Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Rose Landry, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Grigori Rozanov, Polina Rozanova

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Not Hockey Players (Game Changers), Journalist Shane Hollander, Photographer Ilya Rozanov, Roommates, Friends to Lovers, Secret Relationship, Getting Together, Break Up To Make-Up, basically this is colleagues to friends to lovers, who are trying to figure their shit out along the way, Abusive Grigori Rozanov, Parent Death, Grief/Mourning, Minor Shane Hollander/Rose Landry, Minor Miles Allen/Ilya Rozanov, Closeted Characters, Coming Out, Light-ish Angst, Happy Ending, see author note for more content info

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-08-24 Completed: 2026-10-19 Words: 119,974 Chapters: 10/10

Words Are Not Sparrows

Summary

Someone’s been calling Ilya’s name for a while now, but Ilya’s got the viewfinder to his eye, the whole world shrunk down to that single square of light, and he hates being interrupted when he’s shooting.

---

Ilya is a professional photographer; Shane is a journalist, working for a rival newspaper.

Notes

With my deep thanks to CorvidCordelia, goodinthesnow (the artist formerly known as MaesterChill), sweet_s0rr0w, and YankingAwry for betaing — what a treat to have some of my very favourite authors helping me with this.

The fic is almost fully written, with just two scenes of the final chapter to go. At the moment it's looking like it'll be ten chapters (it's currently around 85k), but that may increase depending on how long the extra scenes are! I hope to post as I edit, so am aiming for at least one chapter a week. I have been writing this fic since January so I am very ready for it to be out of my docs and into my AO3.

Show canon, but I have read the books. I had to go with the Voyageurs for the name of the hockey team, for reasons that'll become clear as you read.
This fic mentions a few real Canadian celebrities, but none of them appear on-screen, as it were. It's just for the bit.
I'm not British but I do use a British house style when I write, so my ems and spellings will reflect that. I have attempted accuracy in both Canadianisms and hockey.
I do have experience of both journalism and photography but still cannot guarantee that I will never sacrifice a little bit of realism for the love of the game.

Click here if you want further minor warnings for the contents of the fic

Minor, non-graphic descriptions of blood/fighting; some non-graphic depictions of domestic abuse (both physical and emotional); Shane and Ilya both have casual, canon-typical hook-ups towards the start of the fic; there's drinking, smoking, and some sexism/misogyny/homophobia/slurs; Ilya also has a minor depressive episode following the death of his father (who has dementia and/or a drinking problem here). They are both quite closeted in this fic. Shane is a picky eater in this, and has minor control issues around food. He is also easily distracted by Ilya's mouth, but that's neither here nor there.

Chapter 1: Directives Are Posted

Someone’s been calling Ilya’s name for a while now, but Ilya’s got the viewfinder to his eye, the whole world shrunk down to that single square of light, and he hates being interrupted when he’s shooting.

The arena is a beating drum of noise, and he can’t really hear much over the roar of the crowd, and he hardly ever gets to shoot a hockey game anymore these days, so he feels justified in ignoring everything but the weight of the Nikon in his hands and the release of the shutter.

On the ice, Jensen’s trying to clear, but Price is hustling, elbow out, wrist loose, the spume of ice fanning up in his wake as he notches the puck home, or almost; it catches iron, the crowd baying and stamping, and then Jensen gets to it on the rebound, a sweet balanced steal. The puck’s on his blade and he’s gone for the break-out, explosive.

He flips it out to centre, and Ilya’s been taking pictures this whole time, quick fire shutter release, over and over, but this — this is the shot. He knows it’s the picture of the night already — even before it’s lined up, even as the shutter whirrs. Good photography is as much about anticipation as anything else. Ilya knows he’s got the shot even before he gets it — the clean white light thrown up from below that makes Jensen look even more defined, the angry red of his mouth, the ugly purpling skin around his right eye, visible even through his visor. The stretch of his arm, the one lifted leg, the follow-through of the stick — elegant, if it weren’t for all the effort that shows in his face, contorted with frustration. The whole thing is kinetic, the essence of movement, and Ilya’s managed to capture it anyway. Good, he thinks. That’ll be the front-pager.

“Rozanov, you fucking asshole, stop ignoring me.” The voice comes again, this time accompanied by a swift jab to Ilya’s spine. It's Eric Bennett. Ilya sighs; he likes Benny, really, but he needs to pick his moments.

“Go fuck yourself, Benny, I’m working,” he says, and to make his point he keeps his camera to his eye and keeps shooting until the line change. When he finally turns, he sees Bennett has waited anyway, and he has a guy with him, huddled in a black puffer, toque pulled down low.

“Sorry to interrupt, Rozy, but uhhh. This guy wanted me to introduce you.” Bennett jerks his thumb back at the guy, who doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed.

“Thanks, man, I appreciate it,” the guy says to Bennett in a friendly way.

“I don’t,” Ilya says firmly. Bennett looks between them. He’s a good guy, really, and he knows Ilya well enough to know he’s serious. He looks like he’s about to climb over the plexiglass and take his chances on the ice.

“Roz,” Bennett says, still looking warily at Ilya, “this is—”

“I think I know who he is,” Ilya says, and lets the words hang there, waits them both out. Benny still looks antsy; he had the sports beat on the Gazette back in the day, so he knows Ilya’s got about thirty seconds before he needs to start shooting again.

“I, uhh, thought you didn’t know each other,” Benny says.

“We don’t,” the guy says. “Rozanov’s been ignoring my calls. I’m Shane Hollander.”

“Yeah, you know,” Benny says to Ilya, sounding relieved, “from the Metro. Okay, good, well… gotta go, see you around, Hollander. Roz.”

He claps Ilya on the shoulder and gets the hell out of there. Ilya likes him, most of the time. They’d even worked together for a while, when Ilya was freelancing, still hustling his way out of the high school circuit.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Shane Hollander says, and sticks his hand out to Ilya. He’s smiling a little. “You didn’t answer my email.”

“Emails, plural,” Ilya says. He almost doesn’t return the handshake, but there’s something so artless about this guy, with his freckles and the flush of rink cold across his cheeks, the silly hat, the smile that looks like it’s genuinely meant for Ilya. He shifts his camera to his left hand, reaches out slowly, shakes, lets go. “You sent three.”

“I did.” Hollander rubs at the back of his neck. No gloves; his hands are big, red with cold. “Well, like I said, you didn’t answer the first one.”

“There was nothing to say. I’m exclusive to the Courier.”

“Well, I know that’s not true.” Hollander gives a long-suffering sigh. “You don’t have to lie to me, dude. Just hear me out for a second. I have a project coming up, and I think you’d be perfect for it.”

Ilya cups the camera more securely in one hand, the strap of his harness straining with the movement. He really should be shooting again, but the satisfaction of knowing he already nailed the shot is making him overconfident.

“Okay,” he tells Hollander. “So it was a tiny lie. But I said it because I don’t want to be rude and tell you outright that I am not interested.”

“How can you say you’re not interested when you don’t even know what it is?” Hollander looks genuinely puzzled. “Look, I know you must get a lot of offers. But I’ve been keeping an eye on your work for a long time now. And I really think we should collaborate on this piece.”

Ilya is distantly aware of, and irritated by, the glow of satisfaction this presumptuous statement causes.

“I am a very busy man, Hollander.” Ilya gestures behind him. “In fact, I must get back to work now.”

“Oh, come on,” Hollander says. “You know as well as I do that the Courier will be putting Jensen on the cover. And I was watching you just now. I know you already got the shot.”

“You are photography expert now too? Your little articles about top hottest Canadian celebrities not enough for you anymore? You are diversifying?” Hollander’s face doesn’t change, but there’s a new stiffness to his shoulders. Ilya pushes on. “Look, this is a waste of our time, Hollander. The Courier prints real news. I do not have time to shoot washed-up former models posing by pools with their fluffy dogs.” It doesn’t actually sound that bad of a gig when Ilya says it out loud like that, but he’s committed now.

“Fuck you,” Hollander says, but he’s actually grinning, shaking his head. “Diversifying, come on. And say what you like about the Metro, we have the highest circulation in the province.” He has white, even teeth below the stretch of his thin upper lip. Ilya is choosing to ignore the ridiculous curve of his plump bottom lip as he smiles.

“You have the highest circulation figures because your editor is a morally bankrupt hack who’d do an exposé on his own mother if it meant selling more newspapers,” Ilya says, keeping his voice polite. This is just something he knows to be true — he doesn’t need to embellish it with anger.

“Yeah, Roger did say that you might bring him up.” Hollander meets Ilya’s eyes steadily. “I know you worked with him before. I asked him if he could introduce me to you, when you weren’t replying to my emails. He said he thought that might actually make things worse.” His mouth twitches gently.

“Since you know so much about me, you must then know that I will never work with the Metro again. And you can tell Roger Crowell that from me.”

“I won’t be telling Roger anything. And I’m not talking about working with the Metro. This job I’m talking about, it’s kind of a passion project for me. Roger has nothing to do with it.”

Ilya’s getting chilly, even in his warm coat, a little shiver running through him. He stamps his feet, the camera shifting gently against his chest with the movement.

“I know your work, Hollander. I know the sort of stories you write. These stupid celebrity profiles, hockey players at home with their blonde wives.”

“Wow.” Something flickers over Hollander’s smile, gone almost before Ilya has time to notice it. “What, you’re a fucking snob about what people like to read? Ask anyone, I’m fucking great at what I do. You don’t have to like it, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad.”

“Sure,” Ilya says, slowly. “I was riveted by your four-pager where William Shatner defended the horse girl stereotype as empowering for young women.”

Hollander’s eyebrows are doing a whole thing, expressive lines drawn together. Puzzled, maybe, or annoyed? Ilya can’t quite make it out.

“Well,” Hollander says, consideringly, “I don’t know if you’re making fun or not? Because that one actually was pretty good? It got me to the NNA finals last year. And, like, I don’t know if it makes a difference but Bill really liked it, he said I really saw him as he is. So… I don’t really know what point you’re trying to make here?”

This fucking guy.

“I actually thought the Shatner piece was not completely terrible,” Ilya tells him. “I mean, who would have known that Captain Kirk is so keen to combat misogyny in women’s equestrianism, if it weren’t for Shane Hollander? Those pictures, though. Real shame. The interview captured all that passion of his, yes? But the photos… ugh. All wrong. He should have been shot—”

“With his horses, right?” Hollander finishes eagerly, and looks pleased when Ilya nods. “I had a whole thing planned…. I wanted the photos to really centre him, to concentrate on his body, you know? Nothing too macho. Make him look… human, I guess? He’s old as balls, you know, even though he looks good on it. I thought we should lean into that element. And pose him with a horse all sweating and veiny with that sort of wild, powerful energy, you know what I mean?”

“The contrast,” Ilya says, because he can picture it exactly; dust, and too-bright sunshine, and Shatner’s sinewy bare old-man arms, his fragility set against that sort of animal vitality.

“Exactly.” Hollander actually laughs; Ilya almost laughs back, fuck. “You get it. I knew you would. My photographer was scared of horses, so he refused to get in the paddock.” He looks disgusted.

“I’m not exactly a fan of those creatures myself,” Ilya says. “They are very big up close.”

“You’d have done it, though.” Hollander’s eyebrows are doing that thing again. He’s watching Ilya, steady. “To get the shot, right? You’d have done it?”

“Like you said, I’m the best.” Ilya shrugs. He would have nailed that shot. He would have been sweating while doing it, but he would have done it. Hollander nods, looking satisfied.

“That's why I want you.”

“Well, yes, I would have done an excellent job, so you were right. Happy? But I’m right too — the Metro doesn’t exactly have a reputation for quality, let alone ethical reporting. And I will not work for them.” Ilya kind of feels like shit now. This sort of trash-talking is fair game among journos; expected, even. But Hollander’s not playing along. He’s been pretty nice, actually. The whole conversation’s been pretty nice.

“Well, okay.” Hollander looks so disappointed. “That’s a decision you’ve made for yourself, I guess. But I already told you, this isn’t for the paper. It’s for me. If you’d just let me tell you all about—”

“You could hire any photographer you want.” Ilya is obscurely aware that he’s trying to explain something that doesn’t need explaining. “Anyone in the industry would be happy to work with Shane Hollander, right?”

“Anyone except you, apparently.”

Hollander’s not smiling anymore. He looks just like his byline picture like this, very serious, lips pressed together, but there’s still something warm about him, something easy. Ilya has the mildly unpleasant feeling that he’s not being completely fair to Hollander, who after all has been nothing but complimentary this whole time.

“You interrupted me at work,” Ilya says, but he can hear the softening in the words. Hollander’s eyes brighten. He looks around the rink; at the scrimmage that’s developing down behind the goal, at the rows and rows of people shouting along.

“Yeah, sorry about that. I thought it was my best chance of cornering you.” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. “Will you meet me for coffee someday? Or brunch, or something? I can tell you about it properly then.”

Hollander tugs at his hat, resettling it on his head, his hands nervy.

“What’s in it for me, other than getting to work on your pet project that I probably will not care about?”

“Well.” Hollander pauses, but not rudely. Instead he looks as though he’s thinking really hard of the best way to explain. “I’d pay you, of course. Your going rate.” He raises an eyebrow at Ilya’s scoff. “Yeah, I know how much you cost, and I can afford you, don’t worry. But aside from that? Nothing, I guess. Only I think it would be really cool for us to work together. And I think this story, with your pictures, would be worth it all on its own.”

Ilya has been working in the industry since he left school — really, since before he left school, if you count the internship he took over spring break in Sec V — and he has never met someone as disarmingly honest as this guy.

He blows a raspberry at Hollander. “Boring.”

“Okay,” Hollander says, hands open. “I tried. Well, thanks anyway, Rozanov. It was, uhh, good to meet you, finally, I guess. Better let you get back to your game.”

Ilya has practically forgotten the fucking game, has forgotten that he’s fucking cold this close to the ice, has forgotten the bulk of the camera around his neck. He casts a desperate look towards the play. Jensen’s back on already, fuck. Ilya raises the camera with its long unwieldy lens to the hole in the plexi.

“Of course,” Hollander says casually from behind him, closer now as though he’s stepped right up behind Ilya, “you better make sure to get a load of good shots of Jensen while you still can. My money says he’s gone by next week.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Ilya captures a burst of scrappy play up the middle, doesn’t look back at Hollander. “Why would Jensen be gone? This injury?”

“Obviously I can’t tell you anything.” Hollander sounds amused. Ilya whips around, nearly whacking him in the chest with the lens. Hollander’s watching the game as though he’s never been as interested in anything in his life.

“Fuck you, Hollander, you have something good on him?”

“I'm not telling you jack shit, man. But mark my words, it’s good, alright.”

Hollander is delusional. Jensen’s only just finished up his rookie deal; the Voyageurs have him locked down for a five-year contract. His cap hit is eye-watering. He’s not going anywhere.

“Come on, Hollander, you can give me something.” Ilya doesn’t bother to try to sound casual, Hollander will know he’s not.

“No,” Hollander says. He smiles slightly, looks sideways at Ilya briefly before going back to the game. His eyes are on Jensen, who’s back on the bench with his line. Hollander’s gaze is sharp. “But like I said, it's big. Like, nationals big.”

“Are you fucking with me?” Ilya says, because surely not.

“Tell you what,” Hollander says smugly. “How about a bet? If I’m right, and something happens with Jensen, then you have to at least grab a coffee with me and listen to my pitch.”

“And what if I’m right, and you’re just crazy?”

“Well.” Hollander rubs his hands together, a quick efficient motion, then cups them and breathes over the fingers. “I guess then I’ll back off, and you’ll never have to hear from me again.”

He’s smiling again, like Ilya’s in on a joke with him. He holds out his hand again and Ilya, god help him, reaches out and shakes back, smiling too. Hollander has a good firm handshake, business-like, though still fucking freezing. The deal is made. Ilya’s camera swings on its harness and bumps off his chest as he moves back.

Ilya is never going to tell Hollander that he would have given in, had always intended to meet him anyway, even before he turned up at the rink. He had been getting round to replying to the emails. He’s curious about Hollander. There’s the professional overlap, sure, that’s enough of a draw. Hollander is a star, as far as that sort of shit goes. And he’s a puzzle. He could have gone anywhere straight from Concordia — he could have gone to the Courier, and then he and Ilya would have ended up colleagues. But Hollander had chosen that shithead Roger Crowell and the Metro,of all the fucking papers in the fucking country, and has been making waves ever since. There’s something about him — Ilya just doesn’t know what it is yet. But he feels better for making Hollander think he needs to be persuaded.

“Fine,” Ilya says, and takes his camera in both hands. “If you win, I will reply to your email and you can buy me breakfast. But I don’t believe this will happen.”

“I’m pretty confident I’m going to win. This story is about to break, mark my words.”

“Okay, I will look out for this wonderful story of yours. But tonight, I want to get back to work. Bye bye, Hollander.”

“Alright, alright, I get the hint.” Hollander nods at him, once, and then he shoves his hands into his pockets. “Don’t forget what you promised, okay?” He heads for the exit, doesn’t look back.

“Hollander.” Ilya can’t resist calling after him. There’s no one else here in Ilya’s little pen. Hollander turns, surprised, and Ilya snaps a few shots, not overthinking it. The settings aren’t what he’d use for portraiture, of course, but he can already see what Hollander will look like as he turns, the quick start then shuttering of his smile. He’s already so well framed against the white plastic partition of the photography pen. He’s a good subject — the dark eyes, the bright mouth. Those freckles. They’ll be so crisp Ilya will be able to count them, Hollander sharp and vivid, the background a featureless blur.

“Shit, man, a bit of a warning next time?”

“Don't worry, Hollander,” Ilya calls. “I made sure to get your good side.”

Hollander raises his hand, pats at his own cheek.

“I think both my sides are pretty much the same,” Hollander says very seriously, and then he’s really gone, slouching, chin buried in the collar of his coat. Ilya only realises he’s grinning when he sees his breath steaming in front of him. He really needs to get back to work.

Ilya’s leaving the rink after the game, hurrying down the press corridor so he can get his edits done and actually maybe get some sleep, when his phone buzzes against his chest in the inside pocket of his coat. He fumbles it out, careful of the camera bag, and it’s Bennett texting.

— Hope you didn’t bite Hollander’s head off, Rozy. I know him from way back, he’s not a bad guy. Bit intense

— I was avoiding him for a reason

— In future, just answer his fucking emails. That kid will always find a way to hunt you down

— You owe me a fucking drink, Benny. And he didn’t hunt me down. You led him right to me

— I owed him a favour. He hooked me up with the name of Leonard Cohen’s podiatrist that time

— Friday night, McKibbin’s, you old fuck

— I’ll have a double waiting for you, Roz. And thanks, you piece of shit. What did Hollander want you for anyway?

Ilya leaves him on read. He can tell him on Friday night, if he wants.

“So Jensen’s girl just randomly got in touch with you, out of the blue? Fuck you, Hollander, you are lying to me.”

Ilya’s been nursing his disbelief for five days now, ever since Hollander’s story about Jensen had dropped, and now he’s here on the back of his lost bet, having brunch with Hollander.

Because Hollander had indeed landed a scoop, which had indeed hit the nationals, just as he’d predicted. It had gotten Hollander some nice bylines, and he looks pretty damn smug about the whole thing as he sits across the table from Ilya at the unfamiliar cafe somewhere near where Hollander lives. But then, Ilya’s photo of Jensen from the game has been picked up by the nationals too, to go alongside Hollander’s story, so he’s not complaining too much.

“Jensen’s ex-girl,” Hollander says, and purses his mouth, peering down into his cup of mint tea. “And it was luck, really, more than anything. I guess my reputation precedes me.” When he looks up at Ilya, he’s smiling ever so slightly.

Ilya scoffs, but his mouth is full of the speciality breakfast, which is, to his delight, s’mores French toast, so it loses its potency. He swallows heroically.

“Fuck off, Hollander, I know there’s something you’re not telling me. Here, you gotta try this, it’s so squishy—”

“Fuck, no, that looks so gross.” Hollander’s face does a complicated dance through disgust and then back to a sort of embarrassed polite guilt as he stares down at the laden fork Ilya sticks under his nose. “I mean. No, thank you. I’m fine. I ate before I came out.”

“Your loss, Hollander.” Ilya gets his jaws around the food on the fork, somehow. It’s probably not pretty. Hollander is staring at his mouth with a sort of wide-eyed intensity. When Ilya can speak again he pokes Hollander’s foot under the table with his own, ungently. “Come on, tell me, tell me. Spill your secrets.”

“Well….” Hollander is clearly warring with himself, torn between protecting his sources and massively boasting. Ilya fixes him with an interested gaze; it works, even if Hollander isn’t really meeting his eyes. Boasting wins out. “Fine, but this needs to stay between us. I’m not kidding, Rozanov. I need you to swear it, okay?”

Ilya nods, and taps the cross around his neck. “I swear, Hollander. You can trust me.”

Hollander looks at him steadily for a second, across the messy table.

“Okay, Rozanov, I trust you. So, I have this friend, Hayden, he’s the head of production at Restoration Books?”

“Pike, yes, I have come across this guy. He used to work for the Gazette?”

“Yeah, that’s him. We met when I was doing my internship there.” Hollander’s eyes slide away from Ilya, distant for a second. In the yellow pool of the overhead light, everything about him is thrown into sharp relief, lashes shadowing his eyes. “So anyway, his wife Jackie is a nurse at General.”

“Pike’s wife leaked the story to the Metro? Why not give it to the Gazette? Does her husband not know the concept of loyalty to his former employer?”

“No, fuck, Rozanov — Jackie didn’t leak anything, first of all. She’s Nurse Manager of the ICU, she’s not gonna just— I mean, she couldn’t risk that for a story. Jesus.”

“Okay, she didn’t leak it, I get it.” Ilya gestures with his fork. Powdered sugar spreads in a little crystalline puff between them, and Hollander licks his lips. “Come on, Hollander, you like keeping me in suspense?”

“But, like, Jackie is great, right? I mean, really great. She’s got three daughters, first off, and she volunteers on the board of Pour Elle, you know, the women’s charity? So she has a real bee in her bonnet about domestic violence, always has. I guess doing what she does, she sees a lot of bad stuff?”

“Emergency medicine is not for the faint of heart,” Ilya agrees. He’d done a series for his high school reportage project where he hung around hospital entrances and took photos of the people passing through. A lot of moody black and white shots of people sitting smoking in wheelchairs, hospital gowns flapping, mostly. Cheesy as shit. Juvenile. But some of it had been good stuff; he’d gotten an A+, though that wasn’t really saying much considering that Sveta had submitted a series of selfies shot in the wing mirror of her dad’s Lambo and got an A for that.

“Yeah, well, last year Jackie introduced me to a friend of hers from work, this other nurse that works there. She’s really nice — Irish, very chill, cool accent.”

“Yes, yes, Hollander, are you telling me about Jensen or are you proposing marriage to this nurse?”

“Fuck you,” Hollander says. He’s blushing, which means Ilya can’t be too far off the mark. So predictable, this guy; him and his buddy Hayden and their nurses. “It wasn’t like that— I wasn’t— I mean, she was just really nice. Anyway, turns out that she was on shift the night Jensen’s girl was brought in. And you read the story, you know she was pretty messed up.”

“So the nurse decided to spill?” If she did, she was a fucking hero. The details in Hollander’s story had been disturbing. Not just the visible stuff everyone had seen in the pap pics — the nose, the swollen mouth — but the broken rib hidden by an expensive winter wardrobe, the horrible bruising on her arms, the scratches, her broken fingernails.

“No, fuck. Haven’t you ever heard of professional ethics?” Hollander’s cheeks are still touched with pink, even with the fierce look on his face. “No one at General was leaking stories, Rozanov.”

“So how did you get all the medical details? The photos?”

“It’s obviously, ummm, a bit of an ethical grey area.” Hollander looks concerned. His mint tea is subject to downturned scrutiny, the delightful flexing of the dark eyebrows. “I did feel a bit bad about it. But let’s just say that when Jensen’s girl was being treated, someone must have passed my contact details along to her? I can’t confirm or deny, and obviously she didn’t tell me how she got my number. But she needs money, I guess, and maybe she needed to tell her story, too, for her peace of mind. Someone told her she could trust me.”

“So she came straight to you,” Ilya says. Hollander is lucky, it seems. “And she was right to do it. Jensen is a piece of shit, he deserved it. You’re just the vehicle to allow her to tell her story.”

“I know.” Hollander’s mouth works around the rim of his cup as he drinks. “It wasn’t like I was chasing down the ambulance looking for a scoop. And the whole time I was interviewing her, she was shaking, just from talking about it to me. Jensen really is a piece of shit.”

“No more guilt, then,” Ilya says briskly. He’s looking for the server with the coffee, so he only catches the tail end of Hollander’s gaze when he looks at him; surprise, maybe? He’s hard to read, even for Ilya, who enjoys this sort of thing, parsing out the meaning of the shifting planes of people’s faces. Not for the first time, Ilya wonders what it would be like to do a proper shoot with Hollander as his subject. He’s hot, there’s no getting away from it, but he’s also just really interesting to look at, and his skin is beautiful — he’d do well in winter light, outdoors maybe, and with clear directions. Ilya can already see how he’d arrange him. Ilya’s always doing this, jumping ahead with his mind’s eye, seeing people as they might be and not as they are, though Hollander’s looks are so arresting, his range of small expressions so varied, there’s very little slippage between what he looks like here, in front of Ilya, and what Ilya would like to make of him in a photo. Maybe, if they get to know each other a bit better, Ilya will ask him to pose.

“Ummm. Hi?” Hollander waves his hand awkwardly across the table. His drink is empty. “You’re staring. Do I have something on my face?”

“Sorry,” Ilya tells him. Something on his face, as though he’d been the one shovelling down French toast instead of his peppermint water. “Force of habit. I was just thinking about how I’d photograph you.”

“I—” Hollander’s blush this time is violent, blotchy, almost ugly, starting at his throat above the slouchy neck of his sweater. “I don’t photograph well, I know. You probably saw that already, right? The photo you took of me at the game last week?”

Ilya didn’t think Hollander had remembered that. The final shot had turned out nice, though nothing special composition-wise; the ISO was too high for a portrait, so it’s a bit noisy, but Hollander’s face elevates everything, just as Ilya had known it would. He had actually had a print of it developed, along with the one of Jensen; it’s tucked away in his album. He should have printed one for Hollander, maybe, though sometimes people are weird about seeing photos of themselves.

“It was very nice,” Ilya says. “I am excellent photographer, remember. I can make even the most boring subject look good.”

Hollander’s watching him closely; he relaxes and looks away when Ilya smiles.

“Oh, fuck off.” He’s smiling back now. “I’m not boring. I used to have a podcast.”

“This information is not making your point for you, Hollander,” Ilya says. The server passes, smiling, and pauses when Hollander does the polite raised-eyebrow look.

“Can we get another tea, please, and umm. Another coffee?”

Ilya nods. His plate isn’t quite clean, so he pushes the last of the toast around in the remains of the marshmallow fluff. The berry mush leaves bright smears. Hollander watches, licks his lips, the flash of his pink tongue making Ilya feel weird, as though he’s seeing something he’s not meant to see.

“You should get something to eat, Hollander.”

Hollander pauses, staring at Ilya’s ruined plate, the wreck of powdered sugar, the clotted trails of fruit.

“I don’t— I mean—” He shifts an apologetic look towards the server. “Sorry. It all looks great, I’m just not that hungry. Thanks.”

The server nods, and takes Ilya’s plate, leaving the table empty between them. Hollander has a torn sugar packet in his big hands, spilled crystals winking on the scarred wood. He dabs at them with a finger, dexterous.

“Sorry,” he says again, to Ilya this time. “I didn’t think… it was rude of me not to eat with you.”

“No,” Ilya says. “Not rude, it’s okay. Just, I thought you looked hungry.” Hollander’s eyes flicker, the light from above making his lashes very dark. Ilya watches him looking away for a long, silent pause.

“Not hungry,” Hollander says, finally. “Just, yours looked. Ummm. Nice, I guess?”

“It was very nice. So maybe next time we come here, you will try something. I will get the Eggs Benedict.”

“I like eggs,” Hollander says, happily. “Hey, are you ready to hear about my project? You did promise.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Ilya gestures grandly at the table. “Go on, then, Hollander, what’s the plan?”

“So, I have this friend from my gym, JJ. And a few months ago, he was telling me about these clubs he’s heard of through a friend of his. They’re kind of hush-hush, so it’s hard to get much information, but they’re like underground fight clubs?”

“I have heard of these,” Ilya says. “But I didn’t know they had them here in Montréal. You’re thinking of the organised crime connection, maybe? The illegal betting pools? I don’t know, Hollander, investigative stuff isn’t really my bag.” And it’s not Hollander’s either, from what Ilya knows of his work, though that’s not really up to Ilya to decide.

“No,” Hollander says, shoving at a little hill of sugar with his thumb. “I mean, yeah, I guess I’d have to mention that stuff. But I’m thinking more of personal profiles. Like, who spends their weekends getting beat up for fun, or money, or whatever? What sort of people are taking part, and why? And who's watching these things?”

“Okay,” Ilya says. He’s thinking about the sort of thing Hollander writes, the intimacy of his personal portraits. This angle, yes — maybe this could actually be interesting. “You think these people would talk to you?”

“JJ knows a guy who knows a guy who trains some of the fighters. I think he’d be a good place to start, if he’s willing. But a story like this needs a visual hook. It’s got to really capture the physical element.”

“And you need a sports photographer? You know I’m more fashion and beauty, right? I only do the hockey stuff for fun.”

“No, I was thinking more of that series you shot at the Concordia drama class, remember? I’d love something with that vibe, but obviously it’s up to you where you go with it. I just—”

“Hold up, Hollander.” Ilya puzzles over what Hollander has just said. “How the fuck did you see that series? The pictures were never published anywhere.”

“I went to the exhibition.” Hollander’s chin has a stubborn tension to it. He’s not looking at Ilya. “I already told you I really like your work?”

“Right.” Ilya rubs at his hair, which is getting too fucking long again, as his father had told him last night. That exhibition was almost five years ago now, though it had a few good write-ups, at the time, sure. No one he knows went to see it, except for Sveta. Ilya had loved shooting that series. “You like my work, of course. You actually know my work.”

“Is this a problem?” Hollander’s shoulders are up around his ears again, fuck.

“Hollander, are you kidding? Why would it be a problem? I’m just happy, I think, and maybe a bit surprised that you know it. It is one of my own favourite projects. I’m glad you like it, thank you.”

“It’s embarrassing,” Hollander says. The smile is back. “But yeah, I guess now you know I’m a bit of a fan. So, what do you think of my proposal?”

“I think… it could be interesting. Maybe. There is something there.”

“Okay,” Hollander says, and rubs his hands together to clean the sugar off them. “That’s good. You’ll think about it, at least?”

“Sure,” Ilya says. He feels reckless, a swift rising excitement at the idea of a personal project, something he can shape for himself. And he can't deny he's intrigued at the idea of working around Hollander's vision, getting to see his process. “I’ll think about it. Why not.”

“And in the meantime, are you free next weekend? I have a gig I think you might be interested in.”

“Does it involve eggs?”

Hollander laughs; the sound of it makes Ilya smile back at him, the fresh drinks arriving between them, coffee for Ilya to bury his face in before this all gets weird. It’s hard making friends as an adult. Even now his English is so much better, meeting new people always makes him feel like he’s sixteen again, stumbling stupidly over his verb tenses at the lunch table in Holy Cross, knowing what his new classmates were all thinking. But Hollander is a very restful person to be around.

“No eggs, asshole, maybe think about work for a second rather than concentrating on your stomach?”

“It’s an excellent stomach, I need to keep it well nourished,” Ilya says, and pats at himself under the hem of his t-shirt. Hollander clears his throat.

“Uhh, yeah, well, this is a work thing I’m talking about. Not for the Metro, don’t worry. It’s a freelance gig. I need a photographer next Saturday, probably a whole day thing. We’ll need to travel.”

“Can you match my day rate from the Courier? Because if not I—”

“I think the magazine’s budget can stretch, just about. And I’ll drive, and maybe now’s the time to mention that it’s an on-set interview with Rose Landry?”

Ilya feels insane for a second, like maybe he’s hallucinating something so delightful he’s actually imagined Hollander’s mouth moving through the words he’s just said. He stares for a second, just long enough to realise Hollander’s serious, is waiting for his answer.

“A film set? With Rose Landry? It is not the new Dolan film, surely?”

Hollander is clearly holding in another smile. He nods.

“I thought this might be your kinda thing. You’ll do it? And yeah, I know Xavier a bit, actually — I’ve interviewed him a few times. Rose already cleared it with him, but you know, it’s always good to keep the director on side.”

“You know Xavier Dolan. Hollander, you are so full of surprises.”

“Well, are you in or not? Only, I’ll need to find someone else if you’re not interested.”

“Fuck off, Hollander, no one else is allowed to take this job, this is mine.”

“I had hoped you’d say that,” Hollander says, and he grins.

“My favourite part was when you listed out how many times she’s been kidnapped in her movies and the methods she used to escape,” Ilya says, and taps the steering wheel of Hollander’s sensible 4x4. “And then asked her if she gets kidnapped in this movie.”

“Well,” Hollander says, and he even sounds pale. Ilya looks over at the passenger seat. Hollander is tucked into the corner, eyes shut, head tilted back against the headrest. He’s so washed out that all his freckles are standing out. “She has been kidnapped a lot. It’s notable, don’t you think? Wait, was she insulted by me asking?”

Rose Landry had not been insulted. She’d seemed delighted, in fact, had clapped her hands and then had told Hollander a very juicy detail about the kidnapping scene in the Dolan movie which Ilya was 99% sure was a massive spoiler.

“No, Hollander,” Ilya says. “Was a very good interview, you were, what is the word you would use? Very compatible with her. She is very nice.”

Ilya doesn’t usually attend the interviews; celebrity shoots are mostly separate, well-managed affairs with an army of stylists and a full beauty team. Today had been different. Casual. It was, well, fun. Rose Landry was a dream to shoot, so aware of her body, so willing to give. Ilya already knows which shots he’s going to suggest to accompany the article, which outtakes Hollander should use for the Instagram carousel. His vision feels acute, the colours of the trees outside the car window bright and sharp. He blinks.

“She wants us to go to dinner with her tonight,” Hollander says tiredly. Ilya feels his foot press down on the gas, hears the roar of the Jeep as it leaps forward then steadies. Hollander’s eyes remain closed, but he raises his eyebrows in an unimpressed manner. “I take it that means you’d like me to accept?”

“Where?” Ilya isn’t actually sure he wants to. Rose Landry had been very nice, it’s true. She had certainly liked Hollander. But three’s a crowd.

“The cast and crew are all staying at some hotel.” Hollander opens his eyes and looks over at Ilya; Ilya is actually watching the road now, but he catches the movement in his peripheral vision. “It’s, like, the only hotel within twenty miles or something. Really fancy place, they have a pool and stuff. There are a couple of spare rooms, if we want to stay overnight.”

“You want to?”

“I dunno.” Hollander settles back into the seat, wriggles a little. He’d been so tired when they finished the shoot, Ilya had taken his keys out of his hand and insisted on driving. “Days like this always kind of take it out of me, you know? But I guess it might add some colour to the interview. What do you think?”

“I think it would be fun,” Ilya says. “I also think my friend Svetlana would kill me if I turn down the chance to get drunk with Rose Landry. She has had a huge crush on her for years.”

“Oh yeah?” Hollander plays with the aircon, lets cool air wash over them. “I guess she is beautiful.”

“I think famously this is something people say about her, yes,” Ilya says. Hollander nods slowly, but doesn’t reply. “But if you are too tired I can drive us back to the city. Is no skin off my nose. It is no skin off my nose, I mean.”

“Your English is great,” Hollander says. Ilya chances a look over at him, but he’s got his eyes closed again, face very peaceful in repose. It’s just as well; Ilya can feel his own face heating. “You have such a good command of idiomatic language and slang, and stuff like that. When did you move here?”

“Don’t you know it’s rude to ask people that?” Ilya says, probably too sharply, but Hollander just snorts and gestures at his own face.

“Uhhh, yeah, asshole, I think I might know that better than most? I just didn’t think you’d mind, that’s all. You have an accent, you know that, right? You grew up in Russia?”

Ilya doesn’t talk about Russia, not even to Svetlana. He gets enough of it from Papa: “At home”, Papa says, all the time. Ilya used to think they would go home, back when they first moved to Canada, before he knew better. He doesn’t miss it so much anymore, not even all the best bits — the lights of the market in the square, the smell of the river, the outdoor rink where Mama used to bring him skating. The deserted hospital where Ilya used to hang out with his friends, drinking to stay warm. Visiting Mama’s grave, the gold of the domes on the church blazing like flame in the sun.

“I moved here when I was sixteen.”

“Okay,” Hollander says. “You like it?”

Liking it was never the problem. Ilya maybe liked it a bit too much — the freedom, the endless possibilities. Not being in Russia is not the same as not being Russian, but it’s the next best thing.

“Yes,” he says to Hollander. “I am very happy to be here.”

“Well, that’s good,” Hollander says, and then he yawns hugely. “Will I put the hotel address in Google Maps? It’s only about twenty minutes from here. Only if you want to come, though. We can go back to the city if you prefer.”

“Sure, give me the address,” Ilya says. “Twenty minutes is the perfect amount of nap time, I think? And then you will feel refreshed for our big night with Rose Landry.” He chances a wink; Hollander is looking, and catches it, rolls his own eyes.

“Okay, but it’s just a work thing, not a party, or anything.”

“Sure,” Ilya says. “Have a rest, Hollander.”

He keeps the car radio off; the drive is short and silent except for the hum of the engine and the sound of Hollander sleeping.

It is a party.

Dinner is excellent, the hotel staff clearly thrilled to be cooking for Rose Landry. Miles Allen joins them too. He hadn’t been on-set earlier, but makes up for his earlier absence with an abundance of charm. Hollander and Ilya just get to sit back and reap the benefits of being their companions over dinner, all eight delicious courses of it. Even Hollander manages a good showing. By the time the dessert plates are taken away, Ilya himself is stuffed, and mildly tipsy from the really great wine. Hollander doesn’t drink, maybe; he’d accepted a glass of wine, but drank almost none of it, and by the time they go back to Miles’ room with about ten crew members and start raiding the mini-bar, he switches discreetly to sipping sodas.

Rose and Miles are charming; being in the beam of their attention is like having all the lights turned up. Star quality. Miles’ suite is massive, especially once everyone else leaves and it’s just the four of them, staying up far too late into the night.

The huge tv is on, screen flickering mutely; Miles has his phone hooked up to a portable speaker, music filling the gaps in conversation.

“Come on,” Rose is saying to Hollander. “Please? I love this song.”

“I’m not really such a great dancer,” Hollander says. “I’m pretty clumsy.”

Ilya laughs. Hollander’s definitely not clumsy in general, in fact he always seems pretty aware of his own body. Hollander looks over at him, slightly panicked.

“Hollander,” Ilya says, “come and keep me company on the balcony.”

He drags Hollander with him with one hand, fumbling through his pockets for his pack of cigarettes with the other. The balcony is enormous, practically another room, and when Ilya pulls the double doors shut behind them, the night is huge and quiet around them.

“Weird, this place,” Ilya says. “Listen.”

Hollander tilts his head, obediently.

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly. So quiet here. No noise at all. Like I say, very weird.”

“I like it,” Hollander says. He props himself against the wall of the balcony, lifts his face up to the sky. The big plate-glass windows are liquid dark, Miles’ curtains drawn tight behind them. “My family has this cottage. It’s like, a summer home?”

“I went to private school in Montréal, Hollander. I think I know what having a cottage means. Where is it?”

“It’s back home.” He seems to interpret Ilya’s raised eyebrows correctly, because he shakes his head and laughs. “Sorry. Ottawa, where I’m from. Anyway, I always loved going there for holidays just for this very reason. It was so quiet there. Nothing but birds and the sound of the water. Montréal is fine and all. But there’s always so much noise.”

“I like it. I like cities.” Ilya spreads his hands wide at Hollander’s rolled eyes. “What? It is nice, to be surrounded by people. There’s always someone around. Always a light on. You don’t ever have to be alone.”

“You don’t like being alone?”

“I mean…” Ilya takes his time getting a cigarette out. His lighter clicks, thumb warm on the wheel, and then he gets it going. Hollander watches him steadily, red-washed in the glow. “Sorry, you want…?”

“Ugh,” Hollander said. “No, those things will fucking kill you, man.”

“But they make me look so cool.” Ilya lets the cigarette hang out of the side of his mouth, curls a lazy smoke ring into the air, and then another, ascending swirling wreaths. It had been his party trick at school. Hollander shakes his head, laughing. He’s still smiling, something peaceful in it, even as Ilya smokes the end of his cigarette and finds the big planter everyone has been using as an ashtray. The air is pleasantly toasty with the lingering smell of his smoke.

“Are you having a fun night?”

“Yes, I think so. They are nice, those two. Friendly.”

“Yeah.” Hollander breathes out heavily. “Hey, thanks for bringing me out here with you. I’m having a nice time, but I don’t really like to dance. And yeah, Rose is really nice and I just didn’t want to keep saying no, you know?”

Ilya isn’t being vain when he notices that women are often interested in him — it’s just the truth. And Rose isn’t blind; when she had met him earlier, she had checked him out with such a professional level of approval Ilya had almost blushed. But she isn’t interested in him the way she is in Hollander, who makes her laugh a lot, and who she seems to find intriguing in a way Ilya can appreciate. He agrees with her, in fact. Hollander is funny. Hollander is weird, in an interesting way. Rose has good taste. But Hollander hadn’t seemed to notice. For one selfish moment, Ilya dithers about whether to even mention it, unsure even now if it’s even fair to bring it up. After all, he hardly knows Hollander. But this is Rose Landry, movie star. Surely he owes it to him to say it.

“No problem. Though, I think maybe it is not dancing she’s interested in, if you are following my meaning.”

Hollander flinches.

“Shut up,” he said. “That’s not— She’s not—”

“I mean.” Ilya lights another cigarette, waiting until he’s taken a lovely long inhale before he speaks again. “I think it is. And I think she is.”

“Fuck.” Hollander looks out over the balcony, into the stretch of darkness. “You think she’s interested. In me? She’s Rose fucking Landry, man. You, maybe, yeah. Or Miles. But me?”

Ilya laughs.

“Miles? Hollander, are you kidding?”

“What? He’s objectively a good-looking guy.” Hollander’s flustered, maybe, turning to put his hands on the balcony wall, leaning into them, steadying himself. “He’s a movie star, Rozanov, they’re literally paid to keep in shape, it’s just part of their job.”

“Hollander.” Ilya puts a hand on his shoulder, unthinkingly, but Hollander gentles at his touch, head dipping low. “Yes, Miles is a hot guy, I also have eyes and can see this. But Miles is gay, yes? Rose Landry probably knows this, they are friends.”

“Miles is gay? Did he tell you that?”

“No, he did not tell me. But I think he is, probably. Perhaps I am wrong — that has been known to happen, once or twice. But anyway, Rose Landry is not interested in him, or in me, though you are correct that a beautiful movie star should of course prefer me to you. Perhaps Rose Landry has terrible taste in men?”

“Fuck you,” Hollander says. The humour is back in his voice. Ilya gives his shoulder one last squeeze, and takes his hand away.

“Are you interested in her?”

“I mean.” Hollander’s eyes are eloquent even in the dark. He’s looking at Ilya questioningly. “She’s a world-famous movie star. Everyone knows how beautiful she is. What guy wouldn’t be, right?”

“Right,” Ilya says. “Right, right. Okay, hot stuff, maybe you make your move tonight then.”

“Maybe,” Hollander says. “Do you think I should?”

“I—” Ilya starts, even now not entirely sure what he’s going to say, a perplexing little kernel of envy burning in him, and then the door creaks open, bringing with it music, and Miles, and Rose Landry’s lovely voice, calling for Shane.

“Hey,” Hollander says, and he turns his smile from Ilya to the door, so that when Rose Landry walks out in her weather-inappropriate dress, his smile is waiting for her. His eyes flicker towards Ilya once, quickly, and then he carefully, slowly reaches a hand out to Rose. “I was just coming in to look for you.”

She takes his hand, of course, stepping into his vicinity like she belongs there.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” she says to Hollander, not disapprovingly, almost flirtatiously.

“I don’t,” he says. “I just like the smell.”

“Well, I don’t,” she says, and then yawns prettily. “I don’t suppose you want to walk me back to my room?”

“Good idea,” Ilya said, too loud, making Hollander look at him. “It’s getting late.”

“Umm. Sure.” Hollander is slow to push himself away from the balcony, not letting go of Rose’s hand. “Goodnight, Rozanov. Miles, thanks for the fun night.”

Rose kisses Ilya, not a genial celebrity kiss but a proper squeeze, like a normal person. Ilya kisses her three times, the Russian way, and kicks himself internally for the stupid slip. Too tired, too much to drink to remember that polite Canadians usually only go for a one-cheek kiss. Rose Landry is gracious, though. Ilya isn’t sure why he sort of dislikes her; there is nothing at all not to like. And by then she’s gone, with Hollander looking back over his shoulder one last time, raising his free hand to Ilya almost like a salute, very seriously.

Miles and Ilya are left on the balcony, looking at each other.

“Took them long enough,” Miles says, laughing, then stretches his arms above his head. He is, as Hollander had rightly observed, in great shape. “Are you going to leave me too?”

It’s lightly done; it’s left so open that there would be no awkwardness for Ilya to claim tiredness. He wonders if he should, then remembers that Hollander won’t be back to his room tonight. There’s no one to wonder where Ilya is or what he’s doing.

“I’m not very tired,” Ilya says, and keeps his voice low. “I can stick around, if you want to keep the party going.”

“Sounds good to me,” Miles says, and steps closer. He really is very handsome. Ilya loves brown eyes.

Chapter 2: All Talk of Circadian Rhythm

Chapter Notes

I've taken the liberty of introducing Instagram Stories to this world about a year before they were officially launched, and also giving them the Close Friends option. They also have smart watches that are probably a few years ahead of their time in terms of functionality. It's all for ✨✨plot purposes✨✨

“We have to hurry,” Hollander says, and bends over gracefully to touch his toes. He’s wearing shorts, even though it really isn’t warm enough yet, and the fabric strains as he dips low, folding himself in half, and hugs at his calves. Ilya’s warm-up usually consists of tying his sneaker laces; he does a few lunges in a row then back again, so he’s not just standing there watching Hollander stretch. “We’re supposed to meet JJ at the fountain in Parc Baldwin in five minutes.”

“He won’t mind me crashing your run?”

“No.” Hollander starts messing with Strava on his watch, hits record. “Okay, come on, let’s see what you’ve got, Rozanov.”

Ilya’s not worried about keeping up — he runs enough that he won’t completely embarrass himself, even if it’s not his favourite way to spend a Saturday afternoon. He hasn’t run with Hollander before — they’ve been meeting regularly for weeks now, but just for meals or coffee, because Hollander usually has his laptop and his spreadsheets and his notebooks, and needs a table.

Ilya and Hollander are practically the same height, and as they run they find an easy pace. Hollander’s very controlled, his elbow close to but never touching Ilya’s as they go. There’s a rhythm to running in the city — sometimes jogging side by side, then separating to go around pedestrians and piles of slush. By the time they get to the fountain where they’re meeting Hollander’s friend JJ, Ilya is nicely warm inside his base layer.

Hollander and JJ hug in the way that straight guys do, with lots of back-slapping, and then JJ shakes Ilya’s hand as Hollander introduces them.

“I’ve already done my warm-up,” JJ tells Hollander, and they set off together, three abreast at first, Ilya dropping back or speeding up as they meet oncoming traffic. The park is pretty even though the trees are bare and the ground is churned up with slush, and Ilya focuses on his breathing.

“So, Ilya,” JJ says, “Shane tells me you’re hoping to work with him on this fight club thing?”

“He is hoping to work with me,” Ilya says, and Hollander’s warm breath ghosts along the back of llya’s neck as he laughs.

“Yeah, Ilya’s a great photographer,” Hollander says. “And he thought it sounded cool when I told him about it. He’s kind of on the fence at the moment, but I’m pretty sure I can convince him.”

“Well, Kip said he’d text me before the next fight,” JJ says. “But I dunno, man. I’m not sure they’ll go for a journalist turning up. These things are, like, so illegal.”

“Look, we’re not trying to do anything that’s gonna get people in trouble,” Hollander says, patiently. Ilya glances back over his shoulder; Hollander’s got the gleam in his eye that means he’s not going to take no for an answer, but his expression is placid. Ilya suspects he’s already had this conversation with JJ, and that this is for Ilya’s benefit. “You don’t even have to mention it to this guy Kip, we’ll talk to him about it ourselves.”

“Yeah, man, I get that. And I’m sure Kip will be cool about it, he’s a really nice guy.”

“I just want to take great portraits,” Ilya says, as they hop over a puddle. “And Hollander is Mr Ethics, he just wants to tell people’s stories. We’re not exactly trying to be CBC News here. Our angle is more, what would you call it, Hollander?”

“Human interest,” Hollander says firmly. “With a right hook.”

Ilya groans. “You have to change that before you pitch the story.”

“It’ll be a feature piece,” Hollander continues, happily ignoring Ilya. “One of the big magazines, or maybe the Sunday supplement of one of the nationals, or something. I want it to feel intimate, but high-end.”

“Yeah, man,” JJ says enthusiastically. “I mean, I just read Yahoo news on my phone, so I don’t know about any of this stuff, but it sounds pretty cool. I just don’t want Kip giving me shit for sending a journalist along, you know?”

“And we don’t want to draw the attention of whoever is actually running these things,” Ilya says. “Look, you know Hollander, he has it all planned out. We go along just to watch, we get talking to people, Hollander sniffs out the interesting ones, I choose the ones that will look best on the page. And if they want to talk, then we talk. No harm, no foul.”

“If people will even talk to me,” Hollander says, but he sounds smug. Ilya realises he’s been talking as though he’s definitely on board with the project, despite the fact that he hasn’t officially said yes to Hollander yet. Fuck, he’s hooked.

“They will,” Ilya tells Hollander, and together they swerve left to avoid another jogger. Ilya’s breath is coming fast, and he speeds up a notch.

“Sweet,” JJ says, and chugs some water from his bottle. “Sounds like you guys have it all figured out. Okay, man, I guess I can vouch for you to Kip, as long as you’re cool about everything.”

This was some sort of test, Ilya realises, and they’ve passed. Hollander presses close, keeping pace with Ilya. He’s also breathing heavily now.

“We will definitely be cool,” Hollander tells JJ earnestly, and Ilya checks him with a shoulder before he can keep going and remind JJ that Shane Hollander has probably never been cool about work in his life.

They pass the dog park, and for one lovely stretch of straight path Ilya is joined by a big hound with flappy ears and a deep joyous gallop, before its owner calls it back to heel. The park feels alive with people and a sense of potential, even in the gloom of late afternoon, and they run in companionable silence for a kilometer or so, following the circuit of the path. Then JJ looks at a notification on his watch and starts to slow.

“Sorry,” he says. “I gotta take a rain check, I have a big settlement meeting in the morning and opposing counsel’s just sent an email through that I’ve been waiting on.”

“JJ’s in litigation,” Hollander tells Ilya.

They say their goodbyes, and when JJ jogs off briskly in the other direction, Hollander starts running again, just a second before Ilya does, so he’s already ahead when he starts outright sprinting. They run at full pelt for maybe a minute or two, though it’s already mostly dark and the path is actually kind of treacherous with snowmelt and mud. They both get splattered up to their knees, which Ilya only discovers when they finally skid to a halt, neck and neck, and he bends over to catch his breath and gets his palms all muddy.

“That went okay, I think?” Ilya says once he can speak normally again.

“Yeah, that’s step one done,” Hollander says. His voice is rich and purring with satisfaction as he says the words. He’s gotten what he wanted, and he looks at Ilya with the same satisfaction showing on his face, as though Ilya has had something to do with that.

“You think this guy Kip will hear us out?”

“Us?” Hollander asks, smiling slyly. “Does that mean you’re definitely in?”

“Oh, knock it off, Hollander,” Ilya replies. He’s grinning back, hands already freezing from standing around in the dark. “You know I am, asshole.”

“Great,” Hollander says, full-on beaming now. “That’s really great.”

“Right,” Hollander says, and clicks the top of his pen authoritatively. “So we’ve got the schools piece, and then you have the Grand Prix, and then…” He begins ticking down the list in his little pocket notebook. “Hopefully we’ll be able to get a start on the fight club story. JJ said he thinks there’s one coming up next month.”

Ilya takes a last bite of egg and then pushes the plate across the table. Hollander has already eaten most of his oatmeal with berries, but he’s left some in the bowl for Ilya, along with the little jug of rich yellow cream to pour on top. Hollander takes Ilya’s plate and begins cutting the half slice of sourdough toast into neat bite-sized pieces, ready to eat with a little egg on each. Ilya still prefers the French toast, but Hollander is more likely to eat something protein-based, and Ilya likes getting to swap the plates around and try Hollander’s dishes.

“Don’t forget the Voyageurs play the Admirals next week. I’m covering all the playoff home games.”

“Yeah, obviously, that’s in the calendar.” Hollander purses his mouth, looking down at his notebook. He clicks his pen again. “I really like this pen, remind me, I gotta get a few more of them for when this one runs out. Okay, well, it’s probably better that we’re coming into summer for the fight club story. Hot weather will bring the crowds.”

“It would be so good in photos too, everyone hot and gleaming. Blood and sweat, my two favourite things.”

“Not that we’re going to get to photograph the actual fights. If they even let us in.” Hollander looks concerned again. “Maybe I should text JJ again, ask him to come with? It might be better to have someone to introduce us in person, talk us up a bit, you know?”

“You can try,” Ilya says.

“Yeah, maybe.” Hollander is so single-minded — he’s miles away now, planning his next move.

“Hollander? Wake up, hello!”

Hollander shakes his head, blinks back to the room. Craig is on his way over with refills already. Ilya has never had a regular spot before; he prefers casual, he prefers mixing things up. Hollander is a routine guy, though, so every week they meet in their cafe, and every week they make their plans, and every week Craig brings their fresh drinks just as they’re finishing their food.

“Thanks,” Hollander says, and grins up at Craig. “The food was great. Sorry, Rozanov, I got distracted. Just thinking about how we’re going to play it with that guy Kip. He’ll have to vouch for us. JJ said they’re really cagey about who they let in. No phones, cash only, real under the radar stuff.”

“Find out when the next fight is first, and then we make a plan, okay? We don’t need to show up with our press cards. We go, we watch, we are just punters looking for a thrill. We check out the lay of the land, is this what you say?”

“Fine, I guess.” Hollander is like a child sometimes, with his grumbling. It’s fun for Ilya to work out when to bait and when to cajole. “I’m going to text JJ again, he hasn’t been at the gym much recently, so I wanted to check in anyway.”

Hollander pulls out his phone, thumbs into his messages to find his chat with JJ. Ilya just has time to see his own name at the top of the message list, Hollander’s “You’re late” text, sent a couple minutes after their meeting time of ten o’clock, when Ilya had been practically there. Hollander had added the passive-aggressive smiling blushing emoji at the end, just to be a little shit. Their message history is long by now — Hollander is easy to keep in touch with, happy to be ignored for hours if Ilya’s busy, happy to ignore in return when he’s busy himself.

“I’ll see if he wants to grab a smoothie this week,” Hollander says, typing as he talks. “Hey, do you still want to go to that Art Souterrain thing you were talking about? Are there any tickets left?”

Ilya feels for his phone, which is in the pocket of the jacket he left bundled beside him on the seat. When he swipes at the screen, he sees a list of missed calls, and even as he looks at them, the phone starts to vibrate in his hand with another call.

It’s a lonely feeling, the horrible jerk of recognition, the certainty that there’s something wrong.

“Shit,” he says, and Hollander looks up from his own phone, alert. “Sorry, Hollander, I—”

The reception is terrible in here, and anyway, he doesn’t want to take this in front of Hollander.

“Sure,” Hollander says. “Take it, I’ll get the check.” He waves Ilya out, and Ilya goes, already swiping to accept the call, pressing the phone hard to the side of his face as he slips out the door of the cafe.

Alexei’s voice is furious in Ilya’s ear, thin and tight, and just like always it takes Ilya a second to reshape himself to the linguistic trickery of unexpected Russian after he’s just been speaking English.

“—answer your fucking phone,” Alexei is saying by the time Ilya tunes in.

“What is it, Alexei?” Ilya asks. Better, with his brother, to always get to the point. “You need money?”

Papa sends an allowance every month, mostly made up of what Ilya pays in rent to stay in his old bedroom. It’s Polina’s house, the money should be going to her, but she doesn’t need it, and anyway Papa would never talk about these things. They never mention all the ways in which Polina’s rich family and her Canadian passport have smoothed the way for Ilya’s family.

“I need to not be getting phone calls about Papa when I’m trying to eat my fucking dinner, Ilya.” Alexei’s anger, even from this far away, has such a distinct and familiar quality to it that Ilya feels his shoulders settle into the wall behind him, ready to ride it out. “Where the fuck are you? Polina is going crazy, the stupid bitch.”

“I’m at work, Alexei. Papa was fine when I left a few hours ago. What’s going on?” Ilya ignores the comment about Polina. She’s actually not a bad person, really. They only hate her because she’s not Mama, and Ilya’s old enough now to know that’s not a good enough reason.

“He’s drunk, you dumb fuck. You need to check your fucking phone.”

Alexei hangs up, and Ilya’s phone is buzzing with more new messages, the panicked hum of notifications. The street is Saturday morning busy, and he rests against the wall under the cafe awning, pressing his back against the bricks. He’s cold, jacket abandoned at the table inside. Without letting himself think too much, he scrolls through his missed calls, five from Polina, and calls her back.

She’s crying when she answers, and Papa is shouting in the background. Ilya closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says before she can say anything. “My phone, I didn’t get your messages. I’m here now, what’s happening?”

She’s speaking Russian in reply, which must mean she’s upset.

“Please, Ilya, he is having a bad episode. I just got home from pilates and he’s been— There’s a bottle, empty— He’s very angry, Ilya. Can you come home?”

The phone line crackles with the energy of her slight shriek as something breaks in the background.

“You hang up and you very quietly go to the car and drive away, Polina, okay? Go get a coffee, take half an hour. I will take care of him. I am coming now.”

“He won’t let me leave, Ilya.” She’s whispering, frantic. “He said he’ll kill me. I need you, please. Come home.”

Ilya’s ears are buzzing; he can’t hear much above Polina’s crying, Papa’s rage in the background, but there’s a disturbance in the air nearby and then a warm touch to his shoulders. Big hands move him carefully, drape his coat around him so the cold brick isn’t at his back anymore. He keeps his eyes shut.

“Keep out of his way, if you can. And keep the doors locked, don’t let him get out again. I’m on my way.”

He keeps his eyes closed for a second after he hangs up. When he opens them, Hollander is hovering nearby, looking at him.

“Everything okay? I know I don’t speak Russian but that sounded serious.”

“Yeah, is fine.” The words are clumsy in his mouth. He’s fucking freezing. His cigarettes are wedged in the bottom of his inside pocket, and he can’t quite reach, hands trembling, though he doesn’t think it’s visible. Hollander reaches over, gently, and gets the box out for him, takes a cigarette out with a pinched look of disapproval, and then sticks it in between Ilya’s lips. It’s so surprising, so fucking disarming in its helpfulness, that Ilya laughs, clenching the right side of his mouth so he doesn’t drop the smoke. Hollander ignores him, just wriggles his hand back into Ilya’s pocket, the moving presence of it ghosting along Ilya’s flank, the thin lining of the coat the only separation between them, and pulls out the lighter. His competent hands cup it from the breeze and it strikes on the first turn, his thumb holding steady as Ilya inhales with a gasp.

“Okay,” Hollander says drily. “Clearly, everything is completely fine. What can I do?”

“I have to go home,” Ilya tells him, meaning Nothing, there is nothing anyone can do. But Hollander of course doesn’t know that.

“Okay, I’ll drive you.” Hollander starts patting his coat down, his hand unerringly glancing off the jangle of his keys on first go.

“No, it’s okay, I will call an Uber, hang on.” The cigarette has steadied Ilya's nerves, and he gets the app open. “Fuck, eleven minutes.”

“Rozanov.” Hollander is deadly serious, Ilya can already tell there’s no point in arguing. “Come on, I’m parked just down the way.” He does that thing again where he moves Ilya, just takes him by the shoulder and sort of shoves him gently along, nothing rough about it, just entirely focused on getting him where he wants him to go. And Ilya goes, dumbly, letting Hollander lead, until they get to the already-familiar, sensible 4x4. Hollander doesn’t go so far as to open the door for Ilya, but he hangs around while Ilya pulls himself up into the passenger seat before he goes round the hood and gets into the driver’s seat.

“Where to?” he asks over the decisive growl of the engine, and Ilya punches his address into Google Maps. They drive in silence, and Ilya knows that Hollander will let him stay quiet for the whole journey if he wants, which is a restful thing to realise, and probably the whole reason he actually feels brave enough to say anything at all.

“My father,” he begins, then stops. Hollander slides a look at him from across the car, but doesn’t say anything.

“He’s got a problem,” Ilya goes on. “With alcohol.”

“I’m sorry. Is it bad?”

“Pretty bad, I think, yes. It is not unusual, where we are from, to drink, to get drunk. But he has always had trouble knowing when to stop. And nowadays, it doesn’t agree with him. He gets confused. Acts not like himself. Polina gets frightened, plus she is not strong enough to manage. My stepmother, that is. I am the only one who can—” He shrugs, and Hollander slides a look sideways at his bicep.

“You mean… violent?”

“Sometimes. Like I say, he is not himself.”

Ilya’s not sure this part is entirely true, either. His father has always been terrifying, and of course Mama would never have allowed Ilya to see anything she didn’t want him to see.

“Does he have help?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, wondering at the question. “Polina is there. And of course, I am also there, but of course sometimes there is work— I cannot always be around.”

“No, I meant— Sorry,” Hollander says, squinting into the line of traffic ahead. “I meant, is he getting professional help? It sounds like a lot to deal with. There are groups, or special therapists—”

“No groups. No therapists.” Ilya sounds sharp in the quiet car. “He would not like that, it is not something he would do.”

“That sounds rough for you.”

“It’s not so bad,” Ilya says. “I get to escape a lot. Polina, not so much. She is tied to him, now — to this sick old man who is sometimes cruel to her, and when he gets drunk does not even remember who she is.” When Ilya was young, and his father brought Polina home, he would have been gleeful to know that one day she would cry in misery because his father kept asking where Irina was. Now it’s actually happening, Ilya hates it, wishes he didn't have to hear his mother’s name ever again.

“I still think it sounds pretty bad for you,” Hollander says, and fuck, Ilya can’t help it, his throat is tight and when he tries to talk he makes a weird noise that he can’t quite cover with a cough. There’s a tear, threatening and then escaping, the lack of control over it the worst part. Ilya can’t stop it, and wiping it away will only make it more obvious, but he does it anyway, shoving at his face with the heel of his fist.

Hollander stops watching the road for a second, and his eyes are so kind that it only makes things worse. “Hey,” he says at whatever he sees when Ilya meets his gaze, and for a second Ilya thinks he’s going to touch him, Hollander’s hand twitching on the gear stick. “Hey, it’s okay.”

“It’s fine,” Ilya says, and his voice sounds almost normal. “I’m fine. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Sure, okay,” Hollander says, and he drives the rest of the way in an easy silence so Ilya can get himself together, ready for whatever meets him at home.

Ilya wakes on Marly's couch to his phone pinging. Ilya’s not even going to look — he knows it’s Hollander. He’s worried that if he checks the message, he’ll decide to actually turn up for their weekly brunch, and he can’t do that today.

He looks anyway, and it is Hollander, his usual two-line message with an emoji at the end.

— Are you sure you can’t make it? I was thinking of getting the smoked salmon, and I wanted to talk to you about the fight club thing.

The emoji is a fish, which may or may not actually be a salmon — Ilya has never seen one that wasn’t already smoked and sliced.

He doesn’t reply, just places his phone face down on Marly’s coffee table and stretches out on the sofa. Marly is still asleep, and his whole apartment reeks of beer and stale smoke. Ilya’s got a hangover the size of Québec, and a horrible taste in his mouth. He’s been sleeping on Marly’s terrible, uncomfortable couch for a full week now, and it’s not improving with familiarity. But he also has nowhere to go today, so instead of thinking about that, he rolls over and buries his face in the flat, scratchy cushion he’s using as a pillow, and which smells faintly of damp, and forces himself to go back to sleep until Marly wakes him, crashing around the kitchenette, chugging water directly from the tap.

Marly says he’s busy tonight, a work thing for his girlfriend, which means Ilya’s on his own.

“And hey, bud—” Marly grimaces. “Sorry to ask, I know you’ve been shit out of luck with the apartment hunting, but Cynthia’s getting kind of pissed with the living situation.”

Ilya had known it was coming; Cynthia likes him fine, but he’d fucked her cousin in the bathroom at a party three nights ago and hadn’t called her, and anyway even if it weren’t for the cousin thing, Cynthia’s probably sick of him overstaying his welcome on Marly’s couch.

“No problem,” Ilya says. “I think I have got something lined up, anyway.”

Marly is a good friend — Ilya’s best friend, maybe. One of the reasons Ilya likes him is that he takes everything Ilya says at face value.

“That’s great, man! And like, you don’t need to be out today, or whatever. Do you wanna take the rest of the weekend? I’m crashing at Cynthia’s tonight anyway, you can take my bed.”

Ilya gets up to join him in the kitchen, pushes his head under the tap as he passes so Marly ends up soaked and spluttering, which leads to them wrestling on the slippery laminate floor until Ilya gets Marly in a headlock.

“Jesus, man,” Marly says when Ilya lets him go, still half-laughing, rubbing at his throat. “You gotta watch your face, hang on.” He tears off a paper towel, dabs it under the tap. “Your eyebrow’s bleeding again, fuck. You should get that shit stitched up, man.”

“It’s fine.” Ilya holds the paper towel to his face. “Just a scratch. Besides, the ladies love it. Makes me look dangerous, yes?”

Marly looks unimpressed.

“I don’t know what to tell you, man. It makes you look like you got the shit kicked out of you, but fortunately for you, even a fucking black eye can’t hide this angel face.”

He pats Ilya’s cheek as he heads for his room.

“And please, tidy this shit up while I’m away, okay man? Least you can do after hogging my couch all week.”

While Marly packs, Ilya fires off a text to the work group chat. One of the many divorced dads on the newspaper staff will have a spare room he can crash in for a few days. He carefully ignores Hollander’s new message, which is a photo of his brunch. Ilya hadn’t realised how much he’s come to look forward to talking to Hollander, and seeing Hollander, until he pulled back a bit this week. Even now, his thumb twitches over the message thread. He probably should reply, try to keep things normal.

It is a brunch picture, sensible avocado toast with a big white mug of some no doubt weird-smelling tea in the background. Ilya sends a photo back to Hollander, a close-up of a cluster of bottles, the thin afternoon light almost blue in the blur of background.

— Sorry, can’t make it today, heavy night last night. Work a bit crazy at the moment. Catch up another time.

Hollander replies straight away, the typing dots starting even before Ilya closes the thread.

— what work

And then a second later:

— Sorry, didn’t mean to be nosy. I just thought we had already put everything in the calendar for this month?

Ilya doesn’t reply, just sits and watches until the typing bubble appears again under Hollander’s message:

— Is something up? You’ve been quiet this week.

Ilya slams his phone face down on the coffee table and feels the horrible yawning emptiness of the evening ahead. He groans so loud Marly looks around the bedroom door at him.

“I am showering,” Ilya announces, and when he gets out, Marly is gone and the apartment is quiet and empty.

The bar is really nice, actually. Ilya lost Fred about five minutes after they arrived, but that’s fine. He doesn’t even really know him all that well, and only tagged along with him for something to do, but he’s having a great time anyway. There’s a bachelorette party here and he joins them for a few rounds of shots, dances with the bride until her maid of honour pulls her away, giving him a disapproving look. Ilya does more shots, on his own this time, standing at the bar. There’s a huge statue of a gold gorilla tucked in an alcove, twice as big as a person, and Ilya gets some pretty girl to take some photos of him sitting on its lap, then takes some of her in return. They dance for a while, but Ilya’s easily bored tonight, ends up prowling the edge of the dancefloor restlessly. The line for the bathroom is crazy, all the cubicles busy; Ilya doesn’t have any blow on him, because he tries to stick to alcohol these days. But tonight he’s feeling weird, wants to get out of his head — to avoid temptation he just pisses at the communal urinal and leaves after washing his hands, doesn’t hang around.

All the drinks start hitting just as the club really gets busy. Everything is a press of bodies. Ilya’s shirt is sticking to his back; he can smell his own warm body, the way his cologne deepens the more he dances, the musk of the Axe deodorant with the stupid name that he stole from Marly’s medicine cabinet. He’s glad he came out — being around all these people is almost enough to make him feel better. Except he keeps checking his phone. Hollander’s stopped texting him, like he’s finally got the message.

Ilya stands at the bar, a couple more drinks lined up and ready. He goes on Hollander’s instagram; his story has a green circle, and Ilya clicks on it. Hollander’s having dinner somewhere — there’s a badly composed shot of a table with a candle, two wine glasses, one filled with water. Ilya goes into his messages. Hollander had sent a few on here too, but nothing since Wednesday. Ilya’s fingers are too slow to type so he hits voice record.

“Hollander,” he says, mouth close to the phone, because it’s loud in here. “Hollander. Shane. I wish you were here.” Then he feels queasy and stupid, and shuts down the app without sending the message.

The drinks help — tequila this time — and he’s still licking the lime sharpness off his lips when he goes back to the dancefloor. Maybe a man tonight, maybe that will settle him; also it’ll be a bit more of a challenge here, and that’s what Ilya wants right now. He looks around for someone who might be looking back. It’s not usually difficult, and he’s right. There’s a guy — dark hair, good arms — who gets closer and then they’re moving, not dancing together but close enough to be aware of each other’s bodies.

“I’m Jamie. You want to grab a drink?” the guy shouts into his ear, and they go to the bar and Ilya asks for a soda, in case he does end up going home with him. Canada Dry? the guy repeats, laughing, and orders it.

“You don’t like ginger ale?” Ilya asks, and Jamie laughs and shrugs, sips his own drink. He seems nice, good-humoured, and Ilya smiles back at him.

“I gotta take a leak,” Jamie says. “Will you be here when I get back?”

Ilya nods. Maybe this is a hint, maybe he’s meant to go with Jamie to the bathroom. He thinks of the long line of cubicles, the tiles gleaming in the overhead lights. “I will wait.”

The circle marks on the bar are gleaming under the lights, spiralling. Ilya follows them with his finger, shiny-wet, leaning hard on his elbows. Tiredness is catching up with him, his body sagging against the bar, limbs disobedient. He understands distantly that he’s had far too much to drink.

“Hey,” he hears, close to his ear, and he slides sideways into the voice, the steady warm weight of a body against his arm. “Rozanov, are you okay?”

I didn’t tell him my name Ilya thinks, and in the space between one slow blink and the next he sees that it’s Hollander there, leaning beside him on his elbows too. It has to be really him, because he’s wearing a half-zip sweater in a sensible navy wool, and he’s looking pink and overheated, soft with colour around the cheekbones.

“Hollander? What the fuck are you doing here?”

“You sent me a voice note?” Hollander sounds mildly irritated, but though it’s pretty dark in here, Ilya can make out his expression in the mirror behind the bar, and he looks worried. Ilya drinks in his reflection, fully gazing at him in the safety of the dim lighting. “I couldn’t really make it out but you sounded, I dunno. Weird. And I was in the area, so.”

“How did you know where I was?” None of this is making sense, but Ilya has had a lot to drink.

“The fucking gorilla, Rozanov. You put, like, eighteen photos on your Instagram. Everyone knows the giant gorilla.”

“You want a drink?” Ilya asks, since Hollander’s here anyway. Hollander doesn’t like dancing, but it would still be fun to be here with him, if he’ll stay for a while. Ilya pushes himself up so he can stand properly instead of having Hollander’s weight holding him up, and turns to him. He nudges his glass over with one finger, carefully. “Would you like some of my Canada Dry?”

“It’s not Canada Dry you’ve been drinking, going by the way you smell,” Hollander says, and then he turns properly to Ilya and his whole face goes weird, like that expression Ilya learned in English class at school, but never understood until now. Darkens like a thundercloud, the landscape of his face changing as he stands shocked still and looks and looks at Ilya.

“What the fuck happened to your face?”

“Hollander. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not fucking nothing, Rozanov, Jesus.” He raises a hand, touches Ilya’s cheekbone, maybe, but it’s so delicate he can’t feel it. “This is fucked up. Were you in a fight?”

“It doesn’t even look so bad anymore,” Ilya says. “Is getting better.” It’s true. He’s spent enough time looking at it in the mirror, the purple shock of the centre of the bruising, the feathering yellowed edges, the ragged split through his eyebrow. Someone knocks into Ilya from behind, and he staggers into Hollander. “Whoops.”

“We’re getting out of here.” Hollander grabs him, and when Ilya stumbles again, his feet somehow not cooperating, Hollander sighs and slings an arm around his waist so Ilya is leaning on him. “Come on, you’re a mess.”

Ilya wants to say that it’s not him that’s the mess — it’s the whole fucking thing. He’d almost forgotten about the guy Jamie, who he sees in the distance talking to someone, his coat slung over his arm, and he ducks his head, almost but not quite resting against Hollander’s shoulder.

The way out is crowded, and he accidentally elbows a guy hard as he tries to wriggle through the crowd, Hollander’s grip sharp and commanding high on his waist, almost under his arm, catching in the frayed cut-off edges of his shirt-sleeve.

“Watch it,” the guy says, and shoves Ilya back.

“Back off, man,” Hollander says, but the guy shoves Ilya again, rocking him into Hollander, who keeps him steady. “We’re just trying to get out of here.”

“Okay, faggot,” the guy says. He wants a fight. This happens sometimes — Ilya is big and also handsome and that seems to piss this sort of guy off. The guy leans in and laughs in Ilya’s face. “I guess you need to get home to suck your boyfriend’s cock.”

“Are you jealous?” Ilya asks him, and the guy goes purple.

“Fuck you, asshole, you want me to give you another black eye to match?”

“Enough,” Hollander says, and sighs. There’s a space around them now, people are looking, sensing trouble. The door is just ahead, and the bouncers are going to notice them soon. Hollander takes his arm away from Ilya, who feels a swaying sort of panic. Hollander steps forward with his hands up, looking at the guy with that same tolerant expression he gets when someone is dicking him around in an interview but he has to stay polite. And then, so smoothly that Ilya only sees it just as it happens, he draws his fist back and punches the guy, sharply, in the face.

“Fuck,” Ilya breathes, the sound mingling with the inhalations of the people around who are watching. The guy reels back, holding his hand to his cheek, and Hollander turns on his heel smartly and makes a fast exit, dragging Ilya with him. Ilya’s waiting for the moment someone jumps them, the guy or maybe his friends, but Hollander gets them out the door and halfway down the block in no time, walking briskly but calmly, not even breathing hard with Ilya slung half over him.

“That’s was fucking awesome,” Ilya says, as Hollander turns him down a side street. The evening has cooled, Ilya’s arms springing up with goosebumps. “Where did you learn to punch like that, Hollander?”

“I played hockey for years,” Hollander says. “Did some MMA, a bit of boxing, that kind of thing. And I work out a lot. You pick things up.”

“I thought I was going to have to fight him,” Ilya said, “but I can’t really stand up properly. So it’s just as well you were there, Hollander, fully upright and with an excellent left hook.”

He laughs; it sounds a bit gurgly, and Hollander looks sharply at him, fumbling in his pocket. Then something beeps and there’s a flash of tail lights and Hollander’s lovely comfortable jeep is there, waiting. Ilya loves this car now. Hollander gets the door for him, and shoves him up into the passenger seat.

The jeep rocks slightly when Hollander climbs into the driver’s seat.

“Don’t puke in my car,” Hollander says sternly, and turns the key, eases the vehicle out of the parking space into the deserted street. Ilya wriggles delightedly in the seat as the vibrations of the engine ease through him. “I’m taking you home.”

“Shit.” Ilya bumps his head off the window, where he was trying to settle in for a nap. “No, Hollander, I am not going home.”

“You fucking are, asshole. You’ve had enough for one night.”

“No, Hollander, I mean I am not living there anymore. I have moved out.”

“What, in the last week? What the fuck is going on with you, Rozanov?”

“I am afraid I was no longer welcome there.” Ilya wasn’t going to tell him, it was why he’d been ignoring Hollander all week. It had been important that Hollander not see him, at least until the worst of the bruising had faded. “I cannot go back there, Hollander, I am serious.”

Hollander exhales, long and noisy. “Okay.”

“I am looking for an apartment but—” He gestures at his face. “Well, you can see. I turn up looking like this, I am not exactly presenting myself as the model tenant.”

Hollander checks his mirror then clicks on his indicator, pulls in neatly to the side of the street. He leaves the engine idling. Ilya can’t see his eyes with the way the shadows are falling on his face.

“So where are you living at the moment? Fuck, Rozanov, are you on the streets? Is that how you got hurt?”

“Okay, calm down, Hollander. No, I am not on the streets, what the fuck? I am staying with Marly out in Terrebonne. He has a very comfortable couch that he is so delighted to allow me to share.”

“Marly?”

“Cliff Marleau, my friend from work.”

“Oh, the guy from sports?”

“Yeah, he is a good buddy of mine. I have pissed his girlfriend off though. But in my defence, her cousin was very attractive, and was wearing a very low-cut blouse. It was not my fault.”

“I’m sure.” Hollander’s mouth is thin; his eyebrows are puzzled, which means he’s thinking something through. Ilya stays quiet.

“You can crash with me tonight,” Hollander says. “I have a spare room. I was sharing with Mitty, you know Soren Miitka? He’s the Voyageurs’ social media manager. Anyway, he moved in with his girl last month and his room is free, so there’s no problem with you staying the night.”

“Hollander, I—” Ilya stops talking, helpless.

“What?”

Ilya wedges himself sideways in the seat, so he can tuck his head into the crook between window and headrest and also watch Hollander’s face as he sits there, the lights of oncoming traffic slicing over him in rhythmic shifting motion. Ilya is so tired and drunk that he could fall asleep right here, except for the fact that he wants to keep looking at Hollander’s face in profile.

“I did not tell you this as a pity story. I am not a stray cat that needs taking in off the street.”

“I’m not saying it because I feel sorry for you, what the fuck, Rozanov. Or at least—” He looks over at Ilya quickly, eyes resting on the bruising “—I do feel a bit sorry for you, but only because you’re so pathetic right now. But that’s more to do with you not being able to stand up by yourself.”

“Mocking me in my time of need is making me feel much better, Hollander, thank you.”

“I’m just saying.” Hollander returns to staring fixedly out the front window of the car, then he checks his mirrors, clicks the indicator on, and pulls out smoothly. “It’s not out of pity. I’m just not driving you all the way out to fucking Terrebonne at this hour.”

“Ugh, right?! I said to Marly, why the fuck would you live all the way out here?”

“Not many lights on in Terrebonne, I figure.” Hollander smiles sideways at Ilya. “You know — you said you like cities because you feel like you aren’t ever alone. You were talking about it at the hotel that time, on the balcony.”

“The time you screwed Rose Landry, you mean?”

“Shut up, Rozanov.”

“Have you been in touch with her? I think she wants to be friends with us, you know. She texted me the other day, said she’s in town next week.”

“Yeah, she mentioned. I thought maybe we could go for dinner, all of us? Miles too, he should be around. Hey, you could bring your friend, didn’t you say she’s a fan?”

“Surely you don’t want to be cockblocked by half of Montréal on your first date? Or would you call this your second date?”

“Fuck you, it’s not a date. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“Sure, Hollander, it will be so much fun third-wheeling to you and your beautiful movie star girlfriend.”

“You won’t be third-wheeling, you’ll have your— You’ll have Svetlana.” He’s still not used to her name, puts the emphasis on the wrong bit.

“Svetlana will be too interested in your beautiful movie-star girlfriend also, I’m afraid. She will not pay me any attention.”

“Well, then, I’ll talk to you,” Hollander says, and grins. Raindrops are beginning to spit on the windshield; Hollander gets the wipers going. “Wouldn’t want you to wither away and die from neglect, now, would we?”

“I am a vital part of the ecosystem, Hollander.” Ilya is always so very pleased to make Hollander laugh. Everyone always thinks Hollander’s so serious, but that’s just because he’s serious about things. And he has a serious face sometimes, true. But really he’s so ready to not be serious at all that Ilya can’t help himself from encouraging him.

Hollander’s yawning now; Ilya checks the dash clock. It’s late. He’s so tired.

Ilya wakes almost senseless with comfort, like he’s forgotten he has a body. His room is dimly lit, but with a considerate crack in the closed drapes to allow an edge of light, so he can make out where he is. The mattress is firm, the bedding is worn cotton that slips over Ilya like skin and smells fresh, as though it was dried outside. But Ilya remembers from complaining about it last night that Hollander lives on the eighth floor; Ilya vows to ask him about his laundry regime.

There’s a tall glass of water sitting on the nightstand, but as Ilya chugs it down he realises halfway through that Hollander has actually left him a glass full of electrolytes, like a psychopath.

The room has an en suite so he can take a long piss and wash his face. He brushes his teeth with the toothbrush he finds in a little box, placed neatly on a washcloth with a mini tube of toothpaste beside it. Then he goes in search of Hollander, to complain about the water situation.

The apartment isn’t big, and Ilya can hear Hollander before he sees him; the sleek swishing sound of athleisure clothes, the metallic noise of a pan on a stove.

“Good morning,” Ilya announces. “Hollander, you have tried to poison me. Why would you pollute my lovely fresh water like that?”

“It’s to replace all the salts you lost last night,” Hollander murmurs. He’s distracted, peering at his phone then poking at whatever he’s got in the pan, which smells absolutely delicious. “Okay, I just need to add the tomatoes and then bring it to a simmer.”

“What the fuck is a simmer?” Ilya asks, and pads over to him so he can grab the phone and see what he’s looking at. “Shakshuka? It smells pretty good. Do you need help? I would say no if I were you, I’m a terrible cook.”

“It's okay, the instructions are all in the recipe, you can just pass me the tinned tomatoes, please.” Hollander bangs into him to get the phone back, his elbow sliding firmly over Ilya's bare hip. Hollander finally looks at him then, eyes flying up over Ilya’s naked chest, the chaos of his bed-head. “Fuck sake, Rozanov, couldn’t you put some clothes on? This has got to be unsanitary.”

“I do not have anything other than my clothes from last night. My shirt has many stains,” Ilya says. “And it kind of smells. These are not great either, if I’m being honest.” He gestures down at his jeans, which are thankfully black and don’t show up any marks. Hollander follows his gesture, looking down at his jeans too, and his nose wrinkles.

“Yeah, I don’t think I want to know,” he says, and shoves his wooden spoon into Ilya’s hand. “I need to grab something from the bedroom. Keep stirring this,” he says. “Don’t let it stick.”

It’s soothing, actually, standing angled over the stove to avoid the spit of hot oil. There’s onion in the pan, stretching gummy and translucent under Ilya’s ministrations, and bright chunks of bell pepper, and a rich garlicky smell rising. When Hollander comes back into the room, Ilya can sense him standing and looking, stays where he is and just lets him watch.

“Hey,” Hollander says finally, as though not to startle him, and reaches over to take the spoon back. He had left his phone propped up against the olive oil, and he swipes at it carefully to open the recipe again. “I left some clean stuff in your room. You can borrow it. Go get changed and breakfast will be done when you’re out.”

“So I am invited for breakfast?”

“I figured you’d need something,” Hollander says, “after last night. I can’t believe you’re not hungover.”

“I am Russian, Hollander, this would never happen,” Ilya lies grandly, and escapes to the bedroom. There’s a neat pile of clothes on the bed, and Hollander has left a big towel too, so Ilya has an enjoyable shower, face tilted up under the pelting spray, everything nicely scented and steamy. He jerks off in there, which is probably a bit of a shitty thing to do as a guest, but he’s keyed up from last night and the sex he didn’t have with that guy from the club. And, if he’s honest, from the way Hollander was looking at his stomach just now, eyes lingering on his shoulders, his nipples, on the trail of hair under his navel. He wasn’t checking Ilya out; it was more curious, assessing, like Ilya was being judged and found satisfactory.

“I thought you might have drowned in there,” Hollander calls as Ilya comes down the hallway. He’s putting cutlery on the little dining table near the balcony doors. There’s orange juice in a jug; condensation slides like diamonds down the sides. Ilya is so thirsty.

“Sorry,” he says. “I had a very nice shower. Thank you for the towel.”

“It’s—” Hollander trails off as Ilya approaches. “Shit, sorry. Umm. Are the clothes okay?”

Ilya’s wearing Shane Hollander’s clothes, underwear and socks and all. It’s just sweatpants and an old shirt, stretched out and soft and smelling of that fresh detergent. The sweats hang low on Ilya’s hips, below the stretchy waist of Hollander’s very sensible but very tight black boxers. It’s all very weird. Ilya hasn’t lived with a man his own size since he was a teenager, when he outgrew his father; the clothes he wears have always been his own.

“Yes, thank you,” he says. “They fit like a glove.” Hollander still looks a bit strange, but then it’s probably annoying that Ilya’s invaded his home and stolen his clothes. “I will wash them and return them to you. Though Marly’s laundry room is actually a very scary place where the lights do not always work, and also the machine smells kind of weird, so do not put me on a deadline for that.”

“Wow. Sounds like a great time out there in Terrebonne,” Hollander says disapprovingly, and also with a distinct lack of surprise that probably should offend Ilya on Marly’s behalf. “Are you ready to eat?”

Ilya is indeed very, very ready to eat. Hollander has made slices of sourdough toast, and he brings the pan of shakshuka directly to the table. He wears oven gloves, sets the pot on a stand in the centre of the table. There’s fresh fruit, chopped and piled up like gleaming jewels in a bowl. Ilya is helplessly, hopelessly charmed. It’s like eating at someone’s grandma’s house, only they end up talking hockey for the whole meal, and Ilya doesn’t need to worry about his elbows on the table, or mopping up the yolk of his egg with toast crust.

“That was really nice,” Ilya says, when he’s finally done, two helpings in. He feels full and soft with it, something buoyant in the air between them as Hollander leans over and pours him another coffee. “You are a good host, Hollander.”

“Umm, I’m actually not, so you don’t have to pretend I am.” Hollander’s sipping an OJ to wash down the restrained single slice of toast he’d eaten. “Last time I had someone over for dinner, it was under duress and I made Hayd and Jackie come over and organise the whole thing for me.” He looks at Ilya meaningfully. His sleeves are pushed up loosely to his elbows, and his face looks soft and flushed, serene.

“Yes, okay, that actually is being a bad host,” Ilya informs him. “I hope you made it up to her by giving her a very special evening? The poor girl who had to sit through a meal planned for her by Hayden Pike at least deserves a proper reward.”

“Shut up, Rozanov, it wasn’t like that.” Hollander keeps his eyes averted, but Ilya waits until he cracks and relents. “They wanted to set me up with a friend of Jackie’s from nursing school, and they just kept going on about how perfect we’d be for each other, and eventually I gave in just to get them to shut up about it, finally.” He leans back in his chair, stretches his legs out contentedly, one hand lying on his stomach.

“How romantic.” Ilya grins across the table. It’s delightful how bad Hollander seems to be at dating, considering that face and that body. “Sounds like you really know how to make a woman feel special, Hollander.”

“Yeah, well, we actually dated for a bit after that, so.” Hollander is trying not to laugh. “I can’t have done too bad a job.”

“I’m sure you were wonderful, Hollander.” Ilya winks. Hollander rolls his eyes. “And what happened with that girl in the end? You dumped her for Rose Landry, perhaps?”

“For the last fucking time, I’m not seeing Rose Landry, Rozanov.” Hollander pushes the bowl of fruit over to Ilya, passes him a spoon. “Eat some fruit, for fuck’s sake, get some vitamins into your body for once. No, Emma was really nice. It just sort of… fizzled out, I guess? We’d reached the point where it was either commit to something serious or let it come to an end, you know?”

“Emma wanted to meet your parents?”

“Jesus, no.” Hollander looks appalled. “I wasn’t going to let her meet my parents, if you knew my mom you’d understand. She’d either have the whole wedding planned before she finished shaking hands, er else she’d decide she hated Emma for no reason. She’s got some strong opinions. No, Emma wanted me to meet her parents. And it just… didn’t seem fair to do that if I wasn’t serious about her.”

“Hollander, I can’t believe you have finally out-boringed yourself. So responsible. You do not like mess, I think. But mess can be fun sometimes.”

“Not for me.” Hollander wrinkles his nose, reaches over and stabs a raspberry with his fork. “Oh, wow. These are actually really nice; I tried a new greengrocer yesterday. I think I’ll be going back there.”

He steals another raspberry and sits back happily. Ilya tries one too; he’s not actually that fond of raspberries, doesn’t like all the tiny seeds. But Hollander’s right; this one is sweet, the flavour sharpening on the tongue, his mouth perfumed with it.

“Speaking of mess,” Ilya says. “What should I do with the bedclothes?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Hollander says. “I’ll strip them when you’re gone.”

“I have already stripped them.” Ilya gets up and begins to clear the table. Hollander’s kitchen is small but niftily designed, so he can stack the dishwasher easily once all the crockery is piled up on the side. Hollander is a tidy cook, but Ilya finds a Mr Clean lemon spray and a cloth anyway, and gives the stove and counter a wipe down. When he finishes, Hollander is watching him with a bemused look on his face.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Hollander says. His voice is faint, no challenge there. He sounds weirdly polite. “You’re the guest.”

“You cooked, I cleaned.” Ilya shrugs. “That’s the deal. Now, come help, Hollander. I must catch the bus to Marly’s godforsaken place soon, it takes a whole fucking hour to get there.”

He heads down the corridor; he doesn’t need to check if Hollander is following, because he can sense him behind, silent.

Ilya picks up the armful of bedding where he folded it on the bed. Hollander steps into the bedroom and looks around. The window is open, light washing up the walls and onto the ceiling, the lampshade swaying slightly in the breeze. This high up, there’s nothing visible through the window but sky. It’s such a nice room.

“Now,” Ilya says. “Where do we wash these sheets? Will you tell me your secret for how nice you make them smell?”

“I think it’s just the detergent,” Hollander says faintly. He’s staring at Ilya. “It’s got essential oils in it. And when the weather’s good I put them on a drying rack on the balcony. Hey, do you want to move in with me?”

“What the fuck, Hollander?”

“Shit.” Hollander is blushing. He grabs at the pile of laundry, stealing it from Ilya’s arms. His hands brush Ilya’s, very warm. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that.” He pauses, takes a deep breath in, then hurriedly steps back from Ilya. “Sorry,” he says again.

“Okay, Hollander, do not get all Canadian on me. Will you start this again and explain, please?”

“I just thought… Sorry, maybe I’m making it weird. But you said you’re having a bit of trouble finding a place, right? And since Mitty moved out I’ve been covering the rent on my own, and the place is really too big for one person, anyway… I just thought it might be good until you find something, you know?”

“We would be roommates?”

“I mean. Yeah? That’s what I meant, obviously. This would be your room, if you want, until you find a place you like. It’s a pretty sweet location. Good, umm, transport links. And I’m not a bad roommate, I think. I’m pretty tidy, I take the trash out, I keep myself to myself mostly. I cook, as you saw.” He laughs, an embarrassed sound. “Shit, I did make it weird. Forget it, I—”

“Deal.” Ilya bustles into the bathroom, grabs his used towels.

“What?” Hollander stands stupidly in the bedroom, arms full of the sheets Ilya slept in.

“I said, deal. I move in here, I pay rent, you cook and tidy and take the trash out. Perfect.”

“Well,” Hollander says, and Ilya can tell his smile is coming just before it hits his face. “If you move in you have to cook and tidy and take the trash out too.”

“No doubt you will draw up a rota, Hollander,” Ilya says. “There might be colour-coding involved.”

“That’s actually a great idea,” Hollander calls after him. “Where are you going?”

“Laundry room,” Ilya shouts back. “Come on, Hollander, chop chop. If I’m going to live here I need the tour.”

“Jesus, okay, asshole, keep your hair on.” Hollander strolls down the corridor and wrestles a cupboard door open, takes out a good-sized laundry basket. “Here, put the stuff in this.” He puts a hand in his pocket; Ilya hears coins jingle. “Okay, cool, I have money for the machines. Come on, I’ll show you how it works. So, when do you want to move in?”

“Well, Marly is kicking me out tomorrow, actually.”

“What the fuck, Rozanov,” Hollander says, pushing past Ilya, his arms full with his basket. He gestures with his head at the apartment door, which Ilya goes to open. “You have to sort of jiggle the deadbolt a bit. Yeah, that’s it. So where exactly were you going to stay tomorrow?”

“With Fred from work,” Ilya tells him. “I still can, for this week anyway. His kid will be with him at the weekend, though, so they’ll need the room back.” He gets the door, holds it wide for Hollander to squeeze through.

“Jesus,” Hollander grumbles from the top of the stairs. “Fine, move in this weekend, I guess?”

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for the comments on chapter 1, all of which I have been reading with delight and do hope to reply to soon. I didn't know if anyone would jump into my niche AU with me, so I'm very touched.

Chapter 3: Everywhere is Calm

Chapter Notes

In the scene where Shane is trying to get into the fight, please picture him looking exactly like this emoji: 🙂

Ilya has worked six-day weeks on a regular basis since he was about seventeen years old, and work’s been such a great distraction since all the shit with his father, but this Saturday’s shoot is so exhausting that he cannot wait to finish up. The walk home feels long, the streets heaving with weekend crowds enjoying the stretch in the evening, and he practically crawls into the elevator when he reaches the apartment block. Part of him feels like it’s a waste of a Saturday night, especially when the weather is good. He has a familiar late-May urge to sit on a terrasse drinking beer and petting other people’s dogs. But he’s tired, so tired.

The final subject had been a celebrity chef from some crappy show on Food Network Canada who’s just published a vapid lifestyle book. He had been so breathtakingly rude to St-Simon — who had been the one to interview him — that Ilya had been prepared for trouble when it was time to shoot. Instead, the guy had been all charm, and clearly excited to have Ilya photographing him. Ilya had enjoyed suggesting a theme to the designer when dressing the set; the centrepiece of the glistening fake pig’s head with its open panicked eyes provided a satisfying visual counterpoint to the chef’s own high complexion and too-enthusiastic upper bleph. It was going to make a great cover shot; St-Simon had laughed and high-fived Ilya when he saw the contact sheet, which was nice. St-Simon is a good kid, he just needs a bit of confidence to learn to deal with huge fucking jerkoffs who think they’re something special because they were breathed on by a Michelin inspector one time.

The elevator goes up steadily. Ilya leans against the glass of the back wall and shuts his eyes until the doors ding open on his floor. The hallway outside their apartment is quiet and cool, though from the stairwell Ilya can hear the sound of climbing feet, excited children’s voices. When he opens the front door he can smell dinner cooking, something rich and meaty. He physically feels his shoulders relaxing as he lines up his shoes on the rack and gets his gear stacked away in the closet. He used to do most of the cooking at home — Polina doesn’t enjoy it, and anyway she was out most of the time with her glamorous friends at exercise classes and long lunches and fundraisers, and Ilya’s father was worse than useless. But llya doesn’t actually like to cook, even though he loves to eat.

The kitchen is empty, though the scent of food is stronger in here, and he can hear syrupy bubbling sounds coming from the slow cooker. He moves through the apartment to Hollander’s room, tapping lightly on the door.

“Hey,” Hollander calls. “When did you get back? Come in!”

“Just now.” Ilya leans on the doorframe. Hollander’s room is dim, shades drawn, except for the little island of light over his desk. His hair shines like liquid in the lamplight. He’s wearing his glasses. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m just finishing up with this now anyway.” He gestures at his laptop. “I had a few follow-ups for her, but then when she got back to me it kind of threw a new light on some of the quotes I was going to use, so I’ve been doing some rewrites.”

“Which piece is this?”

“It’s the at-home with the owner of that new ballet studio place? The one Celine Dion goes to?”

“I hope you’re leaving in the detailed breakdown she gave of how she prepares her morning bone broth.” Ilya hadn’t shot this one, obviously, because it’s one of Hollander’s regular columns for the Metro, but the woman follows Hollander on Instagram now, and Hollander has been to two of her ballet fitness classes in the last week. Ilya has checked out her page himself and she looks annoyingly photogenic — he would have done a great job with her.

“Fuck you,” Hollander says. “People like this stuff. And she has a lot of interesting takes on body image and health.” He turns back to his laptop, happily clicks away at the keyboard. Ilya watches the play of screen light over his face for a minute.

“Oh, she is interesting, is she? And there I was, thinking you had just developed a sudden love of ballet.”

“Shut up,” Hollander says, and shuts his document down. “Ballet actually requires a lot of core strength. And yeah, I like her. As a person, asshole, not like that.”

“So boring, Hollander,” Ilya murmurs, half under his breath. Not for the first time, he wonders at how little Hollander dates. He hasn’t mentioned anyone since Rose, and that seems to have fizzled out already. Hollander is just too focused on work — it’s the only explanation for how little action he gets, considering how he looks.

Hollander hums to himself as he logs out. He’s always so cheerful after a day’s work, it’s a nice reminder for Ilya of how lucky they are to do what they do

“You ready to eat?” Hollander snaps the laptop shut.

“Definitely. What’s for dinner?” Ilya sniffs the air. Hollander’s room smells like him — that clean laundry smell, and the cologne he wears every day, that his mom gets him for Christmas every year. Ilya quite likes it, actually; sometimes he uses it himself, since Hollander leaves it in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.

“I did a sort of cassoulet thing,” Hollander says. “Beef and beans and carrots, stuff like that. Lots of protein. I got the recipe from last week’s cookery section.” He glances sideways at Ilya and laughs. “Don’t worry, I made some potatoes to go with it.”

“Good. Fuck, I am so hungry. Come on, Hollander, forget about work and come eat with me. Hurry up, because I’m not waiting for you.”

“Jesus, alright, I’m coming. It’s not like they starved you today, they must have had catering.”

“Yes, horrible little sandwiches and some fish things,” Ilya tells him, making for the kitchen. He can hear Hollander tidying up behind him, the quiet thud of the desk drawer shutting, the whisper of the shades being pulled up, the sudden rush of traffic noise when Hollander opens his window.

Ilya’s got everything plated up by the time Hollander joins him, and god the beef is good, falling apart on his fork as he tries to spear it. He tells Hollander about the horrible chef and about St-Simon, and he makes Hollander laugh when he tells him about the pig’s head. Even while he was setting up the shoot, he had been imagining telling Hollander about it, but he’s pathetically pleased at Hollander’s laughter anyway.

“So I was thinking, if the weather stays nice maybe we could go to Parc Jarry next weekend, do a cookout,” Hollander starts, and then he’s interrupted by his phone ringing, which means it’s probably work. “Oh, sorry, hang on.”

He takes the call in the same room — they stopped bothering to keep their work calls private about a week into living together — but he likes to walk around when he talks on the phone, so he’s on the other side of the room and Ilya is pushing the crispy end of a roast potato through the last trail of gravy on his plate when Hollander clicks his fingers at him, making him look up and tune into the conversation. Hollander is grinning excitedly.

“Yeah, man, that’s great. No, Rozanov and I can definitely make it.” He mimes a pen motion at Ilya, who can reach the pen pot on the bookshelf if he swings onto the back legs of his chair. He chucks the pen at Hollander, who plucks it sweetly out of the air without even really looking and begins to scribble something on the kitchen notepad. “Right, no, I promise, I’ll be so cool. And hey — thanks, bud. I really appreciate this.”

“An exciting invitation?” Ilya wants to know what has Hollander smiling like this. He wonders for a second if it might be something related to Rose Landry, but he’s pretty sure Hollander said she’s not in town again until next month.

“You could say that.” Hollander clenches his fist triumphantly, like he’s won a fucking medal or something. “That was JJ. He’s just heard from his friend Kip — there’s a fight happening tonight.”

“Holy shit, that’s pretty last-minute. He can get us in?” Ilya’s tiredness has been making a reappearance since he stuffed himself full of a delicious homecooked meal, chased down by a glass of the red wine Hollander had used in the cassoulet, but the idea of the fight club has him perking up.

“Well.” Hollander’s face falls into worry mode. “JJ said Kip’s expecting us, that he’ll make sure we get in. I have the address, here—” He scans his scribbled note. “It’s all the way out in Sud-Ouest.”

“That’s okay, we can get the Orange Line.”

Hollander nods.

“Yeah, but what if we get there and something goes wrong? We’re going to schlep all the way out there and they’re not going to let us in, are they? Fuck.”

“Listen, you trust JJ, right?” Ilya waits for Hollander to nod before he goes on. “Okay, so stay calm. JJ’s friend will get us in. No one needs to know who we are. We’re just two regular Joes wanting to watch an illegal unregulated fight. No problem.”

“Yeah,” Hollander says. “I guess it’s just happening so fast, I haven’t had time to prepare. Like, of course they’re going to be strict about who they let in. I usually have a plan for these things, you know? It feels weird just rocking up without even knowing if we’re going to get in or not.”

“Hollander, relax.” Ilya starts clearing the table. There isn’t even that much to wash up, Hollander had done the whole meal in only two pots. “We get out a few hundred bucks so we have cash for bets. That’s all they’re concerned about, these organisers. No one will care about two buddies turning up because they heard there was a fight, as long as they can pay their way.” He reaches up into the cupboard and gets down two of his shot glasses. There’s an almost-full bottle of vodka in the freezer, and he pours them a shot each.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea for me to drink,” Hollander says. “I’ll have a headache later.”

“Not from this beautiful vodka I give you,” Ilya tells him, outraged hand to heart. He had stolen it from Polina’s place the day he left, and it is very good vodka. “We are going out tonight, Hollander. They are more likely to let us in if we look like people who might actually be able to cut loose and enjoy ourselves, I think. Currently, your face is saying very plainly that you are not just undercover but might in fact be a cop.”

Hollander smooths his face out, the effort so visible that Ilya laughs, which just makes Hollander look doomy again.

“Okay, asshole, I’ll have one.” Hollander tips the glass to his lips. He makes a face, like a child, tongue poking out delicately between his teeth, and shudders. “Ugh, that’s cold.”

It’s still bright when they leave the apartment, bumping shoulders occasionally. Crowds flow like water around them as they walK. Ilya gets Hollander to wear one of his own jackets, since all of Hollander’s are either work blazers in tasteful neutrals, or padded and multi-pocketed and designed for outdoor pursuits. It had been between Ilya’s leather jacket with the straps and silver hardware, or the waxed bomber, but the straps flapping would probably drive Hollander crazy, whereas the waxed has a velvety inner lining, soft and light without losing structure. It’s weird seeing the shape of his own shoulders settle around Hollander’s, the way they’re so similar in size.

They have to get Ligne 2 and a bus, but on the way Ilya drags Hollander into a pub he knows, a small local one with no music and sports on the big TV and guys who tend to keep themselves to themselves, and Hollander relaxes enough to actually drink a beer, nothing enough to make him drunk but just enough to loosen him around the edges, make him quicker to smile. He gets hit on twice, once on his way to the restroom and once on the way back, which is impressive considering there are only about ten women in the whole bar; Ilya watches him gently move around them and onwards.

“Quite the ladies’ man tonight, Hollander,” he says, when they’re out on the street again, in the full dark of cooling night air. “Not interested? Perhaps no one can live up to Rose Landry?”

“Sorry you keep striking out because women prefer me,” Hollander says, shouldering Ilya halfway across the sidewalk. “You can’t win ‘em all, I guess.”

“This is a serious allegation,” Ilya says. “Are you slandering my good name, Hollander? You think someone with this face could ever strike out? I used to get paid for how I look.” He shrugs, then hits a quick pose, making angles with his arms, hip jutting, when Hollander looks at him quizzically. “I used to model? That’s how I got into photography in the first place, Hollander, surely I have told you this.”

“Is that why you have all those shirtless black-and-white pictures of yourself on your Instagram?” Hollander asks. He peers down at the map on his phone, his scrunched-up forehead lit from below, all his features stark and unbecoming in the clean blue light.

“You have seen those?” The last time Ilya needed money badly enough to be on the wrong side of the camera was years ago. Hollander would have had to scroll back very far to find them. Ilya is delighted, though unsurprised. Hollander is the thorough type; poring over someone’s Instagram page is something he would do. “Yes, I didn’t just casually get a friend to snap some fashion shots of me on a night out, Hollander. Obviously those were professionally taken.”

“Yeah, well.” Hollander looks up at him, scrutinising, his own face very still in the wash of passing headlights. “You always look—” He waves his free hand vaguely in the direction of Ilya’s face. “Modelly. Come on, it’s this way.”

He strides off confidently in the direction of the next intersection, Ilya trailing behind him, lighting a cigarette. He’s having fun — weird, considering the night has mostly consisted of public transport, Google Maps, and being passed over in bars for a guy who doesn’t even own a jacket his mom didn’t pick out for him.

They’re definitely in the right place as they turn onto a quiet street. It’s all commercial properties down here, office buildings empty for the weekend, their sweeping faces blank and dark. There’s a crowd gathering, people standing in twos and threes, outside an automotive shop. It’s set back a little from the street, a relic of a time before the high-rise developers moved in, maybe, and the street lamp outside casts a welcoming pool of golden light.

“Let me do the talking, okay?” Hollander’s face is set with concentration as he heads resolutely for the guy at the door.

“Absolutely fucking not,” Ilya replies, and moves to catch up with him, hurriedly taking the last few drags of his smoke.

“Hi, man,” Hollander says, and smiles at the guy, who just looks at him. The door to the place is shut but there’s a hum of energy in the air, the scratching feeling of a match striking before the spark catches. Hollander jams his hands in his pockets. “Umm. We’d like to come in. Please.”

“Closed party tonight, boys,” the guy says, and reaches beyond Hollander to let in a group of men who’ve been waiting not-so-patiently. The opening door lets out a blast of heated air, a pocket of noise.

“We’re on the list,” Hollander says loudly. Ilya can see his tense, balled fists through the pockets of Ilya’s jacket. “We’re, uh, looking forward to a great night.”

Jesus Christ.

“There’s no list,” the man says flatly. “Time to go, okay?”

“Hello,” Ilya says to the man, and slings an arm around Hollander’s neck, which has the benefit of taking him off guard and making him slump a bit so he doesn’t look like he has the world’s biggest stick up his ass. When llya releases him, he stays pressed close, leaning into Ilya’s side. “We’re meeting Kip, is he inside?”

The door guy relaxes a bit when he hears Ilya’s accent; it tends to have that effect sometimes. He still looks unimpressed but he opens the door at least, and gesticulates at someone in there. There’s an awkward thirty seconds while they all stand there and look at each other, and then another guy emerges, the door swinging behind him. He’s short, shorter than all of them, but Ilya can see that he’s built even through his flannel. So this is JJ’s gym buddy. The guy grins, disarmingly friendly.

“Hey,” he says cheerfully. “You must be JJ’s friends? Shane?” He looks from one to the other as Hollander nods. “And you’re Ilya? Kip.” He pulls Ilya into one of those arm clasps that becomes a sort of embrace, then tries to do the same to Hollander, whose body doesn’t seem to know how to relax into it. Kip doesn’t seem bothered, just laughs and claps Hollander on the shoulder before he steps back. “Good to meet you, man.”

“You too,” Hollander says. “JJ’s told me all about you.”

“Right, sure,” Kip says. “So, are you two coming in, or what? Georges, that okay?”

The door guy nods, possibly reluctantly, but at least it is a nod.

“Thanks, man,” Hollander says and slips past him swiftly through the door Kip is holding open for them, and Ilya follows. There’s a security line where they’re patted down very thoroughly, and then there’s a table before they can go any further. They pay far too much of a cover fee to the bored-looking teenager sitting there with a metal cashbox in front of her.

“Fuck,” Hollander mutters in Ilya’s ear. “That was so fucking stressful. Why didn’t I just mention Kip? Everything I had prepared to say just went right out of my head.”

“Maybe the guy Georges could somehow tell that you had prepared a script for talking to him, Hollander. Remember I said to act natural?” Ahead of them, Kip is wriggling through the crowd, jerking his head at them to follow.

“I just kept thinking how journalists aren’t allowed at these things,” Hollander said miserably. “And I really, really wanted to get in.”

“Hollander.” Ilya stumbles, grabs at Hollander’s shoulder to steady himself. Hollander’s shoulder is rock hard under the familiar waxed surface of Ilya’s jacket, tense as fuck. Ilya squeezes at him, steers him through the crowd. “It’s fine. We’re in. Now all we have to do is bet lots of money and have some fun, okay? Tomorrow we can worry about the story. Tonight, we just enjoy ourselves.”

“Okay,” Hollander says, and looks back over his shoulder. His chin brushes over Ilya’s hand on his shoulder, and Ilya lets go of him, pokes him in his lower back towards where Kip is standing in a bit of clear space near some speakers.

“Wow,” Kip says. “Busy tonight! It’s not even due to start for another half an hour.”

“So,” Hollander says. “Thanks for getting us in. I, uhhh, have really been wanting to come to one of these for a while now. It looks… great.” He looks around. The walls are grimy with old paint and engine oil. The floor is filthy. There’s a ring, sort of — mats all taped together, a swaying configuration of tape on stakes around it to keep the crowds back.

“No problem, man.” Kip is so relaxed he’s practically lying back against the wall, and he doesn’t seem put off by Hollander’s nerves in the least. Ilya likes this guy. “So, JJ didn’t say how you guys know each other? Are you two into the mixed martial arts scene yourselves, or just here to watch?” He looks Ilya up and down with a professional interest, then does the same to Hollander.

“I used to box a bit,” Hollander says. “But just for fitness. Played hockey when I was younger, and did judo for a while too. But nowadays I just work out, run, the usual.”

“I only fight when someone questions my honour,” Ilya says, and Kip smiles. “What about you, Kip?”

“No, I’m a personal trainer, part-time, and I’m studying at McGill,” Kip says. “And I don’t fight, are you kidding me? I wouldn’t want to risk this pretty face. I’m here to support a friend. So what do you do, Shane?”

Hollander’s face shifts through a microcosmic flurry of expressions, settling on strain.

“I, ummm. Well.” He looks at Ilya desperately. “I guess you could say I—”

“Kip,” Ilya says. “I think I have to come clean, or poor Hollander is going to have an aneurysm.”

Kip looks between them, curiously.

“Okay, I’m intrigued. What’s going on?”

“I am a photographer,” Ilya tells him.

“Okay,” Kip says. “Cool, like, taking people’s portraits, or something?”

“Sometimes,” Ilya says. “But mostly I work for one of the local papers here, so I am on the photojournalism side of things too.”

“Ahhh.” Kip sighs heavily. “I think I see where this is going.”

“I promise that tonight we are just here to be spectators,” Ilya said. He holds his hands up. Trust me. “We just wanted to get a feel for the place. But I appreciate you getting us in, and I didn’t want to lie to you about our motivations for being here.”

“Ilya, no,” Hollander says, and puts a hand on Ilya’s chest, pushes him back protectively. “Kip, he’s not telling you the whole story. This was all my idea. I heard about the fights, and no one at my paper is interested, but I just kept thinking about it and thinking about it. So I want to write it anyway, and pitch it to some magazines. I just think this would make such a good story.”

“What’s the angle?” Kip sounds wary. “You know who runs these things, right? You try to interview people here and you’ll be gently escorted to the exit.”

“No, we’re not writing a news piece. I’m thinking of a series of personal profiles, really lean into the individual stories.” Hollander looks from Kip to Ilya. “I’m just interested in people,” he adds, helplessly. “Why do people take part? And why do people watch it? I think there’s a really good human interest piece in it.”

Kip looks disarmed. There’s a long silence as he stares at Hollander expectantly.

“That’s it?”

“Yeah,” Hollander says. “There’s a hook about over-regulation in the professional sports bodies, sure, and obviously if I was coming at this from an investigative angle, I’d have to touch on the organised crime element. Like, how much are they taking at the door alone?” He casts a rueful glance at Kip. “And I can’t promise that those things won’t come up for context. But what I’m really interested in is the personal side of things. I want to know what makes people tick. I’m not being disingenuous, I swear. I just really want to find out why anyone would do this sort of thing, and I think other people would like to read about it.”

Kip looks at Ilya, who just shrugs at him. He couldn’t possibly add anything to this; Hollander’s sincerity is exactly what makes his stories sing. If Kip doesn’t buy it then they’ve already lost their chance.

“And I brought Ilya on board,” Hollander goes on. “You should see his sports photography, I swear. You’ll be able to smell the sweat and blood off of every picture he takes. He’s so great.”

Ilya blinks at this. He knows Hollander rates his work. It’s another thing to have him say it like that, to this guy they just met. Ilya feels warm at the thought.

“We just want to talk to people,” Ilya says. “And we want to do it honestly, no sneaking around. Except for the part where we snuck around just now. But after this, no more.”

Kip looks like he wants to smile. He scrutinises Hollander, who looks back at him with that clear-eyed interrogative expression of his, and nods.

“Well,” Kip says cautiously. “Like I say, the organisers really wouldn’t like it. If they knew about this—” He whistles, though with the swell of noise from the crowd it’s practically soundless. “But I might know someone who’d be willing to talk to you. Let me think on it, okay?”

“Sure,” Hollander says with the slow-blooming smile that really should be able to convince anyone of anything. “That’s all I ask. And thanks for being so understanding.”

“No problem,” Kip says. “And now we’ve got that out of the way, are you a betting man, Shane?”

Hollander isn’t a betting man, it turns out, but Ilya drops a few hundred bucks, choosing names at random, and then Hollander buys them all weak, warm beers in flimsy plastic cups, and by the time the fighting starts they’re keyed up, Ilya bouncing on the balls of his feet as the thump of the bass from the speakers travels up from the floor through him. Hollander is laughing, shouting along with the crowd. The fights are brutal and sometimes messy but quick and well-managed. By the end of the night, Ilya is up over six hundred bucks and Hollander’s pink and hot, two buttons undone on his shirt, his hair sticking with sweat at his temples.

Kip stays with them, probably to keep an eye on them, and when the lights are all switched on and the music finally falls silent, he drags them across the room to where a group of guys are saying their goodbyes, kit bags over their shoulders. Ilya recognises some of them from the ring, if the bruises didn’t give them away.

The man who turns at Kip’s touch is about seven feet tall and broad even compared to Ilya. His expression is severe, thoughtful, until he sees Kip and the smile he gives him changes everything about his face.

“Guys, this is Scott. Hi.” Kip smiles up at Scott, and then steps into a hug that seems to go on a little longer than Ilya might have expected in this sort of place. Hollander has his polite face on, so Ilya can’t tell if he’s wondering the same thing.

“Hi,” Scott says, emerging.

“Shane,” Hollander says, putting a hand out. Scott shakes it normally, no complicated half-hugs for him.

“Ilya,” Ilya says. Scott’s grip is warm and dry, decisive.

“These two have something they want to talk to you about, Scott,” Kip says. He’s looking up at Scott, and though he’s not smiling, his eyes are doing something that suggests they know each other well. Scott returns the look silently for a second and then nods, stepping towards the door.

“Okay, well, I need to eat. Want to grab a burger?”

Ilya’s on the balcony, looking up at the sky, having one last cigarette before bed.

There’s the low whisper of the sliding door and then Hollander steps out, carefully shutting it again behind him. Ilya directs the stream of his exhale as far out over the balcony as he can manage, but Hollander just waves his hand.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I do actually kinda like the smell. They’ll still kill you, obviously, though, so you should quit.”

“We all die of something, Hollander,” Ilya says, and Hollander grins, turning his face up to the sky. It’s never really dark around here, traffic still pulsing slowly below, late night turning to early morning as the street lamps keep their steady glimmer.

“Tonight was good luck,” Hollander says. “Meeting Scott. I liked him, did you?”

Ilya had liked him, had liked Kip too. And it had been good luck to meet him. Scott had demolished two burgers and listened very carefully to Hollander, hadn’t rushed him or tried to lead him. And then he had told Hollander about his own work — the two gyms he owns with money he made from his own fighting days, the kids he coaches, the things he’s seen, and his own training regime. Hollander had been starry-eyed by the time they were done with talking with him, and they left with both Scott and Kip’s numbers and a promise to meet for brunch next week to talk more about the story. Scott thinks he might be able to find some guys who’d be willing to be interviewed. Scott thinks Hollander’s story sounds great. Scott thinks he knows a good venue where Ilya can shoot the interviewees. Scott thinks, Scott thinks… Scott thinks a lot, and Hollander had talked about all the things Scott thinks all the way home.

“He is fine,” Ilya says.

“Come on, he’s a great guy,” Hollander says. “Can you believe he’s nearly forty? I hope I’m in such good shape when I’m his age.”

“I have heard that lifting heavy weights into old age helps with bone density,” Ilya says. “It is very sensible of Scott to do this, to ward off osteoporosis.”

“Fuck off, that guy could probably bench press me,” Hollander says. “I wonder if he still fights? I’d love to see him in the ring.”

“They would need a special category. Not a weight category, an age one.” Ilya blows a smoke ring. “You think we can trust him? I was expecting it to be harder to get people talking to us.”

“He’s pretty committed to the guys he trains,” Hollander says, voice thoughtful. “And he seems to have a lot of concerns about the way they’re treated by the organisers. I don’t know. I guess we just have to see? But being there tonight, the atmosphere, god. It makes me want this even more.”

Ilya taps ash over the edge of the balcony. “I know,” he says. “Me too.”

Hollander grins. “Hey, I wonder how people get into the fight scene.” He leans his elbows on the balcony edge, looks down at the street below. Ilya’s nearly at the end of his smoke, takes one last long inhale as he waits. “Can anyone just apply and take part?”

“You would like to try it?”

Hollander makes his little considering noise. “Maybe? Not sure I’d actually go through with it. But I think I might be quite good at it, if I trained a bit. I used to enjoy combat sports. Do you think Scott would let us train with him, show us some moves?”

“We could ask him. I would also like to try it. And I would enjoy pounding you into the mat.”

“You fucking wish.” Hollander’s face lights up, the competitive little freak.

“You enjoyed the fights tonight?” Ilya knows he did, had seen his face as he watched, the ringing joyful surge of the crowd shouting all around them. But he wants to hear Hollander say it.

“Yeah,” Hollander says. “Yeah, it was so cool to watch. Crazy, but cool. Like, the skill? That last guy, MacDonald? He was insane. The size of his arms?”

“There was a lot of blood.”

Ilya’s not squeamish, but even so he had been surprised by how many injuries were caused, and how many were fought through.

“Yeah,” Hollander agrees, and smiles sideways at Ilya. “The whole time I was just thinking, imagining, you know…”

“How it would look on camera?”

“Yeah. How it would look on your camera.”

Ilya closes his eyes. He can see it too: the slick of blood, of skin, of gloves meeting, and spit, and teeth, all a play of light and wet and texture and shape.

“We would make something really good,” he says, and Hollander nods, satisfied.

Hollander’s apartment — which is now Hollander and llya’s apartment — does actually have excellent transport links, which means Ilya gets more of a lie-in on the days when he’s in the office. His life is also easier, and nicer, in many other ways, mostly to do with Hollander. He’s an excellent roommate — tidy, and considerate, and he cooks like a fucking dream. And okay, he’s not much of a partier, but it’s not like Ilya was ever bringing people back to Polina’s house, so nothing much has changed there. Ilya still goes out and gets wasted and goes home with people whenever he wants, but the difference is that when he gets back to the apartment the next day and crawls into bed to sleep off the morning after, when he wakes he’s got a friend to play video games with, and usually a meal waiting for him. Sometimes they even go for a run — Hollander is a firm believer in sweating out toxins, which seems scientifically unsound but does always make Ilya feel better anyway.

Hollander is pretty driven about everything, in fact; work is practically his whole focus at the moment, which explains why he keeps resisting Ilya’s attempts to be a wingman. He’d brought a girl home exactly one time, after a club Ilya had dragged him to. Ilya had got wasted and Hollander and his girl poured him into a taxi and climbed in on either side of him to keep him upright.

He doesn’t remember much of the ride home, except that Hollander let him lean his head on his shoulder, and the girl smelled really good. They’d put Ilya to bed but he’d woken at some point, totally parched, and when he sat up to drink the water Hollander had put out for him, he’d heard them having sex. They were kind of quiet, but every so often he could make out the woman moaning, and once or twice saying Hollander’s name, only she called him Shane. Just one time he heard Hollander making a sound, a quick, half-stifled groan, followed by the low sounds of conversation back and forth, and a little while later the noise of the front door shutting. It took Ilya a while to get back to sleep, and when he woke up the next morning Hollander had big black circles under his eyes and a hickey poking out of the neck of his shirt, but he didn’t mention the girl so Ilya didn’t either. She hadn’t made another appearance, and Hollander didn’t bring anyone home again, but he travels for work often enough that he’s probably scratching any itches he may have in hotel rooms. That’s what Ilya does when he’s on the expense account on his own in a different city.

Ilya actually hasn’t had to travel at all this summer, and maybe it’s Hollander’s good influence, but Ilya’s more focused than ever on work, especially the freelance stuff. He’s always been picky but, perhaps unsurprisingly, Hollander’s got an impressive amount of contacts and an ever-increasing list of intriguing projects, which he keeps recommending Ilya for. Ilya’s going to have to start turning things down at some point, but work is always a good distraction, so for now he’s happy to switch his phone to silent and spend a whole day running from shoot to shoot, instead of sitting in the Courier office screening guilt-inducing calls from his father. Ilya hasn’t spoken to him since the day he nearly broke Ilya’s nose, and Ilya left home for good. It’s the longest they’ve ever been out of contact, and Ilya knows he’ll cave and get back in touch soon, but for now he allows his guilt to settle into a background hum that he can ignore.

The middle of July brings a heatwave. Ilya’s working all week, long days lugging equipment around the city in the blazing sun. The humidex is all anyone’s talking about in the office. Ilya tries to leave early on Friday afternoon, but then he remembers he’s booked in for an evening portrait session with a ballet company, so by the time he gets home from work, the sun is already going down. Hollander is in the kitchen, drinking a Corona and braising ribs. He has a touch of sunburn across his nose. They eat on the balcony, and then go to the sports bar on the corner and drink more beers and play pool, and when the night brings a whisper of a breeze, it feels like the whole city is exhaling.

The next day, they’re both off work, and the sun comes out again. Ilya’s weather app pings him with more heat warnings, cautions to wear sunscreen.

“We’re not wasting our day off,” Hollander says, and they go for an extra-early run and then decide to get sandwiches and eat them in the park. Hollander insists on going to one particular deli where they queue for fifteen minutes for two chicken sandwiches. On their way to the park, traffic is snarled up and the air smells baked and dry, catches in the back of Ilya’s nose. What feels like half the city is sitting on the grass in the park, but they find a shady spot and eat on the grass, Ilya licking chicken fat off his fingers as he devours what might be the best sandwich he’s ever tasted.

“You should do a food blog,” he tells Hollander, who motions lazily to his mouth to tell him to chew and swallow so he can understand what he’s saying. “Or restaurant reviews. Free food all the time. I will help you sample all the dishes.”

“They already have food columnists whose literal job that is,” Hollander says, taking a huge bite of his sandwich. His lips are shiny with oil and mayo, and his throat ripples as he swallows. “Anyway, I don’t have the palate for it. I just like what I like.”

“I could come with you to every meal and take aesthetic photographs.” Ilya rolls onto his stomach and balances the end of his sandwich on the checkered paper it came wrapped in. He manages to open his camera app with a finger that isn’t greasy. Hollander is too busy eating to notice Ilya grabbing a few low-angle shots, the background a canopy of leaves with blue sky dancing between them, Hollander’s wide-open mouth, the crinkle of pleasure around his eyes as he bites and chews. Not flattering, maybe, but very him. Ilya should have brought his camera with him — the bright light is such a nice challenge, Hollander’s pleasure so obvious and so visceral. But Hollander would rather eat dirt than let Ilya do an impromptu photoshoot in a public park anyway.

“You could make anything look edible,” Hollander says when he’s swallowed his mouthful. “People would write in and complain about how much worse the food looks in real life.” He grins down at Ilya, then nudges indignantly at his hand with one bare foot when he notices the phone. “Hey, asshole, you better not be taking photos of me with food in my mouth.”

“For your new byline,” Ilya says happily. “Very professional headshot.”

Behind them, there’s a little swell of noise, some laughter and good-natured shouting. Hollander watches whatever’s going on and sighs.

“I wish we had brought a frisbee.”

Ilya turns around so he can sit up and watch. There’s a group around one of the picnic tables, a big coolbox sitting open, the remains of a picnic out. They have a bottle of wine and some plastic glasses, and there are open beers sweating in the heat. Some of the group are standing in a loose circle, throwing a frisbee between them.

“You like frisbee?”

“I mean, I’m good at it. And it’s fun to have something to do. How about you?”

“Obviously, I am good at it,” Ilya says. “Next time, we can bring one.”

They watch the crowd for a while in contented silence. When the frisbee wings its way out of the group after a wild throw, they both see it coming and grab for it at the same time. Ilya’s quick but Hollander plays dirty, elbowing Ilya sideways to get a better grip, and he manages to throw it back while Ilya struggles against him.

“Thanks,” one of the guys calls. “You wanna join in?”

They don’t even have to ask each other, they just scramble to their feet and jog over. It’s really too hot for it, but they get into rough teams and set up some endzones and play for a while. They’re one game up each and both sweating through their shirts by the time they take a break under some trees with their new frisbee friends. Hollander’s mini-cooler isn’t up to the challenge of the day’s heat, so their water is warm, but the group has ice and a stack of disposable cups that they’re willing to share.

Turns out two of the guys in the group live nearby. They mention that they have aircon and a balcony and they invite everyone back for more drinks. Ilya wonders how they’re all going to fit, but then they get there and he realises they’ve been hanging out with rich people — he should have guessed when they said they work in finance — and the apartment is really a penthouse taking up half the top floor of the block. It’s still light outside, barely evening, but the heat makes the alcohol go to Ilya’s head and he’s giddy already, circulating, getting to know the group. The evening slides into night easily. A couple of the guys are in PR, so there’s a bit of overlap in terms of people they all know, and the conversation rolls along, congenial. There’s an actual foosball table in the open-plan living area; Ilya gets embroiled in a championship that goes on a bit too long to be casual. Hollander is on the other side of the room, talking to a gorgeous woman who was on his frisbee team earlier. He looks over at Ilya and smiles when Ilya cheers in victory, then goes on very earnestly gesturing about something. The woman looks fascinated.

Ilya starts to flag a bit when night falls — it’s pathetic, but he’s actually really looking forward to bed. He’s bushed after his long week, and he’s been sleeping badly in the heat. He migrates to the outdoor sectional on the balcony, and Hollander comes and wedges himself onto the armrest, his thigh practically resting on top of Ilya’s. He leans on Ilya to steady himself, the heavy warmth of his arm across the back of Ilya’s neck making Ilya feel overheated.

“Your balance is about as good as it was during the frisbee earlier,” Ilya murmurs to Hollander.

“Fuck you, we were up by at least five points in that final game, so my balance clearly wasn’t a problem.” Hollander laughs down at him, a tidy triangle of sweat blooming over the centre of his shirt.

“So,” one of the women says. Ilya thinks her name is Alice, and she works in video game design, which is objectively a very cool job. “How long have you two been together?”

Ilya’s still smiling up at Hollander, face tilted back, so he can see the second Hollander’s smile flickers into confusion.

“Oh,” Hollander says, and the word gusts over Ilya’s face before Hollander turns away from him and looks over at Alice. “Oh, no, we’re not—”

“No,” Ilya agrees, probably too loudly. “No, no, we’re—”

“Roommates,” Hollander says over him, shifting himself so he’s sitting more upright. “We’re just roommates. And, umm. Friends.”

“Yes.” Ilya’s neck feels bare with Hollander’s arm gone. “Friends.”

“Oh, shit, sorry about that, guys,” Alice says. “I just presumed, when you said you live together.”

“We work together, also.” Ilya’s sure Hollander seems less relaxed under all the scrutiny, his thigh tense and twitching where he’s still perched stiffly next to Ilya on the armrest.

“Yeah, this guy can’t get rid of me.” Hollander laughs, nudging Ilya with his elbow, and when Ilya chances a look at him, his smile seems genuine.

It’s a good segue, because it brings them back to swapping work stories again — people who work in finance always seem interested in Ilya’s job, either because they’re fascinated by the creative side, or because they can’t imagine doing something so badly paid. And of course Hollander has a lot of good stories about celebrities, even if he refuses to name names.

Things start winding down a bit when some of the group leave to go on to a club. Ilya doesn’t have the energy, and he’s decided he’s going to head home once he finishes one last beer.

He’s on his way back from the bathroom when he notices Hollander in the kitchen, tucked into a nook near the huge double refrigerator, jug full of ice in his hand. Ilya pauses by the open door. One of the guys whose apartment it is, whose name Ilya can’t remember, is standing close to Hollander, and has a hand on his hip. It’s weirdly shocking; Ilya doesn’t know why the sight of someone touching Hollander like that stops him in his tracks. Hollander’s quite physically affectionate, actually, but it usually takes a while for him to warm up to it. Ilya tunes into the conversation, what he can hear of it through the door.

“—since you’re not seeing that guy,” the guy is saying, “I wondered if you’d like to grab a bite with me sometime. Or—” He pauses, and Ilya’s attention leaps again to that hand on Hollander’s side. His thumb is stroking over the fabric of Hollander’s shirt.

“Or?” Hollander sounds amused. Ilya can only see his profile, but he might even be smiling.

“Or… I have food here.”

“Food,” Hollander says. “Right. Ummm—”

Ilya is frozen. If he stays here, he’ll be eavesdropping. But if he walks in now, he’ll interrupt them in what’s obviously a private conversation, one in which a guy is asking Hollander out and Hollander isn’t immediately saying no. This is maybe none of Ilya’s business, but he can’t seem to stop thinking about it anyway. He starts inching back down the hallway towards the bathroom. He can lock himself in, and run the faucet on cold, and contemplate how he had somehow missed that Hollander might not be straight. And then when he comes out again, this conversation will probably be over.

He’s almost clear of the doorway when Hollander answers, stepping backwards to set the jug of ice down. Ilya can’t work out if it was done deliberately or not, but the movement means the guy’s hand drops away, so they’re no longer touching.

“Thank you for the offer,” Hollander says. He sounds polite as ever, but Ilya thinks he might be flustered. His shoulders are tense. “You seem great. But I, I’m not— I’m just not looking for—”

“Ah, shit,” the guy says ruefully, and rubs a hand over his mouth. “Sorry man, I thought I was picking up on some vibes, but I guess it must have just been wishful thinking on my part. I didn’t mean to presume—”

“No, please don’t worry.” Hollander says, smiling, and claps the guy on the shoulder. His hand is obviously wet from the jug of ice — it leaves a darker print on the fabric of the guy’s very nice shirt. “I’m flattered, really. And thanks for this evening, you have a really nice place here.”

Hollander looks around the kitchen, gesturing as though to illustrate that his compliment covers the marble worktop, the enormous brushed-steel professional-style stove, the poured concrete floors. Ilya can’t get away quick enough to escape Hollander seeing him where he’s lurking in the doorway, so instead of trying he steps into the kitchen, smiling.

“Hello,” he says. “I was just about to head home. It’s been a long week, and I need my beauty sleep.”

“I think you’re doing fine on that score,” the guy says, grinning, and sticks out a hand for llya to shake. “Thanks, man, that was a fun night.”

“Thank you for having me,” Ilya says.

“Hang on, Rozanov,” Hollander says. “I’ll come with you, I’ll just grab the cooler and stuff.”

They make their way down in the panelled elevator, backs to the mirror. Hollander has the cooler, Ilya carries the rolled-up picnic blanket.

“How much of that did you hear?” Hollander asks. He’s scuffing the toe of his topsider against the carpeted floor.

“Not much,” Ilya says. “You were telling him how much you liked his kitchen, I think? So polite, Hollander. I nearly believed you were telling the truth.”

“I know, right?” Hollander smiles sideways at Ilya, eyes gleaming in the low light. Ilya feels a weird mix of relieved and deflated at how easily he steers Hollander away from what he really heard. Hollander has clearly been waiting for the opportunity to bitch about the guy’s design choices. “Who the fuck has high-gloss cabinets in a kitchen like that? They streak so easily.”

“Crazy,” Ilya says.

“I don’t think he even cooks,” Hollander goes on. “There was, like, nothing in the cabinets except protein powder and wine.”

“The diet of kings,” Ilya says, and then there’s a restrained ping to let them know the lift has reached the ground floor. The doors slide open silently, and they head out into the night.

Ilya wakes to a hand on his face.

There’s a second of blinding panic when he doesn’t have a clue where he is or what’s happening, or even who it is that’s right in front of him, touching him. His eyes are bleary from sleep, everything he can see edged in gold from the setting sun.

“Fuck,” Ilya says fervently and flails up to sitting.

“Sorry, fuck, sorry, it’s just me,” Hollander says, and at his voice Ilya’s galloping heart kicks down a notch, his breath coming easier. “You were out cold, I called you like five times.”

Ilya’s on the couch in their living room. He had been asleep under the fleecy rug he had bought for Hollander but always ends up stealing.

“You are home already? Fuck, Hollander, are you trying to kill me?”

Hollander’s not meant to be here; he hadn’t managed to get a vacation this summer, so as soon as September hit he took a week off to go to see his parents at their cottage in Ottawa. He wasn’t due back until tomorrow.

“Sorry,” Hollander says again, so polite. He sits heavily at the other end of the couch; Ilya shoves his blanketed feet against Hollander’s leg, pressing like a cat. “I did text too, but you weren’t answering.”

“Phone died on the shoot,” llya tells him. He can see it plugged in on the countertop, still powered off.

“Long day?” Hollander asks. Ilya has no idea what time it is, just that it must be evening from where the light falls through the window.

“Yes,” he says. “Fashion shoot this morning, everyone was being very stupid and annoying. They should be quiet and let me take beautiful pictures of them, but no, everyone has an opinion.”

“Oh, yeah, I saw that in the calendar,” Hollander says. “That designer is a fucking nightmare, I interviewed her last year.”

“But what are you doing back so early?” Ilya peers at Hollander from his cocoon of blanket. Hollander’s in holiday mode, which apparently means a linen shirt and the most well-pressed chino shorts to ever emerge from a Banana Republic. Hollander’s freckles, already plentiful since the summer of long morning runs and afternoons at the park, have darkened and spread in the week he’s been away. His shorts are riding up a little as he sits, and just where Ilya’s toes dig into his thigh, there’s a stark tan line. The weather must have been great in Ottawa. “Did something happen?”

“No, it was fine,” Hollander says, and sighs. He looks tired after the drive. Ilya has some salmon in the refrigerator that he can bake, and there’s salad stuff. He should get up and get a start on dinner, but then Hollander pats at the mound of his feet and leaves his hand there, his big palm squeezing and releasing over Ilya’s toes in a gentle rhythm. It’s so relaxing that Ilya feels his legs go heavy, like he’s sinking into the couch.

“But you left early anyway?” Ilya prompts him. Hollander looks over at him irritably, but doesn’t stop touching his feet. “Come on, Hollander, you know I’m going to get it out of you sooner rather than later. Spill.”

“It’s just… I dunno.” Hollander slumps lower in the sofa, pulls Ilya’s feet fully onto his lap so he can work with both hands. “It was so great to see my folks, you know, it’s been months, which is unusual for us. And they were so happy to be there with me. They had all these nice trips planned, and my dad grilled every night, and we just got to relax and spend time together.”

“Wow, sounds absolutely terrible.”

"Yeah, I know, I know, my diamond shoes are too tight. It sounds so fucking stupid. It’s just… it’s always been just them and me, us against the world, right? And they’re so proud of me, they love me so much. But I guess this time round it felt a bit more like pressure, you know?” He shakes his head, mouth tight with frustration. “Not deliberately, or anything. But just little things, like… asking me about girls, who I’ve been seeing, who I’m hanging out with.”

“Hollander, you were on the cover of People magazine last month in that exposé of Rose’s dating life. I think maybe the fact that their son dated a movie star might have sparked their interest in your romantic life all of a sudden.”

Ilya is curious too, if he’s being really honest with himself. Hollander and Rose are in touch — he sees the texts coming through, sees Hollander grinning at his phone, hears the murmur of facetime conversations at odd hours through the walls, fitting around Rose’s shooting schedule.

“Hey, come on, man. I told you, Rose and I, we’re just friends. She’s great, obviously. But dating, girls, all of that stuff — not my priority right now. I’m a busy man, you know? And yeah, my parents saw the People piece. They’ve actually kept the cuttings. Probably going to frame them to join the other thousand photos of me they have up around the house, jeez.”

“Well, then, maybe your parents are curious about the fact that you fumbled Rose Landry. This is fair enough, I think.” Hollander digs his thumb into the arch of Ilya’s foot chastisingly, and Ilya kicks at his thigh in retaliation. “What! I am not judging. I am just observing.”

“Yeah, there were a few awkward questions, alright, but I explained the Rose thing to them. It’s just… My parents met right out of university and got married right away. They’ve been in love for over half their lives, and they want the same thing for me. So they don’t really understand that I prefer to focus on work instead. For now, anyway.”

“I am with your parents, Hollander. I say this all the time — less work, more women. You should listen to us.”

“Shut up.” Hollander grins, pinches Ilya’s foot through the blanket. “I’m just tired of having to tell them the same thing, over and over… no, I’m not seeing anyone, no, I’m not looking for anything serious right now. Do your parents ever make you feel like that?”

Ilya feels caught, hooked, a squirming wet fearful thing. He hasn’t had this conversation with Hollander, hasn’t ever even mentioned his family since the night Hollander picked him up and brought him back here, to this safe small space he allows Ilya to make his home.

"It is very different, with me.”

“Hey.” Hollander’s voice is kind. His hands clench meaningfully around Ilya’s feet. “I know you don’t talk about your family much. You don’t have to tell me.”

“No, it’s fine, it’s just— My mother is dead.”

“Oh, shit. Ilya, I’m sorry. You mentioned your stepmother before, but I just thought—”

“No, Hollander, it’s okay. It was a long time ago. But yes, it was very sad. I think she would have felt like your parents. She would have wanted me to be happy, but maybe she would have been pretty annoying about it too. I was too young, when she died, for her to ever have to worry about who I was dating. But I’m sure if she was still alive, she would be very invested.”

“She would have a bit of trouble keeping up with your numbers,” Hollander mutters, and slides Ilya a glance from under his lashes.

“You would slut-shame me after I have opened my heart to you, Hollander? This is cruelty, I am a half-orphan, you should be extra nice to me when I am vulnerable.”

“It’s not slut-shaming to report the facts,” Hollander says blithely, so transparently pleased to have gotten Ilya joking around that Ilya’s heart clenches. “You have more sex than anyone I know, including famously desirable movie star Rose Landry. I don’t ask for this information, either — you never shut up about it. Remember, I was here the morning you got home without your shoes after that girl’s boyfriend arrived home to find you in his bed? What about the time you told me about the threesome with the two sisters who both started crying when you told them you couldn’t pick which one you preferred?"

“Hollander, I trusted you! This is bullying!”

“I’m just saying that you’re not exactly the settling down type. What about that woman whose number you had to block because she phoned you eighteen times in five minutes when she saw us in the queue for the movie theatre and thought you were on a date? Or the perfectly nice… what was she, a kindergarten teacher? And you actually went on two dates with her and then never saw her again?”

“I cannot help that I am irresistible, Hollander.”

“If you say so.” Hollander smiles. “And… your dad? I know he’s probably not the most, I dunno…”

“No, Hollander, he is not the most anything. Except maybe the most fucking asshole. We were not close ever. I think maybe he would have a lot to say about me and my dating life, if he ever bothered to care.”

“I think that must be pretty hard. I’m sorry.” Everytime Hollander does this it makes Ilya feel like a wounded animal. Ilya’s relationship with his father is a mess, and llya’s learned to be guarded, to keep things close to his chest. But Hollander shines with sincerity; he makes Ilya want to reveal himself, makes Ilya think it might even be easy to do so.

“Yes,” Ilya tells him, settling on honesty for once. “It is a bit fucked up. I think maybe I would be a different person, if things were different with my father.”

“Well,” Hollander says, and squeezes Ilya’s calves soothingly. “I don’t know if that would be a good thing. I think you’re pretty great just as you are.”

Ilya keeps his eyes on Hollander’s hands, their loose grip on the line of Ilya’s legs. He clears his throat.

“But we are talking about you and your dating life, Hollander. I think maybe you are changing the subject on purpose.”

“Fuck you, you brought up my dating life. Which is totally fine, by the way, I’m happy as I am. I guess I just don’t like letting my parents down. And my mom’s always going on about work, too. She has this scrapbook full of clippings of all my features, and she’s always trying to get me to take on more, do things differently. She used to be a journalist, you know.”

“Yes, funnily enough I have heard of Yuna Hollander. We studied her piece on the Bhopal disaster in my media class at school.”

“She misses work, I think. She gave up when I was born; it was too dangerous, I guess, or maybe she just didn’t want to travel so much. And then she threw everything into my career. Sometimes I think it’s like she’s trying to live through me, and it pisses me off.” Hollander breaks off, pressing his lips together. His colour is very high, all the heat flushing his cheeks. “I’m not her. I don’t want to do international correspondence. And I fucking hate politics.”

“You know it is not the worst thing in the world to sometimes disagree with your parents, Hollander? Try being more like me, really stoke that resentment. It is very freeing.”

“Helpful, Rozanov, thank you.” Hollander stretches and yawns, the movement quivering through his thigh and up through the soles of Ilya’s feet. “Anyway, I told them I had a work thing and that I had to come back early.”

“And do you? Have a work thing?”

“No, I’m off for the rest of the weekend.” He’s stroking the blanket now, running his flat hand over the fleecey surface, the pressure and heat compressing Ilya from shin to ankle then back again, in an unconscious soothing rhythm. “I have to be in Toronto for the film festival for a couple days on Monday, but nothing until then. Hey, I saw on the calendar you have a free weekend too. I was thinking we could do something tomorrow, maybe?”

“Oh, so sorry, Hollander, I have multiple sex dates lined up this weekend, unfortunately.”

Hollander’s blush goes blotchy, a rash of colour all down his throat.

“Shit, sorry, I didn’t even think… Of course, you already have plans.”

“Hollander. I am joking.” It really is a joke. Despite everything Hollander has said, it’s been ages since the last time Ilya hooked up with anyone — weeks and weeks, at least. He’d hardly noticed how much it had tailed off. Talking about dating with Hollander has reminded him, though. He’s unspecifically horny, the itch of it under his skin. He’d like a fuck. Next time he goes out he’ll find someone, go back to theirs.

“Okay, asshole, so do you want to do something tomorrow? I was thinking we could go to Mont-Tremblant, hire some kayaks or do some hiking, relax a bit?”

“Yes, furiously paddling a kayak down the Diable is very relaxing.”

“I guess it must not be very relaxing knowing you’re going to lose.”

“Ah, so we will be racing?”

“What do you think?”

“Fine,” Ilya says. “We will race, I will beat you, you will cry. If that’s how you want to spend your weekend, Hollander, then that is fine with me. But tonight, hey? We should do something fun.”

It’s not often they have a whole unbroken stretch of time. One of them is always working, or away, or catching up with sleep.

“What are you thinking?” Hollander starts to smile. Outside the quality of the light is shifting, evening drawing in.

“Well,” Ilya says, the idea coming to him suddenly and all at once, like the night is already fully realised. “I think it’s time we had a party.”

Chapter End Notes

If you want more of frisbeeing Shane, then please see the remarkable Heaven is a bedroom by Charlotte_Stant. K talked things over with me and listened to me so many times during the writing of this — getting to brainstorm with the brain that created Mormon Shane is such a marvellous treat.

I am desperate to reply to comments because there are so many things that have come up that I want to discuss, but it has been A Week. Please know if you have commented you will probably get a very late but very grateful reply soon.

fic post on tumblr

Chapter 4: Newsprint Fray

Chapter Summary

I love cheap thrills :)))

Chapter Notes

Marleau’s on the balcony, Ilya can pick out his silhouette through the shades.

The apartment is noisy, full of people, some shitty mellow guitar track playing faintly on the speakers, mostly drowned out by voices.

Ilya steps out through the balcony doors. It feels good to shut the noise in behind him, to stand in the fresh summer night air, which Marly is currently polluting with weed smoke.

“Hey, man!” Marly looks thrilled to see him. “Great party. Bro, did I see fucking Rose Landry and Miles Allen in there? I think he passed me a plate of carrot sticks.”

“Those fucking carrot sticks,” Ilya says. “I told Hollander, I said absolutely no one is going to eat carrot sticks, this is a party not a fucking Freshii.” He can’t stop grinning just thinking about the party preparations, Hollander up to his elbows in chopped raw vegetables. Ilya had drunk both the shots he had poured for them, one after the other, because Hollander was too busy julienning carrots.

“Miles Allen was eating them,” Marly says thoughtfully as he exhales, voice thickened by smoke. He passes the blunt over. “Miles Allen seemed to like them. I guess Miles Allen kinda has to worry about what he eats? Like, he had his whole ass out in his last movie, man, and let me tell you, you only reach that level of taut with some serious fucking effort. Well, you would know, am I right?” He raises a hand for Ilya to high five. Marly is always asking for Ilya’s glutes routine.

Ilya takes a long drag and hands it back. He’s hoping Hollander won’t come out. There’s a rule in their tenancy agreement against smoking weed — no one ever pays attention to it, but Hollander would care.

“Miles Allen does have a great ass,” Ilya says. He doesn’t want to say any more in case he accidentally gives away exactly how close an encounter he had with Miles Allen’s excellent ass that one time, but a general comment on the overall quality of the ass feels safe enough. He exhales, long and steady. He feels very relaxed. The party that isn’t really a party is going very well. When Ilya had come up with the idea, Hollander had said there was no way people would show up last minute like this, but here they are with about thirty of their friends packing out their tiny kitchen, shoving onto their couch, hopefully not hooking up in their bedrooms. They have a decent overlap of people they both know, though Hollander’s friend Pike has been giving Ilya the stink-eye across the room for the whole evening, even while Ilya had gotten his gorgeous wife a drink because Pike was too busy talking to Hollander to notice she had run out.

“Why are there movie stars here, though, Roz? Cynthia was literally talking to Rose Landry outside the bathroom. You coulda warned me, buddy — my eyes were popping out of my head. Cyn was not happy.”

“I wasn’t sure if they could come,” Ilya says. “You know I worked on that shoot for the story Hollander did with Rose. We all kept in touch.”

Ilya would go so far as to say he’s friends with Miles, in fact. They don’t text often, or regularly, but Miles is funny as fuck and a pretty interesting guy. The first couple of text exchanges were actually all just sexting, and they had facetimed once or twice for mutual jerk-off sessions when Miles was stuck on location, but that side of things has tapered out a bit in the last few months, and nowadays they mostly just send each other memes or stupid photos every few weeks. Ilya likes the low pressure nature of it, suspects Miles does too. Rose, meanwhile, is more Hollander’s friend.

“Lucky bastard.” Marly nudges closer to Ilya, elbowing him gently. The end of the blunt smoulders hotly in his fingers. “Of course you’d end up friends with movie stars.”

“It’s not all glamour round here, Marly. We have a chore chart.”

“Shut up, man, you love it, I can tell. I saw you in there, handing out coasters. You’ve gone domesticated.”

“Fuck off, Marly, this is slander.”

Ilya watches Marly’s eyes squeeze shut as he smiles through his exhale.

“No kidding, though, man, you’ve settled in okay, it looks like? None of Hollander’s Metro buddies giving you shit?” Ilya shakes his head, though really he hasn’t met many of Hollander’s work friends yet, just like Hollander hasn’t met his. Marly jerks his head back towards the apartment. “It’s a nice place. I’m really sorry I had to kick you out, man. You know things have been a bit rough with Cynthia recently.”

“I know, Marly.” Things are always rough with Cynthia, as far as Ilya can see, but they always get through things. And Ilya knows Marly genuinely worries about him; he’s the only one of Ilya’s friends who knows anything about Papa, other than Sveta and Hollander. “Yeah, it’s nice here. Better than living in the ass-end of fucking nowhere in Terrebonne, you know?”

“Hey, fuck you, man, we had some good times.”

“We did, Marly. Sometimes I miss that lumpy fucking couch of yours so much, I shed a tear.” Marly jams the joint between his clenched lips and locks his arm around Ilya’s neck, knuckles into the top of his head. “No, release me, Cliff! You are ruining my hair!”

“Your hair is perfect, like always. You look like one of those little fat flying fucks in the church paintings.” Marly lets go of him to take another drag.

“For that, I get the end of this,” Ilya says, and plucks the blunt out of Marly’s grip and sucks down the smoke. His lungs burn with the sweet heat, and then he crushes the end into the ashtray Hollander put out here especially for him.

“So things with Hollander are going okay?” Marly is about as subtle as a brick; his casual voice sounds like someone out of a cartoon.

“Look, I know what you’re thinking. But it’s okay. He’s okay. He’s a good guy.”

“He works for the fucking Metro, bud. Not sure being a good guy goes hand-in-hand with that.”

One of the worst things about having a friend like Marly is that he’s been there for every shit time in Ilya’s life, and still wants to be here because he cares so fucking much. In Ilya’s experience, caring about people always brings trouble with it at some point or another. After all, the whole thing with Ilya leaving the Metro would have been so much easier if Ilya hadn’t cared so fucking much.

“Hollander is a total pro.” Ilya can feel his hands clenching on the balcony rail, forces them gentle and open. “We don’t talk about work. He knows how I feel about Crowell. It doesn’t affect things at home.”

“You don’t talk about work? You’re literally working on about three different projects together,” Marly says, and at whatever confusion he sees on Ilya’s face, gestures again towards the apartment. “I saw your calendar on the refrigerator. Colour-coded, nice. ‘Joint project’ green taking up a hell of a lot of space on there.”

Fucking Hollander, who put the calendar up on full view in the kitchen even though he would never need it because he’d never forget his schedule. And Ilya doesn’t need to remember it either, because Hollander will be there to remind him.

“Those are personal projects,” Ilya says. “He knows I won’t print in the Metro.”

“Okay, Roz.” Marly is always so sweet, so agreeable. “Hey, listen, I should get back to Cynthia. Make sure she isn’t dumping me for Rose fucking Landry or something. Just, you know. Watch your back, okay?”

There’s a confused second where it feels like they’re about to hug, and then the whoosh of the sliding door interrupts them. Hollander steps out onto the balcony. He’s dewy with sweat, and the top half of his shirt is unbuttoned.

“Shit,” he says, when he sees them, awkward. “Sorry, am I— Is it okay if—”

“Hey,” Marly says, advancing, his massive hand outstretched. “Nice to meet you properly at last.”

“Oh, yeah, you too. Cliff, right?” Hollander meets every handshake as though he’s being challenged to a duel, chin raised determinedly. When Marly lets go, Hollander gives him a friendly smile. You would hardly know that Hollander absolutely hates shaking hands. Ilya can see him surreptitiously wiping his palm off the side of his jeans. “Glad you could make it.”

“Yeah, I was curious to meet my old buddy Roz’s new roommate. We go way back, me and Roz. Interesting to find out you work for the Metro.”

“Jesus Christ, Marly,” Ilya says, and kicks at Marly’s ankle. The balcony isn’t tiny, but it feels smaller with three big men out there. “We’re not talking shop tonight, okay, asshole? Go and find your girl, or you’re going to lose her forever to Rose Landry.”

Ilya can tell Marly wants to make a joke about not minding as long as he gets to watch, or something equally dumb that he doesn’t actually mean, but his eyes flicker to Hollander, unsure.

“Yeah, man, good call. See you inside, okay?”

“Sure, Marly. Be good.”

“Wow,” Hollander says as Marly shuts the door behind him. “That was awkward. You really do hate my paper over there at the Courier, huh?”

“The Metro is a fucking rag, Hollander. You know it, too, don’t pretend you don’t.”

“I mean, we still have the highest circulation figures in Québéc, so. Can’t be that much of a rag.”

“Okay, Hollander, if you say so.” Hollander shoulders him good-naturedly, and Ilya shoulders him back. This isn’t something they have to talk about tonight, just as the sky is going from summer blue to night-time navy, with their friends inside at their first party.

“Hey, the party’s going well, yeah? People seem to be having fun?”

“Yes, Hollander. Despite the fact that you put out a whole platter of raw vegetables, and that for some reason there’s a whole tableful of people playing Monopoly, I think this is a good party.”

“You love Monopoly, asshole. I know you left the box out on purpose. But I dunno, I was wondering if you might be bored. I’ve seen you after the sort of parties you usually go to.” He sniffs the air, the freckles across the bridge of his nose wrinkling. “And you know you’re not meant to be smoking weed out here. For fuck’s sake, Rozanov, the tenancy board expressly forbids that shit.”

“It was Marly, mostly, and he didn’t know.” Ilya nudges Hollander’s foot with his, and Hollander nudges back.

“Well, I guess it is a party,” Hollander says. “And it’s not like anyone’s going to tell.”

“And I am not bored,” Ilya says. He feels slightly insulted at the accusation. “This is my party too, Hollander, and my parties are never boring. I have done shots with one of my favourite hockey players, who you have never mentioned that you know, which is very rude of you. I had an excellent game of Never Have I Ever with Jackie Pike, who could drink me under the table, by the way, and I am Russian, Hollander. Alcohol is mother’s milk to me.”

“Well,” Hollander says, grinning. “She is a nurse.”

“And I have impressed my friends with my movie star connections, and had maybe the tiniest puff of Marly’s truly excellent weed. It is a wonderful evening so far. And now we will go inside and you will do a shot with me and we will throw the phone of whoever is choosing the music out the window and take over.”

“Hey, it’s good background music.”

“Shush, Hollander, say no more, the playlist will soon be under control.”

“Great. I’m sure the atmosphere will be improved by you playing Cheap Thrills on repeat.”

“Hollander, that was one playlist ever, and I was trying to learn it for Marly’s birthday karaoke.”

“All I know is that I know the fucking thing off by heart now too, thanks to having to listen to it about eighty times that weekend.”

“Next time, then, you come too and we will duet. Marly is shit, he couldn’t get the high notes.”

“We are not doing karaoke. Like, ever.”

“Perhaps,” Ilya says expansively, looking out over the balcony, to the buildings across the street, lights starting to penetrate the dusk, “we will even do some karaoke tonight. I have an app.”

“And you were complaining about the Monopoly,” Hollander says. “Come on, it’s getting cold out here. Let’s go take that fucking shot, I guess.”

“Hey!”

Ilya is on his way to the refrigerator to get the bottle of blue Gatorade he tucked away in the back earlier. He’s had enough liquor that there’ll be no chance of a kayaking trip tomorrow if he doesn’t switch and hydrate himself for the morning. He is obscurely annoyed by Hayden Pike appearing at his elbow, but he’s done pretty well to avoid him so far.

“Hello, Pike,” he says, because he’s not an animal, and Pike is his guest, and more to the point, Pike is Hollander’s friend and Hollander is Ilya’s friend and these things are about making the effort.

Pike’s scowl suggests he’s making no such effort.

“Rozanov,” Pike says, slightly soggy-sounding. He’s clutching a beer loosely in his hand, very much not his first one, by the looks of him. “Rozanov, I just wanted to say that you better watch out, okay?”

“What the fuck is that meant to mean, Pike?” Ilya says it pleasantly enough. There are people around, and Pike’s at the tipping point where he could get messy, depending on how Ilya takes what he’s trying to say. Ilya is adept at managing this stage.

“I mean, Shane. My buddy, the best guy in the world. Your roommate.”

“Yes, Pike, I am familiar with him. He sleeps just down the hall from me.”

“See?” Pike waves the beer bottle around emphatically. “This is the sort of shit I’m talking about. Why you gotta be such a smart-mouth, you know? I’m trying to talk with you. Man to man.”

“Can I help you with something, Pike? Only I have things to do, and I think your wife is looking for you.”

“You can help me by not fucking with Shane, Rozanov. I don’t know what happened that you guys are friends now, or whatever, but Shane is like, the nicest guy I know. And I’ve heard some stories about you from some of the guys over at the Metro. People talk, Rozanov.”

Ilya feels very cold, like at home when sometimes he would open his bedroom window at night to feel the winter wind rush through him.

“If you have something to say about me, you can just say it.” He’s so much bigger than Pike, which is a fact Pike only now seems to be appreciating. “Because I really do not like what you’re implying here, Pike. I have worked hard for my good name and I do not intend to lose it because of the pathetic gossip of some washed-up print man.”

“Hey, fuck you, man.” Pike stumbles, and Ilya puts out his hand, steady, to catch him.

“What have you heard about me from all these great guys at the Metro?”

“I just know there was something weird about the way you left that job, that’s all. And you know what they say, no smoke without fire. Shane’s worked so hard to get to where he is in his career, I don’t want anything to fuck that up for him. I just want to make sure you can be trusted.”

“Shane is a big boy,” llya says. As though summoned by the strangeness of Ilya using his first name, Hollander appears in the doorway, scanning the room. He catches Ilya’s eye and smiles, delighted-looking, and starts to make his way over. “He can make his own decisions about who he is friends with.”

“Hey!” Hollander arrives, and Pike gives him a shambolic one-armed hug. “Hayd, Jackie is looking for you. Think she wants to get out of here. She said something about having the house to yourselves tonight?”

“Yeah!” Pike says, cheering up. He looks as though he’s already forgotten everything he said to Ilya. “Yeah, my mom has the kids. No wake-ups in the night, no 5am start. Fuck, I am going to sleep so hard tonight.”

“Yeah, I think Jackie might have other plans for you.” Hollander looks like he might be about to laugh. “She’s out in the hallway. Go get her, man.”

“Poor Jackie,” Ilya says as he and Hollander stand shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, the noise of the party, winding down now but in the good, tired way, buzzing around them. “She deserves better.”

“No one is good enough for Jackie,” Hollander says agreeably. “She loves him, though.”

“We have a saying back home which I feel is very apt for this situation.” Ilya speaks the phrase in Russian. He hasn’t used the language much around Hollander. Hollander listens carefully, his eyes fixed on Ilya’s mouth as though concentrating on the shape of the words will help him to understand them. “That means…well, not exactly, but something like, love is evil because you will fall in love with a goat.”

“Jesus,” Hollander says, startled into a laugh. “Are you calling my best friend a farm animal?”

“I am saying,” Ilya says, “that Jackie Pike must truly love him. Because otherwise she would run screaming in the opposite direction.”

“Wow, and there was me worrying that you and Hayden might not get on.”

“All your other friends are most pleasant,” Ilya says. “You see how well I get on with them? I am an excellent host, Hollander. Even to the ones who work for the Metro.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, we all suck. Hey, speaking of…did Hayden say anything to you about work? You looked a bit tense when you were talking to him.”

Ilya doesn’t want to bring the unpleasantness of the conversation with Pike into his time with Hollander, but Hollander must see it in his face anyway. He sighs. “Look, I know you didn’t have a good time at the Metro. And I don’t know the details, so maybe I’m way off base here. Like I told Hayden, I don’t listen to gossip. I just care about the work, and yours speaks for itself. Plus, everyone I know at the Courier fucking worships you, man.”

“Luckily, my sense of self doesn’t rely on Hayden Pike’s opinion of me.” Ilya is sure it comes off light, though he’s not entirely certain he’s telling the truth. It’s not Pike, as such; he just hates the thought that no matter what he does, he can’t seem to escape the fucking Metro.

“I fucking told him to be cool about you tonight, fuck. I’ll talk to him, okay?”

“It’s fine,” Ilya tells him. “A bit of friendly rivalry, that’s all. Pike seems to think you need protecting from me.”

“As if,” Hollander says, grinning.

“Now can we please stop talking about boring work?” Ilya swings the refrigerator door open. “Or I will start drinking again and you will have to go kayaking on your own tomorrow.”

“You’re not drinking?” Hollander raises a sceptical eyebrow at Ilya’s glass.

“Water only.” Ilya shakes the glass gently under his nose. “I am going to find my blue Gatorade now. Electrolytes, Hollander, very important.”

“Yeah, you’re a real health nut,” Hollander says. “Thanks for the tip. I switched to water hours ago, by the way. We’ll need to get an early start for Mont-Tremblant and—”

“Shane!” The voice comes from behind Ilya, and then with a waft of expensive-smelling movie star perfume, Rose Landry floats past and envelops Hollander in a hug. “The car’s nearly here, are you coming?”

“Oh.” Hollander blinks at her, hugs her back, late to the gesture so she’s already half-detangled from him by the time his arms tighten. “Sorry, I forgot. Umm, Rozanov, I was coming to ask if you wanted to go on to this place—” He looks at Rose Landry expectantly.

“There’s a party,” she says pleasantly. “One of the producers on our movie is throwing it in this private members’ club in the city. Miles and I have to show, we were hoping you two would come with us?”

“Oh,” Ilya says. “Thank you, that’s—”

“But actually,” Hollander says, loudly. He’s blushing a bit. “Rozanov, you were just saying, weren’t you… You have that work thing in the morning, the, ummm.”

“Oh,” Ilya says. “Yes, of course. The shoot.”

“Yeah,” Hollander agrees, enthusiastically. “The shoot. And I said I’d drive you, didn’t I? Shit, sorry, Rose, I had forgotten all about it.”

“It’s fine,” Rose says, and kisses him on both cheeks, big smacking affectionate kisses. “Don’t look so worried, Shane, it’s okay. I wish I didn’t have to go.” She checks her phone. “But I do, and I think I just have enough time to pee before the car gets here. Text me tomorrow, okay? Ilya, good luck with the shoot.”

"Thank you,” Ilya says earnestly, and gets his own kisses which he returns very seriously. They watch Rose weave through the room, perhaps completely unaware of the way people’s faces turn to follow her. “Now, Hollander, why did you make me lie to the nice movie star?”

“Fuck,” Hollander says, and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I feel like such an asshole. It’s just, it’s late, you know? And I didn’t really feel like going out, but Rose really wanted me to come and—” He stops, helpless, and shrugs, then his eyes widen. “Oh, shit. Did you want to go to their party? I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think before roping you in, fuck.”

“No, it’s okay, Hollander. I think maybe you have had enough partying for one night?” He looks at Hollander with his eyebrows up. Hollander hesitates, then nods.

“Yeah, I… I mean, it’s been fun and all. A really nice party. I think I’m just a bit peopled out, you know?”

“Okay,” Ilya says. “Like you say, we are up early tomorrow, and anyway the movie stars have left. Let’s start getting rid of people. I am tired too, and also we will need to get started on the tidying.”

“You’re going to do some tidying? Tonight?” Hollander blushes violently, then presses his hands to his cheeks. “Sorry, it’s so fucking hot in here.”

“You’re telling me you would go to bed without cleaning this place up? Hollander, do not lie to me, it is not good practice for roommates to have such terrible untruths between them.”

“No, I— Shut up. I just… yeah, I was going to tidy up, obviously, before bed. But, like. You don’t have to help? Mitty and I, when he lived here… we didn’t have parties, but if we had people over, guys from work, or whatever, Mitty would always just leave it for the next day.”

“So you would be up for hours cleaning up alone?”

“Well.” Hollander’s face is calming, though his freckles are still standing out against the pink of his cheeks. “He said that was my decision, that he was happy for me to just leave it, but that I was choosing to do the work.”

“He sounds like an asshole,” Ilya says, and looks around. “It’s not even that bad. Light work, for both of us. Don’t worry, Hollander, pretty soon you can start kicking people out and we will have a little cleaning party to end the night.”

“Okay, well I emptied the dishwasher earlier, so we can start filling that straight away, clear the surfaces.”

“And to think I could have gone out with Rose and Miles to a big fancy party. I am so lucky that you’re here to save me from such a terrible fate.”

"Shut up, asshole,” Hollander says, happily. Ilya curses the fact that it's the one night he had decided not to get his camera out. In this light, with the blur of people moving behind him, and that smile, Hollander looks so very much himself that Ilya would love to see if he could capture it. Looking at him, Ilya has the same hungry intensity of desire he always gets whenever he sees something simple and beautiful. He wants to take a picture of it.

“Okay, I am going to go take a leak, and then I’m going to go find Miles and say goodbye to him. And then we can start clearing glasses, maybe turn the big light on in the hallway? Everyone still hanging around will start to feel mildly uncomfortable, and maybe will just leave instead of us having to kick them out.”

“Already way ahead of you.” Hollander nods at a row of glasses sitting on the worktop.

“Good job, Hollander.” Ilya pats him on the shoulder as he walks past. Hollander is huge and very warm, the fabric of his shirt slightly humid, something of the density of summer heat to him. “Back in a minute.”

Ilya’s own room is quiet and blessedly empty of anyone fucking, and he takes a long leisurely piss in his bathroom. It’s cool in there with the window open now it’s fully nighttime, and he splashes his face with cold water while he washes his hands. As he goes back into his bedroom there’s a tap on the door before it opens and Miles slips in.

“Oh, hello,” Ilya says. “I was just coming to look for you. You’re leaving now?”

“Sadly,” Miles says, and smiles at him. It’s got a megawatt of charm to it; Ilya feels briefly dazzled. “Work. Or work-adjacent, at least. You’re really not going to come?”

“I can’t tonight,” Ilya tells him, and Miles does a sort of flex thing as he shrugs which makes the muscles of his chest ripple under his shirt. He smiles easily, temptingly, when he sees Ilya noticing. Ilya has done this move himself so many times that it doesn’t have any effect on him; in fact, he thinks it’s sort of sweet.

“I thought I could maybe… persuade you?”

The trouble with Miles is that he’s not just beautiful, but also very nice. Ilya likes him a lot, and that makes him want to not fuck things up so they can never speak again.

“I have a work thing in the morning,” Ilya says, with enough casual boredom that it really does sound true. If nothing else, he doesn’t want to land Hollander in it with Rose.

“Yeah.” Miles sounds unconcerned. “Skip it.”

He crosses the rug swiftly, very graceful for such a big guy, and then he’s in touching distance and actually doing it, sliding a hand around Ilya’s hip, snagging him by the belt loop. He holds still then, just stands and waits, that one touch the only link between them.

“You are very persuasive, but I really can’t,” Ilya tells him sternly.

“A goodbye kiss, then?” Miles tilts closer, cocking his hip, and god, he smells nice. Ilya leans in to kiss his mouth, lightly at first. Miles’ hand clenches on his hip possessively, which is objectively very hot, and Ilya slides a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him closer. They kiss for a bit, just long enough for Ilya to realise that he’s definitely not as into it as he was the last time, and to wonder about how strange that is. When Ilya stops kissing him and pulls back, Miles opens his eyes in surprise, and Ilya can see his pupils contracting in real time as the light hits.

“Ilya,” Miles says, and he presses his thumb to Ilya’s lower lip. “Fuck, will you come back to the hotel with me, please? I can’t stop thinking about your fucking mouth. I want you to fuck me again.” He looks around Ilya’s room. “Or I can stay over? I don’t have to go to this party, Rose will know everyone there.”

Ilya’s got one arm around Miles’ waist, holding him primly like they’re waltzing at prom or something. He can feel Miles’ stomach muscles tight under his thumb. Miles is the last guy he fucked, and it had been really, really good. He’s athletic but not conceited about it, and he actually has a personality, despite the fact that he could definitely get by on looks alone. And the sex was great. He had been so willing to go wherever Ilya put him, pushing back for more as Ilya took him from behind with a hand pressed to the flexing valley between his shoulder blades. It would probably be good tonight too — Ilya is a bit restless, and a good fuck always calms him. Not here, though, not in this room. He could slip out for a while, it’s not even all that late. Miles’ hotel is probably downtown, the whole thing wouldn’t take more than an hour or two.

But then there’s a little flurry of noise from down the hall, voices and a brief rush of laughter that dulls down again to a low hum. The front door, slamming shut. Ilya thinks about Hollander and the fucking dishwasher, about the rings on the side table that need wiping, and the ash on the balcony and the way the curtains will move like liquid in the dark when he flings the windows wide to air the place, when everything is quiet and it’s just him and Hollander moving around the apartment in friendly silence. He doesn’t want Hollander to have to do it all alone. He as good as promised.

“Miles,” he begins, and takes a breath.

“Ah,” Miles says. His stomach twitches under Ilya’s hand. “It’s like that, is it? Okay. Shame, though. I thought we both had a good time?”

“It was so good,” Ilya says, not without regret. “This is not because of you, obviously. You are—” He lets go of Miles’ waist to gesture at him.

“Yeah, yeah.” Miles is good-humoured even in this sort of situation, apparently. “Flattery will get you nowhere, now.” He sighs regretfully. “God, your body. I was hoping for one more go, but I guess since you’re sure… But I’ll see you next month for that dinner with Rose, okay?”

He steps back.

“Good night,” Ilya says, and Miles winks at him. He’s halfway out the door already — thank heaven for unbruisable movie star egos.

Ilya sits on the edge of his bed. The apartment is pretty quiet now, except for the sound of the door shutting, Miles’ quick footsteps on the stairs fading into nothing. There is a peace in this room that descends on Ilya whenever he’s in here; he hasn’t felt like this in any home he’s lived in since he was twelve years old.

He heads down the hallway. Hollander isn’t in the kitchen or the living room. The bathroom door is open, no one inside. There are only a few people left now, chatting in a corner as they grab their leftover coats from where the pile was.

“We’re hitting the road,” Marly says, bending down to hug Ilya hard around the neck. Even Cynthia is smiling at him, pink-cheeked from wine. “We said goodbye to Hollander already but wanted to say goodbye to you too, buddy. Great party!”

"Thank you for coming, Marly. And Cynthia, it was so great to see you. Nice for you too, maybe, to see me when I am not sleeping on your boyfriend’s couch?”

“I do like you better at a distance,” Cynthia tells him sweetly, and kisses him on the cheek. “And when you’re not fucking my cousin from behind over my vanity.”

“Wow, she really did give you all the details.” Ilya waves at the others, who are leaving now, some friends of Hollander’s whose names he can’t remember. “Come on, I will walk you to the stairs.”

“You’re not going to that fancy party?” Marly picks his way around a Twister mat that someone had ill-advisedly taken out earlier. Ilya’s not even sure why Hollander even has a Twister mat, though Hollander had been surprisingly good at it, playing for one round and contorting himself into impossible poses, his balance rock-solid, his muscles firm and steady as he held himself in place.

“No,” Ilya says. “I’m going to clean up, get an early night.”

“Okay,” Marly says doubtfully. “But. You’re alright, Roz? Do you want me to stay on? I can put Cyn in a cab and come back up, hang out for a bit?”

Ilya feels prickly at the very sight of Marly’s concerned face. It’s been a while since he might have needed Marly’s company through a long night, but Marly is the sort of guy that makes friends and keeps them. He has a long memory and isn’t quick to change. He was the first friend Ilya told about his mother.

“I’m fine, Marly, come on. Go have fun with your girl — right, Cyn?”

Cynthia is not small, but she looks it tucked under Marly’s arm as they head for the elevator, Marly half looking back over his shoulder as he goes, as though to keep one eye on Ilya. Ilya shuts the door behind them, sighing happily. There are often nights like this, when he’s hungry for people, hungry for chatting and drinking and the lovely tilt from observing to being observed; but they often end like this, with Ilya worn out, tired of talking, needing quiet.

He checks the living area again quickly, draws open the balcony door so that the stale air of the room can rush away. There are glasses everywhere, some spillages, a hand of cards still spread on a side table, the Monopoly board scattered with playing pieces, coloured dollars fanned out.

Hollander’s right, it’s easy to just stack the dishwasher quickly as he goes, then there are only a few serving dishes left to clean, and Ilya piles them neatly beside the sink. There’s still no sign of Hollander.

“Hey,” Ilya calls down the hallway, then he strolls down towards Hollander’s room. The door is shut. “Hollander.” Ilya taps on the door with his knuckles. “You’re the one who loves tidying so much. Do not think you will get away with leaving all the work to me.”

There’s nothing but silence. Ilya knocks again, then tries the door, which opens at his touch. Inside, Hollander’s room is dark. In the light from the hallway Ilya can make out his desk, laptop neatly shut, his pen jar, the corkboard with its tacked-up notes. The bed is made, comforter straight, piles of cushions plump and carefully stacked. There’s no light from the en suite. Hollander isn’t here, though the room smells faintly of his cologne.

He’s probably taken the trash out, actually — it’s a job they both try to avoid, because Ilya hates the smell of the garbage room, and Hollander gets annoyed by other people’s bad trash sorting. Ilya heads back down the hallway to check the shoe rack. Hollander’s nice sneakers are gone; his taking out the trash sneakers are still sitting tidily on the bottom shelf of the rack. His coat is also missing from the coatstand.

Ilya’s cell has lots of messages, when he finally locates it, but none of them are from Hollander. It’s just weird, that’s all. It’s not like Hollander has to check in with Ilya — but he just does, these days, drops him a text when he’s on his way home from work, sends him pictures of funny ads on the train, prompts him with meal preparation reminders so Ilya makes it home on time for dinner.

Ilya tries calling him, which they don’t usually do, just to check if he can hear the phone, which Hollander always has switched on and to hand in case work gets in touch. Silence, except for the burr of the dialtone ringing out fuzzily into Ilya’s ear. He sends a message instead, quick and casual, where did you go?. It turns to read immediately. Ilya waits.

There’s no answer, not the whole time that he’s turning on the dishwasher, sweeping the balcony, wiping the kitchen worktop down and changing the hand towel in the bathroom, running the vacuum over the whole apartment. The cell, tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, remains stubbornly silent.

When it finally does buzz, it’s just Marly. Home safe and sound! thank u for great nite my man. how you feeling now?

Ilya thinks for a minute or two, worrying at a cuticle with his teeth, and then gives in and texts Marly back to ask him about Hollander. He had said goodbye to Hollander before he left, he’d said so.

yeah man he was heading out with rose landry. lucky bastard. all good??

Ilya checks Instagram, feeling stupid for not thinking of it sooner. Hollander’s has nothing new. The last photo on his grid is from about six months ago. It’s a bright green smoothie on what looks like a picnic table, with a shallow depth of field and blurry matching bright green leaves in the background. Hollander does not have a great eye for these things. There’s nothing new on his Stories, either.

Rose Landry has posted to her close friends list, though — a selfie in a beautiful black-tiled bathroom, a sweating martini glass, half full of some opaque liquid, and finally a photo of Miles, leaning over the table confidentially. At his elbow, half-cut from the frame, is Hollander, looking away from the camera. He’s pink and flustered-looking. It must be hot at the party.

Once the apartment is tidy, Ilya has nothing left to do, so he steps out onto the balcony and smokes for a while. It’s so late that the city is almost quiet, and the apartment complexes above and across from him are blank-featured with dark windows. He texts Hollander again, hating himself. party is fun?

Hollander doesn’t reply until Ilya is in his room, tucked up in his comfortable bed, with the apartment dark and quiet around him.

don’t wait up the message says, so Ilya switches his phone fully off in case he’s tempted to reply and shuts his eyes.

The next morning, Ilya wakes feeling as though he has never known a good night’s sleep, sick and wretched with tiredness. He had turned off the alarm for their trip, figuring Hollander wasn’t going to be up on time, but when he switches his phone back on he sees that he’s woken before the alarm would have gone off anyway. He checks Hollander’s room. Empty. One more story on Rose’s Instagram, Hollander’s face and hers in crazy close-up, her eyeliner smudged by now but making her look even more dynamic and beautiful. Hollander’s face is very calm, eyes big and bright. It had been uploaded at 5am, which is only about twenty minutes ago. Ilya is aware it’s vaguely insane to have even checked that.

The apartment is still dark; dawn hasn’t even broken yet. Ilya goes to the basement gym which has no windows and works out for a punishing, sweaty, miserable hour and a half, then takes himself out for a walk and picks up a coffee, some fresh-baked bread to bring home, a custard pastry with apricot jam oozing out of the sides. He eats it standing up on the street with his dirty weird-smelling gym hands, and doesn’t even care.

Hollander’s still not home when he gets back, and Ilya grabs his towel for a furious shower. He gets in before the water runs warm and braces himself against the wall, letting the cold scour him. By the time he’s clean and dressed in fresh sweats and has done a load of laundry, he’s exhausted again. He should go out and do something, meet up with someone, go out with his camera and see what catches his eye, anything, but instead he turns on the TV, lies morosely on the couch watching a replay of the summer games until he sleeps, wakes, then sleeps again, his blanket half over his face, tangled around him from his restless movements.

It’s early evening when he finally gets up, makes a grilled cheese, eats it alone at the dining table. He pours himself a glass of cold white wine, which he doesn’t even really like that much. He’s still sitting there, sipping, his plate empty, when he hears the key in the front door.

Maybe it’s crazy for him to be angry with Hollander, who in theory has done nothing wrong — he just ditched Ilya for a party, which isn’t the worst crime. So Ilya prepares to be fine; he scrunches his face up and then smooths it out, determined to look normal. But then Hollander slinks into the room like he’s about to be executed by firing squad and stands there with his hands at his side. He’s standing in a blaze of evening light, blinking into it, every part of him washed gold. Ilya’s hand clenches around the stem of the glass. Hollander is acting like something is wrong. This whole thing isn’t just in Ilya’s imagination, and that wakens his rage up all over again so even though he tries to sound normal, his tone is all wrong when he opens his mouth and says, “Hi, Hollander. Fun night?”

“Sorry,” Hollander says miserably, and he comes to sit at the table opposite Ilya.

“Sorry for what?” Ilya knows he’s making things difficult on purpose. His eyes are scratchy, his whole face hurts. The wine is too cold and sour in his mouth but he drinks anyway, his dry throat clicking as he swallows.

“We had plans today.” Hollander opens his hands on the table, palms upturned, beseeching. “I, ummm. That was shitty of me.”

“I was busy anyway.” Ilya shrugs. “Had stuff to do. Don’t worry about it, Hollander. So, you and Rose, you had a good time?” He raises his eyebrows insinuatingly, like he would if he were shit-talking one of the guys at work. It’s different doing it to Hollander’s earnest face, which looks just as exhausted as Ilya feels.

“I— No, actually, what the fuck? I told you, Rose and I aren’t… like that. I just—”

He shrugs, a quick frustrated motion, and crosses his arms, leans back in the chair. He’s still wearing his coat, the shirt he had on last night, though Ilya can see his hair is damp, and even from across the table he smells faintly of floral shampoo. He’s showered somewhere, even if it wasn’t in Rose Landry’s hotel room.

“You just what, Hollander? Decided to disappear last night? You tell me you don’t want to go to this party — you make me tell lies for you to get you out of it — and then you just up and leave?”

“Yeah, I— About that. I’m sorry for that too. I just had to get out of here, clear my head.”

“Right, and you lost the ability to use your thumbs too, I guess.” He makes an impatient hand motion at Hollander’s blank look. “You could have texted, Hollander. Or even just told me you were leaving, I was only down the fucking hall.”

“I fucking know where you were,” Hollander shouts, and then sinks in on himself, rubbing at his face with his big fucking palms. “Sorry. Fuck. This isn’t how I meant this to go.”

“You have some sort of speech prepared? What the fuck, Hollander, it’s no big deal. You go out, you party, you come home late, what’s the problem here?”

“The problem is that I didn’t mean to let you down.” Hollander really does look terrible. “I’m so fucking hungover, Jesus Christ. My head is pounding.” He reaches over and tugs Ilya’s glass out of his hand, tips the rest of the wine back. “Thanks.”

“Okay, Hollander, just go to bed and sleep it off. We will do our kayaking another day, it doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter.” Hollander’s stubborn lower lip, the lowered brow. “Look. I saw you, last night. That’s why I left. And I think we should talk about it.”

“You… saw me? What does this mean? You see me everyday, Hollander, I sleep in the next room.”

“It means I fucking saw you, Rozanov. I saw you with Miles. In your fucking bedroom, which as you just reminded me, is right fucking next to mine.”

Ilya is… the English word is stunned. Its dual meaning is so apt for this feeling, which is like he’s been whacked over the head and left dazed and blinking. He had not seen this coming, had not imagined Hollander sitting across from him, looking as though he’s in pain, talking about seeing Ilya kissing Miles Allen.

“Okay,” Ilya says eventually, any other words deserting him. He is wondering frantically if Hollander is homophobic. He can’t quite believe he would be, but then Hollander has no fucking gaydar, doesn’t even seem to have clocked Kip and Scott even though they were eyefucking right in front of him. He has never noticed men eyeing him up. Has never noticed Ilya— Well, that’s not necessarily a sign of anything, because Ilya has never allowed what he thinks when he looks at Hollander to be noticed. And Hollander is a newspaper guy, the industry’s not exactly known for its progressiveness, and worse, he works for the fucking Metro. He does sports reporting, for fuck’s sake; Ilya has been around those sorts of guys long enough, has heard words like cocksucker and fag bandied casually around enough newsrooms, has seen the limp wrist jokes, has read the thinly veiled critical think-pieces about McGillis and Radford, all the stuff about Bucsis and her girlfriend. It’s all bad all the way down, that’s the problem. But Hollander? Surely not.

“You never told me,” Hollander says, and his voice thins at the end of the sentence, agonised. He tips a huge gulping pour of wine into the glass, takes two more big swallows before he hands the glass back to Ilya, who also drinks.

“I never told you what?”

“Fuck you, man, you know what. You never told me you, you know. Slept with Miles.”

“I did not sleep with him, I kissed him.”

“Yeah, I fucking saw that, like I said. I’m not talking about last night. The time at the hotel? Rose mentioned it last night. And then Miles gave me some more of the details, which was great. They presumed I had already known about it, since you and I are such great friends, and all.”

“Hollander, if you have a problem with me sleeping with men I—”

“It’s not about you being gay, or whatever—”

“I am bisexual, I sleep with women also.”

“Yeah, I fucking know that too. You never shut up about it.” Hollander’s voice is so strained, his face set and enraged, and he’s talking to Ilya as though Ilya’s the stupidest person on the planet.

“You see me kissing a man and you get so uptight about it that you, what? Walk out of our fucking home and go talk about it with your friends? You ask Miles what we did together? You could have fucking stayed, Shane. You could have asked me about it.” Ilya winces at the overfamiliarity of Hollander’s first name slipping out.

“I couldn’t fucking ask you about it,” Hollander says, flinching back as though Ilya has said something cruel. Ilya has to keep his hands to himself to stop himself reaching out carefully to soothe. He hasn’t done anything, but feels the guilt and shame anyway. “I was hurt. You hurt my feelings by kissing him, and that’s fucking insane, and I know it. So I ran away to the kitchen and Rose saw me freaking out and she just sort of whisked me away to her car. And I went because it was easier than staying.”

“Rose… and Miles too? I saw him in the pictures, I know he was there.”

“Yeah, we were sitting in the car and I was telling her what I saw, and then Miles arrived and climbed in and was like…” He does a thing with his body which is clearly meant to be Miles and nearly, even in the midst of all this, makes Ilya laugh, puffing his chest up and tightening his jawline. “Shit out of luck tonight, he’s not interested. Which is, like. So indiscreet of him. And that’s how it all came out.”

“I did not know there would be so much interest in my love life.”

Hollander looks away at that, and his jaw is clenching for real this time.

“No, Hollander, I am serious. You all have so much to say about who I fuck, but no one is bothering to talk to me about it? What the fuck is wrong with you? How can you say I hurt your feelings when you are the one who fucking disappears and doesn’t even bother to— Doesn’t text, doesn’t call— I am the one who should be—” Ilya can’t finish; he’s too disgusted with himself for caring, for letting Hollander know he cares. He cannot be hurt by Hollander leaving, because Hollander will always leave — Ilya has no right to even ask him, really, where he was or what he was doing, but he’s asking anyway and Hollander is telling him.

“I didn’t know,” Hollander says, and his fingers slide as if in slow motion across the table for the wine glass. He drinks. The glass is slick with condensation, Hollander’s fingertips gleaming wet as he nudges the glass back towards Ilya. “I didn’t know it was an option.” The words drop carefully from his mouth as though he has practiced them. He sounds like he’s sitting round the table at an editorial meeting.

Ilya’s mouth is dry.

“You didn’t know,” he whispers, “what was an option?”

“I was driving myself crazy,” Hollander continues in his businesslike tone. “I thought, sometimes... Like at the hotel that time, or after the fight. The way you looked at me, I don’t know. But then you’d go out and go home with some girl. There was never a man. Was there?”

“There have been men,” Ilya manages. “Not recently, and not a lot. But some.”

“If I had known,” Hollander says, “I would have tried— I would have said— but you never let me know it was an option. The night you were with Miles, fuck, Ilya. I wanted, I thought maybe, when we were out on the balcony. But then you told me — you fucking encouraged me — to go sleep with Rose, and I thought, okay, well, I’m imagining things. And then you went and fucked him anyway? Why him? Why him and not me?”

It is agonising, this conversation, Hollander on the other side of the table with his hands resting there in front of him, talking like this to Ilya, as though Ilya could have known that Hollander wanted to be the him for Ilya, or that he thought it was even possible that Ilya might have considered the idea and rejected it. As a concept, it’s so far outside of anything Ilya could have imagined that he doesn’t know how to reply.

“I thought,” he says faintly, “that you liked her. She is a beautiful movie star. She is nice. I wanted you to—” to be happy tails away on his tongue, because he can’t fucking say that.

“But I liked you,” Hollander says. “I like you. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know that. Maybe I didn’t properly realise before, but I know now. And so, I’m asking you or, telling you, I don’t know. I’m saying that I’m an option. For you. If you want it.”

“You wanted to fuck that night?” It’s the worst question Ilya could ask, out of all the questions roaring through him. No wonder Hollander thinks he’s stupid.

“Ilya,” Hollander says tenderly, “I have wanted to fuck since the second I saw you that day at the Voyageurs game, the first time we met. I mean, I have eyes.”

“I didn’t know.” Ilya has missed something vital about Hollander and he almost can’t bear it. “I had no idea, fuck, Hollander.”

“Is this clear enough?” Hollander asks and then he pushes his chair back with violence, his body translating the movement into some sort of brutal desire that brings Ilya to his feet too, heart hammering with adrenaline, and then Hollander reaches for him across the table and they’re kissing.

Hollander’s mouth tastes of wine, tastes exactly as Ilya’s mouth must, and his tongue is hot, the tips of his teeth smooth. Ilya pushes forward to kiss him deeper, and Hollander moans. Somewhere, distantly, there’s a sound of glass shattering. Ilya doesn’t care, he would walk through it in his socks if it meant he’d get to touch Hollander’s dick right this second.

He scrambles half over, half around the table, Hollander crashing into him with the same propulsive forward momentum so they cling together, destabilised, adjusting, and then Hollander wraps his arms around Ilya’s neck and presses against him, his biceps so tense that they squeeze Ilya’s ears. He’s so fucking huge Ilya couldn’t move him unless he wanted to be moved, but he does want to be, stumbling backwards at the lightest of directions from Ilya’s hands.

“Careful,” Hollander says into his mouth, gasping it, “there’s glass.”

“I can sweep it up,” Ilya tells him, in case he’s worried, but Hollander shoves his thigh between Ilya’s legs, working himself closer and closer like he’d climb Ilya if he could, and mutters, “Later, come on, bed, please,” a demand Ilya isn’t going to deny.

Hollander’s bedroom is nearer so that’s where they end up. His window stands open, and the whole room is cool and bright with the very last of the evening light that’s bouncing off the rooftops of the buildings opposite. Hollander is gloriously defined in the sunshine, every detail illuminated like he’s been professionally lit for a shoot. It’s a fucking embarrassing cliché but as Hollander steps away from Ilya for long enough to pull his coat off and drag his shirt over his head, Ilya has to grit his teeth from the desire to grab his camera.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Hollander asks, balling his shirt in his hands in front of his crotch, suddenly self-conscious about the hard-on that’s been poking Ilya in the thigh the whole way down the hallway. “Are you— Do you still want to?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Hollander,” Ilya says, tearing at the waist of his sweats to drag them off, “take your pants off and get on the fucking bed. I have waited long enough for this.”

“Can I suck your dick?” Hollander asks, the crease back between his brows as he shimmies his hips to get his jeans off, shakes them out and folds them. “I’ve been thinking about it. Fuck, I’ve been thinking about it so much.”

“Is that what you do in your room at night? Jerk yourself off thinking about giving me head?”

Hollander’s blush is so immediate, so guilty, that Ilya knows he’s right, and he kicks out of the leg of his sweats and tackles Hollander onto the bed. He puts his hands back on Hollander’s hips. He’s seen the shape of them through Hollander’s clothes, but he couldn’t have even dreamt of the precise texture of them — the firmness of the muscle, the flexibility as Hollander arches into his hands, the slight pucker of stretchmarks, like lines in velvet rubbed the wrong way.

Ilya kisses him again. When he crawls up Hollander’s body to reach his mouth, their dicks nudge off each other. Ilya hasn’t looked at his body properly yet, hasn’t been able to leave off kissing him even long enough to do that, but his dick feels big and hot and very hard. Ilya wrenches his mouth away, looks down between them. His own cock is rock hard and dark with blood, and he can see the swollen head of Hollander’s dick, the slit shiny with a pearling bead of precome. Ilya’s own cock jerks at the sight, hitting off Hollander’s hip, and he drops down, knees locking onto the outside of Hollander’s thighs. Hollander can take his weight no problem, and it also means that Hollander can’t move as much, which he clearly notices — Ilya can feel him wriggling, pressing up a little as though testing Ilya’s grip on him. He lets Ilya gather both his hands above his head, crossed at the wrists. Ilya keeps his grip gentle. Hollander could free his arms with one easy movement, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lies pliant, making quiet panting noises every time Ilya thrusts down, rocking his own hips to meet Ilya’s movements.

They kiss and kiss, Ilya doesn’t know how long for. Time goes hazy as the sun outside starts to set, shadows creeping across the room. Ilya’s tongue is right in Hollander’s mouth, a feverish easy repetition of dipping in, withdrawing languorously, returning, so when Hollander starts talking, his words come out muffled. Ilya can only make out the tone, which sounds distressed, and he pulls back to look at Hollander’s face, sure that something is wrong. Even then, Hollander chases his mouth for a second, his lips wet and bright and swollen from Ilya’s kisses, the rub of his stubble, and drops back down onto the bed with a mortified look.

“Fuck,” he says, sounding desperate. “Stop, please, Rozanov, I think I’m going to—”

He makes no effort to free his hands, as though it still hasn’t occurred to him that he can, and his hips are working in small concentrated jerky motions, grinding up against Ilya’s body.

“You’re close?” Ilya feels insane at the thought; he doesn’t know whether to watch Hollander’s face or pull back so he can see his dick when he starts to come.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to, not yet, Rozanov, please, I—”

“I want to see you,” Ilya tells him. It feels like the truest thing he’s ever said. Hollander obviously hears how true it is, the way it cuts through all the noise Hollander is making, the heaviness of his breathing. Speaking it aloud makes Ilya feel desperate. “It’s okay? You can come again, yes? Come now then suck me until you’re hard again?”

“I—” Hollander says again, face burning hot, lashes clumped and gleaming wet, and the word hitches in his throat and he jerks painfully and Ilya feels wet against his stomach. He arches upwards so he can peer down into the new gap between their bodies and watch the splattering heaving thrusts as Hollander comes. Ilya wriggles a hand down, wraps it around Hollander’s dick to tease another shiver out of him, works at the thin wrinkled ridge under the head with his thumb. Hollander sighs, a long blissed out gust of air that travels over Ilya’s face, and Ilya coaxes forth a last dribble of come.

“Good?” Ilya’s watching his face again, cataloguing his post-orgasm laxity, the open lips, the painfully vulnerable line of throat. He’s still got his arms above his head, face tipped up lazily, still looking at Ilya through his lashes. Ilya presses his face into his armpit. The smell of Hollander this close up is driving him crazy. He speaks again, mouth moving against the fuzz of underarm hair, and Hollander wriggles. “That was okay?”

“Oh, fuck you, was that okay.” Hollander sounds drunk, a soft slur to his laughter. “Yeah, that was okay, asshole. I mean, I just came from kissing you, so.”

“You could not wait,” Ilya murmurs, and Hollander squirms under him and answers with painfully clarity.

“No,” he says. “I couldn’t.”

Ilya licks over the sweet hollow of skin. He wants to bite down. Hollander makes a protesting sound, finally reengages his arms, shaking them out and then shoving at Ilya, grabbing his face, pulling him back up so they can kiss again.

“Ugh,” Hollander says, sticking his tongue out in disgust. Ilya nips at it. “You taste all chalky.”

“It is your deodorant,” Ilya tells him. “Smells like flowers but tastes like chemicals.”

“It’s Rose’s,” Hollander says. “I hadn’t brought anything of my own with me, so she let me use her stuff after I showered.”

“Did you sleep with her?” It hadn’t occurred to Ilya to ask until right this second. His dick is still hard and twitching; Hollander’s come is still wet on his stomach; but maybe Hollander came to him straight out of Rose Landry’s bed. A self-righteous possessiveness roars through him. He wriggles his knee between both of Hollander’s legs, slumps down onto him heavily, sighing with relief at the increased friction as his dick gets trapped between them. They’re holding onto each other so tightly, Hollander’s arms locked around him, Ilya’s face in his neck.

“For fuck’s sake, Rozanov, did you think I crawled out of her bed and then came home and fucked you? No, I didn’t fucking sleep with her. I was having a crisis of sexuality, in case you didn’t notice.”

“I couldn’t really miss it,” Ilya tells him. “You crisised all over my stomach.”

“Fuck you,” Hollander says. Ilya can feel him smiling. “See if I’m going to suck your dick now.”

“Oh? You have remembered my dick? I thought maybe you were going to leave me like this.”

“Shut up. I just came my brains out, I was regrouping.”

Hollander’s neck is warm, and he smells temptingly of fresh sweat. As Ilya nuzzles closer, inhaling, he feels Hollander kissing the top of his head, his mouth pressing through Ilya’s hair.

“Do you want to fuck?” Ilya asks him. “Have you, before?”

Hollander tenses up a bit. Ilya can feel it in his shoulders, the sharp inhale.

“Not with— I mean, yeah, with girls. Not with a guy, yet.”

“Would you like to? With me?” Ilya shakes his hair out of his eyes, slides his head along Hollander’s arm so he can look up into Hollander’s face, maybe work out what he’s thinking. It’s hard to tell because Hollander looks absolutely fucked out, and he’s already so pink and sweaty that it’s difficult to know if he’s blushing. He does look relaxed, lips loose and open. Ilya reaches up and thumbs along his cheek, following the spray of his freckles. Hollander flicks his head, skittish, or maybe just irritated, then snaps at Ilya’s thumb with his teeth. “Ow, Hollander, what the fuck!”

“Don’t be a baby,” Hollander tells him, bossy. “And yeah, I want to, with you, if you want. I really want to. But I’ve been up all night, and I feel like shit, and I did shower but not, like, a shower shower…”

“I do want to,” Ilya says. “But next time would be better, maybe? We can do other stuff tonight. I’m curious to see how quickly you can get hard again.”

Hollander goes still, and Ilya realises maybe there won’t be a next time, maybe this is the only time he’ll ever do this, but whatever, it’s too late to take it back now.

“Sure,” Hollander says. “Next time, yeah, okay.”

Because Ilya’s gone lazy from the warmth of Hollander under him, he’s taken by surprise when Hollander flips them, a neat little manoeuvre that wouldn’t be out of place on a training mat, using his thigh to keep Ilya’s hips pinned to the bed. His hands slide up Ilya’s biceps almost tenderly, and then his fingers tangle in Ilya’s on the pillow and he kisses him, mouth and cheek and forehead, just over his eyebrow, down to his ear and below his jaw, sensual but not lingering, and Ilya’s skin shivers at the skate of his stubble, lifts his chin up for better access.

Hollander pauses at his chest, the kiss he leaves below Ilya’s collarbone distracted. He lets go of Ilya’s hands and grabs for one of his pecs, hand hovering lightly as though he’s unsure if he can touch. When his hand lands it’s large and firm, almost businesslike, squeezing gently.

“God,” he breathes. “You’re so fucking jacked. Fuck. Does this feel okay?”

“Yes.” Ilya wriggles in the bed, tensing his chest muscles so they jump under Hollander’s palm. “I like it.”

Hollander takes that as an instruction, and with a noise almost like a moan he leans in and starts sucking at Ilya’s nipple. He uses his thumb to play with the other one, circling and then an almost-pinch. It’s a move clearly designed to be used on a pair of tits; Ilya’s stomach throbs low at the base of his cock at the thought of Hollander in bed with some girl, diligently pleasuring her, the way he’s tonguing Ilya’s other nipple in time with his pinches. It’s fucking working on Ilya too, he can feel his nipples getting hard, knotting up at the twin sensations.

He doesn’t realise he’s making a noise until he hears it, loud in the room, Hollander’s name. Hollander looks up at him as though in answer. His eyes are unfocused. There’s spit shining all over Ilya’s chest, catching in the light when he looks down his body and into Hollander’s face, sees his own hopeless surrender mirrored there.

“Fuck,” he says. “Hollander, please.”

“Yeah,” Hollander says, and licks his lips. “I got you.”

Hollander takes his time, moving down Ilya’s body, back to kissing him at intervals. Ilya’s skin prickles with goosebumps wherever Hollander’s lips move, an unpredictable path of sensation. He can hear his own breath coming quicker; when he tries to quiet it, it just makes it worse, his chest heaving, stomach shaking as Hollander licks sloppily along the hair under his navel.

“Come on, Hollander,” he says, finally, choked up like he can’t fucking wait. “You are such a fucking tease.”

“I don’t mean to be,” Hollander tells him earnestly. He’s sprawled between Ilya’s legs; again Ilya’s stupid visual brain frames the image, registers how the shadows collect in the insane arch at the base of Hollander’s spine, the precise colour his eyes look in the dim of late evening light. Ilya can’t shut it off at the best of times but it’s particularly troublesome now; it means he won’t be able to forget it easily.

Hollander gets a hand around Ilya’s dick, finally. Ilya bucks into the touch, Hollander’s forearm clenching over his hips to hold him still. His hand is damp with heat. He strokes once, almost experimentally, grip tight and confident.

“Yeah,” Ilya says. “That’s so good.”

“Feels weird from this angle,” Hollander says. “Hey, will you tell me if, you know… if I do something wrong? I haven’t done this before, not any of it.” He sounds defiant. His face is very red.

“Yes,” Ilya tells him. “Just touching it like that feels so good.” He swallows. “But you know you don’t have to do anything you don’t—”

“Fuck you, I’ve been wanting this for fucking months,” Hollander says. “Please let me, please, I want—” He’s already mouthing at the head of Ilya’s cock, his breathing fast and too obvious.

“Fuck.” Ilya strains upward against Hollander’s forceful hold. “Yes, do it, show me what you want.”

“Just this,” Hollander says, and his mouth is shapeless with anticipation. He sinks down on Ilya’s cock tentatively until Ilya feels his frantic swallow and then he sucks off again, takes a huge breath, and gets back to it. He’s figuring things out as he goes, clearly — the barest hint of teeth, the way he curls his tongue, the trickles of spit running hot and ticklish down Ilya’s cock and pooling in the hair at his groin, over his balls. Everything is wet and messy. Hollander’s face is still red, his eyes are damp with effort, the look of his mouth almost a distraction from the feel of it. Ilya is so close and he still can’t stop looking down at Hollander; his eyes want to slide shut so he can just feel but it’s not enough, not when he can look and touch as well as feel. He gets a hand in Hollander’s hair and holds tight, sweaty fingers clinging in the shiny strands. When he tugs, Hollander’s eyes roll shut, flickering, little slivers of white showing under his fluttering lids. He looks gone, blissed-out and faraway, except that his fingers are clenched into Ilya’s hip, his thigh, digging in, keeping him present.

It takes hardly any time for Hollander to get Ilya on the edge. Ilya’s been hard for what feels like forever, and Hollander is such a quick learner, so willing to be directed. Ilya gets him moving at exactly the right pace, enthusiastic and regular. Even better, Hollander is so into it, using one hand tight around the base of Ilya’s cock, the other playing with llya’s balls, or sliding up his stomach, flat-palmed, seeking out his nipple again, once even blindly reaching Ilya’s mouth, tapping at his lips for access. Ilya opens wide and lets Hollander press inside, the seeking heat of his fingers making Ilya’s tongue curl. He’s practically drooling, Hollander gasping around his cock and grinding down into the bed while Ilya sucks and swallows around Hollander’s fingers.

“You okay?” Ilya manages once Hollander pulls his wet fingers out, wiping them on the bedspread. Ilya’s not exactly proud of how out of breath he sounds.

Hollander stops sucking him. He’s panting too, and when he looks up Ilya can see his whole throat is blotchy.

“Yeah,” Hollander chokes out. “But am I doing it right?”

“Yes, Hollander, shit,” is all Ilya manages before Hollander goes back down on him. He’s picking it up so well, fuck, still clumsy but getting there, really concentrating on sucking now, using his tongue more. He cups Ilya’s balls again in one hand, tugs at them. It’s rough, but it’s still doing it for Ilya. Every single thing about this is doing it for him. He thrusts, and Hollander makes a satisfied choking sound and keeps sucking, swallowing down his mouthful of spit as Ilya’s dick hits the back of his throat.

This is too fucking easy, Ilya propped up on his elbows watching, Hollander squirming down into the mattress, the wreck of the bedclothes, the distant sound of traffic. Ilya’s been living here for months; they could have been doing this the whole fucking time. Ilya wants to come in Hollander’s mouth, wants to wrap a hand around his throat as he swallows. But Hollander hasn’t done this before.

“Hollander,” he says, and fuck, he’s so hoarse, like he’s been shouting. “Hollander, stop, fuck, I’m close.”

Hollander murmurs something completely incomprehensible around Ilya’s dick, his eyes opening lazily for a second before shutting again. Ilya catches him by the hair, firmly. It’ll be easier to guide him up, then to hold him there while Ilya jerks off and finishes on his face, because he can’t be that much of a bigger person, not when he’s so close to coming his thighs are shaking, the muscles jumping.

“Hollander,” Ilya tries again, pulling at Hollander’s hair, and then, “Hollander, I’m going to come.”

Hollander makes a resentful protesting sound and Ilya pulls his hair again, harder this time. Hollander moans and keeps going, resisting the grip, more frantic now and more sloppy, sucking loose and open-mouthed, his hand doing a lot of the work.

Ilya tries but he can’t stop it now, he’s coming, shoulders slamming back into the bed for leverage as he fucks up into Hollander’s mouth, his grip in Hollander’s hair slackening. Hollander is making little choking noises. It all sounds very wet; Ilya kind of wants to laugh. It’s like being high for the first time; hunger that’s almost nausea, every sensation elevated and easy to examine. Ilya wriggles his toes, squirms lower in the bed so Hollander takes his wet hand off his dick. Then Hollander kisses him, desperately, his mouth sharp with the taste of come. His tongue is clumsy against Ilya’s as he drags Ilya upright, climbs heavily into his lap, pressing sweatily against him. He’s got one arm around Ilya, dragging him in close, it’s so sweet Ilya feels stupid about it. He wraps his arms around Hollander, hands cupped loosely around his truly superb ass. Hollander shoves his other hand down between them, jerking himself off far too roughly for Ilya’s liking. He wants to get a bottle of expensive lube, wants to warm it carefully between his palms, wants to lay Hollander down against a pile of plumped-up pillows and stroke him until the slide feels like silk, get him coming messily all over himself.

“You liked it, right?” Hollander is saying, low and jerky, against Ilya’s mouth. “Fuck, Rozanov, did you like it?” His fist thumps against Ilya’s stomach as he squeezes over the head of his dick, again and again, too fast.

“Felt so good,” Ilya tells him. “Your mouth, I knew it would feel good, the first time I saw you.”

“But you didn’t know I was gay then,” Hollander says, because he’s the worst in the world at talking dirty, and then, because he’s also a constant surprise, he wriggles against Ilya’s hold, shoving his ass back so Ilya’s fingers take the hint and tighten, spreading him wide where he’s pushing shamelessly down into the touch.

“No, but I thought about it anyway,” Ilya tells him, and Hollander’s head drops like a stone, knocking into Ilya’s collarbone.

“Fuck, yeah, okay, that’ll do it,” Hollander says, and pants wetly through his orgasm against Ilya’s neck.

The bed is a wreck, hopelessly messed, and they use the edge of the sheet to wipe themselves down and stumble together through to Ilya’s room. They brush their teeth in the bathroom, leaving the light off, side by side at the mirror, Hollander’s eyes bright with moonlight, watching Ilya. Then they crawl into the bed together, saying nothing, Hollander curled up around Ilya, his big arm a dense weight over Ilya’s stomach.

When Ilya wakes in the night it feels like a dream. The shades are up, and the whole room is cool and blue and beautiful, the almost-full moon framed like a picture through the window. Hollander is pressed up behind him, his breath hot on Ilya’s neck. He’s holding Ilya tight against him, his hand flat and demanding over Ilya’s heart. He’s hard.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” he asks, quietly.

“I think it was your cock that did it,” Ilya tells him, and wriggles back against him. “You couldn’t sleep?”

“No, I could,” Hollander says, sounding tense. “But my cock woke me up too. I’m so fucking tired, Rozanov. I have to be up in, like, three hours.”

“We can stay like this,” Ilya says. He slides a hand backwards, skating up Hollander’s warm, solid thigh. It’s easy to coax Hollander’s hips back and forth; Hollander moves exactly as Ilya encourages him, with a small stifled moan. He kisses the back of Ilya’s neck, licking the skin messily. “Just keep rocking, it’ll send you right off. Very relaxing.”

Hollander’s dick is pressing against Ilya’s ass; every part of him where Hollander touches is hot. It feels like the drugging endless heat of childhood summer holidays at Gelendzhik, Ilya’s whole body stretched out on the scorching sands, begging for the sun. Or like a fever, burning up and up, struggling to breathe. This may be the least relaxed Ilya has ever felt.

Hollander snorts inelegantly into Ilya’s neck; clearly he feels the same.

“Fuck you,” he says. “Relaxing, my ass.”

He hasn’t stopped moving, in fact, Ilya isn’t directing him anymore, he’s just found the rhythm by himself, little helpless thrusts. Ilya can feel a cool trail on his ass cheek from the wet head of Hollander’s dick.

“You are making this too easy for me, Hollander,” Ilya says, and fuck, he’s so hard. Hollander’s fingers scrabble over his chest, scratching. “It is, I think, my ass.”

“Yeah,” Hollander says, groaning. The sensation of it travels through Ilya. “Yeah, fuck, your ass.”

“Hang on, Hollander, fuck,” Ilya says, and manages to manoeuvre himself upwards, opens his thighs so Hollander’s dick slots right in between them. Ilya spits into his palm, reaches down awkwardly and spreads what he can over Hollander’s cock. It’s probably still going to be too much friction, too dry, but you wouldn’t know it by the way Hollander moans when Ilya tightens his legs, the frantic way he starts thrusting.

“I’m already close,” Hollander says. He sounds like his teeth are gritted. “I’m sorry, shit, I can’t wait—”

He drops his hand from Ilya’s chest and begins to jerk Ilya off with a confident, relentless rhythm, his thumb coaxing at the head on the upstroke. Ilya’s never thought of himself as particularly sensitive, but now he feels as though he can make out the individual pattern of Hollander’s thumbprint, as though he’s all sensation, even this minor touch a prickle of almost-painful heat.

Hollander is fucking hard between his legs now, teeth knocking off Ilya’s shoulder then clamping down, not hard but forceful, as Hollander starts to come, Ilya’s inner thighs suddenly awash with it. Hollander’s hand falters, grip loosening, and Ilya grits his teeth and clasps his own hand over Hollander’s, forcing him back into the rhythm, the punishing speed he prefers when he’s just about there, Hollander’s fingers tangling with his own, clenching mindlessly as Ilya holds him in place.

“Fuck,” Ilya says, gratefully, and comes, dick kicking in their dual grip, and he cups his free hand over the head as best he can so as not to mess the bed too much.

They lie there catching their breath, Hollander’s stomach heaving against Ilya’s lower back, their skin tacky, catching against each other. Hollander’s dick is softening, still clenched between Ilya’s thighs.

“Okay,” Ilya murmurs, because he’s fucked if he’s going to fall asleep with a handful of come. “If we stay like this you’ll stick to me, and then the skin will peel off your dick when you try to get up.”

“You really know how to set the fucking mood,” Hollander grumbles, but he waits for Ilya to open his legs, gently eases backwards, kisses Ilya’s shoulder as he goes. He stumbles into the en suite.

“Hey,” he says. “Mind if I use a towel?”

“Hollander, they are all your towels,” Ilya tells him. There’s the sound of water running, and some energetic splashing, and Hollander comes back into the bedroom all pink and glistening, a towel around his waist.

“Get up and have a wash,” Hollander says. “You’re filthy.”

When Ilya emerges, after the quickest rinse of his life, Hollander is gone, and the twinge of disappointment barely has time to sting when he hears the quiet clatter of a pan on the stove. Hollander’s in the kitchen.

“Here,” he says when Ilya joins him, and pushes a bowl over the worktop to him. Ilya sniffs it. It’s rice, with a fat egg yolk gleaming wetly in the middle. “Jesus, you fussy baby, just try it.”

It’s delicious, slightly salty with soy sauce, the rice sweet and stretchy on his tongue.

“When I was little,” Hollander says, “sometimes I used to wake up in the middle of the night because I was so hungry my stomach would rumble. All the sports, I guess. Mom said it was growing pangs. And she’d get up with me and make me this, she always said it would fill me up.”

“It’s good,” Ilya says, mouth full. It is good, and it’s even better eating it while leaning against the kitchen counter with Hollander topless, wearing just a pair of boxers Ilya is almost sure are his, taken off the drying rack in the corner of the room. The dustpan and brush are out, dustpan filled with the remnants of the broken glass of earlier, twinkling in the low light.

They eat in silence, and when the food is gone and everything in the dishwasher, they catch each other’s eyes awkwardly.

“I thought maybe—” Hollander says.

“Do you want to—” Ilya says, and they both stop for one confusing moment.

“Sorry.” Hollander looks down at his own bare feet, which are strong and significantly paler than his legs, with a fine dusting of dark hair on the toes, and Ilya must be going crazy to be admiring his feet right now. “I was just thinking, my bed is kind of fucked up. But if you’d rather I—”

“No,” Ilya says, before he can chicken out. “I was going to say you should sleep in with me, if you want. But then I thought maybe you would prefer your own space.”

Hollander is smiling.

“No, that’s fine,” he says. “I’d be more comfortable with you. If you’re sure.”

Ilya has never been so sure of anything in his life. He practically drags Hollander back down the hall, arranges him in the bed then climbs in himself so he can plaster himself along him, knees locked behind knees.

“Sleep,” he says, before Hollander can say anything. “Shush, Hollander.”

“Bossy,” Hollander grumbles, but he’s already yawning, their bodies a little pocket of soothing heat under the duvet.

The next time Ilya wakes the sun is irradiating his eyeballs and he’s inexplicably cheerful; it takes about one second to remember that it’s because he fucked Hollander last night before he realises that Hollander is also the reason he’s awake, shaking his shoulder not-so-gently and saying his name.

“Rozanov,” he says, and then, more impatiently, “come on, I know you’re awake, open your eyes, you lazy fuck.”

“Why would you do this to me,” Ilya moans into the pillow, which still smells pleasantly of Hollander.

“Because,” Hollander says, sounding panicky, “we overslept, you asshole, and I’m already a whole hour late for work. Jesus Christ, Rozanov, don’t you have that shoot in Mile End today? You’re never gonna make it at this rate.”

Ilya sits up in the bed. Hollander is already dressed, and he’s got a pair of socks in his hands, which he’s trying to put on his feet while walking towards the door. It isn’t going great for him.

“Fuck, why didn’t you set an alarm?” Ilya’s legs are tangled in the bedsheets.

“I thought you had set it,” Hollander says crossly. “I have to go, fuck. I just, umm. I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”

“Okay,” Ilya says. Hollander is already over by the door, looking harried and tired. His hair is sticking up at the back where he’s slept on it while damp. Ilya’s not going to be the one to tell him. Hollander looks at him, blushing slightly. His eyes are on Ilya’s mouth. Ilya could kiss him goodbye, if he just gets out of the bed and goes to him. He wants to. But then Hollander looks at his watch and swears and the chance is gone.

“We can talk later?” Ilya calls after him.

“I’m away for two nights, remember? The film festival. When I get back, yeah? I’ll text.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, then remembers he’s late too and finally extracts himself from the bed. “Have fun in boring Toronto.”

“Fuck you,” Hollander calls back, maybe laughing a little bit, and then Ilya hears the door slam.

Chapter End Notes

If you want to read an Ilya with a more cutting-edge musical taste then please i beg you to dash over and read Clean Sweep by YankingAwry — I have cried every time I read this fic and I'll cry again (complimentary). An always-favourite fic for me, and what a joy to have S helping me with this one; just the other day i texted them to tell them that I was singing along with [REDACTED] in my local shopping centre and getting emotional thinking about DJ Ilya.

 

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Chapter 5: Marking Their Territories

Chapter Notes

We're really in it now, friends. Also, yes, Ilya has had more than one orgasm of his professional life.

Ilya doesn’t hear from Hollander until after lunch, which is just enough time for him to start worrying that things are going to be weird between them. His morning is already fucked up — he’s so late that he has to grovel to the mid-level author he was due to shoot forty minutes earlier, and even at his most charming this woman isn’t having any of his bullshit. At least it’s Elena who’s art director on the shoot — she’s pissed off, but she also knows him, and knows he doesn’t make a habit of sloppiness, so a proper apology will suffice. He can see the make-up artist eyeing him with professional disappointment, but he doesn’t have time to think about how totally shitty he must be looking after another night of basically no sleep. It probably doesn’t help that he hasn’t even looked in a mirror yet.

By the time he grabs a bathroom break at midday, it’s already far too late to fix his hopelessly tangled hair, or hide the purplish circles under his eyes. There’s also a mildly suspicious-looking mark just below the collar of his shirt, that peeks out every so often when he moves. He doesn’t remember Hollander leaving it, but then the whole night already has the shining quality of a great dream, every sensation heightened, but every detail soft and feverish in his memory. And worse, even with the tiredness and the aching muscles and the horrible fucking worry that he’s ruined everything with Hollander forever, Ilya’s brain keeps forgetting that he’s meant to feel absolutely terrible. Instead, he keeps getting taken over by a giddy wave of euphoria. I fucked Hollander, he thinks, and feels the glow of it through him. He can’t seem to stop smiling.

He checks his phone again halfway through the shoot. Still nothing from Hollander, though he was definitely supposed to be at St-Hubert at eleven, which means by now he should have checked in and had some time in the departure lounge to not have a drink, knowing him, and to be on his phone, texting Ilya. Ilya shoves his phone into his back pocket, feeling unsettled. It is definitely unusual that Hollander hasn’t messaged him by now — on any normal day before they hooked up gloriously, Ilya would have heard from him already. The author rolls her eyes; Ilya is probably not going to be able to salvage this one on an interpersonal level, so instead he does his level fucking best to take the nicest headshots she’s ever going to have the pleasure of seeing.

He’s showing her the roughs, which she begrudgingly loves, when he feels his phone vibrate. It could be anyone, but he knows it’s Hollander. It takes all his self-control not to check it immediately; instead, he very professionally goes through the photos with the author, says a very professional goodbye, and then very professionally helps the assistant pack up the kit. He then very unprofessionally can’t wait any longer, and takes his phone out to look at the photo Hollander has sent, which is of a paper cup of airport tea on a small table.

-About to board. Hope shoot is going okay!

Trust Hollander to be the only journalist not to take advantage of the expense account. Ilya thumbs out a reply, grinning.

-Enjoy your camomile tea. I’m sure you will sleep like a baby on the flight.

The message doesn’t show as delivered, probably because Hollander is already on the plane with his phone switched off.

“Holy shit,” Elena says, clattering back into the room. “What the fuck is wrong with your face? And what are you doing?”

Ilya is just standing in the middle of the room staring at his phone, actually.

“Just texting someone. Roommate emergency.”

“Roommate,” Elena says sceptically. “Okay, sure. That explains the expression on your face.”

“I was smiling,” Ilya says. “You should give a go sometime, maybe? Lets people know you’re not permanently pissed off with them.”

“That was not a smile, that was like your face was lit up by the power of a thousand suns.”

Ilya has to force himself not to touch his face, to see what it’s doing without his permission. He does feel a bit… well, he’s not quite sure what he feels. It’s like his body keeps reminding him that he slept with Hollander, in little flurries of satisfied glowing warmth.

“Wow,” he says, turning the smile on her, because she loves him, really. “My bad for experiencing a moment of joy at work, I guess. I am sorry for being late, though. You know this is not something I make a habit of. I feel awful.”

“Oh, give me a break, you feel fucking fantastic, and you know it.” Her tone is definitely less frosty. “Look, I’m happy for you, I guess. Whatever, or whoever, made you look like that, well… Good for you.” She crosses her arms when Ilya begins to laugh. “But do it on your own time in future, yeah? I might expect that kind of shit from someone else, but never from you.”

“I promise it will never happen again,” he says. “And I really am sorry.”

“Yeah, well, it had better not — we’ve got that early shoot with the MPs tomorrow, and I want everything to run like clockwork. It’s taken me months to pin down that weasel Macdonald for an interview.” Elena’s gaze travels disapprovingly over Ilya’s messy hair, yesterday’s shirt, his mouth, which, yeah, is probably a bit chapped from Hollander’s stubble. “See you at eight sharp, Ilya.”

Ilya’s just lucky he’s so busy. It’s a game night, and he said he’d cover for the sports guy, whose kid has a school play. It means Ilya doesn’t have to go home to the empty apartment and worry about whether he’s ruined everything with Hollander, and when he gets in he just turns the TV on and reheats something from the freezer for a late dinner. Hollander’s safely in Toronto; he’s texted Ilya a few times, and Ilya thinks that actually, maybe Hollander’s acting totally normal. Maybe it’s just Ilya driving himself crazy, overthinking every single detail and presuming everything is different now. There’s a photo of Hollander’s hotel dinner, the view from his balcony, a good night text. Ilya sends back the view from their own balcony when he’s out for one last smoke, then goes to bed.

The next day is more of the same, except a really early start and a long morning of shooting. Ilya makes sure to turn up extra early, and he brings coffees and pastries for the whole team. After lunch he goes in for a whole afternoon in the office, which is his least favourite type of work day. He has to do an inventory of his gear, and there are about thirty emails he’s been ignoring, and then there are planning meetings all evening. By the time he gets out he’s hardly had time to worry about Hollander at all, but Hollander’s been texting all the same, just like normal. Then, because Ilya’s a glutton for punishment, and if he’s going to be miserable he might as well do it on a night when Hollander’s not there to see it, he goes to visit Polina and his father. He’d caved and spoken to his father on the phone a few times, but he hasn’t seen him in person in months; on the way there, he wonders if things might be different, maybe even better, now.

It’s just the same.

They both say they’re happy to see him, and his father insists he stay for dinner. It’s a whole long evening of Russian; Polina mostly prefers to speak in English these days, but Ilya’s father will not hear of it, and there’s a comfort to it too, the old rhythms, the easy knowledge of where the conversation will lead. Ilya just has to follow, nodding along. His father has a lot to say about his work, the length of his hair, the shirt he’s wearing, which is actually Hollander’s. Ilya had worn it to look smart, but his father dismisses it as girly. Lina is very quiet; they eat some beautifully cooked white fish in capers and lemon butter. Lina has been keeping up her French cookery classes, she tells Ilya.

Ilya’s father doesn’t eat much, but he drinks maybe a little less than usual, which is a small blessing. He keeps the conversation going almost entirely by himself, telling them some convoluted story about an old case he worked, back in Russia. Ilya can’t follow the details, but his father doesn’t require any response beyond polite nodding anyway. His father is going to Russia for a few weeks soon; Alexei has been complaining about it to Ilya for months, but Ilya will be glad when his father is out of the country and he can become someone else's problem for a little while.

Ilya doesn’t want to wait for dessert but when he mentions maybe leaving, his father slams a hand down on the table so the china rattles and tells Ilya that he is a rude and sullen boy. Lina slides gracefully out of her seat, murmuring about the clafoutis. After she leaves the room, Ilya’s father leans over the table and whispers, venomously, “That new maid is a knockout. Irina has really let herself go since she had the children, maybe she should take some tips.”

Ilya feels cold run through him, despite the overheated, stuffy room with its heavy, closed curtains, his full stomach. The collar of Hollander’s shirt seems too loose around his neck, as though a chill breeze has gotten under it and is making itself known down Ilya’s spine. He shivers.

“Papa? Are you okay?”

There’s a second where the way his father looks at him makes Ilya feel genuinely afraid. His father’s once beautiful blue eyes are watered down to almost-grey, and he’s looking at Ilya like he doesn’t know him. He’s quivering with rage, and maybe too with a sort of fear, his fists clenching on the heavy white tablecloth. On the pinky finger of his right hand, he’s wearing his signet ring. He might hit Ilya. He’s done it before, for less.

“Papa,” Ilya tries again, and his father snaps back to himself.

“Enough, Ilya,” his father says, and Ilya is so relieved that he got the name right that he doesn’t even flinch when his father reaches out a hand. He puts it over Ilya’s own, which is lying uselessly on the table. His touch is dry and cool, drifting like paper over Ilya’s skin. “You’re my good boy, aren’t you?” Pat, pat, pat goes his hand over Ilya’s, and then he finally releases it. “Now, go and find that woman with my pie. She cannot do anything right.”

After dinner, Ilya walks home. It takes a long time, because he’s walking so slowly, and it’s dark, and he has had too much wine with his meal. He wonders what he would have done if his father had hit him tonight. It’s been so many years since his father was bigger than him, or stronger than him, and he has mostly left Ilya alone since then. The night Ilya left home had been one of the worst times. He had thought his nose was broken. He had thought that maybe his father would kill him. And still he hadn’t fought back. It had taken him long enough — three or four good hits, his father had gotten in — before he had even managed to defend himself, and by then the damage was done. He had left that night because the alternative was worse: maybe next time he wouldn’t eventually put a hand up and block his father’s blows, maybe next time he would just lie down and let himself be beaten, cowering like a whipped dog. He often wonders if his father even remembers what he did — what he still does, sometimes, to Polina, which is also probably the reason it took Ilya so long to leave. But he can’t feel guilty about that now — and anyway, she can decide to leave him too, if she wants.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s an unknown number, and must be Alexei, calling from work. Ilya answers, and it’s only where there’s silence at the other end that he realises he’d spoken in Russian.

“Hello?”

“Hi.” Hollander’s voice is crisp and uninflected. He sounds so normal, so very much himself; it’s like he’s here, next to Ilya. Ilya’s eyes prickle at the sound. Jesus, he really did drink too much. “Rozanov? Is that you?”

“Hollander. Hi. Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s okay. Hey, is everything alright?” Hollander sighs — worry, maybe, rather than irritation, though it’s so hard to tell without being able to see his face. “You sound a bit weird.”

“No, sorry.” Ilya winces. He’s becoming so Canadian. “I thought you were my brother. You’re not calling from your cell?”

“That’s why I’m calling, actually. My fucking charger broke and I only discovered it when I went to plug my cell in just now.” He yawns, a huge underwater sound in Ilya’s ear. “I called down to the front desk but they don’t have any spares. Anyway, there’s an electronics store around the corner so I can grab one in the morning, but I just wanted to let you know in case you, umm. I mean, I wasn’t sure if you’d wonder—”

Hollander is such a worrier that he’s even worrying about Ilya being worried. Ilya catches himself smiling dumbly at nothing, has to consciously make the shift back to a normal expression so Hollander won’t hear the grin in his voice.

“How did you get my number?”

“Umm. You gave it to me, remember? I have literally been texting you on it for, like, six months now?”

“No, Hollander, I mean, how did you get my number if your phone is dead?”

Ilya’s nearly home. There’s their local dep, the lights still on, where Ilya gets the best bulgogi wrap in the city every single Thursday morning as a treat before the editorial meeting, and where Hollander leaves his dry-cleaning, and where they get their coffees after their Saturday morning early run. The little table and chairs are still outside, even though no one is sitting out this late. Ilya perches on the edge of the table; inside, Elisabeth the owner sees him and gives him a wave through the window. He waves back.

“I, well.” Hollander goes silent on the other end of the line, but Ilya can wait him out. “I mean, I know your number. So.”

“You know it off by heart?”

“Yeah, I guess so? Why are you acting like this is weird? This isn’t weird. I know lots of people’s numbers. I text you all the time, if you hadn’t noticed. It would be weirder if I didn’t know your number.”

“Yes, Hollander, but you never see the actual number, because you have it saved under my name.”

“God, you are so fucking annoying. My dad said to learn off some numbers so you can always contact people if anything ever happens to your phone.” He grumbles as Ilya starts to laugh. “Jeez, this isn’t rocket science, Rozanov, it’s just basic common sense. And it works, like today I would have had no way of getting in touch with you if I hadn’t known your number.”

“Very sensible indeed, Hollander. Your father is full of bright ideas. So whose numbers do you know?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hollander is fast approaching actual irritation rather than the fond type, but Ilya pushes on anyway.

“I mean, I want to know how many numbers you have stored in that head of yours. Surely you cannot keep track of them all.”

“Well, you don’t do it with many, obviously, that’s the key. I have Mom and Dad, Hayden, Roger—” he pauses while Ilya blows a raspberry down the phone, then goes on, sounding exasperated “—the reception desk at work. Just normal stuff.”

“And me.”

“And you,” Hollander confirms. “It’s, ummm.” He sounds careful, distant all of a sudden. “Just the important ones.”

A truck goes past, the roar of its engine suddenly deafening. Ilya’s ass is numb where the cold metal of the table edge is digging into him. His grip is tight around his phone, white-knuckled, as he presses it to his ear as though he can hear Hollander’s breathing over the noise of traffic. When the truck is gone, Hollander is speaking again.

“What the fuck was that, Rozanov, are you at the fucking racetrack or something? Jesus, it’s almost midnight, don’t you have work in the morning, why are you still out?”

“Just a long evening,” Ilya says. “I’m nearly home. I’m just outside Beau-Soir.”

“Oh, say hi to Elisabeth for me,” Hollander says. “Hey, I should probably go. This call is going to cost a fortune.”

“It’ll go on the room,” Ilya says. “Expense accounts exist for a reason, Hollander, I keep telling you this.”

“I’ll be home tomorrow,” Hollander says. He sounds very, very casual. “Flight’s at lunchtime. Are you in tomorrow evening? Maybe we could have that talk?”

So Ilya still has maybe eighteen hours of that golden feeling of having fucked Hollander before they have the talk that’s almost certainly going to end with some variation of this was such a bad idea.

“Sure,” is all he says. “Elena and I are location scouting tomorrow after lunch, but we should not be too late.”

“Great.” Hollander takes in a big breath as though to say more, but there’s just more silence.

“Okay, Hollander. Goodnight. Safe trip tomorrow. Do not forget my souvenir from the airport.”

“Fuck off, asshole, like the big fat nothing you brought me back from your trip to New York last month?”

“Make it good,” Ilya says, and hangs up.

Ilya gets out of his morning shoot to four messages from Hollander, who has purchased a charger and is using his brand new battery power to take photos of the buffet table at the presser for whatever big movie he’s in Toronto to write about. He knows Ilya loves a buffet. Hollander is acting just as he always does, which is a relief. There are many bad things that could stem from sleeping with Hollander, like Hollander not wanting to be roommates anymore, or Hollander not wanting to work together anymore, or — the worst outcome of all — Hollander not wanting to be friends anymore. But it feels like he’s trying to show Ilya that’s not going to happen; or maybe he really just isn’t thinking about any of this and is happy to just go back to normal, just the way they used to be. Either way, Ilya feels better about it all, just hearing from him and getting to message him back without worrying.

He goes on his exterior location search with Elena after lunch. She’s effortlessly chic in a pair of spike heel boots, carrying a thick folder of mood boards in her tote. She has an unparalleled eye for colour and contrast, and by the time they’ve seen and argued over three different venues, all on different sides of town, Ilya feels almost normal again.

“We’re going with the second place, so fuck you,” Elena says after Ilya launches into yet another impassioned defence of the third place, a brutalist dream of floating step-like buildings that Ilya instantly wants to move into and live in forever. “This is too summer vibes, it won’t work for a fall-winter collection.”

She’s right, though Ilya doesn’t care, so they argue some more while he walks her to her bus stop and then he realises that it’s only three o’clock and he’s finished for the day. He can’t bring himself to go home and wait around for Hollander, nerves alighting again in the pit of his stomach at the thought, which is crazy. Instead, he swings by the office for his gym bag and then goes for a long work-out at the gym near work. He doesn’t often use it; it’s full of corporate bros from the finance company down the street with terrible form and overpriced sneakers. But it has a sauna and a pool, and after he does his upper body routine with headphones in, avoiding any eye contact in the mirror, he rinses off and has a swim. He’s not very good, too splashy and he never quite got the hang of any stroke other than front crawl, but it tires him out enough that he can go and relax in the sauna without thinking about Hollander at all.

Traffic is light and the bus is only half-full; the journey home is so quick that his hair is still dripping on his collar as he steps into the elevator to their apartment. When he lets himself in, he knows immediately that Hollander is already home. The place feels expectant, full of his presence. His shoes are back on the rack, neatly lined up on his shelf under Ilya’s.

“Hey,” Hollander calls out. His voice is coming from the kitchen. Ilya drops his backpack by the closet, kicks his shoes off without unlacing them and puts them away.

“Hi,” Ilya answers. The kitchen is bright and warm, and Hollander is back in it. He’s standing in the middle of the room, hands loosely by his sides. He’s barefoot. Ilya’s whole brain catalogues him, catches the movement of shining sunlight on his hair, the way the sleeves of his shirt cling to his biceps. He has a determined expression on his face; but of course he was always going to go ahead with this conversation, he’s never backed down from what he thinks is right before. Ilya’s father would say he’s bloody-minded.

“I just got in,” Hollander says. “About twenty minutes ago. The flight was a bit delayed.”

“Oh,” Ilya says. He’s still standing in the doorway, fingers gripping the wooden frame.

“You, uhhh. You washed my bedsheets?”

It’s so not what Ilya was expecting him to say that he finds himself reaching for a reply. He can’t quite make out Hollander’s tone.

“You didn’t have time to fix your bed, on Monday before you left. I thought you wouldn’t like to come home to the mess. I did cause some of it, you know.”

“A lot of it was your fault, actually,” Hollander says sternly, but his eyes are bright and amused.

“We should have that talk,” Ilya says, and he steps into the room. There’s an effort to it, after his long swim and the dry heat of the sauna. It feels like he might stagger, like his legs are going from under him, but he’s pleased that when he does take another step, it’s steady.

“We should,” Hollander says, and then he bites his lip. “Or.”

“Or?”

“Or…” Hollander looks down, blushing, and then he grabs at the hem of his shirt — Ilya’s shirt, the one he got at fucking ÎleSoniq last year — and yanks it over his head. He stands in the kitchen, shirt hanging uselessly in one hand. He’s breathing heavily, his beautiful big chest rising and falling so rapidly that Ilya can see it from across the room.

Ilya really is stumbling now, almost falling over his feet to get to Hollander.

“That one,” he says. “The one where you get naked. I choose that one.”

They’re kissing almost before they’re touching, Hollander’s tongue in Ilya’s mouth, his lips hot and open. His chest is heaving; Ilya puts his flat hands over all that bare skin, running his palms over Hollander’s chest, his stomach, the slight bristle of hair below his navel where he’s obviously shaved, back up to his shoulders and down his bare arms. He could touch every part of Hollander and it still wouldn’t feel like enough; his fingers are clawing greedily at Hollander’s skin as though he could clamp on.

Hollander’s bare feet nudge up against Ilya’s own. They’re going to overbalance soon, or else Ilya’s going to do something insane like try to lift Hollander up and carry him to bed. His nose is in Hollander’s hair now, he’s sucking Hollander’s earlobe, and Hollander is struggling with Ilya’s belt, swearing fuck, fuck, fuck under his breath as he tugs at the fastener.

“You know you can’t have my dick unless you can actually get it out of my pants?” Ilya asks him, and Hollander yanks so hard Ilya feels the belt bite at his hips and then the buckle loosens and Hollander can get at the button of his pants.

“Fuck,” Hollander says breathlessly. “You look stupid hot, I can’t believe you go out to work looking like this.” His fingers slip over Ilya’s button, then he gives up and just cups Ilya’s hard dick through his pants. It’s a terrible angle, but Ilya thrusts into his grip anyway, helpless. Hollander groans. “But why the fuck are all your clothes so hard to get off?”

“Okay, enough,” Ilya says, and grabs Hollander under his ass. Hollander gets the hint, something challenging in his eyes, and he wraps his arms around Ilya’s neck and jumps up just enough that Ilya can lift him. He wraps his legs around Ilya’s waist, and Ilya gets all the way out into the hallway and halfway down before he has to drop Hollander with a thunk.

“Fuck,” Ilya says. “You’re heavy.”

“Yeah, no shit. I weigh the same as you, practically,” Hollander says resentfully. “I don’t know why you thought you could—”

“I definitely could—”

But it’s no use even trying to have an argument at the moment, because they’re already kissing again, Hollander pushing Ilya up against the wall, Ilya’s undone belt bobbing from his belt loops, Hollander’s hand between his ass and the wall, groping him.

“My bedroom,” Hollander says firmly, and steers Ilya in the door and over to the bed. “I want you, fuck, you washed my sheets, what is wrong with you?”

“It was just a bit of laundry, Hollander,” Ilya tells him, and Hollander pushes him onto the bed, a proper double-handed shove that makes Ilya’s dick even harder. Hollander clambers on top of him, grinds down.

“I have been hard since the second I walked in the door of this room,” Hollander says. “I didn’t even unpack.”

Ilya looks around the room. He hadn’t noticed before, but Hollander’s overnight bag is standing under the window, unopened, still stuffed full from his trip.

“You are a neat freak who gets turned on by the smell of laundry detergent?” Ilya asks him. His hands are on Hollander’s hips, gripping him hard. “Or maybe it just reminded you of us messing the bed up the other night?”

“No, asshole. Or, yeah, I guess that was part of it. But I just— I like that you thought of it, okay?” Hollander starts working on Ilya’s shirt buttons. "It’s hot that you made my fucking bed for me. Now, are you going to keep being a jerk about it, or are you going to fuck me?”

“I didn’t do it so you’d fuck me,” Ilya says, because it feels obscurely important to make that clear. It’s difficult because Hollander has got his shirt open and is touching him, rubbing at a nipple with his thumb, sliding the flat of his other hand down Ilya’s stomach, ruffling the hair there back and forth. He’s looking at Ilya’s body with an expression Ilya wants to commit to memory — Hollander lost in a sort of greed, his smile of pure pleasure as Ilya’s stomach tightens up under his hand. He sticks a finger in Ilya’s bellybutton, concentrating on every touch, then pinches his nipple, makes him yelp.

“I know you didn’t,” Hollander says. “In fact, I thought maybe you were going to say that the other night was a bad idea.”

“I thought you were going to say that,” Ilya says, and unzips his own pants because maybe if he gets naked Hollander will finally touch his dick. It works; Hollander breathes in sharply at the sight of his straining underwear and pulls the waistband down carefully, starts jerking him off. Hollander’s hand is hot and eager. Ilya is so turned on that the tendons in his throat are standing out, his nipples twin points of sensation. His whole body feels so very alive.

“Well, it probably is a terrible idea,” Hollander says, and then he spits with perfect accuracy onto the head of Ilya’s cock, works his wrist to spread the moisture. “And, like. I guess we’ll have to keep it secret? But what’s our other option? Not doing this? That would be fucking crazy.” He looks up, seems almost surprised at whatever he sees on Ilya’s face. “Right? Unless you don’t want—”

“I want,” Ilya says. He tries to shake his hair back off his face but it’s stuck to his forehead. He can’t quite catch his breath; his chest is rising with the rhythm of Hollander’s hand, too fast for evenness. “Jesus fuck, Hollander, I want—”

“Will you fuck me? I got myself ready.”

Ilya nearly knocks Hollander off him in his scramble to shove his pants down, get his underwear the rest of the way off. He’s too hot already, and if he’s going to fuck Hollander he wants to be able to touch every inch of his skin. Hollander is laughing, scrambling off the bed completely to wriggle out of his sweatpants, the pristine white underwear Ilya has been trying very hard not to notice for months when it’s arranged on the drying rack on the balcony when the sun hits. It looks even better on Hollander, and better again when he’s bending over to ease it off, in the most pragmatic striptease Ilya’s ever witnessed. There’s a slight dent ringing his hips where the waistband must have been digging in. As soon as he kneels back up onto the bed, Ilya grabs him there and bends to lick along the mark, fingers pressing where his mouth can’t reach, Hollander breathless with laughter, wobbling on his knees as he grabs at Ilya’s hair with both hands.

“You should go on top,” Ilya tells him, teeth grazing his hip.

“Okay.” Hollander looks dubious, even though Ilya sees his dick dribble precome at the words. “Is that how you normally do it, or— Just, I have a thing, a toy… So it’s not like I’ve never, you know, taken it before.” He’s blushing hotly, the colour spreading and blotchy all down his neck. He puts a hand up, touches his throat almost delicately, as though to stop the heat. Ilya kisses the place Hollander’s fingers touch, just under the swell of his Adam’s apple.

“I did not know you were such an expert, Hollander. I am nothing if not considerate, you see, and I thought to myself, riding me might be easier, more comfortable for Hollander’s untouched ass. Little did I know you have been in training for my dick this whole time.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hollander says, and pushes Ilya back down onto the bed, nosing along his jaw, biting his shoulder. “You think a lot of yourself, don’t you? I’m just saying, you don’t have to be gentle with me, or whatever.”

“What if I told you I want to be able to see you?” Ilya kisses Hollander’s ear, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. “What if I want to watch you while I’m fucking you?”

Hollander’s eyes slide shut for a second, and he swallows hard. Then Ilya’s hands fall away from him as he scrambles across the bed to the nightstand, fumbling in the drawer for a bottle of lube, and then he brings out a long swinging link of wrapped condoms.

Ilya’s still cracking up as he rolls the condom on, laughing into Hollander’s mouth as they kiss, too much spit and excitement to be any way serious, but then he’s not laughing anymore when Hollander straddles him, thighs flexing and releasing almost unconsciously against Ilya’s own. Ilya holds Hollander by one hip, presses his thumb into the solid plane of it just for the pleasure of seeing the paler give of Hollander’s skin.

Ilya wants to remember it all, but it feels like a latent image, a blank space lit by flashes of desire, blinding him to everything but sensation. He tries to capture it anyway — Hollander biting his lip as he kneels up so Ilya can get two fingers deep inside him; the lurid dark head of Hollander’s cock slapping against his stomach as he finds his angle and starts to move in earnest against Ilya’s hand; the inviting darkness of the inside of Hollander’s mouth when he begins to get noisy; the look on his face when he says “Please— Can we— I want—” as though finishing a sentence is beyond him.

When Hollander gets incoherent, Ilya stops fingering him and lies there, holding his own dick at a good angle so all Hollander has to do is sink down on him, adjusting himself as he goes. He’s so heavy, so solid, roasting hot, his two flat hands pressing down hard on Ilya’s pecs. His face is tipped upwards, eyes wide and very dark; Ilya has a sharp little twinge of regret at being under him, because the angle means he can’t see his face properly. Hollander takes Ilya beautifully, bearing down on him with so much control; Ilya’s fully in him before he knows it, fucking up into him with small jerky thrusts.

“Are you okay?” Ilya asks him, gasping, too turned on to be embarrassed. “Fuck, Hollander, is this alright?”

“So good,” Hollander manages, and when he finally looks down at Ilya, it’s almost too much; Ilya has to bite his lip to keep himself from saying something, anything, who knows what. “It’s like… pressure. In me, everywhere, I can’t get away from the feeling, god.”

“Too much?”

“No,” Hollander says, and falls forward fully, kissing over Ilya’s mouth as he speaks. “Not enough. I want more.”

Ilya fucks him more, and kisses him, hands full of Hollander’s soft hips, can’t even think about wanting to do anything else but this. It’s not going to be long enough for him, he’s already caught on the knife-edge of coming, feet planted on the sheets, slipping with sweat as he tries to fuck harder, every movement forcing fresh sounds out of them both.

“I’m sorry,” Hollander says, choked up, eyes screwed shut. He’s barely kissing Ilya anymore, just breathing into his mouth. “I’m going to come. I can’t wait.”

Ilya’s not even doing that good of a job; he can feel his rhythm is erratic, too frantic. He’s not even directing Hollander anymore — Hollander is doing all the work, chasing his own pleasure. Every muscle Ilya’s hand slides over is tight and thrumming with tension. But Hollander’s going to come anyway, Ilya’s going to make Hollander come. This is, apparently, the hottest thing he can imagine, because the thought of it takes him out completely, his treacherous dick buried as deep in Shane Hollander as he can get. Ilya comes so thoroughly he can’t actually even hear properly, blood roaring in his ears, his eyes screwed shut so tight his vision sparks. His thighs are shaking under Hollander’s unstable moving weight. When Ilya manages to open his eyes, he and Hollander are holding hands, fingers clasped together on the pillow beside Ilya’s head.

“Jesus,” Hollander is saying. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” His dick is smacking off his stomach as he comes messily all over them both.

It takes them what feels like forever to separate. Ilya’s aware that he’s softening inside the condom — inside Hollander — but Hollander drops onto him heavily and then they just lie there, breathing in sync, stomach to stomach, until Hollander clenches with a hiss of breath and Ilya’s dick sort of flops out of him in its sad little condom wrapping. It shouldn’t be hot, but Ilya can already feel a fizzle of desire running through him at the reminder of being inside Hollander, at the potential for being back inside him again soon. And Hollander had said it too — he wanted to do this again, even if he did think it was a bad idea. Hollander’s face is in Ilya’s neck, Ilya working through the sweaty hair at the base of his skull, letting the strands slip through his fingers, soothing himself. Their breathing returns to normal and still they stay there, smushed together.

Hollander is, of course, the one to stir.

“We’re going to stick together if we stay here any longer,” he mutters, and kisses Ilya’s collarbone. “I’m so fucking sweaty right now, I think I need a shower.”

“We can both fit, I think,” Ilya says. “If we use your shower.”

“Yeah,” Hollander says, and he pushes up off Ilya back onto his knees, wincing at the unpeeling of their stomachs. “Hey, do you want to walk down to Roch le Coq after we get cleaned up? We could get the popcorn chicken poutine for dinner. I’m fucking starving, and I think we’ve earned it.”

Ilya can smell his own sweat; he badly needs that shower. He sits up in the wreck of the bed, rolls off the condom, which has been leaking all over him this whole time. His stomach is sticky with Hollander’s jizz. He’s starving too. He can’t stop grinning, his face is hurting.

“Kiss first,” he says, and Hollander smiles back at him and cradles his face in both hands, kisses him slow and easy, with lots of tongue.

“Fuck, that felt amazing,” Hollander says. “Was it okay for you?”

“So good,” Ilya tells him. It’s just the truth. “You felt so good.”

Hollander blushes, as though this could possibly be news to him. He was there, watching Ilya the whole time. Surely he must know.

“I didn’t realise it was possible to come just like that.” His thumb is stroking Ilya’s cheekbone. “Like, on your dick.”

“Better than your toy?”

“I mean, the dildo feels… you know. It does the job. But yeah, tonight was… better.”

“You’re not sore?”

“A little, maybe. The good kind, though. And I wasn’t, you know, too much? It got a little intense there. I guess I just wasn’t expecting it to feel like that.”

“No,” Ilya tells him, as though Ilya himself hadn’t felt speared through even before they finished fucking by the urgent bolt of his need to fuck Hollander again, as soon as humanly possible. If this was an intensity contest, Ilya would be the gold medal winner, but Hollander does not need to know that. “No, this is totally normal, Hollander, you were fine. You were perfect. It’s good, to have great sex, right? You don’t have to worry about it. Just enjoy the afterglow.”

“It was great sex, wasn’t it?” Hollander looks personally satisfied, as though he’s proud of a job well done. “We’re pretty compatible, I guess. Physically, I mean. I suppose maybe I thought that after being with a man I might feel, I dunno. Weird about it, maybe? But actually I just feel really fucking good.”

He gets off the bed, does a full body stretch, arms above his head, letting his back soften and arch. Ilya gets up too, grabs for some clean towels from the cabinet. Hollander makes for the bathroom, but as he walks his hand drops to his lower back and then even lower, fingers ghosting over his ass protectively. Ilya feels hot and cold all at once, hungry again at the knowledge that Hollander must be a little sore, must be feeling the tender traces of where Ilya was just inside him.

Hollander looks back at him, sees his face.

“I’ll blow you in the shower,” he says, in perfect understanding. “Come on.”

“Jesus,” Scott Hunter says, and wipes sweat out of his eyes with the back of his arm. “Did I do something to personally offend you, Rozanov? Chill out, man, fuck. This isn’t a competition.”

“Those are the words of a loser,” Ilya tells him, and he moves fast on the balls of his feet, darts in and out of Scott’s reach, a tease. It feels like dancing. He keeps laughing, even though he’s too out of breath, really, after twenty minutes of sparring with Hunter. He tries another shot, the one Hunter taught Hollander earlier, half turning, elbow already raised to jab at Hunter’s open left side.

Ilya has been keyed up all morning — he spent an hour shooting some context shots of Hunter’s gym, and a few of Hunter as he set up the ring, and then he did a whole series of candids during the training session Hunter had put on with some of the fight club guys, the ones who have agreed to talk to Hollander. It was brilliant — brutal, and fast-moving, but brilliant. Shoots like that make Ilya feel like a many-eyed god, like he can see the full breadth of everything he wants to capture even as it happens. The session had ended with Hunter teaching Hollander some moves, and it had taken all of Ilya’s years of experience to stay professional while watching Hollander playfight.

Now he’s getting to let some of that energy out.

“You are so fucking annoying,” Hunter says tiredly, then steps smoothly behind him, gets him in a two-armed hold, pinning his arms. They struggle, a quickstep, rocking back and forth, Ilya wriggling while Scott fights to maintain purchase. The wrappings on Ilya’s hands are trailing, his wrists bristling with friction burns. He’s sweating in parts of his body he didn’t even know he could feel, all his muscles screaming.

“Jesus, Scott, don’t kill my roommate, I need him to make rent,” Hollander calls. He’s sitting on an equipment box with Kip, squirting water into his mouth from a squeezy bottle with the gym logo on it. He’s wearing pale blue shorts that had almost made them late to meet Scott, because Ilya had been unable to resist feeling him up as they were trying to leave, standing in the doorway kissing him. He had gotten his whole hand up the inseam before Hollander managed to wriggle crossly away from him, breathing hard, dick fattened already. Now the blue shorts have a spreading tideline of sweat around the waistband, and Hollander’s hair is flattened to his head, soaked through. Ilya’s not much better, his tank clinging to his skin.

“Alright, ladies, quit waltzing,” Greg shouts. He’s leaning on the ropes, watching Ilya struggle and fail to break out of Scott’s grip. “Are we going to get a fight going here, or what?”

Greg is an old friend of Scott’s — another trainer at the gym, and the first person to sign up for Hollander’s interview. God, Ilya can’t wait to photograph him. He’s got the look of someone who doesn’t know his angles, but Ilya knows enough for both of them; he’s already itching to catch the particular attentive turn of Greg’s head when he first steps into the ring, his clever, sharp features, the straining slope of his belly, currently barely contained by a neon pink singlet.

Hunter releases Ilya, their arms gliding wetly along each other as he pulls away. Fuck, Ilya’s enjoying himself.

“Okay, I’ve had enough. Hollander, you’re up,” Hunter calls. “If Rozanov here isn’t too tuckered out to take you on.”

“Fuck you, Hunter, I could take Hollander in my sleep,” Ilya says, and winks at Hollander, who’s slithering through the ropes into the ring. Scott’s gym is a bit tired-looking, but it’s clean and well equipped and he runs a tight ship. Ilya’s quit the finance-bro gym near work and started coming here instead; not always, because his favourite thing is still working out with Hollander in the basement gym of their apartment building, but regularly enough that he’s starting to get to know people.

“I’d like to see you try,” Hollander says, but his smile is so wide and uninhibited that Ilya thinks for one shocking, daring second that everyone must be able to see what they are to each other — must know what they’ve been doing together in basically every spare minute they have, in every room in their little apartment, and memorably once over the phone, Ilya in the toilet cubicle at work with his headphones jammed so hard into his ears they felt like they were touching his brain, the sound of Hollander moaning as he worked his cock accompanying the most efficient and brutal orgasm of Ilya’s professional life. He’d come into the toilet bowl; he gets a twitch in his dick every time he uses that bathroom since.

Kip cups his hands over his mouth. “Keep it clean, boys,” he calls, and winks at Hollander, then slumps back against the wall. He looks a little pale — working all hours, he’d said earlier when they grabbed a coffee in the little kitchenette in the corner. This is his first day off in over two weeks, and he’s spent it with Hollander and Ilya, giving Hollander some proper background on the admin side of the fights, filling in some of the blanks Scott Hunter either doesn’t care about or doesn’t want to talk about, like the issues around licensing laws in the province, or the decline of old school gym culture in favour of the types of sleek overmanaged facilities like the one Ilya had been a member of until last month.

Hunter looks tired too, maybe; he’s favouring his right hip as he climbs over the ropes, is a little slow to sit when he reaches Kip on his equipment box. Kip gives him a water bottle, murmurs something to him as he watches him drink, but other than that they’re silent as they sit together.

Hollander is moving around the ring, getting a feel for its dimensions again.

“Okay,” Greg says. “Remember — no punching in the face, no going for the nuts. Not for your first time, anyway. Other than that, it’s fair game.”

He steps between them, a little concession to more legitimate ring etiquette, then gets the fuck out of the way with a hop when Ilya moves in fast and low, going for a quick tackle. Get Hollander on the ground, is his thought, and he leads dominant arm first, going for Hollander’s waist, his head down.

Hollander bats his arm away like it’s nothing, makes an economical grab for his forearm and almost has him, but then loses his grip. It’s only the slipperiness of his film of sweat that saves Ilya from being humiliated; as it is, Hollander laughs and spins to get on his other side, hooks their ankles together, nearly toppling him.

“Fuck you,” Ilya tells him, and kicks him off, and then they’re really in it; they collide full force, arms locking around each other, Ilya’s bare feet and Hollander’s tangling in the manic dance of it all. Hollander’s hair is in Ilya’s mouth; he spits it out and breathes harder and manages to gain a proper foothold, Hollander’s feet sliding backwards, giving Ilya purchase as they shove against each other. Hollander’s teeth graze Ilya’s deltoid; biting is technically allowed, though ill-advised, Hunter had said. Ilya snarls, turns his face into Hollander’s and licks up his cheek; he gains about half a second in shock value so he can struggle out of Hollander’s grip, and they go back to circling each other, carefully.

From somewhere in the distance Ilya can hear someone laughing, shouting encouragement, maybe. But it’s so indistinct as to be immaterial — nothing matters but what this narrows down to, which is Hollander barefoot in front of him, the smell of sweat sharp in Ilya’s noise, blood thundering through him like some external force, his whole body throbbing and ready for action.

“Come on,” Hollander says quietly, and Ilya swings, misses, swings again, connects this time but only barely, Hollander turning with the blow.

“You’re good at this,” Ilya tells him, and Hollander licks his lips, smiles at Ilya from under his lashes.

“Lots of practice,” Hollander says and then goes for a straight punch to Ilya’s chin, which Ilya manages to dodge only through sheer luck and his proficiency at squats.

“You dirty fucking cheat, Hollander! Nothing to the face, remember?” Ilya’s gasping, laughing, and then he thinks, I love you, oh fuck, and he has about a millisecond to panic about it before Hollander beans him in the side of the head with his forearm.

“Hit me, Ilya,” Hollander chants, merciless. “Come on, for fuck’s sake, I know you can do it. Don’t hold back.”

Ilya stares at him across both their sets of fists. Shit, he thinks. I’ll do it. I’ll do anything he asks me to.

The first thing Ilya does when they get home is get his camera out. Hollander fucking hates being photographed, but he’ll do it for the story, so Ilya leans him against the low brick wall of their balcony, arranges him to best show off his bruises, the black eye, the sweat-wet shorts, and shoots quickly, without letting Hollander overthink it or stiffen up. He keeps the f-stop really low and makes sure he makes the most of the late-afternoon shadows; these are going to look great in black and white.

They only have one bag of frozen peas in the freezer, so when they’re done, Ilya wraps that in a dishcloth and gives it to Hollander for his cheek. His own worst bruise is on his hip where he hit the ground hard, all of Hollander’s weight on top of him, so he’s just going to have to put up with that, but his knuckles are fucked, so he takes a couple of freezies and wraps them up too, lays them across the flat of his hand. They sit on the sofa in silence. Hollander’s thigh is very warm where it’s pressed up against Ilya’s own.

Outside, dusk is falling already, and a stinging horizontal rain batters the windows. Their little apartment feels like an island in the storm of the turning of the season.

“That was—” Ilya begins, and Hollander turns to him, smile like a searchlight destined only to shine on Ilya, and Ilya’s heart jolts.

“Fucking awesome,” Hollander finishes, then winces and presses the cold compress to his face again. “God, you were so hot. I think I was half hard the whole time we were fighting.”

“If you had been, the whole gym would have seen it,” Ilya tells him. “Those shorts don’t leave much to the imagination.”

“When we were grappling, and you were on top of me, I think I could have come like that,” Hollander says matter-of-factly. He’s not saying it to turn Ilya on, he’s just reporting it as a fact. Ilya’s dick doesn’t get the memo.

“You’d like if I had held you down and fucked you there on the mat?” Ilya’s fingers are fucking freezing; when he climbs into Hollander’s lap and shoves his hand up inside his shirt, Hollander hisses, stomach muscles flinching.

“Ow, you fucker, get off me with your cold hands of death.”

He doesn’t mean it — his dick is hard where Ilya’s sitting on him, and he’s already kissing Ilya’s neck, little whispers of movement along the side of his throat.

“I think you like it,” Ilya tells him, and closes his eyes, waits for the answer he knows he’s going to get — is pathetic for — which is Hollander making a low agreeable noise in his throat, saying yes so easily, and then over and over again when Ilya wriggles around so he can shove his hand into Hollander’s shorts and start jerking him off.

They come like that, just there on the sofa. Ilya brings Hollander off fast and efficiently, nothing but Hollander’s spit to ease the slide, whispering encouragement into his ear. Then he makes Hollander strip off his shirt and lie there under him while Ilya jerks himself off. Come is everywhere, all over Ilya’s hand, all over Hollander’s stomach, probably all over too many sofa cushions. Hollander’s shirt will never be the same again, once they mop up with it. Ilya lies on Hollander, face in his neck. Hollander pulls him closer with a hand in the small of his back, and Ilya hears the humiliating sound of his own breathing settle and quiet.

“Hey,” Hollander says, gently, after who knows how long. Ilya is very nearly asleep. “I think Scott Hunter’s gay for Kip.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, blinking against Hollander’s neck so that he wriggles irritably under Ilya. “They’re gay for each other, I think.”

“You knew?” Hollander kisses the top of Ilya’s head through his hair.

“Not for sure,” Ilya says. “I guessed that they have something going on, though I don’t know for sure.” He doesn’t tell Hollander that he is pretty sure Kip was checking out his ass in the shorts earlier; this in itself doesn’t necessarily speak to Kip’s sexuality, it just means he has eyes.

“You think they’re together together? Or just, like—” He lifts his hand off Ilya’s back to make a little gesture. Ilya can’t see it but can feel the meaning of it anyway, in the little cold patch at the base of his spine.

“Just fucking? I don’t know, Hollander. What’s it to you, anyway?”

“I’m just interested, I guess. Jeez, I didn’t know that was such a crime.” Hollander sounds hurt.

“I don’t think they’re out, if that’s what you mean. They’re discreet about it.”

Hollander is silent; Ilya can sense him thinking.

“Like us?”

Ilya’s wide awake now. He pulls himself up off Hollander, goes onto an elbow so he can see Hollander’s face. Hollander puts a hand deliberately back on Ilya’s spine, holding onto him, not letting him move too far.

“What does this mean, like us? That we are discreet?”

“That we’re not out.” Hollander’s got his determined face on. “Or, I’m not at least. I wasn’t sure, we haven’t talked about whether anyone knows about you. Other than all these men you were apparently fucking the whole time before me. I mean, I didn’t even realise you were into men until I had your dick in my hand, so.”

Ilya can’t help but smile down at him. His returning smile is so unhesitating.

“Marly knows, maybe. I haven’t told him, but he saw me leave a club with a guy once. Since then every time we go out he asks if I want to go to The Village. Sveta, obviously. But I don’t think anyone else knows. I guess I sleep with enough women that no one notices when I am interested in other options.”

“Wow, my dick is literally still out,” Hollander says, digging his fingers into Ilya’s side to make him wriggle. “Can you stop talking about all the people you’ve slept with, please?”

“You started this, Hollander. I was about to take a very nice nap.”

“You never thought about coming out to your family? I guess the Russian thing might make it a bit complicated.”

Ilya laughs, then sees that Hollander is peering at him anxiously, and realises it wasn’t a joke.

“Ah, no, sorry. Yeah, no, I would not come out to my family. My father would—”

Ilya’s actually not sure what his father would do. What could he do about it? Hit Ilya — well, yeah, probably, he would do that. Throw him out of the house? Disown him? There’s nothing at all that he could do about it, really, that would have any meaningful impact on Ilya’s day-to-day life. It might even improve things, maybe, knowing his father would never contact him, would never come crawling back like he always has done when things have gone to shit between them before, trying to get him to come for dinner, leaving him dry little voicemails as though nothing had ever happened.

“Hey.” Hollander kisses his ear. “You okay? We don’t have to talk about this if it’s a bad time.”

“No.” Ilya shakes himself off mentally, then pillows himself on Hollander’s bicep so he can look at him in profile, which makes the fact of his disarming handsomeness more manageable than it is head-on. “It’s fine. It’s just… I think I have not come out to him because I know that if I do, he will not love me anymore. And I have no one else to do that, nowadays, not since my mother died.” It’s risky even talking about this, after the thoughts Ilya was having about Hollander earlier. Love is a precious and a very finite resource in his life, and has brought with it more trouble than peace. “To my father, yes, maybe I’m a disappointment, maybe I am even lazy and feckless and my job is an embarrassment, but at least I am not a queer.” He sees Hollander’s mouth tighten. “None of that stuff upsets me, Hollander, it’s okay. It’s normal for his generation to complain about the young people, I think actually they quite enjoy it. But there are things he would see as unforgivable. It’s not something to be sorry about, it’s just a fact. And what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Hollander’s one eye that Ilya can see goes liquid at that. Not pity, Ilya thinks, please, not that. But when Hollander speaks he sounds crisp and matter-of-fact.

“I don’t think that sounds very healthy,” he says. “And I don’t know how he could have a son like you and not be proud. That’s… that’s fucking horseshit, Rozanov. You deserve better than that sort of love, if you can even call it that. Parents are supposed to love you just as you are.”

Ilya bristles, but then Hollander looks sideways at him, and Ilya realises that he looks guilty, as though he thinks he’s said too much, or said the wrong thing. It softens Ilya before he can get his back up too much, so when he answers it’s not angry anymore.

“You say this isn’t love, Hollander, but it’s what I have. And I had Mama. She loved me enough in twelve years to teach me what it should be like. So.” He shrugs. “It could be worse.”

“Your bar is in hell,” Hollander mutters, and he slides a hand over both their bodies and presses it to Ilya’s cheek, almost too hard. “Okay, I’ll shut up now. It’s just— You’re so great, fuck. Your mom must have been a pretty special person.”

“She was.” Ilya could kick himself for bringing her up, but Hollander seems to understand, because he keeps his hand on Ilya’s cheek and changes the subject.

“It’s not like I can talk. I haven’t told my parents either. You know, I dated women, I slept with women. It wasn’t great, but I guess I thought maybe that was just a me thing? And once I figured out that it was because I like men, actually telling people seemed like a really big deal, especially when I wasn’t exactly gay in a practical way. It was all theoretical.”

“But now you are having a hands-on gay experience,” Ilya says, and Hollander rolls his eyes, surges across to kiss him chastisingly. When Ilya’s mouth is free again, he goes on. “Have you told anyone about us?”

“Not really.” Hollander thinks about what he wants to say, eyebrows drawn in. “Rose knew I had a crush, maybe? But she also knew I didn’t want to fuck things up with our friendship, and with work. So maybe she hasn’t guessed we’ve kind of moved beyond that.”

“Yes, we kind of have, Hollander. How far beyond would you say, now I am physically inside you on a regular basis?”

“Fuck off.” Hollander is laughing, planting his palm over Ilya’s mouth to shut him up, but his eyes go hazy at just the mention of Ilya inside him. “Anyway, it’s not really anyone’s business, is it? And you know what newspaper guys are like, they’d give us so much shit if they knew.”

The shadow of the thought passes over Hollander’s smile. Ilya does know the sort of shit they’d get. Most of it would be good-natured, maybe. Not all of it, though. And it would be a big deal in the small pond of the Montréal journalism scene. They would need to be very, very sure things weren’t going to just fizzle out.

It doesn’t feel like things are fizzling, though. If anything, Ilya feels wilder and wilder by the day for what they’re doing together. It's getting harder to remember how casual it all is, how to everyone else, they’re just friends. It doesn’t help that they’ve been working together so much — it’s standard now that Shane brings Ilya on for every job he does other than Metro work. They should by rights be sick to the back teeth of each other, or at the very least they should be bad for each other — distracting. But it helps that neither of them has ever let anything get in the way of their work, so they don’t seem to be starting now. Hollander’s a machine when it comes to following his truth for a story — a bulldozer, maybe, or a very charming excavator. And Ilya’s been working to support himself since he was sixteen — he’s hardly going to let standards slide just because he’s getting the lay of his life every day when he gets home from work.

“It’s kind of hot, right, fucking in secret?” Ilya gets Hollander by the wrist and manages to pin his arm to the sofa. They grapple a bit, Hollander’s knee coming up so he can get a leg around Ilya’s waist. “No one knows what a slut you are for me, Hollander.”

There’s another minor scuffle at that. Ilya has the advantage of being on top, but Hollander plays dirty and locks his leg tighter around Ilya’s waist, distracting him.

“Yeah, fine, it’s hot,” Hollander says, resisting Ilya’s attempts at a kiss. “But, hey, you piece of shit, listen to me for a sec! I don’t want you to think I’m ashamed of being with you. I’m just a private person. And, okay, there is the fact that going public about it would make our lives a bit more complicated.”

“It does not have to be complicated, Hollander. This is no one’s business but ours, right?” Hollander nods obediently, watching Ilya’s mouth with intense focus. “So relax, okay? We don’t need to do anything right now, except maybe keep sucking each other’s dicks whenever we want.”

“Well, when you put it like that it,” Hollander says sniffily, but he looks pink and pleased with himself, and he nuzzles into Ilya’s neck in a way that suggests the conversation is finally over. “Hey, thanks for telling me all that, I like hearing about your life. And just for the record, I don’t think you’re lazy, or feckless, whatever the fuck that means.”

Ilya has already half-forgotten that he even said that; it was a slip, letting his father’s description of him fall out of his own mouth. Hollander should not be so confident, and yet, he says it with such certainty that part of Ilya almost believes him.

The fight club organisers come back to Hunter with an unequivocal no to the possibility of Ilya photographing anything during a real live fight. It’s what they had all expected, but it still comes as a blow to know for sure. Holding an exhibition fight in Hunter’s gym is the best workaround they can think of; Hunter agrees to waive the fee for hiring out the space for the morning, and almost everyone Hollander wants to interview agrees to take part, so they arrange it for Saturday morning and thus Ilya knows he has three hours to get the bulk of the action shots they’re going to need.

Hollander’s still got the tail end of a black eye from the training session, though it’s mostly orange now, an amber mottled ring that spreads right up into his eyebrow.

When they get to the gym Hunter raises an eyebrow at Hollander’s face, but he doesn’t say anything else, just lets them in, and shows them where to set up, and even helps Ilya grab some of his lighting equipment from Hollander’s car.

By the time everyone gathers and does a warm-up, there’s a festive feeling in the air. Ilya is worried that the fights won’t have the rabid feel of the real thing, because there are no purses involved today, but Hollander is optimistic.

Hollander stands up in front of the fighters who have turned up — eight in total, which is pretty good going, really.

“Remember,” Hollander says. “This article isn’t about the fights. It’s about the fighters — it’s about all of you. Please don’t feel under any pressure here today. There aren’t any winners or losers, just great photo opportunities. Thank you for trusting us with this, and thank you too to those of you who have already spoken to me. And I look forward to interviewing the rest of you.” He smiles around at them warmly, and Ilya notices most of them smile back. “Okay, well. Good luck!”

“No winners or losers?” Ilya mutters as Hollander sidles up next to him, watching as Greg claps his hands to get people’s attention, and Hunter starts drawing the pairings for the fights. “Sounds like pussy talk to me, Hollander.”

“Yeah,” Hollander says gleefully. He’s rummaging through his bag for pens, getting out his voice recorder. “That’s how I’m hoping they take it. I mean, they think this is a bit of a joke, right? Playfighting for some random journalist? So telling them that it’s not the winning or losing that counts, it’s the taking part… That’s gotta light a fire under them, right? No one wants to be the guy who just took part. I’m hoping they’ll feel they have something to prove, now.”

“You’re a strategist, Hollander.” Ilya blows upwards to dislodge the hair that’s already sticking to his forehead in the heat of the crowded gym. He strips off his sweater and shirt, down to just a tank. “Okay, I’m ready, I think.” He’s decided to go with his 35mm prime instead of a zoom today, so he’s probably going to be moving around a lot.

“Jesus,” Hollander says, staring at him with such frank admiration that Ilya wants to preen. “You look like every jerk-off fantasy I have ever had.”

“So professional, Hollander,” Ilya says, and winks at him. “Save it for later, yes?”

Hunter arrives then, at just the perfect time to catch Hollander looking hungry and pissed off at the same time.

“Are you ready?” he asks Hollander. “Because if you’re not done here by lunchtime I’m kicking you and your boy out. Some of us have livings to earn, you know.”

“We’re ready,” Hollander says, and looks at Ilya, eyebrows raised. “Right?”

“Okay,” Hunter calls. “First two up! Three rounds, two minutes each, thirty seconds rest period. It’s going to be hard work, so pace yourselves.”

The first fight is almost tame for the opening two minutes, but once they get first blood they’re off, slipping and punching and gouging. Hunter holds the second fight only for long enough to mop the ring and dry the surface and then the next pair is off, a middle-aged guy who looks like he’s just stepped out of his office to take a personal call, and a tall, quiet woman who needs to be on early so she can collect her toddler from the sitter. Ilya’s on the ropes for every second of it, circling the dance. He’s shooting so fast his finger is sweaty on the shutter button. So much of it will be shit, but for every hundred bad shots he takes he knows he’s got one perfect picture: the purpling ring of teethmarks on a bicep; the slight blur of a fist during a corkscrew punch, shadowed rungs of ribs standing out stark in the background; a rainbow arc of spit shining in the air before it lands, glossy with movement.

He has five full minutes to shoot the first lot of contestants before the next fight starts, so he drags all four of them over to his lighting set-up and takes a quick series of portraits, all lushly lit against a plain backdrop. He uses his 85mm with a medium-wide aperture so he captures not just the faces but the bodies and clothes too, blood still wet and gleaming, the salt-spread of sweat at necklines and underarms, all the colour variations of the bruising. He does a couple of group shots too, ending with a close-up of office man and the woman with matching bloodied lips. He’s so focused that he can barely hear Hollander asking him if he’s okay — he’s already back at the ring, picking up the other camera, crouching low and waiting for the first blow. Distantly, he’s aware of Hollander’s voice in the background, a comforting murmur.

Ilya lies on the ground, stretching his arms above his hand until his back clicks. His hands are cramping slightly from holding the camera. Kip is above him on a bench, drinking a cup of tea, and Ilya reaches a foot out and kicks at his ankle.

“Can you make me a cup?” he asks. “Please, Kip, take pity on me. I am overworked and underpaid and very thirsty.”

“Shhh,” Kip hisses, and kicks Ilya’s foot in return. “I’m trying to eavesdrop. And we’re all overworked and underpaid, you’re not special.”

Ilya groans quietly and drags himself upright, and Kip slides over to make space for him on the bench. He passes his mug over to Ilya. It’s still hot, and it’s oversugared and delicious. Ilya swallows down half of it and passes it back.

The gym is empty aside from Hollander and Hunter, who are sitting together against the wall. Ilya’s lights are all still blazing in the corner, and the whole place smells strongly of bleach, and the floor of the ring is still wet where they’ve done their final mop-up. Ilya tunes into what Hunter is saying, what he can hear of it.

“…pretty difficult,” Hunter says, and Hollander is nodding. “I had to identify them. It was a hard thing to do.”

“That sounds like an understatement,” Hollander says, and beside Ilya, Kip lets out a disbelieving low whistle.

“He’s good, your guy,” Kip says. “Scott never talks about his parents. Like, to anyone.”

“Why, what happened to them?”

“Well, they died when he was a teenager. Yeah, it was pretty bad, I think. But, like. He’s fine. He just doesn’t talk about it, or think about it, or address the fact that it has completely shaped him as a person, you know?”

“I do know,” Ilya says, “unfortunately. And yes, Hollander is good at drawing these things out.”

Kip’s eyebrows are drawn together, but his face is soft and open as he watches Hunter across the room.

“How did your shoot with Scott go?”

“He is a pain in the ass,” Ilya says, and knocks Kip’s shoulder gently with his own to show that he’s not really complaining. “But fuck, he looks good on camera. Was worth listening to him moaning about how he’s a trainer not a fashion model the whole time.”

“He’s stepping back from the fight clubs,” Kip says. “He’s been thinking about it for a long time. When he started out, which is nearly twenty years ago now, it was a different industry. The money was good, and it wasn’t exactly clean, but at least you could be sure whose hands it was going through. And they were run by guys who fought themselves, who knew the industry. Nowadays, half of the clubs are making all their money from online content creation, and they don’t care if the fights are good as long as the poor kids they drag into them look good on their fucking YouTube thumbnail, or whatever. And the rest of them are run by the drug gangs, just another money-making racket to add to their list.”

“Not to sound like Hunter,” Ilya says, “but things were better back in the good old days.”

Kip snorts, then looks guilty for being disloyal.

“Scott’s a great trainer, and he really looks out for the kids. But he’s disillusioned, you know? Half of them aren’t even making money out of it. It used to be that you'd step in for a night of fights, and you’d go home with a grand or two in your pocket. It has to be at least worth it financially if you’re going to go out there and get your teeth knocked out in front of three hundred people.”

Ilya thinks maybe some of the fighters have reasons other than money, actually. Just last night Hollander had filled Ilya in on the details of the interview he had been transcribing, with a cocky young guy who Ilya thinks might have been a few years behind him in school. The guy had yammered on at Hollander for ages, one of those people who likes the sound of his own voice. And he talked good game about wanting to push his boundaries, and the challenge of being humbled in public, and the honour of winning. But really, Hollander had said, he liked hurting people, had lit up when he talked about the first tooth he had punched out of someone’s face, the first time he knocked someone out. It was interview gold, of course, an easy angle — Hollander drawing it out of him as sweetly and simply as tugging on the leash of a well-trained dog. And by the looks of it, the Scott Hunter interview is going just as well.

“I have to pack up my gear,” Ilya says wearily, and gets up, feeling his back muscles twinge with the satisfying ache of a long morning’s work.

“I would offer to help,” Kip says, “but I’m actually quite happy just sitting here.”

“You’re just nosy,” Ilya tells him, and ruffles his hair. “You enjoy your eavesdropping.”

“Oh, I will,” Kip says.

Ilya heads over to his lights and from across the room Hollander turns to look at him, distracted by the movement, maybe, and they smile at each other.

Chapter 6: I'm the Screen, the Blinding Light

Chapter Notes

This is, I think, my favourite chapter — I hope you like it. I have been doing edits on this so enthusiastically despite the fact that I have had four nights in a row of hardly any sleep (up with a poor sad ill child), thank you to this fic for giving me something to look forward to when I'm drooping with exhaustion and thank you to everyone who has been reading and saying nice things here (and in other fandom spaces, sometimes i see them and it's always such a treat). I am so tired and these nice comments really change the direction of the day for me.

There's a tiny bit of Québécois in this chapter, i trawled reddit for it so if it's wrong please tell me! It means (loosely), I hope, "I'm so fucking drunk".

It’s maybe the worst December Ilya can remember. It snows and snows and snows again; when it’s not snowing, the skies are awash with rain, though it’s never enough to melt the hills of compacted ice that line every sidewalk. It’s dark by early afternoon every day, but the moon makes the streets unearthly, reflecting off all the white, snowlight. Ilya’s flat out with work, but every night when he gets home he can see the lights of the apartment from the street below. Hollander’s working from home a lot — his turn on the rota for vacation time over the holidays has come up for the first time in four years, so he’s working even more in early December to clear his desk.

Normally, Ilya finds this time of year difficult. But this year, his father goes to Russia in the first week of December. He’s planning on staying for almost six weeks, so he can spend New Year with Alexei, catch up with his old friends. Polina goes with him, but she’s going to travel, visit her own family. Ilya can’t help but hope that maybe she’ll come to her senses once she’s away from his father, but if it hasn’t happened yet it probably isn’t going to. He goes over to the house once they’re gone, and salvages a whole box of the things he hadn’t managed to grab the night he left, and that he was half-worried his father would have destroyed since he moved out. But they’re all still there, tucked away under Ilya’s old bed and in the garage: old photos; Ilya’s first skate, just one because the other has been lost somewhere along the way; his games console; an old magazine cover from his mother’s modelling days; a quilt, handstitched, very old, that Ilya doesn’t know the provenance of because he didn’t care when he was a child and now there’s no one who would tell him about it. It’s not much — it had been hard, at twelve, to even think about Mama being dead, let alone to fight to keep any of her things. He carries the box all the way back to the apartment on the bus, and when he gets in, Hollander’s there to meet him, and he takes the box out of Ilya’s arms without asking him any questions, and stows it on the top shelf of the closet for him.

Ilya finally gets to finish the shoots for the fight club story. He had already done most of the portrait sessions, but Hollander has found a couple of audience members who apparently really like the idea of appearing in print talking about their hobby of watching dangerous, illegal sports. For their shoot, Ilya brings them back to the auto shop where he and Hollander saw their first fight, and poses them next to the old gas pump, snow packed thick and high as a wall in the background. In their expensive winter coats and hats, with the industrial backdrop, they remind Ilya of the fashion magazines his mother used to read. He leans into it, shoots with an undiffused flash and lets them get playful with their poses, Soviet chic.

He also gets to shoot Greg, the trainer. He’d thought about putting him in street clothes, but in the end he gets him to wear one of his bright singlets and takes him to the Orchid House in the Jardin botanique. He’s as beautiful to photograph as Ilya had imagined he would be — his majestic stomach, muscle thickening to fat; his intelligent face, the wide planes of his cheekbones that look almost odd in real life but are a generous expressive curve on camera.

After they finish shooting, they go to Atomic for a coffee and Ilya shows Greg the roughs.

“My wife would have fucking loved these,” Greg says, and that’s how Ilya finds out that Greg’s wife died last year and that he got back into full-time training because he was so lonely he thought he was going to throw himself into the Saint Lawrence.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says, uselessly, but Greg isn’t upset; teary, maybe, but happy, looking through the photos of himself and telling Ilya which ones he likes best. In the middle of it all, the door opens and five gorgeous women crowd in. Greg has daughters, apparently, and his wife must have been an absolute knock-out.

They all go crazy over the photos of their dad. It’s nice for Ilya to have his work appreciated not just for the aesthetic merits but out of love, and he promises to send Greg enough prints for all of them to put on their walls.

“You know,” Greg says as he’s putting his coat on to leave, the girls already standing outside the window, stamping their feet against the cold, a fog of exhaled breath around them, “Charlotte is single. I could put in a good word, if you want. I think she liked more than just the photographs, if you know what I mean.”

“Ah,” Ilya says, trying to pitch his voice with the right level of regret. “I am actually not— I mean, I am seeing somebody.”

It’s the first time he’s said it aloud, the first time he’s told anyone. He’s not even sure it’s true — or at least, if what he and Hollander are doing has the sort of status that allows him to call it that. They haven’t talked about it, but then it has only been a few months since they first slept together. There isn’t really anything to talk about, anyway — they’re hardly ever apart, so it’s not like either of them is hooking up with anyone else.

Before they started fucking, Ilya would have said Hollander had become one of his best friends; now they’ve discovered what sex is like for them, it’s like they have shared access to a secret well of pleasure that spills and spills and never dries up. Ilya thinks he sees his own feelings mirrored in Hollander sometimes — the ferocious delight, the almost-disbelief that their life can be like this. Everything Ilya does with Hollander is just so much fun. He thinks carefully around the word love, never directly. Though love is, obviously, what he feels, because no one could have what Ilya has with Hollander and not love him for it. But it’s not the sort of thing friends say to each other, even the sort of friends who get each other off as well and as often as they do. Plus, Ilya definitely doesn’t want to scare Hollander off.

Greg nods understandingly. “Of course you are,” he says, and claps Ilya on the shoulder. The judder of it moves through him and down his arm. “Handsome guy like you. She’s a lucky girl.”

Ilya opens his mouth and for one crazy second thinks he’s going to tell Greg the truth — that there’s no girl — but then one of Greg’s daughters knocks on the window and Greg’s gone before Ilya can correct him, if he was ever even going to do so. Greg’s daughters surround him and sweep him away, and Ilya watches them through the window and wonders if he’s ever going to get braver.

Hollander’s out at a work thing, and Ilya’s friends are round, making too much fucking noise as usual. They’re playing cards, which Ilya loves, and he’s winning, which he also loves. He’s been fighting a cold for days. He’s feeling a bit stuffed up, but the whiskey Marly brought is helping; Marly’s mom is Irish back along the line, so he claims to know his stuff. St-Simon is looking like he’s about to tap out — he’s got a newborn at home, so he’s already running on no sleep. They’ve all drunk too much of the whiskey.

“Rozy,” Marly says, squinting across the table so he can focus on Ilya properly. “Get that fucking camera out of my face, I swear. Every fucking time, man. You know I look like shit after a couple drinks.”

“You look as beautiful as always, Cliff,” Ilya tells him, but he takes one last picture and puts the camera down so he can pick his cards up. Marly doesn’t even mind, really — all his friends are used to his camera by now. Candids are just such good practice, especially of people who are comfortable enough around him to forget that they’re his subjects. Also, someday Ilya wants to put an exhibition together of photos of his friends — the people he’s hung out with down the road, in all the shitty rentals they’ve lived in over the years, the different nights out, partners coming and going. “Anyway, you won’t be complaining when your big ugly mug is the anchor piece of my show.”

There’s a noise from outside, the efficient sound of things being put away in the hall closet, and then the door to the living room opens. Hollander is there, home at last from his boring work seminar, and Marly’s big happy face gets even happier when he spots him. Ilya twitches towards Hollander, for one second forgetting himself; at the last minute he remembers to stay seated, to not jump up and take Hollander’s face in both hands and kiss him back into the wall. Marly, at least, hasn’t noticed as he calls Hollander over. “Hey, man! Come play a hand, if you can handle losing your fucking Christmas cheer to Rozy. That cheating fuck is cleaning us all out.”

“We’re playing for candy canes,” Ilya informs Hollander, who looks delighted and at sea all at once.

“Umm. Sure, okay,” he says, and hovers uncertainly near the table.

“It’s our annual tradition,” Marly says. “Our special way of kicking off the holiday season, you know, man?”

“Sure,” Hollander says again, more confidently this time. “I know what you mean. Every December, I go back home to see my folks and we head to Lansdowne Park, you know the Christmas market there?”

“Fuck yeah, I do. Those fucking Strudel Ladies? I nearly got down on one knee and proposed to them over their cherry strudel last year, except Cyn would have had my nutsack.” Marly is like a boy sometimes, his enthusiasm, his disproportionate joy over the stupidest fucking things. Hollander responds well to enthusiasm. He grins at Marly.

“I love the beaver tails. It’s like, the perfect holiday outing, right? Hit the rink, then go buy some overpriced Christmas shit, get a hot cocoa and some beaver tails after? So I guess that’s my Christmas tradition.”

“Sweet,” Marly says. “Well, it’s time for a new one, bud. Prepare to cry into your candy canes. Come on, pull up a chair.”

He’s sounding pretty magnanimous for a guy who can barely see straight; he gestures to Ilya for a clean glass and then pours the sort of measure that would have Hollander lying in bed with a damp washcloth over his eyes for a day if he actually tried to drink it.

“I’m going to head out, boys,” St-Simon says wearily. He drains the last of his glass and stands, unsteadily. “Je suis crissement chaud, fuck, how am I going to get up for the night feeds? Here, Holly, you can have my seat.”

“Alright, Vic, thanks,” Hollander says. “Salut, buddy.” He pats St-Simon consolingly on the shoulder and then takes his vacant seat. He takes a dubious sniff of the drink, then a tentative sip. “Rozanov, prepare to meet your match.”

“Big talk, Hollander. But you have got to have a poker face to be good at poker, I’m afraid. Sorry in advance for the ass-whooping you’re going to get.” The cards flicker satisfyingly between Ilya’s fingers as he shuffles.

“I have a poker face,” Hollander says mildly, and peeks at the underside of the two cards as Ilya deals him in. “And also, I’m not a filthy cheat, unlike some.” His gaze flicks up to Ilya, and he licks his lower lip. Ilya doesn’t think he’s even doing it on purpose, the asshole.

Ilya feels the rush of heat starting in his stomach at the sight of Hollander’s gleaming mouth. He’s never really had dry spells before — it’s not like he doesn’t know how he looks, or that he can't see the effect his body has on other people. And recently he’s been having even more sex than usual; living with Hollander is like having it on tap. Most of the time Ilya doesn’t even have to make the move. Yesterday Hollander had been waiting by the door when Ilya got in from a job, standing there red-faced, looking half-ashamed and holding his hard dick through his sweatpants. He’d crowded Ilya against the wall and got on his knees to suck him off before he’d even taken his shoes off. Ilya had come half-strangled by the strap of his camera bag, still around his neck.

But it doesn’t seem to be making any difference to Ilya’s cravings — if anything, fucking Hollander on the reg is making things worse. Hollander’s availability, his willingness, just makes Ilya even hornier for him, and Hollander doesn’t even seem to care, just takes and takes whatever Ilya’s willing to give him and asks for more. It’s an ouroboros of an endless self-sustaining fuck-mad fever — the more they get, the more they want — except instead of the serpent eating its own tail, it’s Ilya and Hollander jamming each other’s dicks down their throats.

The noise around the table heightens suddenly; Ilya realises he’s just sitting there with the deck in his hands like a fucking weirdo. Marly gesticulates with his glass, slapping the table with a demanding flat palm. “Come on, asshole, let’s play.” And just like that, Ilya’s fully back in the room, Hollander smiling down at his hand as if he knows exactly what Ilya’s been thinking about.

Hollander does win the hand, and then the next and the next, as Ilya bluffs outrageously, his attention caught between his own cards and the sight of Hollander’s neat, efficient movements on the other side of the table, his careful hands.

“Oh, fuck you.” Connors sighs and throws down his cards. “I’m cleaned out. Hollander, you dark horse, where’d you learn to play like that?”

“My mom is incredible at poker,” Hollander says, grinning. Ilya likes watching his white, even teeth, in his mouth that Ilya has tasted more times than he can count at this stage. “She taught me everything she knows. And you can have your candy canes back, by the way. I’m never gonna eat them all.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Connors says. “Anyways, I’m sick of cards. Who’s down for FIFA?”

“After the next hand, Connors,” Ilya says generously. Now he’s got his Playstation back, it’s set up next to Hollander’s Xbox, and Connors is much better at FIFA than he is at cards.

“Come on, deal,” Marly says. “I’ve got a good feeling about this one.”

Marly always has a good feeling about everything. Ilya feels awash with affection for him. Ilya is maybe too much the opposite — he’s always waiting for the downfall. In one sense, he knows he’s very lucky — with the way he looks, and how good he is at what he does, the fact that he’s making money from something that comes so easy to him. The way things turn up in his favour in a way he’s almost superstitious about by now — jobs, and his friends, and fun nights, and now Hollander. But he’s not always able to enjoy it — sometimes, in fact, he can barely get his eyes open in the morning for how densely the weight of the unlucky part of his life sits on him. It’s mainly thoughts of Mama, of course — the worst extent of Ilya’s bad luck. The thing with Papa is neither lucky nor unlucky. It just is what it is.

But today has been a good day, this month has been a good month. It all counts.

Hollander scoops the cards up and shuffles.

“Keep your hands where I can see them, Hollander,” Ilya says, and Hollander falters, a card winging clear and falling to the table, then another and another, a little landslide.

Hollander’s face is hot as he scrabbles the deck back together. “I don’t need to cheat to beat you, Rozanov.”

Then he looks up at Ilya, and his eyes are hot too, as though Ilya has flicked some sort of switch and lit him up. He’s thinking of the same thing Ilya is, Ilya knows it. Two days before, already late for work, Ilya had turned Hollander face first against the hallway wall, made him keep his hands flat-palmed, pressed above his head while Ilya had pushed inside him almost delicately. Hollander had still been lubed up from earlier, when Ilya had fingered him and eaten him out before they got out of bed, but Ilya had been careful with him anyway, not that Hollander had cared. He’d begged, finally — begged to be able to come, begged to touch himself, spit shining where his mouth was touching off the wall, and Ilya had just told him to keep his hands over his head and fucked him through it. He’d come anyway, eventually, fingers scraping uselessly against the paint, and then he’d gone to work like that, Ilya just easing his pants back up and tucking him in, his face reddened in angry patches from where he’d been pressed against the wall. For a second, Ilya had thought I could do anything to him and he would let me; it was terrifying, really.

They play another hand. Ilya loses, he can barely see his cards. Hollander’s out too, on two pair, a pathetic effort. Marly whoops, throws down his flush, and Connors and Carmichael are already moving towards the TV, looking for the controllers.

“Rozanov,” Hollander says, very steadily, “I just remembered, I got an email with some proofs I’d like you to see. Could you take a quick look for me now?”

“God, Hollander, so boring.” Ilya shoves back from the table, Hollander’s gaze sweltering. “Fine, I will have a look, then no more work until we have destroyed Marly at football, okay? Boys, I’ll be back in five minutes.”

“Fuck off, Roz, Connors is going to destroy you, more like,” Marly says over his shoulder, but it’s half-hearted. He’s pouring another measure of whiskey, and Carmichael is selecting his team.

Ilya and Hollander get to the hallway, and Hollander is on him practically before the door shuts behind them.

“You piece of shit,” Hollander says, and bites down on the back of Ilya’s shoulder. He’s crowding Ilya down the corridor, and they tumble through the door of Ilya’s room in a tangle, Ilya craning his neck around so they can kiss.

“What are you—” Ilya begins, and then Hollander’s on his knees and nosing at the crotch of Ilya’s sweats.

“I love these sweatpants,” Hollander sighs, pressing his cheek into Ilya’s thigh, and then he pulls them down sharply. “So silky. Shit, you smell so good, fuck, I was going crazy in there.”

“Jesus,” Ilya says, faintly. His hands are flying about, fingers twitching until he gets them in Hollander’s hair. Hollander’s breathing hotly over his dick, one hand easing Ilya’s balls out over the elastic of his underwear. “You are actually crazy, Hollander. They could come looking any second.”

“They won’t,” Hollander says confidently. “But we’ll have to be quick. And you have to be so fucking quiet, Rozanov, I’m not kidding. Keep your hands where I can see them, you motherfucker, you knew exactly what you were doing.”

They’re not quite fully silent, but they manage a fairly quiet blowjob, even with Hollander’s spit making everything wet and sloppy. Ilya’s breathing is noisy but he’s pretty sure the sound of it won’t travel over the noise of the game, the cheerful shouting he can hear from the living room.

Hollander isn’t kidding around; there’s no tease, he just goes straight for it, taking Ilya down into the back of his throat then sliding back up off his dick, mouth a perfect seal. Then he curls his hand around the base of Ilya’s cock and jerks him off so hard his fist keeps bumping off his mouth as he sucks at the head, tongue flattened in a relentless pressuring slide. His other hand is busy, shoulder muscles bunching. Ilya can’t see him but he must be jacking off, the time-saving weirdo that he is.

Ilya comes so fast he almost feels dizzy, too keyed up to want to hold off. He wants to take care of Hollander, be the one to make him come, but when he looks down he can see Hollander’s already almost there, eyes squeezed shut, his panting mouth hanging open, Ilya’s cock still resting heavily on his tongue. It can’t be comfortable, but he comes so fast anyway, the sound of his stifled moan travelling like a breath over Ilya’s sensitive dick.

Hollander tucks Ilya back into his clothes, kissing the tip of his cock with a stupid tender little kiss, and then he puts a hand up so Ilya can haul him to his feet. He’s caught his own come in his other hand, so efficient, and when he washes it off in Ilya’s en suite he pats his face down with wet hands, splashes cool water over his mouth, while Ilya watches him in the mirror. It’s pretty obvious still, if you know what you’re looking for, but no one will think to look for it.

“It’s okay,” Ilya tells him. “Those guys are too drunk and also too stupid to know what we were doing.”

“Yeah,” Hollander says, and bends again to dab at his face with the towel. He catches Ilya’s eye in the mirror. “Anyway, it probably wouldn’t matter, right?” He sounds uncertain, but his voice is muffled by the fabric, his face half-hidden so Ilya can’t piece together his expression. “I mean, they’re good guys. They probably wouldn’t care anyway.”

“No.” Ilya sounds uncertain too, so he shakes it off, pushes himself to casual. “I’m sure they wouldn’t care. They might even be happy for me. They like you better than me now, anyway. Or they did, until you beat their asses at cards.” He winks at Hollander in the mirror, and Hollander’s grin is just as charming in reverse.

“So, it wouldn’t be the worst thing if they—” Hollander begins, and then he’s interrupted by a low buzz. He frowns, slips his hand into his back pocket to grab his phone. He slides the call reject button. “Sorry, just my parents.”

“You need to take it?”

“No, they’re just—” He breathes out irritably. It ruffles his hair where it falls over his forehead. “Just giving me shit about some work stuff, no big deal. I’ll call them tomorrow.”

“You want to—” Ilya waves his hand towards the door. They can hear the boys shouting, the trickle of laughter, though Ilya can’t make any of it out clearly. He really wants to know what Hollander was going to say, before.

“Oh, yeah.” Hollander shakes himself, then reaches out for Ilya, pulls him into the sort of kiss that’s going to have his mouth messed up and red all over again, if he’s not careful. “Come on, we better get back out there.” He grabs Ilya by the hand and they walk down the hallway together so that when they let go and go back into the living room, Ilya’s palm echoes with leftover heat.

Ilya wakes up even more stuffed up, his throat scratchy, and Hollander bitches at him until he takes some Tylenol, drinks a cup of tea with honey, which does actually make him feel a bit less shitty.

“Can you please just keep up your fluid intake while I’m gone?” Hollander stands over him where Ilya is lying on the couch. He’s got the fluffy blanket over him, and his eyes are hurting where the overhead light is beaming down. Hollander switches on the standing lamp instead. “You don’t look great, Rozanov, let me tell you.” Hollander puts the back of his hand on Ilya’s forehead. It’s cool, and he smells good. Ilya tries to kiss his forearm, and Hollander angles his hand so Ilya can reach his wrist.

“I’m fine,” Ilya tells him. “It’s just a cold, Hollander, stop fussing. You’re going to miss your flight.”

Hollander’s overnight bag is neatly standing by the door. He’s got some boring work conference; professional development, a speaking slot at a CAJ thing that he’s been looking forward to for ages. Ilya must have listened to him practice his speech at least eight times. He’s done a powerpoint; he’s got some of Ilya’s photos in there, a carefully curated selection of previews of the fight story. He’ll be gone for three full days, and it’s in Calgary, of all places.

“I’ll call you,” Hollander says, and he bends for a kiss.

“No kiss,” Ilya says, regretfully. “I am made of germs.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Hollander tells him, and kisses over his mouth, across the bridge of his nose and over his cheek, his poor sore sinuses. “Rest, please. You have a day off — use it.”

Ilya has no intention of resting — too much to do, Christmas shopping and groceries to get, a work-out at Hunter’s to distract him from no Hollander — but when the door shuts behind Hollander, Ilya’s eyes are heavy and the couch is so comfortable.

When he wakes again, he’s feeling even worse, throat swollen and tender. He makes it to Pharmaprix and stocks up on cold remedy and Gatorade. When he stops off in Beau-Soir on his way home, Elisabeth tuts and loads him up with some carryout pots of soup that he can’t even smell. In the mirror behind the counter he looks dull and greasy, two high spots of colour on his cheeks. The steps up to his building seem very high, and when he gets in the elevator his stomach swoops and drops and he has to close his eyes.

Hollander FaceTimes that evening, sounding and looking exhausted. His speech is during the first panel of the morning session.

“At least it’ll be over and then you can enjoy the rest of the boring talks,” Ilya tells him.

“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer,” Hollander says, and sticks his tongue out.

“Wish you were here to put that tongue to good use.” Ilya says it in the spirit of intent, but even he can hear how croaky and pathetic he sounds.

“Yeah, no thanks,” Hollander says. “You look like shit, sorry. I literally never thought I’d say this, but I actually don’t want to have sex with you right now.”

“Kick a man while he’s down, why don’t you,” Ilya says, feeling shamefully close to actual hurt. Hollander is watching him through the phone screen, too small and too far away.

“Hey. I’ll be home in a couple days, okay? Maybe you should call in sick to work tomorrow?”

“It’s just the editorial meeting,” Ilya says. “No shoot. It’ll be fine.”

“Well,” Hollander says, dissatisfied. “See how you’re feeling.”

Ilya knows that if he shows up like this, Elena will take one look at him and send him home anyway. He’ll text her, later.

After Hollander hangs up, Ilya manages some of the soup. He really should do some work, but instead he goes to bed, sure he won’t sleep but willing to try anyway.

He hasn’t a clue what time it is when he wakes, shivering. He thinks at first that maybe he’s lost his blankets, or left a window open, but then he realises that he’s covered up, and still in his sweatpants and hoodie, a pair of woollen hiking socks. He’s shaking, and he can’t stop, and when he tries to sit up his body doesn’t cooperate, so he just lies there sideways on the pillow, the mattress juddering under him.

He must doze off, or maybe it’s just the fever, but he can’t keep track of time. Under his hoodie he’s wet through with sweat. His throat feels like he’s swallowing metal; he puts a hand to it as though that’ll help. He can feel twin lumps on both sides, under his jaw, each one throbbing like a bad tooth. He needs to piss so badly that it forces him from the bed. He’s so dizzy that he can’t walk, just crawls on all fours like a wet dog to the en suite. He almost falls asleep there again, just sitting on the toilet, but he’s trembling too much, keeps jerking awake. When he manages to get to his feet, he clings onto the sink, tries to look himself in the eye. His whole face is raging with heat, hardly recognisable. Even his eyes are red.

He’s left some Advil on the nightstand, and a bottle of Gatorade. He can barely taste it as he swallows. The capsules make his throat feel peeled raw, but he gets them down and gulps a few mouthfuls of the drink and eventually the meds take the edge off the fever and he sleeps again.

Time goes stretchy and unformed. He moves from bed to bathroom and once he even makes it, barely, to the kitchen to get some water. He can’t tell what time it is, because his cellphone died at some point and the charger is somewhere in the living room. He thinks that he’s never felt so ill, though maybe he has and just can’t remember it. He knows how stupid it is to cry for Mama, who has now been gone for longer than he had her, and who he seems to remember was always a bit squeamish about any sort of physical frailty, but he finds himself doing it anyway, tears leaking back into his hair, running down his ears, soaking the pillow. He can picture her very well now, his feverish mind conjuring her up with unerring accuracy in a way he can’t usually do anymore; maybe he’s dreaming, or maybe he’s dying. God, he hopes he’s not dying.

He dreams up Shane too. It’s a perfect rendition of him, his freckles, a shiny wing of hair falling over his forehead, his big capable hands touching Ilya, cool where they pass over him. Ilya cries again, making little sobbing noises like a child, the pillow pressing like a mountain into his hot cheek. “Shane,” he says, and clutches at the dream, trying to hold onto it. His voice is whittled down to a tight croak. “Shane, I need you, stay.”

“Hey, no, I’m not going anywhere. Okay? Umm. Ilya." He stumbles over Ilya’s name, the word in his familiar, slightly uncertain tone is weirdly moving, an intimacy maybe on a par with the first time Ilya pushed inside him. This fucking fever dream is so cruelly accurate; Shane even sounds right. He picks up Ilya’s hot aching hand and kisses it briefly, over the knuckles. “Shush, I’m here, Ilya, I’m here.”

Already, he sounds more confident. Ilya wants to see him for real so badly, wants to hear about his speech and listen to all his stories about the conference — he needs his cell, needs to call him. He gropes for it on the nightstand, but his slippery fingers can’t get purchase and the screen is dark and it’s all too exhausting anyway. He must sleep again, because then he blinks and he’s sitting up. He’s still in the bed, which is by now a fetid swamp of tangled sheets. Then there’s a straw to his lips and he sucks. The drink is hot but not too hot, sweet with honey, and it feels so good going down his poor throat that he starts leaking tears again.

“It’s okay.” It’s Shane’s voice, soothing, and Shane’s arm that’s propping him up. “Here, you need to take your medicine too, okay? It’s Buckley’s syrup so it won’t hurt your throat, come on, open up.”

Ilya doesn’t know what’s happening, or why Shane is here, or if he even really is here, but the medicine slips down, though it tastes abysmal, and then Shane lays Ilya back into the nest of pillows. A phone is ringing somewhere, too loud, and Shane dashes to grab it, pacing as he talks. Ilya can’t follow the conversation but Shane is pissed off and Ilya thinks it’s about him; he hears raging fever and throat and swollen and then a very irritated, very bossy, hurry, please as he closes his eyes again.

Time does the weird thing again and then there’s a stranger in the room, a tall pretty woman with a stethoscope around her neck. She’s also wearing a white doctor’s coat, but not in the stripper way — in a real doctor way, which is actually a relief, with the way Ilya feels right now.

“Shut up,” comes the Shane voice again, close to Ilya’s ear. Shane, if it really is him, is sitting on Ilya’s bed, holding Ilya’s hand. “Stop talking about strippers, Jesus Christ, Ilya. The doctor is here.”

The doctor prods at Ilya’s throat, and shines a light into his mouth, and sticks a beeping thermometer in his ear. Ilya tries to talk to her but it hurts and he’s so fucking tired, and anyway his voice is still hoarse and cracking. Then she has an efficient conversation with Shane in the doorway and leaves, mercifully without examining Ilya anymore.

“Am I dying?” Ilya asks. He can’t really talk above a whisper, but Shane hears him anyway and comes back to sit on the bed. Ilya grabs for his hand; he’s shamefully aware that he’s already used to, and expecting, his hand to be held when Shane sits next to him.

“You’re not dying, stop being a baby.”

Shane being briskly irritable with him makes him feel better than any of the drinks or medicine have so far. Ilya understands then that he really isn’t dying, even if he feels like it, and the relief is like a cool hand on his hot face.

“I was so sad,” Ilya tells him. “Everything hurt. I was alone. I missed you so much.”

Shane smooths his hair back off his sticky forehead, doesn’t even grimace even though it must feel horrible.

“You know you’re talking Russian now?” he asks gently, and he helps Ilya to lie down again, settles him carefully on the pillow. “You’re delirious, that’s all. The doctor said it’s the worst case of tonsillitis she’s ever seen. You have a fever of forty-one degrees, which is like, really bad. She’s starting you on antibiotics.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, and then belatedly, “thank you.”

“Wow, I think this is the most obliging you’ve ever been. Turns out it just takes a nuclear-grade infection to get you to behave yourself.” Shane smiles at him, kindly, and then makes him open his mouth so he can squirt some liquid in with a syringe. “That’s just some Advil, the antibiotics are being delivered in the next hour. Rest until then, okay?”

He doesn’t leave. Ilya stays awake, his eyes burning, and Shane sits quietly on the bed next to him, one leg nudging up against Ilya’s, scrolling on his phone. When the buzzer goes, he squeezes Ilya’s hand reassuringly and comes back quickly with the little paper bag from the pharmacy. The antibiotics are in liquid form and Shane can again squirt the medicine into Ilya’s mouth, and while he has him sitting up he does something to the bedsheets and the pillows with his free hand so that when Ilya lies down again, they feel more like a proper bed again and less like a damp tangle.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Ilya tells him, and is rewarded with the steadying clasp of Shane’s hand around his own. “Has it really been three days already?”

Shane’s fingers tighten.

“Well,” he says, sounding defensive. “I left early. You weren’t answering your phone at all. Do you know that in the whole time I’ve known you, you’ve never turned your phone off, like, ever? So I kind of had an inkling something was wrong.”

Part of Ilya knows that this is a little bit insane, but it’s buried fathoms-deep under the relentless pouring silt of his gratitude that Shane is actually here.

“Your speech? You smashed it?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, and for the first time there’s a smile in his voice. “Yeah, it was awesome, I think it went down really well. I met so many cool people, and they loved your pictures too, like… They seemed like people who really care about the field and the way the industry’s going. It’s been a while since I’ve had those sorts of conversations, I guess.”

“Because you work for the Metro.” Ilya croaks on the word, the lance of pain travelling through his throat and into his jaw. It feels fitting.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Shane says, which is better than arguing with Ilya about work. “Sleep, or at least shut up, you goof.” His free hand is in Ilya’s hair, and he’s stroking firmly. It helps a little with the aching head. Ilya shuts his eyes.

He wakes in the night feeling marginally human again, though still very hot and shaky. He manages to get to the bathroom on his own two feet, and while he’s there he even brushes his teeth before he starts feeling dizzy and has to get back to lie down. Shane hasn’t left. He’s sleeping on top of Ilya’s duvet, still in his clothes, which aren’t his usual comfortable house clothes, but his work clothes — tailored trousers that never fit him quite right over his thighs, a button-up that was probably very smart but now looks distinctly worse for the wear, the ears of the collar drooping forlornly, any pressing Shane did long since worn off. He’s wearing a sweater Ilya likes a lot, thin wool in a rich navy blue that suits his brown eyes. He’s curled up, knees almost to his stomach, and one hand is tucked under his cheek, sweetly. Usually when they sleep, Ilya is on him, or he’s on Ilya, wrapped up in each other. It’s weird to see him like this; so separate, so himself. In the corner of Ilya’s room, Shane’s overnight bag is on the floor, open. He’s really here, he’s really come home.

The next day Ilya takes his antibiotic in the morning, and Shane keeps him on a regular regime of painkillers, and by lunch he’s well enough to swallow down some soup and have a cup of tea, lots of jam stirred through. Shane brings it to him on a tray and then watches him as he eats with the discomfiting intensity of a man who observes people for a living.

“Okay, you need a wash.” Shane announces it like it’s a new project, when Ilya has finally finished eating. “You stink, sorry. Come on, get up.”

He is the gentlest bully Ilya’s ever known, or maybe he’s more like a herding dog. Ilya’s en suite doesn’t have a bath so he wobbles the whole way down the hallway to Shane’s room, Shane’s arm around his waist. The tub is already full, and the whole room is filled with writhing channels of steam and a bracing medicinal eucalyptus smell.

“I got one of those decongestant oils with the pharmacy order,” Shane says, then helps Ilya out of his disgusting sweatpants and hoodie. Ilya manages to kick his own socks off. Shane scoops everything up without even wincing and chucks them outside the door onto the ground, presumably to be dealt with by him at some point. Ilya’s bare body prickles with shame, and worse, a pleased sort of warmth. He’s also gratified to notice that Shane has to force himself not to let his eyes linger on Ilya’s nakedness, even now while Ilya’s all greasy and clammy and revolting.

Sinking down into the heat feels like being reborn, a baptism of physical pleasure. Ilya groans aloud, even though it hurts his still-raw throat.

“Nice?” Shane asks, and then he perches on the edge of the tub behind Ilya and tips his chin up with two fingers, swilling water from the tub up over his head, wetting his hair down with his other hand. All Ilya has to do is lie there, shoulders resting on the curve of the porcelain, feet floating, and Shane’s delicate touch at his temples, nape, crown. Shane only uses some abomination of a drugstore shampoo, which is going to play havoc with Ilya’s curl pattern, but the smell of it is so familiar and so comforting that he can’t bring himself to care. Shane carefully lathers up his hands and then begins to work the suds through Ilya’s hair.

“I could sleep here,” Ilya tells him, drowsily, delightedly, and he can tell Shane is smiling.

“You can’t stay in too long, not while you’re still getting over that fever.”

Ilya can hear him swishing around in the water, the gurgle of the tub starting to drain, the snap of a bottle being uncapped. “Can you stand for, like, a minute?”

Ilya does feel a bit wobbly when he stands but Shane steadies him, turns the shower attachment on so Ilya isn’t cold out of the water. Then Shane washes him, all of him, not just the pretty bits like his chest and his arms, but his armpits, his crack, between his toes. He wriggles a finger into Ilya’s navel, snags the tips of his fingers through Ilya’s public hair. Then he trains the showerhead so Ilya gets sluiced down; he only has to stand there shivering for a few seconds before Shane is on him with the bath sheet, warmed from being on the heater. It feels like something out of a movie, this excess of tenderness — like being a small child again, only this time there’s no looming shadow of Papa downstairs, Mama so distant even when she’s right there. It’s just Ilya wrapped and swaddled in a warm towel, Shane rubbing at him briskly through the fabric with the flats of both hands, dabbing at his wet hair with the pointed tail of a towel corner.

Once Ilya is dry-ish, Shane leads him to the edge of his own bed, which is freshly made up and smells clean and anonymous, unlike Ilya’s own room, which is ripe with the smell of his own body. There’s a little pile of Shane’s clothes on the bed, which he unfolds and applies to Ilya’s body in a business-like fashion. Delightfully, though, by the time Ilya is dressed and tucked into Shane’s bed, Shane’s hard-on is bulging in his pale grey sweats, which disguise nothing at all. Ilya’s own dick valiantly begins to show interest, despite the fact that he’s feeling too hot again, and wiped out, yawning wide like a baby from just the sheer effort of standing in the bath for five minutes.

“It turns you on to play nursemaid?” Ilya asks him, looking up at him through his lashes to see what Shane will do. “You like me lying here helpless?”

“Fuck off,” Shane says grumpily. “You know what you look like, asshole. My penis doesn’t know you’re sick. It’s just a Pavlovian response to seeing you naked, or whatever.”

“You can jerk off, if you want,” Ilya tells him. “I can muster up a little cough, perhaps lay a damp washcloth over my eyes to get the full invalid effect?” It would be funnier if he wasn’t properly shivering by now, his head hot and achy again.

“I’m getting your meds,” Shane says. “And then, yeah, if I can’t get rid of this boner I guess I’m going to have to go jerk off in the bathroom. Happy?” He storms off in a dignified fashion, which is undermined by the way he has to press his hand against his cock to keep it from springing out under his sweatpants.

He takes a while to come back, and when he does it’s with a steaming hot drink, the bright smell of lemon trailing in the air, and the bottles of painkillers gathered in the crook of an elbow. He arranges them on the nightstand and pops two pills out of the blister pack, lets Ilya snuffle them out of his palm before handing him the drink.

“Did your boner go away by itself?” Ilya lies back against the wall of cushions, comfortably propped up.

“I didn’t get myself off in the kitchen, if that’s what you’re asking,” Shane says, settling into the bed beside him. “It went away while I was boiling the water. Funnily enough, making lemon tea for my sick boyfriend isn’t the turn-on you might think.”

It hits them both at the same time, the bedroom a tunnel with all the air sucked out of it, and the word boyfriend the speeding train approaching, lights dazzling. Ilya feels sweat gather at the base of his throat, across his top lip. Shane is blushing, blotchy all up his throat, the rash of it crawling from under the neck of his shirt.

“Sorry,” he says, sounding strangled, after a long heart-stopping moment. “I didn’t mean— I know we’re not—”

“It’s okay,” Ilya says, and puts a hand on Shane’s thigh, high enough that he could brush his dick with a swipe of his thumb. He feels stupidly clumsy, the English words stretching the shape of his mouth in an unfamiliar way they haven’t since maybe the first year after he moved here. “I think maybe we are. I like you.”

It’s the fever talking, maybe. Shane’s not coming out, not to anyone in his real life, which is to say work and family, Ilya on the peripheries of both, looking in. But then Shane had also said he doesn’t want this thing between them to end. Maybe they just haven’t put a name on what they’re doing, because they don’t need to call it anything in particular to be doing it really, really well.

Shane looks up from where he’s staring at Ilya’s hand on his leg. He’s actually getting hard again, his dick already more pronounced under the fabric of the sweats.

“Well, good,” he says. “Because I like you too. So much. Fuck, I wish I could kiss you, but you are really fucking sick right now.”

“Now you’re going to jerk yourself off,” Ilya says, and Shane’s dick actually jerks at his words. Ilya lets his hand drift even higher, squeezes the inside of Shane’s thigh, and Shane slides his own hand under the waistband of his sweats. There’s plenty of room in there, the fabric buckling and stretching over his moving fist. Ilya watches, feeling greedy.

“I’m not going to last,” Shane says after a very short while.

“I wish I could fuck you,” Ilya says, and Shane nods tightly. His head is thrown back against the headboard, and his whole neck is straining with tension, tendons standing out.

“Yeah,” he says, and gasps as his hand does something energetic under the cover of his pants. “I wish you could too, it’s been so long.”

It’s been three days, actually, but who’s counting. Ilya squeezes the meat of Shane’s thigh again, can’t get even close to the span of it where it’s flexing under his palm.

“I miss being inside you,” Ilya says. “I miss the feel of your pretty hole.”

“Oh, come on,” Shane says, eyes squeezed shut, back arching up off the bed. “I wish that didn’t work for me, fuck.”

A dark patch blooms over the grey of his sweats. He’s panting, hand still moving frantically under the fabric.

“Better?” Ilya runs his fingers over the wet patch. Shane’s cock is still plump and solid under his touch.

“Yeah,” Shane breathes, and turns sideways in the bed to look at him. “Are you hard?”

Ilya isn’t really, but is sort of getting there, though still feeling shitty enough that it’s not exactly his first priority. He’s not even sure he can come, but Shane looks so eager as he wriggles down the bed, moves the covers off to the side so Ilya’s top half is still tucked in, warm as toast.

“If it stops feeling good just tell me, okay?” Shane says. He eases Ilya’s pants down, just enough to get at his cock. “Fuck, you look good.”

Ilya had forgotten he’s in Shane’s comfortable old sweater, his stretchy old pants.

“In your clothes?” Ilya asks, and Shane’s bright eyes snap up to meet his, and Ilya sees that yes, that’s exactly what he’s saying.

“Remember when you stayed that first time? After the club?” Shane licks widely, tongue flat, all the way up Ilya’s cock. “You came out of the shower wearing my stuff?”

Ilya does: the smell of the onions frying, the wooden spoon in Shane’s beautiful hand, which right now is easing Ilya’s foreskin back and forth gently. The feel of Shane’s shirt against Ilya's nipples, the heady floral of his laundry powder, the erotic sense of slipping into something that had touched Shane so intimately. And the excitement now of looking back on it as what it was — the surreptitious prelude to being inside Shane, to having him.

“I jerked off in your shower that morning,” Ilya tells him, and Shane makes a despairing noise and dips his head to suck over Ilya’s cock, tongue at his slit.

“I thought for sure you’d know,” Shane murmurs. Ilya can feel the words vibrating against his dick. “I thought you’d see how much I wanted you to fuck me. I was so…”

“Worried?”

Shane takes his time, licking at Ilya again, who’s stiffening up as easy as anything under his tongue.

“Turned on,” Shane says. “I liked it. I liked having you in my kitchen. I got off so many times thinking of your stomach, you know, this bit?” His fingers are hot, hotter than Ilya’s skin, as he traces along Ilya’s line of muscle. “I could see it every time you stretched.”

“If I had known,” Ilya says weakly, “I would have bent you over the table that day.”

“I know that now,” Shane says smugly, and then he really applies himself to the blowjob, sucking and sucking until Ilya shudders into orgasm, and from there falls swiftly into an easy sleep.

Chapter End Notes

Irina used to be a model in Clean Sweep by my brilliant friend YankingAwry, which I linked in a previous chapter note.

Is anyone interested in talking fics? I'll stick some links to fics I've been reading and loving recently in my end notes maybe? lenticchie per capodanno by boatcat is one of those fics that felt transcendent (does that make sense here?), i started reading it feeling like one thing and ended it feeling indelibly changed. The writing is so evocative, the pacing is so precise, the mood so well-controlled, and the characterisation so incisive, I thought it was very special. 5 out of 6 chapters posted but it is deeply satisfying even where it ends now.

Chapter 7: Headache Grey

Chapter Notes

Christmas in September! Happy Holidays to all.

“I can’t find the fucking Brie,” Shane calls from the kitchen of the cottage, and Ilya’s heart jolts fondly at the sound of his irritation.

“It’s in the blue cooler,” Ilya calls back, and pats down his pockets to see if he has the car keys, which he doesn’t. He heads to the kitchen. “I’ll go get it, where are the keys?”

“They’re hanging on a hook by the front door.” Shane isn’t even looking at him, too busy unpacking the red cooler, which has the turkey in it and is therefore the most important one. Ilya gets to lean against the door jamb for a minute and look his fill. Shane’s wearing a Christmas sweater with a pattern of red and green baubles. He looks edible even in the worst sort of polyester monstrosity. Ilya’s only Christmas sweater had been a gift in the work Secret Santa exchange; it has a picture of a cartoon turkey and the words “I’m a breast guy” across the front, which… well. Carmichael had been very pleased with himself as he watched Ilya open it. Ilya has brought that one to wear on this trip too, but now he’s got his favourite winter sweater on, an undyed wool one Sveta brought him from Ireland when she went there for work. It’s pale cream with a pattern worked into the front; Shane had kept sneaking glances at him the whole car ride here, so he must like it too.

Ilya leaves Shane to it, and heads for the hallway. He hasn’t been feeling a hundred per cent since his illness, knocked sideways by fatigue and still trying to catch up. He’d been a bit blue for a while too, in the stage after the worst of the physical symptoms had eased but before he was back in action properly. He hadn’t mentioned it to Shane, but on the couple of days when Ilya hadn’t had the energy or the inclination to get out of bed, Shane had decamped with his laptop and worked beside Ilya, made him little picky lunches that he could nibble at without making a mess of the sheets, wheedled him into brief snowy walks, just down to Beau-Soir and back for some fresh air. Now Ilya’s up and about again, and he and Shane have three full days of vacation ahead of them, together in Shane’s parents’ cottage. Ilya is giddy with the expansive feeling of aloneness here, just him and Shane and the snow and the sky. And a cooler-load of cheese, apparently.

Ilya’s boots are under the console table, and the key hook is indeed by the door. It hangs alongside about twenty framed photos of Shane at various ages. Ilya’s inconveniently tender heart clenches a bit as he moves along, following the years, Shane so recognisable as himself all along. When Ilya heads outside, the snow is powdery underfoot, adding a density to the sound of every footstep. The path and driveway have been shovelled fairly recently — there’s a gardener, or a handyman of some kind, a local guy who does things around the house, Shane had been vague — but there’s still a pleasing amount of snow piled up around the place. It feels like something out of a storybook — the huge, open sky; the glitter of sun on snowfall; the silence.

When Ilya gets back in with the second cooler, Shane is arranging and rearranging the food in the refrigerator. They’ve brought too much, probably, for two people for three days. Ilya unpacks the second cooler, which is indeed mostly cheese, and Shane arranges things around the hulking beast of the turkey that he’s stashed on the bottom shelf. When they’re done they look at each other a bit helplessly. It’s their first time away together, and Shane looks weirdly unfamiliar against this new backdrop. Ilya’s not sure of the rules here.

“So, do you want the tour, or…” Shane gestures awkwardly around him. The cottage isn’t huge, maybe three bedrooms, and the big living room with the full-length windows is visible through the kitchen archway, so it’s not even like there’s much to see. “Or.” He brightens visibly. “We could go snowshoeing? There are a few good trails around here.”

The Hollanders have a whole shed full of outdoor gear for what looks like both winter and summer activities, all neatly organised and well maintained. The woods are fairytale too, the spindles of trees stretching skywards, the epic feel of the silence. Shane is in his element, sensible waterproofs swishing as he walks, cheeks a hectic pink. Ilya feels like he could keep walking forever. Everything is crisp and bright and the air is so fresh it hurts going into his chest and Shane is ahead of him, bright red hat bobbing through the trees. Eventually, though, the dwindling light drives them back. This time they approach the house from another angle so that Ilya can appreciate the way the evening sun hits the windows, the way the lake behind the house stretches cleanly away from the shore under its coating of blueish ice.

They’re starving by the time they get home, all the earlier awkwardness forgotten as they dry and stow their snowshoes. They put together a feast that night — a meat pie with a crumbly buttery crust, baked Brie, sourdough bread, handfuls of nuts, salty little folds of prosciutto, and slices of apple for sharpness. Ilya eats everything in front of him and licks his fingers clean, leans over the table to kiss Shane’s mouth, which is stained purple from the red wine he’s been drinking. They’re both too full to fuck but Ilya feels crazy to be in Shane’s own bed, the one he’s been sleeping in every holiday since he was a kid. There are posters on the walls, yellowed Scotch tape holding them on, lots of male sports players, a telling choice that Ilya graciously doesn’t comment on. There are tartan flannel bedsheets on the bed and they’re worn soft as velvet, and Ilya and Shane jerk off next to each other, shoulders and elbows bumping where they’re jammed together in the modest space. “God,” Shane says, breathless, watching Ilya from across the pillow, his fist working without any finesse, speed his only goal. “If I’d known someday I’d have— I mean, you look so—”

Ilya doesn’t say anything at all, just watches Shane in turn, hardly able to decide which part he wants to look at most — his lovely competent hand, his straining hard-on, his beautiful eyes, which are shining in the moonlight. It’s almost as bright as daytime, with the reflection off all the snow, the huge night sky full of stars. Shane comes first, of course, and the little puddles of jizz on his stomach shiver with every breath as he lies there watching Ilya. When Ilya comes it’s like a whole-body release; he feels it in every part of him from his skull to his toes.

Ilya doesn’t even have to get out of bed, because Shane keeps a box of Kleenex on the nightstand, and he grabs a handful and wipes Ilya down in a business-like manner. The cottage is snug, and even though it’s filled with the unfamiliar settling sounds of a strange place, Ilya falls asleep straight away, swaddled in the duvet, Shane’s head still on his pillow.

The next morning Ilya opens his eyes and Shane is already awake, lying close to him, one arm firmly across his middle.

“Merry Christmas,” Shane says seriously, and Ilya feels ill with wanting him even though he is literally touching him. It’s clear, very clear to him now, that this is not enough — no amount of having Shane will ever be enough, because the more Ilya gets the hungrier he feels. It’s a startling thought, and brings with it a momentary yawning empty feeling — it’s lonely, actually, to be the one who loves like this. Mama always did say Ilya felt things too deeply; it was clear from the way she said it that she disapproved in an obscure way, though she also loved being the one all his feelings were directed towards. Ilya thinks of Shane calling him his boyfriend, of his open-handed small kindnesses, the way Ilya is always the first person he looks for in a room. It feels like it should be enough, but maybe it’s just that Ilya has the sly guilty sense that he’ll take whatever Shane gives him and still want more.

“Ummm, hello?” Shane says, and Ilya realises he hasn’t answered him yet.

“Merry Canadian Christmas,” he says, and rolls them over in the bed, wall-direction so they don’t end up on the floor, and they kiss for ages, legs kicking free as the duvet tangles between them.

There’s no tree up, of course, but it’s festive anyway, tucked away in this little pocket of nowhere with no one but Shane. They spend the morning preparing the sides for dinner and then baking, very very badly, to make the dessert that Shane declares it would not be Christmas Day without. Ilya has been very restrained and only brought his small camera and his portrait lens, so he plays around a bit while Shane is doing all the serious work of measuring and sifting and mixing. There isn’t going to be anything good in there, so maybe there’s no point to the pictures but pleasure, but it would be a waste if Ilya let the day go by without cataloguing it somehow. And anyway, even the worst photo of Shane’s hands belongs on a gallery wall. The sponge cake finally comes out of the oven a bit flat, but it smells good, and Shane says it’s going to be covered in cream and fruit anyway, so it doesn’t really matter how it looks.

The turkey they bought at Boucherie Lawrence is already dressed, because Shane thinks of everything, and Ilya has written out a timed schedule for the cooking, so they load the turkey into the oven and then look at each other expectantly. Ilya has the holiday feeling bubbling up in him, in a way he’s not really familiar with. He wants to fuck, to really take their time, to get his dick in Shane and have him take it and take it; Shane sees it too, crosses the kitchen with his hands still damp from washing and tangled in the dish towel and kicks his feet apart, tongues at his mouth clumsily ‘til Ilya opens and they’re just standing there practically licking each other, like they’ve even forgotten how to kiss. It’s so fucking hot.

“Fuck,” Shane says, too soon, panting. “If we have sex now, we won’t have time to go out before the turkey’s done. We only have one more day here, and we should make the most of it.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, and takes the dish towel from him, balling it up and lobbing it violently towards the sink. “We will make the most of the beautiful view when I fuck you up against that window, okay?”

“God,” Shane groans, and then he wrestles himself out of Ilya’s arms, though he only goes far enough that he can still hold onto Ilya’s forearms commandingly, squeezing lightly to get his attention. His dick is an obtrusive line through his sweats. “Look, we can fuck all night if we want, but the light will be gone in a couple hours and we still need to mash the potatoes, right? But I was thinking, we could go skating?”

He gestures wide to the window Ilya had such big plans for; outside, stretching off in the distance, the lake sits there as though waiting for them. Skating actually sounds perfect to Ilya, even at his current diamond-hard level of boner.

“You have skates?”

Stupid question, he’s seen the equipment shed.

“Yeah, of course. You can skate okay?”

“Oh, fuck you, Hollander. I’m from Moscow, what do you think?”

Shane on the ice is like a beautiful cherry in his red toque, his red padded jacket. He’s so cute as he finds his feet on the blades that Ilya can picture exactly how he must have looked the first time he skated here on this same lake. In fact, there’s probably a picture of that very moment up on a wall somewhere in the cottage. That is, Shane is cute until he takes off, his first careful slide morphing into an acceleration that has him about 200 feet away in what feels like a few seconds. Ilya watches him go — his strong legs working, the balanced arc as he turns in a sparking spray of ice to shout joyfully back to Ilya.

“We should have gotten the sticks and goals out, played some shinny!”

“You asshole, you never told me you were good!” Ilya shouts back, and takes off after him. Ilya hasn’t skated in a while, and he’s wearing hockey skates, but it’s like riding a bike, of course, and his own speed isn’t too shabby either, not with how much he works out. They start racing wordlessly, ploughing up and down parallel to the line of the shore. The surface is pretty smooth, though Ilya nearly meets his maker on an uneven patch, and Shane does actually fall at one point, though it’s because he’s showing off and trying to knock Ilya off course, so he deserves it. Ilya’s sweating inside his puffer coat, and his borrowed skates are digging into his calves, and as Shane slides alongside him on his back, laughing, Ilya executes a lovely figure-of-eight around him and from that moves into a barely passable axel.

“The fuck was that?” Shane asks from flat on the ice, still wheezing from the racing and his fall. “How’d you learn figure skating?”

“Any sporty kid in Russia is put into skate classes,” Ilya tells him. “I was pretty good, I told you. I gave up when I was twelve, after Mama. Waste of talent, my father said. He was so fucking mad with me. He wanted me to go pro. And when I told him I wanted to do photography, fuck.” Ilya tries out a nice easy three-turn and kicks up into a Salchow. It’s wild how quickly it’s coming back to him. Shane is looking at him quizzically.

“And? What did he say?”

“He didn’t speak to me for months. But of course it would have been cruel of me to deny him the opportunity to be disappointed in me. It’s his favourite hobby.”

Shane looks stormy, which might even be funny if Ilya wasn’t so touched about how instant Shane’s displeasure always is on his behalf, how his plain dislike of a man he’s never even met plays out across his face. He sits up on the ice.

“He’s an asshole,” Shane says. The words bounce off the ice as he turns onto his hands and knees. “You’re so talented. He should be proud.”

“There’s nothing to be proud of, for him. Photography, fashion, art — all for sissies, he says. What would he know.” He knows he sounds bitter; it’s a mistake to talk about his father, ever, even on days like today when everything is perfect. He shifts himself round on the ice, tries a quick camel spin to see if he can still do it. It’s not great. “He sat for a portrait for me once, and Polina had it developed and framed for his birthday. Never saw it again.”

“He’s crazy,” Shane says. He’s up on one knee now and has his hands pressed over the other, ready to get back on his blades. He’s so transparently and genuinely outraged that Ilya feels his chest give that little helpless lurch again, the sort of preemptive terror that only this sort of unguarded kindness can cause, because what happens when you lose it? “No, Ilya, I’m serious. Your portraits are fucking incredible, I can’t imagine getting a gift like that and not being so totally bowled over by it. He’s a fucking philistine.”

“Proudly so, I think.” Ilya wants to press his hands all over Shane’s face where it’s red with cold. Instead, as Shane gets up, he puts a hand out to take Shane’s in his. They’re both in mittens, lumpy handknit things made out of the odds and ends of wool, so he can’t even feel the shape of Shane’s fingers. It works; Shane smiles at him, softening, begins to lean in. It must be time, anyway, to start cooking the sides, though Shane has set a timer on his watch for that.

There’s a crunching sound, which Ilya doesn’t recognise immediately. Out here it could be coming from anywhere, but Shane’s head whips around instantly — it’s clearly a sound he’s familiar with.

“Fuck,” he says, and then again, more viciously, “fuck, what are they doing here?” and he takes off swiftly, so elegant even with his ass damp from the fall.

“What’s wrong?” Ilya calls after him, because clearly something is fucking wrong.

“Nothing, it’s just my parents’ car, I think, fuck,” Shane says. He’s been saying an awful lot of fucks for someone who thinks there’s nothing wrong. “Come on, they’ll be wondering where I am.”

He waits for Ilya on the lake edge, at least, and they’re so warm from skating that even in the bitter cold and once they take off their mittens, they can get their skates untied and back to the shed quickly enough that the Hollanders are still standing outside the cottage, bundled up in their outdoor gear. So at least Ilya doesn’t have to have his first meeting with them when he skulks into their house alongside their son, who he was planning on fucking in his childhood bed that very night.

“Shane, baby! Happy Christmas,” Yuna Hollander says, and Shane folds himself into her. He’s not small, and especially not compared to her, but he manages to look it anyway.

“Hi, Mom,” he says, and then he hugs her again before turning to his father, who’s looking at Ilya steadily without any sign of a greeting. “Hi, Dad. Merry Christmas. Uhhh, what are you guys doing here?”

“We had to take Grandma back to the home early, her hip was bothering her. So we said since we had already eaten and we were on the road, we might as well swing by.” Mr Hollander sounds very serious, even though he has paler lines beside his eyes that suggest a lot of smiling. “Since it’s Christmas, and all.”

“We did try to call,” Shane’s mom says. “I know you said you wanted to spend the day with your friends, Shane, but we won’t stay for long. We just wanted to see you.” She puts her hand to Shane’s face, strokes over his red cheek with her thumb, exactly as Ilya had wanted to out on the lake.

Shane meets Ilya’s eyes briefly; there’s a flare of panic there, gone almost immediately as his face smooths over.

“Shit, sorry, I forgot to introduce you. Mom, Dad, this is Ilya. Ilya Rozanov. Ilya, these are my parents.”

“Ilya, of course.” Mrs Hollander’s voice isn’t exactly warm. Her handshake is brief, Ilya realising too late he should have left his mittens on. “Yuna, and that’s David. Yes, Shane mentioned you were working together. How nice that you’re here.”

“Yeah, it’s great that Ilya could make it,” Shane says, and Ilya doesn’t think he’s imagining the defensiveness in his tone. “We’ve been having a really nice time.”

“Yes, Mrs Hollander,” Ilya says, “Mr Hollander. Your home is lovely. We were just out on the lake.”

“How nice,” Mrs Hollander says again.

“So, where’s everyone else, bud? And can we go inside? I’m freezing my ass off here.” Mr Hollander stamps his feet. He doesn’t look cold, bundled up in a very sensible coat, his hat with ear flaps. Ilya is looking from him to Mrs Hollander, catching flashes of Shane in their faces — his dad’s smile, his mom’s habit of wrinkling her nose.

“Yeah, of course,” Shane says, too hearty. “We haven’t eaten yet, dinner’s not ready. But if you’re hungry we have some leftover tourtière in the refrigerator, and some cheese, right, Ilya?”

“Yes, a lot of cheese,” Ilya says, and somehow he’s shepherding the Hollanders through the front door, as though he’s the host and not them. There’s a confused noisy moment when they’re all standing in the hallway as they take off their outerwear, and Yuna Hollander is telling Shane that no, she’s not hungry, but yes, she will actually have a glass of wine since she’s not driving, and David Hollander is smiling between his wife and son so fondly that for the first time Ilya can confirm his suspicion that it really is the most natural expression for him. Ilya murmurs an apology as they all head for the kitchen and he sprints for the bedroom, grabs his overnight bag, which luckily has not been unpacked properly, and drops it off in the spare bedroom next to Shane’s. He rumples the covers a little so they look as though they might have been slept in. Obviously the Hollanders aren’t going to be checking these things, but he thinks maybe better safe than sorry. He grabs a sweater from his bag as his excuse and heads back to the kitchen.

“No, Mom, I guess everyone else I invited decided to do their own thing, or whatever,” Shane is saying as Ilya approaches. “You know what the holidays are like, people make plans and then something else comes up. Anyway, it’s more relaxing like this, just me and Ilya. He’s a chill guy, we’ve just been hanging out, skating and eating and stuff. We went snowshoeing yesterday.”

“Good weather for it.” Yuna Hollander sounds hesitant. Ilya should not be eavesdropping, of course, but he waits outside the door nonetheless. “I’m glad you’re having a nice break, sweetie. We missed you today, though, and Grandma was sad not to see you. I know you said you wanted to celebrate with your friends this year, but I guess if we’d known it was just you and Ilya we’d have told you to come to us as usual. I mean, he’s Russian, right? Do they even celebrate Christmas?”

“Why are you being weird about this?” There’s a sulkiness to Shane’s tone that Ilya isn’t familiar with, a teenage petulance, as though Shane’s retreading an old dynamic. “He’s my friend, okay? He came up here to spend time with me, and we’re having fun. Sorry to miss seeing Grandma, but I’ll call and see her next weekend like we’d planned.”

“We’re not being weird, buddy, but we don’t even know this guy. It was a surprise seeing him here, that’s all.”

“You know we’ve been working together this year. Why would it be a surprise when I’ve told you all about him already?”

“You certainly have,” Yuna begins, and Ilya lets the living room door creak open, clears his throat as he begins to pull his sweater over his head. He rounds the kitchen door to see them all turning as one to look at him as he comes in, head popping through the neckhole.

“Sorry,” he says, “I was just drying off and grabbing my sweater. Your spare room is very comfortable, thank you again for letting me stay.”

Shane meets his eyes with a look of gratitude as Ilya sits down at the table.

“I was just telling Mom and Dad about what a nice time we’ve been having.” He’s working on the mashed potatoes, a big pepper grinder in his hand.

“And Ilya, you’re at the Courier now, right?” Yuna Hollander sniffs. No doubt she looked Ilya up as soon as Shane first mentioned him.

“Yes,” Ilya tells her. “Part-time only, nowadays. I prefer to freelance, but it’s good to have a regular gig too. And it’s a great paper to work for. Nice team.”

“Mmm.” Yuna Hollander probably knows everyone at management level on every paper in Québec; Ilya feels foolish for even trying to talk to her about work. She meets his eyes steadily as she takes a drink from her wine glass. “Shame things didn’t work out at the Metro. You and Shane could have been working together sooner.”

“Mom.” Shane’s voice has a note of warning.

“What? I’m just saying, if Ilya hadn’t been let go—”

“I was not let go,” Ilya tells her firmly. “I quit the Metro.”

“Of course.” She’s so fucking polite, absolutely impeccable. “Roger must be misremembering. But it’s probably for the best, since you’re enjoying your time at the Courier so much.”

Ilya has been working for the Courier for years now, far longer than he spent at the Metro. It had been his first proper job, his first paycheck, the first time he felt really valued for doing what he did so well. And then it had gone to shit, because it was a shitty paper with a piece of shit editor, and Ilya had done the right thing — the only thing he could think of to do — and left. And then he had worked like a dog to build a new network of contacts, and to gain his reputation, because of course he couldn’t go crawling back to Crowell to ask for a reference. And he had interned and done freelance work for pittances and he had shown, time and time again, that he is a great photographer, that he can be relied on. And still, all these years later, he’s fighting to keep a reputation he shouldn’t have even had to earn, and still the big fucking fish in this tiny little murky pond have things to say about him that he never fucking deserved.

Before Ilya can work out if Yuna really is insulting him, or if he’s just being paranoid, Shane’s dad jumps in.

“Speaking of work, Shaney, how’s the job application going?”

“Oh,” Shane says, back to them as he works on the potatoes, and the lid of the butter dish clatters. “Umm, I mean, I’m still thinking about it.”

“Well, send it through for Mom to look over when you’ve got the application letter done up,” David says.

“We don’t have to talk about this now,” Yuna says, and Ilya is not imagining the way her eyes flick to him over her wine glass then back to her husband, a tiny warning signal.

Shane is mashing furiously again, his whole shoulder blade flexing under his fleece.

“What job?” Ilya hasn’t heard Shane mention anything about an application, which is strange, because they talk about work constantly. “Shane?”

“It’s just a position that might be coming up internally.” Shane’s definitely not looking at them on purpose. “I’m thinking of applying.”

“Shane—” Yuna’s voice holds a cautionary note, and Shane sighs heavily and drops the masher.

“No, Mom, it’s fine.” He turns, finally, leaning back against the countertop and crossing his arms. He doesn’t look fine. “We can talk about it.”

“I’m just saying, it might be better to keep things hush-hush for now.” She plays with the condensation on the outside of her glass, squeaking a finger down through it. “News travels fast.”

“Jesus, Mom.” Shane kicks a socked heel back into the cabinet. “You don’t have to be like that. Ilya’s not going to tell anyone, we can trust him.”

Ilya feels warm at the words, though he can’t work out if it’s embarrassment in front of the Hollanders, or if it’s the glow of Shane defending him to them. It’s undercut by the fact that Shane is obviously talking shit, because he hadn’t exactly trusted Ilya with this, had he? It’s the first he’s mentioned of this whole thing.

“Sure,” Yuna says, and meets Shane’s eyes guilelessly. “Of course. I just meant, it’s really a Metro thing. We don’t want it to get out. At least until we know if you’ve gotten the job.”

“He’s definitely going to get it,” David Hollander says happily, and Ilya raises his eyebrows at Shane, spreads his hands wide in question.

Shane sighs again. “Editor-in-chief.” He’s looking just over Ilya’s shoulder. “Reporting directly into Roger.”

“Oh.” Ilya makes sure to sound neutral. “Robbie is leaving? I didn’t hear anything about it on the grapevine.”

“It’s a real stroke of good luck.” When Yuna Hollander smiles properly, she looks just like her byline photo from thirty years back. “But yes, a little bird told me that Robbie’s putting in for retirement in the New Year, so they’re looking around internally to fill the space.”

“Oh, wow, that is big.” Robbie has been editor-in-chief of the Metro for almost thirty years; he’d been Ilya’s manager’s manager when he worked the Metro. “But Mitch… won’t he be next in line?”

Shane, who Ilya can tell has been listening the whole time despite not looking at them at all, bristles a little and jumps in.

“Well, yeah, I guess technically he’s an option. Not that he deserves it, I mean he’s meant to be chief sub but half the time he’s not even in for editorial meetings, and the other half of the time he’s pawning everything off on the rest of the editorial team. And it’s not like he’ll automatically get it, he’ll have to interview like anyone else.”

“Sure.” Ilya knows this is true about Mitch; he’s heard Shane bitch about him often enough. But he also knows newsrooms; there’s a hierarchy there even if no one admits it. Loyalty is prized, and longevity excuses a lot of things. But then even a twenty-year record might not stand when your opponent is Shane Hollander. Ilya has to admit that Shane probably is in with a good shout.

“The same little bird told Yuna that Mitch is moving too, right honey?” David Hollander looks at his wife for confirmation. “What was it, the Canadian Press parliamentary role?”

“Yes.” Yuna Hollander sounds satisfied. “And with Mitch gone, Shane’s a shoo-in.”

Yuna Hollander’s little bird must be a Gamayun, for all the secret shit it knows.

“Yeah,” Shane says with an evenness of tone that suggests a well-trodden line of discussion. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We don’t even know if Mitch is actually going, and anyway—”

Ilya can’t help it, he laughs, cutting through whatever Shane was going to say. The Hollanders are already looking at him coolly from across the table.

“Sorry,” Ilya says. He puts his hand to his mouth, even though it’s too late to keep the sound in. He can’t say what he wants to say — that it’s absolutely fucking ridiculous that Shane would even think about taking up a management role, something that’ll bring him further away from the part of his job that he actually loves, which is the people he writes about. “It’s just… management? Shane, I didn’t think this would be your sort of gig.”

“It’s a step up.” The tips of Shane’s ears are red again, like they had been when they were outside skating. “It would mean a big pay jump. A stepping stone to an international profile. It would really open some doors for me.”

Yuna Hollander is nodding along with every point, practically aglow with pride as she watches her son.

“Meetings, Shane.” Ilya is speaking quietly, but it feels as though he’s banging his fist on the table. “Acting as Roger Crowell’s glorified PA. No more features writing? Shane, you would hate this.”

Shane’s mom puts her wine glass down on the table. Shane’s dad is looking from Ilya to Shane, confused.

“Sorry, Ilya,” Yuna Hollander says, “but I think maybe this is Shane’s business.”

“Of course,” Ilya replies. He should have shut the fuck up already. This is Shane’s mother. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I was just surprised, that’s all.”

“No, Ilya, don’t apologise.” Shane turns, a dish cloth in his hands. He’s set the burners roaring on the stove top. “You didn’t say anything wrong. I would really miss the writing, the interviews.” He’s got that stubborn look. His face is bright red from the heat of the stove. “But I’ve got to think about my career progression too.”

“It would be a great opportunity.” Yuna leans over for the wine bottle, pours a restrained amount into her glass. She offers some to Ilya, as though he hadn’t been the one who bought it in the first place. David Hollander has no wine, but he has a soda that he’s pouring into a wine glass.

“I know it sounds like a big change,” David says. Shane and Yuna both wait and listen as he speaks. It’s very different from Ilya’s family, who co-exist either in silence or in too much noise, talking over each other and shouting. “But you’re ready for it. Though, your mom’s right—” he casts a careful look at Ilya “—you probably don’t want word getting round just yet—”

“I said it’s okay, Dad.” Shane sounds impatient. “Ilya’s not going to tell anyone.”

There’s a moment of silence that surely everyone knows is excruciatingly awkward, the temporal manifestation of parental doubt, Yuna and David both staring down diplomatically into their glasses. Yuna gathers herself first.

“Of course not. But you know what the newsroom gossip is like. Better to keep these things on the down-low until after the interview. Oh, I’m so excited for you, honey. This role will really allow you to streamline your journalistic focus, and you know how important that is for opening doors to the nationals.”

“Your mom has put a lot of time into this too, Shaney. She’s been making calls here, there, and everywhere so that you can count on a lot of support behind the scenes already.”

“I know. Thanks, Mom. I guess it just feels like a big step.”

“You have nothing to be nervous about, honey.” Yuna Hollander sounds fierce. Seeing them together like this, Ilya can really see where Shane gets his toughness, that dogged self-belief. “This job is yours if you want it. You just need to reach out and grab it.”

Ilya loves listening to them caring about Shane so much that he could almost forget that this job move would be an absolutely terrible idea. Shane is clearly done with the conversation, banging pots onto the stovetop. Ilya slides out from the table and goes to join him. He hands Shane the oven gloves and then opens the stove to check on the dish of roast carrots. The whole kitchen is warm and smells deliciously of cooking. Yuna Hollander goes to the refrigerator and gets out the can of whipped cream, the punnet of strawberries, then she washes her hands and begins to put together the sponge cake. For a few minutes, everyone works together in a companionable silence.

“Will you two join us for dinner?” Ilya asks. He still can’t work out whether Shane’s parents actually dislike him, or whether they’re just indifferent, so interested in Shane that Ilya is almost incidental. “I think we are nearly ready to serve, right, Shane? And we have so much food. It is always the same at home, you know — we cook too much, too many leftovers.”

“Oh, thank you, boys, but we ate with Shane’s grandma earlier. And we really must be getting on the road after this.” Yuna brandishes the end of her drink. She’s clearly decided to let the job talk lie for a while. “So, Ilya, where’s home? You grew up in Moscow, right? Do you cook a lot of Russian cuisine?”

“Ah, haha, no,” Ilya says, fuck. “I mean, yes, I grew up in Moscow. But I’ve lived in Montréal since I was fifteen. And I’m not really much of a chef. Shane does most of the cooking.”

The Hollander parents turn double identical gazes on him, wide-eyed and questioning.

“Shane does the cooking? What do you mean?”

Shane is looking at Ilya too, but his eyes are steady, unblinking.

“Well, when I'm shooting I'm completely location-based, of course, so Shane's usually home before me. Plus he is better at looking up recipes. If it was up to me, there would be more take-out, probably.” The laugh he finishes with is nervous-sounding, which makes him feel stupid. He just wanted the Hollanders to like him so much, though he'd only ever considered it in an abstract way, more in terms of what they mean to Shane than anything else. He hadn’t ever thought in a real way about getting to meet them; he wishes he’d had more time to prepare.

“But why… Why would Shane be cooking for you? I don’t understand.” Yuna Hollander looks disturbed, as though her lack of understanding is something personal and treacherous. Then her eyes clear. She blushes in a way that’s very unlike Shane’s blotchy all-encompassing flush — immediate and attractive, her cheeks getting rosy. “Hang on, are you two— Shane, what’s—”

Ilya is dimly aware of David Hollander saying what, what confusedly, and then letting out a long surprised ohhhhhhhh, but what he’s mostly aware of is Shane’s agony, the way he looks at Ilya swiftly as though for guidance.

“No,” Ilya says, such a fucking lie and he does it so unhesitatingly because he knows it’s what Shane wants him to say. “No, no, not like that—”

“Mom, we’re—” Shane says, practically at the same time, jostling for their audience. And then, “No, Mom, fuck, it’s not like that, we just—”

“We are roommates,” Ilya announces, loudly. He is, after all, much more practiced at speaking over people than the Hollanders seem to be. “I took the other room in Shane’s apartment. You did not know?”

“Oh,” Yuna says, a long exhale. “Shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse you two of, you know. Not that it would be an accusation, nothing wrong with… well!” Now she’s the one laughing nervously. She drains her glass indelicately. “I was just surprised. Shane never mentioned.”

Shane is looking at the floor.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I thought I said. I told you guys I had a new roommate months ago.”

“You didn’t mention who it was, Shane.” David looks disappointed. “I guess we would have remembered if you’d said.”

“Wow,” Yuna says. “Roommates.”

“Yeah.” Shane has the petulant teenager voice on again. “What’s the big deal? Ilya’s a great roommate, and actually, despite what he says he’s a pretty good cook when he wants to be, so. Yeah. It’s all good.”

“You’d think you two would be bored of each other by now, if you’re living together and working together, and now here all by yourselves for Christmas.” Yuna says it with a laugh, though she obviously means it. She’s still baffled by the whole thing, clearly. Ilya isn’t feeling much better about the whole shitshow himself.

“No,” Shane says loudly. “We’re not. We’re having the best time. Right, Ilya?”

Ilya says yes, faintly.

“Okay, well, that’s great.” Yuna stands; she runs the hot faucet, rinses the wine glass under the stream, then holds her hand out for David’s glass. “We really must get on the road before dark.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Shane says. Ilya dithers in the kitchen, not wanting to trail them, but not wanting to let them leave without bidding them a proper goodbye. He can hear the front door opening so he heads into the hallway, only to hear David Hollander asking, “How well do you even know this guy?” Which Shane can’t even answer truthfully without giving everything away, so anything he says will also be a lie by omission. Ilya still lingers, hating himself, to listen. Shane answers crossly and immediately, “Actually, he’s a really close friend, Dad,” which is the point at which Ilya goes back into the kitchen and shuts the door so he doesn’t have to feel guilty about listening in.

Shane must walk them out to the car, because Ilya can hear footsteps crunching through the walls and the murmur of voices. He hears the car starting up, too, and the sound it makes when it disappears up the driveway. Ilya gets the turkey out; it’s fucking roasting hot, the oil it swims in spitting as he manhandles it onto the stove top. They haven’t done the gravy, but according to the recipe Shane typed and printed, it involves something called deglazing, so Ilya decides to leave that for Shane.

The front door slams, and then Ilya hears the small shuffling sounds of Shane coming in and shedding his outdoor things. He must take his boots off because his footsteps go silent and then he appears in the kitchen doorway, looking pale.

“Your parents are gone?” Ilya asks. It’s the worst sort of small talk, obvious and reaching. “The food is ready, I think.”

“Fuck the food,” Shane says, and strides past him, grabbing him by the sleeve. “Come on.”

He drags Ilya down the hallway to the bedroom. The door to both Shane’s bedroom and the spare one still stand open.

“Get your stuff and put it back in our room.” Shane is taking his clothes off as he speaks, so the words come at Ilya through the muffling tunnel of Shane’s thermal base layer as he wrestles it over his head. “But first, take your clothes off and fuck me.” He gets free of his shirt and takes a big, shaky breath. “Please.”

“Shane,” Ilya begins, and Shane stops mid-sweatpants so all Ilya can see is the curve of his ass, the tensing muscle of his thigh.

“I know,” Shane says. “I fucked up. I’m sorry. But can we talk about it later? I need you inside me now.”

There is obviously absolutely nothing Ilya can say or do in the face of such a request, and he strips wordlessly, eagerly, while Shane stands and watches him with that tender liquid quality to his gaze that shows how far gone he is already. When Ilya’s naked, Shane climbs onto his knees on the bed and then drops forward onto his elbows.

“Please, just fuck me,” he says into the cradle of his own arms. “There’s lube on the bed.” His head is hanging so low that when Ilya kneels up behind him, he can see the paler skin at the nape of his neck. There is indeed a little bottle of lube rolling around on the comforter where Ilya’s extra weight makes the bed dip. Shane’s legs are wide.

Ilya fucks him with his fingers first, easing him into it. He can smell the warm body smell of a day of activity; he wants to bite at Shane’s thighs, inhale at the crease of his groin, but instead he diligently works two then three fingers into him. It’s his bad wrist, the one he broke as a teenager stumbling out of a party in the middle of the night — he didn’t get it seen for almost a week, and it’s never healed quite right. It’s aching now, and he can feel sweat prickling under the curls at his temples, the nape of his neck, but he doesn’t stop until Shane is ready, which is when he goes properly wordless, sinking all the way down onto his chest, face sideways, pressed into the flannel bedsheets, mouth slack.

Ilya fucks him hard, for a long time. He’s worried at first that he’s going to come too fast, but having a goal helps him focus, and he concentrates on fucking Shane steadily until he’s making the low groaning noise that means he’s close. Once Ilya hears that he stops and pulls out; Shane hardly even reacts at first, he’s so deep in his head, though he lets out of soft protesting murmur until Ilya turns him over onto his back, folds his knees up to his chest and angles himself to thrust into where he thinks Shane’s prostate is. His whole lap is wet with sweat where their skin is touching; Shane’s wide bare chest shines with it in the warm light from the table lamp on the nightstand. Ilya gets right in close, grinding into him. He strains down to kiss him and then Shane makes a surprised “oh” sound and jerks under him. When Ilya looks between them he can see the pooling splashes of come on Shane’s stomach gleaming in the low light. Shane’s face is gone peaceful, eyes shut, flickering under his closed lids. He exhales a long easy breath and threads his fingers into Ilya’s hair, kisses him as greedily as though he hasn’t just come all over himself. Ilya comes like that, being kissed and kissed, and when he pulls out Shane opens his eyes and says, “Thanks, I really needed that.”

The trouble with sex is that it’s an easy fix to get out of the stressful conversations. Ilya quite likes it as a technique when it’s him wanting to get out of his head. But the difference between them is that Ilya’s problems are all about feeling things, and feelings can’t be fixed, so he might as well fuck them out, whereas Shane has never met a problem he didn’t want to dissect and disassemble. If Shane has a problem, they probably need to talk about it.

“You don’t need to thank me for fucking you,” Ilya says, lying down beside Shane. “It’s not like it is a hardship for me.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, asshole.” Shane seems completely relaxed now. “Just, I wanted to feel good again. After, you know, the whole thing with my parents. I can’t believe they just showed up like that, like I’m a fucking teenager they need to keep an eye on.”

Ilya had actually been thinking about that when he was fingers-deep in Shane. Shane couldn’t have known his parents would arrive. But if he hadn’t dragged Ilya out skating they would almost certainly have been fucking in the cottage. They probably wouldn’t have heard the car, not at this side of the cottage, not with the noises they both were making. He’s fiercely glad they weren’t caught.

“So, do you always need to get fucked after spending time with your parents, or was this a special Christmas treat?”

Shane turns in the bed so he can look into Ilya’s face, but Ilya stays on his back.

“I just wanted to feel like myself again. Sorry, that probably sounds stupid. Sometimes talking to them is so… I don’t know,” Shane says. “It’s like they formed an idea of who I am years ago, and when they look at me now that’s all they see.”

“This is just a thing that parents do, I think.”

“It was pretty weird for you to be there to see it, I guess? Sorry to just land you in at the deep end with them like that.”

“It’s okay, it was just a surprise. A surprise too, to find out that we were supposed to have a whole party of friends here with us. Word of warning next time?”

“Yeah, well, I just thought it would mean fewer questions than telling them I was coming up here alone with you. I mean, they were already pissed about me skipping Christmas with them. You’ve met them now, you can see what they’re like. Sometimes it’s just easier to massage the truth a bit, I guess?”

Ilya could just agree with this — in fact, he does understand the impulse, having met Shane’s parents. But the mood is already charged, and with everything Shane says, Ilya is reminded of a fresh thing to be hurt by.

“Yes,” he says coolly, “I can see that they would not understand me being here, since they didn’t seem to know we are even roommates.”

“Fuck.” Shane rubs his face, heels of his hands working into his closed eyes. “You’re not going to let me off easy, are you? Are you mad at me?”

It’s not like Ilya has never had awkward conversations with people he was sleeping with before. Yeah, he’s never really been serious with anyone, but he’s been with people who were serious about him, and those conversations were always awkward. But Ilya’s never been at the receiving end of them; it’s always been him wriggling out of things, letting people down gently. So now he’s going to tell Shane that actually, yes, he is a bit mad, and Shane is going to be pissed at him, and everything will be ruined.

“I would have liked a heads up.” That’s fair, Ilya thinks. Calm. “And I guess I was wondering why you did not tell them I have moved in with you. That was pretty fucking awkward, Shane.”

“I’m sorry.” Shane sounds sulky. He’s not great with apologies; he doesn’t really like to be in the wrong. Ilya feels obscurely hurt by his tone, which is stupid. Or maybe it’s just the smarting feeling of being on the outside of something; today was about the Hollanders on one side, and him on the other, and he hadn’t expected it to feel quite so acute. Ilya waits for Shane to say some more, for the justifications and the recriminations. But then Shane sighs and sags into the bed. “Fuck, no, you’re right. It was really shitty of me. I didn’t mean to embarrass you, I swear. If I’d known they were going to show up—”

Ilya wants to protest that he’s not embarrassed, but it would be a sad little lie. He’s hurt; hurt to be hidden away, hurt that Shane, who shares so much with his parents, couldn’t share even this innocent thing about their life together. It’s Ilya’s own vulnerability to the feeling that comes as a surprise; it is, after all, very dumb to care about being hidden away when he himself would do the very same if it had been his own father that had come knocking at the door. He rolls over to face Shane, who takes it as a sign of forgiveness, and locks an arm around him.

“Forget it, it’s fine,” Ilya tells him. “I would have liked to make a better impression, but maybe parents in general just hate me.”

It’s a weak joke, and it doesn’t land. Shane instead makes that sympathetic face that makes Ilya want to cover his eyes and bawl, and rubs him comfortingly on the arm.

“Do they, though?”

“What, Hollander?”

“Oh, it’s Hollander again, is it? I'm asking, do parents actually hate you? I don’t think so. Marly’s mom loves you, you said that yourself. Elisabeth in Beau-Soir is always trying to set you up with one of her granddaughters. You said Svetlana’s dad wanted you to come stay with them in Russia this summer, right? You're great with parents, actually. I think maybe when you say shit like this, you just mean your dad. And sorry to break it to you, but I don’t think he hates you either.”

“No, I suppose he doesn't.” The bed is too hot, a little island in the sun of the bedside lamp, Shane’s arm a feverish weight around Ilya’s waist. “It might be easier for me to hate him if he hated me.”

Shane kisses Ilya’s forehead with unselfconscious tenderness, absent-minded.

“And if this is about my parents?” Shane says. “They can be… Well, you met them. You saw. My mom has strong opinions and that's a great quality, obviously, but she's not always right, either.”

“They're just being careful.” Ilya understands that. “Your mom has clearly been listening to gossip about me.”

“Yeah, fuck, I’m sorry about that. When I told her we were working together, she must have gone and talked to people. It’s so dumb, I already told her everything about you.”

“She thinks I can’t be trusted.”

“But you know I trust you, right?” Shane rolls them over, climbs onto Ilya's lap, pulls him up into his arms. He kisses him emphatically. “Totally. And that’s all that matters. Mom should know better than to listen to whatever dumb gossip is going around.”

“She thought I had been fired from the Metro.” It’s yet another tiny humiliation, and it fucking smarts. “Fuck, does everyone think that? I left that rag years ago, Shane, and I’m still coming up against this shit.”

“Hey,” Shane says, a note of gentle protest, and then he sighs, which Ilya feels rather than hears, the shudder of his breath moving through Ilya's flat palms where they rest on Shane’s bare sides. “Look, I don't know the full story, obviously, and I don’t fucking care. I don’t need to listen to whatever shit they come out with. I know your work, and I know you. It doesn’t matter what they say.”

“It matters to me.” He slides his arms around Shane’s body, pulls him in impossibly close. “If you knew— If I told you—”

He hauls himself back from the rest of the sentence. He had told himself that he would never talk about this shit to Shane, or anyone, ever again. And Shane has never asked — Shane, who makes his living poking into people’s lives, cracking them open. It must have been killing him not to ask about it.

Shane shifts and resettles on Ilya’s lap so he can get an arm around Ilya’s neck, his other palm against Ilya’s cheek, a demanding little press.

“If I knew,” Shane says, “nothing would change. Do you hear me? Absolutely fucking nothing at all could make a difference to what I think of you. Okay? So tell me, don’t tell me, I don’t give a shit, as long as you’re okay.”

He’s so fucking heavy, so hot and so dense in Ilya’s grasp.

“It drives me fucking crazy, Shane. I try not to care, but something like this happens and it feels like, I don’t even know how to describe it.”

“An injustice?”

“Right. A big fucking injustice.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, and pats Ilya’s cheek bracingly. “I get that. It would drive me crazy too, I think.”

“I think maybe I should tell you about it.” Ilya bites at Shane’s thumb, which is straying close to his lips. “I know you must be curious.”

“I mean,” Shane says, then laughs, ducking his head. “Yeah, of course. But not so curious that I want to invade your privacy, or whatever. I told you, I trust you.” He’s so earnest, even though surely he must be expecting something absolutely fucking awful.

“Fuck,” Ilya says. His stomach feels light and bubbly, the dizzy climb before a hurtling swoop. “Okay. But it’s not a pretty story, really. No one comes out well in it.”

Shane nods. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

“So, I think you know I was pretty young when I started at the Metro? I was sixteen when I started interning there, still at school.”

“Jeez, you must have only just moved here, right?”

“I’d been here for just over a year. Polina and my dad were still happy then, I think, and she of course is practically western, grew up here. He wanted to move over here to be with her, and Alexei refused to keep me with him in Moscow, so—” He shrugs, and Shane lets his arms move with the motion.

“Assholes,” Shane mutters.

“Anyway, I hated school, mostly, but I loved work, and I loved the Metro. They liked my style of photography and I was bright, eager to please, wanted to be away from home and happy to work as many hours as they’d give me, so they let me intern again the following year, and then when I turned eighteen they offered me a permanent position. Roger Crowell took a special interest in me, he really encouraged me. He’s the first person I showed the Concordia exhibition photos to. He really believed in my art.”

Just talking about Crowell, Ilya feels the feeling he thought he’d shut away for good all over again. Nothing so simple as betrayal, but that’s there too. It’s such a longstanding hurt that it’s almost comforting to revisit it again. But then, Ilya always has been a bit of a masochist. “I thought he really cared about me.”

“Yeah.” Shane looks away from Ilya’s face, his eyes fixed, but he stays nestled in close, his embrace steady. He swallows. “When he gives you his full attention it makes you feel sort of… I dunno?”

“Special,” Ilya says firmly, determinedly unemotional. “He makes you feel special.”

“Yeah.” Shane’s eyes snap back to Ilya, and he’s unprepared for the total sympathy he sees there. It’s the only thing that gives him the courage to keep going.

“Do you remember Bohdana?”

Shane must, of course, but he still looks confused for a second, brow creasing then clearing as he places the name.

“The supermodel? Yeah, I mean, I remember all the stuff about her in the papers, kinda. The sex scandal? She was Russian too, right?”

“Yes. She grew up in Moscow, though I didn’t know her then. She was already famous at home, she started modelling very young, and then she came to America. She broke into acting with that blockbuster war movie, remember? For a year or two she was everywhere, the next big thing. They were talking about an Oscar for a while.”

“Yeah, I saw that movie, actually. It stank, but she was good in it. So did you actually know her once she moved here?”

“We met when I worked as assistant on one of her shoots. She could be… difficult. Moody. But when she realised I was a Russian speaker she insisted that I take the lead on the shoot. The principal photographer was pissed, but by that point she was a big enough star that people did what she said. And we clicked. Spent the whole time talking about Moscow.”

“She was homesick?”

“Yes, and lots of other sorts of sick, too. She was very sad a lot of the time, but she hid it well. Eating too little, drinking too much. Also there was a lot of coke — too much coke —and a lot of parties. It seemed like fun at the time. You know the kind of thing.”

“I really, really don’t.”

“No, well, probably lucky for you. Anyways, we became pretty close pretty quickly. She liked having me around. We understood each other, I think. Maybe too well.”

“The Russian thing?”

“Yes, and also being very sad. And the coke. We were pretty compatible in how fucked up we were. It was good for the paper, obviously. She gave them a few exclusives, things like that, just because I asked her to and because for her it was fun to come here, work with me.”

Shane looks reluctantly impressed. The regionals hardly ever get the exclusives with the big stars, they just get the trickle-down stories.

“She was getting deeper into the party scene. For me, it was not so much fun anymore. I love my work, you know this, and coke is one thing, but— I didn’t want to go down that road with her. She had lost her love of the work, I think. Or maybe she never had it, and was just doing what came easiest for her. With her face, she was never going to be ordinary.”

“Were you in love with her?” Shane bites his lip. His gaze is low, so Ilya can’t make out what he’s thinking.

“No, although it might have been better if we were. We did love each other, I think, but not like that. It was complicated.”

“But you did sleep with her.”

“Well, obviously. That part was easy, she was hot, I was hot, we had a lot of fun. She trusted me, and there weren’t many people she could trust back then. Her manager was a snake, her parents were dead, her grandma didn’t even speak English and she was back in Russia anyway.”

“Sounds fucked up.” Shane blows out a breath that shivers over Ilya’s skin.

“It ended like you’d expect. We burnt out, she found new friends more into her scene, she started shooting a new movie in England. That should have been that.”

“But… something happened with the Metro, right?”

“How did you guess.” Ilya buries his face in Shane’s shoulder, the curve where it meets his neck so warm, so sweet-smelling. “She used my work email address a lot. We didn’t think, either of us. We were so stupid. She used to email me sometimes, pictures of our nights out. Cell phone messages too, and my cell phone was given to me by work. No one ever told me they had access to my communications, that they had oversight of everything sent or received on work devices. Anyway, I guess it was all too juicy for them not to use. Roger called me in one day, showed me the whole thing.” He winces, though Shane can’t see him, and presses his face in harder. Shane’s arms tighten around him. “They had the story ready to go, and the photos, fuck. Some of them I had even taken, photos of her, photos of us. In bed, mostly. A few times, us with men, us with women, shit like that. But the drugs too. A two-pronged attack. Dressed up as concern, of course. I tried everything, Shane. Roger said he wouldn’t print my face, as though that was what I was worried about. Said he saw me almost like a son, that I had a bright future with the Metro, that I should just let them run with it and they’d keep my name out of it.”

“What the fuck.” Shane sounds so quiet, his voice shaky. He pulls Ilya back from him so they can see each other’s faces again, only Ilya doesn’t know how to read him anymore, can’t frame him in light of him knowing all this about Ilya. “Is any of that even legal?”

“They had some sort of policy about work communications, I guess I signed it when I joined. I don’t know, Shane, I’m not a fucking lawyer. And I was fucking eighteen and scared and so dumb. I told Roger I was going to take the pictures to another paper, get ahead of the story.”

“Control the narrative.”

“I was so fucking naive. He said he’d sue me if I tried, said the photos and emails were all legally property of the Metro. I was waiting to apply for my permanent residency; I still did not have citizenship. If I was arrested, if I lost my job… I didn’t know what to do. And the photos, fuck, Shane. They were graphic, some of them. Me with men, my father would have seen them. I warned Bohdana, and her PR team tried to squash it, but of course it was big news for a while. And Roger did keep me out of it, in the end. I was a coward, I know.”

Shane looks over Ilya very carefully, mouth to eyes, as though inspecting him for damage.

“I think you were practically a kid, and you were manipulated by someone you trusted. That is a really shitty story, Ilya. I’m sorry.”

The relief is a physical thing, moving through Ilya in a shudder. He’s crying maybe, because Shane takes his face in his hands and runs his thumbs over his cheeks.

“I mostly feel bad for Bohdana. She deserved better.”

“Are you still in touch?”

“What do you think? I told her I didn’t set her up, and she said she believed me, but I think she would always have doubted it. And Roger definitely let it slip around the newsroom that I was involved in the story somehow. Best case scenario, people thought I had befriended her to try and get a story out of her. Anyway, that was the end of our friendship. Though I see from Instagram that she’s married, living in Italy. Her wife’s family has a vineyard.”

“Well, that sounds pretty nice, right?”

Ilya manages to laugh, though it’s wet and pathetic-sounding, and Shane’s face creases into a smile, so transparently relieved to have caused Ilya’s laughter.

“You see why I could not stay, Shane? Why I won’t work for them again? I was lucky, I got off lightly. He wasn’t happy I left. I think maybe he spread some rumours — very lightly, very careful. He is a subtle man. But he knows the right word to put in the right ear. I could have ended up with no career at all.”

“You’re too good at what you do.” Shane’s lip is red from biting. “You could have gone anywhere, gotten away from Montréal.”

“I should have. But my father… He was getting sick by then.”

“Yeah,” Shane says heavily. “I see.”

“So now you know.” Ilya wriggles down in the bed, bringing Shane with him so his weight pins Ilya to the mattress. His hair is soft under Ilya’s fingers.

“Now I know.”

“You feel differently now?”

“Not about you!” Shane sounds so fierce, so offended, that Ilya could almost laugh for real. “Thank you for telling me. For trusting me with this. I guess I never thought Roger would do something so…”

“So…?”

“So immoral.” Shane peers up at Ilya from where he’s lying, face to his chest. He looks sad. “The whole thing is so seedy, you know? It’s gutter journalism.”

“Oh, now he notices.” Ilya pokes at the side of Shane’s solemn mouth. “I have been telling you this the whole time.”

“No, I mean…” Shane won’t be cajoled out of seriousness. “I’ve been noticing, or I always knew, maybe, that Roger is… ruthless, I guess? And yeah, he makes some choices that I probably wouldn’t. But that’s the nature of the game, right? He’s in charge, he gets to set the editorial stance.”

“It’s a bad stance, though. You have seen this already, I know you have. Like your story about Jensen beating his girl?”

“Hey.” Shane gets alert at that, struggling to lean up off Ilya, a raised finger as though he’s about to start arguing. “Hang on, that story was impeccably sourced. I stand by everything I wrote and—”

“No, Shane, I know that.” Ilya rubs a hand firmly up Shane’s spine, then back down, soothing. “But all the follow-ups they published, with other women, and then the interview with the male sex worker.”

“That wasn’t mine.” Shane is definitely offended.

“I know, fuck, Shane, listen to me. I’m just saying, the tone was off. These really lurid descriptions of the things he did in bed, and the focus on that guy he used to hook up with? They were trying to make him look like a sexual deviant, and they used the fact that he slept with men to make that point. The message came across loud and clear.”

“Yeah.” Shane twitches, body thrumming with tension. “But… that was all true, though. He did sleep with that guy, and he did knock him around a bit once, and he did cheat on his girl and knock her around.”

“I know,” Ilya says. He is trying so hard to be patient. “But you see what I am saying, there is a pattern there. It’s the culture of that newsroom, Shane. It’s why I had to leave. And I did everything I could to shake the place off, but it’s still hanging over me, no matter what I do.”

“No.” Shane looks so offended on his behalf. His eyes are damp, frustrated. “No, Ilya. Everyone knows you’re the best. You’re serious business, you must know that. Everyone at the Courier loves you. I’m not just saying it, I swear. People like my mom and Roger, they don’t know. What they think doesn’t matter.”

He may even be right about this, but Ilya knows it isn't that simple. “It matters to me.”

“I know,” Shane says, sounding exhausted, and they lie there for a while, silent. Despite everything, Ilya can feel himself getting sleepy with all of Shane’s weight keeping him compressed against the bed. He’ll sleep like the dead tonight, finally unburdened.

“Hey,” Shane says, finally. “Don’t go to sleep yet. We gotta eat something. You must be starving.”

Ilya is, actually; the skating and the nerves of the afternoon and the long fuck have finally caught up with him, and as though on cue his stomach rumbles. Shane laughs, puts the flat of his hand over Ilya’s abs as though to absorb the hunger.

“Okay,” Ilya says. “I guess we did not do all that cooking for nothing.”

“The leftovers will travel well,” Shane says automatically, but he pushes himself up to sitting a bit gingerly, makes for the bathroom. Ilya hears the faucet running. They share the sink, just a quick wash of face and hands; Shane keeps catching his eye in the steamy mirror and smiling at him. He kisses Ilya often. Ilya needs the care; he’s subdued, like he felt in the days after his illness — as though something vital has been stripped from him and he needs to recover. But he’s told Shane the worst thing about himself — worse, even, than the trouble with his dad — and Shane is showing him that it doesn’t change things. It makes Ilya want to believe him.

The food is still warm, kind of, and they’re so hungry they don’t care anyway, so they each make up a plate and eat off their crossed legs on the sectional, knees bumping. They keep the lights off and look out the big windows at the moon on the frozen lake. It feels like they’re the only people in the world. There’s no gravy, but the mashed potatoes are buttery and the turkey is tender and delicious, its skin crispy with fat. Even the overcooked green beans and Brussels sprouts taste good drizzled with the juices from the roasting pan.

“This is so fucking good,” Shane says, wiping his mouth, and Ilya says yes and gestures with his fork at the plates, the couch, the room, and the whole wide unearthly view in front of them, and at Shane, his warm knee, his beautiful eyes, his cheeks scrunched up from chewing.

“Don’t you want to know why I didn’t tell my parents about you moving in with me?” asks Shane, when they’re finished and the leftovers are plated in the refrigerator and they’re lying together on the couch, Ilya balancing a small glass of wine on the edge of the coffee table.

“I think I can guess.” Ilya knows he sounds wary. “Because you knew your mom wouldn’t approve of me?”

“No,” Shane says, and sighs into Ilya’s chest. “Though I was worried you would think that. It’s going to sound weird when I explain, though.”

“Try it,” Ilya says expansively, loosened up by food and emotional release and the great orgasm of earlier, and the way the end of the bottle of wine Yuna opened is going down.

“When I asked you to move in, I didn’t think about anything at all. Not about my parents, and especially not about work or any of the other shit I worry about, like, all the time. I asked because I wanted you to move in, and it was just… so simple. Does that make sense?”

“I thought you asked because you were charmed by my willingness to do the laundry.”

“Yeah, asshole, that too.” Shane groans as he raises himself up so he can look into Ilya’s face. His cheek is marked bright pink with a crease from the couch cushion or Ilya’s skin. “But listen for a sec, okay? When people expect stuff from you, it starts to become second nature, right? Like, you know your role and you know what you’re supposed to do. Family stuff especially, but work too. And you internalise that, and you respond to it, maybe even without realising.”

“I guess.” Ilya has never thought about duty this deeply. It is what it is — unavoidable, indelibly part of life.

“But making friends with you and then you moving in, and then when this happened with us—” he grabs Ilya’s pec in demonstration “—it felt like the first time I had ever gone after something I wanted, just for me. And I wanted to keep it like that for a bit. I didn’t want to have to explain it or justify it or— or— or to make it seem less than it is. And I know I did all of that today when my parents showed up, and I’m sorry. It’s just so fucking important to me, you know? And I wanted to keep it to myself. All for me.”

“And me,” Ilya says.

“Yeah,” Shane says. “You and me. Right?”

“Right,” Ilya says, fuzzily, and then Shane kisses him again and it’s time to go to bed.

“It’s a stupid fucking night to have a New Year’s Eve party,” Ilya says, and in his earbuds he can hear Marly laugh. Ilya’s on the running machine; he had meant to take it easy, but the gym’s so quiet and he’s been going stir-crazy sitting round the apartment, so after he’s finished his weights routine, he runs and runs until his legs feel light and every part of him is glowing warm. When Marly calls he’s winding down, still out of breath.

“You say this every year,” Marly says, but it’s true — a New Year party should be on the 31st, not the 28th. “Anyway, I’m coming to pick you up at six, so be ready, asshole. Don’t make me wait around while you fix your hair for twenty minutes like last year. Is Holly going?”

“Yes,” Ilya says. They had each got an invitation from their newspapers, the twin pieces of card with the bold Montréal News Media logo at the top nestled together under one fridge magnet on the refrigerator door. “But he’s been off doing family shit, so he’s going to go straight there once he’s back in town. We’ll just see him at the hotel.”

“As long as we don’t have to sit with those dipshits at the Metro table. I mean, Holly’s cool, man. But the rest of them, no fucking thank you.”

“Not a chance, we will stick with the Courier and Shane can go make nice with all those assholes by himself.”

“Bunch of cocksuckers, man.” Marly is silent in reflection for a moment. “I mean, what a bunch of jerks. Hey, do you think I could get away with a shirt and jacket? I always feel like I’m being strangled by those bow tie things, ya know?”

Ilya has rented a vintage tuxedo from the same place he goes to whenever he has a formal event. The tuxedo is old-fashioned, made of real wool; on someone else it might look like a costume, but because Ilya’s big he can carry off the high waist, the roomy jacket. He thinks he looks good in it.

“You’ll take your bow tie off the second the dinner is over anyway, so why do you fucking care?” Ilya says, and jabs at the button on the treadmill to stop the machine. He feels a little more normal now. As he steps off the treadmill, grabbing for his towel, he sees Kip over in the corner doing seated cable rows. His back muscles are crazy.

He gets home with plenty of time to get ready, whatever the fuck Marly thinks. The apartment is too quiet with Shane off seeing his grandma, but when Marly arrives he fills the space, cheering Ilya up instantly, and they go to meet the rest of the team at the hotel bar for drinks before the dinner starts. There’s still no sign of Shane by the time they go find their table, though Ilya can see some of the Metro sports guys all doing shots at the bar.

Shane shows up just after everyone sits down to eat, so Ilya has a good view of him threading his way through tables to where his colleagues are waving at him. He looks so good in his tuxedo; he’s wearing a white bow tie, which Ilya would have thought was probably some sort of dress code violation except it can’t be if Shane’s wearing it. As Shane sits, smiling around the table, Ilya watches him scan the rest of the room swiftly until he finds Ilya’s table, and then a real smile wings its way directly to Ilya before Shane puts his polite work face back on again. It feels as though they haven’t seen each other in months rather than two days; Ilya’s fingers itch to touch him.

There’s no point to a night like this, other than schmoozing, and Ilya doesn’t want to do any of that, so instead he sticks with his friends, and they take advantage of the open bar. By the time the meal is over — another Christmas dinner, only this time made to look fancy by being shaped into cubes and served with foam — Ilya’s feeling warm and relaxed, sitting around shooting the shit with Marly and the boys, and some of the older guys from other newsrooms. Shane has already texted him about five times — he’s happy to leave as soon as is polite, and Ilya is already looking forward to it. The tables have all been pushed back to the edge of the room, and a really bad DJ is mumbling into a microphone, his voice little more than puffs of static over the medleys of cheesy festive hits.

Ilya’s queuing at the bar for a round, and the guys from the Metro are loud and fucking annoying, so he hears them right before they come up beside him to get their own drinks in. Shane is still with them, though he’s mostly chatting with Hayden Pike. Ilya catches his eye in the mirror over the bar, grins at him, gets a smile back.

“What are you laughing at, Rozanov?” shouts Matthew Murphy, one of the sub-editors. He’d been in advertising when Ilya worked at the Metro, and judging by his articles, he probably should have stayed there. Ilya’s always wary around the guys that worked there when he did. He wonders which of them knew about the story, which of them knew he was one of the blurred-out guys in the photos the Metro published. Murphy slings an arm around Ilya’s shoulder in a sort of aggressive embrace. “See something funny?”

“I’m not even going to answer that, Murph,” Ilya tells him, and steps out smoothly from under his arm, pats his cheek chastisingly. “You’re making it too easy for me.”

“Such a fucking dick,” Murphy says, only half joking, and behind him, Shane frowns.

“Is that asshole giving you trouble, Matty?” some guy Ilya doesn’t even know calls out. He’s clearly drunk enough that he might actually be trying to cause a fight, his whole body sagging wetly against the bar.

“Hey.” It’s Pike, elbowing into the middle of the group. “Shut up, assholes, that’s just Rozanov. He’s Shane’s roommate, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, man, I forgot you’re fraternising with the enemy now.” Murphy smacks Shane on the shoulder, then turns back to Ilya. “Hey, Rozanov, since you and Shane are such good friends now, maybe you can convince him to make his move on Amanda tonight? She’s definitely got her eye on our boy.”

“Shut up, Matty,” Shane says, and rolls his eyes. “Amanda’s nice, but last I heard she had something going on with Pete from Marketing.” He catches Ilya’s eye over Murphy’s shoulder, just briefly.

“Nah.” The drunk guy from earlier interjects, a little foam of spit on his lip. “That fucking guy Pete bats for the other team, man, I’m sure of it. Did you see what he wore to the interdepartmental meeting the other day? The pink suit?”

“Pussy pink,” Murph says, and laughs like he’s said something witty.

“Not everyone is still wearing the suit their mom picked out for them to wear to their confirmation, Murph,” Ilya says, and picks at Murphy’s lapel dismissively.

“Yeah, yeah,” Murphy says. He’s grinning, but his face is red, and he leans on one elbow on the bar so he can get right up close into Ilya’s space. “I guess I forgot that you’re a pretty, uhhh… fashionable guy yourself, Roz. You know a lot about nice suits, I guess, but maybe you’re not the expert on women.”

This asshole, Ilya thinks for a blinding hot second, and then Shane and Pike are bustling in between him and Murphy; it’s all very gracefully done as they start handing out the shots from the bar, and Ilya feels Shane’s warm steadying hand on his lower back for a brief moment.

Pike is laughing, elbowing Murphy.

“Come the fuck on, Matty, even I know that Rozanov is a real lady’s man. Am I right, Shane?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, coolly, though he’s still smiling, as polite as ever. “The ladies love Ilya, dude. But I know he’s not gonna be interested in helping me hook up. He thinks I’m too boring for all of that. Right, man?” He elbows Ilya, gently, collusively.

“I’m the first to admit you have your good points, Hollander,” Ilya says. “But it takes a special kind of person to fall for someone who arranges their socks by colour and texture.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, with another of those fucking smiles, “I guess it does.”

St-Simon appears at Ilya’s elbow, clamouring for his drink in a display of beautiful timing that means Ilya can easily retire from the conversation, go back to his friends. Shane stays with the Metro crowd, though Ilya can see him looking over from time to time, just to catch Ilya’s eye.

Later, much later, Shane is on the dancefloor, along with about half the crowd. Hayden Pike and Marly, who used to work together as juniors at the Gazette, are jumping up and down energetically, both of them with their jackets off, shirts open at the neck. There’s a woman Ilya doesn’t know dancing with Shane — she’s tall, pretty, wearing a bright red dress. Shane is dancing carefully, an easy shuffle, and she’s keeping it totally appropriate for a work event — not dancing too close, just the lightest of touches to Shane’s arm, his shoulder, when she leans in to say something into his ear. Ilya’s fairly sure she wasn’t at this party last year, because he’d have noticed her.

When it’s his turn to buy a round again, he stays at the bar for a while, chatting to the gorgeous bartender. She likes his suit, so he tells her all about his ancient tailor from Novosibirsk, who started out as a teenager sewing costumes for the ballet company there before he came to Canada in the 1950s. He only speaks Russian to Ilya, and he lets him rent tuxedos from his collection for a heavy discount every year. The bartender admires the fit of the jacket, gives Ilya a free shot, and he knocks it back and does not look at the dancefloor even once to see what Shane is doing.

Which is, apparently, not dancing anymore, because Ilya feels a pluck at his sleeve and turns to see Shane’s face, unsmiling now.

“I’m going to the washroom,” he says, and strides off towards the back of the room. Ilya doesn’t watch him leave, just keeps his eyes on his shot glass, but then the bartender hooks the glass with her finger and pulls it away from him, gently.

“Your friend’s going to the washroom,” she says meaningfully, and they look at each other for a second, and Ilya slips off his barstool and goes the long way round out of the dining room.

He finds Shane in a quiet men’s room out in the foyer. There are only three stalls and they’re all empty. Shane’s patting his face down with cool water, jacket hanging over one of the stall doors, shirtsleeves carefully rolled.

“Hi,” Ilya says. He can see two Shanes, mirror Shane and real Shane, and he’s not sure which one to look at first.

“Having fun?” Mirror Shane looks at him ruefully over the paper towel he’s using to mop his face.

“Not really,” Ilya says. “Though I seem to have a new friend in Hayden Pike.”

“Oh yeah,” Shane says. “I had a word with him about some of the things he’s heard about you. I didn’t go into details, but he knows things are cool.”

“I was thinking, maybe it’s time to go home soon. Unless you’re having too much fun dancing with your new friend. Is she the Amanda everyone thinks is so into you?”

“Oh, shut up, asshole.” Shane is beginning to smile. Ilya can’t see his mouth over the paper towel, but he can tell from his eyes. “She’s really nice. I picked her brain over coffee last week about that job application, and now those fuckers won’t shut up about her. But there’s nothing going on.”

“She is really pretty. Nice, you know—” he makes a hand gesture that Shane will definitely misinterpret. “Nice dress.”

“Fuck you,” Shane says. “She’s more your type than mine. Want me to put in a good word for you? Or are you too busy chatting up the bar staff?”

“That bartender is hot, right? Great taste in suits. But I have run into a bit of a problem.”

“Oh, yeah?” Shane throws his paper towel in the trash. He’s properly grinning now, and with a quick movement he scans the empty stalls and steps a bit closer. “What sort of problem?”

“I think I’ve lost my touch with women.”

“Wow,” Shane says. “Sounds rough.”

“The whole time I am talking to her, I’m distracted, thinking of someone else. Such a hot woman deserves better, you know?”

“I was distracted too, during the dancing.” Shane steps just a fraction closer again. He’s still got the white bow tie on. Combined with the rolled-up shirtsleeves and the bare forearms, it’s a knock-out look. “I kept thinking, you know.” He pauses, looks back towards the cubicles again. Ilya had been wondering the same thing, if they’d get away with it, but the hotel is too busy, the chances of being walked in on too great. Shane rests a hand on the porcelain edge of the sink, right next to Ilya’s. Their feet are almost touching.

“Shane—”

“I kept thinking, wouldn’t it be nice if it could be us out there, instead of me and this poor woman who doesn’t even know that I’ll never—”His expression would almost be comical, if Ilya wasn’t feeling the sudden wistful pang of grief for these small things that he knows they can’t have. Even as Shane talks about it, it seems more and more impossible. “It shouldn’t be too much to ask, fuck, Ilya. It’s not fair. Just dancing, having a drink at the bar with you without hiding, or without those assholes ribbing us. Whatever. Just getting to be, I dunno. Together.”

He trails off. Ilya nudges his pinky finger up against Shane’s, the tiniest touch.

“No, it’s not fair,” he says, and he thinks of Murphy and Roger Crowell and Shane’s parents, and his own father who’s thousands of kilometres away, and still on Ilya’s mind. “But it’s what we’ve got, okay? So you go back out there. You dance with Amanda some more, if you want. You don’t touch her though — you keep your hands to yourself, you understand? And in about fifteen minutes I’m going to call a cab and we’re going to go home and I’m going to suck your dick until you cry. Sound good?”

“Until I cry? Okay, big promises being made here in this bathroom tonight.”

“I said what I said,” Ilya tells him. “Now get out of here before I change my mind. I’ll text you when it’s time to leave.”

“Okay,” Shane says, sweetly. His whole face is glowing; if people were less drunk they might even notice. He cocks his head, listening out for any sounds outside the door, Ilya realises, and then he leans in, lips touching Ilya’s, the briefest skim. “See you soon.”

Chapter End Notes

Hey, i loved getting to chat fics last chapter. Thank you for all the recs, I will report back. Unforch I have had a really busy work week and a really ill child (they're finally on the mend tho) so I haven't had much reading time — looking forward to resolving that, so recs always gratefully accepted!
Speaking of recs and medical crises, one of my favourite authors, sweet_s0rr0w, has been writing a truly excellent doctors AU and I have it on very good authority that the final chapter is going up this evening.
This fic has realistic, gritty, visceral medical stuff, a whole lot of heart and friendship (Rose and Svetlana really shine here imo), and the most pragmatically romantic, charming, hot, touching love story. This complex, overworked, intense, brilliant Shane has my heart, would love to hear what everyone else thinks of this one.
Kickstart is here!

Chapter 8: Furious Balancing

Chapter Notes

i'm sorry 😅

Shane goes back to work in the days before New Year’s Eve. Ilya suspects he’s glad to be back to his usual routine, even though he keeps complaining about how crazy busy he is. He goes into the office early and comes home pale and headachey, but he’s still needy for Ilya when he gets in late each evening, as though getting fucked will scrub the day right off him.

Ilya does a sports clinic with Kip on his last day off, comes back loose-limbed and aching. He feels good again after his illness — strong, and cheerful despite the short grey winter days. He has to work on New Year’s Eve, a charity lunch that takes up his entire afternoon and creeps into the evening too. When he gets home, there’s a big branch of spruce on the TV console and the whole apartment is warm and fragrant with the festive scent of it.

“I read up on Russian traditions,” Shane says. He’s wearing tiny shorts and an old sweater with a neckhole so stretched out, it almost falls off his shoulder. “I made dinner too, I followed some recipes I found online.” He frowns. “I hope they taste okay. I wasn’t sure if I was doing them right. Most of them needed a ton of mayo.”

Ilya looks in the refrigerator. There are bowls and platters covered in cling wrap on every shelf. A basin piled with fat mandarin oranges sits on the counter.

“You made all this?”

“I know you would have liked to see your friend Svetlana.” Shane still hasn’t met her, and he’s hesitant as he says her name. “But since she’s away I thought this would be the next best thing. Sorry, did I fuck up? I should have checked.”

“No,” Ilya says. “No, I just… I am surprised. I didn’t think—” He doesn’t know what he didn’t think. That Shane wouldn’t know or care that this night is a special one in Russia? He realises that actually, if he had thought about it, he probably would have said that yes, Shane does care enough to find this out, to make something beautiful and Russian out of a Montréal night. He hadn’t realised he trusted how Shane feels about him. It’s snuck up on him, the security.

“Thank you,” he tells Shane. “I love it.”

“Umm,” Shane says, and fiddles with the hem of his sweater. “Are you hungry?”

He’s asking hoping to be told no, Ilya realises, and he crosses the kitchen, shoves Shane up against the counter. Behind him, the tower of mandarins wobbles and collapses, little orange globes thudding onto the counter as Ilya plucks at the leg of Shane’s shorts. He’s already hard, dick pressing fat against the fabric as he wriggles impatiently against the countertop.

“Have you been getting horny thinking about me coming back from work? Dressing yourself up nicely ready for me to get home?”

“Fuck off,” Shane says.

“Aren’t we meant to watch the light show from the balcony? Wasn’t that your plan, we sit out there together, we see the lights, we watch the fireworks on the river? But instead you’re here with your legs out, this slutty little sweater—” He bites down on Shane’s shoulder where it’s bursting out of the wide collar.

“Bed, now,” Shane says.

They fuck for ages, eking the time out so that before Ilya’s even come once they hear the thunder of the midnight fireworks. Shane has Ilya sprawled in the bed and is eating him out, one hot hand pressing down into his lower back to keep him flat. Ilya could probably come from the friction of the mattress against his dick, Shane licking at his hole, but he wants to fuck Shane and so he hauls his shaking body up and away from Shane’s demanding mouth. He puts Shane on his stomach, then climbs onto him and arranges their limbs so he can push right inside him without having to move an inch off the full warm expanse of his body. Then he fucks him slowly, grinding into him, his breathless chest to Shane’s heaving back. Shane does come like that, rubbing off the bed and moaning, and like something that happens in a movie or porno but never really in real life, the way he clenches around Ilya’s dick gets Ilya off so they come practically at the same time, gasping and half-kissing over Shane’s shoulder.

“We’ve got to stop eating in the middle of the night like this,” Shane says later, frowning into his bowl of Olivier salad. “It can’t be good for the digestion.”

“You know, they say that what you’re doing at midnight is what you’ll be doing for the rest of the year,” Ilya tells him, and Shane grins at him and licks his lips suggestively.

“Fine with me,” he says, and god Ilya almost regrets that he isn’t superstitious; if he was, he could have made a New Year’s wish at midnight. He would wish for exactly what he has, forever.

When they go to bed Shane asks him if he misses his mom on special occasions like this, and Ilya is honest and tells him that he thinks about her in some way or another almost all the time.

“She must have been very beautiful,” Shane says, all curled up around him, keeping him warm. “Because you’re so beautiful. Handsome. Hot. Whatever. You know what I mean.”

“Hollander, you flatter me,” Ilya says, but it’s half-hearted.

“Was she nice? I bet she was really nice.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, and the word sounds awful, echoing with loss. “Yes, she was so nice. She took such good care of me. I don’t want you to think that she was a bad mother because she did what she did. I wish you could have met her.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane says, stroking his hair. It’s probably the worst thing he can do; it makes tears stand in Ilya’s eyes instantly. “I wish you hadn’t lost her. It’s so unfair.”

“I wish she could have been happy,” Ilya says. “Even if it meant… leaving me. Leaving us. I wish she could have gotten out. But I didn’t know that she wasn’t happy. I didn’t understand.”

“Ilya,” Shane says, and then, tentatively, as though he’s not sure he’s allowed to say it, “Baby. It wasn’t your fault.”

“No,” Ilya says, though he’s not sure that’s true. “No, but I wish, still, that I could have known.”

“I’m sorry I brought it up,” Shane says, though it’s not accusing. Ilya takes the words and considers them, the gentle tone. Shane means he’s sorry for Ilya, not for himself.

“It’s okay. I like talking about her. There is hardly anyone, now, that I can talk to about her.” He takes a deep, shuddery breath in. It helps. In the mostly-darkness, Shane is watching him, he can tell. “Hey, listen. I know we said no gifts, but I think Father Frost might have come.”

“What the fuck is Father Frost?”

“All your research on Russian traditions and you do not come across Дед Мороз?” Ilya hops out of bed. In his nightstand, right at the bottom and in the back, is the little wrapped parcel. It’s not large, not much bigger than his hand, and Shane sits up, clicks on the lamp so he can see.

“Here,” Ilya says, and shakes it at him. “Open.”

“Fuck, Ilya, I didn’t get you anything, we said—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ilya doesn’t care, and Shane clearly doesn’t either, he’s already tearing off the scotch tape, carefully easing the bright wrapping paper open. “It’s to put on the wall here. Your parents have so many in the cottage, but you don’t have any of you as you are now.”

“Oh,” Shane says, and looks down at the parcel where it’s open on the bedspread. Ilya had found the frame at the MegaReuse Center in Lachine. It had been dusty as fuck but he had known it would be special once it was cleaned up, and it was — gilded, with curving edges and a relief pattern of flowers and vines all around. It had reminded him of the picture frames in their house back in Moscow, which had all been handed down from his parents’ parents.

In the frame is a shot Ilya took of Shane at a card game, in their kitchen. He can’t even remember which night it is, because there have been so many that they blend into a lovely sort of mundanity. He does remember that this one had been a surprise when he looked over the files; the rest were trash, just low-light clutter with nothing interesting about them. But this one is special.

He had kept the depth of field so shallow as to be almost cloudy. Everyone else around the table is a vague unshaped blur. Shane’s the focus, of course — off-centre, turned not quite face-on to the camera. Ilya must have had the f-stop really low on this one, because he can see around Shane’s ears and hairline where the blur is beginning, even though his face is crisp and lovely. The light in his eyes looks almost liquid; every freckle is sharp and defined. His mouth looks very soft. Ilya had dithered between colour and black and white for weeks, and in the end had compromised on a sort of sepia, converting the RAW to black and white and then toning it with an almost golden glow.

Shane’s face, of course, is what makes it. He’s not posing, thankfully, totally unaware of the camera. Ilya has caught the exact angle where the flat plane of his cheekbone steals the light, the way shadows play at the line of his jaw. He looks entirely himself and also strange, a caught memory. It’s not a photo Ilya would ever use for a headshot; it’s perfect. Part of Ilya wanted to print it life-sized, wanted to pore over every detail, but he had restrained himself, because it doesn’t need to be big. All the impact of the photo is in its clean, haunting focus, Shane’s captured beauty. The frame is perfect, too; the whole thing is timeless.

Shane reaches into the torn-open wrapping carefully, lifts the portrait out and angles it so the lamp doesn’t cast a glare on the glass. He’s silent for so long that Ilya realises he must have fucked up before Shane even looks at him, before he opens his mouth. It’s obviously a weird present.

“Shane—”

“I love it.” Shane’s tone is almost angry, so much so that Ilya has to superimpose the meaning of what he’s actually saying onto the tone. “It’s perfect, fuck. I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything, I just thought it was a nice picture. I thought, maybe for the wall.”

“It’s so much more than nice, and you know it. My own Ilya Rozanov portrait, shit. I didn’t even know you took this.”

“Shane, I take pictures of you all the time. I have hundreds. This is maybe my favourite but I have so many others. You have a very photogenic face, you know.” Ilya thumbs at his mouth, dragging his lower lip open. “Your mouth, obviously. Maybe not quite in proportion to the rest of your face, this here is so—” He presses into Shane’s plump lower lip, watches it bloom paler pink around his finger. “And these.” He touches the freckles on one cheek, then the other. “These photograph like a dream. And your hair, the way it looks like light is moving through it, the shine.” Shane bows his head, accepts Ilya’s touches.

“I guess I always thought I was a bit boring-looking. Not that I look bad, I know I don’t. But I’m not very interesting to look at. Not like you.”

“You’re crazy if you think that,” Ilya tells him. “I could look at you for years and still not get used to this face.” He captures Shane’s chin, holds him still. “I thought, first time we met, he is perfect. I thought, I would love to do a shoot with this guy.”

“I thought you were thinking about how good I’d be at blowing you.”

Ilya kisses him, unable to resist. “I can have more than one thought in my mind at a time. The duality of man.”

“Well.” Shane pulls away from Ilya’s grip so he can look down at his portrait again. He has it cupped in his hands, thumbs smoothing the edge of the frame. “This is the best gift I’ve ever gotten so... Thank you. I feel bad I didn’t get you anything now.”

It would be absolutely insane to tell Shane that him being here, wrapped in blankets, bound up in Ilya’s embrace, is the best and only gift Ilya wants, so he doesn’t. Instead, he tells Shane he’ll have to get him something extra good for his birthday to make up for it, and Shane nods very seriously, no doubt already running through ideas. Before they go to sleep, Shane props the frame up on the nightstand, where he’ll see it when he wakes.

Ilya had been tempting fate, of course; the universe, or god, if there is one, or maybe just the rotten part of Ilya’s luck pushing to the fore past all the good stuff. Because when he wakes the next morning, the first thing he sees is Shane, sleeping, one cheek plump and misshapen where it’s pressed into the pillow; the second is the photo, the waking echo of Shane’s sleeping face; and the third is Ilya’s own phone screen lit up as it sits on the nightstand. When he picks it up he can see the notifications in the corner — all the missed calls, the messages that had come in while he was sleeping with the cell switched to silent.

Papa is dead, he thinks, and as he tries to scroll through the call log and hit return to call Polina, his hands are shaking. Shane stirs, with that unerring instinct he has, and as Ilya’s call connects Shane opens his eyes, clicks there’s something wrong just by whatever he sees in Ilya’s face. They’re still looking at each other when Ilya learns that his father isn’t dead.

“He’s not dead?” he repeats aloud in English, and beside him Shane shudders out a breath of pure relief.

His father has had a stroke, or a series of strokes, they’re not sure yet. He will probably die, still. He was taken by ambulance to hospital in Moscow when he collapsed over lunch. He’s had an MRI, he is being kept in the ICU, he’s under the care of neurology, vascular, all these words that would ordinarily mean something to Ilya but that now sound empty. Polina is there with him now, Alexei too, though Alexei will be leaving soon to go to work. One of Papa’s old friends is on the hospital Board of Management; he is making sure Papa gets the best care possible. Ilya’s three aunts are also on the way. He is being well taken care of, and of course, Ilya will be there soon. Polina has already booked a flight for him. He’ll have a three hour layover in Istanbul, but that’s not too bad, considering the short notice. He can’t bear to think about how much the flights must have cost her.

Ilya knows he’s going to have to pull himself together. Polina sounds terrible, her voice thick with grief. Alexei is shouting at someone in the background — probably a nurse, knowing him. Ilya is usually the one who takes care of the practical things, who softens people up with charm to get things done quicker, to smooth the way. They’ll be expecting him to do that when he gets there, no doubt — to run around for his aunts, to sweet-talk the nurses into letting them stay beyond visiting hours, to ask the right questions of the doctors. He can do it, he knows he can; he just needs a second to adjust, to prepare. He lets Polina’s words wash over him — she’s speaking Russian, only six weeks back in the old country and it’s like she’s never been away — and waits for his control to come back. He still can’t quite believe what’s happening; he had always presumed that his father would die at an old age in his own bed. A good death.

He tells Polina yes, yes he’ll make sure to be ready when the Uber she’s ordering for him arrives so he doesn’t miss check-in, no she shouldn’t worry about anything, yes he’ll talk to the doctors when he gets there, and he hangs up. He wants to turn to Shane, enfold himself in the warm cocoon his body makes in the blankets, but Shane is out of bed and moving efficiently around the room, still completely naked. He’s already created a small pile of things that he places carefully on the end of the bed — underwear, a couple of warm wool sweaters, Ilya’s favourite toque. He goes to the closet and stretches up to the topmost shelf, where Ilya has a holdall. The muscles of his ass flex as he strains on his toes.

“It is a stroke, they think,” Ilya tells him. He feels cold, pulls the duvet up around his neck. “The stupid fucker was out drinking most of the night for New Year. Alexei found him on the floor. It’s bad.”

“Are you okay?” Shane comes back with the bag, sits on the end of the bed, next to his neat pile. He starts sliding Ilya’s clothes into the holdall. Side on, Ilya can see the soft bulge of his bicep, the heft of his hip, the peek of his cock where it rests on one thigh. Once he’s done with the bag, he grabs his mobile and starts scrolling, pecking at the screen with one finger. Ilya hates it, wants him closer, wants him not distracted, wants to soak in every scrap of his attention, but Shane is engrossed in whatever he’s doing.

“I’m fine,” Ilya says, because he is.

“That’s good,” Shane says, still not looking up. “Okay, I think I can get us on an Emirates flight today. There’s a stop-off in Dubai for, like, seven hours, but we can eat or you can sleep or something, you might need to catch up by then so you’re fresh when we arrive.”

“Shane,” Ilya says. He can’t quite work out what Shane is saying.

“It’s to Domodedovo, is that how you say it? If that sounds good I’ll just book it now. I don’t think I have enough for both flights in my checking account, but I can do a quick transfer and that’ll cover us for now. Are you okay to keep packing while I make the booking? I started you off, but you’ll need more clothes, and your passport and toiletries and stuff. But if you want to just lay there for a while I can take care of it.”

Shane looks up from the phone finally, and then Ilya can see that actually, he’s not distracted, not at all. His eyes are sharp with worry. He’s chewing the edge of one fingernail distractedly, blood welling along the cuticle.

“Shane, what are you doing?”

“Sorry,” Shane says, and lets the cell fall from his hand onto the bed too. “I couldn’t make out most of that call, obviously. But you’re going to Russia, right? I figured you’d need to get there asap, so I thought it might help if I got the flights booked, at least. I just need to let work know. I have that at-home on Thursday, but I can probably push that back to next week. And I can file anything else from Moscow, right, there’ll be internet at the hotel…? Although, shit, what should we do about a hotel, you’ll probably want to stay with family—”

He grabs for his mobile again, begins typing.

“Shane, stop.” Ilya’s head is throbbing. He regrets the vodka from the night before, all the food he’d eaten just because it was so good and because he wanted to taste a bit of everything Shane had made for him. Half of it is still sitting in its wrapping in the refrigerator. Ilya had been looking forward to the leftovers, but now the idea turns his stomach. He shoves the blankets off himself, gets out of the bed. He probably doesn’t have time for a shower but he’ll feel better if he’s dressed. “I don’t understand what you are saying, talking about work, talking about flights?”

“What?” Shane’s fingers still and he looks up at Ilya. He can’t quite stop the tell-tale desiring flicker of his eyes when he takes in Ilya’s nakedness. “I’ll need to tell work I’m going to be away. And I guess I should let my mom and dad know too.” His mouth twists at the words. “Maybe I’ll just text them from the airport.”

“Do you mean you are coming to Moscow with me? No, Shane…” Ilya rubs at his eyes until they hurt, then opens the dresser drawer where he keeps his underwear. “Shane, you cannot come with me, that is crazy.”

“I want to.” Ilya can’t look at him, knows from his tone exactly how his face will look, that stubborn, earnest mouth, his kind eyes. “I want to be there for you. It’s fine, I can rearrange a few things, Roger will understand—”

“Fuck fucking Roger,” Ilya shouts, yanking a pair of briefs up his legs. He desperately wants to be covered up and ready to leave, all of a sudden. He’s not sure he’s ever shouted at Shane before, and he forces his voice quiet when he goes on. “I am not worried about Roger, Shane. I am saying you cannot come with me to Russia now, so you do not need to worry about work. What do you think I would tell my family if I turned up with you, with a man? Do you think they would not guess what we are, if I told them I brought my friend all the way from Canada with me to see my dying father?”

He feels ill at the very thought, at the idea of taking Shane with him to Moscow, of bringing him into the home Ilya grew up in and that now is the home for Alexei and his tired, disdainful wife and their small girl. He allows himself to think longingly, for one agonising moment, of walking into the hospital room with Shane at his side — how steady Shane is, how good he is at organising, how reassuring his presence always is, even at the shittiest of times. And then he buries it, because the only thing worse than doing all this alone would be to drag Shane into it, to force him to meet Alexei, who has never been kind for a day in his life; to try to explain away their relationship in front of the aunts, all of them judging him, judging Shane. Even Polina, who is not so bad, would not appreciate Shane being there. And his father — would it be worse, he wonders, if his father is conscious, aware of Ilya turning up with a man at his bedside, or if his father is too far gone, dying or maybe already dead by the time he gets there, and Shane has to watch Ilya deal with that in the only way he can imagine, which is by getting drunk and probably ending up in a fistfight with someone.

Ilya pulls a shirt on and then a sweater, blindly — he doesn’t know which one, just knows it’s there and it’s warm and it fits him. As his head pops through the neckhole he catches Shane’s eyes. Shane, who is still sitting naked on the bed as though frozen. He’s very pale. Ilya needs him to move, to get up and get dressed too, but Shane just sits there.

“I thought you would want me to be there,” Shane says. “I thought you would need me. If it was me, if it was the other way around, I’d want—”

“What would you want? To turn up at your dying father’s bedside with me trailing after you?”

“Yes!” Shane finally shouts back. It makes Ilya feel better in a cold dispassionate way, because this will be easier to deal with. “Yes, you asshole, I’d want you there if my fucking dad was dying. Why would that be news to you?”

“I don’t know, Shane. Maybe because until about a week ago your parents barely knew I existed. You couldn’t even tell them I had moved in with you. And you are trying to tell me that you’d bring me with you at a time like that, a time that is for— for family, for the people you—”

“Yeah,” Shane mutters. His fingers twist in his lap. His thighs are golden, the hairs there dark and thickened. Ilya has laid his head there so many times now he has lost count. He wants to crawl back onto the bed and use Shane’s thigh as a pillow, stay there until all of this is over, but he has a flight to catch and Shane is talking again, louder this time.

“Yeah,” he says again. “I would want you there, okay? I always want you with me, and if something like this happened and I was dealing with— So yeah, shoot me for thinking you might fucking want me there for you, I guess.”

“This is crazy talk.” Ilya feels the crawl of time like a physical thing over his skin, the itch to get moving, the way the minutes are ticking away, unstoppable. He gets his jeans on, socks next and then all he has to do is finish the packing job Shane started. He doesn’t have his only good suit, because it’s still in his old closet at Polina’s house, but some of his work separates will do if there’s a funeral, or he can buy something over there. It doesn’t fucking matter. He has a few clean shirts, some pressed trousers, a dark wool jacket; they just about fit in the holdall, along with another pair of jeans. It’s fine, it’ll do.

“Why are you being like this?” Shane sounds like he would like to be sulking, though he’s making an effort to be calm. “I’m not gonna turn up holding your hand and fucking kissing you goodbye or whatever. I know what Russia’s like, I’m not stupid. And I won’t intrude. I’ll just be there for moral support, if— If you need me. With your family.”

“You don’t have a visa,” Ilya tells him, “so you cannot come anyway. You do not even know how hard it is to get into the fucking country, Shane. You would need permission from the embassy, a proper tourist visa. It’s not one of those places you can just turn up to on a whim.”

It’s clear Shane hasn’t considered any of this — and why would he, because if Ilya had his way, Shane would never have to think about Russia or Ilya’s family. Family to Shane means something so completely different — he could never understand what Ilya’s family is like, what the word means to them, what it will be like when they are all together. Ilya is one person there with them, and another here in this room, and Shane did not sign up for the version of Ilya he has to be around his family.

“Okay,” Shane says. He’s on the internet again, searching. “So you go today, and I go get an urgent visa, it says on the website you can sometimes get them in a day? And I’ll follow you over. You’re probably gonna be there for a while, right?”

“I do not know,” Ilya says, and he zips his holdall shut. The sound is sharp in the room. “I don’t know anything, and I can’t think about any of this.” His phone buzzes: Alexei, his usual charming self, replying to the message Ilya had sent him asking how bad it was. Obviously it’s bad, you dumb shit. You need to get here fast if you want to say goodbye.

It’s needlessly cruel, because of course Ilya cannot get there fast, will have to travel for most of a day before he even sets foot on Russian soil again, but at least it’s honest. It would be so easy if Ilya could just not go — could stay here, could say fuck it all and just leave his asshole family to deal with this shit without him. But they yank the leash and he goes crawling back, just like he always did every time Papa called on him. When he thinks of Papa now, it’s not of the old man with his wrinkled throat, the slight swing of his jowls, the washed-out blue of his eyes. It’s Papa before, in his uniform, his back straight, his hair sleek and dark, only just starting to thin. He had been so handsome; Ilya had wanted to be just like him. Ilya’s throat is tight. He wishes he did not love his father, or that his mother had not loved his father to begin with, because surely that lonely love was what set the tone for everything else.

“Ilya,” Shane says. “What do you need?”

“I don’t need anything,” Ilya says. “I just need to go.”

He swings the bag over his arm; it bulges uncomfortably against his shoulder. The door to the bedroom is shut, and when he grabs the handle he can feel the sweat gathering in his palm, the clammy feverish heat of wearing too many clothes indoors.

“So that’s it?” Fucking Shane, who can’t ever let anything lie. “You’re just gonna leave like this? Jesus Christ, I’m just trying to help, Ilya. I fucking love you, okay?”

When Ilya looks back, Shane’s face is pale and greyish, as though he’s been sick. He’s still got a pillowmark on his cheek. It feels impossible that this huge gap has opened up between them in the short time since Shane opened his eyes, but then maybe the gulf was already there underfoot, widening slowly, without either of them seeing it.

“Why would you say that to me now?” Ilya asks, and the handle slides under his palm as he wrenches the door open and gets the fuck out of there.

Ilya has forgotten to set up roaming on his phone, and when he lands in Moscow he can’t log into the airport wifi, because he can’t verify his identity, because he hasn’t set up roaming. The vicious circle of it all confounds him as he stands in line for a taxi outside arrivals, smoking, hands shaky with too much caffeine. He goes straight to the hospital and stays there for two nights, sleeping in his clothes. He sends Shane a message from Polina’s Russian phone, but tells him not to message back, so by the time he finally hears from Shane, he’s been in Russia for nearly three days and he’s finally back at Alexei’s flat, his roaming finally kicking in with a flurry of incoming message notifications.

All of Shane’s revolve around similar themes: Thinking of you, I hope he’s ok, I hope you’re ok. There’s an I miss you in there too, buried among the others.

Ilya replies, but he knows his messages are cool, unsatisfying, holding back on detail. He doesn’t want to type out the stupid words. There’s only one thing he wants to say to Shane, and it would be cowardly to do it now, from this place, after Ilya left without saying it back when he should have. When he says it for real, he wants it to be to Shane’s face, so he can make sure that Shane knows it’s true.

Shane was right to offer to come, because more than anything, and despite everything Ilya had said, Ilya wants him here with a desperate purity of longing, and fuck all the reasons that it would be a bad idea. And failing that, he wants to call and tell Shane everything, to talk him through the last few days, to just hear his voice, but he’s sharing a room with Alexei, and Alexei’s wife and daughter are sleeping on the other side of the thin dividing wall between the apartment’s bedrooms, so he just falls into bed and sleeps like the dead until he’s wrenched out of sleep by a blaring alarm and he just has time to shower and eat and go back to the hospital again.

He finally calls Shane while he’s outside the hospital smoking, freezing his ass off because he forgot his hat and gloves. Neither of them mention what Shane said before Ilya left. Shane’s being really good at hiding that he’s mad at Ilya, and Ilya knows it’s because he has a dying father and Shane thinks he needs to be treated like a delicate flower. Ilya bitches at him for that, and Shane acts hurt, and Ilya already knows it’s going to turn into an argument — he can see it unfolding with a cool, distant clarity, can predict the play-by-play of it before it even happens. So he takes in a breath of icy air and says, “Shane, I really miss you,” because more than anything he wants Shane to know that.

But then Polina comes out to join Ilya and so he has to end the call before Shane gets to reply, or before Ilya can apologise for being a total asshole. He texts that to Shane later, sorry for being an asshole, and Shane doesn’t deny it, just replies that it’s okay, it’s understandable, and that makes Ilya feel worse.

Ilya sits with his father for four days, on and off. He sleeps one night in Alexei’s place, but other than that he dozes in the chair next to Papa’s bed. Alexei is going to work as normal, and Polina doesn’t like hospitals, and Ilya thinks someone should be there, so it has to be him. There are a few periods of brief wakefulness, some minor lucidities, Papa looking at Ilya directly and saying, slurred, “When did you get here?”, but he is sleeping a lot, and his left side is mostly unresponsive. Ilya sits at his right, and though he doesn’t take his hand, he touches it sometimes when he talks. The nurses said Papa can hear him. He talks about nothing at first, the same way his aunts do when they visit every day, breezing on about lunch and their families and traffic. On day four, the nurse says that one of Papa’s pupils is too large. Papa is drowsy and slow to wake. Ilya leaves for a few hours, takes a late dinner alone, but can’t relax even after two drinks. He doesn’t want to do anything but walk, and it’s too cold for that, so he goes back to the hospital and sits there late into the night.

He’s not sure what time it is when Papa’s breathing goes erratic, and his heart monitor starts beeping, but he can tell by the doctor’s face that it’s almost time. He goes outside and calls Alexei at the station, then asks the receptionist at Polina’s hotel to ring up to her room and get her a cab over to the hospital. Before they arrive, Ilya takes Papa’s right hand in his and tells him he loves him, which may or may not be true — he can’t tell what’s real or what’s just caused by the swell and roar of the grief that pours through him and sucks him under. Then he tells Papa about Shane — he tells him he’s in love, and he tells him Shane’s name, but he doesn’t get to say anything else like, I’m not ashamed or he makes me happy, because pretty much straight away more machines start beeping. The nurse says Papa’s blood pressure has dropped, and before Ilya can ask what that means, Papa dies. It’s quicker than Ilya would have imagined, too quick for Alexei or Polina to get there; at the very end, it’s just Ilya there, clutching Papa’s hand, alone.

He tries calling Shane four times before Shane calls back. Ilya’s on a fire escape chainsmoking and he cuts through Shane’s breathless apologies about being in a late meeting and tells him, says it out loud for the first time; “He is dead,” he says, and then he cries silently while Shane listens down the line, seven thousand kilometres away.

In that same call Shane asks again, one more time, if he can come to Russia, and Ilya says no. There’s too much going on, and the funeral will be in three days, and then Ilya can leave.

“Okay,” Shane says. “I’ll be thinking of you.” That night when Ilya lies awake in the hotel room Polina booked for him, it feels like his life in Canada was just an interlude. This is the real Ilya, this is his real life, this is who he is. It feels so lonely.

The funeral is fucking awful. Polina is noisy with grief and almost ugly, tear-sodden. It rains unrelentingly and the graveyard is a morass. Alexei picks a fight with Ilya at the meal, and it nearly comes to blows. Ilya is so lonely he feels like he could die. It’s a relief to get on a plane the next day with Lina. They barely speak. She cries so much the flight attendants hover; when they land in Dubai for their layover she curls up next to Ilya and goes straight to sleep, covered in the elegant pashmina she had worn to the funeral.

“He always wanted to be buried in Russia,” she says when they’re on the plane to Montréal. “So it is actually a good thing it happened this way.”

“Do you mind that he is buried with my mother?” Ilya had wanted to ask her this before the funeral, but felt it was in bad taste. Now, with all the lights low and the other person in their row of the plane sleeping, it feels safe to ask.

“It makes sense.” Polina shrugs. “The family plot is better, and there is no other space in that graveyard anyway, and he would have hated cremation.”

“He was lucky to have you,” Ilya tells her, meaning it wholeheartedly, and she rubs a thumb over his knuckles where he grips the armrest between them, and tears shine in her eyes again.

“I’m sorry to ask,” she says, “but will you come and stay with me for a little bit? I don’t want to be alone at the moment. Your room is just as you left it, you know. I think he hoped—” She shakes her head. “Anyway, it’s still your home.”

The word home itches at him, but she has never asked him for much and he can do this small thing for her now.

“Yes,” he says. “Of course.”

When they land, he almost doesn’t want to turn airplane mode off, does it anyway. His message thread with Shane is quiet, the last two messages from Shane sent yesterday while Ilya was standing in the lather of mud, wet to his ankles, at the side of the grave that holds his mother and now his father too. Ilya can leave them unanswered, just for one more night.

It must be the adrenaline crash, or the exhaustion of the whole trip, but Ilya sleeps for eleven hours straight in his old bed at Polina’s house. When he wakes he has no idea where he is for a second, but at least he has a few old clothes in the closet here so after he showers and shaves he gets dressed in something that didn’t just come out of a suitcase and feels immediately a bit better. Shane is maybe twenty minutes’ drive away, a bit more on the bus but that’s fine, it’s the fact of his nearness that matters.

Polina is still sleeping, probably, so Ilya bundles up and takes an espresso and his pack of cigarettes out onto her deck. Shane picks up on the first ring, a bit out of breath.

“Hey,” Ilya says. “I’m back in Montréal.”

“What? Hang on.” Shane sounds confused and then his voice comes back into Ilya’s ear, clearer now. “Sorry, I’m just out for a run and it’s pretty windy up here. Can you hear me okay?”

“Yes,” Ilya tells him, and takes a long drag of his cigarette. “Sorry I didn’t text sooner. It has been a tricky week.”

“No, no.” Shane bats his words away. “I know things have been really tough for you. Did you say you’re back in Montréal? Shit, I’m so sorry I’m not home.”

“It’s okay, it’s my fault for not texting. I’m not there either, yet, I’m still with Polina. Are you home tonight?”

“Fuck,” Shane says. “No, I did update the calendar but I guess you haven’t had a chance to look at it. I’m back in Ottawa, I came up last night. I’m sorry, I’d never have come if I’d known.”

“No,” Ilya says distantly. “I did not check the calendar.”

“No, yeah,” Shane goes on, “obviously you wouldn’t have been thinking about the calendar. I’m just saying, it was on there. But, like, I only came up here because I thought you were still in Moscow. I had a couple days off.”

“How are your parents?”

“They’re, uhhh.” Ilya can sense Shane wondering how much Ilya wants to know, and probably also worrying about talking about parents to a freshly minted orphan. “Well, they’re okay. Actually, listen, do you have a sec?”

“I called you, Shane, obviously it is a good time for me.”

“Okay, I was just making sure. It’s just, I wanted to tell you, I came out to my parents. That’s why I took this trip. I was thinking about it and thinking about it and I just kind of felt like I was going crazy? I know I wasn’t exactly lying to them, but it felt like it.”

“Wow.” Ilya sits with the new information for a pull in and a long exhale, smoke and breath wreathing his head in the cold air. Inside, he feels warm. “That is huge. Was it okay? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I mean, I was so fucking nervous, my legs were actually shaking walking into the house.” Shane laughs, and it sounds normal.

“And your parents?”

“They were good about it. Great about it, even. I mean—” he coughs, the intimate sound of it close to Ilya’s ear “—I got a bit emotional, I guess? I cried, my dad cried. But like, happy tears. My mom said all the right things, which was nice.”

Of course, the Hollanders would say and do the right things; Shane should have known, probably had known, that it would all be okay. Ilya’s so fucking glad for him, can picture it all so well, Shane’s shining eyes, lashes clumped and starry with tears, his disarming honesty that he usually turns outwards. His parents, both of them, giving him everything he needs to feel safe.

“You are officially gay, now you have told your parents,” Ilya tells him, making his voice sound very solemn. “Your certificate is in the post. Congratulations, Shane.”

“Fuck you, asshole.” Shane laughs. This has obviously been good for him, he sounds lighter about it than Ilya could have imagined. “It’s just such a relief, you know? I was so sure they’d be disappointed. Not because they’re homophobic or whatever, just— I think they think that my life will probably be a bit more complicated like this. They always want things to be easy for me.”

“It will be easier now that you’re not keeping something important from them.” Ilya gets a sudden pang of trepidation. “Oh, shit — so now they know about me. Maybe your gay revelation will overshadow the Christmas Day awkwardness and next time I meet them I can work on charming them properly.”

“Ah.” For the first time, Shane sounds hesitant. “Look—”

He pauses, then sighs, and Ilya realises what he’s about to say.

“You did not tell them about me.” Ilya doesn’t understand why his voice sounds wondering, why it goes up at the end in a sad thin little question. He already knows the answer. “You told them that you’re gay but you didn’t tell them who you are being gay with.”

“Look.” Shane has his most earnest explaining voice on, as though he’s switched into work mode to manage a difficult conversation. Ilya feels abruptly resentful. “The whole thing was a lot, you know? I wanted to give them time to process before hitting them with the news that I’d also been, you know, involved with someone for months.”

“I think,” Ilya says, knowing that he won’t be able to take the words back once he says them, “that maybe it’s because the person you’re involved with is me. I think maybe you know your parents won’t approve.” He stubs the smouldering end of his cigarette out in a planter and stands.

“It’s not that,” Shane replies, but it’s a weak protest.

“They didn’t ask if you’re seeing anyone?”

Shane’s silence is everything.

“Okay,” Ilya says. His feet are freezing even shoved into too-tight snowboots. He needs to go back inside. “They asked and you didn’t tell them.”

“I told them there’s someone,” Shane says defensively. “But that it’s kinda new and I want to see how it goes first.”

“When actually it’s because Roger Crowell has spread so many lies about me that even your mother thinks I’m untrustworthy, and you don’t want to have to defend your choice to her. Or maybe it’s because you can’t defend it, because part of you fucking believes the things you’ve heard about me?”

There’s a blank space of shocking silence, and then Shane bursts into it in a torrent of words.

“No, fuck, Ilya— No, you asshole, I don’t fucking believe it. I didn’t believe it even before we were together, I knew as soon as I met you that you were serious about what you do. And now I know you, now I know who you are— Jesus Christ, do you really think I’d be with you if I thought that? That’s a shitty thing to say, Ilya, fuck.”

“Well, if that’s true then you have no reason to lie to your parents, do you, Shane? You’ve already told them you’re gay, what’s the fucking worst that could happen if you tell them who you’re fucking? Seems to me that you think I’m the problem here.”

“I spoke to them about you, actually, when we were having breakfast this morning.” Shane sounds stiff and formal. “I didn’t tell them the details of what you told me about when you worked at the Metro, obviously. We were talking about Roger and the job, and I really talked to my mom about some stuff — the culture in the office, some of the things I’ve noticed about the way Roger does things… and yeah, some stuff about you. I asked her straight out why she was acting so weird around you.”

“So what did she say?”

“Yeah, she had heard some stuff — nothing concrete, but just whispers, you know? She said she’s sure someone said you were fired, that you were unreliable, that you have an ego, that you’re difficult to work with. Stupid shit like that.”

“Yeah,” Ilya says, exhausted. “Sounds about right.”

“I told her straight out it’s all lies. And anyway, most people know that shit’s not true,” Shane says fiercely. “Like, no one at the Courier has anything but praise for you, and outside of the Metro half the industry thinks Roger is full of shit. Your reputation—”

“My reputation! Shane, do you know how long it took me to build that reputation?” Ilya is fucking pacing now, toes pinching as his feet slide around on Polina’s slippy deck. “I was fucking nineteen years old when I left the Metro. I had no back-up plan, no money, no famous mom to make calls on my behalf. I had to do this by myself. What do you think it’s like to know that years later people are still talking shit about me?”

“Okay.” He’s so brittle that Ilya feels like a piece of shit for causing it. “That’s fair. I take your point. But I’m not one of those people. I think you’re a genius. When our fight story comes out, it’s probably going to be the high point of my career. And I made sure my mom knows that, when we talked earlier. I can talk her around.”

“I don’t want to be someone you have to talk her around for, Shane.” Ilya slides the door open, kicks the boots off onto the mat. His fingers are numb where he’s holding the phone to his ear.

“It’s not like you’ve told your family about me either.” Shane is getting sulky, which is probably good. Part of Ilya, the sad, fucked up, orphan part, is itching for a fight.

“Oh? Who should I tell, Shane? My long-dead mother, or my recently-dead father? Should I hire a psychic? Consult an ouija board?”

“Sorry,” Shane says, though he doesn’t sound it. “Look, I’ll be home tonight. Can we talk then, properly? I feel like this would be easier face to face.”

“I can’t,” Ilya says, and Shane’s silence stretches out, disbelieving. “I fucking can’t, Shane. Polina needs me, she’s struggling. Look, this is why I was calling you. She’s asked me to stay with her.”

“Right.” Shane’s voice is so full of hurt that Ilya almost can’t bear it. He wants to just go home tonight anyway, screw Lina and screw his dead father, whose fault this all is, somehow. “So, are you going to?”

“Yes, Shane, what the fuck? You’re giving me shit for this the week my father has died?”

“No, sorry, I didn’t mean— Fuck. I just thought, after what I said last week about, umm, how I feel about you, that we could at least talk about it?”

Ilya’s halfway out of his coat, one arm snagging inside the quilted lining, wriggling his shoulder to dislodge it. Down the corridor, he hears a door creak, footsteps. The last thing he wants is to have this conversation in front of Lina today.

“I can’t, Shane, I just— I have to go.”

“I see.” Shane sounds chilled to the bone. “So, that’s it. You’re done?”

“Yes, Shane, fuck.” Ilya whispers it, just in case Polina overhears. “I have to go. She needs me right now.”

“Okay.” Shane clears this throat and when he speaks again, he sounds completely back to normal all of a sudden. His tone isn’t kind but it is pleasant, brisk. “Okay, I see. That’s fine, it’s probably for the best. Right, well, I’ll be in touch about the logistics at some point, I guess.” There’s a crack in his tone, just a shiver of something unfamiliar. “I hope you’ll both be okay. I’m sorry again, about your dad, about— everything. Okay. Bye.”

“Shane, what?” Ilya’s speaking to the buzz of a dial tone; Shane is already gone.

Chapter End Notes

Please know that I am reading and appreciating every single comment, and they are what is getting me through my nightmare work week. Roll on Wednesday when I have some time off and can get this fic fully posted! And my most sincere thanks to everyone who has been reading along — it is the biggest treat for me to know that there are such nice people here with me for the ride.

Here are two fics I read and loved recently — both of these are so intelligent and moving and sharply observational, real writing goals fics for me:
god, i loved you so
Unicorn in Captivity

And next chapter I'm going to share the WIPs I'm reading because is there anything nicer than a readalong?!

Chapter 9: My Bed is Pulling Me, Gravity

Chapter Summary

Maybe the subtitle for this fic should be Four Phonecalls and a Funeral

Chapter Notes

Ilya's canon-typical depression, meet his desire for acceptance from parental figures.

Ilya is in Gourmet Laurier, because apparently it’s the only place in the area that sells the special kind of apple cider vinegar that Polina needs for her salad dressing. He can’t remember the name, but the word “macerated” was used, along with “aromatics” and “organic”. Ilya feels like all these keywords should make it easy to find, but there are about fifteen different types on the shelf, and he can’t work up the energy to read all the labels.

He picks up some handmade soap and a huge bar of 75 per cent dark chocolate, for added misery, and then he wanders around looking at things. He doesn’t want to go home yet, even though he and Polina are getting on fine — better, in fact, than they ever have, because they’re finally bothering to get to know each other. Ilya’s just so lonely, even when he’s surrounded by people, and he’s finding it hard to sleep in his old bed alone. After yesterday’s phone call with Shane, he’d lain awake for hours, staring into the dark, feeling as though he was the only person awake in the whole city. He just wants to go home, to sleep in Shane’s bed, or have Shane sleep in his bed, and to sort out whatever the fuck is going on with them.

He’d tried calling Shane this morning and hadn’t reached him. Shane still hasn’t called back. Ilya balances his goods in the crook of one elbow so he can slide his phone out of his pocket and check, just in case. Nothing. He knows he’ll be a massive cliché if he heads to the wine section to drown his sorrows, so instead he goes over to the cut flowers. He’ll get Polina a bouquet.

There’s a scuffling sound from the other side of the flower display, and as Ilya roots around in the bucket of tulips for the best, most unbruised flowers, he hears a huge crash. A child shrieks, and then comes a male voice, very patient but also clearly deeply, deeply pissed off.

“I told you, sweetie,” the voice says, as though through gritted teeth, “hands off the tower of tomato tins.”

There’s a squeak of rubber and Hayden Pike appears from around the other side of the display. He’s pushing an enormous double stroller that contains one very cute sleeping child, and he’s grabbing onto another child, whose face is blotchy with tears and snot, and who’s clutching a fancy-looking tin of tomatoes resolutely in her other hand. It takes Ilya a second to notice that Pike has yet another child attached to his person, in a complicated-looking harness thing strapped to his chest, just a tuft of soft baby-duck hair poking out the top, two plump socked feet sticking out the bottom.

“Oh, hey, Rozanov,” Pike says, looking as though Ilya is the person he wants to see least in the entire fucking world.

“Hi,” Ilya says, and then he looks down at the tomato child and says, “hello.” She ignores him.

“Emma,” Pike says tightly. “Say hello to Rozanov.”

Emma is plainly not going to say hello to Ilya or indeed pay attention to anything other than the label of her tin, which she begins to pick at with her thumbnail.

“We’re not actually buying that,” Pike tells her, and then mutters “Jesus fucking Christ” under his breath as he tries to take the tin back. “Sorry,” he says to Ilya. “It’s my in-laws’ anniversary today and Jack sent me out to get some fucking pink cookies or something. And this little angel is meant to be napping.” The child looks up at her father, eyes beginning to fill, and she yanks her hand free and wraps both arms around the can, clutching it to her, swaying on her feet with tiredness. She looks like Ilya feels.

“She cannot sleep standing up like a horse,” Ilya tells Pike, and then he drops down to a crouch so the kid can see him properly.

“Hey,” he says. “Nice tomatoes you have there. You want to keep them?” The kid nods frantically.

“No, I’m—,” Pike starts, and Ilya puts a hand up to him. He shuts up, miraculously.

“Okay,” Ilya tells her. “I will buy them for you. A gift from me. But you gotta get into your stroller first.”

The child gives a huge shuddery breath and then stumbles up into the stroller knees first. There’s a blanket in there and she lies down and lets Ilya cover her with it. He tucks the tin of tomatoes into the crook of her arm like a stuffie; her eyes are already rolling, lids fluttering shut. Ilya ducks around Pike and picks up another tin of the tomatoes from the floor, where the kid must have knocked them out of the tower.

“I will get them to scan this one when I’m paying,” he tells Pike. “That way you don’t have to wake her.”

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Pike looks at him suspiciously. The effect is muted, because he’s jiggling gently from one foot to another, one hand patting at the little bundle of baby strapped to his front. “Why are you being nice to me?”

“Because you look like shit,” Ilya says, “and I feel like shit, so I had a rare moment of fellow-feeling for you. I can put these back if it makes you feel better, let you pay for them yourself.”

“No,” Pike says quickly. “No fucking way am I paying fifteen fucking bucks for tomatoes, even if they were plucked from vines grown on the slopes of Mount Etna by the Mother of God herself, or whatever the fuck this picture on the label seems to be suggesting.”

“Small price to pay for happiness.” Ilya shrugs. “Would be nice if everyone’s problems could be solved with some canned tomatoes.”

“Jesus.” Pike’s face is doing something weird. “Sometimes I forget you’re Russian, even with the accent. And then you come out with shit like that.” He squints at Ilya’s face. “Is something wrong? You look like someone died, and your hair is all—” He makes a sort of scrawly motion in the air next to his own head. Ilya resists patting his hair down self-consciously.

“Someone did die, asshole,” Ilya says. “My father, in Moscow.”

“Shit.” Pike looks ashamed of himself. “Sorry, man, I didn’t know. But that was a stupid thing for me to say. I lost my dad last year, it’s fucking rough.”

Ilya is absolutely not going to crumble under the inept sympathies of Hayden Pike.

“Thank you,” he says. “Come on, you need pink cookies? I saw some back here.” He grabs his bunch of tulips and leads Pike over to the artisan bakery section, where Pike pounces on a box of rose-flavoured biscuits with a French name.

“My mother-in-law loves these, they had them on their honeymoon,” he tells Ilya. “So, who are the flowers for? I didn’t think Shane went for tulips around the house, but I guess you’d know better than me.”

“Shane? No, these are not— I haven't seen him in a while. I'm staying with my stepmother. Shane didn't tell you?” Saying the words brings a sickly feeling, as though Ilya’s admitting a weakness. Pike whistles low and long.

“Shit,” he says. “Hey, did you guys hsve a fight? Is that why he’s been so bummed out recently? He looked completely rotted when we met for ice-cream the other day.”

“I don’t think so.” Ilya does his best casual voice. It’s easier around Pike, who doesn’t seem to know what the fuck is going on at the best of times. “Like I say, I haven’t seen him much. I’ve been in Russia, and Shane’s been busy, I guess.”

“I thought he was just stressing over telling his parents—” Pike begins and then he fixes Ilya with a suspicious glare. “Hey, is this about Shane being gay, asshole? Did you move out after he came out? Because that is fucking low, man, it really took a lot for him to—”

“Shut up Pike, you idiot,” Ilya says, and Pike opens his mouth in outrage. “No, really, listen. I am not homophobic, what the fuck? I’m bisexual, not that I should have to tell you that.”

“Oh.” Pike looks deflated. “Well, okay. Sorry, man. It’s just I feel like shit that Shane couldn’t tell us until now. I mean, I get it, I guess? All of his friends are kinda guys’ guys, you know? I’d love to see him settle down with someone, but I don’t know anyone that swings that way.” He brightens up a bit. “But you probably know some hot guys, right? If you’re bi, and all?”

“What the fuck, Pike, I’m not setting Shane up—”

“Or.” Pike is getting into the swing of it now. He looks at Ilya assessingly, eyes narrowed as though inspecting a new bind hot off the assembly line. “What about you? You’re objectively appalling, obviously, but for some reason Shane really seems to like you. And you’re, you know.” He waves a hand up and down Ilya’s body. “Well, Jackie said you’re hot, at least. So. What do you say?”

The only person in the world who Ilya could tell about this conversation — the only person who would get it — is Shane, and he’s not answering Ilya’s calls. Ilya’s constantly surprised by the way the vastness of grief can come through in the tiniest things, and fighting with Shane like this is a sort of grief. Ilya’s gone through it enough times now to know it when it comes around again.

“I think Shane could do better,” he tells Pike, and he isn’t even all that put out when Pike, taking him perfectly seriously, sighs in resigned agreement, and together they head towards the till.

Shane doesn’t reply to Ilya for two full days. It’s no longer than Ilya left Shane unanswered while he was in Moscow, but it feels different when he’s the one at the other end of the days-old read receipt. At least Ilya’s due back to work tomorrow, which will take his mind off things. He’s ironing a shirt, Polina in the den watching reality TV, when his phone rings. He doesn’t know where his earbuds are so he wedges the phone between the crook of his neck and his ear.

“Hi,” Shane says, and it takes all of Ilya’s self-control not to burst into tears at the sound of his voice. Clearly grieving doesn’t agree with him.

“Shane—” Ilya begins, but Shane interrupts him.

“Sorry, I know you probably don’t want to hear from me,” Shane says, nonsensically, “but I was just calling to tell you that I interviewed for the editor-in-chief role and they’ve offered me the job.”

“Wow,” Ilya says. He can’t think of what he’s meant to say to that — he should be able to muster up some sort of normal comment, but all he feels is blistering rage. Maybe when Papa died he cursed Ilya, stole away all his charm and people skills and sense of proportion. And it’s not like this is surprising news. Ilya had known Shane would go for the job, had known that he’d get it if he went for it. But he still feels sick to hear it being confirmed.

“Yeah,” Shane says. “So, that’s great news. Obviously. Big pay jump.”

“Well, as long as there’s a big pay jump.” Ilya presses the iron down on the collar of his shirt, furiously. It hisses steam, a long gasping exhale. “I know that’s your ultimate goal in life, to make as much money as you possibly can. It’s why you picked journalism. Famously well-paid career choice.”

“Fuck you,” Shane says, and he doesn’t sound fond about it. “It’s an excellent opportunity.”

“Yes, you have said this many times. Maybe if you say it enough you’ll convince yourself.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Nothing, Shane. Congratulations. You deserve it. Well, you’re too good for it, really, but maybe that’s not the point.”

“Roger said I should move closer to the office. I’d be working from home less, and it would involve some late nights, so he thinks it’d make sense for me to live in the neighbourhood, just for ease.”

“You are going to do it? Fuck, Shane, what is going on with you?”

“You don’t think I should?” For the first time in the whole call, Shane sounds normal, like his old self, like he cares what Ilya thinks.

“No, I don’t fucking think you should. You want to live nearby to make it easier for Crowell to run you into the ground?! And anyway, you love that apartment.”

“Well, it’s too big for one,” Shane says, which doesn’t even make sense. “It is a bit of a journey into the office. And actually, I don’t want to go through the whole rigmarole of finding a new roommate, so. Thanks, I guess, for giving me the impetus to look for a new place.”

“What are you talking about, new roommate? You’re kicking me out to go and, what, live up Crowell’s asshole?”

“Kicking you out, what the fuck? You’re moving out. Right?”

“Why the fuck would you think that?”

“You fucking—” Shane is spluttering. “You said it, you told me you were moving out. To move back in with Polina?

“What the fuck, Shane? I said I was going to stay with her. For a few nights, until she got back on her feet. She asked me on the plane back from Moscow after the funeral, I wasn’t exactly going to say no.” That is what Ilya had said, he’s certain. He casts his mind back frantically over the conversation he’d had with Shane about it, but it’s all a fog of jet lag and grief.

“I thought—” Shane trails off. “I thought you were saying you were leaving for good.” There’s a wobble in his voice, just barely perceptible. “I mean, you only moved in with me because of your dad, right? And now he’s gone. So I guess maybe I jumped to conclusions.”

“Yeah, Shane, no shit. You thought I was just casually going to move out without even talking with you about it? Fuck, you don’t have a very high opinion of me, do you?”

“That’s not fair.” Shane’s voice is small. “You seemed pretty pissed at me. You’ve been pissed at me for weeks, since— since Russia. I thought maybe you’d realised it wasn’t working out.”

“I think maybe you thought that.” It’s dawning on Ilya now what Shane had said in the last call, what he had answered when he thought Ilya was moving out. “You said it was for the best. Fuck, Shane. You thought I was moving out without even talking to you, and your response to that was oh well, okay then?”

“That is so fucking unfair,” Shane says. His voice is full-on trembling now, but Ilya can’t tell if it’s pain or anger. “I have never once backed off when it comes to you. Yeah, okay, I misread things this one time, fuck. But I came out to my parents for you, I brought you to our cottage. I wanted to come to Russia with you. I changed my whole life just to get to work with you, Ilya. So you can think whatever the fuck you want, but don’t try to pretend that I’m the only one who got things wrong. At least I was trying.”

The point of the iron noses along the side of Ilya’s palm where he’s got it pressed into the fabric. He’s not even looking at what he’s doing, so fucking careless. His hand is already throbbing with the heat of the burn, and he puts the iron down on its end.

“Okay, so you came out to your parents,” he tells Shane. “Bravo. But you didn’t even mention me. You brought me to the cottage but lied to your family about who you were going with. You argued with me about Russia when I was just about to fly out to say goodbye to my father. And work? Don’t make me laugh. You could have done anything you want, you’re so fucking talented. And instead you’re taking some shitty executive job just so you can please your mom and keep up the image of the perfect son she’s got in her head.”

“Wow,” Shane says, after a bleak silence. “Sounds like maybe you’re the one who doesn’t have a very high opinion of me, actually.”

The apology is prickling at the tip of Ilya’s tongue. He feels sick with wanting to say sorry. The smell of the hot steam is in his nostrils, and fuck, he needs a drink.

“I didn’t mean—” he begins, but it’s already too late.

“No, I think you did,” Shane says. “I didn’t see things like that, but, umm. Better to know how you really feel, I guess? Something to think about.”

“Shane, I—”

“Fucking don’t.” Shane spits the words. “Don’t you dare try to take it back now.”

“The day I left for Russia,” Ilya says. “When you said— what you said. I wanted to say it back to you.”

“It doesn’t really matter now,” Shane says quietly. “Because it wouldn’t mean anything, now I know what you really think of me.” When he pauses there’s a little gasping noise in the silence. Ilya thinks he might be crying, or at least trying not to. “I guess I was right all along. Maybe this is for the best.”

“Shane,” Ilya says, and his own face feels wet. He puts a hand to his cheek and the salt there stings the edge of the burn. “I fucked up. I didn’t mean it.”

Shane laughs, but it’s not unkind, which makes it even worse.

“We both fucked up, I think,” Shane says. “And I think maybe you did mean it. That’s okay. We went about everything wrong, right from the start. I’m sorry I didn’t tell my parents, for what it’s worth. You deserved better than that.”

“It’s not about your parents, Shane, I just—” He can’t even finish the sentence, everything falling away, the empty echoing purity of loss stilling his tongue.

“I always thought we could talk about anything,” Shane says. “But this, fuck. It feels like we’re strangers.”

In the distance, Polina’s doorbell rings. Ilya can hear her clattering to the door in her house slippers, and then her raised voice calling his name. Shane must hear it too.

“You have to go?” he asks.

“No,” Ilya says. “It’s just Svetlana, she came up from Boston for the weekend to see me. She couldn’t make it home for the funeral. But it can wait.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Shane says stiffly, sounding as though he thinks it’s anything but nice. “You guys heading out for the night?”

“She thinks so.” Ilya unplugs the iron, kicks the leg of the ironing board so it collapses shut. His shirt, when he puts it on one arm, is unpleasantly warm against his skin. “I think not.”

“You should go. I’m actually heading out myself, some of the work crowd are going to some new bar near the office. I thought it sounded fun so… I guess I better hang up so I can get dressed.”

“You thought a night out at a bar sounded fun?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, snippy. “Everyone’s going.”

“Well,” Ilya says. “If everyone’s going.”

“Yeah, even Roger.”

“Maybe you can talk to him about your nice new apartment. Do I get to collect my stuff before you move out, or are you going to leave it out by the curb for the garbage truck?”

“God, you are impossible—”

“Ilya!” Sveta’s shout is loud enough that Shane can obviously hear it through the phone, because he stumbles to a halt. She keeps talking, voice getting louder as she comes along the corridor. “You asshole, why are you keeping me waiting?”

“I think you have to go,” Shane says. “Text me about when you want to come and collect your stuff, I guess?”

Ilya’s not proud of himself, but he ends the call without saying goodbye. There’s a tiny kernel of satisfaction that he made Shane act like an asshole, but it’s cancelled out by the fact that he knows he was worse. He stares down at his phone, sitting uselessly in his hand, shirt flapping at the end of his arm, still only half-dressed. He should call Shane straight back, or maybe just text him. But then he remembers Shane’s voice, cool and distant, talking about his new job and his new apartment; he remembers his own words, saying such stupid shit that he doesn’t even really mean, too cruel but maybe slightly too much truth in them for Shane to be able to forgive. He slides his phone into his back pocket and begins to pull the shirt on properly. He is used to loss, he has dealt with it enough times. He can do it again.

Ilya wakes up to Polina tapping on his door and saying his name. She sounds almost cheerful, like her old self, except that she speaks Russian almost all the time now, which he can’t get used to.

“Breakfast!” she calls, and Ilya rolls over in the bed and thinks about getting up, and then he remembers that he is an orphan now, and that Shane has left him, and he pulls the covers back over his head.

He sleeps, or at least he thinks he does, even though he doesn’t feel rested when he wakes again. He’s still buried under the bedclothes, and he’s wet through with sweat. Now Ilya’s father is dead, Polina has no one to tell her to turn the thermostat down, so the house feels almost tropical with a dry unseasonal heat. Outside, Ilya knows it must be freezing cold and snowing, like it always is in the middle of January. He hasn’t even left this room in five days except to have a piss or eat random snacks at terrible hours of the night, so he can’t be sure exactly what date it is. The last time he saw anyone other than Polina was the night that Sveta came by and took him out for drinks. He was a dick to her that night, flirting with her when she tried to talk to him about his father, then leaving her alone for half an hour to do too much coke in the bathroom with some guys he met at the bar. By the time Sveta relaxed enough to actually have fun, Ilya had gone past manic and into maudlin. She’d gone on to a club without him, and he’d gotten an Uber home. Shane’s apartment was still the default address when he’d gone into the app to order the car; for one crazy second he’d thought about not changing it, about just letting the car take him back there. But then he’d remembered that Shane was out with his work friends, with Roger Crowell. Nothing on his Instagram stories — not a single text, no call, just silence. Ilya had changed the address and gone back to Polina’s.

He hasn’t been to work in almost a week, either. His first day back was a disaster. He had gone back the morning after the terrible phone call with Shane, horribly hungover. He couldn’t concentrate, came home with a blinding headache a few hours in and hasn’t been back since. He’s got a telehealth sick note and Elena’s pulled some strings to give him some holiday time, but he knows he’s going to have to get out of bed and go back soon, if he wants to keep his good name. The thought of it is exhausting.

There’s another knock, sometime later. This time Lina comes into the room without waiting. She wrinkles her nose when she sees him. For the first time, he can see the signs of ageing in the creases that form around her eyes. She always seemed so young compared to Mama, and of course she’s had some very subtle work done, but now she must be a few years older than Mama was when she died. Ilya is thinking a lot about death these days. He can’t stop seeing his father’s face — it had become almost unrecognisable during the lonely, days-long decline before his death. He had been emptied out, a sack of skin, every muscle in his face slack and unused.

Polina perches on the edge of the bed, takes his hand in hers. “You have to get up,” she says gently. “You need to eat, Ilyushechka.” He doesn’t know how he feels about the sweetness of the name she uses — she never called him that before his father died. Also, speaking Russian all the time makes his head hurt again. He’s sick of splitting his tongue between two languages. He’s never wanted so badly to be wholly one thing, and not to be always straddling borders, one foot in one place and one in another.

“I don’t feel well,” he says in English, and Lina sighs and leaves. When she comes back a few minutes later, she has a tray with a plate of pancakes, a bowl of berries, washed and sprinkled with powdered sugar, a little plunger of coffee and one of the cups with the handles that are too small for his fingers to fit through. He’s not hungry but he sits up and begins to eat anyway; he might as well eat as not eat, if the food is there.

“Your brother called again,” Lina says, and rolls her eyes. “Looking for more money. The child is sick, apparently. But I sent some just last week.”

“He will just put it up his nose,” Ilya tells her. He and Alexei had done some coke together after the funeral. It was not good for Ilya, who was already wound so tightly that he felt like he’d never sleep again, but it had seemed to make Alexei happy, the two of them grinning at each other over the row of lines, like they were teenagers again. He suspects Alexei has a pretty serious drug problem, but it’s impossible to tell from just over one week with him, half the time spent in the hospital and the other half organising the funeral.

“I think you need to see a doctor,” Polina says, and pats his knee under the blankets to make him look at her. She’s never told him what to do before — that wasn’t ever her job. She looks unsure of herself. “I’m going to make an appointment with one of the doctors at my clinic, okay?”

“I don’t want to see a doctor,” Ilya tells her, and takes another bite of pancake to prove to her that he’s fine. His stomach is actually cramping a bit from the richness of the meal after his sporadic eating of the last few weeks. The last full meal he can remember eating was after the funeral.

“You haven’t been out of bed in days,” Lina says kindly, “And you haven’t been to work, and you are not yourself. Please, Ilya. You cannot stay here like this.”

“Ah.” Ilya understands now. Of course, Lina has enough to deal with herself, does not want Ilya still hanging around her house like a bad memory. “I’m sorry. If I can have another day or two, I will find somewhere else by then.”

“No, Ilya!” She looks shocked, squeezes at his knee with her sharp fingers in emphasis. “That is not what I meant, of course. You will always have a home here. I just meant that you need to get out and about again. I know you hate missing work — if you were well, you would never stay home like this. And what about—” she pauses, careful, then says his name as though Ilya hasn’t had it running around his head like a siren for days and days “—Shane? Your roommate? He must be wondering where you are. You always said you loved that apartment.”

“I did,” Ilya says. “But we kind of had a fight, before I went to Russia. And then another fight when I got back. He’s pissed with me. And, umm. He is moving out of the apartment, so. I guess there’s no real point in me moving back there, if he’s not going to be there.”

Lina looks at him in silence for long enough that he starts to feel uncomfortable, aware of how unwashed he is, how patchy his grown-in facial hair must be.

“You could go back and take over the lease, if you wanted? I’m sure you could find someone to move in with you, especially if you love it so much. If you want to go back to your own place, I’ll be fine. I’ll miss you, but you can come over any time.”

“I don’t know.” Ilya picks at a loose thread on his blanket. “I don’t know if it was ever about the apartment, really. It was him. Everything was about him. So if he’s gone, I don’t want to live there anymore.”

“Oh,” Lina says, and there’s a few seconds of dawning understanding and then she throws her arms around him, hard. “Oh, Ilya, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“No,” Ilya says, and swallows hard. He hasn’t cried since the day he last spoke to Shane, and he doesn’t intend to start now. “No one knew. We never told anyone.”

Ilya still doesn’t know Lina very well as a person, really — growing up, her distant kindnesses were probably the best approach, because if she had tried to be his mother, he would have hated her for it. He doesn’t know if she wanted children of her own, or why she loved his father, or how she feels now she’s facing widowhood when she’s barely forty. But she’s always on his side, and she doesn’t bullshit him, and he appreciates both of those qualities now more than ever.

“I’m glad you told me now. But who is this boy? He is cruel, to fight with you when you have lost your father.”

“No,” Ilya says. “He’s not cruel. It was me, mostly, fighting with him. He tried. He has been trying, though I think maybe that’s passing now too.”

“Do you love him?”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

It’s an unsatisfactory answer, and they both know it, but she doesn’t push.

“Okay,” she says. “Well, I’m going to make a doctor’s appointment for you now. Maybe things will not seem so bad with this boy when you are feeling better.” She squeezes his hand one more time where it lies on the blankets, and gets off the bed, lifting the tray of mostly-eaten food.

“No, don’t,” Ilya calls after her. She pauses. “Listen, no doctor, okay? Give me a few more days to get back to normal and if I’m not doing better I’ll go see someone, I swear.”

“Okay,” she says, and shrugs with just her shoulders, hands full with the tray. She leaves his bedroom door open, and Ilya can see the bathroom down the corridor. He could just go in there and run the hot water, sluice himself off. He knows it would actually make him feel better, but the door seems somehow far away.

Ilya’s felt like this before — maybe even worse than this, and for longer — and it has always passed. This will pass too, and he won’t have to spill all his grubby little sadnesses to a doctor who’ll only put him on meds that will make him feel flat and weird and maybe even make his dick not work. Most of all, he doesn’t want to have to show anyone how much of a pathetic cliché he is — to be crying like a small boy over a father who wasn’t really all that great at the job, and then to be lying in bed in semi-darkness pining over Shane, who after all did actually try his best not to let things end the way they did. Ilya is the one who let it all happen — Ilya is the common denominator, and no doctor can fix that.

His phone is lying somewhere in the blankets, and he finds it and scrolls down to his message thread with Shane, which has been buried under unanswered work stuff and a barrage of messages from people who have clearly all heard the news about Papa. There’s a few in a row from Ilya, read receipts showing that Shane has seen them. One from Shane sent a few days ago, asking how Ilya’s doing. Ilya hadn’t answered that. And then another from Shane, brief this time, asking when Ilya would like to come round and pick up his stuff. Ilya hasn’t answered that one either.

The messages before, the ones from Ilya to Shane after the last phone call, make Ilya feel sick and stupid to read through, but he does it anyway because feeling fucking terrible is at least feeling something. He remembers that at the time, he had been trying to play it cool, but he’s sure Shane must have been able to read the desperation in the words. I don’t think you should take the job is the first one, and then, not because of anything to do with me, just because I think you’re better than that. Shane never answered those, but maybe he never got a chance to, because Ilya had only left an hour or two before he texted again, saying I’m sorry I was such a shit to you, and you deserved better, which is true, but is really just a sad little echo of what Shane had said to him. Ilya can’t even come up with his own apologies. Shane had replied to that one: it’s fine, which is good, because maybe it means Shane doesn’t hate him. Ilya hadn’t known how to reply to that, and by the time Shane texted again asking how he was, Ilya’s dark cloud had descended and he wasn’t able to text anyone, or even think about anything at all.

Ilya can’t bear to scroll back any further, back to when they were still friends, or lovers. Boyfriends, Shane had said. When they were happy. When Shane would send blurry, badly-composed pictures of his terrible beverages because he knew Ilya would be appalled, and Ilya would send really good pictures of funny-looking dogs or well-dressed strangers or weird plants that he passed on his way to work, just because he knew Shane loved getting proper photos from him.

He forces himself into his message thread with Elena, because even that is less miserable than reading over Shane’s messages, seeing Shane’s tiny smile in his profile picture. Elena has sent him lots of brisk messages about various shoots she has coming up. She’s offered him first refusal on all of them. Ilya checks the date on his phone — some of the shoots will already have been assigned, since he took so long to respond, but he thinks there are a few she might not have pawned off on someone else yet. He messages her back before he has a chance to descend into the oblivion of sleep and despair again, saying he’ll take whatever she has going. She starts replying almost the second he hits send: finally and then, belatedly, hope you’re doing ok, and then back to business corner of Henri-Julien and Jean-Talon tomorrow 6am, do NOT be late.

It will get easier, Ilya knows, but for now he still feels like shit. But then the low battery warning pops up on his phone, which stops him scrolling, and his charger is over on his desk, so he has to get out of bed to plug it in. Once he’s standing he can smell himself, fresh sweat layered over ripe old sweat. The bathroom door isn’t actually that far once he’s already up and about, and he sheds his revolting clothes and steps into the shower, which he turns up too hot so he can really feel like he’s flagellating himself. He takes ages in there; he even manages to jerk off, though it’s half-hearted. He thinks of absolutely nothing at all, just relies on the wet slide of his hand and the sheer determination to feel okay. There are fresh-smelling towels on the rail, like always, and when he gets back to his room he sees Polina has left a pile of clean linens for him, all snowy white. They’re freshly ironed, which is something he never bothers to do himself. Changing the bed is almost too much, but he manages it, and by the time he sets an alarm on his phone for work tomorrow, and takes a Benadryl to help him sleep, he’s clean and nice-smelling as he climbs into the soft fresh bed.

Ilya wants to text Shane when their fight club story comes out. Shane went with La Voix for it in the end, which Ilya can admit was an inspired choice. It’s a little quirky, and the readership isn’t huge, but they have a fantastic social media presence and the monthly format makes it feel more weighty somehow. It’s upmarket, proper high fashion; Ilya’s photographs could have been tailor-made for this publication. His contributor’s copy, when it arrives in the post, has a satisfying heft to it; the cardstock is gorgeous, high gsm, uncoated. Ilya’s photos look lickable. La Voix gave them ten pages, which is more than even Shane was expecting, and they got the cover too, of course.

Ilya feels like he’s been punched himself when he sees the cover. The photo editor had chosen the one of Shane that Ilya took out on their balcony, after the time they sparred at Scott’s gym. Shane is half-smiling, dressed in his blue shorts, which are stained dark with sweat at the waist. His shirt is clinging and damp too, with just a hint of stomach showing where he slouches against the railing. It must have been towards the end of the shoot, because Shane has the face on that means he’s thinking very seriously about sex with Ilya. Seeing it in print is horrifying — it’s just as well Shane has already come out to his parents, because Ilya’s very sure they would be able to guess just from his expression. He’s looking far beyond the camera, straight at Ilya. Ilya stares at it for ages, wondering how he didn’t know that Shane was in love with him back then. It’s visible in every line of his body, every aspect of his face; he’s glowing with it.

It’s Ilya’s first national cover, and he can’t even enjoy it, because he had thought he and Shane would get to be gleeful about it together, and now they don’t even see each other. He reads the piece over and over, picturing each interview, picturing the way Shane’s mouth moved as he asked all his carefully-prepared questions. He remembers the time Shane was trying to write up his notes, and Ilya had got under his desk right there in his bedroom as he worked and blown him. He stopped every time the clack of the keyboard stopped, a prolonged torture. Afterwards, Shane had shown him the doc; it was full of gibberish where he had given up and just mashed at the keys until he came. Ilya feels like he remembers every second of working on this piece together. He knows it so intimately that it almost feels indecent to read it in his bed in Lina’s house, alone, away from wherever Shane is.

It would be bearable, maybe, if it were just things they did together that were all tainted with this sick ache of misery. But in fact, it’s everything. Even now Ilya’s back on his feet again, back to work, and eating properly, and working out, and in fact doing more freelance work than he really has time for —art directors he’s only ever heard of clamouring to work with him since the La Voix piece dropped — all he can think about is Shane, and how much he misses him. It feels like an infection of some sort, or a virus, like the time he had tonsillitis but this time it’s of the heart, and he has no Shane to fly back and nurse him through it. Shane, the cause and the cure.

Ilya texts Scott. He hasn’t seen him since he got from Russia, though at least he’s been back at the gym regularly in the past couple weeks, and he’s seen Kip a few times there. He was worried it would be weird, since Shane is still friends with them too, but Kip didn’t seem to know that he and Shane aren’t living together anymore, and was totally normal around him, which is to say Kip talked at him about some exhibition he was trying to get Scott to go to that night as he did his Bulgarian split squats, and Ilya listened while doing his own Bulgarian split squats.

Scott’s been getting a third gym off the ground, and Kip thinks he really is out of the fight clubs for good now. One of Ilya’s favourite shots of him made it into the feature — no face, just his torso from the neck down, his bare arms in a tank top, slightly askew so one nipple is exposed. He had just come off the mat after training, and he hadn’t even been posing deliberately. He just has great angles, a great body. His neck is huge, sweat shining over his Adam’s apple. It looks like a high-concept fashion shot; people will want whatever he’s selling. Ilya texts you should thank me for making you look so good and doesn’t allow himself to overthink.

Scott texts him back about twenty minutes later with a thumbs up emoji and a begrudging message of congratulations, and Ilya is forced to acknowledge that maybe everyone else really is normal about things, and it’s only Ilya who’s marooned in the middle of the catastrophe of loving Shane Hollander and not getting to have him. Maybe it’s just Ilya who is feeling not in the least bit normal, and probably never will be again.

Then, because he’s a masochist, he texts Shane. He wants to keep it light but he can’t, so instead he settles for something totally sincere but also something completely impersonal, something that anyone at all could say in this situation. story is amazing, he says. your best work.

The wait is so brief that he’s still looking at his own message when the typing bubble starts up. He watches and waits but then no message comes and Ilya puts his phone away very deliberately, goes and files his contributor’s copy on the bookshelf with all his old textbooks, because his actual collection is still on the bookshelf in his room in the apartment. Then he does something he hasn’t done since before Russia and he pulls up the calendar he shares with Shane. There’s something cleansing about giving into the pain of it, seeing nothing but Shane’s blue entries, still meticulously updated. No yellow for Ilya, and certainly no green for their shared projects, because those don’t exist anymore. Ilya allows himself to look over the entries for the whole month and feels ashamed at the relief when he sees it’s all work items. But then, Shane probably has a new calendar now where he puts his Grindr pick-ups or his family events or his nights out with Ilya’s friends who have also somehow become Shane’s friends, and who maybe do know by now that something is up, but are too kind or awkward to mention it.

Today, Shane’s at a conference. There are three neat little blue blocks tidying the next three days away: a digital media symposium in Québec City, apparently, which is just the sort of shit Shane thrives on. Probably in preparation for his new role. Probably there with Roger, networking and having to shake hands with lots of random people, holding sweaty glasses of undrunk bad wine because he’s too polite to refuse it or ask for something he actually likes to drink instead.

When Ilya wakes up the next morning, he borrows Polina’s car, which he loves because it’s loud and fast and sleek, and without allowing himself to think of it at all, he drives to the apartment. He parks outside in a guest spot, because it feels wrong to use the assigned parking now he doesn’t live here anymore. He sits in the car and hyperventilates for a few minutes, which is a weird sensation and one he appreciates the novelty of even as he’s silently panicking about whether he needs to call an ambulance. It passes, eventually, and he crosses his arms on the steering wheel and lets his head sink down into the pillow of his elbows. Polina’s leather steering wheel is warm and sweet-smelling under his cheek.

Her trunk isn’t huge but he has the whole back seat and the passenger side too. He’ll manage. First he goes down to Beau-Soir and gets a coffee for old time’s sake; when Elisabeth comes out from around the counter to hug him, she chews him out for being away for so long. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her he won’t see her anymore. She smacks him sharply on the shoulder as he leaves, and tells him to bring Shane with him in the morning for a pastry. Once he’s drunk his coffee there’s nothing else he can do to put it off, so he lets himself in the front door of the building and gets the lift up. He doesn’t meet his own eyes in the mirror. Once, after a jog, he and Shane had made out in this elevator the whole way up. Ilya had kept his eyes open the whole time, locked on their reflections in the mirror, watching Shane’s tiny shorts working their way higher up his thighs as he shoved in closer and closer to Ilya’s body.

There’s a second when he puts the key in their door that he thinks Shane might have changed the lock, but it’s just the stiff old mechanism, and he manages to jiggle it open. The apartment is quiet, lights off, everything in its place. Ilya’s sneakers and his black ankle boots are still neatly in place on the shoe rack. He hasn’t brought a case or any moving boxes, but he’ll manage with some trash bags and his suitcase. The kitchen is messier than usual, some breakfast things left out, dregs of coffee in the pot. Ilya doesn’t linger. He feels like a ghost; he feels like he’s holding his breath.

His bedroom door is shut firmly. Down the hall, Shane’s door is also shut. Ilya looks away from it, and opens his own door. The last time he was in here, Shane was in his bed, naked, still warm and pink from sleep. The last time he was in here, Ilya’s father was still alive.

Ilya’s room looks as though he could have walked out of it earlier that day. His bed is made, maybe even with fresh sheets, though he can’t quite be sure. He wishes he could remember exactly which sheets had been on the bed that day, the texture against his fingers, the colour of them under Shane’s body. The room doesn’t smell disused. Shane must have been coming in and opening the window. All Ilya’s things are here — his jackets hanging in the closet, all his nice work clothes, his toiletries and his contributor’s copies in the bookcase and his work laptop and his good camera bag. It’s like he never left.

Most of his clothes fit in the big suitcase, and he uses the small suitcase for some of his work things. After he gets those down to the car, it’s a case of filling trash bags with everything else, but it doesn’t take as long as he thought it would. He takes his Playstation, carefully untangling the cords where they’re wound around the cords of Shane’s Xbox. He’s standing in the hallway, with four trashbags leaning against the wall and an armful of Playstation games, when the door to the apartment opens.

Ilya feels an uncomfortable jolt in his chest at the sound — not just the shock of the unexpected, but a little squirmy leap of hope at the thought of seeing Shane in person again. It’s been so long.

“Oh my god,” says a voice, and it’s a woman. The light is behind her as she stands in the open door, and Ilya squints to make her out.

“It’s okay.” A man’s voice now, and a man’s outline pushing through the door towards Ilya. “It’s just Ilya. Rozanov. Right?” The man stops in front of Ilya, who can now see him properly. It’s David Hollander, and that’s Yuna by the door, in Ilya’s home— in Shane’s home.

“Hi,” Ilya says stupidly. The games held in the crook of his elbow start to slide, clattering down to the ground between their feet. “Sorry.”

“Hi, Ilya,” Yuna says, and she comes into the hallway too. She’s wearing a chic hot pink wool coat that drapes around her in a way that shows she didn’t just buy it off the rack. Ilya’s hit once more by how gorgeous she is, how intimidating. She ducks down into a crouch and starts picking up his games, wrinkling her nose as she looks at the cover of Carmageddon before she remembers to look polite again. “I hope we didn’t startle you. We weren’t expecting anyone to be here.”

“No,” Ilya says, fingers sliding over the plastic cases of the games he’s trying to gather. “I mean, yes. I did get a shock. But only because I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here either. Shane—”

“Yeah, he’s away this weekend, he’s at a conference.”

“I saw.” Ilya rushes to clarify at her raised eyebrow. “We had a shared calendar, when I lived here. He’s still updating it.”

Yuna straightens up, rubbing at her knees. Ilya’s still crouching, but he catches the moment she looks at her husband and they do the silent communication thing.

“Hey, Ilya,” Shane’s dad says. “Would you like to join us for a cup of tea?”

They sit at the kitchen table that used to be Ilya’s kitchen table. Ilya forces himself to act like a guest, so he waits while David Hollander boils the water. Yuna tidies up a bit, but then as the kettle comes to a boil she sighs and says, “Obviously we should be having coffee instead, right Ilya?” And Ilya tells her that he actually, he would prefer a coffee, even though in truth he’s already jittery from the one he drank before he came here, and also from nerves. He gets up to show her where the French press is, and the good beans, and then they set it on the table to brew, three cups waiting between them, and they all sit. It’s a bit unfortunate that the table is so small, because there’s nowhere else to look except at each other.

“So,” Yuna says, and flicks at the corner of her coaster with her thumb. It takes Ilya a second to realise that she’s nervous. “Shane mentioned that you’ve moved out.”

“I, uh. Yes. I haven’t had a chance to pack my stuff up yet, so I thought it might be easier to come here while Shane is away, keep out of his hair. I was going to leave my key, after.”

“We’re just here for a night,” David says. “I had a work event here last night, actually, and Shane said since he’s away we could take his room. I just hate hotels.”

“It’s bad luck that Shane’s away,” Ilya says. “I’m sure he would have liked to see you.” The coffee must be ready; Ilya reaches out and presses the plunger down. He pours them each a cup; the coffee is fragrant and steaming.

“So,” Ilya says. “How have you both been?”

“He told us,” Yuna says abruptly, as she reaches for her cup. “He told us about you, about you and him, that you were—”

“That we were?” Ilya feels his stomach swooping again.

“Dating?” David finishes with a note of suggestion in his voice, and Yuna sniffs.

“I’m not sure you could call it that, exactly,” she says.

“I thought,” Ilya begins, then stops again, helplessly. The cup in his hands is too hot, his palms pressed flat to the porcelain. He clears his throat and tries again. “I knew he had told you that he is— that he likes—”

“Men,” inserts David helpfully.

“Yes,” Ilya says, firmly, because it looks like they’re really having this conversation, and he will not be shy about this on Shane’s behalf. “But I didn’t realise he mentioned me.”

“He didn’t,” Yuna. “At first. But he called us last week and told us he had something else to tell us.”

“It’s been quite a month of revelations from Shane,” David says drily. Ilya laughs before he can stop himself, but David doesn’t look annoyed. He smiles back at Ilya across the table.

“What did he say about me?” Ilya looks down at his hands, the fine hairline cracks across his knuckles from the Moscow cold, the swill of the coffee in the cup. He can hear the slight fracture in the words, the wobble of his voice on the end of the question. Maybe he doesn’t actually want to know the answer.

Yuna and David do the thing where they look at each other silently again.

“Ah,” Ilya says. “That bad, huh.”

“No,” David says, and Yuna repeats it too, over him, waving her hands for emphasis.

“No,” she says. “He said you were together, and now you’re not. He said a few other things too, but—” she shoots another glance at her husband “—I think he’d probably say they were personal. But he had only good things to say about you, I promise.”

"That’s good,” Ilya says, feeling tired. His shoulder hurts where he carried too many things down to the car in one go. He’s slightly sweaty from all the packing. He wants to go home, but by that he means he wants to walk down the corridor and crawl under the bedsheets in his room in this apartment and just close his eyes. “And yes, that’s pretty much what happened. We were together, and now we’re not. Was it…” Is there a good way to ask someone’s parents if they reacted well to news of their son’s secret boyfriend, he wonders. “Was it okay? Is Shane okay?”

“He’s fine, I think.” David’s turn to chime in from over his coffee cup. “It was a pretty emotional conversation, as you can imagine. But I think he felt better afterwards. I know I certainly did. Our son, well… it sounds like you know him pretty well by now, Ilya. He internalises things. I think there was some stuff that we all really needed to air out.”

“I’m glad,” Ilya says, finding that he really means it. He wishes he didn’t — all of this would be so much easier if he could just be bitter and hateful towards Shane. “You are both very important to him.”

“Ilya,” Yuna cuts in, leaning onto her elbows across the table. “I think we owe you an apology.”

“Okay,” Ilya says carefully. “I am not sure what for?” Sometimes, his accent makes people think he understands less than he does, which can be useful in certain situations. Yuna’s expression tells him she’s not buying it.

“I’m sorry we listened to what Roger said about you.”

“Ah,” Ilya says. “Roger and I, we don’t have a good history. I think maybe he likes to give people the wrong impression about me. That’s not your fault.”

“Well, that’s very gracious of you,” David says.

“Ilya, did you know Roger Crowell and I came up together as junior reporters?” Yuna rolls her sleeves up to her elbow, already more relaxed now they’re talking. “We actually met on my first day in my first job. I wouldn’t say we were ever friends — I don’t think Roger really has many friends. He has allies, and enemies. But as it happened, we got on well. He genuinely respected me, I think, and he liked my work—”

“As he should.” Ilya is fast forgetting that he’s talking to Shane’s mom, and instead is conscious that he’s talking to Yuna fucking Hollander, who’s in the Canadian News Hall of Fame and who, even today, could probably walk into any newsroom in the country and would be hired on the spot.

“You would be surprised at the amount of people who didn’t, back then,” Yuna says. “Can you imagine what it was like, coming into journalism in the 80s? Looking like this?”

Ilya’s not sure if she’s talking about her gender, or her beauty, or her race; she gestures at her face in an unspecific way that could mean any or all of those things.

“You had a rough time?” It’s a fatuous reply but at least it’s giving her the correct opening for what she wants to say to him.

“Yes, it was rough. It was incredible at times, too, don’t get me wrong. But there was a lot of shit to deal with. Do you know how many times people suggested that instead of going into investigative reporting, I should think about working in TV? Become a news anchor, host a morning show, you’d be a role model, Yuna.”

Ilya’s pretty sure that she’d actually be a terrifyingly good morning show host, but he gets the point she’s making. Across the table, David Hollander shifts in his seat and takes a sip of his coffee, grinning into his cup as he watches his wife speak. He has the same sort of glow as Shane does when he’s proud of something, the pleased pink curve of his cheeks distracting Ilya for a painful second.

“And look, I know what Roger’s like.” Yuna taps the edge of her cup thoughtfully. “He could see I was going to be a name to watch, and he knew the optics would be good, to have a woman, an Asian woman, on his staff. I worked with him at the Metro for a couple years on and off, and he always treated me like one of the boys. And I appreciated that, which actually sounds pretty pathetic now, looking back. You get used to crumbs, I guess.”

“You made your own cake, honey, you never needed their crumbs,” David says, sliding an arm over the back of her chair, and Yuna leans with a contented sigh into his side, pressing against him. This whole nightmare conversation would be much easier if Ilya didn’t keep seeing flashes of Shane in everything his parents do.

“I guess the point I’m trying to make,” Yuna says briskly, “is that I let my history with Roger colour my impressions of you. Shane and I have had a lot of talks over the past few weeks, not just about, well, you know. The gay thing. But about the Metro, and his career, and about Roger. He made the very good point that I should never have just taken Roger’s word about you. He said I should know better.”

“I did not ask him to say that to you,” Ilya murmurs, burning with the old humiliation and maybe a little ember of triumph, too.

“Well, you should have, because I was a jerk. And worse, I was credulous. ”

“And—” her husband prompts gently.

“And I can see now why everyone at the Courier speaks so highly of you. Shane showed me some of the outtakes from the fight club collection — your work is so great. There’s an exhibition there, for sure, especially if you’re only going to be using a small selection for the story—”

She slips some reading glasses out of a little pouch on the table, begins tapping at her phone screen.

“Shane thinks this too, but I am not sure about exhibiting.” The very thought of even looking through all the photos that were taken for Shane is making Ilya’s stomach hurt. “Those photos, really they wouldn’t exist except for Shane’s story. They are not designed to stand alone.”

“Bullshit,” Yuna says briskly, looking at him over her glasses. “I mean, yes, you’ve been very clever in the way your images compliment Shane’s piece, and yes, of course the concept was Shane’s idea. But you can’t tell me that you don’t know that you’ve got a really strong, coherent series here, all on its own merits.”

“Yuna,” David says, sounding amused. “Maybe dial it back a bit? This is Ilya’s decision.”

“Oh, come on,” Yuna says. “Ilya doesn’t mind me being honest with him. ”

Ilya prods around this statement and is mildly surprised to realise that she’s right, he doesn’t mind at all. This is so clearly what she’s like when she’s comfortable — so different from the excruciating fake politeness she had met him with before.

“You are an art expert now too?” he asks her, and she laughs, unguarded. Fuck, he’s starting to like her.

“I know enough,” she says. “Seriously, you can’t just sit on this stuff, you need to capitalise on your visibility while the magazine is making waves. Do you have an agent?” She waves her phone at him. “Because I’ve got a few numbers here you could call.”

“I don’t,” Ilya says, and holds up a hand to stop her saying any more. “And I know you’re right, I should think about exhibiting. But these pictures, right now? It’s just not a good time.”

“Give the kid a break,” David tells his wife, and she wrinkles her nose at him. “Take it as a compliment, Ilya. She wouldn’t care if she didn’t think you were a big deal.”

“I just don’t like to see wasted potential,” she says. “But okay, I’ll back off. If you change your mind, will you let me know? I’d love to help if I can.”

“I’ve had a few inquiries since the magazine came out,” Ilya tells her. He hasn’t told anyone this yet, not even Elena or Marly. And not Shane, who’s the only person he really wants to tell — because he can’t tell Shane these things, ever again. “A couple of galleries, some art directors.”

“See?” David says. “He’s doing just fine on his own.”

“But I cannot do anything with these photos right now,” Ilya says. It must sound bleak, because both the Hollanders look at him in concern. “It will sound dumb, I know. And it’s a bit embarrassing to explain to you both, because it has to do with Shane.”

“Oh,” David says, and his face crumples. He can just about reach Ilya across the table, if he leans. He pats him on the upper arm gently. “I think I see what you mean now.”

“Yes.” Ilya stares fixedly into his almost-empty cup, at the speckled leavings of the coffee, because anything is better than meeting the eyes of Shane’s parents right now. “I told you it was dumb.”

“I guess you boys really did a number on each other.” David Hollander is really being unbearably kind. “Shane is miserable too, you know. Sorry, maybe you don’t want to hear any of this, but I know he feels pretty bad about how things ended between you two.”

“David,” Yuna says, cautiously. “Look, Ilya, I can’t say that this isn’t weird for us. But I really think you guys should have a proper talk.” She sighs, and Ilya hears the clink of a cup being set down. “Maybe it isn’t our place to meddle. I mean, fuck, there was so much we didn’t know about our son, this whole other life he never shared with us.”

“It wasn’t another life,” Ilya says fiercely. “It was Shane’s life, all of it, and he’s still the same person he always was. None of it was a lie. It was private, that’s all.”

“I know,” Yuna says, just as fiercely. “God, Ilya, do you think we don’t know that? We just—”

Her palm smacks off the table defeatedly.

“We just don’t want to miss out on anything else about our boy,” David says. “We dropped the ball on this, and we weren’t there for him. But we don’t want to do it again.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, and when he looks up they’re both still looking at him. “Okay, good. I know it will make him really happy to have your support.”

“You care about Shane a lot, huh?” David crosses his arms and nestles back in the chair, as though finally settling in.

“Yes.” There’s a lump in Ilya’s throat, and he swallows and swallows frantically. “He is so great.”

“He really is.” Yuna looks glowy at getting to even talk about Shane, who is so very much her favourite topic. “He thinks you’re so great too.”

“Probably not so much, now,” Ilya says. “Last time we talked, I was kind of an asshole.”

“I’m sure he’ll get over it,” Yuna says thoughtfully. “He can be kind of an asshole himself.” She shuffles in her chair, elbowing her husband. “What? It’s true, everyone’s an asshole sometimes.”

“He’ll be home in a couple days.” David waves a hand around. “And you know, this is still your place. Yuna and I can get a hotel room. You can settle back in, and we’ll be out of your hair. It’ll give you two time to talk once Shaney’s back.”

“No,” Ilya says firmly, and looks pointedly at the full trash bags waiting by the door. “Thank you, but we talked all we needed to the last time. I’d really like to have my room cleared out before he gets back. It will be, umm, less stressful for him, I think, if he does not have to be here for it.” He nods at them and gets up to bring his coffee cup to the dishwasher. “And of course, if he is moving to a new place, he’ll want to have this one cleared out soon.”

The Hollanders don’t say anything about that, and when Ilya chances a glance over, he can see them communicating in that unconscious wordless way they have. David Hollander has very eloquent eyebrows, like his son.

“Well, okay then,” David says, as they both get up and start clearing the table. “This isn’t any of our business, I know that. Sorry if we’ve overstepped. Again.” He comes over to the counter and gets the spray cleaner out. “I’ll just give the kitchen a wipe down, and then we can help you pack the rest of your stuff. If we all pitch in and give ‘er a go, we can be done by lunchtime.”

“I don’t want to disturb you,” Ilya says, but David makes a swatting motion at him and gestures at the trashbags, so Ilya does as he’s told and gets on with the packing.

Between the three of them they track down all of Ilya’s stuff — not just the things in his room, but all the little parts of his life that had strayed around the apartment, books that had migrated onto the living room bookshelf, his wet weather gear, which is tangled up with Shane’s in the clean laundry basket, at least two camera lenses that he’d left in the living area so they’d be close to hand if he was shooting. He’s pretty sure more things of his are in Shane’s room, but he considers the closed door and then chickens out. Shane can dump it all in the trash, if he wants.

“Come on,” David says, and he grabs a pile of bags by the necks and heads for the stairs. It’s like a careful game of Tetris but the two of them get Polina’s car packed tight and they manage to fit everything in, just about.

“Nice car,” Yuna says, and pats the hood. “Not great in the snow, I’ll bet, that rear-wheel drive. But it looks good.”

“It is not mine,” Ilya says. “Not on a Courier salary.”

They all look at each other then. It’s time.

“Okay,” Ilya says, and brushes his hands together, keeping things business-like. He’s been pathetic enough for one day; at least he can leave the Hollanders with a modicum of dignity intact. “Thank you both for the help. It was nice to meet you both properly.”

“You too,” Yuna says, and gives him a supremely awkward hug that he’s not expecting, so he just stands there with his arms pinned to his side as she squeezes him. “I’m really glad I got to tell you how sorry I am about Christmas. Thank you for being nice about how shitty I was to you.”

“I get it. I know it was weird for you to see me with Shane. You must have wondered what he was doing with me.”

“You know what?” Yuna pulls back and looks at him thoughtfully. “I might have wondered at first, but now I’ve met you, it makes perfect sense.”

Her phone buzzes and she pats at her back pocket, grabbing for it. She heads back inside to take the call. David blows into his cupped hands. Ilya’s fucking freezing too, all the warmth he’d built up carrying his stuff down dissipating in the frigid air.

“Be safe on those roads,” David says, and taps the roof of the car. “And, hey, Ilya.”

He pauses, looking embarrassed, fronds of steam trailing from his mouth in the cold. It reminds Ilya that he would love a cigarette right about now.

“Look.” David starts talking hurriedly. “Shane told me about your dad. And— I was just a little younger than you when I lost my own Pops. It was a pretty rough time. Just, take care of yourself, won’t you? Eat, sleep, all that good stuff.”

There’s a terrible moment where Ilya feels like he might be about to lose it, but he clears his throat a few times and masters himself. “I will,” he manages. “And I know he probably doesn’t want to hear from me but. I hope everything goes really well for Shane, with the new job and the new apartment. He deserves the very best.” He kicks Polina’s tire with the side of his sneaker, just for something to do, and then he gets the driver’s door open. “I really do mean that.”

“I know you do,” David says. He’s looking at llya strangely, like Ilya has upset him, but he still sounds friendly. “Listen, I really think you should call him.”

“Okay, maybe I will,” Ilya says, lying through his teeth, and he lowers himself into the car. David shuts the door carefully and gives the roof another farewell tap. Ilya turns the engine on and then blasts both the hot air and the music, so that he can’t hear or feel anything other than the throb of the bass through the seat, in his feet, through his palms where they rest on the steering wheel. His mouth is dry and cottony, and his eyes are dry too. He blinks and blinks out of the windshield and guns the engine. As he exits the parking lot he checks his rearview and David Hollander is still standing out front of the apartment block, one hand raised, watching Ilya pull off into the distance.

Ilya heads straight to the Wendy’s drive-thru on Boulevard Décarie, because fuck it. He orders a Double de Dave and fries with a chocolate Frosty, and then he grabs the last spot in the parking lot, Polina’s wheels crunching over hummocks of compacted snow as he backs in. He dips his fries in the Frosty, and then he eats his burger steadily, barely tasting it. He leaves the window cracked so he can hear the traffic rushing along Highway 15, fingers going numb as he eats.

A text comes through when he’s balling up his trash, fingers still clammy with grease.

what the fuck did you say to my parents? Shane asks, and then another message comes through straightaway. i don’t need them giving me shit about you right now.

He must be able to see that Ilya is reading his messages, and then the typing bubble pops up again, but no message arrives for ages. Ilya sits in his fry-scented car the whole time, the ball of trash in one hand and his cellphone in the other.

they’re right though shane says next. it is your home too, you shouldn’t have to move out.

Ilya thinks for ages about what he wants to say back. When he starts typing, his fingers are slow and clumsy, prodding at the screen one-handed.

I don’t want to live there anymore he says. not without you

Shane’s reply takes so long to come through that Ilya thinks maybe he isn’t actually going to respond. Ilya’s already gotten out and dumped the trash, and is back in the car with the engine running, when the phone pings.

yeah it doesn’t feel great there for me either.

Ilya hits call before he lets himself think too much about it. Shane picks up half a ring in. His voice is hushed.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m at lunch, it’s a conference. There’s a buffet. You’d like it.”

Shane would have sent Ilya a picture of it, before. Ilya refuses to think about that.

“I’ve eaten,” he says. “How are you?”

“Oh,” Shane says distantly. “You know. You?”

“Yes,” Ilya says. There’s silence for a bit; Ilya likes to think he can hear Shane breathing but of course he can’t, though Shane is still there, quietly waiting at the other end of the line.

“My mom said you guys had a nice time this morning,” Shane says eventually.

“It was… a good talk. They are pretty nice people, your parents.”

“Yeah,” Shane says. “And you got all your stuff, Mom said. That’s just great.” His laugh is humourless.

“I thought it would be easier,” Ilya says. The engine growls, vibrating through the car, and he switches it off again. “This way you don’t have to see me again.”

“Don’t give me that shit,” Shane says bitterly, voice rising. There’s a pause as he masters himself, and when he speaks again, he keeps the volume low. “I never said I don’t want to see you again. I’ve tried to see you, I called round, I asked you to meet me so many times. I would have fucking helped you move out, if you really wanted to go. You’re the one who doesn’t want to see me.”

“What would be the point?” Ilya is alone in the car, so Ilya can shout, and he does. It feels good, sitting inside with the windows rattling as a truck roars past, Ilya’s throat scratching. “We fucked it up, Shane. We both said some terrible shit. Why prolong the misery?”

“You’re just a fucking coward.” Shane doesn’t even sound angry now. “So what, we said some shit. People do that, they say dumb shit all the time. We can be… sorry. And we can, I don’t know, make up for it, or whatever. We could try, at least.”

“I am fucking trying, Hollander. I gave you all the space you need, you have the whole fucking apartment now.”

“Oh, yeah, thanks a fucking million,” Shane spits. Then Ilya can hear murmuring in the background and Shane saying hurriedly to whoever is there with him, “Okay, okay, j'arrive dans une seconde.” Then he says aloud to Ilya again, “I really have to go. I just— I’m glad you called.”

“Me too,” Ilya says. Maybe that’s not quite true, because it hurts, so much. But then, everything hurts anyway. He might as well be listening to Shane’s voice while it does. “I would like it if we could be friends.”

“Friends?” Shane’s voice swoops on the word. He sounds a little hysterical; he’d better dial it back a bit, or people will know there’s something wrong. Ilya realises he doesn’t have a clue who Shane is with, or even what the event is — it just said conference on the calendar, steady blocked-off blue. “What the fuck, Ilya, friends? Fuck you, I—” He snorts then, and for the first time in maybe weeks Ilya is treated to the sound of his genuine laugh, the old one, the normal one. It’s slightly muffled, and Ilya knows he’s rubbing at his face, like he always did when he was trying to get a hold of himself. “You know what? Fuck it. Friends, yeah, why not.”

“We were friends before.” It’s important that Ilya is the sensible one here; Shane is better off at a distance, an easy just-beyond-armslength, because their intimacy was dragging them both under.

“We were. Jesus. Okay, Rozanov, friends it is. So, does this mean I’ll be seeing you on Friday night? You got the invite from La Voix?”

“The launch? Sure, I got the invite, but— It’s your story, your big night.”

“Yeah, and they’re your photos. Obviously you have to be there, asshole, the place will be full of ADs and they’ll be lining up around the block to talk to you. But I had thought we’d just go and ignore each other for the night. Now I know we’re going to be friends, we can hang out. We’ll have to network obviously, but we can cut loose a little too. Lots of the guys from work are going, Jackie’s taking the kids to her moms so Hayden’s got the night off. And my parents said they’d come up for it too.”

“Oh, well, if my friends David and Yuna are going—”

“Sure, you guys can get together and shit-talk me again.”

“Makes a pleasant change from them shit-talking me.”

In the background of Shane’s call, there’s the sudden smattering of applause, a swell of polite laughter. Ilya’s windscreen is getting cloudy. He turns the key and hits the button for the warm air.

“Okay, well, I gotta go here,” Shane says. “They’ve started already, I need to get back in.”

“Busy busy,” Ilya says. “Okay, well. Good talk, Shane. I will see you Friday. Tell Pike to wear something pretty.”

“He always does.” For a second it’s all almost like normal again, fuck. “Okay, Ilya. See you then, buddy.”

“Fuck you, Hollander, I’m not your buddy,” Ilya says, fucking gleeful with the sweetness of just getting to play with Shane again, and Shane’s laughing as he cuts him off. The parking lot has emptied out while they were talking; it’s just Ilya now, sitting in Lina’s low, purring car, leather seat heating up under him as the warm air circulates. She must be wondering where he is, so he puts the car into drive and eases it out into traffic, heads in what his brain still persists in telling him is the wrong direction, away from Shane’s apartment, towards Polina’s house. He has a whole carload of shit to unpack.

Chapter End Notes

ETA 9th October: if you're reading this now and wondering where the final chapter is, it is nearly done! I have about 10k written and 1.5 smallish scenes to finish. I'm working on it every spare moment (i don't have many spare moments right now, is the problem). All my energy and time are going on writing but as soon as this fic is done I'm so looking forward to properly replying to comments. Please know i love you all, getting to hear from people who are reading this fic feels like such a privilege and is the best part of my day any day.

There's a scene I wrote in a fugue state just before i hit post, which is unbetaed — if you see any errors, no you didn't. (Actually, if you did see something that can be changed, let me know haha).
It was my birthday this week :))) and though I had a very very nice day, i have also been having one of those stupid grown-up weeks, when everything feels difficult and boring and expensive and is full of petty little unpleasantnesses. I have been holding onto this chapter in my heart and really trying to make it work in terms of their own petty unpleasantnesses and small cruelties, I hope you think it is okay.
I know I've been posting twice a week so far, but I think it'll probably be a little longer than that before the final chapter is up — I'm hoping to get it up within the week, but it's the one chapter that I hadn't fully written before I started posting, and it also needs to be what my brain determines is Absolutely Perfect:tm: so I just want to give it that little bit of space without worrying about getting it up in a few days.
Massive thanks to the lovely Imeon, who has been so patiently and kindly giving me proper Montréal info, and helping me with my Québécois French.

Finally, please enjoy some WIPs that I have been absolutely bate into:

first, lark_ral's A Nice Man in Montreal, which is so atmospheric and full of richness and texture, as well as being an absolute joy of a nuanced character study of Shane in particular.

Defending Your Life by kapricity has the most delightful, achy premise (with the promise of a happy ending) and manages to be so warm and full of life and love despite being set after death (reminder re the happy ending). This is a new read for me and I'm so enjoying catching up with the action!

And finally, Hockey Sense by mcshrug — just look at the tags, need I say more? give me a bit of magic with my hockey any day of the week and I will be a happy guy!

Thank you for all the truly incredible comments, which I read and savour.

Chapter 10: I'll Squeeze into Heaven and Valentine

Chapter Summary

Get loved, Ilya Rozanov.

Chapter Notes

The album Ilya's Uber driver is listening to is Green by Hiroshi Yoshimura, which always makes me feel keyed up.

Ilya's toast is loosely translated, he's feeling sentimental about being an orphan so he chooses this one. I used smug's workskin tutorial so you should be able to hover over the Cyrillic to see the English translation.

Ilya can’t work out if being friends with Shane is worse than fighting with him. It doesn’t feel like being friends with him used to feel before they starting hooking up — that had been easy, the easiest thing that had ever happened to Ilya, really.

This time round there’s pain, and the pain is persistent; it’s not the can’t-get-out-of-bed bleakness, thankfully, but it’s always there, aching away. Maybe it’s going to be forever, like Ilya’s badly set broken arm, throbbing inconveniently even when he’s not thinking about it.

Shane is taking being friends seriously, the same way he does everything else. He texts Ilya regularly, but never too often, and he’s warm without being personal, and never blunt. Ilya is polite in return, even when he wants to snap and say to Shane, who the fuck are you these days. It’s like they really are work colleagues, like they like each other a totally normal amount. It’s bad, so bad that Ilya feels split open whenever he looks at his phone and sees a new notification from Shane, but it’s better than when he didn’t get to talk to Shane at all.

hey man Shane texts him during the week. obviously you moved out so you probably won’t care but technically you paid rent up to the end of the month so can i just check something with you?

He doesn’t wait for Ilya to reply before sending the rest of the ask. my parents are coming into town for the launch. would it be cool if they stayed over here?

of course Ilya replies, straight away. He doesn’t feel he can say that actually, he does care — he does, but only because he misses his old room nearly as much as he misses Shane. He feels strangely lonely for everything about it — the sense of being up so high; the way his window frame captured the sky; even the mattress, much more comfortable than his own economical double at Polina’s.

But if he’s not there then of course Yuna and David should be welcome to stay, in the room they had helped him clear and which he had left stripped bare and clean, the door wide open, when he left for good, so he texts back to say it’s fine. Shane replies thanks man, which makes Ilya want to grind his teeth, so instead he sends back a thumbs up and goes for a long, sweaty, unsatisfying run.

Ilya keeps getting emails from art directors who want to introduce themselves in advance of the launch, and who are all really looking forward to getting to talk to him in person, apparently. Elena, who agrees fervently with Yuna Hollander that he needs to ride the wave of his current popularity, is genuinely a bit mad at him for not finally quitting the Courier completely and going freelance. Maybe she’s right, but going out on his own feels like a too-big thing in a relentless flooding current of other big things that Ilya can’t deal with right at this moment. And anyway, the Courier has been good to him, and covering the Wednesday night game means Ilya’s out of the house and busy for a whole evening. Watching the Voyageurs lose in a lacklustre fashion while trying to get a few good shots of the action, such as it is, takes up some much-needed mental energy, and at least brings him one night closer to Friday and seeing Shane, which he feels sick and excited about in actually pretty unequal measures.

It turns out a lot of people want to come to the launch party. La Voix only does a launch for one issue a year, so this is a big deal. Ilya’s got a plus one on his invitation, but these things are flexible, so he invites all the guys from work, and they say they’ll come. Sveta can’t take time off again so soon, but she sends him a care package of some expensive, great-smelling hair cream, a pair of cashmere socks, a 36-pack of Trojans, and a bottle of vodka. Everything you need for a special night, the card says.

Marly is coming over before the party; they’re going to go together. Ilya mentions it to Polina, because it’s her house, after all, and when she hears about the launch she gets very excited and immediately books in with her hair stylist for Friday morning. He hadn’t realised that she’d think he was asking her to the launch — hadn’t imagined she’d be interested in going. But now he can’t correct her without hurting her feelings, and he realises he doesn’t actually want to. He wants her to be there, he wants her to feel proud of him.

“Listen,” he says to her over dinner the night before. “You’re going to meet Shane tomorrow, and I would like you to be nice to him, okay? He and I are friends now.”

She makes an agreeable murmuring sound in response, her fork clinking genteelly off her plate, and then her outrage gets the best of her and she says what she really thinks.

“Anyone with eyes can see that you’re still crazy about him.” She brandishes a forkful of pork shank at him from across the table. “And I think he must be either very stupid or very cruel to have finished with you the way he did. But you say he’s not cruel. So are you sure you want to be friends with someone so dumb?”

“I just want to know, are you going to be polite to him tomorrow night, or do I have to keep you away from him?” Ilya gives her a look.

“Don’t you dare! I have been itching to meet this guy. I’m looking forward to seeing what makes him so special, that he can just let you slip through his fingers.”

“It’s all in the past,” Ilya says, lying through his mouthful of pork, and steering away from the fact that really, it was Ilya who let Shane slip away. Shane doesn’t let things go unless he’s forced to. “It will only make things worse to keep going over it. So you—” He points at her, and then does the zipping motion over his mouth.

“For your sake,” Polina says, “I will be perfectly polite.”

“I think you’ll like him,” Ilya tells her. “He really is very nice.”

“I am reserving judgement,” Polina says, and refills her wine glass, then pushes the bottle over to Ilya. “But I’m glad at least that you are going to the party. I would not want to miss your big night.”

It’s actually nice, seeing how excited Lina is. And there’s no point in dwelling on the fact that they wouldn’t be talking about the launch, or even be here having dinner together, if a whole fucking line-up of bad things hadn’t happened. Ilya’s father would not have come to the launch; Ilya would not have mentioned the launch to him in the first place. But maybe this is the silver lining people talk about, Ilya’s relationship with Polina the good thing that came out of all the shit of the last few months.

There’s a text from Shane waiting when Ilya checks his phone after dinner.

Roger’s not coming tomorrow night he says. in case you were worrying about me inviting the guys from work.

Ilya has never even once considered that Roger Crowell is what Shane might call one of the guys from work, but he appreciates the reassurance anyway. And of course, Roger probably is one of Shane’s guys from work, now Shane’s middle-management. That thought isn’t very pleasant, so Ilya doesn’t linger on it; being disappointed in Shane is a new feeling, and not a nice one, after admiring him for so long, and respecting his work so much. And now that Ilya knows Shane, he knows that he is, in a way that has become very boringly important to Ilya, a good person. But even Shane’s brand of journalistic integrity will probably have to be dropped somewhere on the climb up the greasy, greasy ladder of the Metro, because there certainly isn’t space for it at the top.

Marly arrives early, while Ilya is in the shower. When Ilya comes out of the bathroom, still dripping and wrapped in his towel, he hears the sound of laughing from downstairs. Once he’s dressed he goes in search of the source of the noise. Marly is sitting on the sofa with Polina. They’re drinking red wine, a bottle open on the coffee table between them. Polina’s in a very sparkly dress and shoes that look dangerous, her hair bouncing in huge shiny waves down her back; Ilya thinks, for about the millionth time, how strange it is that such a hot woman fell in love with his father. Ilya is touched to see that Marly’s in a jacket with an open-neck shirt under it. His own black silk shirt feels a bit plain now he sees them all dressed up.

“Rozy!” Marly practically jumps off the sofa so he can hug Ilya. “It’s been too fucking long.” He holds onto Ilya for a long time, and it feels so good to be back with him and seeing his big happy face that Ilya starts feeling wobbly again, sniffing a lot to try and stave off even the threat of tears.

“Looking good, Marly. You dressed up nice for me?”

Marly lets go of Ilya so he can do a spin, jacket tails flying out behind him. “You know it, my man. Couldn’t have you showing me up like usual. Especially now I’m back on the market.”

“You and Cynthia?” Fuck, Ilya had been hoping this might happen, but though Marly and Cyn seemed to argue most of the time, they’d never got to this point before.

“Yeah, man. We had a rough time over the holidays and I woke up one day and just thought, fuck it. You know? You only have one life.”

“How’d Cynthia take it?”

“About as well as you’d fucking expect.” Marly sighs heavily. “Put it this way, I don’t think I’ll be on the Christmas card list.”

Ilya studies him properly. Now Ilya’s really looking, he thinks that maybe Marly looks a bit thin, and definitely tired, though there’s something looser in him too. He looks happy.

“We will get you back in the saddle tonight,” Ilya tells him. “Best way to get over someone is to get under someone new. And we can’t let that sharp suit of yours go to waste.”

“You should take your own advice,” Polina says sweetly, and gets up to give Ilya kisses. “And speaking of getting back in the saddle, is that what you’re wearing tonight?”

“Okay, wow.” Ilya plucks at his shirt. “There is something wrong with this?”

“It’s not very special.” Polina looks at him with narrowed eyes. “I’ll think about it while I finish my make-up. Cliff, make him have a drink while I’m gone, okay?”

Marly goes to the coffee table, where the bottle of vodka Sveta sent is sweating, and pours llya a shot.

“So,” Marly says, and Ilya knocks the shot back fast, the better to anticipate the fact that Marly is about to be nice to him in person about his dad, though he’s already sent Ilya about a thousand fucking texts since Russia. “I’m so fucking sorry, man. How are you holding up?” He pats Ilya gently on the stomach. “You’re looking good, man. Fit as a fiddle, I tell ya.”

“It was either get back to working out or become one with my bed forever,” Ilya tells him.

“That bad, huh?”

“Eh.” Ilya shrugs, flicks a finger at the vodka bottle to catch a winking drop of condensation. “Could have been worse.”

“Sure,” Marly says, and pours another shot into Ilya’s glass. His lips have a bruised tinge from the red wine, and he clinks his glass off Ilya’s. “Let’s have a toast. I won’t even try your Russian one, man. So, uh, cheers to you, I guess?”

“За родителейTo parents,” Ilya says, choosing a different one to his usual toast, because Marly won’t notice anyway.

“Right, that’s the one,” Marly says. “Whatever you say, man, I’ll drink to that!”

They do drink, Marly swilling the wine around in his mouth and Ilya swallowing down the one clean pour.

“So,” Ilya says, and together they sit on the sofa, so Ilya can nudge Marly’s knee with his foot. “How are you, really?”

“I’m actually good, man.” Marly sighs, looking into his glass. “You know, I don’t think people who love each other are meant to fight as much as me and Cyn did. Love and shit like that, it should be easier, you know? My mom always said it was like slipping into a warm bath.”

Ilya hasn’t had a bath since Shane — he measures everything that way now, before Shane and after Shane — and he remembers the floating feeling, the scorching pleasure of being enveloped, Shane’s firm fingers in his hair.

“Yeah,” he says, and he thinks he keeps the loneliness out of his voice.

“So, uh—” Marly fiddles with the stem of his wine glass, turning it so the liquid sloshes side-to-side. “This is a nice place. You’re not roomies with Holly anymore? You back here for good?”

“Jesus, Marly, tonight is meant to be a party. You want a house tour instead?”

Marly is always so fucking steady that it’s hard to put him off his game. He looks at Ilya over the rim of his glass as he takes another gulp of wine and then nods as though confirming something to himself. “Yeah, Holly kind of freaked out when I asked him about you, too. You guys have a fight?”

“What are you talking about?” Ilya kicks at Marly’s knee again, motioning for the bottle. Marly sighs and leans over to grab it, hands it to him.

“I’m just saying, man.” Marly pats Ilya’s ankle. “You living here all of a sudden, Holly acting fucking weird and looking like he’s seen a ghost every time someone mentions you. Where are we meant to go for poker night now?”

“Not your place anyway, it’s a shithole,” Ilya answers automatically. “We can have poker night here. Polina wouldn’t mind, and it’s bigger than Shane’s apartment anyway. You have seen him recently?”

“You haven’t?” Marly’s eyebrows go up and up. “He told us his news.”

“About the job?”

“Job?” Marly raises his eyebrows. “Nah, man, I was talking about him being, you know—” He makes the sort of unambiguous gesture that would get him hauled into HR if he pulled it out at work. “Gay.”

“He told you that?” Ilya feels a rushing in his head, face and ears and neck all raging hot.

“Yeah, and don’t worry, he said you already knew. I know he’s not fully, like, out out. He just told some of the guys and me, said he wanted his friends to know.”

“Everyone was good with it?”

“Obviously.” Marly looks touchingly offended. “He looked like he was about to throw himself off the balcony when he was telling us, though, I think he was scared we were going to give him shit about it. But he was all good once he finally came out with it — I mean, you know Hollander, he just needs someone to tell him to unclench.”

“Mmm,” Ilya says unconvincingly, his traitorous brain flashing with images of the time he had lain under Shane, inside him, Shane flexing tight around his dick until Ilya was almost at the point of tears. Ilya had begged, begged him to unclench so he could fuck him properly, but Shane had just held him down and refused to move, breathless and bright-eyed when he told Ilya he was too full, Ilya was too big. It was just a game, of course, Shane so delighted with himself at getting to play, the two of them still on the same team, complicit in the make-believe of it all.

“I said to Holly, I have the perfect guy for him,” Marly goes on, looking happy with himself. “You know Michel, from my male voice choir? He’s a cool guy and he’s into dudes and he has the voice of an angel. But Holly said he’s not looking for anything right now. I think he appreciated the thought, though.”

“Don’t fucking set him up with Michel, Jesus, Marly. Hollander would not cope with someone who thinks karaoke is a competitive sport.” Ilya feels sick at the thought of Shane sitting in some bar watching Michel do his admittedly heart-wrenching rendition of I Dreamed a Dream.

“I did kinda wonder,” Marly says, and then he mutters fuck it under his breath and knocks back the rest of his wine. He’s not meeting Ilya’s eyes. “If maybe you’d like me to put in a good word with Hollander for you. Since you play for both sides, and all.”

“Marly, fuck.” Ilya feels an irrational wave of possession roar through him. He doesn’t need Marly putting in a good word for him; he bagged Shane all on his own. “Why the fuck would you say that?”

“I dunno, man. Hollander’s hot, you know? Also, I guess because you seemed to spend a lot of time sneaking off to suck each other’s dicks before, and you both seem pretty sad that you’re not doing that anymore.”

The rushing feeling is back, Ilya teetering on a cliff-edge of shock at Marly’s words.

“Did Shane tell you that?” It’s a whisper, it’s a croak. It's also Ilya swallowing down what he really wants to say, which is that yes, he sucked Hollander’s dick, more times than he can count, and sometimes he feels so sad that he’ll never get to do it again that it’s hard to get out of bed in the morning.

“Nah, man. I just notice things sometimes, that’s all. Do you wanna talk about what happened with you guys?”

“We’re friends,” Ilya says, and it’s such a useless, empty thing to say about Shane that his eyes feel like they’re stinging. Marly is looking at him now, nothing but kindness there. “We were— But we’re not— We’re friends, Marly, and it’s fucking killing me. I can’t talk about it, I can’t do anything about it. I just have to get through it, okay? Can we just, I don’t know, fuck, forget the whole thing ever happened?”

“I don’t think that’s what you really want, buddy.” Marly leans forwards and grips Ilya’s knee tight, squeezing encouragingly. “But you can talk to me, man, that’s what I’m saying. About anything.”

“I know.” Ilya hears himself sniffle, pathetic. “And I’m fine, okay? These things happen. Shane is a good guy, it just didn’t work out.”

“So we’re both pathetic single guys who’ve just had our hearts broken,” says Marly, and Ilya smacks him on the arm so he lets go of Ilya’s knee with one last squeeze.

“You haven’t had your heart broken, you lying piece of shit,” Ilya says. “Look at you, you’re happier than you’ve been in years.”

“Yeah.” Marly’s grin starts growing, irrepressible. “I just felt like it would be a dick move of me to actually say it when you’re going round like the living embodiment of a fucking Adele song, man.”

“You are such an asshole,” Ilya tells him, just as Polina comes in, in perfect time to give Ilya shit for being rude to their guest.

“Here,” she says, and drags Ilya up off the couch. She’s got a shirt on a hanger, and she shoves it into Ilya’s arms. “Put this on.”

Ilya does, right there in the living room, turning away for modesty when both Marly and Polina wolf whistle as he strips. The shirt is light and cool, and smells chemical-clean, as though it’s never been worn.

“It’s too big for me,” Polina says briskly. Whatever she’s done to her eyes has made them look very big and bright and sort of fluttery. She’s studying Ilya carefully as he buttons the shirt up, and bats his hands away when he reaches the middle of his chest. “Enough! See, I knew it would be perfect. Cliff, what do you think?”

Cliff whistles again, but it’s an admiring kind of whistle.

“Yeah, you’re a knock-out, Rozy. Very fancy.”

Ilya looks at himself in the mirror over the fireplace. The shirt is white with a leopard-print design, just the right side of trashy. The fabric is smooth and feels like air against his skin. He looks like himself in it, but a much better version than he’s felt recently.

“It’s perfect,” he says. “Thank you, Lina.”

Ilya pauses for a cigarette when he steps out of the taxi. It’s so cold he already can’t feel his face, and he shelters at the corner of the building and watches as Marly helps Lina out of the car. She’s wrapped in a fur coat that’s probably fake, and the fluff of it reaches her ears. She looks excited, though she must go to fancy parties all the time. She says she’s too cold to have a cigarette, which is a habit she indulges in infrequently but with relish; but she does take a couple drags of Ilya’s before they all get too cold and have to head indoors.

The party is being held somewhere painfully trendy, of course. It’s an underground bar, hidden away beneath an innocuous-looking restaurant. To get in, they have to go down some steps and through an underground tunnel, which is lit to its vaulted ceiling with coloured lights. Marly is smiling wide, his teeth glowing purple then green then pink as the lights change. Ilya must look the same. The night feels electric, like nights out used to, for the first time since before Shane, since before Papa. Polina holds Ilya’s arm, all padded up against him in her fur.

There’s a DJ, though the music is still unobtrusive; these nights are always all business at the start, so there’s a low buzz of conversation, and Ilya sees about twenty faces he recognises as he enters the room. The walls are old stone and there’s glass and steel everywhere. Wait staff stand around with platters of champagne, cocktails studded with fruit jewels, bottles of Corona with lime winking out of the necks; the magazine has kept to the fight club theme, and all the servers are in skin-tight singlets and short shorts. They are all gorgeous, and they look deeply bored and perfectly unapproachable, as is traditional for magazine launch catering staff.

“Jesus,” Marly says, and then Ilya is faced with a huge picture of Shane — Ilya’s own portrait of him, the one from the magazine cover, blown up huge and printed matte on heavy cardstock and hung on the wall, lit from below. The quality and detail are extraordinary. Ilya could probably count Shane’s individual leg hairs below the blue shorts. God, it’s a fucking gut punch to see him like this again, larger than life. Ilya catalogues the slight swell of stomach under his sweat-stained shirt, the inviting dark gap between his slightly open lips, the look in his eyes, the curve of palm where Ilya had caught the twitch of his fingers as he began to reach out.

“Wow, this is like my worst fucking nightmare come to life,” says a voice from beside Ilya. When he turns, Shane is there, staring in horror at his enormous photo counterpart. “Fuck, why I am eight feet tall? Are they insane? I’m literally standing right here looking at myself.”

“You’re on the cover of the fucking magazine, Shane, of course you’re going to be on display,” Ilya tells him. Shane in person is somehow more high-definition than the photo, which has had its levels adjusted to perfection, every trick of lighting both natural and learned brought to bear on it. But beside Ilya, Shane’s real face is a perfect collection of lines and curves; Ilya needs to stop looking at him, but instead he’s standing there staring, hands jammed in his pockets to stop himself reaching out and grabbing. When Shane turns to Ilya, he’s just as devastating face-on. His eyes are very dark, the lashes catching shadows as he blinks at the poster once more then looks at Ilya, straight into his eyes.

“Hi,” he says, and pats Ilya on the shoulder as though he’s a horse. “Good to see you, man.”

“Is it?” Ilya can still feel the touch, though Shane has taken his hand back.

“Yeah,” Shane says, and then he glances at Ilya’s mouth — possibly without even knowing he’s doing it, Ilya can’t work it out. “I’m always happy to see my friends.”

This asshole, Ilya thinks in disbelief, but Shane is watching him bright-eyed, the beginnings of a laugh hidden in the way his lips are pressed together, inviting Ilya in on the joke, if it’s a joke, which… it must be a joke. Ilya starts smiling back at him, muscle memory, and for a second all the hurt of the past few weeks is diluted into a weak ineffectual wash of feeling, totally drowned out by the flood of familiarity that smiling into Shane’s face brings with it.

There’s a little flurry of noise, jolting them, and then Marly and Polina are there, and at the same time Scott and Kip arrive, so it’s a confusion of handshakes and hugs, none of them knowing who the others are and Ilya the only common link between them all.

He introduces Polina to Shane and watches as Shane takes her in, almost as tall as he is, her long pale throat, the dress sparkling like a disco ball, the impossible shoes. Ilya can see Shane mentally reclassifying his definition of ‘grieving widow’ as Polina shakes his hand without a trace of enthusiasm, and then draws him across the circle to talk to him more closely. Ilya shoots her a glare, though she’s definitely ignoring him on purpose.

“There’s a fight tonight, so we can’t stay long,” Kip begins, and kisses Ilya on both cheeks. He smells like alcohol, and is holding a glass of champagne in each hand.

“Which is just as fucking well,” Scott says, “because why is there a giant close-up of my nipple on the wall over by the toilets?”

“It’s not just a photo of your nipple,” Kip says, and gulps at his champagne. “It’s of the whole—” He waves his glass up and down Scott’s torso dreamily. “And I want it, when the launch is over. Ilya, you can work your magic, right? Tell them you need it for your archives or something. I’m going to put it on the ceiling over the bed.”

“The fuck you will,” Scott says, but he’s smiling despite himself, and he puts a hand on Kip’s lower back for a second, pressing against him.

“I will do my best,” Ilya says, and Kip whisks him around the room to look at all the photos on display. La Voix has made some strong selections — as well as Scott, there’s Greg in his singlet against a textured wall of greenery, pink and white orchids spilling around him; the shoot at the old gas station that reminds Ilya so much of his mama; a close-up of an injured mouth, this one printed in high gloss so the blood looks wet. Ilya’s headshot is up too, with a short bio, but everyone seems to know who he is already. He’s already got about fifteen business cards in the pocket of his jeans; there are art directors here from all over the country, and they all want to talk to him. Some gallerists too, and then Yuna and David come to say hello, and all the guys from work are there, taking advantage of the free bar, and some of Shane’s friends too, all of them hugging Ilya and slapping him on the back and so transparently pleased for him and Shane that Ilya relaxes fully into the evening. But the whole time, no matter who he’s with, Ilya is burningly conscious of Shane across the room, circulating just like he is, being talked to by editors and agents and book publishers.

There are no speeches; because La Voix likes to be different, they simply pause the music and dim the lights and then a flashing sideshow of Ilya’s photos leaps into life on a blank wall, the images pulsing and vivid. Into the silence comes Shane’s voice, reading snippets from his interviews. Even the bored servers look interested. Ilya stands alone against the wall at the back of the room. He’s embarrassed and thrilled all at once; he kind of wants to cry, actually, but for the first time in ages, it’s not sad tears.

“I wish they’d gotten someone else to do the voiceover.” Shane is at Ilya’s elbow again, speaking low so as not to disturb the audio. “I sound so fucking stupid.”

“Everyone hates their own voice,” Ilya tells him. “Except me, I sound great.”

“You sound like the bad guy’s sidekick in an early Bond film,” Shane tells him, and Ilya just has time to gasp and put a hand to his heart before the slideshow ends and double spotlights waver around room, searching for him and Shane then pinning them in place against the exposed stone. Everyone is cheering, and those loud whistles are definitely coming from the newspaper boys, and from behind the dazzle of the lights Ilya can make out both Polina and David Hollander wiping their eyes.

Then the room lights go up again, and Ilya and Shane are left standing there, blinking.

“Hey,” Shane says. “I have something for you.”

“Like a gift?”

“No, like, just giving you back something that’s yours.” Shane looks around at the crowd. “Here, before we get dragged off to talk to people again.”

He reaches into the pocket of his jacket, a jacket Ilya doesn’t recognise, one he must have gone out and bought for the occasion. Then he presses something into Ilya’s hand, using both of his own, clasping Ilya’s hand shut in between his two palms.

“What is it?”

Shane looks shifty. “Okay, look, you probably wouldn’t know this, but at work we’re doing a big overhaul of our archives. It’s like, a whole thing that Roger is spearheading.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Ilya begins, but Shane cuts him off.

“No, I know, you don’t want to hear about him. It’s relevant, I swear. So, we’re moving everything out of the morgue and onto some sort of cloud-based storage ecosystem, I don’t know really know how it works. But it means we’re clearing out the morgue — files, old clippings, floppy disks, CD-ROMs, everything. I swear it’s like a time capsule down there.”

Ilya has only been to the Courier morgue once, it’s all the way downtown in a basement storage facility, but all newspaper archives are the same — crammed with paper and obsolete hardware.

“But get to the point, Shane, what is my gift?” Ilya looks down at the item in his hand, a flash drive, portable but powerful.

“Again, not a gift.” Shane stumbles uncertainly on the last word. He’s looking down at his own shoes, so Ilya can’t really see his face. “I happened to be down there and, well, I had a look around. And I found this. I’m pretty sure these are the only copies. I checked our servers and I can’t see anything else, and anyway it’s too long ago now, we don’t have the storage space for older stuff like this, and—” He looks up at Ilya, eyes damp, desperate.

“Shane.”

“Sorry. I know it’s sort of moot because some of the pictures have been published already but I thought… I just figured you’d feel safer knowing he doesn’t have them anymore.”

“They are the pictures of me?” Ilya’s hands feel cold, despite the heaving bodies clogging up the room, the overheated air.

“Yeah.” Shane is still looking at Ilya uncertainly. “And, umm. Transcripts of messages, stuff like that. I hope you don’t mind, I didn’t look at them, I swear. I only clicked on one of the thumbnails to make sure they were the right files. There were so many of them, Ilya, Jesus.”

“Yes.” Ilya’s hand is tight and sweaty around the USB. “We got away lightly with what they printed, actually. You really think this is the only copy?”

“I mean, I can’t be a hundred per cent,” Shane says. “But yeah, I really think so. That’s everything. And I took it.”

“You stole it,” Ilya corrects, and he feels like his smile is taking over his face, like he should bury it in his hands to prevent the whole room from seeing. “From Roger.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, all the uncertainty gone now as he looks from Ilya’s mouth to eyes and back again, tracking the spread of the smile, understanding, finally, how Ilya’s feeling. “I fucking stole it. From Roger.”

If this were a movie, Ilya would step forward and sweep Shane up, crush him to himself, kiss every inch of his own smile onto Shane’s mouth. But it’s not a movie; if he tried to sweep Shane anywhere, Shane would have to be willing to be swept.

“I can’t believe— I don’t know how to—” Ilya starts, then stops again. Seeing Shane again reminds Ilya that he loves him, and he can’t stop loving him. It had happened before Ilya knew about it, and there’s nothing he can do about it now. It feels like the first time he went clubbing on molly, waiting to come up, so sure his body was his own until the second when he realised it had already happened, and his body was moving without his permission, responding to the beat drop, feeling it in his calves and biceps and jaw and stomach muscles. There was no point in fighting it, he just had to ride it out. The comedown had been brutal that time too, but that was nothing compared to this.

“You don’t have to thank me, or anything.” Shane, understanding and misunderstanding all at once. “It was the right thing to do, they’re your photos, your messages. He should never have had them at all.”

“You won’t get caught?”

“No,” Shane says, totally certain. “But I wouldn’t care anyway.”

They’ve already stolen too much time alone, and now the music is louder, a loose dancefloor forming beyond the bar. Shane’s face is unreadable as the lights slide from pink to purple to red and back again, and then Ilya is caught up in noise and touch as the mass of bodies shift and reforms around them, disgorging all their friends, Connors with a whole fucking tray of shots, Marly already jacketless, Hayden Pike with a cocktail in each hand, sucking alternately on each straw. Ilya squeezes the flash drive into the small pocket of his jeans where it won’t get lost, and Shane watches him do it, nods in satisfaction.

“Here,” Marly shouts, pushing a glass into Ilya’s hand, and then he gets a lighter out and sets the shot on fire.

“I’m sure this must be a breach of municipal byelaws,” Shane tells Marly, but he accepts his own flaming shot, and then everyone slams their palms down across the glasses to douse the flames and they drink. The shot is licorice, eye-watering and strong. Shane is grimacing and taking one of Pike’s cocktails, chasing the taste down with the fruitiness, and then Polina arrives with bottles of champagne and it’s a party.

Ilya’s sitting on a bar stool, talking to a friend of Marly’s. Marly himself, that asshole, is dancing with Polina, who looks as though she’s exactly where she wants to be. Shane is with St-Simon, both of them drinking the Pike special cocktails, arguing over what looks like a hockey game St-Simon has pulled up on his phone, Shane stormy-faced and deadly serious. David Hollander is dancing with Pike and a selection of the newsroom guys, and Yuna is on Ilya’s other side, ordering bowls of fries and another tray of shots. She and David are apparently heading back to Shane’s soon, though Ilya thinks she’ll need some luck to get David off the dancefloor. Ilya feels settled; pretty much everyone he cares about is in this room right now. He takes out his phone and fires off a text to Alexei, asking him how he is. He’ll probably get some piece of shit message back, but he’s trying, at least. Maybe Alexei will try too.

“Sorry, I’m being boring,” Marly’s friend says — Jack, Ilya thinks. Ilya puts his phone away quickly, because actually Jack is pretty nice, and it was Ilya who was being rude. Jack is a lawyer, apparently, and Ilya had asked him about work, and it’s not really Jack’s fault that Ilya was just being polite.

“No, sorry, just had to text my brother,” he says.

“Shots!” Yuna shouts, and slides two down the bar to them. “And then I really am going home to bed.”

“The night is young,” Ilya tells her, and they clink their glasses together before they drink. Jack fiddles with his glass, looking bemused, but he downs the shot too. Then Shane appears, reaching around Ilya for his glass, drinking it before Ilya can swivel on the seat to watch the movement of his throat.

“Hey,” Shane says to Ilya, and then sticks a hand out to Jack. He’s swaying a little on his feet, and he’s pink all over as much of his skin as Ilya can see.

“Shane,” Ilya says. “This is Marly’s friend.”

“Okay,” Shane says, still shaking hands. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, I’m in Marly’s improv theatre group. Jacques. Nice to meet you too.”

Ilya can tell from the slight stress he puts on the name that it’s actually the French version and Ilya’s been butchering the pronunciation this whole time.

“Hang on,” Shane says. “Marly does improv?”

“He’s actually really good,” Jacques says, grinning over at Marly on the dancefloor. “Very physically competent.”

“I’ll bet,” Shane says, then turns to Ilya. His eyes are slightly red and glossy-wet. He must be drunker than normal. “Hey, my folks are leaving now. I was going to go with them but, uhhh. You know there’s a fight tonight? Kip said it’s just down the road from my place, in that old church hall, remember, where we took that pilates taster class that one time?”

Ilya remembers, of course. They had decided not to go back, because it had been far too distracting seeing Shane doing his mat work.

“You are going to the fight? Tonight?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, shuffling. “I’m kind of done here, I think. I just wondered if you want to come? For old time’s sake, you know? I know I’ve got some magazine bucks to blow on a few bets.” His eyes slide to Jacques in a brief, cool onceover, and then back to Ilya. Ilya doesn’t think he’s extending the invitation.

It’s a ridiculous idea, totally crazy. Shane was on the cover of a magazine writing about the fucking fights, they probably won’t even let him in the door. Ilya wants to go anyway. He looks beyond Shane to try to catch Polina’s eye. She’ll be fine, obviously, she’ll just call a car, hopefully without Marly in tow.

“You’re leaving already?” Jacques says. “Cliff said something about an afterparty?”

It’s news to Ilya, and he looks at Shane to see if he knows anything about it.

“Oh,” Shane says. “Yeah, Marly mentioned that he was heading on somewhere after this. Sorry, I didn’t know you were going too.”

David Hollander appears, coat already on, though his shirt underneath is unbuttoned and his hair is damp with sweat. He’s going to freeze when he gets outside.

“Hey, buddy,” he says to Shane. “Me and your mom are going to head out.”

“Okay, yeah, I’ll walk out with you,” Shane says. “Hang on.”

“I’ll get ready to go while you do that,” Ilya tells him, and Shane gives him a small smile over his shoulder and heads towards Yuna, who’s talking to Hayden by the restroom door.

“Good to see you, Ilya,” David says, and then he’s hugging Ilya, not a backslapping hug like Ilya gets from his gym buddies, but a proper squeezing hug, the faint dry odour of his wool coat in Ilya’s nose, the fabric scratchy at the back of Ilya’s neck. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

Ilya’s father has been dead for a month, but it’s been so much longer than that since he hugged him; in fact, Ilya can’t remember the last time. It’s like he’s been speared through, a paralysing spread of warmth, so he just stands there passively, arms at his side, and lets himself be embraced.

The warmth remains after David heads for the door, even as Connors and Carmichael descend on the bar for another round, trying to convince Ilya to join them in a Baileys, which can only be a recipe for curdling with whatever else is currently in their systems. Jacques picks up chatting where they left off, back to talking about his work and some big case he’s got on. Ilya couldn’t be less interested, lets the others infiltrate the conversation so he can finally sneak away without being even ruder than he already has been.

He finds Marly in the men’s room, splashing water on his face, smoothing his hair back.

“Eyyyyyyyy,” Marly shouts when he sees Ilya behind him in the mirror. “It’s the man of the hour!”

“I have seen you grinding on my widowed stepmother,” Ilya tells him sternly. “Do I need to give you the talk?”

Marly claps a hand to his heart. “Dude, you mean you don’t want me to be your new— What would I even be? Step-stepdad? No? What, too soon?”

“Yes, Marly, it’s definitely too soon to be making jokes that hinge on my father being dead.”

“Sorry, buddy.” Marly looks instantly abashed. “You know I’ll back off if you want me to. I like her, though. She’s really cool. And she cares about you a lot, too, you know.”

Ilya breathes out a big gusty sigh and drapes himself over Marly’s back, hooking his chin on his shoulder. Marly’s so tall he has to go up on tippy-toes to reach. “It’s fine. I’m glad she’s having fun, she deserves a night out. What do they call it, a May-September romance?”

“She’s, like, four years older than me, dude. It’s nothing.”

“Okay, old man, if you say so. Hey, I think I’m going to get going soon.”

“Already?” Marly’s face falls so fast it’s almost comical. “I spent so long talking you up to Jacques. He’s hot, right? Kind of buff, like—” he drops to a whisper “—like Hollander. That’s your type, right?”

Ilya steps back.

“Jesus, Marly, that was supposed to be a set-up? Is that why he came over to talk to me? I’ve been trying to escape for the last twenty minutes.”

“Ah, shit, I’m sorry.” Marly turns, leans against the edge of the basin. “I thought it might help, you know? Like you said, the best way to get over someone. I fucking hate seeing you sad, Roz.”

Ilya has got to stop feeling things tonight, the inconvenient tightness in his chest back in full force.

“Marly, you are a good friend. And I have not been such a good friend to you recently.”

“Nah, man, you—”

“Marly.” Ilya waits until Marly stops and looks him in the eye. “I’m sorry, okay? And I’m going to try to be around from now on.”

“You have a pretty good excuse, Rozy. Don’t even worry about it. Hey, you want me to come with you? We could get out of here, go grab some food?”

“I think I’m going to go somewhere with Shane.”

Marly claps his hands on his legs, grinning.

“Nice, man. You two patch things up? He definitely seemed into you tonight, kept watching you even though you could tell he was trying not to look, you know? Hey, I had a word with him about you earlier, hope that’s okay.”

“What do you mean, a word?”

“No, dude, I was really subtle, don’t worry.” This isn’t exactly reassuring; Ilya hadn’t realised Marly even knew the meaning of the word. “I just talked you up a lot. I might have mentioned you were on the market, that Jacques was thinking of making a move. That kind of stuff, showing Holly you’re not hanging around pining over him.”

“Wow,” Ilya says. “Marly, what the fuck?” Marly looks so proud of himself that llya can’t be mad.

“Yeah, and Polina really went to bat for you, man. Told Holly all about how great you’re doing. She was talking you up like crazy. She’s so fucking nice.”

“It would have been even nicer if you two had stayed out of my business like I told you.” Marly pushes up to standing so Ilya has to look up into his face. “Maybe next time you shut up and let me handle things?”

“Never,” Marly tells him, and pats him kindly on the arm. “You’re my boy, Roz. That means I always got your back.”

“My back is fine, fuck.”

“Yeah, well, all the better to get it blown out tonight, am I right?”

“Enough,” Ilya says firmly. “I’m leaving now.”

“Go get him, man.”

Ilya only goes back on the dancefloor long enough to say his goodbyes to Polina and the guys, and then he has to make the rounds of the La Voix team, who promise him that they’ll be in touch for future projects, and add to the pile of business cards stuffed in his coat pocket.

He goes the long way round the room, searching for Shane, but he’s on his second pass of the crowd before the dull awareness sinks in that Shane is gone. He keeps looking anyway, because Shane hasn’t texted, and he doesn’t answer the message Ilya sends. But after five minutes, then ten, and the crowd starting to dwindle, Ilya has to admit that he really isn’t here. It’s embarrassing, how long he’s been searching, and still he can’t quite bring himself to leave.

Pike tries to get Ilya to have another drink with him; he doesn’t know where Shane is either, but then he barely knows his own name at this point of the night. There’s a bowl of fries still sitting on the bar; thankfully, Jacques seems to have got the message, and is off on the dancefloor looking like he’s having a much better time than he was before. Ilya picks at the fries, but it’s no use pretending he can enjoy himself anymore, so eventually he just slips out through the underground entrance and comes up blinking to the street outside, which is noisy with Friday night crowds and fucking freezing. Shane is nowhere to be seen. Ilya feels stupid for even looking for him. It’s better to just start walking, despite the cold, feet chilly in his boots.

He’s been wandering for a while before he stops for a Reuben at Dunn’s, and he’s licking thousand island dressing off the side of his hand when his phone starts ringing, Kip’s name flashing up.

“Hello?” he manages, mouth full.

“—get him,” Kip is half-shouting over a lot of background noise. “Hello? Ilya? Can you hear me?”

“Kip? What’s happening?”

“Hang on,” Kip says, and then the noise eases a bit and Ilya can hear him properly. “Is that better?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, wrapping up the end of his sandwich and throwing it in a trashcan. “What’s up?”

“Okay, I have literally three minutes here because the fight’s about to start, so listen. Scott didn’t want me to call you, because he prefers Shane and he thinks you screwed him over or something. But I prefer you, so I’m giving you one fucking chance, Ilya, I swear to god you better not let me down.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Shane’s here at the fight.”

“I know, he—”

“No, I mean, he’s here and he’s trying to take part in the fight. I think he thinks he’s in disguise? He’s got a Voyageurs cap on. And he’s drunk, man, like really wasted.”

“Jesus.” Ilya realises he’s started walking already; there’s a Metro station about a block away, and he can see a taxi stand, cars waiting in line.

“Right. He’s acting like an asshole and he’s going to get himself kicked out, or have the shit beaten out of him. You have to get him out of here. And whatever the fuck is going on with you two, fix it.”

“I don’t think I’m the right person for this,” Ilya says faintly, but he’s almost jogging towards the taxi stand now. “I can’t fix it, I’m the one who broke it in the first place.”

“Oh, cry me a river,” Kip says. “Do not prove Scott right on this one, just get over here and take care of your boy. It’s in the Unitarian church hall, you know the one, right down the block from your place?”

“From Shane’s place.”

“Whatever, man, just hurry up,” Kip says, and hangs up, but it’s fine, because Ilya’s already opening the door of the first cab in the line and giving the address.

The usual guy, Georges, is on the door, and he lets Ilya in without a quibble, even without Kip to smooth the way. Ilya doesn’t have much cash on him, but he’s only five dollars short on the door fee, and the bored young woman rolls her eyes and waves him through anyway when he leans in close and tells her he’ll come right back with the rest when he finds his friends.

He’s looking for Kip, but it’s Scott he sees first, because he’s so tall. He scowls as he sees Ilya coming towards him.

“So you decided to show up?” Scott says. “Shane said you had some afterparty to go to.”

“Why the fuck is everyone talking about this afterparty?” Ilya shoves into the bar next to him, catches the eye of the barman and mouths ‘vodka, please’ at him. “I have had a sandwich and was on my way home.” The glass is blessedly cold in his hand and when he downs the shot, the barman pours him another straight away. “Please can you pay for this? I spent all my money at the door.”

“Jesus Christ,” Scott says, and fishes around in his pocket for a note, which he passes over the bar. Then he’s quiet for a second, looking down at Ilya thoughtfully as though he’s going to say something else, but then he looks over Ilya’s shoulder and smiles that lovely transformative smile of his. When Ilya turns, he sees Kip behind him, grinning back at Scott.

“You made it,” Kip says to Ilya. “About fucking time, man. Shane is a liability.”

“Can I please just point out the fact that Shane is the one who fucked off on his own without telling me? I wanted to come here with him, and then I looked around and he was gone. He doesn’t want to see me.” Saying it hurts Ilya’s pride; he doesn’t know why it’s always so fucking hard to care out loud.

“Look.” Scott has to shout a little over the music. “I’m not saying I know what’s been going on with you and him, but he’s not doing okay.”

“He sat us down for a big talk,” Kip says, and he puts his mouth close to Ilya’s ear so he doesn’t have to shout the words out. “He came out to us.”

“Yeah, and it was pretty fucking joyless, poor kid.” Scott looks pissed off again. “I’m not implying anything, but he used to talk about you all the fucking time, and now he can’t even say your name without looking like he’s been punched in the face. I mean, excuse me if I’m just joining the fucking glow-in-the-dark dots here.”

“I think he wants to see you,” Kip says, a bit more gently. “I just think it also makes him sad to see you. You don’t have to answer, but were you guys, umm—”

He pauses delicately, and Ilya waits for him to say fucking, but it doesn’t come. And then Ilya realises that Kip — Kip, who has never held back on saying what he thinks ever in his life — is trying to be kind because he can see the misery in Ilya that is just lingering there, that’s an essential part of him now.

“Where is he?” Ilya asks, and Kip grimaces.

“He’s in the john. I made him drink some water and then he said he wanted to go splash his face.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, and downs his shot.

“Good luck,” Kip tells him, patting his face. “Try to get him home before he gets himself kicked out.”

“Thanks.” Ilya straightens up and looks between them both. “And yeah, we were. And now we’re not. I’m still in love with him, though. Just so you know. It doesn’t make a difference anymore, but I don’t want you to think—” He has to stop then, but he’s probably said enough already.

Scott’s face eases out of its frown.

“My dad always says that for every old sock there’s an old shoe,” Kip says, and Scott swallows and pulls him close, bending to kiss him on the mouth even as Kip grabs for the lapels of his coat and hauls him in closer.

“Wow, at least wait until I’m gone,” Ilya mutters, and wriggles out from the crowd around the bar towards the door in the corner that must be the washroom. The church hall is old, scarred wooden floor slippy under his feet from spilled beer, and the noise level as he passes the ring is blood-curdling. The big windows are dark, looking out into the blank and featureless night of the church gardens.

As Ilya reaches out to grab the door, it swings open violently, and he has to do a neat little dance backwards to avoid being whacked in the face.

“Fuck,” he says, with feeling, and then Shane steps through, a little wobbly, one hand on the door handle to keep him steady.

“Oh,” Shane says, and stops dead. Under the peak of his cap, his eyes are red, a little unfocused, and his mouth is sullen. Ilya can tell he’s really drunk from his gentle lean, the high defensive push of his shoulders. He’s an almost-stranger like this, watching Ilya hazy-eyed. “You’re here.”

“Yes, well, I’m a bit late. I was supposed to come with a friend of mine but he ditched me at another party, left without saying goodbye. Not very friendly of him, right?”

“Haha.” Shane, who is always so eager to let Ilya make him laugh, is stony-faced. “I thought you were busy tonight at some afterparty.” The words are softened slightly, and slow, Shane trying to sound sober.

“You never actually asked me if I was going,” Ilya tells him. “You just assumed.”

Shane lets go of the bathroom door, flat palm still raised in the air for a second after the door thumps shut, a delayed reaction. He steps towards the wall in a quieter pocket of the room, a little away from the crowds, farthest from the makeshift ring where the spectators are already gathering. He doesn’t look to see if Ilya is following. He’s not staggering drunk, but he’s definitely walking too carefully, picking his way across the floor as if to compensate. He leans against the wall and Ilya, close behind him, leans beside him. They’re not quite touching. The wall is unpleasantly damp with condensation, Ilya’s coat sticking to it.

“I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye.” Shane sounds as tired as he looks.

“I was never going to that afterparty,” Ilya tells him. “I wanted to come here with you.”

“I think,” Shane says, “that until tonight, I didn’t realise what being friends with you would actually mean, you know?” The last two words run into each other clumsily. Shane closes his eyes. “Like, in theory, it’s better than nothing, right? In theory—” he pauses for a breath “—being friends with you is better than never seeing you again.”

“Shane.”

“Ilya.” He turns his head to look at Ilya. Through the opening at the back of his cap, a tuft of hair is sticking out, dragging against the wet wall. “But I guess I didn’t think what being friends with you is going to mean in, like, practice. Is this making sense?”

“I don’t know, Shane, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Because you’re going to fuck other people, or… date other people, or whatever.” His eyes are bright and feverish. “And maybe so am I.” He laughs. “Maybe. Someday. And it just hit me what that’ll mean. I’ll have to just sit there and watch you do it. Because we’re such good friends.”

Ilya has a sick sinking feeling in his stomach at the thought of Shane fucking someone who isn’t him, a sharp little needle of possessiveness stabbing through him.

Shane exhales, shakily. “Fuck, I’m drunk. I didn’t mean to say all that. Jesus, I thought seeing you would make this whole thing easier, but it’s worse. It’s just so fucking bad.”

Ilya rubs his palms over his eyes, which are stinging in the heat.

“I wanted to see you, Shane. Those fucking phone calls, it’s so hard to talk properly. We should have met up before tonight, cleared the air.”

Shane elbows him gently.

“I think deep down you didn’t want to see me.”

“I always want to see you, Shane.”

“You’re a fucking liar.” The worst part is how fond he sounds, lingering over the words lovingly. “I think you knew it would be like this.” He gestures between them, stopping just short of running his hand over Ilya’s chest. “I think you knew if we saw each other, we’d just end up fucking to avoid having to talk about it. About all of it, your dad, Russia, fucking… the things I said before you left.” He’s slurring just slightly, but maybe it’s only because Ilya knows his voice so well that he can tell. His gaze runs over Ilya’s mouth; he’s not even pretending to hide the desire in his eyes.

“We talked tonight, didn’t we? You said it yourself, we’re friends.”

“Yeah.” Shane’s eyes flick to meet Ilya’s for a second, a spark of the old mischief in them. “But even tonight, I think if we had been alone, I could have told you to get on your fucking knees and you would have done it. Wouldn’t you?”

Ilya would have done — he fucking knows it, and Shane knows it too, the asshole. Shane’s right, this isn’t friendship; there is absolutely nothing friendly about what he wants to do right now, which is shove Shane back to the washroom and jam into a stall with him and maybe show him that he’s the one who should be on his knees. But Shane is hammered, and Ilya is fucking sad, and tired, and it’s a painful truth that none of their problems would be solved by sucking each other’s dicks tonight.

“I think that would have been a terrible fucking idea,” he says, but he can hear the regret in his own voice, ringing out clear and true over the actual words he’s saying.

“Right,” Shane says. “Because that wouldn’t fix things, would it? We’d be right back where we started, only this time we’d know all the shitty things we said and did.”

“Fuck, Shane, you think it was all so bad? You regret it?” Ilya swallows and swallows. He can hardly bear to meet Shane’s eyes.

Painfully slowly, Shane looks away from Ilya. He’s still smiling, but his eyes are damp, the lashes shining. “It was never bad, and I don’t regret it, not for a single second. All the bad stuff came after. And that was a fucking mess.”

“Shane, I’m so fucking sorry. I know I said some things that you can’t forgive and—”

When Shane looks back at Ilya, it feels like the first time all over again — his expression so open, his smile so fucking kind.

“And I don’t know how to take it all back,” Ilya finishes, stuttering as though he’s the drunk one. He wishes he was, craves the blinding obliteration of a full bottle.

“I’m glad you said them,” Shane says. “I’m glad to know, even if it hurt. It’s better to be truthful. Like, at work, you know. That’s what I always try to do, to tell the truth. It’s what you do too with your pictures. Like…” He trails off lazily, wipes at his eyes. “Sorry. Emotional night. We speak the same language, you and me. And yeah, maybe you said some shitty things to me, but I don’t give a fuck about that, are you kidding me? I just wish I had told the truth all along. To my mom and dad, to the guys, even to people at work. It would have been hard, but this is so much harder, you know?” He breaks off with a yawn, huge and painful-looking, his jaw tightening and mouth dropping open so Ilya can see all his nice white teeth, the pink of his tongue. “Fuck, sorry, I am beat.”

“I think maybe we should get you home.” Ilya gestures around them. “Tonight is not the night for all this excitement. I can walk with you.”

“Kip called you, didn’t he? I saw him stepping out of the fire door on his phone. Jesus, he’s such a mom. Look, I came to fight tonight, so I’m not going home right now. I said ages ago that I wanted to, I don’t know why everyone’s on my fucking back about it all of a sudden.”

“Shane, you’re wasted. They’re not going to let you fight, not in your state.”

“Yeah, maybe I’ve had a few too many drinks.” He blinks, and pushes himself off the wall to standing. “But they’re not going to know that.”

“Shane, for fuck’s sake. You’ll get hurt. You’re not doing it, this is crazy.”

“You know what?” Shane looks down at his hands and makes a tentative fist, knuckles cracking. “Maybe. But I just think it would feel really really good to have somebody fuck me up right now.”

He goes to walk away, and Ilya steps in front of him. Shane tries to avoid him, but his reflexes are just a hair too slow. He’s wrong-footed, stumbling, and he almost touches Ilya before he manages to right himself.

“Shane,” Ilya says, and Shane laughs.

“What the fuck, Ilya?”

“I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“So what, you’re gonna try and stop me?” He shoves past Ilya, maybe a little rougher than he needs to be, his shoulder warm and hard against Ilya’s, and once more Ilya steps around him, and this time grabs his arm.

“You’re not getting into that fucking ring,” he says, trying to keep his voice low. There are people around, and the bouncers here have a nose for trouble. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

“You don’t get to have a fucking opinion,” Shane hisses back, and just like that, they’re pushing against each other, trying to keep it unobtrusive. Shane wrenches his arm free out of Ilya’s grip, and Ilya presses against him, and then Shane is shoving back against him, Ilya’s feet sliding on the greasy floorboards. Shane is just as big as he is, and Ilya already knew he was strong, and for a second Ilya isn’t sure if he can hold him. But then Ilya gets an arm around Shane’s shoulder and clasps a hand at the back of his neck.

“Shane,” he says, warning or maybe begging, and he tightens his grip, hand firm at the scruff of Shane’s neck. Shane resists for another second, his shoulder taut and raised under Ilya’s arm. Ilya can feel the quiver of his tensed body all the way through his own, and then Shane relaxes all of a sudden, head drooping low, baring the back of his neck to Ilya’s touch.

“Fuck,” Shane whispers, and then straightens, jerking his head to get Ilya’s hand off him. “Fine, let’s just fucking get out of here.”

The church grounds are practically silent, all the noise contained behind the massive oak doors of the hall and what must be some pretty impressive retrofitted sound-proofing. The air is frigid, Ilya’s lungs burning with cold, and he sees it in Shane’s face as he steps out into it, the slap of the cold air meeting his drunken heat.

“Fuck,” Shane groans. “I feel like shit, oh my god.” He shivers, full-body. He must have stopped off at home after the party, because he’s in workout clothes, a thick blue half-zip, loose sweatpants. His blue shorts are underneath; Ilya can see where the fabric is bunching over the waist of the sweats. He really had been meaning to fight. His eyes are hidden under the shadow of his Voyageurs cap. “I can’t remember where I left my coat.”

“You can come back tomorrow and find it,” Ilya tells him, and together they start crunching down the path. They can see Shane’s building from here, rising up ahead of them. Ilya can’t quite pick out Shane’s own apartment for sure from this distance, but maybe there’s a light on, Yuna and David waiting up for Shane, or tucked up in Ilya’s old bed. Shane bumps off Ilya as they go, weaving slightly, and his shivers are getting worse.

“Sorry,” he says as he stumbles into Ilya again going out the gate. “I think the drinks are kind of… hitting.” The bottom half of his face is pale and soft, and his mouth is slack. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, hands wedged into his armpits.

“It’s the night air,” Ilya tells him. “Always does this.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Shane says fuzzily. “Don’t think I’ve ever been this drunk, fuck.” He negotiates a curb, just barely stopping himself from stumbling off it.

“Five minutes, Shane, and you will be drinking a nice glass of water and getting into bed.” Ilya tugs his coat off. It’s his good wool one, which he only ever wears for special occasions, and it feels like a warm blanket. He throws it over Shane’s shoulders, and Shane stands there obediently and accepts it, putting out first one arm and then the other so Ilya can settle the coat around him. Shane sinks his face into the raised collar and sighs. Now Ilya is fucking cold, and he’s glad he has his winter layers on over his party clothes, a beautiful old cashmere sweater of Papa’s over Polina’s shirt, the wool stretched out enough that it fits Ilya, just about. At least he won’t freeze between here and the apartment.

Together, they make their way along the sidewalk and past a row of shops, all shuttered up this late.

“You know, it’s weird,” Shane says in a polite conversational tone as they cross the parking lot outside the apartment block. “I haven’t gotten over you. Not one little bit. I’ve tried, so fucking hard. Even Marly was trying to set me up with some guy from his choir or something—”

“Michel is a douche,” Ilya begins, but Shane keeps going, watching his own feet intently as he walks.

“And I thought about it for, like, a second, and I just couldn’t imagine it, you know? I never knew I’d be one of those people who just waits around for someone. But here I fucking am, I guess.”

“It’s only been five weeks,” Ilya says weakly.

“I know exactly how long it’s been,” Shane says, and he pulls on the railing of the stairs to the apartment, fingers straining around the metal.

“Home sweet home,” he says, and punches in the door code, badly, and then again, correctly this time. “Hey, you should come up, say hi to my mom and dad.”

“I’ll come up because I want to make sure you’re home safe.”

Shane smiles, but it’s a fake, plastered-on smile, a polite response. He hits the elevator button and takes his stupid cap off. His hair is a disaster, flattened into weird hat shapes. He’s still the best thing Ilya has ever seen, when the doors to the elevator slide open and the dim reddish light from inside spills out onto them. In the mirror, Shane watches Ilya watching him, with a sort of pained hunger that Ilya feels in his own chest.

“Shane,” he says, the elevator rising, the swooping feeling magnified a thousandfold, and Shane says, “Ilya”, and then the doors open with the same old genteel ping and they step out, like they have so many times before.

Shane gets the door open, probably through muscle memory as much as anything. David and Yuna are nowhere to be seen; Ilya lingers on the threshold, feeling a childish forlorn sense of loss at the fact that he can no longer just walk in, not even sure that he wants to see the place. But Shane strides in, already kicking his shoes off, not even bothering to put them on the rack, which is still half empty from when Ilya packed up all his shit. Shane waves Ilya in, heading for the kitchen, and Ilya takes a deep breath and steps in, puts Shane’s shoes away and leaves his own boots on the bottom shelf. The place looks, horribly, sweetly, almost the same as it always had. Shane hasn’t been packing up to leave, not yet anyway, because all his books are still on the shelf and his spice rack is still neatly arranged on the countertop and all the pots and pans still hang winking from the bar on the wall.

“Do you want, I dunno, something?” Shane points at the refrigerator and then ducks to the faucet, lets water gush straight into his open mouth, emerges soaked and blinking. “Ughhh, that’s cold.”

“No, thank you,” Ilya says.

“I can make coffee,” Shane says, his whole front misted with drips inside Ilya’s flapping open coat.

“I think maybe there is some already in the pot?”

“Oh, probably.” Shane looks around as though remembering they’re not alone in the apartment. “My parents are up super early in the morning, my mom has to get home for a doctor’s appointment so they’re leaving first thing to beat the traffic.”

Ilya puts his hand on the coffee pot, which sits in the cradle of a sleek black machine. It’s still warm.

“This is new?”

“Oh, yeah.” Shane leans against the counter and wipes water off his mouth with the back of his hand.

“The French press broke?”

“No, it’s, ummm.” Shane points to a box sitting in the corner of the kitchen, tucked in beside the bookcase. It’s a big packing box, sturdy, and the flaps on top are loosely tucked in. “In there.”

When Ilya picks up the box, it’s heavier than he expected. At the top sits his favourite blanket, the quilted one he had bought for Shane to use while he watched TV, but which Ilya always ended up stealing. The French press is next, not wrapped up properly but placed carefully under the blanket and on top of a cushion. It still carries the faintest rich scent of coffee, or maybe Ilya’s just imagining it. The cushion is one Ilya had bought from a little craft shop which he’d found on a homewares shoot. It has a delicate embroidered pattern which had reminded Ilya of his grandmother’s living room back home, but also matches Shane’s green rug with the watercolour swirls. The box is full of shit like this; some books, the pack of playing cards with photos of naked women that Ilya insisted Shane use for their poker nights, Ilya’s old Polaroid camera that he upgraded last year but couldn’t bear to get rid of. At the bottom, tucked right down, is a glint of gold. Ilya fingers meet smooth gilt and glass, and he knows exactly what’s there even as he pulls it out, carefully so he doesn’t damage the frame. From behind the glass, the portrait he took of Shane catches in the subdued under-counter strip lights.

“Shane, what is this? Why are all these things in here?”

Shane kicks at the skirting board along the edge of the kitchen island.

“It’s some stuff you left here. I boxed it up in case you came back for it.”

“Shane.” Ilya feels breathless as he sets the photo down on the table. “These… all of these are yours. These were gifts. You know this.”

“Yeah, well.” Shane bites at his lower lip, not meeting Ilya’s eyes. When he speaks, his lip is pink where his teeth dug in. “I don’t want them anymore. You can take them.”

“But.” Ilya feels absurdly like he might be about to cry, and he is not going to let that happen. “Shane, I got these for you, all of them. This picture, I made it for you. All for you.”

“Yeah, well, they’re breaking my heart,” Shane says, and the look on his face is almost cruel in its openness, the cracked-open resentful pain. “I can’t look at them without thinking of you. My blanket, my portrait, my… my fucking cushion, Ilya. They’re ruined. We ruined them.”

“Did it make you feel better to put them all in a box and shut the lid?” Ilya feels furious. He wants to throw the stupid fucking picture in its frame that he spent hours gently teasing generations of dust out of with a soft toothbrush, wants to see it shatter. “Did that help with your fucking heartbreak?”

“You know it fucking didn’t,” Shane spits, trembling, and then the kitchen door opens.

“Shane?”

Yuna is there, in a nightgown, hair tied up, face bare and scrubbed and shiny with product. “Oh,” she says when she sees Ilya. “I’m so sorry, boys. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s okay, Mom,” Shane says wearily, and Yuna’s eyes flick to him in surprise.

“Shane, are you drunk? Jesus, how much did you have after you left here?” She hurries over to him and puts a hand on his forehead as though checking him for fever. He shakes her hand off with a little flick of his head, like an irritable pony.

“I’m fine, jeez. I had a few too many drinks and now I’m going to bed.”

“I was just leaving,” Ilya tells her, and begins edging towards the door. He remembers the box, goes back and starts fumbling all the items back in, piling them in on top of each other. It’s a humiliating little interlude, but at least it’s quick, and then he picks up the box and makes to leave again.

“Ilya,” Shane says from across the kitchen, cheeks burning, spots of colour high on his face, flushing under his freckles. “You could stay. Just, stay. And then we can talk in the morning.”

“I—” Ilya begins.

“We’re in your room,” Yuna says. “I’m so sorry, we didn’t realise… Or, did you mean—” She looks from Shane to Ilya meaningfully.

“No, Mom.” Shane doesn’t even pretend he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. He sounds exhausted. “I’ll take the couch. Ilya can have my bed.”

“Okay, well, that sounds good. Your dad and I will be very quiet when we’re leaving in the morning, so we don’t wake you.”

“No,” Ilya says, feeling more and more like an interloper the more the Hollanders try to accommodate him. “It’s okay. I will go home tonight. Shane, I will call you tomorrow, we can meet up?”

Shane doesn’t say anything, just nods. The only mercy is that they don’t follow Ilya to the hall, so he can drag his boots back on and get the hell out of there with the box clutched in his arms. He avoids looking at himself in the elevator the whole way down, and it’s only when he’s already speed-walked five minutes down the road, shivering in the dark, that he realises he’s forgotten to get his coat back.

Ilya gets a cab back home. He sits in the back seat while the driver blasts hot air at him, and the big hateful box slides around beside him. The house is quiet when he gets in, but there’s a low lamp on in the hallway, and Polina’s shoes and coat are discarded at the foot of the stairs. Marly’s jacket is hanging off the rail, but there’s no sign of either of them, and thankfully Polina’s bedroom, the new one she moved into after Ilya’s father died, is right at the other side of the house, so there’s no sound either.

Ilya goes to bed, weary all the way through, but even though he drops off quickly, he can’t stay asleep, repeatedly wrenching himself awake out of hazy, confused dreams that he can’t remember anything of but the feel of them — loss, and a horrible sick yearning. The fourth time it happens, he rolls over in the bed and opens his stinging eyes and gets up, because he’s never going to sleep properly and being awake at whatever-the-fuck o’clock has got to be better than this. He checks his phone again, and there’s still nothing from Shane, who is hopefully sleeping better than Ilya is.

On his dresser sits the flash drive, a little innocuous lump of plastic.

Ilya takes a shower, a long, roasting-hot one. Once he has washed every inch of himself that can possibly be washed, he stands there with his eyes closed and his face in the spray and he tortures himself with remembering the night before, how good it had been, and then how bad.

For a while at the launch party it had felt like him and Shane against the world; in their own little world, in fact, a bubble, a unit. Shane had always been someone who Ilya could look for in any room and find him waiting, looking back. And god, but Ilya misses it; he misses having someone who meets him at every turn, and he misses being the one to do the meeting, and he misses Shane just for his own sake, his comforting presence, and his small generosities that made their life together nicer and more efficient, and his big, loving gestures that might have made a difference if Ilya had been able to see them for what they were in time.

Ilya wishes he had understood before it was too late; maybe he could have done things differently. The morning he left for Russia he could have changed everything, or any time after that — because whatever else Shane did, Shane tried, and Shane kept trying until Ilya didn’t give him the chance to try anymore. But if Ilya had learned to hear him, maybe Shane wouldn’t have had to try so hard.

There’s a grief in realisation, and Ilya turns his face away from the water. He sets the temperature dial to cold, and the icy blast gives him an explanation for the sudden, gasping tears that hit him. He had thought that forcing Shane to stop trying was the right thing to do, that he was saving Shane from dealing with all the mess Ilya makes everywhere he goes. But it turns out Shane is hurting anyway; last night in his kitchen, Shane was sad — maybe even sadder than the day Ilya left for Russia. He had said it himself, everything was ruined. They had ruined it. Ilya had ruined it.

Ilya stands in the cold deluge for as long as he can bear it, goosebumps rising, his breathing shocked and high. He stops crying after a while, because even crying feels useless, but now he’s started thinking about Shane, he can’t stop — the things he said last night, the way he looked when he said them.

He had asked Ilya to stay.

Ilya gropes blindly for the shower lever. When the pipes judder and the water stops, the sudden silence rings in his ears. Shane had asked him to stay, and Ilya, preoccupied with Shane being drunk, and Yuna Hollander standing in her nightgown between them, and the looming presence of that fucking box on the kitchen table, had not heard what he was asking. And Ilya had said no. Ilya had not stayed, even though he had wanted to.

“Fuck,” he says, and his feet skid in the shower tray as he wrenches the slick glass door open urgently. He dries himself as he crosses the hallway, skin ringing with the heat of towel roughness. His hair is going to be a fucking disaster but it’s cold, he can wear a hat, whatever. It doesn’t matter, none of it matters compared to what he needs to do right now.

He’s probably not safe to drive yet after all last night’s drinks, and he thinks longingly of Polina’s car sitting in the garage as he brushes his teeth with one hand and books an Uber with the other; it’s so fucking early, not quite six o’clock, but in one of life’s minor serendipities there’s a car five minutes away, as though waiting for him. It pulls up outside smoothly just as Ilya staggers out with the box in his arms and shuts the front door with an elbow. His hair is unpleasantly damp under his toque, and he doesn’t think he even remembered to put deodorant on, but he’s in the car and Shane’s place is only about fifteen minutes away at this time of day and he doesn’t fucking care about anything else.

The roads are indeed quiet and the driver is playing some sort of instrumental album that makes Ilya’s heart feel jumpy; they’re both content not to talk. Ilya texts Polina to tell her he had to do something important, and he’ll see her later, and when they pull up at the apartment block the driver tells Ilya, “Good luck, man,” as though he can tell Ilya’s on a mission. The walk up the steps to the front door feels like the longest trek Ilya’s ever gone on; he’s breathless by the time he reaches the top, fingers clinging to the packing box, lower back damp under his sweater. He buzzes Shane’s apartment, knowing he may be waking the Hollanders but for the first time ever, not giving a shit about what they think. There’s no answer, but Shane’s car is parked in its spot and Ilya knows the front door code, so he punches it in and calls the elevator. The lobby is empty and silent, and the elevator ride takes forever. Ilya checks his reflection in the mirror this time, in the same low reddish light he had avoided his own gaze in only a few hours ago. He looks wild-eyed, curls creeping out in a fuzz from under his toque. When he gets out into the empty hallway, he catches the tail end of his own smile in the mirror as he turns to knock on Shane’s door.

No one answers. It’s early, of course, so he waits for a few seconds and then knocks again, louder. Shane’s phone goes straight to voicemail, so Ilya rings him twice more just to listen to him speaking, and then he knocks again. Still no answer. He must be still asleep, which is fine — Ilya can wait here, it’s not cold this high up the building, and the carpet is soft, and he has Shane’s blanket if he needs it. He slides down the wall and sits, using the box to lean his elbow on. He’ll wait, though impatience is burning through him, and now he has time to think about what he wants to say, he’s realising he doesn’t know how he’s going to manage to say it all, or to say it right, or to say what needs to be said.

His phone rings, but it’s not Shane. It’s Lina, which is really not what Ilya had expected after so late a night.

“Lina?”

She sounds entirely too cheerful for six in the morning. “Where are you, Ilya?” She’s speaking English, so Marly must still be there.

“I had to go out,” he tells her, and he gets up and knocks on Shane’s door again for good measure. “Did you get my text? I had something important I needed to do, I will tell you later. Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine,” she says, and he can tell even through the phone that she’s grinning, delight in her voice. “But I have someone here for you, someone who came and very rudely banged on our door at this ungodly hour.”

Ilya hears a voice in the background say, “I’m so sorry again about that,” and he gets the skipping feeling in his chest.

“Shane?” he asks. “Is that him? Shane is there, with you?”

“Can I speak with him?” the Shane-voice says distantly, and there’s a rustle as the phone is passed over, and then he hears Shane’s dear voice so clearly, as though his mouth was right up close to Ilya’s ear. “Ilya, where are you, you asshole?”

“I’m at your place,” Ilya says, and he hears Shane give a short disbelieving exhale of laughter, sharp with phone static. “Shane, listen, I should have stayed last night, I’m sorry, I—”

“I’m coming back,” Shane says, and his voice is hopeful, and rich with happiness. “Ilya, please, wait there, okay? I’ll be back in, oh shit, my phone died and my cab is gone, ummm, hang on—”

More rustling, and then Marly’s voice comes down the line.

“Hey man, it’s me. Don’t freak out, but I’m still at your place. I can drive Holly home right now, okay? But you gotta remember that I’m doing you this favour.”

“I don’t want to know,” Ilya tells him. “If I was there I would tell you that I am not the boss of Lina and she can do whatever she wants, and also that you are a great guy and I know you’ll treat her well. But I actually do not care right now, sorry. Just… can you bring Shane here now, please?”

Marly is laughing as he agrees, and when Lina takes the phone back she’s laughing too, and she tells Ilya she loves him and to have fun. It isn't even awkward at all, or a lie, for Ilya to tell her he loves her too. He hangs up on her then, because the longer he talks the longer it’ll take for Marly to get Shane here. A couple of times, he sees the elevator light moving, but it never stops on Shane’s floor. He knows it’ll probably be twenty minutes before Shane gets here, and he paces around the hallway, checking his phone over and over, so that when the elevator display lights up seventeen minutes later, he’s ready when the doors open and Shane steps out.

He looks, god. He looks like Shane, in his sweatpants and a zipped up puffer jacket and his red toque, cheeks and fingers and ears bitten red by the cold. He looks exhausted, his lips are chapped, and he has mauve shadows under his eyes. In one hand he’s clutching a massive bunch of flowers. He’s smiling like it’s going to split his whole face.

“Hi,” he says. “You stayed.”

“We need to talk,” Ilya says, hands trembling at his sides.

“We really do,” Shane says, but he’s already dropping the whole fucking bouquet of flowers as he says it, and striding across the hallway. Ilya’s already there, meeting him halfway, crashing into him so they stagger backwards, the flowers crinkling in protest underfoot as Ilya gets an arm around Shane’s neck, the better to pull him close. Shane’s hands are freezing, already fighting through Ilya’s layers and onto the bare skin of his hips, and Shane makes a quick desperate noise in his throat when Ilya pushes closer against him, and they’re kissing, still moving, Shane’s body hitting off the elevator panel with all of Ilya’s weight against him, so the buttons beep angrily.

Ilya lets himself indulge in kissing Shane again for maybe too long, because he’s half-hard and shivery with impatience by the time he makes himself pull back, brought back to himself by the elevator doors sliding open behind Shane. Shane clings onto him with a protesting noise, grasping at his hips, and Ilya nods at the confused man in the lift and steers Shane away from the doors so they finally shut and the elevator can keep going down.

“Shit.” Shane’s laugh is damp heat against Ilya’s neck. “Do you think we traumatised him?” He shakes himself a bit, then takes a big step back from Ilya, looking contrite. He’s more than half-hard, by the looks of things. “Fuck, sorry, I told myself I wouldn’t touch you until I’d apologised.”

“No, I was going to apologise—”

“Okay, look, you go first. I’m going to stand over here, because if I come near you I’m just going to kiss you again.”

It’s such a tempting thought that Ilya has to turn away and pillow his face in his hands. When he turns back again, Shane is watching him indulgently, smiling like he does at the old guy who shares his croissant with his three-legged terrier outside Beau-Soir every Tuesday morning.

“Okay,” Ilya says. He can do this; for now, this is business. “I know I said some things to you that you probably cannot forget, and you shouldn’t have to. I didn’t mean them, or at least I didn’t mean them in the way I said them, which I know isn’t quite the same thing—”

“What, like when you told me I was a morally bankrupt mommy’s boy who wanted to… what was the particular turn of phrase? Live up Crowell’s asshole?” Shane is grinning ear to ear, like all the things Ilya has been torturing himself over saying haven't put him off in the slightest.

“Those things, yes. Among others. I was trying to hurt you, because I was hurt, and I know that’s fucked up. But I wanted to tell you that if you gave me another chance, I would try my hardest to never, ever do that to you again. That’s not to say that I won’t be an asshole in other ways.”

Shane laughs. “Wow, you’re making yourself sound like such a catch.”

“And I know I am a fucking mess, and you hate mess—”

“Hold on, fuck, Ilya, what are you talking about? You’re not a mess, you’re, like, one of the most together people I know. You’re brilliant at what you do, and you work so fucking hard, and you treat people well, and you’re so clean and tidy and—“ He tails off, catching Ilya’s eye. “Fuck off, don’t laugh at me! This stuff is important. What I’m saying is, literally everything in life is better with you in it. You’re not a mess, you’re steady. You steady me. You steady everyone around you, but who’s doing that for you?”

Shane, like always, cutting to the very heart of things. Ilya’s hands itch to hold him again.

“You did,” he tells Shane. “Always.”

“Right, that was the idea,” Shane says, patiently. “And I want to keep doing that for as long as you’ll let me. But you do have to let me, you know? You can’t keep pushing me away.”

“You still want to? After all the things I said to you?”

Shane makes a dismissive sound. “Are you kidding me? Ilya, your dad was dying. Wow, so you lashed out a bit. You think I can’t take it?”

“I was such a dick to you, Shane.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, shrugging, shifting from foot to foot. The flowers on the floor whisper against their cellophane wrapping. “And I was a dick to you. So what? We say sorry and we try not to do it again, jeez. Fuck, Ilya, is that all you were worried about? Because I was pretty sure you never wanted to see me again because of the job thing, and because I didn’t tell my parents about you.”

“That was a really shitty thing for me to get mad about, actually.” Ilya allows himself the amendment when Shane gives him a rueful look. “Okay, well, the job thing, maybe not so much. You deserved me giving you shit over that. But Shane, I wasn’t doing it to be an asshole. I would want you to do the same if you thought I was making a big mistake. And at least now I know you’ve thought about it, and you want it anyway. I don’t have to like it, but I trust you. So…” He turns his empty palms upwards. “That’s good enough for me.”

“Well, I didn’t take the job.” Shane’s smile is contagious; Ilya’s own answering grin is spreading stupidly across his face, uncontrollable. “And I never gave notice on this place, even though it was making me miserable to be here without you. Fuck, I tried so hard to be mad at you for ruining the job for me, but I knew deep down I had ruined it for myself. I never actually wanted it, I just thought I should want it.”

“You couldn’t have led with that information? Fuck, Shane, you are such an asshole! I thought I would just have to bite my tongue every time you mentioned work forever.”

“Yeah?” Shane steps forward. It’s just one step closer, silent on the hall carpet, but Ilya feels his body respond to the movement anyway, quivering with readiness. “You’re gonna be around to talk shit about my job forever? I thought you broke up with me?”

“I changed my mind,” Ilya says, and leans down to pick up the fucking packing box. “And anyway, it was you who broke up with me. But I’m overruling you now, okay? Here, take your shit back.” He moves towards Shane, shoving the box towards him. “Now we are going to go into our apartment and put it all back where it belongs, and then you’re going to give me back my fucking key.”

Shane, whole face creased from smiling, eyes shining with tears, bends to pick up the wreck of the flowers. He wrestles the box out of Ilya’s arms, and manages to shove the flowers into Ilya’s hands at the same time. “These are for you,” he says. “They’re gross, sorry. They were gross even before we stood on them, but they were all they had left in Beau-Soir this morning.”

The image of Shane stopping off to buy flowers for Ilya on his way to Polina’s house makes Ilya want to cry again.

“Lilies,” he says instead, poking at the pink-blushed edge of the crushed petals. “Very funeral chic. How apt for me, a newly-minted orphan.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Shane says, marching around Ilya to get to the door of the apartment. “Come on, I need to be reminded why I want to keep you around.”

“Your parents are not in? I knocked, but no one answered.”

“No,” Shane says, struggling to balance the box on one hip. “They left at, like five this morning. My mom stayed up pretty late with me, just talking, you know.” He shoots a look back over his shoulder at Ilya. “Hey, can you grab my key out of my pocket? Left-hand side. Yeah, we talked a lot — about you, mostly — and then she went to bed, and I felt so hungover I went for a run to sweat it out, which was not great, let me tell you.”

“In the middle of the night?” Ilya moves in behind Shane, his flowers clutched in one hand. There are definitely more practical ways of getting at Shane’s pocket, but he plasters himself along Shane’s back, nosing into the padded collar of his coat to get at the tender cold patch of skin at the back of his neck. He slides his left hand slowly onto Shane’s hip, then under the hem of his coat, under all his layers so he can press his palm flat and demanding against Shane’s stomach.

“Yeah.” Shane swallows audibly. “I ran for about half an hour, and then I puked in a bush, and then I ran home and had a shower. And then I went out to get you back.”

“Wow, you puked in a bush? You have never been so alluring to me.” Ilya plays with the waistband of Shane’s sweatpants. He can’t stop kissing Shane’s neck, though he’s getting mouthfuls of fabric as he does it, the collar of Shane’s coat springing back up even as he tries to keep it pinned down with his chin. He catches the lobe of Shane’s ear in his teeth, tugs at it.

“Alright, fuck.” Shane kicks backwards, catches Ilya’s ankle. “Key, now. Or I’m going to drop this box and I really, really don’t want to smash my framed original Ilya Rozanov.”

Ilya reaches into the deep pocket of Shane’s sweats, making sure to grope at Shane’s boner through the fabric as lasciviously as he can. Shane breathes a low shuddery breath and sags back against him, hips hitching. Then Ilya takes the key out, presses forward against Shane as he jiggles it in the lock, and then the door opens and they spill inwards, Shane already kicking off his sneakers.

“I’m just gonna—” he says, and heads for the living room. He takes the blanket and the cushion out of the box and puts them on the couch, plumping the cushion up in its spot, folding the quilt just so. The books go back on the shelf, and then he takes out the French press and goes through to the kitchen. Ilya watches him from the doorway as he gets his own boots off. He’s wearing two different coloured socks, which he hadn’t even noticed when he grabbed them out of his laundry pile.

“Bedroom!” Shane shouts from the hallway, and Ilya turns in time to jog after him as he strides down towards his own room, hat and coat already discarded. Once he gets to his bedroom, Shane puts the box down on the bed, and with infinite tenderness, he reaches in and takes out his portrait.

“There,” he says, and places it on the nightstand. He doesn’t look tired anymore; he’s bright with energy, his smile spreading swifter than Ilya could possibly move to kiss it. “Get over here, Rozanov.”

“You might need to move that somewhere safer,” Ilya says, and yanks his sweater off over his head. Shane’s eyes fix gratifyingly on the movement, then track the revealed bare skin.

“Oh, yeah?” Shane reaches out, and Ilya goes to him, already trying to grab even before they’re in touching distance.

“Yeah,” Ilya tells him, and Shane’s hands sink into his hair. “Because I’m going to wreck this bed and everything in it.”

“Big talk,” Shane says, sweetly, and then kisses him.

It’s almost better for having been so long since they last were together in this room, Shane’s tongue in Ilya’s mouth, Ilya already panting like they’ve been fucking for ages. He hasn’t even gotten his pants off yet but he’s sweating at his temples, Shane’s grip fierce in his hair. Ilya pulls his mouth away and Shane gives a dissatisfied whine and tries to drag him back.

“Shane,” Ilya says, “get your clothes off, please, fuck.”

“You too, I want to see you,” Shane says as he tugs his sweater off. He’s wearing a thin base layer, and his nipples are standing out through the fabric. Ilya grabs him before he can take it off, sucks at a nipple through the shirt until there’s a wet patch the size of his whole mouth and Shane is moaning, clutching at his shoulders, fingers skidding off Ilya’s bare skin and down his back. “It’s been too fucking long.”

“It’s been five weeks.”

“Longest five weeks of my life,” Shane says, and drags Ilya up to bite down on his shoulder.

Between them, they manage to get undressed, clothes tangled together on the floor, socks strewn half inside-out. Ilya can’t stop touching Shane, hands skimming over him and never settling for long, over Shane’s dense, well-made back muscles, down his shivering sides, over the straining arc of his ribcage. Shane knocks Ilya backwards onto the bed, then climbs onto him with a tigerish pounce, batting Ilya’s hands aside so he can immediately start sucking his dick.

“Fuck,” Ilya says, looking up at Shane’s ceiling, giddy with joy, and he strokes Shane’s head, the silk of his hair, holds him in place loosely. Shane reaches up blindly and his fingers curl over Ilya’s chest, twitching over a nipple, grabbing the muscle. Ilya concentrates on not coming immediately, after more than a month of half-hearted solo orgasms that mostly consisted of staring at the shower wall and trying to believe his own fist felt as good as Shane’s mouth. As though to highlight that lie, Shane relaxes his tongue and then Ilya feels the soft hot clutch of his throat for a second before he pulls off, then goes back down again, even deeper.

Ilya gives up; he’s going to come in about ten seconds and there’s nothing he can do about it, so he closes his eyes and arches up into Shane’s mouth. But then Shane stops sucking him off, and when Ilya looks down in outrage Shane smiles blissfully back at him and gets his dick in a firm fist, the elbow of his other hand planted across Ilya’s hips to push him down into the mattress.

“Not yet,” Shane says. “Don’t fucking come yet, Ilya, I swear to god. It’s been too long, I need—”

“Okay,” Ilya replies, and takes in a huge shuddering calm-down breath. His dick isn’t really getting the memo, not with Shane’s big hot hand clamped around it, but at least he’s not literally about to come right this second anymore. “Shane, please, please.”

“I got you,” Shane says, and lifts up off Ilya long enough to reach across to the nightstand drawer. There’s a click of a bottle cap and the squelch of lube, and then Shane’s bicep flexes as he reaches behind to touch himself. He crawls up Ilya’s body carefully until his concentrating face is directly in Ilya’s line of sight, freckles crumpling as he wrinkles his nose, brows drawn together in the almost-pain of his focus. Ilya kisses his mouth, though Shane’s not kissing back, just breathing heavily through open lips. He’s kneeling up a bit, working back against his own fingers now, thighs clamped against Ilya’s hips.

“You want me to fuck you?” Ilya asks. “You’re ready for me?”

“Been ready for weeks,” Shane mutters. "Hey, do we need to use a condom? It’s cool if we do, but, uhh. I haven’t, with anyone, not since you and I—”

Ilya’s chest feels full of warmth, like his heart is about to burst with fondness. Only Shane could have this conversation while greedily poising himself to take Ilya’s cock; being with him after all the weeks of missing him brings a bloom of wellbeing that Ilya feels down to his toes. He wriggles happily, and Shane makes a pained noise as Ilya’s cock nudges up against his balls with the movement.

“I have just spent weeks either lying in bed staring at the wall, or going about my days trying not to think about you. Not much room for hooking up in such a packed schedule,” Ilya tells him, and Shane sighs a huge relieved sigh and sags into him, face in Ilya’s neck, resting his weight on Ilya as he pulls his fingers out with a gasp. In case he’s still in doubt, Ilya says, “So no condom, please. I want to fill you up.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, get inside me already,” Shane says, and knocks Ilya back flat onto the pillows as he kneels up. He positions Ilya’s dick one-handed, businesslike, and then his eyes shut, his every expression dissolving into blissful peace, as the head of Ilya’s cock notches at him then breaches him. They both groan, and Ilya grabs for Shane’s hips, clutching onto him painfully tight.

Shane lowers himself agonisingly slowly. Ilya can feel the quiver of his thigh muscles as he takes his time getting himself seated.

“I missed you so much,” Ilya says, and Shane exhales hard and shuts his eyes. He twitches around Ilya’s dick, but he doesn’t move. Ilya pulls his knees up so he can get his feet flat on the bed, but Shane still doesn’t move, pushing down on Ilya with all his weight. Ilya tries to thrust up anyway and it makes them both groan. Shane’s puts one hand on Ilya’s chest over his heart, and the other to Ilya’s cheek, thumb stroking over his mouth with infinite tenderness, and it’s like Ilya’s living out every fucking cliché in every fucking love song he’s ever heard, because it feels like they fit together everywhere, like electricity is sparking between them everywhere they touch, a direct line of sensation from Shane’s thumb to Ilya’s mouth, from Shane’s hole to Ilya’s dick, from Ilya’s fast-beating heart through Shane’s hot open palm.

“I don’t want it to be over yet,” Shane says. “I just want to feel you for a second, okay?”

He drops forward to kiss Ilya’s mouth, tongue stroking over his own thumb as he hooks it on Ilya’s lower lip, and the change in their position sends a jolt of sensation straight to Ilya’s dick which makes his arm fly out, whacking off the packing box Shane had left on the other side of the bed.

“Shit,” he says, and Shane grabs for the box, which is about to tip over the edge.

“Careful, your camera’s in there.” Shane retrieves it carefully, lifting the Polaroid out to put it on the nightstand.

“Hold on,” Ilya says, greedily. “Give it here.”

Ilya switches the camera on and points it up at Shane.

“No,” Shane murmurs, but he tilts his chin upwards as he says it, rocks a little back and forth.

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Just your top half, okay? This is perfect, you are going to look like a Robert Mapplethorpe when I’m done with you. You know what chiaroscuro is?” He waves a hand around them at the dim room, the play of shadow over Shane’s bare skin.

“Fuck off,” Shane says, but he lets Ilya nudge his face into semi-profile so it catches the thin grey dawning light from the window.

“Flex,” Ilya tells him, patting his bicep, and Shane does, so the straining line of muscle leaps into definition. “Now hold still.”

Shane cheats, because he does hold the pose perfectly, but he also clenches hard around Ilya while he does it, so Ilya forgets to double check his angle and just hits the shutter button, leaving them both blinking in the flash.

“Fuck,” Shane says over the whirr of the emerging photo, covering his eyes and wincing. “Did Mapplethorpe blind all of his subjects?” He goes to grab the picture, but Ilya smacks his hand away.

“You need to let it develop,” he says, and slides it onto the nightstand.

“My turn.” Shane grabs the camera out of Ilya’s hand, because he’s a cheater and he knows Ilya won’t wrestle him for a piece of valuable photographic equipment. “What do I do, just point and click?”

“You can’t go wrong,” Ilya tells him. “Just look at the little shape in the middle of the viewfinder and use that to centre your image. Then you click.”

Ilya’s pretty sure he’s not looking his best, after no sleep and the overheating effect of Shane over and around him, but he blows upwards to dislodge the curls in his eyes and thinks about what to do with his face for all of about two seconds while Shane takes a photo of him, and then sneakily nabs another when he’s covering his eyes after the flash.

“I think I got some armpit in that one,” Shane says, sounding pleased with himself, and then he puts the camera gently on the nightstand to join the developing pictures. Then, as though remembering he has another project to complete, he finally starts to fuck Ilya. Right off the bat he’s really going for it, leaning forward with his hands planted on the bed by Ilya’s head, arms straining with the effort of holding himself up.

“Shane, fuck.” Ilya places a hand on his ass, less to help him out than to feel the ripple of his contracting muscles as he works.

“Imagine if we never got to do this again,” Shane says, breathless, and there are tears gleaming in his eyes as he dips lower to kiss Ilya. “Jesus, I’m so fucking glad I get to do this again.”

“It was stupid of us,” Ilya says. “No more wasting time, Shane.” He can hear how strained his own voice sounds, and how joyful too, words tripping over each other as his breaths are punched out of him with every thrust.

“No, well, actually I did have a whole plan. Seduce you last night, then keep meeting up with you and seducing you over and over until you realised how you felt.”

“Are you fucking with me? Last night was supposed to be you seducing me?”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Shane’s almost slurring now, all the strain of his effort coming out in his voice.

“It was bad, Shane. You could barely walk. You stole my fucking coat.”

Ilya bites down on Shane’s neck, sucking at the skin to leave a mark, and then he tips Shane over sideways and rolls them so he’s on top, Shane’s knees locking high around his waist.

“I love that fucking coat.” Shane’s almost incoherent. “Having it around me was like having you on me again, fuck, Ilya, just keep fucking me. Last night, Jesus. The way you smelled, the fucking leopard shirt, you total asshole, you knew what you were doing.”

“I’ll wear it again, and this time I’ll suck you in a bathroom stall like you wanted me to last night,” Ilya says, and Shane whimpers. Looking down, Ilya can see the way his dick twitches against his stomach as Ilya grinds into him. He slides a hand up Shane’s chest, grips his throat consideringly.

“I’m going to come.” Shane’s voice vibrates through Ilya’s palm, and his head rolls from side to side on the pillow. He’s lost in sensation, lids flickering over closed eyes. “Fucking…touch me, I need—”

But Ilya doesn’t need to do anything at all, because Shane’s already coming, fingers locked in Ilya’s shoulder muscles, his back arching so high off the bed that Ilya can feel cooler air move under him, penetrating their humid haze. Shane’s stomach muscles are shivering uncontrollably, dick drooling its final spurts, and Ilya presses his face into Shane’s neck and fucks him mindlessly, almost at catch-point, the tip over from chasing the feeling to actually coming. When he does come, Shane clings sweetly to him, and Ilya stays buried in him as sweat and jizz cool between them.

“I need a cigarette,” Ilya says, finally. His tone is a shock even to him; he sounds drunk, or just deep in love.

“You gotta be shitting me.” Shane finally wriggles under him, sighing when Ilya pulls out properly so they can readjust and get comfortable. “I spent months feeding you up, giving you balanced meals with all the nutrients you need so you can live forever, and you still insist on putting that shit in your body?”

“You want me to live forever?” Ilya kisses the side of Shane’s neck, which is still wet with sweat.

“That’s the plan,” Shane says firmly. “You know, when I looked at that photo of you on the drive I took from the Metro, it made me really sad. First, because you were so young in it, and it was so shitty what they did to you.” He’s got his determined expression on, and his arm tightens further around Ilya’s neck. “Like, it was your face, but not you at the same time, and I had never known you when you looked like that. And it made me think… I don’t want to miss anything else, you know?”

“What don’t you want to miss?”

“Well, anything. I don’t even want to notice your face changing, because I want to be there looking at it every single fucking day for the rest of your life.”

“Shane,” Ilya says, and curls around Shane, knee over his waist, arm across his chest and up into his hair. “I really, really love you, fuck. You don’t have to say it back, I know I fucked up the last time so for all I know you’ll never want to say it again. But I am just so tired of pretending that I don’t.”

Shane pulls back, pokes at Ilya’s jaw with two fingers, lifting his face so Shane can peer at him.

“Are you crazy?” Shane says, disbelievingly, eyes shining. “Of course I love you back, god. Did you think I’d stop because we had a fight? Because that is the dumbest thing you’ve ever said, in a long, long list of dumb things. I don’t think I’m ever going to stop, so you might as well get used to that.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, choked up; he wants to cover his face but his arms are locked too tight around Shane.

“Okay,” Shane says, satisfied. “Hey, do you think the photos are ready yet?”

Ilya reaches out. With the tips of two fingers he can just about grab the edge of the Polaroids. Shane looks like an angel in his, obviously; his profile is its own work of art.

“Wow,” Shane breathes, looking at the two of Ilya.

“Shane, these are fucking terrible.” Ilya stares in horror. Even in the stark lighting of the photo, his face is red. There’s a vein standing out on his forehead, and his lips are pursed into a cartoonish kiss shape. “Is this my sex face? Why did no one ever tell me?”

“They’re almost as hot as the real thing,” Shane says, and carefully places the photos into his drawer. “I’m saving those for later, fuck.”

“It must be your photography skills,” Ilya says.

“Speaking of photography.” Shane sounds very determinedly casual. “Is now a good time to tell you I quit my job and I would really, really like if you would move with me to Ottawa?”

“Shane, what the fuck?”

“Yeah, I mean, I didn’t want to tell you before now, because I didn’t want you to feel like I was trying to manipulate you into getting back with me. But since you love me anyway, I figure we’re good.”

He’s so pleased with himself, grinning so wide with delight that when Ilya kisses him, he can’t quite get both top and bottom lips in at once, and has to kiss them separately.

“You quit the Metro completely?”

“Better late than never, right?” He looks away, a brief ashamed sideways glance, but when he looks back at Ilya his expression is clear and settled. “I don’t want to work there anymore. I haven’t for a while, I think, but it was easier to just keep doing it than to not.”

“Shane—”

“I have a project,” Shane says, all in a rush, and Ilya’s already laughing, rolling them over in the bed so he can fully climb on top of Shane, grab his wrists, and plant huge smacking kisses all over his face.

“Of course you do,” he says, between each one, and Shane laughs back up at him and submits to being kissed. “Come on, tell me all about it.”

“My friend Harris from university, he does media for the Centaurs, you know the guy, I think I told you about him? Ow, Ilya, fuck — you can’t leave a hickey on my fucking face, Jesus. Anyway, he’s got some funding for a project for a year. It’s like a documentary thing, multimedia stuff for him to use on socials, you know.” He pokes Ilya’s chest meaningfully. “Full access to the team, following them on roadies, seeing what they get up to on summer break, that sort of thing.”

“Sounds like PR fluff.”

“Maybe,” Shane says, grabbing a handful of Ilya’s hair to hold him still. “But Harris says no, says I’d get to do what I want, that he wants it to feel real. I dunno, I think it could be fun? I’d be doing the interviews, obviously. But we could do with a photographer.”

“You have someone in mind?”

“Hypothetically, it might suit a freelancer. It’s pretty part-time, and there would be lots of travel involved, and you could definitely fit other work around it, if you wanted. That’s what I’m going to do, La Voix wants me to come onboard for features, so it’s kind of like the perfect time.”

“This isn’t sounding very hypothetical.” Ilya looks down into Shane’s face, and Shane looks right back at him, searching.

“I don’t want to go without you. I want to work with you again. Please come to Ottawa. You will, won’t you?”

“Obviously,” Ilya says. “Obviously, Shane, I will go with you. What do I need to do, should I email this Harris, or what?”

“I’ve got a meeting lined up with him next week.” Shane’s voice is maybe a tiny bit wobbly, but Ilya feels a tiny bit wobbly, so it’s good. “It’s in the shared calendar. I put it in green, just, you know. Hoping, I guess.”

“Well, if it’s in green,” Ilya says, and Shane’s grip on his hair goes soft, hand cradling the back of Ilya’s head as tenderly as he might pet a cat. “Very important that we keep the shared calendar up to date from now on.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, his smile so nakedly blissful that Ilya almost grabs the camera again just to burn the sight into existence permanently. “We wouldn’t want to miss anything.”

Chapter End Notes

I can't quite believe that I'm submitting myself to the horrors of posting (hitting post just before bed, worrying about it in my dreams, waking in the night and telling myself I won't check my phone but caving and doing it anyway, finding typos and mistakes about two days later, etc etc) for the very last time!
I have had the best time writing this fic. It's been such a huge pleasure getting to write my first longform work in this fandom, after wondering if I'd ever manage it. Getting to chat to all my friends about this fic for nearly nine months (is now a good time to apologise for the incoherent voicenotes puzzling over obscure plot points that I forced some of you to listen to?) and making so many new friends along the way, I was living the dream! The last month I've had something really sad going on in my personal life, and finishing this fic has really been the bright spot in a very stressful time. Everyone who had read along — I love you all, what a privilege it's been to have you in my brain. And on a "fuck AI" note, how gratifying to know that people have been so generous and engaged and interested in my very slow, entirely human writing. Thanks for all the kind words and thoughts along the way — you've really kept me going.

My betas — what a bunch of legends. There are no words of thanks sufficient for everything they've done for me — for being so generous with their time, so endlessly encouraging, and so helpful on a craft level. The magic of fandom! I'm pretty sure anyone reading a fic by me will already know how brilliant they are, but just in case, here are the AO3 links for your infinite reading pleasure (and also viewing pleasure, in the case of goodinthesnow, who's an incredible artist too): YankingAwry;sweet_s0rr0w;goodinthesnow (she is writing a medieval royalty Hollanov AU that's going to knock your socks off); and CorvidCordelia. Thank you, dear pals.

I cried the other night
I can't even say why
Daysleeper

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