast, challenging, gritty, and he'd bet money that a lot of these players had once been stars on college teams, or maybe played juniors, or in any case had been playing for more years than he ever had. He didn't think he'd been outclassed, exactly, even with the rust of years on him, but... it had been a hell of a lot closer than he might have expected.

Also... fuck, fine. Maybe his therapist had been right. He felt buckled over with exhaustion, but he also felt... kind of amazing. It had actually been pretty fucking fun.

He sat on the bench for a bit, hydrating and trying to sort out the swooping thoughts and feelings in his head, while the other players chatted and chirped and headed for the lockers, a couple of them slapping his shoulder as they went by and telling him to come back next week. Adrian was one of the last on the ice -- still skating a few loops with the endless energy of a teenager -- and he stopped to point at Shane as he finally hopped back over the boards.

"Not bad," he said. "But you should work on your conditioning, dude. You look fucked."

Shane laughed a little. "Yeah, well, we can't all be eighteen. But hey -- you're good. You didn't... want to play in college or anything?"

Adrian gave a little whistle between his teeth. "College, yeah. Not exactly in my budget, and I guess I wasn't good enough to snag that full ride." He shrugged, honestly not looking that bothered about it. "But whatever, man. Long as I can still play somewhere, it's all good."

Then he leaned in, hand extended for a fist bump, which Shane belatedly and awkwardly provided.

"See you next week," Adrian said, as if that was decided, settled. Then he clomped off toward the locker room.

Shane swallowed, looked out at the now-deserted ice. There was still an ache in there, in the pit of his stomach, and he could still look at that ice and see all the dreams he'd had superimposed over it. Maybe it never would go away entirely. His hunger for it had been so enormous it had barely fit inside him, and even though he'd had to squash it all down, it still lived there, a painful little fire compacted in his guts, because he'd almost had it in his hands before it had all been ripped away.

But... that just fucking happened sometimes, didn't it? It had happened to Adrian, or a version of it, he guessed. The exact shape of the thing you wanted just had to change, maybe, and maybe that wasn't the tragedy it had always felt like, or didn't have to be. Maybe you could just do a thing because it was fun and you liked it and you were good at it, and it wasn't any more complicated than that, and maybe a teenager like Adrian had already figured that out, and Shane was just fucking slow to get there. Maybe a little bit of hockey on Friday nights was better than the all-or-nothing way he'd been thinking about it forever.

Maybe there were other things that didn't have to be all or nothing.

He sat for a little longer, letting his thoughts stream over him, eyes on the ice, until finally he closed them for a moment.

It hadn't fixed his idiotic heartbreak, of course. The tight clench in his chest was still there, the stupid wanting and wishing that he couldn't seem to smother, the stab of agony still lurking, ready to strike if he gave it any room to move. But it felt like he'd gotten something, something he'd wanted and missed, improbably returned to him, at least a little, at least in a way, and something about that made him feel like maybe, maybe, maybe...

When he finally stood up to go change, he gave the rink one more glance back.

"See you next week," he said to no one.

The Raiders had their first preseason game on Friday night, and Ilya played like shit.

When he woke up on Saturday, on the couch, in the sleeping bag, eyes opening to see the tarp above him, he thought: enough.

He was wallowing, and he felt strongly that he deserved to, but he was going to have to set some kind of limit on it, because everything in his life was conditional, and all of it balanced on the condition of his hockey playing being phenomenal. He had, recently, become aware that "everything in his life" was not the rich bounty he had once considered it to be, but still it was all he had. And if he was bad at hockey, even that would all so easily fall away. His coaches, his teammates, they were not his friends -- well, maybe Marleau, but not the rest -- and they were not going to hold his hand and wait out his fucking dysfunction until he felt like giving hockey his all again. And if hockey failed, then the money, the fame, his provisional residence in the U.S. -- all of those would not be far behind.

Even Sveta had been messaging him persistently about the game. Well, she had been texting and calling long before the game, truthfully, because he had been mostly ignoring her since the wilderness, like he had everyone else. She had been back from Russia for a week now and had been pushing all the time to see him, but her messages since the game had ticked up in urgency, pestering him about his listless play.

Hockey was what mattered, what had to matter most.

And anyway, all of this that he had filled his house with -- the useless equipment scattered around like sad theme-party decorations -- it wasn't real. It was just more empty shit he had bought, like his house and his cars and his clothes. It wasn't really bringing him any closer to what he wanted, what he needed, what would fix the hollowed-out ache inside him. It wasn't...

He closed his eyes just for a moment, then pushed himself up abruptly off the couch, untangling his legs impatiently from the sleeping bag, and started putting it all away. Tore down the tarp and wadded it up into a ball and shoved it into an unused cabinet in his laundry room. Lugged the firepit and the axe and the giant backpack out to shelves in his garage. Took down the mangled gill net from the kitchen and threw it in the trash, because he'd never actually gotten the hang of the stupid little knots. Crumpled up the map of Canada and pushed it into a kitchen drawer, along with the wilderness book. Put the compass in his pocket, just for now, until he figured out the right place for it.

The sleeping bag he put back in his bedroom, but rolled up in his closet. He wasn't going to use it, unless he had to, but if he had to, then it was for the purpose of getting a good night's sleep, and that was good for hockey, so maybe he could allow it.

Everything looked more normal when he came back to the living area, but he did not feel any better. In fact, he felt worse in a way that scared him a bit, with his delusional little comforts stripped away. He did not feel more like playing great hockey, that was definite.

He stood just breathing for a few moments, staring at his house that looked emptier than ever now, feeling a dragging sensation over his whole body, like he was being pulled down incrementally but unstoppably into the ground, and it occurred to him then that maybe this was not a good moment for being by himself.

Pressing his lips together hard, he pulled out his phone and looked at the recent texts from Sveta.

A string of messages from last night of more-or-less normal chirps about his play, noting missed opportunities, lightly scolding about sloppy efforts, and offering pointed advice. Those texts transitioned into questions: what is wrong, why are you so slow tonight, are you injured? Then, over the later hours of the night:

Call me when you get home

At least answer when I call!

Ilyusha, I am worried

If I come over, are you going to talk to me?

Answer me, you idiot!

Then, finally: Fuck you for ignoring me

He didn't want to talk, but he also did not want to be here alone in the sinkhole his house was becoming, and he didn't know what else to do.

sorry can you come over now he texted, hands shaking a little. Then he tossed his phone onto the coffee table and laid down on the couch to wait, pressing his face into the cushions rather than watching for a reply. Either she was coming or she wasn't, but either way his neck didn't feel like it could support his fucking head right now.

When he heard his front door opening some indeterminate amount of time later, his heart squeezed painfully in relief and dread, knowing she would make him tell her, would drag it out of him, and maybe he wanted that as much as he hated the thought of it.

He kept his face mostly in the cushions, but he could track the sounds of her movements until she was in front of him. She seemed to look at him for a long moment, and then she sighed and bumped at his head with her knee until he sat up, clearing a space for her to sit next to him. As soon as she was seated, she put a hand in his hair and dragged him back down to lie in her lap, a little impatiently, but he could have wept with relief, that he could have this one thing he needed and didn't even have to ask for it.

Still, he couldn't speak. His throat felt tight, he kept his eyes closed tight, held himself tightly and focused only on the feeling of being not alone, tried to live in just that comfort for a moment.

Sveta wouldn't abide the silence for long, though.

"Did you really almost die out there?" she asked, her voice quiet, the ease of hearing the Russian words soothing his fretful brain a little.

He breathed for a moment, didn't open his eyes. Lifted his shoulder in a shrug. "Thought I might," he said.

She lifted her hand from his hair and smacked him on the arm. "Idiot! Why are you so fucking careless with yourself?"

He sat up, annoyed, a little stung, went to pull away, but she tugged him back down, almost roughly, but then her hand petted into his hair again and he let himself fall back into it.

"Sorry," she muttered. "Had to get that out of my system. Just... you scared me."

"Scared myself," he admitted.

She blew out a long, slow breath. "So is that what this is? An existential crisis because you almost died? Or is it... the old thing?"

She knew, of course, that he could have... moods. Low periods. And this was like that, in feeling if not in situation, because the feeling was blue and slippery, as if the things he wanted to hold onto were eluding him or shrinking away from his touch, but it was also not like that, because in those times he could not always point to a cause or a reason, and in this case... well. He could.

"I think, neither," he said finally. "Not exactly."

"What, then?" she asked.

The problem was that the cause and the reason were embarrassing to admit, and she would laugh at him, and he would feel stupider than he already did. Plus he didn't even know how to say it.

"I... met someone. In the woods," he tried, at last.

She was silent for a moment, and then... she did start to laugh, a half-strangled but delighted sound.

He looked up at her in annoyance. "You are laughing? I am in pain and you are laughing?"

She doubled over a bit, leaning over his face, cupping a hand to her mouth and shaking her head, her eyes fond. "I'm sorry, Ilyusha, I'm sorry. It's just so... Only you would get lost in the wilderness and still find someone to pick up."

He did not want to laugh with her, but... it was a little infectious, her gleeful little cackle.

"Shut up, you are a terrible friend," he said, although there was no heat behind it.

"Sorry, sorry," she said, petting his hair and pulling herself together. "Was it the man who rescued you? I saw the statement online. He's a park ranger or something?"

Ilya felt annoyed about this continual misunderstanding. "No. He is a resource manager at Parks Canada, responsible for allocating equipment, personnel, and financial assets across the entire organization," he informed her.

She stared at him, eyebrows up.

He rolled his eyes, feeling, as predicted, stupider than ever. "Okay? So? Maybe I looked at his professional biography on the website?"

"Memorized it, more like," she said. "Let me see it."

When he groaned about this request, she gave him an impatient little pinch.

"Don't be so tiresome," she said. "You want to talk about this or you wouldn't have asked me to come over, so stop pretending and get on with it."

She was right, he supposed. It had been weeks since he'd even said Shane's name aloud -- because he hadn't become quite pathetic enough to sit alone in a room whispering it to the wind -- and he felt like his mouth missed the shape of that single, solid syllable.

So he sat up and dragged his laptop over from the coffee table and opened it to show the website already loaded on his browser. Sveta looked at it, eyes flicking over the short biography and scrutinizing the photo for longer than Ilya liked.

"Shane Hollander," she said finally, then added, "He's hot."

"That's enough looking at him," Ilya said, closing the laptop, unreasonably annoyed, not sure if it was because she was ogling Shane's photo or because she'd gotten to say his name and he hadn't.

She sat back and regarded him, pushing her auburn-tinged curls off her forehead. "So, what happened?"

Ilya sat back, too, slumped against the couch cushions. "He hates me."

"What did you do?" she asked, giving him a skeptical look.

"I existed," he said, lifting a hand and letting it drop. She kept just watching him, expectantly, so he added, "He hated me from before we met, because of hockey, and... I don't know."

"He told you this?" she asked, frowning.

"No. Well, a little. Said he didn't like me."

"And that didn't stop you from fucking him?" she asked, then rolled her eyes. "No, I suppose it wouldn't. He is hot."

He gave her a flat look. "It was only supposed to be fucking, but then..." He frowned, busied himself scratching at a weird sticky spot on the edge of the coffee table. Probably dried Gatorade. "It felt like... more."

"And you wanted that?" she asked, her voice quiet.

He heaved a sigh. "I don't know. I didn't really know him. Thought I did, but he didn't tell me... so many things. Or told me half-lies. So. He didn't trust me, obviously. And it was only a few days we were there together. And also, it's so fucking complicated. He lives in fucking Ottawa, and -- if you hadn't picked up on it already -- he's a man. And... there's hockey. And Russia. I don't know. I don't know what I wanted."

He did, though. Despite all the sensible things he was saying about the very real complications, he knew he was lying about that part. But it didn't even matter because--

"Anyway, it was stupid, pointless. He hated me the whole time, hated me for years, so it was never..." He trailed off, out of words for it.

"Why do you think that?" she asked, leaning forward. "If it was so good with him that you were actually thinking about more, then it doesn't sound like he hates you."

"But he does," Ilya shrugged. "His mother told me -- I met her in the hospital. It's a long story."

She thought that over for a moment, frowning. "Okay. And you think parents always know exactly what their adult children are thinking and feeling? How would that have worked in your family?"

"It's different," he said, shaking his head. "His parents are... nice. They know him."

"Well, I know you," she said, her mouth pinched stubbornly. "And if he doesn't want you, he's a fucking idiot."

"No, he's not," Ilya denied reflexively, because it was normal not to want him, not for long, not for real. Who ever had? Case in point: "You know me, and you don't want me," he pointed out, maybe sulking a little.

"I do, though," she said, sighing, reaching over to squeeze at his arm. "Just not like that, because you know as well as I do we wouldn't make each other happy, and that's what I want. I want you to be happy, Ilyusha. Did he make you happy?"

That was probably the worst part, the root of the whole problem, because he had been happy, had stupidly allowed himself to be happy, had felt it and lived it and known it, and that was what made going back to regular, baseline normal feel so unhappy. Even though it had been, really, just a handful of days, still he could close his eyes and see it all, feel it again, the stupid stream where they had played and splashed like idiots, the long, lazy day with the rain, Shane's hand in his hair and the sound of his voice reading aloud in his dumb little headlamp, the fishing, the fire-making, and the world's sweetest blueberry patch. Every smile, laugh, touch, look, all catalogued permanently in his memory, against his better judgment, against his will even, still there, still clear.

But even if it stayed so vivid-bright in his mind that he could conjure all those feelings back in an instant, it had only been a handful of days, and that should not be enough to ruin someone's whole normal life.

He just wanted it back, could not stop wanting it back, that place, or that feeling of when he was there, or the person he had been there, or the person... the person he had been there with.

Fuck.

Instead, he felt now like he had felt in the clearing, like he was wishing to be found, but the only person who could find him was never, never going to come looking.

He was being very quiet, he was being very still, he was not letting out the thing inside his chest that felt like it was trying to explode, because if he let it out it would explode all of him, and he could not have that because he had to keep himself together and play phenomenal hockey and just figure out how to fucking do that because there was no other choice.

But Sveta could tell anyway because she sighed and she patted his back with almost intolerable sympathy and she said, like she hadn't been listening to him at all, "Why don't you just call him?"

It made him almost angry, which was good because it allowed him to focus, to speak, to shoot her the annoyed kind of glare that meant he was in control of what his face was doing.

"This is not a fucking movie, Sveta. You don't chase down a person who doesn't want you, like some fucking creep."

"But you don't know he doesn't want you," she said, and he groaned and felt like tearing at his hair.

"Yes, I fucking do. I told you, his mother said--"

"Fuck his mother," she cut in, poking him sharply in the chest. "Well, please don't, that would not help the situation," she added.

Incredibly, it made him laugh just a little, though he still felt like moaning alongside it.

"I'm only saying," she went on. "If you didn't hear it from him, if he didn't tell you, then you don't actually know. Did you even ask him?"

He sighed, knowing she was going to make a whole thing of this. "No. I left."

"Ilyusha," she said, scolding. "You are not this stupid. Sitting here miserable, when maybe he is miserable. Just call him and find out."

He thought, then, of Shane's mother and her advice that had helped him that terrible day in the woods. Do something, when doing nothing was worse, would make everything worse. It tugged at him, for a moment. But...

But she was not his mother, that advice was not intended for him. He had no idea, no way to know what his own mother would have said in this situation, if she could be here. Maybe she would say do nothing, let it be or find a way to let this go or something else more a match for his own temperament, his own shortcomings.

And Sveta... she didn't understand, and he didn't have the energy to make her understand. He had seen all the videos, all of Shane's talent, his promise, could imagine the agony of losing all of that and watching someone else take it instead. He had learned the things that Shane hadn't trusted him enough to tell him, that Shane had held as murky secrets in his wounded heart. And Ilya did not want to be, could not be the icon of all Shane's pain, dragging all of that back to the blistering surface of him again.

He wasn't going to fucking call him.

But he did call, though. He didn't even have to wait until it was very late, because it was Saturday and no one would be in an office on a weekend. He only had to wait until after he and Sveta had both had quite a lot to drink, until Sveta had fallen asleep on the couch, until his resolve had weakened sufficiently along with his sobriety and good judgment.

He dialed the number, clutched the phone in one hand and the compass from his pocket in the other, and listened. That was his intention, to only listen, just like always, and not to say a word. That was the plan.

Maybe it was Sveta's persuasive voice echoing in his mind. Maybe it was that now that he'd started talking, he was finding it hard to stop. Or maybe he was just very, very drunk.

In any case, the call did not go according to plan.

Shane's parents were being kind of weird.

He'd come over for dinner on Sunday night, which was normal, and he'd brought Champ with him, like usual, but the whole time they'd been eating and chatting and clearing away dishes, he'd felt like something was a little off. Well, they'd been a bit overly solicitous with him since the hospital, he supposed, all their worry about his injury translating into extra concern, but he was well past all that now, and yet tonight they seemed almost intentionally focused on... poking at him, a little bit. Politely, carefully, but... so many questions.

How's everything at work, are you getting enough sleep, have you been seeing your friends, you're feeling all right, aren't you and in one really pretty awkward moment with his dad, Do you ever think about using those dating apps?

He had answered all the questions with as much reassurance as he could muster, which admittedly wasn't the most it could have been, because the truth was that he had settled into a state of being just kind of weary and disheartened most of the time, but he didn't want to tell them that.

Because there wasn't really a solution for it. Well, there was, but it was an impossible one involving Ilya Rozanov magically appearing at his front door and saying, "Sorry I left, I changed my mind, actually I do want you," and Shane being mad about it for approximately five seconds before folding like a wet paper towel and dragging him in and...

Imagining the rest was not really that helpful; he'd already done enough sad jerking off to last him a lifetime. None of it was helpful, because it wasn't going to happen, and he'd be way better off if he could just get his mind to focus on anything else for more than an hour at a time, but...

Anyway, he wasn't going to talk to his parents about any of that.

So when they were all sitting around the living room after the meal, his dad holding Champ in his lap, his mom drinking coffee, Shane tucked tiredly into a corner of the couch, and his mom asked, "Do you have any camping trips planned?" with a certain... pressing air about her, he decided maybe it would be better if he talked about something else, just to give them something to focus on.

"Not really. I'm not sure how much I want to do that anymore," he said.

When they both stared at him, stricken, like he'd just announced he might be pregnant or something, he realized it maybe hadn't been the best way to lessen their concern.

"I've just been trying out some new hobbies," he rushed to add, to try to explain or soften it. "Figured it wouldn't hurt to, you know, broaden my horizons."

He watched as they flashed a look at each other that they probably thought he wouldn't catch, even though he was well aware of their habit of silently communicating.

"Oh," his mom said at last. "Well, that's nice. What... what kind of hobbies?"

He thought about telling them about the kitchen disasters or the Hot Cheetos painting or the whole unfortunate ukulele thing, but in the end he decided on a little honesty.

"You know how I came by the other day to get some of my old school stuff out the garage?" When they both nodded, he went on. "Well, it wasn't school stuff, actually. It was... my old hockey gear. I... I played some hockey."

Now they both looked like he'd just added that it was going to be twins.

"You played hockey?" he dad asked, his hands going still on Champ's fur, and even his normally unruffled attitude seemed a little, well, ruffled.

"Yeah, I mean, nothing big or official or anything, just a drop-in game at the rink over on Tenth, and I only went the one time, but... it was pretty fun."

He kept his eyes on the ground to give them time to react to this and probably shoot each other a bunch of significant looks.

"Well, that's great, Shane," his dad said after a beat. "We think that's... great."

"Yes, of course," his mom chimed in. "And it was... it wasn't...?"

She trailed off, and Shane figured she didn't want to use words like "painful" or "traumatizing" or "nightmarishly awful," but that she was maybe thinking those things.

"It was good," he said, looking at them both in turn. "I think I should've tried it a long time ago. I know it's not everything I wanted, but... I still love it. It felt nice to just play again."

He didn't want to say something unbearably cheesy like "I think I'm healing" or whatever, but that was sort of what it had felt like.

Apart from the fact that he was still kind of bleeding from a different open wound of emotion, but that wasn't the point.

"That's wonderful, son," his dad said, smiling at him kind of proudly. "To be honest, we've been a little worried about you. You haven't seemed like yourself lately. But maybe a little hockey is just what you need."

Shane blew out a breath. "Yeah, maybe."

He didn't ask why they'd been worried about him. He understood their concern, didn't have a way to put it to rest. Not right now. Hopefully at some point. He honestly didn't know when.

"And I have to say," his dad went on. "If you don't take another solo wilderness trip for a while, I won't be too sorry. It always worried me, you out there alone, and, well. I think this last trip showed that it can be a very good thing to have someone there with you, to have your back."

Oh, fuck. Shane's throat tightened with sudden, painful emotion, the thought of that someone pressing hard against his chest. He blinked fast, feeling the eyes of both his parents on him, tried to will away the rush of feelings he didn't want, didn't ever want but certainly not now, here, with keen-eyed witnesses.

He hadn't told them, of course, hadn't told anyone but Rose and only then in the lightest terms, and only because she had relentlessly needled it out of him. His parents weren't like that -- they had always been careful about his boundaries, more than ever after he'd lost hockey, after he had forcefully pushed away their pressing concern, wanting to figure out some way to stand on his own. They had always been there, ready to do anything, and he knew that, but he hated asking for help, or feeling like a loser who needed help, so he didn't ask and he tried not to show it and when it got too big to hide he went to the woods but now he couldn't even have that, and he just...

"Fuck," he said, his voice breaking, and now he was just openly crying in front of his parents, head in his hands, and it was not what he wanted but he didn't have any energy left to hold it back.

His mom got up and sat beside him, slid a hand over his back. "Shane, can't you tell us what's wrong?"

He didn't know if he could, and he didn't even see the point. Asking for help is not weakness, his therapist kept saying, and okay, fine, maybe. But how could they even help? There was only one person who could help with this, and he had asked that person to help, to stay, and that had been a fucking disaster.

He just shook his head, wiping at his face, trying to pull himself together, and then his mom took a breath and said, "Honey, does this have something to do with Ilya Rozanov?"

It hit him like a punch to the throat. He lifted his head to look at her. "What?" he said, almost breathless. "Why do you... what?"

"Well," she said, looking a little embarrassed. "I've just been following the Raiders a little bit, I suppose, since... what happened. I mean, I think that's only natural, that I would be interested in someone who, I guess, saved my son's life."

Shane had no idea where she was going with this. "Okay?"

"I just wondered," she said. "Because the Raiders had a preseason game on Friday, and -- did you watch it?"

"No, that was when I was playing drop-in, actually," he said, a little numbly, as if he would've been able to handle watching it if only he'd had the evening free.

"Well, Rozanov played terribly," she said, shaking her head, her eyebrows up in a slightly judgmental arch. "Almost unrecognizable on the ice, really. The commentators were having a field day about it, and... well, looking at you now, and thinking about that, I just wondered if there was any... connection."

Ilya had played terribly? What did that mean? He probably hadn't even been on the ice much -- early preseason games were more about rookies and prospects than veteran players like Ilya, but Shane's mom could spot sloppy play in less than half a shift, so probably she was right. But... what did that mean? And what was he supposed to say now?

Before he could figure it out, his mom went on, her voice a little halting. "And, also... when you were in the hospital, when I was talking to him that day..."

Shane's heart started beating fast, his attention riveted. "What?" he finally prompted, when she didn't speak.

"There was just a thing that happened," she said, grimacing a little. "I didn't think much of it at the time -- I was half out of my head with worry for you. But looking back, I think maybe... maybe he had sort of a funny reaction to something I said."

Shane's heart lurched like it wanted to heave up out of his mouth. "What? What? What did you say? What do you mean?" A horrible -- but almost pathetically hopeful -- thought struck him then. "You didn't... you didn't tell him to leave, did you?"

"Oh, no. Of course not," she said, lifting her hands as if to demonstrate her innocence, and the fear and the hope that had swelled up inside him dropped out of his chest with an almost tangible thump.

"I was polite to him, I swear," she went on, with a twist of her lips. "Even though he was... well, Ilya Rozanov. We were just talking a little about you and hockey and everything."

Oh. Wait. That was... Shane felt a new, cold tightness in his gut. "What did you tell him?"

She looked at him with worried eyes. "Well. I think I said that you hated his guts," she said, grimacing.

Shane was up on his feet before he even realized he was moving. "What?"

It seemed to be all he could say, all he could think, a flood of blurry, swirling, urgent thoughts coalescing into the single frantic question, because he could not be hearing this, this could not have happened, what what what?

"I'm so sorry," she said, hands clasped tightly together. "It just came out, I just blurted it right out, and then I tried to apologize, or explain, and he said it was fine, and he seemed fine, I thought, but he did leave pretty soon after that, and I forgot all about it at the time, but now I just wonder..."

Shane could not breathe. His lungs were not functioning. All of his bodily operations had been rerouted to his brain, which was frantically trying to catch up.

It didn't seem to help, though, because the only thing that happened was that his brain shifted over to a different single frantic question.

"Why... why..." He closed his eyes and forced a breath. "Why would you, why would you say that?"

He looked at his mom and she was looking up at him, her face creased with concern.

"Well, because... I thought you hated his guts," she said, lifting a hand and dropping it. "You always have, I thought. I mean... don't you?"

He sat back down again, abruptly, collapsed down, clutching at his head. "Fuck."

The room was very quiet for a moment, and Shane knew with painful clarity how he wanted to answer his mother's question, knew what was in his heart, but he didn't want the first time he said it out loud to be here, to his parents, while achingly and probably permanently far away from the person it was about.

He lifted his head and said, instead, "No, I don't. I... like him. I think... I think I like him a little bit too much, actually."

There was another silence that he didn't care to fill, and then his mom looked at him in that way she had, like she was trying to see through his skull and inside his brain.

"And so you two were..." she started, and she just lifted her eyebrows.

He didn't know how to answer, how to describe it, or if he even should -- this touched on Ilya's privacy, didn't it? He probably shouldn't.

He sighed. "I don't know if I can really say."

But his mom tilted her head at him with a frank look. "Honey, I kind of think you already did."

Yeah. She was probably right. He scrubbed a hand over his face, felt like groaning.

"I don't know," he said at last. "I thought, at the end, maybe we were... something. But then, he left, so then I thought I was wrong."

His mom winced. "Oh, so this is my fault. Well, fuck."

Yes it fucking is, he thought loudly, but he held himself back from saying it. It was close, though. "I mean... I guess you didn't know."

His heart was still pounding in his chest, but he didn't know what to do with this information, didn't know how to think about it, felt off-balance and dizzy with it.

His dad, having watched all of this in silence, spoke up then. "Well, I have to say, I'm pretty surprised. I mean, Rozanov has such a reputation as a ladies' man."

Shane shook his head. "Well, look, you can't... you can't tell anyone this, but he's... bisexual."

God, this had veered into uncomfortable territory. He had sort of assumed when he'd done his own coming out years ago that he would be finished having awkward conversations about sexuality with his parents, but apparently not.

Then his dad made it worse. "Really," he said, a little wonderingly. "And you're sure about that?"

He looked at his dad flatly. "Um... yes?"

"Oh," his dad said, understanding. And then they all sat with that for an awkward moment.

Shane took a breath, tried to get his brain to stop scrambling, tried to think.

Ilya had stayed, had stayed until his parents arrived, and had not just left then but stayed longer and talked to his mom and his mom had said that and Ilya had left then. Had he left because of that? Did he think that was true? And was that... why he wasn't playing well? Did he actually care?

Or was Shane being crazy now, trying to read into something that wasn't there? It had been weeks, and he'd heard nothing. Surely that was stronger evidence that Ilya didn't care than some wishful fucking thinking about one conversation his mom only seemed to half-remember.

He didn't know what to think or what to do, and he wasn't sure he was going to be able to figure it out on his own without driving himself absolutely fucking crazy, so he just... he just asked. He just asked for help.

He gusted out a pained breath. "What do I do? What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to think? I mean, it's crazy, right? To think this could be... I mean he has a whole life. He's -- he's Ilya fucking Rozanov, he has everything, he could have anyone. Why would he want... me? I'm just... I'm no one."

"Well, that is not true," his mom said, her tone salty. "For one thing, you're the person who saved his life."

"I mean, yeah, but--"

"And he's the person who saved yours," his dad put in.

"No, I know," Shane said. "But that doesn't... I mean, we only spent a few days together, and yeah, there was a lot of drama, but that..." He blew out a breath. "I guess I just have no idea how he feels."

His mom looked at him seriously. "Well. Do you think you should find out? Do you think you might regret it, if you don't?"

He knew what she meant, of course, what she was echoing, and it made him sigh. "This is a little bit bigger than a waterslide, mom."

"Is it?" she asked pointedly. "Being afraid, and being brave -- it's the same for a waterslide as it is for everything else. Right?"

He buried his face in his hands for a moment, ran his fingers up through his hair, feeling totally overwhelmed and unmoored. He stood up, suddenly.

"I don't know. I have to... I have to... go, I think. I need to -- I don't know. Something. Think about this."

He barely registered the next little span of time, his mind spinning so intensely he felt like he was jumping forward in time, from whatever his parents were saying as he began to leave to taking Champ out of his dad's arms and getting her to his car to suddenly pulling up in front of his apartment.

He spent the rest of the evening pacing around his living room, unable to sit, his mind racing in circles, his heart torn with indecision, leaping between this means everything and I have to do something and I'm crazy for thinking this means anything and I should do nothing, with intermittent pauses to vibrate with fury at his mom for what she'd said to Ilya, because why did she have to say that, why why?

But he also knew that it was his own fucking fault. If he'd just told Ilya everything back in the woods, well... maybe it would've ruined everything then, but at least neither of them would've been blindsided this way. He should have done so many things differently, would have, if he'd known it was all going to end up like this.

But what was he going to do now? What even could he do? He still didn't have a way to contact Ilya, didn't have his phone number, was not going to send an Instagram DM saying hey my mom was wrong, I don't hate you, for fuck's sake, and then wait around to see if Ilya ever looked at DMs from people he didn't follow. Ugh, he didn't know. He just did not know.

He finally moved like a robot through his nightly routine, settled Champ, and got into bed so that he could stare at the ceiling and go through his circle of thoughts again.

He spent the whole night like that, dipping shallowly into sleep and waking up with the same sickening indecision, over and over until it was light enough that he pushed himself out of bed and got ready for work, because if he stayed home alone all day he would drive himself absolutely crazy.

He was the first one in the office by some margin, so it was quiet, and he had every intention of pulling up the most complicated spreadsheet he could find and -- fucking, reorganizing the whole thing, maybe, just so he wouldn't have to think.

But his desk phone was flashing at him. Voicemail. It made his whole body feel still and cold, sick with pointless anticipation, but he couldn't stop himself, just like he'd never been able to stop himself before.

The call log showed a blocked phone number, as usual. Shane put the receiver to his ear, pushed the button, put in his access code, and waited, resigned to the fruitlessness of this ritual, unable to resist the stupid delusion that it meant... something. Some kind of connection. Because he was that pathetic, always, and especially today.

The silence hissed away like it always did, on and on, and he closed his eyes and lost himself in it, sat there in the early-morning quiet of his office, listening and waiting for nothing, because nothing was going to--

"Parks... Canada," he heard on the recording, a careful pronunciation of the words in a voice that made him flinch, made him startle as his eyes flew open.

"I have... a complaint. To register," the voice went on, with the slow, precise diction of a person who was very drunk and pretending not to be, who was Russian but speaking English, who was so achingly familiar it almost hurt to hear, who was... who was Ilya.

Shane's heart was so loud in his chest and so throbbing in his head that he was worried he wouldn't be able to hear the rest of the message, if there was more. He jumped to his feet, like that would help, pressed the phone harder to his ear. Held his breath.

"You need to... allocate. More guides. For the parks, and... for the wilderness. People can get lost. I have gotten lost. I have a compass, but... can't find where I am. This is bad... customer service."

Shane thought he might pass out, thought he might cry, couldn't move, couldn't breathe, listening listening for more, a phone number, something, please.

"I need--"

The message cut off with a shrill beep as the recording time ran out, and Shane jerked, yanking the receiver away from his ear, feeling like screaming, feeling like smashing it. That couldn't be all, that couldn't be, fuck.

He hung up the phone, stood behind his desk breathing hard for two, three, four breaths, and then...

Fuck this. Fuck work, fuck indecision, fuck everything else.

He was going to Boston. He was going to find Ilya if he had to break the law to do it.