Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Summer Vacation, yearning off the charts, Mutual Pining, Best Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, not much hurt but a whole lot of comfort, Cottage Shenanigans, it's really just boys being silly at the end of the day

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-08 Words: 40,755 Chapters: 1/1

you all the way down

Summary

“Is my favourite thing.” Ilya murmurs.

The rain has started to slow down a little. Barely any lightning strikes anymore. Soon, the sky will clear.

“What is?” Shane asks.

Ilya brings their joined hands up to his face and presses a small, tired smile to the back of Shane’s hand. “You and me.”

—

(or: they’re best friends who go on a roadtrip together.)

Notes

for my favourite girl, freya. you keep me going.

--

title: I, Carrion (Icarian) by Hozier
and the two prominent russian songs in this fic:
Наадя – Сломаны
ooes — последнее лето

Ilya remembers the first day he met Shane Hollander. 

First day of class. A near empty lecture hall. The sound of quiet footsteps as students slowly made their way in. 

Ilya had been face down on a desk and nursing a hangover when he first met Shane Hollander. 

“Is this seat taken?” Shane had asked, clutching his bag in his hands like he wasn’t sure if Ilya would just tell him to leave and go sit somewhere else. As if Ilya was going to get up and eat the chair right next to him. 

Ilya was face down on his desk and terribly hungover from the night before and it was the first day of classes in some minor subject he can’t even remember if he passed when Shane Hollander spoke to him for the first time. 

“Hey,” Shane had tried again, still waiting until Ilya finally blinked his tired eyes at him and tilted his head. 

The semester had just started. Either the hangover was going to kill him or this stupid class was so he did what he could only do at the moment: raised his eyebrows and said, “No, it’s not,” 

Only it had come out in Russian and Shane had looked at him, blinking, blinking, blinking, just staring for a second too long, like he hadn’t understood what Ilya had said. 

“Sorry, I didn’t understand that,” Shane had said, looking at Ilya and then back at the desk. The room was quietly starting to fill out. “Can you say that again?”

So Ilya had said it again. A second time in Russian, and then a third in very carefully enunciated English, “No. It is not.” 

This time Shane understood him because he finally set his bag down carefully on the floor before he slid into the seat next to Ilya. 

Shane hadn’t spoken to him at all after that. Didn’t even glance his way when class ended, just tidied his things and left. 

Ilya had slumped over and pressed his cheek to the hard wood of the desk, closed his eyes,  and tried to think about anything the professor had discussed during her introduction.

He didn’t remember shit. 

Shane still likes to joke about that first meeting, years down the line. Ilya furrows his brows whenever he does and tries to make an argument that Shane should have understood what he was saying, it was perfectly easy to pick up: No, please take the seat next to me and ignore me for the whole duration of the class, it’s fine in Russian. 

“That’s not what you said,” Shane says, rolling his eyes. “And I didn’t ignore you.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow at him.

“Deliberately. I was paying attention,” 

“Who pays attention during the first day of class?” Ilya asks.

“Me,” Shane says like it’s the most obvious thing ever, like Ilya had been wrong all those years ago, like every first day of class he’d ever gone to had been spent incorrectly. 

Ilya supposes he might be right. 

“You,” Ilya rolls his eyes but he says it with no inflection. He smiles, maybe a bit too brightly, a bit too fondly in this dimly lit bar with the scratchy speakers playing some quiet song that sounds familiar, almost, but not really. “Of course.” 

“Of course.” Shane repeats, looking up at Ilya from across the table. 

–

Three quick facts:  

Ilya moved from Moscow to Ottawa to start his freshman year in university. 

Ilya had watched every single hockey game Shane had played while he was on the school’s team, cheering the whole stadium down whenever Shane scored a goal. He could never cheer as loudly as Yuna but oh, did he try. 

Ilya will always, without question, give Shane what he wants: an answer to a question. A favour that Ilya is only so happy to do. Most of his iced coffee when the barista gets Shane’s order wrong.

One single, absolute truth: 

Shane Hollander is Ilya’s best friend. 

–

“We could take my bike,” Ilya suggests, not for the first time. If only to see the look on Shane’s face.

Shane looks completely aghast, brows furrowed and mouth pressed into a thin line. 

“No way,” Shane says, shutting the idea down for what feels like the hundredth time but really is only the third. “There’s no way I’m getting on a bike for fifteen hours,”

“Maybe twelve hours max,” Ilya tries. “If you let me drive fast,” 

“No, we’ll take the jeep,” Shane says, because of course they’d take his jeep. “We can take turns driving.” 

“I can drive the whole way,” Ilya says. Fourteen, fifteen hours. It wouldn’t be too bad, probably. He’s driven for longer. “You can sit, watch views. Trees. Mountains. Boring stuff,” 

“Hey, they said the scenery’s going to be beautiful,” Shane tries to argue but Ilya’s shoulders are already shaking, his laughter bubbling out of him easily. 

“Okay, we switch then,” Ilya says, leaning away from the table. “You can drive and look at trees and I will sleep,” 

“You can look at the trees, too,” Shane says but this time he’s smiling, too, and it's easy. God, is it so easy. 

“Trees will be all I will be looking at for two weeks,” Ilya says a bit too dramatically. 

“It’s going to be great,” Shane nods. “Relaxing. I think you’ll really like the lake. And I figured it’d be a good way to just–close things off,”

And here Shane kind of deflates, shoulders sagging and his eyes turning downcast. He looks away from Ilya. 

Ilya immediately springs up from his seat and reaches across the table to touch his hand. He squeezes around Shane’s wrist and waits until Shane breathes in, breathes out, and then finally lifts his gaze up to look at Ilya. 

“No,” Ilya says, all too seriously. “Shane, I said it is not forever,” 

“You don’t know that,” Shane swallows. Blinks a bit too fast at Ilya’s fingers around his wrist. 

Ilya doesn’t let go, hand squeezing gently on Shane’s. 

“I will figure it out, hm?” Ilya covers Shane’s hand this time and tries not to think too much about how warm Shane’s hands are, how it feels like he might start burning if Ilya holds on for a second longer than necessary. “We do not have to talk about it at all.” 

“We don’t?” Shane is still looking at their hands. Ilya’s finger twitches but he doesn’t let go. “Is that okay?” 

“Yes,” Ilya nods. “Two weeks, is just for you and me, okay?”

It takes a while but Shane finally, finally turns his hand over and slips his fingers through Ilya’s. His smile is slow but it’s there, breaking through the clouds that had greyed over his face. 

“Just you and me, huh?” There’s a beautiful pink that dusts over Shane’s face and Ilya resists the urge to trace a finger over each of his freckles.

Instead, he lets go of Shane’s hand and pinches his cheek. 

“Yes, is what I said,” Ilya smiles at him, a bit too crookedly, his heart thump, thump, thumping in his ribcage. “Keep up, Hollander.” 

–

It is not forever, this Ilya knows. But it is indefinitely, for now, at least. 

He tries not to think about it too much–about Andrei constantly blowing up his phone, about the emails and texts from his father’s recent widow. He hasn’t opened a text from his family in the past week with the exception of his sister in law’s messages, mostly photos and videos of his niece. 

She is the only one Ilya truly misses.

So yes, he doesn’t think about how he has to go back at the end of the summer. Doesn’t think about what might be waiting for him or what his brother expects him to do. He doesn’t think about it at all and he sure as hell doesn’t like to talk about it because Shane always, always gets this faraway look in his eyes, like it’s the end for them. 

Like all the time they had spent together is suddenly going to end after the summer.

Even if Shane insisted on talking about it, asking about his brother; ”He is good for nothing, no good update about him.” Ilya would shut it down because he’d rather not. It’s just a lot to think about and he barely has three weeks left before he has to leave. 

It’s better to just spend it with Shane. One or two days on the road and the rest spent at the cottage, at a lake that Shane had only been to once, when he was a child, but would not stop badgering Ilya about until he’d agreed because there is very little Ilya will say no to and Shane asking him to come visit one of his favourite places to holiday in will not be topping that list. 

But the one way ticket has been booked and the confirmation email has been sitting in his inbox for weeks now, just taunting him. Time ticks down until he has to leave for what feels like forever but doesn’t really have to be because there aren't a lot of things waiting for him back in Moscow. 

There aren’t a lot of things in Moscow that make him want to stay. 

“You can visit your mom,” Shane tells him two nights before they’re set to leave. They’re leaning against the hood of Shane’s jeep, Ilya just staring at the quiet road in front of him. 

“I will,” Ilya nods stiffly. “You have message for her?”

“Maybe,” Shane says, leaning against Ilya’s shoulder.

Ilya wraps an arm around him and pulls him close, until they’re hip to hip and Ilya can feel the warmth of him pressed to his side. So, so warm. For someone who grew up in Ottawa, Shane has always been warm. 

“What is it?” Ilya waits for Shane. Doesn’t push him for anything, just sits in the quiet of his company, in the warmth that’s emanating from him.

“Not right now,” Ilya can feel the exact moment Shane sinks against him. He tightens his hold around him and breathes in deeply. “At the cottage. Or after the trip,” and then, “Before you leave.” 

It’s been approximately eight years since that first class together. Eight years since they’d met. Eight years since Ilya found Shane at a cafe the day after their first class together and asked him if the seat across from him was taken.

Eight years since Shane had looked up at him, mouth slightly open and eyes bright and clear, staring up at Ilya first and then at the other empty tables scattered around the cafe before saying, “No, it’s not,”

“Good,” Ilya had said then, plopping down into the empty seat. “Do you want anything?” 

Shane already had a drink next to his open laptop. 

Ilya had stared at it resolutely, trying to make sense of the whole situation because eight years ago he’d walked into that cafe, spotted the kid who’d sat next to him in class just the day before, and made a beeline for him before his brain could tell him no. 

“I already have a drink,” Shane had said, glancing down at his drink.

“Cupcake. Muffin. Those–panini things,” Ilya had made the gesture for the sandwich and watched as the corner of Shane’s lips quirked up into an amused little smile. 

“Sure,” Shane had said. 

Ilya had come back to the table with an iced coffee for himself, a cupcake, a blueberry muffin, and a panini. 

“Because you said sure,” Ilya had said, by way of explanation. “Here.” 

“This is a lot,” Shane had said. “But thanks? Shane. My name’s Shane Hollander.” 

Eight years since Ilya had awkwardly shook his hand above the table and said, “Rozanov. Ilya. We have class together,” 

Eight years since Shane had first laughed and said, “I know. I spoke to you yesterday.” 

Eight years since and two weeks on the road. Maybe two weeks and a few extra days if Ilya drives slower on purpose, if they hit up more spots along the way. Three weeks until he has to leave. 

“You remember?” Ilya asks now, out here on the driveway of Shane’s childhood home, his parents inside the house quietly preparing dinner. “We do not have to talk about it.” 

“I know,” Shane says, slowly moving away from Ilya. “I remember. It’s just–you know we can talk about it, right?”

“Yes, but talking about my brother pisses me off.” It’ll make Shane sad but Ilya doesn’t want to say that out loud, so he presses his lips into a thin line and follows Shane as he walks around the car, checking the tires, the lights, his side mirrors. The trip is in two days and Shane had spent the past week just preparing for it. 

Shane stops right outside the front door and turns around to face him. 

Inside, he can hear the quiet murmur of conversation, the TV in the living room set to low. Yuna probably already has a hockey game on. 

“I will not spend the trip worrying about it.” Ilya slides past Shane and pushes the door open, waiting just beyond the threshold until Shane follows him inside. 

Shane follows him inside and they both kick their shoes off. 

Ilya slips into soft, indoor slippers.  

Somewhere in the kitchen, Ilya hears David call for them. 

“I’m not going to spend the trip worrying,” Shane mumbles. “I’m not worried. I’m very relaxed.”

“Sure, Hollander,” Ilya rolls his eyes good naturedly and grins. “And I am not Russian. Come, I smell pasta.” 

“You know this is my house, right?” he hears Shane call from behind him. 

“It is not.” Ilya all but skips into the kitchen, automatically taking the plates and the cutlery.

He hears David say that he doesn’t need to but Ilya’s already setting the table. 

“See, you don’t even help with dinner,” Ilya says, pulling out a chair for Yuna, who pats his arm appreciatively when she sits down. 

“You know, he’s right, Shane,” Yuna says when they’ve finally settled around the table. “You haven’t lived here for a while now.” 

“Christ,” Shane says, tipping his head back. “I grew up here,”

“Ilya did, too,” David supplies helpfully. “Kinda,”

Shane says, “We were in college when we met,” 

“University students are babies,” Ilya hums, passing Shane a piece of toasted bread. “Basically children, yes?”

Yuna rolls her eyes but she’s smiling, anyway, and Ilya knows he’s won. 

“Basically,” Yuna says. 

“Six foot tall child, okay.” Ilya hears the smile in Shane’s voice and he smiles, too, because dinner with the Hollanovs has always been one of Ilya’s favourite pastimes. It’s fun being with them. Yuna and David had welcomed him with open arms. They’d drive Ilya to the airport when he needed it back then, on those rare occasions where he had to leave during breaks. 

“Six foot two,” Ilya corrects. “But your height was–is, yes–is appropriate. Kid’s size.” 

Shane swats at his hand and Yuna tells them to knock it off, they’re at the dinner table, and Ilya laughs first before Shane tells him to just shut up and eat the goddamned pasta. 

He gets another scolding from Yuna and Ilya laughs even harder because he’s going to miss this while he’s gone. 

Things have changed since university, they’ve moved on from that cafe where they’d first introduced themselves, from the hallways that had felt so familiar back then but now Ilya can’t really quite recall anymore. They’ve moved on and yet this is still a constant–weekend dinners at the Hollanovs, Yuna and David sitting across from them and Ilya sitting right next to Shane. 

“I can’t believe we won’t be seeing you for a while, Ilya,” David says when they start cleaning up after dinner. He grabs a bottle of vodka from the fridge. 

Ilya sets three glasses down on the kitchen counter. 

Shane is with Yuna in the living room, probably watching whatever hockey game was on TV. 

Ilya thinks it might be a game with the Voyageurs and the Bears. Yuna had mentioned waiting for it all week. 

“Will be short,” Ilya says quietly. “Maybe. I will try to make it short,” 

“Yeah?” David pours him his first drink of the night. Ilya closes his fingers around the cool glass and lets the vodka sit in there for a while. “You always have a seat at the table whenever you come back.” 

“Thank you, David.” Ilya takes a heavy sip of his drink and tries to blink back the wetness in his eyes. If David notices, he doesn’t comment, just pats Ilya’s shoulder before taking the other two glasses and walking to the living room.

Ilya hands Shane his beer and then bullies him into the corner of the couch, until they’re pressed side by side and Shane has to elbow him away because he can’t see the screen like this, “Fucking move, Rozanov.”

Ilya just tuts, “Yuna, do you hear this?” 

Yuna doesn’t even look at them, just waves them both off.

“Shane, stop swearing at Ilya,” Yuna says. “Now both of you shut up, I have a game to watch.”

“Is just hockey,” Ilya finally relents and scoots away from Shane. He cranes his neck back until his head hits the couch cushion. “Russians are very good at hockey,” 

“Not this Russian,” Shane says beside him.

Ilya swats at Shane’s thigh. 

“I can skate,” Ilya says. “I played hockey growing up. Was very good,”

“I can skate, too,” Shane counters. “Doesn’t make me a professional hockey player,” 

Yuna finally looks away from the TV to shoo them away, something about how if they’re going to spend the whole time bickering then they might as well do it somewhere she can’t hear. 

Ilya throws himself on Shane’s bed. Ilya’s seen the way Shane’s childhood bedroom had changed in the course of eight years–or rather, maybe those first four years they’d known each other, before Shane had moved out permanently. There’s still traces of their university on the walls, of Shane’s varsity jacket still hanging in the closet. Trophies on the wall from a time that feels like so long ago. 

Photos up on the wall. Shane on the ice. Shane winning. The look on his face when he’d spot Ilya in the crowd, waving an obnoxious banner that nearly got him kicked out of the stadium for how explicit some of them got. 

A framed photo of Shane and his parents that sits on top of the dresser. It’s right next to one with Ilya and Shane at the beach, Ilya’s arm around Shane’s shoulder and their smiles wide. 

“Always so intense about hockey,” Ilya makes room for Shane on the bed. It’s a tight squeeze for the both of them but they’d slept on this same bed before. A lot of times accidentally, when Ilya couldn’t make it to the guest room anymore. Rare, intentional moments when Shane had asked him to stay, it’s fine, they fit. 

Shane knocks a knee into Ilya’s side and Ilya curls up, groaning. 

“Sorry,” Shane says, squirming beside him. “Your feet are cold,”

“Don’t touch my feet,” Ilya bites back, eyes still watering from how sharp the pain had been. “Pervert,” 

“Shut up,” but there’s no bite to it, no edge. Shane turns to his side and Ilya, when he can finally breathe normally again, does the same. “My parents will miss you,”

“All the Hollanders think I am dying,” Ilya rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically for maximum effect. “I am just going to Russia. I will come back,”

“When?” Shane asks. He knocks a knee against Ilya’s. He’s starting to squirm again so Ilya hooks his ankle over Shane’s, throwing an arm around his waist to keep him still. 

Shane steadies immediately. 

“Not sure,” Ilya says honestly. “Maybe I will kick Andrei’s ass and come back on the earliest flight the next day.”

“Okay,” Shane says seriously. “Don’t do anything dramatic,”

“Shane Hollander,” and here Ilya digs his fingers a little bit deeper into the soft skin of Shane’s hip, just for a second, just to make a point, his brain supplies, “when am I dramatic?”

“Everyday,” Shane says. “A couple of times a day, even. Earlier, when we couldn’t find that stupid, expensive Russian vodka you liked, you said you’d drive two hours to the next store that had them, and–”

“Is not being dramatic,” Ilya says quickly. “I am man of good taste,” 

“Dramatic,” Shane repeats, snuggling closer.

Ilya pulls the blanket over their shoulders because he knows that just one beer makes Shane sleepy. He sounds sleepy now, words coming out slower, hands warmer than they usually are as they wind around Ilya’s waist. 

“Is time for bed,” Ilya murmurs. They’re so close like this. Every time they’ve shared a bed, Ilya has to think about how close they are, about how there is simply no distance between them and yet–

And yet it feels like too much distance all at once.

But Ilya has gotten very good at this. He’s had eight years of practice, just being close to Shane. Of having him within arm’s reach. Of sleeping next to him like this, both of them facing each other like closed parentheses. 

Shane closes his eyes after a nearly incomprehensible good night.

Ilya bites down on his own smile. Watches Shane settle into sleep for a few moments. 

So, so close. Ilya can count the freckles on his cheeks.

The summer will bring more of them out.

Eight years and he has a full catalogue of Shane Hollander tucked away in his brain, in a file cabinet right next to a voice that tells him that perhaps this is his last chance, tonight. Tonight. But Ilya doesn’t like thinking about last chances. He doesn’t like thinking about going away and never coming back, because there are more reasons to return than there are to stay in Moscow. 

So instead, Ilya tightens his grip around Shane and closes his eyes. 

Belatedly, he thinks that they should have changed into more comfortable clothes. Shane will complain about this first thing in the morning or maybe wake Ilya up in the middle of the night to tell him to change. Ilya decides that it’s simply a problem for later. 

“Good night.” Ilya says quietly. 

The bed is too small and Ilya’s feet too cold but Shane is warm beside him. 

He can faintly hear the sound of Yuna and David’s laughter from downstairs, and this, this, this, Ilya thinks, is exactly what home is supposed to feel like. 

–

In the early morning, when Ilya wakes up the first time, he notices that Shane’s changed into more comfortable clothes.

On the dresser across the bed are the clothes he’d worn yesterday, neatly folded. Right beside it is a second pair of extra clothes, also neatly folded. 

Ilya carefully moves off the bed and grabs the clothes Shane had set out for him. He changes quietly in the dark. He bumps a toe into the foot of the dresser and he swallows down a curse because the bedside clock says it’s like, five in the morning and Shane will probably kick him out if Ilya starts swearing down the whole neighbourhood, so Ilya just. He just breathes in sharply and tries to focus very, very hard on folding his clothes instead of the stabbing pain in his toe. 

He sets the clothes down right next to Shane’s and climbs back into the bed that’s really too small for two grown men their size but is also kind of perfect. 

Ilya briefly runs his fingers through Shane’s hair, a ghost of a touch. He doesn’t wake up again until nine in the morning when Shane starts moving around his room. In  the haze of sleep, Ilya thinks Shane’s saying something about the coffee being cold. Breakfast. Important morning things. 

“I will reheat it,” Ilya yawns. “Good morning, Shane,”

Shane stops next to the bed. Reaches down to comb his fingers through Ilya’s curls. 

“Good morning, Ilya,” Shane says. “Now get up. I’m starving,”

Ilya doesn’t get up. Begs for five more minutes. Shane throws a shirt at him. Ilya throws it back.

He ends up downstairs after seven minutes. The coffee is already cold but Shane reheats it for them. 

“I told you it was going to be cold,” he hears Shane mumble as he fusses over the pot. 

“There’s soup on the stove,” Yuna calls from somewhere in the house. “Shane, heat it up,” 

Shane fires up the stove again.

“Is miso soup, yes?” Ilya asks when Shane finally joins him on the table. He looks at the cubed tofu floating around the soup. At the bowl of rice next to it and the rolled omelette in the middle. 

“Yes,” Shane picks up a piece of rolled egg and places it on Ilya’s plate. “Do you need a fork?”

“Please,” Ilya picks up his chopsticks. “I have had eight years of practice.” 

Shane laughs.

Ilya picks up the egg flawlessly. Raises an eyebrow as if to say, see? 

Shane rolls his eyes and digs into his own breakfast. 

–

“Last chance to take my bike,” Ilya says, jangling the keys to the jeep in his hand. 

“No chance.,” Shane turns away from him to say goodbye to his parents again. 

Shane gives them both a hug and nods at something David says. 

“I know, dad. You know I do. Okay, we will–” and it’s only half the conversation. Ilya doesn’t really hear most of it but he smiles anyway, giving them their space as he waits just outside the front door.

David motions for Ilya to come back inside.

Yuna pulls him into a hug first, Ilya bending down after so she can kiss his cheek. 

“You know you can call us for anything, right?” David asks.

“I know,” Ilya says. 

“Drive safe,” Yuna tells him. 

“I will,” Ilya nods, smiling at her. 

“Take care. If it starts storming–and it will, these summer thunderstorms will hit really hard sometimes, you have to pull over and stop. Maybe find some place to wait it out.” 

“We will.” Ilya feels his throat tighten. 

Yuna reaches up one last time and pats his cheek, offering him a tender little smile before she pulls away.

David gives him a hug, too, and asks if they’ve got enough cash, if the jeep’s been filled, if their reservation for the cottage has been finalized, and all these things that Ilya’s sure he’d also asked Shane already because Shane just stands to the side with a hand in his pocket and this funny little look on his face that makes Ilya smile, a tender little smile because David is fussing and Ilya is letting him.

He answers every question patiently, promises he’ll drive within the limit–

“Ilya,” David says, already doubting it. 

“I will try very hard.” Ilya says solemnly.

It makes David smile. 

He gives them both a final once over before he steps back to stand next to Yuna. 

“Call us if you need anything,” Yuna reminds them from the front porch. 

“We will,” they both say at the same time. 

Ilya refuses to hand the keys over so Shane lets himself be herded to the passenger side, where he climbs up into his seat and slams the door closed, grumbling something about how Ilya was already not following the plan and they haven’t even left yet. 

“Do not miss me too much,” Ilya leans out of the window and waves back at the Hollanders. 

“We will, anyway,” David says, while Yuna just rolls her eyes next to him. 

“I told you they’ll miss you,” Shane says when they’ve finally pulled out of the driveway. 

“Trip has officially started,” Ilya declares. “No more talk about leaving. Promise?” 

Ilya reaches across the center console to offer a pinky to Shane. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Shane says. 

“Promise,” Ilya waves his extended hand in the general direction of Shane’s face because he refuses to look away from the road when he’s, like, three minutes fresh from a promise to drive safely. A promise he made to Shane’s parents. 

“Fine, fine, I promise,” Shane relents and hooks his pinky around Ilya’s.

Ilya wiggles their joined pinkies around for a second before glancing quickly away from the road to look at Shane who’s already smiling. 

It’s still early in the morning and the sun is only slowly starting to creep up into the sky but Shane’s smile is bright. So, so blindingly bright that Ilya has to look away after a second because he still has to drive for fourteen hours.

Or, for however long he can get away with it before Shane starts demanding they switch. 

“Is gonna be a good trip, yes?” Ilya rolls his window down and lets the early morning breeze into the car. 

“Yeah,” Shane says. 

“Wow,” Ilya starts. “Not even ten minutes into trip and already is the best one. I am the best, yes?” 

“Shut up,” Shane hits him lightly on the shoulder. Ilya presses his foot harder on the gas, just because. “Christ, fuck, Ilya. Fine, fine, yes, the best, now slow down, oh my god,”

Ilya smiles contentedly and drives under the speed limit all the way out of town. 

–

The thing is, Ilya Rozanov isn’t blind. He’s been with Shane for eight years. They’ve been friends for eight years and he’s well aware of how beautiful he is. 

The other thing is that Ilya’s gotten very good at looking at him before Shane does, so Shane never really catches him staring. At least, not in the way that Ilya hopes he is, which is.

Which is not really something he wants to unpack. Right now.

Because he isn’t blind and he also isn’t a liar. He can’t really lie to himself or to Shane but it’s just that it’s never really been brought up in eight years. Shane’s never asked and Ilya’s never offered the information readily, which is that he’d stare at him for hours if Shane was okay with it. 

But there are other things that Ilya is openly honest about, other things that he can skirt over and say without throwing his guts up by Shane’s feet. 

“Very pretty right now,”

They’ve put on Ilya’s playlist because Ilya doesn’t trust Shane to pick the music at all, at least, not for the first few hours into their drive, anyway. The sun has risen and they’ve just driven out of the city. They’re finally out on wider roads, finally driven far enough away that they start seeing a long expanse of open road and tall, tall trees on either side. 

“Hm?” Shane moves beside him. He’d refused to sleep even when Ilya caught him yawning. It’s adorable how he’s trying to stay awake right now. Ilya’s fingers tighten around the wheel. “What is?”

“Trees,” Ilya starts, finger tapping on the wheel in time to the beat of the song. “Sky. Open road,” 

“Yeah,” Shane says. “I told you you’d enjoy the scenic drive,” 

“Person in passenger seat, too,” Ilya hums. “Even if he keeps on saying scenic drive.” 

“What? It is a scenic drive,” Shane says, as if that was the point. Which, yeah, maybe that was the point but only the secondary point.

So Ilya tries again.

“Shane.” Ilya looks briefly away from the road to look at Shane, who’s already looking at him. “Trees, sky, both pretty. But you are very pretty right now, too,” 

It’s worth it, really, to see Shane flush all pink next to him.

Ilya smiles, a bit crooked, a bit too bright for what he just said, and Shane blushes, neck and cheeks, and ears a pretty, pretty pink. 

“Shut up,” they’ve done this dance before. Ilya will offer a compliment–he’ll point out the obvious, is all he’s really doing–and Shane will blush and tell him to shut up.

Ilya counts down to it. 

One.

Two.

Three.

“You don’t mean that,” 

Now that’s a bit new. 

Shane usually tells him to fuck off. That he should stop joking around about that. That he’s just doing it to see him blush and it’s not funny, it really isn’t, Ilya, and okay, Ilya will admit that he does it partly because Shane sometimes, sometimes whines about it but it’s all good natured, really. 

Ilya looks away first, his hold around the wheel tight. So tight. 

“Why do you think that?” Ilya asks. 

“Because you usually say that as a joke. You’ve never meant it,” Ilya hears the sound of Shane shuffling around in his seat, the soft thump of his back as he leans against the chair. “Besides, I’ve seen the people you’ve dated. They mostly looked like super models.” 

“So you think I am lying?” Ilya’s voice is calm. Quiet. Register lower than usual. 

“No,” and then, after a second. “Yes. I don’t know. You’re just messing around,” 

Ilya checks the rearview mirror first and then his side mirrors. Confirms that it’s safe before abruptly turning on his signals to pull over to the side of the road. 

“Shane, I have never lied to you,” Ilya says before Shane can say anything else, like ask him what the fuck he’s doing, that he should keep driving, god, they’re not allowed to stop in the middle of the fucking road like this unless it was an emergency but this, Ilya thinks, is an emergency. “I will admit–your reaction, is funny, yes? Not–not funny-funny. Fun is maybe better word for it,” 

Cute is another word for it. Endearing. Shane can blush for some random reason and Ilya will have the sudden urge to run into traffic, but that feels like a completely dramatic thing to say when they’re on a literal road trip so he saves it for next time. 

“See,” Shane murmurs, leveling his gaze on him. He still looks a little panicked about being pulled over in the middle of some random highway and Ilya reaches his hand out to squeeze Shane’s shoulder. He breathes in deeply with Shane, thumb running small circles over his shoulder, and then breathes out. “You admit, you do it just to be a complete ass about it,” 

“Okay, that is fair but still, it is not a lie,” Ilya squeezes on his shoulder again, times his breathing to match Shane’s. “I mean it,” 

“You can’t seriously think that.” Shane’s breathing has evened but Ilya keeps his hand on him, his thumb barely grazing the skin over the collar of Shane’s shirt. 

“I am very serious about it,” Ilya says, meeting Shane’s gaze. “I think you are very pretty. So pretty I had to emergency stop just to explain it.” 

Shane touches Ilya’s hand, fingers ghosting over Ilya’s fingers. 

A new song starts playing. 

The sky looks particularly blue today and there are trees, a blur of green and brown behind Shane and Ilya can barely see any of it because Shane is staring at him with wide, open eyes, the blush on his cheeks a little bit lighter now that enough time has passed but still there, still there. 

“I mean it every time,” Ilya murmurs, finally dropping his hand. “The freckles, too, very pretty.” 

There it is again, the blush that had nearly faded back in full force. 

Ilya pokes Shane’s nose playfully, just because he wants to. 

“Thank you,” Shane says, a bit stiffly. “You’re pretty too, Ilya,”

It catches Ilya completely off guard.

He throws his head back and barks out a laugh.

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya says it mostly to himself because trust Shane to say that, really. “I called you very pretty and you just call me pretty?” 

“Don’t be an asshole,” Shane cracks a smile.

Ilya turns on his signal and starts driving away. 

“I am very serious about your freckles,” they’re back on the road and Shane’s settled down beside him again but Ilya chances another glance at him, just because, just because they’ve got two weeks ahead of them and surely he’s allowed to do this, right, for two weeks? Just look at Shane.

Maybe a bit unabashedly, but Ilya’s never been good at lying to himself. 

And he’s also never lied to Shane. Not really. 

“Fine, fine, you’re very pretty.” Shane ducks his head and turns very pointedly to the window, the tips of his ears still red. 

“You mean it?” Ilya asks, his grip around the wheel relaxing. He didn’t realise he’d felt a bit too wound tight until he finally relaxes, until his shoulders sag, the music washing over him. 

“Of course I do,” Shane says and Ilya wishes he could spend the rest of the drive just staring at him. Perhaps insisting he drive first had been the wrong call. 

“Good, because I mean it every time,” Ilya doesn’t miss Shane’s incredulous little smile in response to the quip. 

“Do you wanna switch in an hour or so?” Shane asks, a clear effort to change the subject. Ilya allows it. 

He pretends to mull over the question for longer than necessary before he shakes his head.

“Maybe later, okay?” 

“You’re never letting me drive,” Shane says. “This is my jeep, you know,” 

“Oh, I know,” Ilya says with a very exaggerated sigh. “I am very disappointed in this car,” 

“Not true, you like the jeep.” Shane laughs. “And you said you’ve never lied to me,” 

“It’s not a lie if I have love-hate relationship with your shitty jeep,” Ilya says instead and he laughs, just a bit, too, and it’s something he’s picked up in the eight years that they’ve known each other: that what a shame it would be for Shane to laugh by himself. 

So Ilya laughs with him because it usually makes Shane smile a little bit brighter, a little bit wider.

Ilya can see him smile from the corner of his eye.

A little bit brighter, a little bit wider. 

–

So, the thing is–the thing is again, is that Ilya is not blind and he does not lie. Well, he doesn’t lie to Shane. He likes to lie to himself sometimes but it never really works because being friends with Shane Hollander has made him a pretty shitty liar. 

Which is a win in most books. 

It’s also a win in Ilya’s books, if he’s being honest about it. And he is because, again, he’s a shitty liar.

So yeah, he tells Shane he’s pretty whenever he can because he likes how flustered it makes him. And flustered–that’s the word he’d tried so hard to look for earlier, a word that had escaped him in English but now he knows fully in Russian.

Flustered. 

They’re pulling out of a Tim Horton’s drive thru when Ilya says, “Flustered,” 

“What?” Shane is reaching for something in the backseat and Ilya turns back around and pulls into the parking lot so he can help. “Sorry, I was just looking for napkins, they forgot to give us some. But you said something about being flustered?” 

“Not me,” Ilya takes a sip of his coffee, watching as Shane tries to pick through the box of donuts they’d gotten. “You.”

“Me?” Shane hands Ilya a powdered donut. “I’m not feeling flustered.”

Ilya chews through the donut, washing it down with equally sweet coffee that has Shane grimacing from beside him. He tries again. 

“When I say you are pretty, you get flustered,” Ilya says. 

“Oh,” Ilya watches in real time as it connects, what he just said. What it means. All the things it could mean. He watches as Shane very resolutely stares at a glazed donut as if it just offended his entire bloodline. “Is that a new word?” 

“Yes,” Ilya grabs for a second donut. “I looked it up while you were ordering. Forgot what it was in English,”

“Okay, well, that’s an appropriate word, I guess.” Shane nods. “Good word,”

Ilya lets his smile unfurl slowly. “Yeah? Is appropriate.” 

“Yeah,” Shane’s brows are still furrowed but at least he’s not glaring at the donut anymore. “And can you slow down, that’s too much sugar.” 

Ilya groans. 

“First, you ask to drive slow, now I must eat donuts slowly, too.” 

“Because you’re insane,” but Shane hands him a fourth donut, anyway.

Ilya takes it with a grin that’s a bit too smug but it doesn’t matter, not when Shane leans across the console a little bit later, napkin in hand to dab at some chocolate that’s smeared on the corner of Ilya’s mouth. 

“That’s why you should eat slowly,” Shane says, stuffing the napkin into a paper bag. 

Ilya’s practically white-knuckling the wheel when he turns his face away from Shane.

His chest feels a bit tight, his neck suddenly uncomfortably warm. 

He turns the word over and over again in his head.

Flustered.

–

Shane tells him to stop at the next gas station because Ilya’s been drinking nothing but coffee and gatorade and at some point, a monster that he’d pulled out of nowhere.

“Not nowhere, it was on the floor,” Ilya hops out of the car. “And it was sugar free. Tastes disgusting,” 

“Wow, sugarfree,” Shane repeats in a tone that Ilya knows will be quickly followed by another long lecture about drinking water, at the very least, please. “Drink water, please,” 

Ilya pays for a few bottles of water and a pack of sour candies that he hopes Shane doesn’t notice.

“I’m not saying anything,” Shane says, eyeing the plastic bag in Ilya’s hand. 

“Of course not. I got you ginger ale,” he fishes it out of the bag and pushes it into Shane’s hand. “I drink water, you drink ginger ale. Fair trade.” 

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works.” 

“Is how it works with us.” 

They spend a few more minutes just stretching their legs. 

Ilya splays himself on top of a wooden bench, a few steps away from the parking lot. Even the gas station is nice here–rural, like it’s untouched by the hulking metropolitans they’d just driven out of. It’s nice. 

The wind is cool even in the middle of summer and the sky is an impossible blue with no cloud in sight.

Shane plops down next to him and Ilya pushes his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose to look at Shane against the glow of the sun. 

“What are you thinking about?” Ilya asks, reaching a hand up to tug on the sleeve of Shane’s shirt. “No lying. Or lie, make up  good story, is fine, too.” 

Shane doesn’t bat his hand away but he does think about it.

He thinks about it for so long that Ilya almost falls asleep, the breeze cool against his face and the sound of the rustling leaves so, so soothing to his ears. 

“Thinking about how you’re going to crash within the next hour,” Shane starts to card through Ilya’s hair, fingers brushing through his curls. 

Ilya moves his head closer, a silent ask to keep going.

“Not true,” Ilya resists the urge to curl up and let Shane brush his hair for the remainder of the afternoon. He can fall asleep on top of this picnic table, Shane’s fingers in his hair and the sun in his face. Ilya can fall asleep right now, so, so comfortable. 

“Very true,” Shane continues to brush through his hair, the motion so reminiscent of afternoons when Ilya was still a child, curled up under a blanket and having a hard time sleeping until his mother started to brush his curls out of his eyes, talking so quietly he could barely hear her. 

Ilya hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it until one autumn afternoon in their second year, when he slid down on the couch next to Shane and said he was going to take a quick nap.

Shane had pulled his head up on his lap and Ilya had been frozen for a full minute before Shane started to brush through his hair, his fingernails dragging lightly over his scalp. He’d relaxed in an instant and closed his eyes. 

“You liked it that much?” Shane had asked, looking rather amused when Ilya had woken up after three hours, a crick in his neck and looking up at Shane, who’d stayed completely still and in place the whole time. 

“You should have woken me up,” Ilya had said instead, because he felt his face heat up. He’d fallen asleep on Shane’s lap. God, he’d been so embarrassed back then, had wanted to shy away from it so much but it had been so long since anyone had done that for him and he’d been so tired, his bones so, so heavy that he just completely let himself go. 

“It’s fine, I liked it,” Shane had said it so easily, like he was just pointing out the obvious. 

That day, Ilya had learned how easy it was to be honest with himself.

With Shane.

“I like when you do this,” Ilya says now, hand falling back to his side.

“I know,” Shane works through a particularly stubborn curl, his fingernails dragging gently over Ilya’s scalp. 

“Is this your plan?” Ilya asks, a corner of his mouth tugging up into a smile. “Make me sleepy so you can steal keys from me?” 

“Please.” Shane laughs, fingers stilling. There’s some commotion, Shane moving around to look for something. Ilya doesn’t want to confirm and he also doesn’t want to help because he’s so comfortable right now, with Shane’s fingers in his hair and the afternoon so beautiful around them. 

Ilya hears the familiar jingle of keys above him and he opens his eyes, mouth popping open.

“Thief,” he proclaims weakly, his bones practically jelly right now. There is no fight left in him. Shane had been right–he’s close to crashing. 

“Stop hogging the jeep,” is all Shane says before he goes back to finger-combing through Ilya’s hair. 

Ilya pushes himself up on the table. The wood is hard on his back, legs dangling over the edge but then Shane pulls him up by his shoulders and guides him back down on his lap, and Ilya. God, does Ilya feel like he’s right where he needs to be. 

“You know,” Ilya starts, lips pursed. He turns his head over to the side, cheek pressing into Shane’s thigh. “I always drive safely with you. I am the best at it,” 

They might joke about it and Shane might tell him to follow the speed limit when he starts driving too fast, but Ilya had never been reckless when he was driving. It’s not something he’s capable of doing, especially not with Shane in the passenger seat, or pressed closely against his back, arms wrapped tightly around his waist if they were on his bike. 

“I know,” Shane murmurs. He lets his fingers graze over Ilya’s forehead. “I trust you, you know that, right?”

Ilya’s throat constricts. He works hard to swallow through what he wants to say.

When he finds himself unable to say anything, he moves his hand instead, finding Shane’s free hand to close his fingers around his wrist first, giving it a squeeze before he slides it down. Until he’s clasping Shane’s hand tightly in his own, like it’s a secret he keeps close against his heart. 

Ilya brings their joined hands to his chest. He smiles up at Shane, who’s still looking down at him, the blue, blue sky everywhere around him. 

“Because I am the best,” Ilya lets their joined hands rest on his chest, right above where his heart is. “I am aware of this, yes,” 

“You’re insufferable,” is all Shane says but he doesn’t pull his hand away. 

“First time you said that, I wrote it down and looked it up after,” Ilya admits. “Just to be sure. Made me laugh. Was accurate.” 

“Like flustered?” Shane asks, this time poking fun at him. Shane returns his smile easily. 

“Exactly,” Ilya closes his eyes again. “Now, go back to brushing my hair. It’s working. I’m sleepy.” 

Shane tugs on his hair playfully, gently, nothing that hurts, really, and Ilya presses his laughter against Shane’s thigh, his shoulders shaking. 

“I am insufferable, yes, yes,” Ilya says, beating Shane to it. 

“I hate you,” Shane moves his fingers through his hair again, gently, so, so gently that Ilya almost, for an embarrassing second, purrs at how content he feels. 

“No, you don’t,” Ilya says, squeezing around Shane’s hand. “I am your bestie.”

“Stop saying that,” Shane groans. 

“We are not besties?” 

“No–yes, you’re my best friend,” Shane tugs on his hair again and Ilya shakes his head, just to be annoying. “Just–bestie, god. Say the full thing,”

“Bestie,” Ilya repeats without shame. “Shane Hollander is my bestie.” 

“You’ll fall asleep on top of this table and I’ll drive away without you.” 

“No, you won’t.” 

“No, I won’t.”

Ilya falls asleep, anyway, and wakes up with the sky a little less blue but not any less beautiful, not when Shane’s craning his head up to look at it, at the faint streaks of orange that’s started to paint the sky. 

He flexes his fingers and realises that he’d held onto Shane’s hand the whole time he was asleep–and god, how long was he out for for the sun to slowly start setting? How long had Shane just been there, awake, brushing his hair. How long had Shane waited for him as he slept? 

“Wake me up next time,” Ilya says a bit sheepishly when they’re walking back to the car. He catches Shane flexing his fingers, probably having cramped after Ilya had held onto it for a full hour. Give or take a minute or so–or twenty minutes, honestly, because he’d fallen asleep for an hour and twenty minutes which is something Shane refused to say until Ilya had started thrashing around in the passenger seat. 

“I like doing that for you, you know that,” Shane stops him before he can hop back into the jeep with a hand on the back of his neck. “Hold on, you slept a bit funny 

“I slept perfectly,” Ilya tries to say but then Shane is rubbing the back of his neck and then his shoulders, and Ilya sighs, leaning back against him.

Shane pushes him away, mumbling something about how he can’t help if Ilya stands too close, “Stay still, would you?” 

“Do you need me to sit? I know it can be tiring, reaching up–”

Shane smacks him lightly on his shoulder and Ilya stumbles back into the car laughing. 

–

Shane’s driving, like most of the things that he does, is consistent. Text book definition of perfect. Both hands on the wheel, eyes never straying from the road. He follows the speed limit strictly and Ilya spends the first twenty minutes of their afternoon drive sighing exasperatedly, telling him a child on a scooter just passed him. 

“Children aren’t allowed on the highway,” Shane says easily, smacking Ilya’s hand away when he tries to reach for the wheel. “Stop that. What are you trying to do now?” 

“Maybe if I help steer,” Ilya tries again.

Shane catches his hand and squeezes around Ilya’s fingers. 

Ilya stops and lets their hands fall over the console between them. 

“Better,” Ilya says, swinging their hands together, the space barely allowing for any movement. He manages, anyway. Somehow. 

“We’re going to have to stop for the night. We can stop at that inn–”

“Motel,” Ilya supplies helpfully. 

“It’s an inn, that’s what the name says. Pineglass Inn, not Pineglass Motel,” Shane shakes Ilya’s hand, as if to prove a point.

Ilya shakes their hands even harder, to prove a better point. 

“Better be fancy if it’s an inn,” 

“Stop pouting,” Shane says without even looking away from the road.

Ilya stares at his reflection in the window and scrunches his nose. He definitely wasn’t pouting. 

It’s whatever. 

“This–” Ilya says, dropping his bag unceremoniously to the floor. “Is not fancy at all. Shitty motel.” 

“I told you, it’s an inn,” Shane closes the door behind him and drops his bag on the desk. “It’s not that bad.” 

Ilya throws himself into the bed. It’s springy. It creaks under his weight. 

It’s a struggle turning over to his side to face Shane, on the account that the bed is trying to fucking swallow him, but he manages to do it after a full minute, so.

So he raises an eyebrow at Shane and Shane sits down carefully on the edge of his own bed and meets his gaze. 

“We’ll only be here overnight,” Shane sighs. 

“With shitty beds and no room service.” Ilya plops on his back and starfishes. 

He hears Shane struggle to get up because the bed is a demon and trying to eat them. Sees him loom over him when he finally makes it up. Ilya tries to match the look on Shane’s face, the furrowed brows, the slightly amused quirk to his lips. 

“Can you even afford room service?” Shane asks, sinking down beside Ilya. The mattress dips and Ilya rolls over, hitting Shane’s hip when he does. 

“I can buy coffee,” Ilya says, not making any effort to move at all. “I can buy us three and a half cups of coffee.”

“You have more money than that,” Shane prods playfully. 

“Is all gone,” Ilya declares, kicking his feet out and jostling Shane. 

Shane topples over him, hand bracing down on Ilya’s side to catch himself. 

Ilya closes his fingers around Shane’s wrist. He raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Is it your brother again?” Shane asks, suddenly serious as he stares down at Ilya. 

Ilya wishes, not for the first time, that he should have just kept his mouth shut. He was joking. Okay, partly joking. Most of his savings had gone to his father during his treatment, and then when that failed, to his at-home care, and when that ultimately failed and he’d died, to his funeral that Ilya had planned, paid for, and god. Fuck.

Fuck.

Ilya tightens his hold around Shane’s wrist.

Shane eases his grip soothingly. Guides his hand down until their palms are pressed together, a holy palmer’s kiss that nearly knocks Ilya’s breath away because Shane is still looking down at him, hair in his eyes and this stupid fucking motel’s cheap lighting haloing around him like he’s the most beautiful thing this shitty motel’s ever seen. 

The most beautiful thing Ilya’s ever seen. 

“Ilya,” Shane lowers himself down next to him carefully. Brings a hand up to touch Ilya’s chin. 

“Shane,” Ilya breathes in deeply.

Shane breathes with him. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Ilya tips his head forward until their foreheads are pressed together, until he can barely see Shane without going cross-eyed, until he can breathe him in.

The distance this time isn’t so bad. 

“We can,” Shane says gently. “I know we promised not to–”

“Yes, we promised,” Ilya refuses to open his eyes. He doesn’t want to think about whatever bullshit’s waiting for him back home. There will be documents to sign, a lot of arguing. God, what will his brother even say to him this time? Insults Ilya has already heard before, something he’s deeply familiar with.

Things Shane has never even heard because Ilya has kept that part to himself. 

“I make a deal with you, Hollander,” Ilya pushes on. “If I don’t come back, feel free to come to Moscow and find me. You can probably take Andrei in a fight.”

He opens his eyes and leans away, an obvious show of giving Shane a quick, studying glance. 

Shane starts to smile.

Ilya does, too, because it is so, so infectious. 

“I need, like, a timeline,” Shane says. 

“Ah,” Ilya lifts their hands up between them, tugging Shane closer. “I’m very sleepy all of a sudden.”

Ilya sees the laugh before he hears it. Shane’s shoulders shake, his eyes scrunching up, and his face bright, bright, bright. Ilya smiles at first because they’re in some dingy motel room somewhere off the highway and it’s cold, the beds are awful, but Shane is so, so close to him that Ilya can breathe and feel all of Shane beside him. 

And so Ilya laughs with him. 

They both dissolve into a fit of giggles on the bed, Shane shaking his head and trying to slap his shoulder while Ilya just pulls him close, close, close, because this road trip is magical and they’ve got two weeks ahead of them and time doesn’t move the same way here. 

“I’ll buy you coffee tomorrow,” Shane says after they’ve stopped laughing. He’s pressed right against Ilya, their foreheads knocking together and Shane’s leg hooked around Ilya’s leg. “Because, you, what? Only have twelve dollars to your name right now?”  

“Incorrect,” Ilya huffs, shaking his head. Shane shakes with the force of it. Ilya holds him close to stop him from wriggling away. “I have fifteen, maybe.” 

“Sure you do,” Shane rolls his eyes at him. 

He’s beautiful like this, too, when Ilya knows he’s being unbearable and Shane is just–bearing it all, the weight of him. Holding Ilya as close as Ilya is holding him, legs tangled and skin pressed against skin. 

Ilya can just lean in and there will be no distance at all. 

But he doesn’t. 

He can’t. 

“Now get up,” Ilya breaks the trance for them. He drags Shane up with him and pulls him up from the bed.

Shane stumbles against him but Ilya’s hands are on either side of his hips, gripping tight, holding him steady. 

“Shitty bed,” Shane finally admits. 

“Cottage better have good beds,” Ilya steps away from him, dropping his hold around Shane. The loss is felt in an instant, his fingers twitching at the sudden absence of warmth. 

“King sized beds,” Shane says, grinning. “Anyway, we should grab something to eat before bed.”

“Shane Hollander, it’s your lucky day,” Ilya grins, already halfway to the door. “I have fifteen dollars. All yours.” 

–

They’ve never actually crossed the line, the two of them.

Never even talked about it except that one time halfway into their second year, when Ilya held Shane’s hand while they were watching a horror movie and he’d jumped so suddenly he had to grab something, anything–Shane’s hand. 

Shane had held his hand until the movie was over and Ilya couldn’t look at him for most of the afternoon after. He’d excused himself saying he’d felt a bit funny. 

“Was it weird?” Shane had asked, a few days later when Ilya finally showed up outside his apartment again. 

“What was weird?” Ilya had asked, a sheepish look already on his face. 

“I held your hand,” and Ilya remembers very clearly how he felt when he saw the look on Shane’s face that day, the droop in his shoulders, the way his eyes had completely lost their light when he thought Ilya had felt sick because they’d held hands, as if Ilya was repulsed by him. 

Ilya had pulled him into a hug in an instant, bone crushing and so tight he can still feel Shane against him, years later. 

“Never,” Ilya had whispered, voice something fierce as he felt Shane’s arms around him. “I was–I was scared it was weird for you,” 

“No,” Shane had murmured against Ilya’s chest. He lifted his head up and stared at Ilya through wet lashes. “Not weird. It was nice,”

Ilya had tangled their fingers together, breath held. 

Shane squeezed his hand. 

They both breathed out together. 

“Nice,” Ilya had said, his smile careful and his eyes stinging. “We are okay, yes?” 

Seven years later and they’re still okay. It escalated from that but nothing that can be considered too much, nothing that can’t be explained away as Ilya and Shane being IlyaAndShane. 

Ilya remembers Yuna pointing it out one time, back when Ilya had only known them all for a few years already. Maybe it was around the third or fourth summer, about how they’ve gotten so clingy with each other over the years.

“I like Shane a lot,” Ilya had said, as a way of explanation. “I want to be close to him.” 

Yuna had opened her mouth and closed it right after. She didn’t say anything, not really, just smiled at him softly and nodded her head, as if she understood something Ilya didn’t.

Case in point:

Shane dragging Ilya across the parking lot because he wanted to smoke right next to the front door, and why does it matter if he smokes there, anyway, it’s a shitty motel, they barely have any guests–

“No one will care because this motel has no other guests,” Ilya protests loudly. He lets Shane drag him to the end of the parking lot, a little ways from where the jeep is parked. Ilya keeps his smile down and just holds onto Shane’s hand tightly. 

“Here. Just do it there,” Shane takes a couple of steps back after he’s sure Ilya won’t make a run for it.

It’s seven in the morning and Ilya hasn’t even had coffee yet. He is not running anywhere.

He fishes for his cigarettes and then spends a few more seconds patting his pockets down to look for his lighter. 

Shane pulls it out of his own pocket. Ilya raises an eyebrow at him.

“Is this your way of saying you want a cigarette?” Ilya asks. 

Shane frowns at him. Says, “No, you left it on the bathroom counter.” 

Ilya doesn’t take the lighter. He just brings the cigarette up to his mouth and leans in, waiting.

Shane gets this look on his face that Ilya can’t really describe as anything but adorable–when he looks so focused at whatever the task is, even if it’s something absolutely stupid like helping Ilya light his cigarette. 

“Fuck you,” Shane grumbles but he also doesn’t throw the lighter at Ilya. He pushes his thumb down over it. Brings the lighter up to the tip of the cigarette.

Ilya breathes in and leans back, shooing Shane away as he holds the smoke in. 

“I’m going to go get the car ready,” Shane says when Ilya finally breathes the smoke out. 

There are few pleasures in this world better than his first cigarette of the day. 

Holding Shane’s hand is one of them. Something Ilya had already accomplished, by way of getting dragged across this awful motel’s parking lot.

So he’s on to the next best thing.

Shane leaves him alone to smoke and Ilya watches him go, smiling when he knows Shane is too far away to notice. He waves at Ilya when he gets to the car and Ilya waves back. 

Ilya takes another drag. Holds it in. Breathes out. 

He’ll have to wrestle the keys out of Shane’s hand but that’s not so much of an undertaking as something Ilya actually looks forward to. 

It’ll be another day’s drive because this time Shane actually wants to stop to look at the trees–or a park, or something, Ilya isn’t sure. Maybe they’re supposed to go for a short trek, probably. Yeah, one more night before they finally get to the cottage, to the lake that Shane has sworn up and down Ilya will love.

“I think it’s going to rain,” Shane says, scrolling through his phone. “Mom did mention thunderstorms.” 

Ilya’s grip around the wheel tightens. 

“I will drive very fast,” Ilya is not a reckless driver, not with Shane in the car next to him. “I will beat the storm.” 

“No you won’t,” Shane admonishes quickly. 

Ilya deflates just as quickly. 

“No, but I will be speeding so we can make it to that trail before sunset.” It’s going to be a bit out of the way, down some backwoods or other but the route’s already been set on Ilya’s phone.

They can stop for lunch along the way, too, and maybe, just maybe, they can outrun the thunderstorm. 

Shane looks at him for a beat longer than necessary and nods, understanding Ilya without him having to say anything else. 

Ilya starts driving just shy of the speed limit. Just for the first hour of the trip until they pass the second hour and then Ilya is going above the speed limit, fingers tightly coiled around the wheel. 

The music that plays now is something Shane had chosen–some instrumental that Ilya can’t name. He tries to pay attention to it.

Shane taps his finger against his knee and Ilya loosens his hold around the wheel. 

“Hey,” Shane says, two hours into the trip. They’d spent the first few hours just talking about nothing in particular. But Shane’s tone has changed and Ilya knows what’s coming before Shane can even say it.

It works both ways, this understanding.

David used to accuse them of telepathy.

Yuna just calls it their bond. 

“It’s raining,” Shane’s voice is a bit louder with the rain pattering heavily against the roof of the car. It paints the whole world grey and dark. Dreary. “Ilya, pull over.” 

“I am fine, Shane,” Ilya insists.

“There’s an exit coming up, take that so we can switch at the next rest stop,” Shane touches his elbow tentatively, like he’s not sure Ilya might just disappear on him. 

Ilya doesn’t disappear but he does nod stiffly.

He slows down and takes the next exit, just as Shane had pointed out. He pulls to a stop at the rest stop but doesn’t move after. 

Rain falls heavily around them and Ilya can barely hear himself breathe, much less think. 

The first clap of thunder startles him.

Shane’s hand is back on his elbow, grounding him.

“Ilya, hey,” Shane prods, leaning across the divide between them to get closer to him. “It’s fine. Let’s wait it out.”

“We switch. Keep driving,” Ilya says a bit stubbornly. “So we are not behind schedule.”

“There’s no schedule,” Shane assures him. “It’s okay, let’s wait it out.” 

Ilya looks away from the windshield, from the sleet of grey outside. The sky brightens for a second, a lightning strike somewhere ahead of them, too foggy for him to see anything to really pinpoint where it had come from. He braces himself for the next loud clap of thunder. He feels Shane’s fingers down his arm before he closes them gently around Ilya’s hand.

Ilya unclenches his fist and turns his palm over, a sad imitation of another holy palmer’s kiss. He twines their fingers together. Shane squeezes on his hand as thunder roars somewhere above them. 

“They thought the noise would hide it,” it’s a struggle to get the words out. It sounds too clipped, his accent heavier than it’s been in years, like he’s fresh from learning English, rolling the phrases over and over, trying to make sense of them. It always gets this heavy when it’s hard to focus. “At least the sound, anyway,”

Shane doesn’t say anything and Ilya is glad for that because he can barely hear himself. He doesn’t want to raise his voice just so Shane can hear him. Ilya would never–

He swallows. 

“Did not hide how she looked after, though,” here Ilya’s smile breaks into something ugly and sardonic. His chest feels tight and his eyes are burning. “She was very beautiful, my mama.” 

“I know,” Shane brings their intertwined hands up to his face. Kisses the back of Ilya’s hand. Ilya can feel it, that sad smile pressed into his skin. “You look like her.” 

Ilya feels broken and ugly whenever he talks about this, when he has the courage to bring up everything his father had done to his mother. But he can never feel broken or ugly whenever Shane tells him he looks like her. 

Shane kisses each of Ilya’s knuckles. Ilya closes his eyes. 

“Very pretty,” Ilya says, his smile turning wet. 

Memory is a monster and Ilya is haunted by enough monsters, but this one. The memory of her face is one he keeps close to his chest, right next to where his heart is. 

He has a photo of her, just the one photo he’d managed to hide after everything had fallen apart. The only thing he’d brought with him to Canada that really mattered. 

Ilya keeps it in his wallet for days when he struggles to remember her face. The sweet curve of her smile. Her cascading blonde curls. The soft blue of her eyes. His beautiful mama. 

Lightning lights up the sky again. Shane squeezes on his hand, holding it tighter when thunder follows not long after. 

“Sorry, is stupid–” Ilya tries to say. He’s whispering, he realises. But the rain is still falling in earnest and they’re stuck in the car because Ilya doesn’t want to switch anymore, not if it means Shane has to run out in the rain. Not in the middle of a thunderstorm.

“Not stupid,” Shane says. “You’re not–” a deep breath, Shane steadying himself. “Stupid, or ridiculous for feeling this way. I know how it is, okay? It’s just you and me right now. You’re safe.” 

Ilya doesn’t realise he’s crying until Shane unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches over to wipe at his tears, thumb grazing gently over his cheek. 

Ilya is so impossibly tired all of a sudden, his hands cold with dread and his chest warm with something close to longing. The storm has completely sucked him dry of all his energy, of any bravado left in him. But that doesn’t really matter. It’s long since stopped mattering with Shane, these silly little pretenses he liked to put up for everyone. Walls that had come crumbling down the second he knew what it felt like to hold Shane’s hand that first time, and then the second time when he realised just how scared he would be if he never got to do it again. 

“Is my favourite thing.” Ilya murmurs.

The rain has started to slow down a little. Barely any lightning strikes anymore. Soon, the sky will clear. 

“What is?” Shane asks. 

Ilya brings their joined hands up to his face and presses a small, tired smile to the back of Shane’s hand. “You and me.” 

Sometimes, Ilya looks at Shane and wonders what he did to deserve him. In his worst days, Shane Hollander was still beautiful–flawed but beautiful and so genuine, so raw. In his best days, Shane Hollander was beautiful–not perfect, but he’s glorious, anyway, and absolutely brilliant in ways Ilya can never hope to compete with. 

On both days, Shane was golden. 

This Ilya knows for a fact: Shane Hollander is the best the world has to offer.

It’s a wonder how he ended up with Ilya like this. 

It’s nothing short of a miracle.

During the coldest days of winter–so cold it reminds him of winters back in Russia–and when the sky is clear, Ilya likes to think that perhaps this is a miracle. A gift. The moon always glows brightly whenever he puzzles over it, when he’s foolish enough to admit to himself that he deserves this–

Ilya takes in a shuddering breath, sees Shane move in the corner of his eye, feels him shift before he hears him say, “Okay, give me some space.” 

Shane clambers over the centre console, knee knocking into one of their water bottles. The sound of a can rolling to the back of the car after Shane accidentally kicks it away.

And it’s all happening so fast.

Ilya can only watch as Shane crosses over the divide and clambers onto his lap. Ilya’s hand drops to his waist in an instant, the other moving to grope around for the lever. He moves the seat as far back as it can go as Shane finally settles down on top of him. 

Shane lifts his hands up to cradle Ilya’s face, thumbs tracing over his cheekbones, over the tear tracks that Ilya’s sure are still there, a remnant of his moment of weakness, because again Shane has to take care of him, who has to bear the weight of him like it’s his responsibility, this rotten work, again–

Ilya winds an arm around Shane. Pulls him close. Presses his ear against Shane’s just, on the spot right above his heart.  

“I was thinking.” Ilya can hear the way his voice breaks over his own words. 

“You’re doing that a lot lately,” Shane’s voice is gentle. A tenderness that Ilya had grown so foreign to until he’d met him. 

Until eight years ago, really. 

Ilya tries to make light of it but he can’t help it when his voice cracks.

“I was thinking that I did nothing to deserve you.” 

Shane presses his thumbs gently into Ilya’s cheeks. Knocks their foreheads together. 

“You just have to be and that’s more than enough,” Shane whispers, something quiet and tender. Something beautiful between them. “You deserve good things no matter what, Ilya.” 

“Fuck,” Ilya is crying again because he’s an idiot and he’d worried Shane again, and he has him on his lap, has him in his arms and Ilya is spending this precious moment crying. “We are never getting to that cottage.” 

“Shut up,” Shane says, mostly into Ilya’s hair.

Ilya tucks his face into that sacred space between Shane’s neck and his shoulder. Squeezes his eyes tight.

There’s so many things Ilya wants to say. A single line that Ilya wants to cross.

But he knows Shane looks both ways before crossing the street, even when it’s three in the morning and the rest of the world is asleep. 

Ilya has never been a reckless driver, not with Shane.

Never with Shane. 

So he swallows down what he wants to say and he does not cross the line. He lets himself cry. It tires him out even more but Shane holds him through it, arms coming around his shoulders and holding him tight, pressing them so close together all Ilya can feel is the warmth from him. The warmth of all eight summers they’d spent together. 

Ilya will settle for this: 

“Thank you,” he murmurs it underneath Shane’s ear, when he’s finally stopped crying but also not quite ready to let go yet. Not quite ready to give this up. 

Shane doesn’t let go. He rocks Ilya gently within the tiny, infinitesimal space that they have. 

The rain has fully stopped now, the sky slowly brightening up and clearing.

Shane slides his fingers through Ilya’s curls. 

Ilya feels him smile into his hair first, and then his forehead when Shane kisses it, so softly, so fleetingly that Ilya is afraid he’d imagined the whole thing. 

“This is my favourite thing, too,” Shane says. 

A secret, or maybe a well known truth between them. 

They share a most favourite thing. 

–

“You’re probably the only person my dad trusts on a motorcycle,” Shane cuts through the comfortable quiet. His fingers are tap, tap, tapping against the window. He let Ilya drive after the storm because he knew Ilya needed it. 

“Does he want one?” Ilya asks, looking at Shane over his sunglasses.

Shane reaches out to push it higher over the bridge of his nose. He fixes Ilya’s cap, too. 

“No, my mom would kill him,” Shane snorts. “They’ve already had the conversation.”

Ilya laughs. 

“Okay. Maybe we can go on ride together,” he imagines it now, driving through downtown Ottawa with David Hollander behind him. “I will drive slowly. Children walking to school will pass us,”  

“Yeah, that’s definitely the motorbike experience my dad wants,” Shane says fondly. “Mom would appreciate that, though.”

“Next time then.” It sits between them, that next time. Neither of them comment on it any further, on when the next time is going to be because one emotional meltdown in the car was enough. 

Ilya doesn’t have the energy to do one more, not now, anyway. 

“We should be getting to the cottage by dinner, probably. Won’t have to sleep at another motel,” they’re a few hours away from the lakeside. They can get there in the evening if they keep driving but the sky’s cleared up enough for the sun to peek through the clouds again. It is a great day for a hike. 

“We will get there midnight.” Ilya swipes back to the route he’d planned earlier, to the trail Shane had wanted to go on. “Look outside, Hollander. Day is beautiful.” 

“Ilya, we don’t have to go.” Ilya can practically hear him sag into his seat. “It’s been a long day,”

“Is only 2PM, old man.” Ilya glances at Shane, a cheeky smile already playing across his face. “And is fine, I want to go, too. Tree, dirt, rocks. Birds. Scenic trail.”

“Scenic, huh?” Shane sounds like he’s maybe regretting throwing that word around too much.

“Yes, can even stop at lookout you mentioned.” Ilya tries to reroute the whole drive. At most, they’ll have to drive through the night and the early morning. Before Shane can even reject the idea, Ilya is already grinning. Says, “No worries, Hollander. We are on vacation.” 

“Fine,” Shane says. “You know you can’t keep using that as an excuse, right?” 

Ilya sneaks a quick look at him and finds that he’s biting down on his smile. 

“Vacation, vacation,” Ilya laughs. “Vacation. Is the best excuse. Best reason. Yes?” 

Shane rolls his eyes but it’s half hearted. 

Ilya turns back to the road ahead and grins. 

They get to the trail a little after three. It’s only going to be a forty minute trek, and if things go to shit then at least Ilya knows Shane can run fast.

Besides, Ilya can keep up. 

He’s spent his whole life trying to keep up with Shane. If a bear chases them down then he thinks that’s good enough motivation to try and run even faster. 

Ilya tugs on Shane’s sleeve right before they start their trek. With no thoughts of grizzly bears in his mind at all, Ilya pushes through.

“Thank you, Shane,” Ilya starts. “For today.” 

Shane taps on the back of Ilya’s hand. Waits until Ilya lifts his gaze up from staring at the grassy path before he says, “Anytime, Ilya. For anything.” 

“It was–” Ilya tries. “It meant–” 

It meant the whole world to me. 

I cannot imagine even a day without you so how am I supposed to go back to Moscow in three weeks without even a return ticket, without anything to look forward to? 

Shane waits for him, his eyes gentle. Sincere. Oh, the sure sincerity that Shane carries with him, the same way the waves crash against the shore, over and over again: a sure, final thing. 

“It is everything, Shane,” Ilya says, finally.

“Always, Ilya.” Shane smiles at him. A sure, final thing. 

–

The hike is short. It’s nothing too extensive. They’re both in good shape. It’s just that there’s so many trees.

Ilya supposes he could use the literal breath of fresh air after the chain smoking he’d done right after the storm. 

After the storm itself. 

“We passed this tree already,” Ilya points out.

“We haven’t even made a turn yet,” Shane says.

Ilya just rolls his eyes, takes a deep breath in. He lets Shane get a few steps ahead of him before he starts sprinting.

“Ilya, what the hell–” he hears Shane behind him. 

Ilya hears the sound of Shane running, because of course Shane would follow him running down a trail they’ve never even been on before. Of course Shane would follow him.

The wind whips his laughter right out of him. 

“Hurry up, Hollander,” Ilya calls, absolutely cackling now. 

“You cheated!” Shane yells back. He sounds close.

Ilya looks over his shoulder to find Shane only probably a few steps away from him. He’s going to catch up and Ilya’s going to lose, and then he’ll have to spend the rest of the trip with Shane gloating, driving under the speed limit the whole way to the lake, and it’ll be complete agony. 

“Sore losers always yell cheating!” Ilya feels his chest expand, feels the wind in his curls as he picks up the pace and starts earnestly running faster. He sprints the rest of the trail, Shane hot on his heels. 

Ilya collapses on the ground as soon as the sign tells them they’re only five minutes away from the parking lot. 

Shane stumbles on his foot and falls right next to him, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.

Ilya isn’t sure how he did it. How he’s currently still breathing. He’s not doing a very good job at it, every breath sharp, his ribs complaining. And his lungs. His lungs are in complete agony.

Shane pushes himself up to sit and jabs a finger into Ilya’s chest.

“You smoke, for gods sake,” Shane pants. 

Ilya brings him back down to the grass and play fights, rolling them around in the dirt and the leaves until he’s got Shane pinned underneath him, legs on either side of Shane. Ilya throws his head back and laughs. 

He feels absolutely glorious right now and not because he won the race–he cheated, it doesn’t really count but he’d rather die than admit that outloud. 

Shane’s hand is shaking when he sets it on Ilya’s hip. 

It must be the endorphins that come from exercise. Something about brain chemistry or whatever.

Whatever.

It’s impossible but Ilya manages to laugh even harder. 

Soon enough Shane is laughing, too, shoulders shaking and his eyes squeezing tight.

Ilya bends down and sags against him, cheek pressing lazily into the side of Shane’s face. Like this, he can feel just how Shane’s laughing, can hear it vibrate through his bones. It shakes Ilya from the inside out, this strong tremor in the earth. 

“You–are–” Shane tries to catch his breath., 

“Insufferable, I know!” Ilya yells, because he feels like he’s glowing, like his chest has expanded to a thousand times its usual size, like it can suddenly contain so many things in it all at once. 

The whole world, maybe. 

His hands come up to Shane’s face and he pinches his cheeks. 

“Only partially right,” Shane laughs, hands finding Ilya’s wrists and holding them steady.  Ilya’s fingers press into Shane’s cheeks. Their eyes lock.  “You’re my best friend,” 

Ilya traces over Shane’s freckles with his fingers. Feels the way Shane’s grip on his wrists tighten. 

“We have been over this,” Ilya tries very hard to sound clipped and short but it’s hard when he’s still laughing. When they’re on the ground, a complete mess. When Shane’s got leaves clinging to his hair. “We are besties.”

“Fuck, okay, we’re besties,” Shane relents.

Ilya squeezes his cheeks again and leans down to place a quick, wet kiss to Shane’s forehead. 

He watches as Shane unfolds beneath him, cheeks dusted a pretty, pretty pink, his face bright. God, is he the brightest thing Ilya has ever laid his eyes on.

–

Ilya’s never been on the road for this long before. He’d never really driven too far away back in Moscow. Never really had anywhere he wanted to go that wouldn’t have been better by train or plane. He imagines himself sitting in the back of a car with his brother, their parents in the front. Or his father and Polina. 

She was always going to be his mother’s replacement. His father had meant for it when he married too soon after they’d just buried his mother. Ilya imagines it now, sitting in the back of a car with his father’s new wife sitting up front. 

There’s a dull thunk as his head hits the window. 

He doesn’t have to think about it. Doesn’t have to spend the rest of their drive imagining it. He is just relieved that it never really happened because now he can have this. 

A new experience with Shane. They’re not going to make it to the cottage unless they keep driving well into the early morning. Ilya could. He will, if Shane asks him to. Or, if Shane lets him. But he knows that’s not going to happen so he just stares out the window and listens to the quiet murmur of an old favourite, a Russian song he liked to listen to whenever he got on his bike.

“Tell me what the song’s about,” Shane briefly glances away from the dark road to look at Ilya. 

Ilya smiles, something slow and quiet. His heart is doing that weird thing again. It feels like it’s glowing. 

“Are you sure you are not fluent?” Ilya asks, replaying the song. “First line is: tell me what is on your mind,” 

“No, you’d know if I was,” Shane huffs out a laugh. 

“You are right, you will never shut up about it,” golden boy Shane Hollander who speaks perfect French and English, who’d learned Japanese growing up and insists that it’s only conversational, but enough, anyway, to get around in Japan if they ever decided to visit. 

“Tell me,” Shane turns the volume up and Ilya listens. It’s harder like this, when he has to do a word by word translation. He feels like he has to be careful when he talks sometimes. He has to try to really think about the right words to say. 

Ilya thinks about the right way to say it. Purses his lips and finally settles on, “She is surprised to find out that she can keep going. She is feeling–what is the word? Starts with v,” Ilya pauses. Thinks. He knows the word in Russian, and he tries it, says what he means in Russian and watches as Shane just blinks, a shadow of a smile on his face as he listens to Ilya explain what the word can mean. 

It’s what intimacy feels like to Ilya–this precious, intimate thing between him and Shane. 

“Vulnerable?” Shane asks. 

“Vulnerable,” Ilya repeats slowly. “Vulnerable, yes,” 

This precious, intimate thing between him and Shane feels almost vulnerable. 

“Song is about being vulnerable. Cannot fix what is broken. Maybe she will try to fix it, maybe not. But it’s okay if it cannot be fixed. She is vulnerable but also strong.” He says the last word the same way he says vulnerable, like it’s this small, precious intimate thing. 

Shane nods and replays the song.

Ilya smiles. 

“Sometimes, is enough just to say what you are thinking,” Outside, the sky is dark. Out here in the countryside, the stars are scattered everywhere. “Is enough if someone is just there with you.” 

Shane moves without saying anything. He sets his hand down on Ilya’s thigh and turns it over. 

Ilya twines their fingers together, watches as Shane drags their joined hands back to his lap, where it rests there for a while.

“Nap,” Shane tells him when a new song starts playing. “I’ll wake you up when we get to the lookout,” 

Ilya tries to make a fuss. He doesn’t want to nap, doesn’t want to miss watching Shane drive. He doesn’t want to miss a second of this trip.

Shane squeezes his hand and he doesn’t say it again, not outloud, anyway, and Ilya nods, letting their twined hands rest on the warmth of Shane’s thigh. 

Ilya closes his eyes and sleeps.

–

Their fifth summer together was short. Ilya had spent half of it back in Russia, miserable the entire time. Shane had picked him up when he arrived in the same Jeep Cherokee that Ilya pretends to hate but doesn’t really. It’s seen them through so much. 

“How was home?” Shane had asked. He helped Ilya with his bags. Said something about how he looked like he hadn’t slept at all in the two weeks that he’d been gone. 

“I don’t know,” Ilya had shrugged. “I have not been home for two weeks,”

A long, pointed stare at Shane that Ilya hoped, even years later, after the moment had passed, could just be excused by how fucking exhausted he was. 

“Right,” Shane nodded. It was still difficult for him to understand Ilya’s relationship with his family. It was not complicated, not really. Ilya hated going back. He’d worked hard for that student visa, and even harder at his working visa. The PR would take longer but that’s fine. As long as he has time, Ilya is willing to wait patiently. “Mom said you should swing by but not if you’re too tired,”

“I am never too tired for home cooked meal,” and Ilya had smiled brightly in that car, three years ago. It had felt like the first time he’d smiled in weeks.  

The rest of the summer had been spent at the Hollanders when he could make the time, and if he couldn’t then just with Shane, sometimes during lunch breaks, most times after work.

Shane is a constant. A sure fire thing. 

Ilya isn’t afraid of that changing as long as he doesn’t change anything. 

The night sky stretches everywhere around them. Beyond them, the stars glitter, so clear and so bright when they’re so far away from the city lights, from skyscrapers and the pollution of cars and factories. The wind is cool and crisp and Ilya breathes it all in, fingers curling around the wooden fence that separates them from the edge of the lookout and a long fall down. 

Shane stands quietly next to him, staring out at the view. It’s not much of a view besides the stars, besides the feel of the cool air comforting and nice against his face. It’s not much at this time of the night. Probably better in the morning, when they can see the winding river just beneath them, the endless expanse of tree tops. 

“Not much of a view,” Ilya says, turning his whole body around to look at Shane.

Shane looks away from the view and shrugs. 

“Air is nice, though,” Shane says. He plucks a leaf out of Ilya’s hair and smiles when he shows it to him. “How is Svetlana, by the way?”

Ilya knows where this is going. They’ve done this song and dance before. 

“She is fine,” Ilya says, waving a hand in the air. “New job, new girlfriend. Living the life, she likes to say.”

Shane knows this song and dance. He usually starts it. So he follows it up with, “And what happened to the last guy you dated?” 

“Is old news, Hollander,” Ilya says, smiling easily. A bit too easily he feels that it’s starting to look forced. It is a shaky smile at best. “Just saw him a few times. Didn’t work out.”

“Why not?” 

Ilya lets Shane push because he needs to. 

“Was not what I really wanted, I guess,” Ilya presses his lips into a thin line. “Don’t think any of them were what I really wanted.” 

“You never date them long enough to know that,” Shane kicks at the wooden fence. 

“And how long do I need to know someone to know that they are–ah, the one?” Ilya raises his eyebrows. He’s pulling now because it’s what he needs to do. 

“I don’t know,” Shane admits, shrugging. He bumps their shoulders together, a light thump that rings loudly in the silence of the night, so high up that Ilya is afraid to look down. 

It is a long way down. He doesn’t even know if there’s anything to fall into. 

“Your turn. What happened to Miles?” Eight years and Ilya can only count on one hand all the people Shane had dated. He doesn’t even know if any of them even made it to Shane’s childhood home, where the white picket fence wraps around the front yard. The garage with a space saved for Shane’s jeep, even if he hasn’t lived there in years. In his old bedroom, with the trophies from high school and university on the walls. His last varsity jacket is still hanging in the closet. To Yuna and David and their weekends dedicated to watching the latest hockey game on TV. To Yuna and David’s puzzle and mahjong nights. 

None of them ever made it back home. 

“Not what I wanted,” Shane copies his answer. His shoulders have gone stiff, eyes darker when he drags it away from Ilya’s face to stare at the nothingness in front of them, at the fall that feels almost infinite. It is terrifying, the places Ilya is willing to go with Shane. 

Ilya steps closer to him and wraps an arm around his waist. Shane breathes out a sigh and relaxes next to him almost in an instant. 

The dance is almost over but Ilya tries a step he’s never really done before and pushes. 

“What do you want?” Ilya asks. 

“More time,” Shane says. 

Ah. 

Ilya lets his head rest on top of Shane’s, cheek pressed into his soft dark hair and he thinks, of course. More time. It makes perfect sense. 

“You?” Ilya feels Shane move a tiny fraction against him, feels him try to lift his head up to look at him. Ilya doesn’t let him, though, just keeps his cheek pressed on top of Shane’s head, breathing him in. He doesn’t know what his face looks like right now. Doesn’t think he can handle it if looks into Shane’s eyes. 

“More time,” Ilya mimics, because Shane copied his answer earlier. Because it’s easy and because Ilya never lies to Shane, not really. “And to know you for all of it.” 

It is not an afterthought. Just another piece of the truth that Ilya likes to dispense from time to time, just to see if it changes anything, this new revelation. 

The world doesn’t tip on its axis, the wind doesn’t stop blowing. Nothing changes in the world around them. Shane is still pressed to his side, unmoving but also relaxed. Ilya rubs his thumb over his hip, small circles. Slowly. Nothing else changes within Ilya’s own world. 

“Well, of course,” Shane finally says, tone so matter of fact that it makes Ilya smile again. 

“Of course, ” Ilya lets his lips brush over the top of Shane’s head before he pulls away, the closest he can get without ever crossing the line. Without ever having to change anything. 

It’s always hard to pull himself away from Shane when they’re this close but Ilya has had a lot of practice in the past eight years. He succeeds. Takes a step back. 

Shane turns towards him in an instant, following Ilya with a sheepish smile on his face as he watches Ilya walk backwards to where the jeep is. 

“We will get there before sunrise,” Ilya says, hopping up into the driver’s seat. 

“We can stop somewhere to sleep,” the passenger side door closes quietly behind Shane. “We’ll get there sooner or later.” 

“Sooner is better,” Ilya starts the car. They’ve gone a bit off-road just to get to the lookout. It’ll take them an extra hour to get back on the main highway, but Ilya doesn’t mind. “Your turn to sleep.”

Shane’s fiddling with Ilya’s phone, scrolling through the countless playlists. He skips past all the annoying workout playlists, scrolls through Spotify for a while until he finally settles on a playlist Ilya hasn’t touched in ages. Just a few Russian songs that he’d compiled for Shane when he asked that one night, so long ago. Songs that might help him sleep. Quiet songs that Ilya might think he’ll like. 

“It helps me sleep,” Shane says quietly, settling into his seat. Ilya reaches an arm behind him to grab for one of the blankets he knows is strewn across the backseat. The car swerves a bit when he loses focus and Shane curses under his breath, hand coming up to grab the wheel to steer them back. “Jesus, Ilya, what the hell?” 

“Here,” Ilya throws the fleece blanket at him and laughs when it completely envelops Shane. “Sleep. Leave me all alone. Poor Ilya Rozanov, nobody to talk to in the middle of the night–”

Shane snorts out a laugh. Amused. Fond, if Ilya lets himself think that far. 

“Whatever,” Shane pulls the blanket over his shoulders and tilts his head back. He looks cozy, like he’s about to fall asleep within the next ten seconds. “And you won’t be alone. I’ll be right here.” 

That’s just the thing, isn’t it? The one thing that Ilya wants, always right next to him. 

The song switches to something by ooes. 

“Good night, Shane,” Ilya murmurs. He decides to drive under the speed limit because they are not in a rush. There’s four more hours left until they get to the cottage and it’s barely past midnight. They’ll get there before sunrise, speeding or not. 

“Good night, Ilya.” Shane’s voice is so quiet, already halfway into sleep. 

Ilya drives under the speed limit while ooes sings Last Summer. 

–

The cottage is nestled just beyond an unpaved path. Beaten and winding. The path narrows and Ilya starts to worry if they can even make it in the jeep when Shane slowly stirs awake beside him and tells him to keep going.

“It’s going to be fine,” Shane’s voice is heavy with sleep, slow and sticky like molasses. 

Ilya’s fingers are bone-white around the wheel as he tries to steer the car along the rocky path, as he tries to rip his gaze away from Shane, nestled in his blanket and his hair sleep-mussed.

The trees are thick everywhere around them. Ilya can barely see anything beyond what the car’s headlights can show him. 

Ilya rolls his window down to enjoy the first gust of wind in this lakeside getaway. It’s crisp against his cheeks, his nose. It’s cold, this early in the morning. 

Shane shivers beside him and Ilya smiles, turning down the path. 

It starts slow.

The trees block most of the light but through the leaves, Ilya can see the first traces of the sky lightening. Can see the faint oranges and reds slowly painting across the sky. 

Shane has woken up but he’s still slow, still speaking in soft tones when he tells Ilya they’ve arrived. 

The cottage is quaint, settled just beside the lake. There’s a dock connected to it and a small row boat tethered somewhere to the end. That’ll be fun, he thinks. 

He puts the car in park and twists the keys out.

Beside him, Shane is shaking the blanket off his shoulders. Tries to finger-comb his hair back into some semblance of okay. 

Ilya reaches for him to mess his hair up and Shane swats his hand away. 

“Stop it,” Shane yawns when Ilya tries it again. 

“Sunrise,” Ilya hops out of the jeep and rounds to Shane’s side.

Shane leaves the folded blanket on top of his seat and reaches his hand out to Ilya, almost absentmindedly.

Shane always wakes up slowly. Comes to slowly. 

The sun has yet to fully rise but the water has started to pick up on the colour–a mix of reds and oranges that Ilya can admit looks beautiful.

He looks over his shoulder and takes Shane’s hand easily in his, their fingers twining. 

“You should sleep,” Shane yawns. He presses his face against Ilya’s shoulder. “You drove all night,” 

Ilya lightly swings their hands in the small space between them, fingers tightening around Shane’s.

“Later,” Ilya tells him, tugging on Shane’s hand again. Gently, he pulls Shane down with him until they’re sat on the rocky ground. Shane’s knees close to his chest and Ilya’s legs spread out before him. 

Ilya holds Shane’s hand.

Shane rests his head on Ilya’s shoulder and they wait for the slow ascent of the sun.  

The world changes before them:

The sky a fierce orange and red so warm Ilya isn’t sure he’s ever seen anything like it before.

The surface of the lake reflects the orange of the sun, the sky. The whole world, suddenly on fire. 

It starts slow.

Shane hums a song that’s endearingly out of tune but Ilya recognises as Last Summer.

It starts slow, his smile. 

Slow and something Ilya tries to suppress until he can’t, because the sunrise is beautiful just beyond them, and the world is bathed in orange and red and everything is warm, warm, warm. Shane is beside him, warm, warm, warm. So Ilya lets himself smile, slowly at first and then all consuming right after. 

“D’you like it?” Shane asks. Still sleepy. He might fall asleep right here, if Ilya lets him. They can both just sleep here, with the wind in their hair and the sunrise dangling just before them. They’ll wake up with cricks in their neck and Shane fussing over everything, everything, everything but it’ll be worth it, Ilya knows. 

Ilya noses at Shane’s hair. 

“Da. Very much,” Ilya presses his lips against the side of Shane’s head, mostly catching his hair. It makes Shane shiver, pushing closer against him. He hooks a finger under Shane’s chin and lifts it up, the movement slow, like the way everything else is suddenly so slow now that they’ve arrived. 

Shane blinks sleepy eyes at him but he smiles, anyway, oh does he smile. 

Ilya thinks he can spend the rest of their summer together just counting the freckles on his cheeks. Summer always makes way for more of them. Ilya will have to try really hard. Will have to spend the rest of his life just counting, just cataloguing. 

“You wanna go in? Can give you a tour,” Shane’s eyes are closed. He yawns again. 

Ilya rubs his thumb over the jut of Shane’s chin. Lets himself feel the warmth of him directly. 

“Later,” Ilya says because this, this, this is perfect. 

Slowly, Shane nods, the effort gargantuan for him. He’s not quite with him but he’s also not asleep. He’s just pliant next to Ilya, watching him, smiling at him, soft and sleepy and aching. 

“Just a warning,” Ilya says, when he hears Shane yawn again. “I will push you into the water. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow. Maybe multiple times today, actually.” 

“What?” Shane frowns, confused. 

“Nothing, nothing,” Ilya leans close and rubs their noses together, his smile spilling out of him the same way the sunrise has spilled out across the sky. “Five more minutes?” 

“Okay, five more minutes,” Shane leans his head against Ilya’s shoulder again. He gropes around between them for a minute, slow and clumsy as he tries to find Ilya’s hand.

It’s always right there, right next to him.

Ilya turns his palm upwards and slides their fingers together, squeezing.

Five more minutes turn into twenty but that’s okay because time moves slowly on vacation. 

Time moves slowly when the whole world is right here in Ilya’s palm. 

–

Ilya hears the shower running when he finally wakes up. The curtains have been drawn, blocking out the afternoon light. Or, he assumes it’s afternoon already. He feels well rested, like he’d just slept a good few hours. 

There’s no schedule on vacation. There’s nothing for them to do, really. Nothing for them to do but spend it with each other, at this lakeside cottage that Shane had sworn up and down was one of the best places he’d ever been to. With the scenic drive being well worth it.

The drive had been nice but nothing could beat the view of the sunrise from earlier. 

It looks different in the afternoon. Everything looks different once the dramatic glow of the sunrise has faded. 

“Ilya?” he hears Shane knock, two times like he always does, waiting until Ilya calls his name back to open the door. He pokes his head in, hair still wet. Skin a bit flushed from the warm shower. Towel slung around his shoulders, shirt in one hand. He looks glorious in the afternoon light, fresh out of the shower. “Good, you’re up. I’ll get started on the grill while you shower,” 

Ilya kicks at one of his discarded bags on the ground. He crouches down to dig through his clothes. Hears Shane’s retreating footsteps before he comes back a minute later to place a towel down on the edge Ilya’s bed. 

“Shower runs a bit cold, you might want to turn it all the way up if you don’t want that,” Shane says. Ilya is still bent down on the floor, looking for a change of clothes, hands just trying to busy themselves because he doesn’t know what his face might look like if he meets Shane’s gaze right now.

Shane, still shirtless, now sitting down on the bed and watching him. 

“Are you okay?” Shane asks. The bed dips as Shane scoots over closer to Ilya. He nudges a toe against Ilya’s, waits until Ilya nods. Waits even longer for Ilya to finally look up because he knows Ilya will, because Ilya will always without question. 

“Hungry,” Ilya throws his change of clothes messily on the bed and he hears Shane groan but he doesn’t do anything about it. It’s vacation, Ilya can be messy on vacation. 

Miraculously, Shane gets up first. He stops by the door, still staring at Ilya.

Ilya is still on the floor. He meets Shane’s gaze. His throat feels tight. 

“I’ll be outside,” Shane says slowly. 

Ilya smiles. Smiling is slow. Smiling is easy. Safe. 

Shane smiles back. 

There: easy. Safe. 

The water is fucking freezing on his skin but he refuses to turn it any warmer. He lets the cold water spray against his face and tries hard not to think about Shane shirtless in his room, fresh out of the shower, face and shoulders and everywhere Ilya could see flushed from the warm water. It’s not–it’s not the first time he’s seen him shirtless. God, it would be weird if they didn’t see each other shirtless.

It’s not the first time but it always knocks the wind right out of him whenever he does. 

The cold water stings his skin and makes him shiver. Ilya steps out of the shower, toweling himself quickly. He looks at his reflection in the mirror. A mess. A complete mess but nothing he can’t just smooth over with a smile, with a whine about how he’s starving. 

He nods at his own reflection, as if that might do anything. As if that’s enough of a reminder that he’s got two weeks with Shane. His best friend of eight years. Two weeks before he has to leave again. 

“I’m starving,” Ilya whines as soon as he steps out to join Shane by the grill. “Can eat whole cow right now,” 

“There are no cows here,” Shane says, flipping the burgers. Ilya notices there's far too many patties on the grill but he’s not complaining. He really is starving. “There’s beer in the fridge,” 

Ilya walks back into the cottage to grab a beer for them both, using a spoon to pop the crown open. 

Shane winces. 

“The bottle opener’s literally right there,” Shane points his tongs at it. The bottle opener sits on the edge of the table. 

“Is sexy opening it like that,” Ilya shrugs. 

“Sure,” Shane says, taking the offered bottle. He takes a long swig from it before he sets it back down on the table. He turns back to the grill. “Whatever you say,”

Ilya could spend the entire afternoon just watching Shane grill. Could spend the rest of the afternoon just talking out of his ass, really, but instead he plops himself down on a camping chair. Stretches his legs out. Pulls his cap low and takes a sip of his beer. 

“Let’s go for a swim,” Ilya says, halfway through his beer. He looks at the open water, clear and blue and so beautiful. There’s a floating dock that looks like fun. They could sunbathe there early tomorrow morning, when the sun is warm and high in the sky. 

New freckles could probably bloom while out on that floating dock.

Ilya takes another sip of his beer. Attempts to get up for a second one when he realises he’d finished the first too quickly but Shane stops him with a small furrow in his brow. He places a plate in front of Ilya.

“Eat first,” Shane sits down from across Ilya, sliding a bottle of ketchup towards him when he’s done with it. 

There’s eight burgers between them. Now that Ilya can see it all assembled like this, he’s feeling a bit doubtful about being able to finish it all. Maybe for later. There’s always a later between the two of them. It’s vacation–he can eat four burgers and then take a fat nap right after. 

Vacation. 

“Thanks,” Ilya says after his third burger and second beer. He leans back into his chair and stretches his arms over his head, feeling a satisfying joint pop when he does. “If I swim right now I will drown,”

Shane flicks Ilya’s cap off his head, just because he can. 

Just because Ilya lets him.

He picks it up and throws it on Ilya’s lap, laughing a little bit to himself as he moves to gather the plates. 

“I will wash dishes,” Ilya says, already pushing up from his chair. “You sit. Watch me wash dishes. Watch the lake. Whatever,” 

“Whatever,” Shane repeats, rolling his eyes. “I might just fall asleep out here,”

“Old man needs to sleep after his meal,” Ilya tuts playfully, taking their empty plates in one hand and as many beer bottles as he can in the other. 

Shane’s fingers catch around his wrist when Ilya steps around him. 

Ilya pauses. Waits. Feels Shane rub a thumb over the inside of Ilya’s wrist. Thinking. Waiting. Thinking.

It starts slow. 

Ilya leans down just as Shane leans up and they both stop in the middle, Shane’s eyes wide and Ilya with his breath held. 

“It will take two minutes, Hollander,” Ilya can hear how tight his voice sounds. Can hear the underlying current of want underneath it. But that’s–that’s new, isn’t it? He’s never truly allowed himself to want, at least not openly. Not if it means Shane will notice.

Shane doesn’t let go of his wrist. 

Ilya leans back down again and presses a quick kiss to his forehead. Loud. Obnoxious. Makes an over the top mwah sound.  Something friendly. Something that can be excused as IlyaAndShane being IlyaAndShane. 

Shane finally lets his hand go and settles back into his chair, brows furrowed in the way they always get when he’s thinking. Confused. Thinking.

Ilya is thinking. Confused. Thinking. As he washes the dishes. It takes more than two minutes because Shane would probably see how sloppily he did it and complain about it before washing them all over again. An inconvenience. Time better spent elsewhere. Like in the water.

“Can I ask a question?” Shane asks when Ilya joins him at the dock. They sit just on the edge, feet submerged in the water. 

“Why do you need to ask if you are allowed a question?” Ilya asks. “We are besties. Ask me anything.”

“This might not be–” Shane pauses. Stills next to him. 

Ilya nudges him gently with his elbow. Leans against him and melts. Just melts into Shane’s side. 

“I’ve known you for eight years,” Shane says. “And I think, sometimes, that I want to.” A hard stop. Shane full on stops speaking. 

Ilya peers over to look at him and finds that he’s looking very serious, very sincere. No furrowed brows, no look of confusion. Just very resolute, if Ilya can place it correctly. 

“Do you want an. Hm, what is the term? Do you want an out?” Ilya asks gently, touching Shane’s knee. “Do you want an out, Shane?” 

“No. Give me a second. I’ll ask the question,” 

Ilya knows what question he wants to ask Shane. He isn’t sure he’s ready to hear what Shane wants to know, though. But he waits. He’s patient. They’ve been friends for eight years. He can wait a few minutes for Shane to collect his thoughts. 

Ilya pats Shane’s knee, one, two, three for good measure. For good luck. 

“Do you ever think what it would be like?” Shane tries again, looking at Ilya. He’s playing with his own fingers, squeezing around his hands. They’re shaking, Ilya notices. “If we just. I don’t know. If we maybe did something?” 

“Like what?” Ilya grabs Shane’s hand and squeezes. “I think about what a lot of things could be. I need you to be specific.” 

“Fuck, Ilya, I don’t know. Everything else, I guess,” Shane doesn’t sound frustrated and that’s fine, one of them has to be calm about this because right now Ilya feels like he might just jump out of his own skin. “Kiss, for starters. Did you ever want to? With me?” 

It starts slow. 

It started eight years ago. 

“You are asking if I ever wanted to kiss you,” Shane pulls his hand away from Ilya’s and Ilya chases after it, sliding their fingers together.  He holds on tightly. “If I want to do everything else with you.” 

“Don’t say it like that,” Shane looks like he wants to burst out laughing.

Ilya just might beat him to it. He feels a bit hysterical, actually.

This whole conversation sounds like something straight out of a fever dream.

Maybe it’s food poisoning. Maybe the burgers. The beer. 

Shane would never buy spoiled food. Would never offer him stale beer.

It’s not food poisoning, then.

“Why are you asking?” 

Shane sputters out a reply, now flustered, the tips of his ears red. 

“I told you, I had a question. That was the question,” Shane kicks his feet and sends water flying everywhere. “I’m sorry if it made things weird. I didn’t want to ruin the trip, but I just–”

Ilya stops him by kicking his feet in the water, splashing them both. 

It is a miracle how Ilya even has words left in him. More than half his life learning how to speak English. Eight years spent just talking to Shane. Just being next to him. Eight years of trying to say what he needs to say but never really what he always wanted to say.

Call it fear. Call it cowardice but here is another truth–Shane is the most important person to him. So he’s afraid, maybe a bit of a coward to ask. To want. To take. So what, really?

So that it can all come to a head like this, in the summer of their eight year. 

“Is not weird,” Ilya says slowly, the words struggling to form. His accent has gotten thick again. He can hear his own blood rushing through his veins. His ribs might be shaking. It might be his own hand or Shane’s, he’s not sure anymore. Ilya tightens his grip on Shane’s hand and squeezes. 

“I’m sorry, anyway,” Shane says kindly. His eyes have that unwavering, earnest look to them, his whole face bright with the sincerity that he carries with him like a badge of honour. 

Shane turns their joined hands over on his lap and smiles. He squeezes Ilya’s hand back. 

Three quick facts: 

The day Ilya bought his bike, he drove it all the way downtown to Shane’s apartment. Blew his phone up. He was going to start throwing rocks at Shane’s window when Shane poked his head out, saw the bike, and said, “You can’t be fucking serious.” 

Ilya likes to take his time. He wakes up slowly. He eats slowly. He drinks his vodka slowly unless he’s doing shots with Svetlana, and then he downs them all in quick succession. Time and place, Ilya always says. Time and place. With Shane, Ilya has taken everything slowly. There is no rush. Ilya is a patient man. 

Ilya will always, without question, give Shane what he wants: the last donut in the box. A weekend spent on the couch watching a boring whale documentary. An answer to a question. To any question, as long as Shane just asks. 

One single, absolute truth: 

“Yes,” Ilya finally says. Many times. All the time. Every single time I see you. On good days. Especially on bad days. “Yes, I thought about it. Everything else. With you.” 

He hears Shane breathe in deeply. 

The water ripples again. 

Ilya is starting to feel cold out here on the dock. He’s starting to feel cold. 

“Why didn’t you?” Shane asks, turning their joined hands over on his lap. 

Ilya watches their hands. Their thighs pressed together. Every part of them is touching. Always touching. Always close together. Eight years of this. Ilya can’t help but think they’ve both moved so slowly. 

“I was not sure about what you wanted,” and here Ilya allows himself to be brave, allows himself to say something he wants. Something he’s never really admitted to anyone out loud except–

Except Svetlana, two years ago when Ilya had been slumped on his couch, pissed as fuck after a phonecall with Shane. About a date that had gone wrong. A guy who had been too handsy, too fast, who had felt entitled to him.

Ilya would have kicked down every door in Ottawa just to find him but he was back in Moscow. Too far away to do anything but listen to Shane speak to him in clipped words. He’d told him not to worry, he was an asshole and he got out of it quickly enough. But even then.

Even then Svetlana had laid a hand on his shoulder, brushed the curls out of his eyes, and said, “That’s your boy,” 

“He isn’t,” Ilya had said, shrugging her hand off. 

“Ilya,” Svetlana joined him on the couch, kicking playfully at his foot. A moot attempt to lift his mood. Ilya had never been so mad before he’d seen red. All red. 

“Sveta,” Ilya had said through a choked out sob because he had gotten drunk with her just an hour ago and now this–all this. “He isn’t.” 

Just so she understood.

Just so he understood. 

A hand on his knee. Her smile had been so sad that night. 

The first and only time Ilya had said anything was to Svetlana, two years ago when he’d been drunk out of his mind first from the vodka and second from the anger. From the fear of it all. 

“I am his.” Ilya had admitted.

Two years later and it’s still true. Ilya can be Shane’s even if Shane isn’t Ilya’s beyond their friendship. That’s fine. That’s fine.

It’s fine.

But he thinks he can be brave on vacation. If only for this second. 

“I was not sure you wanted the same thing,” Ilya tries again. His turn to struggle with the words. With the weight of everything he wants to say. 

“What do you want, then?” Shane’s freckles. His hand in Ilya’s, touching, always touching. To know what it looks like to wake up with Shane in his arms ten years down the line. Twenty. Thirty. What home would look like between them. Shared. What everything else could be. Everything else. 

Ilya’s shoulders sag. The water sounds dull in his ears. He slumps into Shane and knocks their foreheads together. Eyes closed. Hand in hand like this, always like this. 

“You,” Ilya says, in this quiet space between them. This small, intimate space that they’ve always occupied, just the two of them. “Always. For everything else,”

Shane’s breath catches. He kicks up a splash when he moves, hand coming up to cradle Ilya’s cheek. 

“Okay,” Shane says, like Ilya had just said he wanted coffee and pancakes for breakfast tomorrow. “Okay. Good. Because I want that, too.”

It starts slow. 

Shane knocks their foreheads together. Their noses brush. His thumb presses into Ilya’s cheek.

Ilya squeezes on his hand. Lets his free one rest on the jut of Shane’s hip, fingers slipping underneath his shirt just so he can feel his skin, just so he can feel the warmth radiating off of him. Ilya settles on his hip again. Lets his thumb trace circles over the bone. 

Eight years and he has a full catalogue of Shane Hollander tucked away in his brain, in a file cabinet right next to a voice that tells him that this is what happens when you allow yourself to be brave. Honest. Fearless.

Eight years and he has never really seen this, the look on Shane’s face as he leans in to kiss him for the very first time. 

Ilya’s eyes flutter to a close as he meets him halfway. 

It starts slow, the kiss. So achingly, agonisingly slow. But Ilya would not have it any other way.

Ilya kisses him. Fingers press into Ilya’s cheek, searching, asking. Inviting. 

Ilya kisses him. Tightens his grip on Shane’s hip. Hauls him up into his lap the same time Shane moves to clamber on top of him, hand on his face and the other in Ilya’s hair, just tugging. Twisting. 

Ilya kisses him.

Shane sighs against his mouth and Ilya smiles.

This time it is not slow. This time Ilya breaks away smiling. Laughing.

Shane is in his lap, arms around him and kissing him and Ilya is laughing. Head thrown back and laughter spilling out of his mouth and right over Shane, who looks at him for one surprised second before he laughs, too, his eyes watery before he squeezes them shut.

Ilya kisses him again mid-laugh, swallows it down like it’s water but it’s no use when they’re both laughing so much, when Shane’s shaking on his lap and Ilya’s shoulders are trembling. His hands are trembling. 

“Fuck,” Ilya says when he’s calmed down enough. When Shane brings their foreheads together again, both hands bracketing either side of Ilya’s face. “Shane.”

“Ilya,” Shane murmurs, brushing their noses together. Another kiss, this time to the corner of Ilya’s mouth. “How long?”

Ilya tightens his hold around Shane. Tucks his head under Shane’s chin. Presses his ear right over where his heart should be and he listens to the steady thump, thump, thump. 

“A long time,” Ilya admits because he’s an honest man. He is finally a brave man. “You?” 

“A long time, too,” Shane’s lips brush over his forehead. It tickles. “Part of me thinks it might have been the whole time. But I was–” 

Before Shane can say anything else, say something unkind about himself, Ilya lifts his head up and kisses him. First his chin, then a freckle just next to his nose before he kisses him on the mouth, slow and tender and like everything Ilya’s ever wanted. 

“I was, too,” Ilya says, tipping his head back. “You are my best friend,” 

“Correction,” Shane laughs. It’s glorious. He’s golden. “We’re besties.”

Ilya’s heart floods with warmth. It feels like he’s glowing. He’s actually glowing.

He’s fearless. 

Shane kisses him again and again, and again, and Ilya kisses him back, arms around him and the whole world right here, right where it needs to be. 

–

There’s a certain sense of urgency that comes right after the greatest moment of your life:

See also, Ilya Rozanov just kissed his best friend of eight years and he feels absolutely insane about it. Fingers twitching at his side until Shane notices and tangles their fingers together, squeezing. His face must be doing something funny because Shane raises an eyebrow at him, asking, asking, so many questions Ilya is finally fearless enough to answer.

“Do you feel weird about it?” Shane asks. They’ve crossed the threshold. They’re standing in the middle of the living room. Sunlight spills through the open windows, haloing around Shane’s hair. 

“I feel crazy,” Ilya admits. Desperate. So, so desperate all of a sudden. It’s like a dam has broken. He’d kissed Shane and now he wants–what else does he want?

Everything. Every single thing. Everything else. 

He flattens his palm over Shane’s chest. Steadies his own breathing before he pushes him.

Shane lets himself fall into the couch, a small oof escaping him. He looks up at Ilya through his lashes. Impossibly long. Freckles that look like a smattering of stars and seeds all over his face. Ilya feels so desperately for him that his hands continue to shake.

His hands shake until Shane takes both of them and pulls him down with him. Until Shane kisses him and slips his hand under his shirt, nails scratching down Ilya’s stomach. 

“What do you want, Shane?” Ilya says, pulling away to look at Shane’s face. “Tell me.” 

The same dance, just a different song this time. 

“You,” Shane murmurs, lips brushing just beneath Ilya’s ear. “Just you, Ilya.” 

There’s a certain kind of reverence in the way Ilya touches Shane. Slowly, experimentally because this is new. Uncharted territory. He takes his time. Helps Shane out of his shirt the same way Shane pushes at his own shirt, shoes kicked off somewhere between the door and the welcome mat. 

Ilya stares down at Shane’s chest, at the expanse of skin he suddenly can just look at. Unabashedly. Desperately. 

Shane hooks a leg around his waist and brings them together until Ilya rocks down against him and feels Shane’s own erection. How Shane wants him. Desperate. New. Excited. 

Ilya kisses him again, something slow and heated at first until it turns messy. Until he noses at the sharp line of Shane’s jaw, at his neck. Until he sucks a bruising kiss over his collarbone. He hears Shane groan beneath him. 

A hand on his neck. Shane drags him back up for another kiss. This time hot and insistent. He paws at Ilya’s shorts. Rolls his hips. He whimpers. 

This is Ilya’s undoing–the sight of Shane underneath him, hair fanned out on the plaid blanket, cheeks flushed pink, pink, pink. His wet mouth and his eyes blown out as they stare at Ilya the whole time. 

Shane sits up, scooting over to the edge of the couch until his back hits a cushion. Until he looks at Ilya with shiny eyes. Want. That’s want. Ilya knows that look. He’d seen it everyday in the mirror. 

“I want both of us,” Ilya palms around Shane’s hard cock. Revels in the hiss that it garners him. “At once.”

Shane nods, leaning up to kiss him. To buck his hip up until Ilya pushes him down, shushes him with a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

There is no other word to describe what Shane looks like when Ilya closes a hand around his cock. Beautiful. So breathtakingly beautiful even when all he can say is Ilya’s name, over and over. It will be more than enough just hearing him say that, over and over again. 

“Touch me, please,” perhaps Shane has to ask at this moment because Ilya is just so shell-shocked to actually do anything else after he wraps a hand around them both. After that first stroke up, that first careless moan that slips out of Shane’s mouth. “Ilya, please.”

Shane’s fingers find his wrist, squeezing. He tries to roll his hips up, tries to get Ilya to do something. Anything.

Ilya kisses the corner of his mouth and moves his hands in earnest, letting out a groan of his own as he swallows Shane’s whimper. 

They’re on vacation. Things are slow until they aren’t, until Shane starts to fuck into Ilya’s hand, their cocks dragging together. 

Shane is clumsy. Leaking. Wet. God, Ilya thinks he might pass out just staring at Shane like this, feeling his legs tremble against his, skin to skin, heat to heat. 

Ilya works them both in his hand. Watches as Shane unravels beneath him. Sees a familiar look on his face when he’s close. Hears the familiar sound of his name when Shane comes, spilling messily into Ilya’s hand. 

“Close,” Ilya breathes out, still working his hand over them both. Shane is so sensitive. So out of it, Ilya is surprised when he pushes Ilya into the couch, hands on Ilya’s chest and his mouth nipping at his chin. His neck. Shane bends down over him and replaces Ilya’s hand around his cock with his own. Shane is smaller than him this way, with his hand around Ilya. 

His mouth when he wraps his lips around Ilya’s cock, eyes closed. One hand around the base of his cock and the other digging into Ilya’s hips, fingernails sure to leave an indent in a few hours. 

Ilya tangles his fingers in Shane’s hair. He doesn’t feel like he’s dreaming again but he does feel a little bit drunk, a little bit out of it just watching Shane suck him off, taking him as far as he can until Ilya is worried he’ll hit the back of his throat. Until Shane relaxes around him, groans, and finally adjusts, fingers alternating between dragging across Ilya’s skin and digging in sharply. Sweetly. Enough. 

“I’m close,” Ilya repeats. He will not last long, not in the wet, warm heat of Shane’s mouth. 

A catalogue of every single expression on Shane Hollander’s face, of what it could mean. But never in his wildest dreams had Ilya ever envisioned this. Nothing will ever compare to the real thing.

Ilya thumbs over Shane’s cheek. His freckles. A gentle reprieve before he sees the way Shane hallows his cheeks. Hears another obscene moan through the fullness in his mouth. Ilya thrusts into his mouth, tapping on Shane’s shoulder, fingers gripping tight, trying to push him off.

Shane swallows when he cums in his mouth and Ilya’s brain blanks out. Completely white for a dizzying second or so until he feels Shane move on top of him again, sluggish and sticky. Until Ilya pulls him back down to the couch, down on top of him. 

“It’s sticky,” is the first thing Shane says right after he’d just made a mess in Ilya’s fist and all over his stomach. Right after he’d swallowed. “Ilya, move,”

Ilya doesn’t move. Just wraps his arms around Shane and crushes their faces together, cheek to cheek. Breath still trying to catch up to the rest of them. 

“Shane,” Ilya says, dragging Shane’s gaze up. A finger under his chin, a thumb pressed into the corner of his lips. Shane smiles up at him. He’s glowing. “Give me five minutes.” 

“I’m all gross,” is what Shane says, snuggling into him. Legs tangled together. There’s an elbow in Ilya’s side but he doesn’t care. This is perfect.

This, this, this.

It’s perfect. 

Ilya kisses the top of Shane’s head. Closes his eyes.

Five minutes. 

Shane settles on top of him. Shivering when the wind blows in through the open windows. 

It hasn’t even been five minutes yet but Ilya’s already moving, leaving Shane on the couch to pitter patter into the kitchen. He wets a cloth. Grabs an unused towel hanging behind a chair and walks back to where Shane is on the couch, spread out and blissful. Utterly blissful. 

Ilya cleans him up, wiping down his chest and his stomach. His hands. He kisses him again, just because he can. Because it’s dizzying, this sudden newness between them. The fact that Ilya can now just walk over to him and kiss him like it’s just another Tuesday. 

Shane wraps his fingers around Ilya’s wrist. It’s made a home for itself there, his thumb pressed into the inside of his wrist. Resting. Warm. A reminder. 

Five minutes.

Ilya pulls Shane up to his feet. He’s a bit shaky and they both laugh when he stumbles into the circle of Ilya’s arms. 

Eight years and they’re still capable of experiencing new things. 

“I need to brush my teeth,” Shane says when Ilya leans in for another kiss. When Ilya tries to maneuver them back to the couch. “Get off me,” 

But he doesn’t bat Ilya’s hands away. Doesn’t really seem all that bothered at all when Ilya just follows him to the bathroom and wraps his arms around Shane’s waist, chin hooking over his shoulder as he stares at Shane in the bathroom mirror, watching him while he brushes his teeth. 

“Kiss me,” Ilya whines. 

Shane rinses. Spits. Gargles. He does his whole routine while Ilya hangs over him, pouting. Whining. Shane turns his face over and kisses him, tasting like spearmint and his facial wash. 

“You’re needy,” Shane has managed to grab himself a fresh change of clothes. 

Ilya appreciates the slow roaming of his eyes over him. He’s still naked under the warm bathroom light. 

“What are you talking about?” Ilya winds his arms around him again as soon as Shane shimmies into his shorts. “I have always been like this with you,” 

Shane’s hand settles on top of Ilya’s. He stares at their reflection in the mirror. Face open. Eyes bright. He smiles at Ilya’s reflection.

“Yeah,” Shane murmurs. “I feel like you’re a plant that I need to constantly water,”

“Plants can drown,” Ilya says helpfully. “Yuna has drowned several of David’s plants. He has texted me about it. Completely heartbroken,” 

One spring when Ilya had gone home with Shane for the break, they’d seen David out on his knees in the garden, replanting flowers and vegetables. He’d grumbled about how Yuna had tried to help him out the past few weeks. Most of them had ended up dying anyway. Death by overwatering. 

“Are you planting more beets so she can kill them?” Ilya had asked. He’d laughed at the sight of David but he’d bent down to help him. Got his hands dirty as he worked on the garden with him the whole afternoon.

It was only after, when they were both enjoying a cool glass of exquisite Russian vodka David liked to keep in stock, that he’d turned to Ilya and said, “Yes, because she loves gardening. She’ll get better at it,” and then, when he realised the very real possibility that Yuna Hollander might not get better at gardening, said, with a little laugh, “Or not. Either way, it doesn’t really matter, does it? I’ll just do it all over again.” 

“What have you guys been talking about?” Yuna had asked when she’d joined them later out in the garden, a wide brimmed hat over her head. She looked so much like Shane in the summer. “Oh, David. The beets are back!” 

Ilya watched as they shared a kiss.

“Mom’s going to kill all those plants,” Shane had said after dinner, while they were doing the dishes.

Ilya had just set the plates aside and smiled. 

Under the warm light of the bathroom, Shane turns until he’s facing Ilya. Hands settle on either side of Ilya’s hips. He says, “Mom hasn’t gotten any better at gardening, by the way,”

“That’s okay,” Ilya says, smiling. “David can just plant more beets.”

Shane throws his head back in laughter. 

Ilya kisses Shane mid-laugh. 

This, too, he knows he’ll do all over again. 

–

The morning after comes to Ilya slowly, as so many things do in the summer. Early morning sunrise filters through the sheer curtains and hits his face. The blanket has been kicked off somewhere between the early morning and the sunrise. Between dreaming and not quite waking up, not yet. 

Shane is curled up beside him, hand clenched into a fist, brows furrowed in his sleep. 

Ilya smooths the furrow out of his brows. Gently pries Shane’s fingers out of the fist he’d managed to make in his sleep and winds an arm around his waist, hooking their ankles together. His feet are cold so early in the morning. Ilya always runs cold the same way Shane always runs warm. 

He goes back to sleep because nothing outside can coax him out of this bed. Not when Shane is warm and soft and sleeping in his arms, hair fanned out on the stark white pillows. Ilya thinks he might look like a complete mess right now but that doesn’t matter, not when he can pull Shane close, close, closer, until he can tuck his head underneath his chin, until Ilya can just kiss the top of his forehead, his hair, his head. 

Ilya counts his freckles when sleep evades him. First just looking, just trying to map them out. Freckles that dot across Shane’s cheek, almost infinite in the way there’s always a new one Ilya’s never noticed before. Eyelashes so long they graze the top of his cheekbones.

“Stop staring at me, freak,” Shane says when Ilya traces a thumb over his lips. “How long have you been up?” 

“Good morning, solnyshko,” Ilya kisses Shane’s cheek. Kisses the freckles he’d been obsessed with for what feels like his entire life. 

Shane grumbles his own good morning, arm coming around Ilya. He lets his fingers trace over the small of Ilya’s back. Lifts his head up, eyes still heavy with sleep and asks, “What does that mean?” 

“You don’t know good morning?” Ilya asks, smiling. Crooked. Early morning bright. 

Shane pinches Ilya’s hip and Ilya makes a show of wriggling out of his hold. Neither of them buy it but Shane does pull him closer to him, still mumbling about how insufferable he is. How that’s never going to change, apparently.

“Good morning, Ilya,” Shane clips his words. Lifts his head up to press a kiss to Ilya’s chin. “Tell me what it means,”

“You will have to find out for yourself, I think,” Ilya ducks his head. Presses his laugh into Shane’s shoulder. “Will keep things exciting. Something for you to do while I’m gone, yes?” 

It’s still so early in the morning for Ilya to already be putting his foot in his mouth. 

“Yes,” Shane answers him, sounding far more awake than Ilya likes. As if the illusion of the morning that had descended on them has broken. But he doesn’t disentangle himself from Ilya, doesn’t move away from him. “Have you thought more about it?”

Ilya does not deserve him. He knows this. But it hits him again, how thankful he is for him. How much Shane understands him. 

“No,” Ilya says, closing his eyes. “I think I’ll call my brother. Not today. I just want to relax,”

“We can do that,” Shane yawns again. “We can go swimming,” 

“The lake is all we have. We are going to swim everyday,” there’s something too big, something too grand inside Ilya right now. Impossible to contain.

Shane scrunches his nose and tries to smile. Squints his eyes when he opens them again and is only met by the harsh glare of the sun. 

“We have other stuff here,” Shane gives up on keeping his eyes open. Plops his head back down on Ilya’s arm. “There’s a campfire. A hiking trail,”

“Maybe I will climb a tree,” Ilya combs his fingers through Shane’s hair. Listens to him sigh in contentment when he does.

“Please do not climb a tree,” Shane doesn’t sound too convincing. Ilya thinks he’ll climb a tree, actually. “I swear to god, Ilya. If you fall and break a bone–”

Ilya kisses him to stop him from rambling. From worrying about something that may or may not happen. Ilya kisses him tight-lipped and closed-mouth because he just knows that Shane’s going to tell him they need to brush their teeth first for anything else.

For everything else.

God, Ilya can do that now, can’t he? Everything else with Shane. 

He smiles halfway into the kiss, fingers twirling lazily through Shane’s hair. 

–

Ilya doesn’t climb a tree.

He does stand with Shane at the edge of the dock though. They stare at the rippling water. Shane leans against him and Ilya settles a hand on Shane’s back, nails dragging down his bare skin. 

Ilya doesn’t climb a tree that afternoon but he does push Shane into the water. Watches as he creates a big, loud splash. As he goes down under for a few seconds before his head pops back up and he glares at Ilya, actually glares at him.

“What the fuck–” Shane sputters out. Water everywhere as he flails around. “I’m going to–” 

Whatever he’s going to do, Ilya doesn’t quite hear it because he cannonballs into the water, right next to Shane.

Ilya surfaces quickly and catches Shane with an arm over his shoulders and a grin on his face. 

“You were saying, Hollander?” Ilya asks.

They tread water. It’s nice. Cool. It’s all theirs, this little corner of the world. This great, magical splice of time just for their little holiday. 

Shane rolls his eyes at Ilya and pulls him in with a hand to the back of his neck. He kisses the smile right off of Ilya’s face. 

This is another thing to add to his Shane Hollander catalogue–what does Shane look like when he’s kissed right after he was pushed into the water? 

Droplets clinging to his eyelashes. Cheeks flushed. A little bit smug when he pulls away and finds–something. Something on Ilya’s face that might have given him away.

But Ilya has just about given everything away yesterday. 

“I’m gonna get you back for that,” Shane splashes him. 

Ilya splashes him back. 

“I told you yesterday I was going to do it,” Ilya laughs. “I gave you warning. Was fair. You just have bad memory,”

“I was half asleep,” Shane groans, swimming away from him.

Ilya swims after him. Catches his elbow to tug him back in for another kiss. Playful and wet and messy in the way that they’re both treading water and trying to keep themselves afloat. It’s a funny little kiss. Sweet. So, so sweet. 

“Okay, I will let you try,” Ilya gives him this, at least. 

Shane rolls his eyes again.

Ilya mimics the gesture and they both burst out into another round of laughter.

It’s crazy just how much Ilya’s laughed on this trip already. How easy it is for Shane to rip the sound right out of his ribs until they fall out of his mouth and into Shane’s cupped hands. 

But it is his favourite sound, Shane’s laugh.

They start floating on their backs, letting the afternoon sun beat down on them. It’s not too harsh. Not too bright. It’s perfect. Everything is perfect.

“I was thinking of visiting Japan soon,” Shane says, tugging on Ilya’s hand.

Their hands are tangled just beneath the surface of the water, keeping them tethered to each other. 

“Will be nice,” Ilya says, closing his eyes to avoid the sun. “Yuna will be excited to go,”

“No, I was thinking,” Shane squeezes around Ilya’s hand. “You and me could go,”

Ilya almost goes down from the weight of it. He pulls himself upright because he wants to look at Shane. Keeps their hands tangled under the water as he swims closer to him. 

“Really?” Ilya asks, peering into Shane’s face. He looks so serene, so calm out here in the water. 

“Yes. After you come back,” it’s not a question of if anymore. It’s a when. Ilya had always known it was going to be a when–the when was just looking a bit foggy. Like it could be somewhere between a week or a month or, god forbid, months on end. Time moved differently back in Moscow. Perhaps it’s the cold. The people around him. Everyone he’s already lost. A day feels like a week. A week a month. A single night could stretch out into what can feel like a fortnight. Time is different. Agonising. 

“When I come back,” Ilya starts. Pauses to give himself time to wait until he knows what he wants to say. How he wants to say it. The strength that he needs just to tell Shane, “When I come back we will go to Japan. No time to slack around in Canada anymore,” 

“That’s not what I meant,” Shane flips around until he’s upright, treading water right next to Ilya. “And besides, you like Canada,” 

Ilya trails a finger down the line of Shane’s cheek. He presses a kiss to a soft spot just over Shane’s chin, smiling when he pulls away.

“Wrong,” Ilya says, looking at him.  “I love Canada.”

–

When Ilya was growing up, he wasn’t really allowed to want for a lot of things. His mother would always ask, though. Always make sure he got what he wanted even if he never really voiced it outloud. 

They shared skating between them, once. 

The first time Ilya fell on the ice was when he was four years old. He’d seen the look on his mother’s face when he was sprawled on the ice, helmet a bit askew on his head. He picked himself up quickly and waited as she skated to where he was. Her fingers had patted him down as if she had to check herself if everything really was alright.

But Ilya had thrown her a small thumbs up and grinned at her. He’d waited until she returned it.

They had spent the rest of the afternoon skating together, his small hand in hers. The safest Ilya had ever felt. 

The first few days at the cottage feel a lot like that first time Ilya had ever skated with his mom, with his hand in hers. He’s stretched out on a towel, out on the dock again. He raises his arm up high and splays his fingers. He closes it into a fist, as small as he can make it. 

Once, his mother’s hand had enveloped both of his hands in one of hers.

Once, his mother had counted the fingers on his hands. Kissed the pad of each finger and whispered good night, good night, my little star ten different ways. 

Once. 

Ilya’s hands are too big for her to hold now. 

Shane blocks the sun from his face and peers down at him. 

Ilya unclenches his fingers. 

Shane takes it, easily slipping his fingers into the spaces between Ilya’s.

Ilya’s hands are bigger. Fingers longer. Maybe a bit more calloused. Rougher.

Shane bends down and kisses the back of Ilya’s hand first, and then each knuckle right after. Five different ways. 

The feeling that washes over him isn’t exactly new but it always surprises him, that it’s still possible. 

He gets glimpses of all the times he’d felt it: when he’s at the Hollander family home, with Yuna and David. When they fuss over him the same way they fuss over Shane. When he’s got Shane plastered to his back as they drive down winding roads on his bike. Every time Shane holds his hand.

Shane holds his hand and Ilya smiles at him, perhaps a bit strained. His eyes are burning behind his sunglasses. He thinks he might be crying. 

The feeling that washes over him is the simplest, most beautiful thing Ilya has ever truly felt: safe. 

Shane joins him on the rough wood of the dock. He pushes Ilya’s cap back and pulls his sunglasses off his face. 

“I’m fine,” Ilya manages to get out. He can taste the salt of his own tears. “Is not sad crying, I think,”

“It’s okay,” Shane swipes a thumb over his cheek, catching another teardrop. He wipes Ilya’s tears away with no question, only a reassurance. 

Shane frames Ilya’s face with both his hands. Ilya props himself up on his elbows and they kiss. It’s more than a bit wet. It’s definitely salty. But Shane kisses him, slow and languid like they’ve got all the time in the world. Like this is something they can do for the rest of their everything else. 

Safe. Ilya feels so safe. 

He looks at their joined hands, tangled together on top of his thigh. Thinks back to that first fall on the ice. To that first day of class, when he’d met Shane for the first time. 

Ilya has fallen so many times on the ice as a child but never again after he grew up a little bit more. Never fell quite as hard as when he knew his mother would be there to run after him when he did. 

But one more time. Just one more fall. Not on the ice but something that happened eight years ago. 

“Shane,” Ilya says, still looking at their joined hands. “You and me?” 

Shane squeezes his hand. Noses at Ilya’s jaw before he kisses him again, just over the top of his cupid’s bow. 

A nod. A smile that Ilya can feel coming right as the sun sinks into the horizon.

“You and me.” 

It was a long fall. Ilya was afraid of the impact, of how broken it would leave him.

Ilya lifts his gaze from their hands to look at Shane. 

It was a long fall but it didn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt him now.  Shane smiles at him and it’s beautiful. 

–

“Do you want to?” Ilya asks after dinner when they’re washing the dishes. “Do more. With me,” 

Shane is washing the dishes. Ilya sits on top of a counter, kicking his heels back against the cabinet door. 

“We don’t have anything,” Shane says, looking nonplussed. The tips of his ears are red. How quickly he’s picked up on what Ilya meant. How quickly they’ve both gotten used to their new morning routines–hands around each other or Shane spread out on the bed as Ilya blows him right as the sun starts to shine through the curtains they’d long decided they should just keep pulled back. 

Ilya shuffles around on top of the counter and fishes out a few packets of lube and condoms. He grins at Shane, a bit cheekily. 

“When you were on your third afternoon nap,” Ilya supplies. “I went for a jog. Found small store. Told them I wanted to fuck my bestfriend so bad, please, do you have condoms?” 

Shane throws a dish rag at him. 

Ilya catches it, laughing. 

“You didn’t,” Shane is beet red. So adorably red. He looks at everything Ilya had just left strewn on the countertop next to him, then back at Ilya. “You really did. You’re crazy,” 

“I want you like that,” Ilya hops off the counter and crowds Shane against the sink. “But only if you want it the same way.”

Shane chews on his bottom lip. Red. Red. He’s so red, everything about him. 

But Ilya will take whatever Shane will give him. If they don’t do this tonight–or any other night–then he’ll throw everything out the next second. He will. Anything Shane wants. Anything for him is enough for Ilya. 

“I want that,” Shane breaks the quiet that had fallen around them. “But I need to dry the dishes first,” 

He’s so set in his ways. He’s so absolutely ridiculous that Ilya can’t do anything but push him away from the sink. He takes the towel hanging over the dishrack. He rinses the dishes quickly and dries them, setting each one neatly on the rack. He turns to look at Shane when he finishes, gesturing to his handiwork. 

Shane rolls his eyes but he’s smiling, god is he smiling. A renewed fervor in his eyes. A spark that Ilya hasn’t seen before. Something new for his catalogue again. This whole night–

Shane spread out on the bed beneath him, hair still a bit wet from his shower, chest flushed as Ilya looks down at him. Takes the endless expanse of skin in. All his. All his. All his.

And isn’t that ridiculous, that Shane could come undone beneath him like this? First with a kiss. Second, with a lazy hand circling around his cock, Ilya barely moving. Barely applying any pressure. Third with a finger tracing over his rim before he pushes in. 

It starts slow, Shane’s unraveling. 

Ilya watches Shane the whole time, waits for any signs of discomfort, waits for Shane to tell him to keep going, because he can, and he should, and, “Ilya, move, I’m fine. This is–”

It’s a stretch. Two fingers in. A slow peppering of kisses down the length of Shane’s neck. The sounds trickling out of his mouth enough to get Ilya drunk. Not even the strongest, coldest vodka could make him feel this way. 

Three fingers and Shane is ready. Wet. So wet. His cock is leaking precum. As pink as the rest of him. 

Ilya slathers more lube onto his hand and slicks himself up. Bending down to line himself up. 

His free hand comes up to Shane’s hair as he leans down to kiss him. 

It starts slow, Ilya’s own undoing. 

He trains his eyes on Shane’s face the whole time. 

Shane looks up at him with complete sincerity. Fingers digging into Ilya’s bicep, mouth wet and open. Plush. Pink. Everything is pink, now. 

Ilya pushes into Shane. Inch by careful inch. Slowly. Everything is slow tonight because Ilya is cataloguing every whimper, every look on Shane’s face. He needs to know if he’s doing it right. If Shane is okay, if this is okay–

“You can keep going,” Shane breathes out, relaxing. He relaxes. 

Ilya bottoms out and gives himself time to adjust to the tightness around him. To the impossible warmth. Ilya watches him intently. Finds that Shane is looking up at him the same way. A bit starved. A bit drunk. Impossibly wanting. Wondering. Wondering. Shane looks up at him with wonder in his eyes. 

“Fuck,” Ilya breathes out, allowing himself to adjust to this new sensation. To how overwhelmed he suddenly feels because he’s inside Shane and Shane is looking up at him like he trusts Ilya completely, wholeheartedly. Ilya rests his forehead against Shane’s and repeats himself, “Oh, god, Shane,” 

Shane moves. Barely a shift, just to lift a trembling hand up to Ilya’s face. It pushes Ilya even deeper, this sudden movement that rocks them both from the inside out. Shane kisses him. 

“I feel the same way,” Shane’s breathing is shallow. “But it’s–it’s okay. You can start moving,” 

Ilya nods. Doesn’t trust himself to speak so instead he just kisses Shane again, something hungry and not quite as desperate as the first time but just as intense, this burning want inside him. 

Shane meets him mid-thrust and they both moan. It’s obscene, the look on Shane’s face. Pink, pink, pink. Everything is pink. 

Ilya thrusts into Shane, hands moving everywhere, touching him everywhere he can. Never fully settling. He’s going to leave marks everywhere, he knows. But Shane digs his nails into Ilya’s skin, drags them down his back when Ilya bears his weight down on top of him and he’s sure there will be marks for days on both of them.

It’s what pushes him over the edge, the thought of seeing Shane leaving marks on his skin. A reminder. A claim, even. Impossible. It’s impossible and yet–

And yet Shane is wrapping a hand around his cock, begging Ilya to keep going, just like that, just like that, he’s so close. 

Ilya closes his fingers around him and strokes him into completion, watching as Shane comes completely undone beneath him, the rise and fall of his chest, the small, quiet whimpers out of his lips as Ilya chases after his own orgasm.

It rises in Ilya, his own climax. His hips stutter and he comes, letting out a strangled groan of Shane’s name, over and over again. 

Shane coaxes him through it, hand on his arm, then on his wrist, squeezing. Waiting until Ilya comes down from his own high. For the fuzz to clear. 

Ilya all but collapses on top of Shane. He pulls out carefully and Shane winces at the loss of him and it takes so much in Ilya not to jump his bones again. 

He ties the condom up and disposes of it in the bathroom, coming back to the bedroom with a towel that he wipes Shane down with. 

When they’re both as clean as they can get short of just hopping into the shower again, Ilya joins Shane back in bed and nuzzles against him, face pressing into Shane’s shoulder. He’s still coming down from the high of it all, from the newness of doing that with Shane. With Shane. God, he did that with Shane.

They did that together. 

“Good?” Ilya asks. Less about his performance and more about how Shane is. The pink has faded into something less noticeable now but if Ilya squints his eyes and looks real close, he can still see traces of it.

“Perfect,” Shane pulls him up for a kiss. “It was perfect, Ilya.” 

“But you feel okay?” Ilya asks, because he has to ask. He can see the first tell-tale signs of a bruise just beginning to take form on Shane’s collarbone. On his neck. God, it hasn’t even fully formed yet and Ilya thinks he already looks like he’d just been mauled. 

“I feel okay?” Shane repeats the word like it’s silly. He shakes his head and his hair falls over his eyes. Ilya pushes it back. He wants to see. He wants to look. “Perfect. Ilya, I feel perfect.” 

“You are perfect,” Ilya kisses the corner of his mouth. “Beautiful. Always so beautiful, Shane,” 

“You don’t have to say that now,” Shane wiggles in Ilya’s hold, laughing. “I get it, okay? I know you mean it,”

“Will not stop me from saying it,” Ilya noses over Shane’s collarbone. God, this is right where Ilya wants to be. Where he needs to be. “Over and over again. But you are not allowed to get sick of it.” 

Shane pulls gently on Ilya’s hair. Brings his face back up so they can look at each other better. So that Shane can see Ilya. So that he can look at him.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Shane says, that same look of wonder in his eye that Ilya had seen earlier. 

“Good,” Ilya nods, feeling a bit choked up. He just had mindblowing sex and now he feels like he might cry. He shuts his eyes tightly before the tears can even begin to form. “You are everything, moya lyubov’.”

“Ilya,” Shane sighs, breath tickling over his forehead. He feels a hand on the small of his back, feels the weight of Shane’s leg thrown over his own. Feels the warmth of him pressed up against him. 

“I am in love with you,” Ilya says, eyes still closed, lips brushing against Shane’s jaw. “I love you.” 

Ilya waits for it. For the next greatest fall of his life.

It doesn’t come, at least, not in the way he’s expecting.

The tears do, though, and when he blinks his eyes open he finds that Shane’s eyes are wet, too, his smile achingly tender.

“I love you, too.” Shane says. Brave. Easy. Free. 

There is no greatest fall, not when Ilya is already safe, feet planted solidly above ground.

There is no greatest fall but Ilya does feel like he’s floating. Like he’s suddenly untethered. Just–just floating. Maybe even like he’s soaring.

Shane tucks a curl behind his ear and nudges his nose against Ilya’s. 

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya says again because he can. Because the first time should be the hardest but it didn't feel hard at all. It felt like the easiest thing he could have said, which is laughable given all the years he’d spent trying not to say it. But it’s out in the open and Shane catches it with his cupped hands, always ready. Always just right next to him. “That means I love you.” 

“You didn’t want me to look it up this time?” Shane asks, voice a bit wet. A bit choked up from crying. 

Ilya wipes his tears away and kisses his cheek. They must look ridiculous right now. Silly. In love. They look in love right now. 

“No, not for that one,” Ilya swoops down to kiss him. Shane’s fingers falling from his hair to settle on the back of his neck. “You really do?” 

“Yes,” Shane admits easily. This honesty between them. This fearlessness they both share. “For a long time.” 

“Feels like the whole time to me, sometimes,” Ilya admits.

That first day in university. All the pastries Ilya had laid out in front of Shane the day that followed. Every single season spent together. Every long distance phone call where Ilya fell asleep to the sound of Shane just pitter-pattering in his own apartment, telling Ilya it was fine, he didn’t have to stay up. Every single Facetime call when Ilya touched the screen hoping it was Shane, always hoping. All the holidays together–sometimes spent with Shane, just the two of them, other times with the entire Hollander family, Yuna and David welcoming him with open arms. 

Ilya remembers the look on Yuna’s face, when all she had to give him was a soft, quiet smile and a gentle nod of her head. He thinks he understands what that had meant, now. 

“Ilya Rozanov, you’re my best friend,” Shane’s thumb ghosts over Ilya’s cheek, gentle, always so gentle with him, his Shane. “You’re my best friend and I love you,” 

There are a lot of ways someone can say they love you: a hand on Ilya’s shoulder after bombing out of a major exam. A shake of the head from Shane and a muttered, you’re ridiculous after Ilya had said something completely, utterly ridiculous and unwarranted. A seat at the table in the Hollonov house. David keeping Ilya’s favourite brand of Russian vodka in the fridge. Yuna calling him up randomly throughout the week just to check in on him. A warm, home-cooked meal whenever Ilya is over. A blanket tucked around him when he fell asleep on the couch, Shane’s fingers combing through his hair and telling him he really should move to the guest bedroom upstairs but never really doing anything more than that because he wants Ilya to sleep more. To get some rest. Svetlana sending him voice messages about her day and how much she misses him, how she needs to seriously think about relocating from Boston to fucking Ottawa out of all places just to be closer to him. His mother, when she kissed each of his fingers and spent the whole night brushing his hair, a good night, good night, my little star a melodic sing-song in her sweet, sweet voice. 

So many ways the people around Ilya have told him they loved him without actually saying the actual words outloud.

But they have–on Christmas eve, Yuna pulling him in for a hug after Ilya had given her his present. A kiss to the cheek as she told him she loves him. David after that one long weekend they’d spent together doing a thousand piece puzzle, looking at Ilya with complete amusement after they’d completed it, ruffling his hair and telling him Good job, son. Svetlana when she’d cried the day Ilya surprised her on her birthday, with a bouquet of flowers in one hand,  a crude birthday card in the other, and a sheepish smile on his face. She’d pulled him into a bone-crushing hug and burst into tears, I can’t fucking believe you’d pull this, Ilya, quickly followed by a softer, Thank you. I love you. His mother, every day when she could. I love you, my little star. Ten kisses for each of his fingers. I love you ten different ways every night. 

There are a lot of ways. A thousand different times Ilya has felt loved but never–never outloud, at least, not from Shane. Not like this. 

It’s different to feel it in the way Shane cares about him. Eight years. Eight years. Eight years.

It’s something completely different when Shane says it like this. Like it is the truest thing he’s ever really said to him. 

Ilya cries in earnest, his shoulders shaking. He hides his face in the crook of Shane’s neck as Shane pulls them both up against the headboard. He rocks them gently, together. Together. 

He can hear Shane crying, too. Can feel how tightly Shane’s gripping him. 

Here is another thing they share: this big, wonderful love for each other. 

“I love you so much,” Ilya knows he can say this over and over again, for their Everything Else. 

Shane holds him through it. 

Ilya holds Shane through it.

Through the tears that have fallen. These beautiful, happy tears.

They’re ridiculous. They’re both idiots, maybe. But they’re glowing. With their magnet hands and their hearts, thump, thump, thumping against their chests. 

This is how they fall asleep that night–with their legs tangled and Ilya’s arm around Shane’s middle, tethering them both together. 

This is how they come to the morning after, with the early morning sun slowly lighting the whole room up.

Shane, hair sleep-mussed and kissing him on both his cheeks, hand moving lazily up and down Ilya’s back. 

Ilya, nudging their noses together before he kisses him quickly on the mouth, loud and obnoxious, a mwah that bounces off the walls of their little room, in this quaint cottage. 

“Good morning,” Shane says. “We should go biking today,” 

“Good morning,” Ilya says. “We will be climbing a tree today,”

Shane knocks their foreheads together and swats playfully at Ilya’s back.

Ilya smothers his laugh in the crook of Shane’s neck where he says, “I love you,” because it’s the first time he’s said it in the light of the morning.

“I love you, too,” Shane says back, brushing Ilya’s curls out of his eyes. “But we are not climbing a tree.”

They don’t climb a tree but Shane does push Ilya into the water. It’s perfect. 

–

It’s a Sunday when Ilya finally climbs a tree. 

Or, at least attempts to. He looks over his shoulder at Shane, who’s got both hands on his hips and a frown on his face, not looking amused at all. 

“Is short tree,” Ilya says, patting the bark of the tree. Rough. He looks up, studying the branches. He can climb it no problem. Probably.

“Have you ever actually climbed a tree before?” Shane asks. 

Ilya shrugs. “First time for everything, Hollander,” 

He sizes the tree up. Gets himself ready when Shane groans behind him and stops him with his fingers clutched tightly into the back of Ilya’s shirt. 

“I swear to god, Ilya, if you break something–” 

Ilya turns around to face him, already grinning. 

Shane pushes him until Ilya’s back hits the tree, until he can feel a particularly low branch’s leaves graze the top of his head. 

“Do you have other ideas?” Ilya asks, hand slipping underneath Shane’s shirt, just to feel him directly. Skin on skin. He raises an eyebrow, waiting for Shane to catch up. 

“Not outside,” Shane is flushed red so suddenly, so quickly, that it makes Ilya want to take him. Maybe in his mouth. Maybe up against this tree. Maybe on the forest floor. “There is no way–” 

“Boring,” Ilya says, not even meaning it. “Won’t let me climb tree. Won’t let me blow you outside. No fun,” 

Shane glares at him. Positively glares at him while Ilya bites on his bottom lip to stop himself from grinning too hard. 

“Not out here. It’s–dirty,” Shane kicks at a rock. Plucks a leaf out of Ilya’s hair and dangles it in front of his face for emphasis. “Christ, Ilya. What am I going to do with you?”

Ilya throws his arm around Shane’s shoulder and drags him close to his side, both of them making their way out of the woods and back to the cottage. He laughs the whole way, watching as Shane just shakes his head at him. Ilya laughs, pleased, amused, and so in love that he ends up pushing Shane against another tree. Kisses him breathless out here in the middle of the woods, where it’s only just the two of them. On vacation. In this little corner of the world they’ve staked a claim to. 

“See you,” Ilya says when he pulls away. He takes a split second to enjoy the look on Shane’s face, the utter bliss so clear on his face before it’s replaced with realisation. But Ilya’s already running, laughter ripping out of him as he winds through the last remaining trees before he breaks back out into where the cottage is. He runs along the edge of the lake, splashing everywhere. Hears Shane right on his heels. Feels Shane grip the back of his shirt and tug.

Ilya stumbles. Falls.

Shane falls on top of him, legs on either side of Ilya as he presses both palms down onto Ilya’s chest. Fingers clutching tightly on his shirt. 

“Caught you,” Shane pants. He’s grinning, too. Absolutely elated. 

Water sloshes against Ilya’s feet. His arm. It seeps through his shirt as he lies there, on the ground and by the edge of the lake, looking up at Shane. 

He folds a knee up and presses it very deliberately over the front of Shane’s shorts, already feeling him half-hard.

“Did chasing me excite you that much?” Ilya asks, catching his breath. “Liked hunting me?” 

An ankle hooks around Shane’s leg. Ilya drags his foot down the back of Shane’s leg and hears him whimper. Sees his shoulders tremble. The catch of his breath. 

“Pervert,” Ilya smirks, pressing a hand over Shane’s shorts. Feels how hard he is already. 

“Yeah, you liked it just as much,” Shane tries, moving against Ilya’s hand. They’re still outside. Just a few feet away from the woods. The lakeshore is rocky. The cottage isn’t even a two minute walk away from them. Maybe forty seconds if they start running again. But Ilya’s all out of breath just looking up at Shane that he doesn’t think they’ll make it. 

Ilya pulls him down for a kiss, craning his head up for a better angle. Always better with Shane, every new thing they do. Every old dance they dance. 

He slips his hand underneath Shane’s shorts, trailing his finger down the length of them. Helps Shane as he moves to push them down. Lets Shane push his own shorts down and drag his cock out, hand around Ilya in an instant. Wet. Warm. Pink. 

Everything’s still so pink, from the tips of Shane’s ears, the top of his cheeks. Ilya swipes a thumb over Shane’s cock. Swallows a whimper when Shane kisses him, when Shane starts jerking him off. 

Ilya moves a bit more lazily. He’s on his back, soaked through by the lake water, and Shane is straddling him, looking golden. Glorious. Beautiful. 

Shane comes first, Ilya following a few seconds after when Shane twists his hand and his brain shortcircuits. Like lightning streaking across the sky but instead it’s just Ilya coming in Shane’s hand, making a mess.

He dips his hand into the water and splashes Shane with it. 

“Jerk,” Shane mumbles, slumping down against his chest. Head pillowed right underneath Ilya’s chin. 

Ilya’s clothes are soaked. His hair is soaked. Shane is miraculously dry, save for his shoes. 

“I love you,” Ilya says with his eyes closed. He feels Shane’s smile against the hollow of his throat. 

“In Russian,” Shane asks. 

Ilya props himself up on an elbow, careful not to jostle Shane too much. 

What a simple request. Like a cup of coffee so early in the morning. Like Shane’s just asking him to lower the volume on the TV. To put on his favourite playlist while they’re driving. How easy it is to give him whatever he wants, Ilya thinks. 

“Ya–” Ilya starts, gesturing to himself with his other hand. “Tebya–” he points up to Shane, smiling at him. “Lyublyu. Ya tebya lyublyu.” 

Shane taps a finger on Ilya’s cheek, one for each syllable. It’s so gentle, these consistent taps as Ilya murmurs it again and again, three times just because good things always come in threes. 

“I love you, too,” Shane kisses the tip of his nose. “I love you.” 

Shane only says it twice but that’s okay. The best things come in twos.

You and Me. Everything Else. Ilya and Shane. 

The best things come in twos. 

–

They eat in bed for the first time ever. Or at least, Shane lets Ilya eat on the bed one afternoon while he sits reading next to him, glasses pushed high above the bridge of his nose. 

“Crumbs,” Shane says, eyeing the bag of chips Ilya’s been picking at for the past half hour or so. 

“Do not distract me,” Ilya says, taking out a hot cheeto and putting it up against Shane’s face. The glasses had been so distracting the whole day. Ilya couldn’t get his hands off of Shane, not even when he said he had some actual reading to do. “I am easily distracted,”

So Shane had agreed to let him eat his stupid hot cheetos in bed if it meant Ilya would stop pawing at him enough so he could read his book. 

“Why read a stupid book when we could–” Ilya pops the cheeto in his mouth. Makes a face when the spice and sourness hits him before dragging a non-cheeto dusted finger down Shane’s neck, stopping just above his pec. 

“We did that already,” Shane says, pushing his hand away. As soon as Shane had put his glasses on that morning, actually. When Ilya stood stock-still in the middle of the kitchen and decided he was going to bend him over the kitchen counter then and there. The glasses had to stay on the whole time. And then another time in the living room, with Shane’s mouth wrapped around his cock, glasses askew. A third time just in bed, almost an hour ago, slower, lazier, but still with the glasses on, Shane’s book left somewhere in the living room.

Ilya had watched him walk out after, still shaky on his legs when he did. Shane had come back with a bag of chips, a can of zero sugar ginger ale, and his book tucked under his arm. 

“Let me read,” Shane had said. 

And so Ilya is in bed, eating his hot cheetos, and Shane is next to him, flipping through his book. 

“I need help with crossword puzzle,” Ilya says, after he’s halfway through the hot cheetos bag. His tongue is starting to feel a bit numb. Maybe this had been Shane’s goal the whole time. Just to get Ilya to stay off of him for a few more hours. It’s working but only for so long. There’s really not enough spice that could pull him away from Shane, not now when Ilya can finally have him like this, in all the ways that he’s ever wanted. 

“You don’t,” Shane says, flipping to the next page. 

“I do,” Ilya whines, pulling his phone out. “Look. David texted–said today was harder than last week’s. I need to beat him,”

“What, just beat his time?” Shane looks over his book to peer at Ilya’s screen. “And it’s cheating if I help,”

“Is not cheating if you love me,” Ilya settles back down against the pillow, pushing up so they’re shoulder to shoulder. “And you do,”

“Mom doesn’t help dad just to beat you, by the way,” but Shane puts his book down on the dresser next to him and leans in to watch Ilya type in the first answer. “This isn’t even the paid version. Have you guys been trying to compete on the free version this whole time?”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “I have not won in weeks.” 

Shane takes the phone from him and goes over the clues. Types in two answers before giving it back to Ilya.

“There. You do the rest.”

Shane had typed in the easiest ones. Answers Ilya already knew. 

Ilya curls up next to him and brings his phone up so they both can see. So Shane can wince when Ilya misspells a word. Two words. When Ilya tries to force a perceptive where it shouldn’t go. 

“This one’s Amelia,” Shane says, pointing to number five. 

“Who is Amelia?” Ilya raises an eyebrow.

“She was a pilot. And why is this just moot? The word is motto,” Shane grabs the phone out of Ilya’s hand and erases the next word. “Ilya, you completely missed a box,” 

“Is moot point,” Ilya says, snickering. 

Shane rolls his eyes but his smile is fond. So, so fond. 

“This one is trot,” Ilya points at the last row. “Shane likes to trot around when he is happy,” 

“I do not trot around,” Shane grumbles, filling out the last boxes. He passes the phone back to Ilya and Ilya presses submit, his time flashing on the screen. 

“I beat David by a minute,” Ilya declares, taking a screenshot to send it to David as well as an affectionate Ha! Suck it. 

“I can’t believe I just helped you cheat on a trial version of a crossword. To beat my dad,” Shane’s head thumps on the pillow, glasses slipping low over the bridge of his nose.

Ilya pushes it up and kisses the corner of his mouth. 

“I told you, is not cheating. We are a team,” Ilya’s phone lies discarded somewhere to his side. He hears it tumble to the floor. It’s fine. He doesn’t care anymore, he’d finally won after three weeks of losing. 

“It’s cheating,” Shane makes a face when Ilya kisses him on the mouth. “And brush your teeth. You taste like hot cheetos.” 

“Astute observation, moy pomidor,” but Ilya gets up to brush his teeth anyway, tutting when Shane moves to take his glasses off. “Do not.” 

Instead of responding to that, Shane just laughs and says, “Wow, astute.”

“Yes,” Ilya calls loudly from the bathroom. “I spent ten fucking minutes on that word last week.”

When Ilya comes back, teeth brushed and hands blissfully cheeto-dust free, Shane is already curled up in bed, blankets pulled over his shoulders. He’s still wearing the glasses.

Shane pulls the blanket down as Ilya joins him. 

Ilya snuggles close, head tilting up to meet Shane who leans down to kiss him, thumb rubbing over the jut of Ilya’s jaw. 

“I got a text from my dad,” Shane says, his grin absolutely amused but also a little bit guilty. “He asked if you cheated.” 

“What did you say?” Ilya asks, trying to read Shane’s reply.

“That it’s not cheating if we’re a team,” He laughs, warm and too loud for so late in the evening already. “You know, mom asked once if you were a bad influence. This was before they’d ever met you.” 

Ilya gasps dramatically. Says, with feigned hurt and a hand over his heart, “I am the best influence on you,”

“I know. I told her she just had to meet you to know for sure,” Shane drops his phone next to his book. He turns the lamp off and darkness settles around them. 

It’s nice being able to talk in the dark like this. Like old times. Like nothing has really changed except they just kiss now. And they fuck. And Ilya has said I love you so much in the past few days more than he has in all his life combined. That Shane, impossibly, has said it back every single time. 

“And did she?” Ilya hooks his ankle over Shane’s. 

He knows this already but it’s always nice to hear it. 

“Yes, you know how they feel about you,” Shane kisses his forehead. Lets his lips rest there for a moment. “Sometimes I think they like you more than me,”

“Okay, that is true,” Ilya snickers. “I am their favourite son,” 

And it’s not the first time he’s said it out loud. Not the first time the phrase My favourite son had been directed at Ilya. But it is exhilarating all the same. 

“I know, I’ve heard it several times already,” Shane starts carding through his hair, these slow, gentle movements that remind Ilya about being out on a small wooden boat, with the quiet waves of the sea gently rocking him to sleep. He’d gone fishing with David once. Had fallen asleep with the rod in his hand and had woken up with a hat on his head and a thin blanket over his shoulders after. “They love you a lot, you know,” 

“I know,” Ilya admits readily. Easily. “I love them very much. I am very thankful for them,” 

Shane hums the same Russian song he’d been humming since they’d gotten to the cottage. Last Summer. It makes Ilya smile, makes him relax. Makes him feel lighter than air. 

“Tell me about the book you were reading,” Ilya asks, smothering a yawn against Shane’s shoulder.

Shane continues combing through his hair. Gentle movements. So slowly that they feel like rain on a clear summer’s day, when it falls out of nowhere. 

“You want a bedtime story now?” Shane asks. Good naturedly. Always good naturedly. 

“Yes,” Ilya admits because it is bedtime now and he is free to admit anything he wants with Shane. He is an honest man, afterall. 

Ilya rubs a hand up and down Shane’s side, fingers trailing over his ribs and then on his hip. This constant motion mimicking the way Shane brushes his fingers through his curly hair. 

“I’m not even halfway through,” Shane yawns, sleepy. He moves away from Ilya for a bit to take his glasses off, setting them next to his phone and the book. Somewhere in the dark. 

Somewhere in the dark he finds Ilya again, bringing him close to his side, fingers back in his hair. 

“Doesn’t matter. Just tell me about it,” a kiss to Shane’s shoulder, unhurried.

Shane brushes Ilya’s hair out of his eyes. Smooths it out knowing full well it’s only going to end up in a complete mess the next morning. It always does. 

Ilya doesn’t really hear much of the story, if he’s being honest. Something about a son and his mother who couldn’t read. About how he had to emigrate to America. How he’d fallen in love for the first time with a boy. 

“Is sad,” Ilya murmurs when Shane slows down. “His mother cannot read his letter,” 

“I don’t think she was ever meant to respond to it,” Shane tells him gently. “He just had to say it. Write it, I guess,” 

Sleep overtakes him. It’s so easy to take him down, with Shane’s fingers in his hair and his lips brushing against Ilya’s cheek as he whispers the story. Ilya nods. Or at least, he thinks he might have nodded. He’s too sleepy, suddenly feeling heavy. 

Before he falls asleep, he feels another gentle press of lips against his forehead and hears Shane murmur a quiet, “Good night, Ilya,” into his hair. 

In the morning, when Ilya wakes up and Shane grumbles something about going on a quick trail run before breakfast, because of course he brings that up, Ilya reaches across from Shane to pick the book up. 

On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous. 

That’s about right, he thinks, nodding. He sets the book back down and settles in the mess of tangled limbs and sheets strewn about on the bed. He wraps both his arms around Shane and pulls him up onto his chest. 

Kisses his forehead good morning, and then both his cheeks, because Ilya likes doing things in threes. 

Shane kisses him back twice, on each corner of his mouth, and says, “Trail run,” 

“Today is the day I climb a tree,” Ilya says, completely ignoring that.

He still doesn’t end up climbing the tree but they do go on that trail run before breakfast. It doesn’t feel like much of a loss, especially not after Ilya’s monumental crossword win last night against David. 

It feels–gorgeous, actually. It really does. 

–

Ilya finally climbs a tree. 

Shane watches him from his little camping chair just beside the grill. 

“See?” Ilya calls, halfway up. It’s not a very tall tree but the branches are thick and sturdy and Ilya can stand on top of them without wobbling too much. “Is easy. See how I am the best?”

“Yes, I can see, now will you please get the fuck down?” Shane calls. 

Ilya makes his way down slowly, stopping on a branch that’s lowest from the ground. He eyeballs it. It’s not that much of a fall. 

Ilya jumps.

“Ilya, fuck–” 

“Fuck,” Ilya says, when he drops on his own two feet. “Fuck, I should climb more trees,” 

He jogs back to where Shane is sitting upright on the chair, fingers gripping the arm tightly. 

“You’re impossible. Banned from climbing trees forever,” Shane says. 

Ilya pries Shane’s fingers open and holds it, squeezing when he slots their fingers together. When their palms are pressed together. Another holy palmer’s kiss. 

“Okay, time to go swimming,” Ilya tugs on their joined hands and waits for Shane to push himself off from his chair. 

Shane kicks his shoes off and they run down the length of the dock, Ilya discarding his shirt and throwing it over his shoulder before he jumps into the water with a loud splash.

They swim to the floating dock, Shane sitting down on the edge, legs in the water and head tilted back to take in the summer sun. 

Ilya swims between his legs and wraps his fingers around his ankles, squeezing. 

“Gimme a kiss,” Ilya asks, pouting.

He can’t see it, not behind the sunglasses, but he thinks Shane is rolling his eyes.

“Get up here,” Shane says, kicking a foot out, the water splashing against Ilya’s chest.

One hand tightens around Shane’s ankle. The other glides up his calf, the length of his leg. Ilya shakes the water out of his hair and leans up, lips puckered dramatically, waiting.

“God,” he hears Shane say before he bends down the rest of the way to kiss Ilya, loud and dramatically, a big mwah that resounds across the lake. Ilya isn’t sure who made the sound. Maybe he did. Maybe Shane did.

Maybe they both did.

He drops his hold around Shane’s leg and splashes him back before he flips himself over to float on his back.

Shane lies down on the floating dock. 

They soak up the sun. Enjoy the cool water on their skin. Their eighth summer together. 

–

They’re outside, sitting on top of a picnic blanket when Ilya sees a duck wade through the water. 

“Duck,” Ilya says, pointing at it.

Shane wraps a blanket around Ilya’s shoulders first before he ducks underneath it to join him. 

“Hm?” Shane follows his gaze. Furrows his brows. “That’s a loon.”

“What the fuck is a loon?” Ilya asks. Their elbows knock together when Shane rounds on him.

“You can’t be serious. You’ve lived here for years. Surely you know what a loon is,” Shane is in disbelief. “I mean, just wait for it,”

Ilya studies the duck closely. It’s a bird on the water. It’s a duck. He thinks the word loon might ring some bells but he’d never paid any particular attention to any of Canada’s wildlife, so really, what is he supposed to be gathering here?

He hears it next. Sees the duck–loon, whatever it is–open its bill and make a sound that sounds so much like a wolf howl. He startles, jumping away from Shane at the sound of it.

Shane brings him back to his side with an arm around his waist and a laugh tucked into the crook of Ilya’s neck. 

“What the fuck,” Ilya says, watching as the duck glides on the calm surface of the water. It disappears soon after and he turns back to look at Shane. “That’s the stupid fucking wolf-bird.”

Because of course he remembers now that he’s heard it. The first time he’d ever heard it, out on a creak with Shane when they were trying to skip pebbles on the water’s surface. A few years back. Always a few years back, with the two of them. He’d nearly ripped out of his own skin when he first heard it. 

Shane’s laugh is the same as that first time, Ilya recognises. 

“I told you, you know what a damn loon is,” Shane says, kissing Ilya’s shoulder. He rubs his hand down the length of his shoulder blades, gently dragging Ilya down onto his back with him. The fleece blanket is comfortable and cosy as Shane brings it tighter around them. 

“Freak of nature, maybe,” Ilya murmurs, trying to tune out another loon wolf-howl. Duck-howl. Whatever it is. He turns to look at Shane only to find that he’s already staring up at the sky. The stars blink down at them tonight, constellations Ilya has no names for but he knows are up there, dotting the skies. They remind him a lot of Shane’s freckles. 

He runs a thumb over Shane’s cheek, dragging gently over his freckles. Ilya smiles. 

“Don’t be dramatic, Ilya,” Shane says, the laughter replaced with a warm smile now. “Do you wanna make a wish?”

Ilya turns his full attention back to the sky. He squints his eyes, trying to catch a streak of light. Waits very patiently until he feels Shane shift beside him and ask, “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for another shooting star, yes?” Ilya asks, still not tearing his gaze from the sky. He’s not going to miss it–this will be the first time, he thinks. 

Shane laughs again next to him. 

“No, no, there aren’t any tonight,” Shane pats on his arm. “Dad used to say you can just do it anytime. You don’t have to wait for it,” 

“And it still works?” Ilya feels a bit silly for asking but he supposes it’s also a bit silly to be making wishes on a night sky with no shooting stars. 

Shane scrunches his nose. Gropes around underneath the blanket until he finds Ilya’s hand. He drags it over his stomach, letting their hands rest there. 

“No, I told my dad it didn’t make sense without it. He said it’s okay if some things didn’t make sense,” Shane huffs out a breath. He sounds a bit strained.

Ilya smooths out the furrow in his brow with a finger and smiles at him. 

“Is okay if some things don’t make sense,” Ilya says. “Is also okay if you want them to make sense. We don’t have to wish on absent shooting stars.” 

“I mean, it’s not real anyway, right? So it’s fine if this one doesn’t make sense,” Shane’s putting up a good argument. Like he’s trying to convince a whole room of people on this one stance. Ilya loves him. Positively loves him so much he might burst at the seams.

He rolls them around until he’s got Shane pinned to the floor, fingers circling loosely around his wrist, one leg thrown over his waist. 

“I love you. What do you want to do?” Ilya asks, kissing the bridge of his nose quickly. 

“I think I want to make a wish,” Shane grumbles, like it’s taking everything in him to admit he wants to do this silly, playful thing that doesn’t really make sense but doesn’t have to. Not when Ilya understands, anyway.

He rolls off of Shane and joins him back down on the ground. He drags most of the blanket with him and feels Shane shiver in the cold. Ilya brings the blanket back up to Shane’s shoulders, tucking it just under his chin. Like a little burrito. 

“We will make a wish. Same time as you, okay? Together,” Ilya blinks up at the sky again. At all the stars he has no names for. At constellations he’s hopeless about. He closes his eyes, holds his breath, and makes a wish. 

They’re silent for a few moments. Ilya can hear the steady sound of Shane’s breathing. He can hear the sound of his own heartbeat, thump, thump, thumping in his chest. 

He covers Shane’s hand with his, which is monumental with how tucked into the blanket Shane is. But Ilya manages to find the lump underneath that is his hand and he squeezes on it. 

There’s a splash somewhere in the water. Maybe the fucking loon again. Maybe something else. The cicadas are chirping. The moon is a half crescent in the sky and Ilya vaguely remembers watching a show with Svetlana, where they said the light from the stars in the sky had taken years just to travel to them. Decades. Centuries. Light from a thousand years ago that had only just reached them. They’re just rocks now, Ilya supposes. They’re wishing on rocks in the sky. 

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t have to matter, honestly.

“Done?” Shane asks, wiggling around in his blanket.

Ilya laughs at the sight of him, all wrapped up, the tops of his cheeks a beautiful, rosy pink. 

“Yes. What did you wish for?” Ilya asks, poking Shane’s cheek.

Shane turns his face away from him. “Not telling,”

“Fine. I am also not going to say,” Ilya kisses both his cheeks, playful and wet and loud.

“I wasn’t going to ask,” Shane tries to kick out of the blanket wrap but Ilya keeps him pinned on the ground, unable to move. He tucks the blanket underneath Shane even tighter, makes sure he’s all warm and cosy. He tips his head back and laughs when he pulls away because Shane looks ridiculous. 

“Fuck off,” Shane tries to aim a kick at him but it doesn’t really work. The blanket restricts his movements. “Let me out,”

“No,” Ilya laughs some more. “Guess what my wish was,”

“You just said you weren’t going to say,” Shane glares at him. 

Ilya tries to glare back but it’s fruitless. He’s still laughing.

Shane cracks a smile and laughs, too, after a while. Resigns himself to his situation. 

“I am not going to say,” Ilya settles back down next to Shane, chin hooking over his shoulder. Or, a lump that should be his shoulder. His lips graze over Shane’s jaw when he says, “But it was easy wish to make,” 

Ilya peppers kisses down the length of Shane’s jaw. Just over his chin. His cheeks. His nose. His forehead. He makes a show of it all until he kisses him on the mouth and then it’s slow and sweet.

This, this, this–it is all Ilya has wished for. It is all he will ever wish for, really. 

It takes Ilya by surprise when Shane manages to sneak his hand out of the blanket wrap. He touches a few spots on Ilya’s cheeks, a familiar look of wonder in his eyes again. 

Ilya follows the movement, letting his finger ghost over each spot Shane had touched. Delayed. The realisation is delayed but it gets to him like a freight train going at full speed, anyway.

Shane had been touching his moles. 

Ilya closes his fingers around Shane’s hand, letting his thumb rest just over the inside of his wrist. On his pulse point. 

“Are you going to let me go now?” Shane asks, blinking up at him.

“I think I will carry you back to the cottage now,” Ilya says instead. “Don’t move,” 

Shane moves. A lot. He sputters out a dozen different protests and tells him to put him the fuck down, they’re going to fall, but Ilya tries–and it would be so easy to just lift him up in his arms if Shane can cooperate for even a second but he doesn’t, because Ilya is in love with this stubborn man. Of course. So Ilya drops him back down to his feet, where the blanket lies mostly discarded, pooling around their feet. 

“Don’t just–” Shane huffs. His cheeks are flushed. He’d liked that, Ilya thinks. Liked being carried like that. 

“Put your arm around my neck,” Ilya says. The blanket is gone so there’s really no use trying to manhandle Shane into his arms without his cooperation anymore. “Please,” 

Shane protests again but he does it, anyway. Because Ilya is in love with this stubborn man. Shane throws an arm around his neck and Ilya bends down to scoop Shane up, bearing the whole weight of the world in his arms. He takes a tentative step forward. Shane buries his face in that sacred junction between Ilya’s neck and his shoulder, the kiss that he presses to the side of Ilya’s neck warm. 

Ilya doesn’t carry him all the way to the bedroom because the hallway gets too narrow. A cabinet sticks out from right beside a corner. And the couch–the couch is right there. It is right there. 

So Ilya carries Shane to the living room, making sure not to jostle him around too much, and Shane holds on tightly to him. He trails kisses down Ilya’s neck, his throat. His shoulder. Warm kisses against the cool gold of his necklace. Shane kisses whatever he has access to. 

Ilya goes down and Shane comes with him and the windows are open, cool summer air blowing in. 

Shane rides him on the couch, one hand on Ilya’s chest as he throws his head back, eyes closed, his throat littered with bruises. Kisses. With Ilya. 

Ilya digs his fingers into Shane’s hip and fucks up into him. 

“I’m coming, Ilya–” Shane bites out, head lolling against Ilya’s shoulder as he comes untouched. 

The sight of Shane trembling on top of him, flushed from his chest to the tips of his ears, is enough to make Ilya come as well. 

“Beautiful,” Ilya locks his arms around Shane, pulling him close. Not wanting to pull away just yet. This warmth around him. Everywhere around him. Shane tips Ilya’s head up and kisses him, something wet and messy and hot. Beautiful. 

Shane doesn’t complain about the mess immediately and Ilya’s heart squeezes. He loves him. He loves him. He is so in love with him. 

“Wow,” Shane is still out of breath. Still flushed. Ilya wants to spend the rest of the night just like this. With Shane in his arms, on his lap, still around him. Just like this, with Shane staring down at him and whispering quiet I love yous throughout the night. Just like this. 

Ilya nods seriously. Leans up and nips at the bottom of Shane’s lips. He grins when he pulls back, says, “You came untouched,”

“Oh my god,” Shane’s eyes widen, his mouth falling open. “I hate you,” 

Ilya kisses him again, three times for good measure. 

“No you don’t,” Ilya says, pushing Shane against the cushions of the couch. 

“No, I don’t,” Shane says, messing Ilya’s hair up. Just because he’s stubborn and doesn’t like losing. Just because Ilya knows he likes getting the last word, especially for playful little things like this. 

This, this, this–it is all Ilya has wished for. It is all he will ever wish for, really. 

–

Ilya wakes up in the middle of the night when he hears his phone vibrating on top of the nightstand. He checks the time quickly before his phone dims. A missed call at 3:17 in the morning. There’s only one person calling him so early.

It is a wonder how Ilya manages to untangle himself from Shane’s arms. A complete wonder how he willingly steps out of bed and walks out of the room, through the whole cottage, and out into the patio with his phone clutched tightly in his hand. Any other day and Ilya would have texted his brother to fuck off but they’ve only got a few more days left of this vacation. They’ll need to make the drive back home and then–and then Ilya has to fly out. 

Andrei picks up after one ring. 

“What do you want?” Ilya doesn’t sound as angry, not at three in the morning. Not when he’d just spent the better part of the evening with Shane in bed. Perhaps he should be more angry. Andrei had ripped him out of a peaceful night’s sleep with his–his best friend. With Shane. “You already know I’m flying in by the end of the month,”

“Katya is sick,” is the first thing Andrei says. He doesn’t sound as angry at Ilya as he usually is. 

Ilya sucks in a breath. 

“How is she?” he cradles the phone against his ear. He hasn’t spoken to his niece in weeks. The last he’d heard from her was over a Facetime call. She had grown so much in the months since Ilya had last seen her. To think she’d gotten sick. That Ilya’s flying back in a few weeks and she was still going to be sick.

“We’re at the hospital right now. Rushed her to the ER when she started having seizures earlier,” Andrei sounds defeated. He’s not–he’s not the best brother. God, some days Ilya hates him so much he sees red. Other days he remembers his brother as the older brother who’d pulled him back up to his feet whenever he fell on his ass skating. When their mother would just watch them from a bench, cheering them on. Fussing over them right after. It’s complicated, family. It always has been. “Her treatments are getting more expensive,”

Ilya leans against the wood paneling of the cottage. He slides down slowly, crouching on his knees, phone still pressed to his ear because it’s complicated. Everything back in Moscow is always so complicated. Losing his mother. Navigating the rest of his life without her, the one thing he thought would be a constant. His brother growing up to be an angry man, just like their father. So much like their father. His niece–with her blonde curls and rosy cheeks. Precious. She had been sickly since birth. And then his father. His disease. His death. Everything else that came after. 

Complicated, the only constant in his family. This push and pull. The anger. 

But over the years, Ilya has grown tired of the anger. He’s learned to unclench his fists. Learned to get through life without gritting his teeth so much. 

All it takes is one phone call and he’s clenching his fist again. He’s gritting his teeth.

The only constant. 

The back of his head hits the wall. He breathes through his nose sharply. Blinks his eyes open. 

Ilya unclenches his fist. Relaxes his jaw. He breathes. 

“I’ll sign everything away,” Ilya tells him, still speaking in a quiet whisper. As if Shane could just walk out here and suddenly understand Russian. But it’s not the Russian that Ilya is worried about. It’s the–it’s the anger in his voice. This constant need to always be flight or fight when it comes to his family. “Please, Andrei. Just take everything,”

“Ilya,” he thinks he hears his brother choke up on a sob. 

But that’s impossible, because they’re Russian brothers who grew up under a father who barely allowed them to show a hint of emotion. Anytime they cried he gave them more reason to cry. Anytime they tried to speak up against him they were given another reason not to. They don’t cry and yet Ilya feels the hot tears streak down his cheeks. Feels his shoulders tremble. His hands. 

“For Katya, you understand?” Ilya says, like he’s not crying with his brother for the first time in their lives. Like his brother isn’t on the other end of the call also pretending very hard that he isn’t crying. That he doesn’t hear the shakiness in Ilya’s voice.

They didn’t even cry during their father’s funeral, they’d just stared at the ground until it had been completely covered up. It had snowed the whole day. How fitting. 

“I understand,” Andrei says. 

The call ends. Ilya thinks he might have been the one to drop it.

Maybe Andrei did. 

It doesn’t matter. Not everything has to make sense. 

Ilya wipes furiously at his tears. He leaves his phone on the kitchen counter and heads slowly back into the bedroom. Shane is still asleep, fingers clutching at the empty space Ilya had left. He climbs back into bed slowly, carefully. He still feels raw. Still feels so cold. 

Shane stirs in his sleep. Doesn’t open his eyes but he does move closer to Ilya when Ilya lowers himself back down, blankets pulled high over their shoulders again. 

Shane mumbles something sleepily, winding an arm around Ilya’s waist. He noses at Ilya’s shoulder. Sighs when Ilya finally stops moving around so much. When he feels himself relax. “Everything okay?”

“I think so,” Ilya’s voice is still so raw. 

Shane rubs his hand soothingly over Ilya’s hip. 

“Your feet are cold,” Shane complains.

Ilya moves his feet away from Shane but Shane tangles their legs underneath the blanket again, dragging Ilya close, so, so close.

“Sorry, moya lyubóvʹ,” Ilya whispers into Shane’s hair. He presses his lips against Shane’s temple. “Sorry. Go back to sleep, hm?” 

“Okay,” He’s half-asleep at most. “G’night, Ilya,” Shane murmurs, his fingers running over Ilya’s side one last time before his hand stills on Ilya’s hip.

Ilya combs through Shane’s hair, smiling. 

Says, “Good night, sweetheart.” right before he falls asleep to the sound of Shane’s gentle breathing. 

–

“But mama, I want to try both,” Ilya had whined, wriggling his hand out of hers so he could press his face against the cool glass. Andrei had held onto their mother’s other hand. He’d peered into the glass and pointed quickly to the chocolate flavoured ice cream.

“This one, mama,” Andrei had said while Ilya pointed at the vanilla and strawberry.

“We can share the second one,” Their mother had placated Ilya with a hand ruffling through his curls and a smile as she handed each of them their ice cream cones. 

Ilya had wanted both and his mother had shared her cone with him. They’d spent the afternoon sitting on a bench, eating ice cream. It had been warm that Spring day. If Ilya tries really hard, he might just remember that the flowers had started to bloom everywhere around them. The trees are evergreen. Wind on his small face and the ice cream melting in his hands. Sticky. Sweet. 

Memory is a monster but Ilya tries very hard to remember. To hold onto it because it’s all he has left of her. He is all that she’s left. 

They’ve got just four more days left on this vacation. Just three short days until Ilya has to start preparing to leave. It will be a short trip, this he knows now, for certain. 

So he decides to bring it up first. Decides to abolish their silly made up rule about not talking about this even if they already did. Even if Shane had spent half the road trip extremely patient with him, hands gentle over Ilya’s own.

“I’m going to visit my mama,” Ilya says, staring into the fire. 

Shane had prepared the little bonfire and they’d sat around it, stretched out on a wooden bench, littered with a dozen different pillows and cushions. Ilya had pillowed his head on Shane’s lap as soon as he stopped fussing over the bonfire. 

“Oh yeah?” Shane asks, carding his fingers through Ilya’s hair. “What are you going to tell her?” 

Ilya blinks at the kindling. At the fire. They’ve been staring at the fire for the better part of an hour but Shane’s also been brushing his hair for what feels like forever already so Ilya doesn’t mind. The fire is nice. Comforting. Ilya is safe. 

It reminds him of warm winters huddled around the fireplace. 

His fingers drag lazily over Shane’s knee. Small, circular motions.

Shane tucks the blanket around Ilya and waits. 

“About how her first son is a good for nothing,” Almost a good for nothing. Perhaps Andrei’s only redeemable quality was that he loved his daughter unconditionally. “And how her second one misses her very much,”

Ilya tries very hard not to cry. He thinks he might have outcried himself already but it comes, anyway, the tears welling in his eyes. He sniffles. 

Shane’s fingers in his hair still, then glide down to rest on his cheek. Fingers drum, drum, drumming over familiar spots now–spots Ilya knows are his moles. Shane taps on a few spots on his neck, too, the smile on his face sincere and so open. Always so open for him. 

Ilya turns away from the bonfire completely and looks up at Shane.

This must be a talent, Ilya finally decides. Shane taking his face in his hands, fingers pressed gently into his skin. Holding him through it. 

“Oh, Ilya,” Shane says, thumb stroking over his cheek. “She’d love to hear from you,”

Ilya spent a long time just trying to find the words. To his father and how Ilya could never say anything right around him. To his mother, and how he struggled with his little hands and his little heart to tell her that she meant the whole world to him. To his brother, to the angry boys they’d been–to the angry men they both grew up to be. But Ilya doesn’t feel as angry anymore. He thinks he hasn’t been angry in a long time, actually. At least, not in the same way. 

Then to Svetlana–Sveta, and how the world had suddenly widened when he met her. How could Ilya ever find the words to fill in the rest of the world, both in Russian  and in English? 

Shane’s parents had been different, in a sense that Ilya didn’t really struggle with what he wanted to say, just that he was always somewhat at a loss for words when around them. How easy love came to Yuna and David, how easy they’ve extended it to Ilya. It had been difficult to articulate his gratitude but he tried. He still tries. He tries really hard.

And Shane–god, where can Ilya even start with him? Ilya was always careful. Eight years of skirting around what he feels, of what he wants to really tell Shane if he’d only asked. It had been difficult until Shane asked and now. Now it feels easy, finding the words. To say the right and wrong things. To tell him he means the whole world to him. How easy it is to fill in the rest of the world, both in Russian and in English. 

The gratitude is something that might always catch him at a loss but it’s there. It’s always there. 

“I know,” Ilya turns his face and kisses the inside of Shane’s wrist. “I will tell her about you, too,”

This one isn’t a secret. Not a new thing Ilya will be doing when he visits her. He always tells her about Shane. She’s been hearing stories about Shane for eight years–whenever Ilya got to visit her again or whenever he looked out the window on a clear night, the moon dangling from the sky like a memory. 

“Yeah?” Shane asks, sounding a little bit wrecked, too. His thumb presses into Ilya’s cheek, his eyes a bit wet. “Leave out the embarrassing details,” 

“Especially the embarrassing details,” Ilya sniffles and then laughs, a little wetly. “I will tell her everything. My bestie, Shane Hollander, and how his favourite bird is this stupid fucking wolf.” 

“You know that’s not what it is at all,” Shane’s fingers are back in his hair, gently carding through his curls. 

Ilya blinks up at him. Tries very hard to look offended even with the tears in his eyes. With how much his heart wants to burst. Gasps out, “You are not my best friend?” 

“I am, but the loon–” Shane tries to argue.

Ilya kisses his wrist again, letting his lips linger for a long moment, just so he can feel the steady beating of Shane’s pulse. 

“Okay, I will leave wolf-bird out. Might scare her. Will just tell her about you, then,” 

“If you want to,” Shane says, gently holding Ilya’s face in his hands. 

“I always want to,” Ilya nods, sighing in the warm safety of Shane’s hands. “But she knows you pretty well already, I think. Used to tell her–years ago–about this guy with the crazy freckles all over his face. Can you believe that, mama? I think I am obsessed,” 

Ilya hums, letting the words wash over them. He closes his eyes and thinks about the last time he saw his mother smile. The night before he found her, when she’d brushed his hair and told him good night, good night, good night my little star. 

“He started to help me cheat on my crossword. He is really shitty at videogames but he is good hockey player. Hot, back in college. Still drives this old, ugly jeep,” Ilya continues, smirk unfurling over his lips. 

Shane pinches his cheek. “Don’t tell your mother that,” 

“I will tell her whatever I want,” Ilya laughs again, this surprised bark of a laugh that’s so unexpected because he still feels like bursting into tears. His heart and his tears, all at once. 

The sky is clear and there’s a crescent moon hanging over their heads. Ilya looks past Shane to look at the moon and her glow. 

Oh, how it’s glowing tonight. 

“I will tell her all about Shane Hollander,” Ilya circles his fingers around Shane’s wrist, rubbing over the same spot he’d kissed moments before. He smiles. “How he is my best friend. My favourite person. How much I love him,”

Shane’s hand starts shaking. 

Ilya squeezes around his wrist, feeling his pulse pick up. 

When he looks into Shane’s face again, he finds that he’s crying.

“I would’ve loved to meet her,” Shane’s smile is immaculate. The bonfire makes him glow. Makes his freckles dance. 

Ilya lifts his hand up to wipe away Shane’s tears. He smiles back at him, a little broken, a little raw, but–but happy. Ilya smiles back at him happily. 

“Me, too, moya lyubov,” Ilya says. “She would have loved you very much, too,” 

Ilya touches the cross resting against his chest. How short the chain had started to feel the older he got. 

Once, Ilya had been scared of putting the necklace on. Once, the necklace had dangled around his neck, too long, too big. Once, Ilya had looked at himself in the mirror, gold chain and gold cross glittering under the light, and thought how painfully wonderful it was that he got to grow old with this. 

He knows his mother would think the same. 

Ilya thinks his mother would have loved the life he’s built for himself here, a thousand miles away from the home he’d once shared with her. A thousand miles away in this country that had once felt barren and foreign but now feels warm and welcoming. 

How wonderful it is that Ilya’s found himself a family again. 

“I know what that means,” Shane says, sniffling. The tears have stopped falling but his eyes are still wet. 

“Ah,” Ilya lets his head plop back down on Shane’s thigh. “You have found me out,”

“What, that you love me?” Shane smiles shakily. “I knew that already,”

“You knew that already,” Ilya repeats. He looks up at the glowing moon again and takes in a shuddering breath that warms his chest. “Mama knows that very well. I think your mother also knows.”

“What, you told her?” Shane’s mouth pops open in surprise. It’s comical. Adorable. Ilya is well and truly obsessed with him.

“No, I didn’t. But I think she has a feeling,” Ilya laughs, pulling Shane down until they’re pressed nose to nose. “We can ask her when we get back,”

“We don’t have to ask her anything,” Shane grimaces. “Actually, don’t ask my parents anything.”

Ilya crosses the gap easily and kisses Shane, letting his smile linger against his lips before he pulls back and says, “Okay. I will just spell it out on the next crossword.” 

“You’re going to what?” Shane tries to sit up but Ilya pulls him back down again, forehead to forehead, nose to nose. Ilya can smile and it’ll press right up against the corner of Shane’s mouth. 

Ilya smiles. 

“I will say, One across: Dear. Two down: David. Three across: I. Four across, Kissed–”

Shane shuts him up with his fingers pressing into his cheeks and another kiss, the both of them breaking away laughing. 

“That doesn’t make sense. That’s not how a crossword works. You know this,” Shane laughs. 

“Unfortunately, I know exactly how crossword works,” Ilya sighs. He lifts a hand to pinch at Shane’s ear, rubbing it gently between two fingers. “I have been infected by the Hollander family,” 

“You love it,” Shane smiles down at him. 

“Yes, I love it,” Ilya smiles back at him, unabashed, this glowing, magnificent feeling seeping through his chest. “I love you,” 

“I love you, too,” Shane says it back easily. Readily. “Even if you’re ridiculous and full of shit sometimes,” 

“Especially because I am silly,” Ilya corrects.

Shane doesn’t argue about that at all. 

–

Two days left. 

They spend the morning of their second day on the grill. It’s Ilya’s turn today. Hotdogs that he almost burns but Shane saves. Hotdogs that he slathers with sriracha and mayo that makes Shane frown at him. Hotdogs that he feeds Shane by hand.

That Shane tries to push away because that’s so much fucking mayo, Ilya, why would you do that. He takes a bite after, anyway. 

Ilya takes a bite, too, and the rest of the morning is spent on lounge chairs, beer in hand and his cap pulled down low over his face to block the sun. Shane flips through the same book he’d been reading a couple of nights before, eyeglasses on and one hand holding onto a half-empty beer bottle.

Ilya flips his cap off, sending it toppling behind him as he decides to spend the rest of the morning doing something else.

He tells Shane to keep the glasses on. Not to stop reading. Ilya blows him outside, fingers digging into Shane’s hip and Shane’s fingers tangled in his hair, Ilya’s name spilling out from his mouth when he comes. 

“Okay, back to reading,” Ilya declares after he gets up.

Shane looks at him incredulously.

“You can’t be fucking serious,” he puts the book down and drags Ilya back with an arm around his waist and his mouth on Ilya’s cock and it’s silly, this little dance, but Ilya’s in love with it. 

They jump into the water after Ilya insists. He also tries to insist on keeping the glasses on but Shane puts his foot down on that idea and leaves them on a picnic table.

They swim to the floating dock, where Shane hauls Ilya up and Ilya proceeds to fall on top of him, a tangle of limbs and hands everywhere, in his hair and on his face, tracing over the moles that line down his neck, his chest. Ilya’s hands in Shane’s hair, pressing into his freckles, the corners of his smile because he wants to catch it, wants to press this into his memory forever. 

“Forgot to say,” Ilya says, when they’re both on their backs, one arm slung over his eyes and the other hand holding onto Shane’s, their fingers interlaced. “I spoke to my brother the other night. When you would not stop complaining about my cold feet.” 

“I complained one time, I think,” Shane counters, squeezing on his hand. “Is everything okay?” 

“No. Not really. Katya is at the hospital again. She has always been sickly child,” Ilya thinks about his niece, about how much he wants to just sweep her away for a whole summer, take her to Ottawa–of all places but yes, Ottawa–and have her meet Shane for the first time. They could probably swing by to Boston and visit Svetlana, too. “I think I will not be gone for too long,”

“No, you should spend time with her,” Shane turns over to his side, chin hooking over Ilya’s shoulder. “You’ve missed her.”

“Only her,” Ilya nods stiffly. “And my mama, too, but I think with mama I just–” with his free hand, he gestures to the empty air around them. Sweeps his arm in an arc before he lets it flop back down over his eyes. “I carry her, Shane.” 

“I know, Ilya,” Shane kisses his shoulder. Ilya feels Shane’s smile start to bloom against his skin. 

“You think she would like your loons?” Ilya peeks from underneath his arm. Grins crookedly at Shane who furrows his brows.

“I don’t know, does she normally like aquatic birds?” Shane asks. 

“We used to feed the ducks together,” Ilya hums. “Do you think she will like your–ah, what did you call it? Discussion on the–migratory pattern of loons,” 

“Shit, I don’t know, Ilya,” Shane’s shoulders shake from his laughter. “Do you like it when I tell you about the migratory pattern of loons?”

“Yes, but only if you discuss it with your glasses on. Is very sexy,” Ilya flips over to his side and drags Shane in for a slow, lazy kiss. “Actually, I think you can get away with many things if you keep your glasses on–”

Shane pinches his hip.

Ilya nips at his bottom lip. 

“You let me get away with a lot of things already,” Shane observes, smoothing over the spot with a hand rubbing small circles over Ilya’s skin. 

“Except for when we race,” Ilya nods solemnly. “I will never let you win there,”

“I help you cheat on crossword,” Shane hooks his ankle around Ilya’s, sighing. 

“Yes, but you will be pissed if I let you win when we run, so,” Ilya shrugs. “But maybe we can run the trail again later. Try it with glasses,” 

“You’re crazy,” Shane’s blushing, a little flustered.

Ilya kisses him again, dragging it out. 

“I know what I like,” is all Ilya says. 

–

They go on another trail run in the afternoon.

Shane doesn’t wear his glasses.

It doesn’t matter, Ilya still beats him.

He even smokes a cigarette fifteen minutes later, like his lungs hadn’t just burned from the run. He leans against a tree and watches as Shane glares at him from his spot on the ground. 

“This is unbelievable.” Shane points to his lit cigarette. 

“Maybe is my secret,” Ilya shrugs. 

“We need to get you checked,” is what Shane says to that, picking himself up on the floor. He walks ahead of Ilya, leaving him to smoke by the tree.

When Ilya comes back to join him in the kitchen, it’s to find that Shane’s already starting on dinner. 

“Let me cook,” Ilya says, eyeing the ingredients on the counter–chicken breast, pasta, olive oil, garlic. “I can do this with my eyes closed.”

“Please don’t chop garlic with your eyes closed,” Shane says, making room for him.

Ilya steps into the space next to him and starts chopping garlic. He keeps his eyes peeled the whole time. He also eats three of the cherry tomatoes Shane had set out and gets an annoyed little cluck from Shane, who tells him it’s supposed to go in the salad.

“I will eat the salad anyway. This is pre-salad salad,” Ilya pops a fourth one into his mouth.

Shane starts pan-searing the chicken breast. 

“Stop eating the tomatoes,” Shane warns when Ilya reaches back into the bag for his fifth one.

“Salad is mostly dressing, anyway,” but Ilya doesn’t steal another tomato. He does grab strawberries from the fridge though and starts quartering them. 

“Salad is not–Ilya,” Shane points a pair of chopsticks at him. The first time Ilya had seen Shane cook with chopsticks, he’d found it peculiar. Now, they’re just another thing Shane can use against him in the kitchen. “Mom’s salads are not mostly dressing, anyway,” He repeats the last part in a mimic of Ilya’s voice, his tone. His accent.

It makes Ilya laugh. 

“Your chicken is burning,” Ilya lies, just to stop himself from laughing too hard. From smiling too much in this quaint cottage kitchen. 

“Is it–” Shane turns back to the pan, flipping the chicken over. “We’re revisiting your salad stance, by the way,” 

“Okay, maybe later. Here,” Ilya offers Shane a strawberry he deliberately did not slice. Pink. Plump. He watches as Shane nibbles on the end before deciding to just take the whole thing in his mouth. Ilya watches him chew through the strawberry, juice dripping from the corner of his mouth.

Ilya hooks a thumb underneath Shane’s cheek, pulling him away from the chicken again, and kisses him. He licks over Shane’s lips before pulling away. Runs a thumb over the same spot when Shane just stares at him dazedly, cheeks pink. His lips are strawberry-pink. Ilya’s fingers are sticky. 

“Your chicken is burning for real now,” Ilya says calmly.

Shane’s chopsticks clatter against the counter. He snaps himself out of it and turns back to save the chicken.

Ilya hops up on top of a counter and laughs. 

The chicken is only a bit burnt. 

“I like it crispy,” Ilya says, poking around in his salad. 

“That was your fault,” Shane says. He passes a beer to Ilya, who opens it with a spoon. Again. 

“It gives the salad that, ah, smoky taste,” Ilya snickers. “Master chef levels, Hollander,”

“Rozanov,” Shane gives in, finally laughing. “I’m going to push you into the lake again. One more time before we leave,” 

“You can try,” dinner is so mundane, so casual. Ilya feels so relaxed he thinks he might be floating again. “But really, thank you for dinner, Shane.” 

“You’re welcome, Ilya,” Shane pats the back of his hand a bit absentmindedly. He twirls the pasta around his fork and Ilya hums, turning his palm over. He twines their fingers together and picks the least burned chicken chunks from the salad to give to Shane, who takes it with a wry shake of his head. “I love you.”

“Love you, too, tsyplionok moy,” Ilya says, starting on his pasta. It’s good pasta. The salad’s pretty good, too–the burnt chicken does sort of give it that smoky flavour, even if Ilya isn’t sure the salad's supposed to be smoky. 

Shane scrunches his nose. “What’s that?”

This, Ilya gives out easily, “Means my chicken,” 

Shane nudges his foot under the table playfully. 

“What’s Russian for ‘man with fucked up salad choices’?” Shane asks with a chuckle. 

“Easy,” Ilya grins. “Repeat after me: moya lyubóv,” 

Shane runs a thumb over Ilya’s knuckles, his smile fond. Says, “I think I know that one, too,”

“Because you are perfect, Shane Hollander,” Ilya says, utterly sincere. He leans across the table to kiss Shane, smiling against his lips. “Say it,” 

Shane repeats it. Doesn’t really butcher the pronunciation because of course he doesn’t. Shane, who speaks English perfectly and French fluently. Who could spend a whole afternoon talking to his mother in Japanese. He’ll pick up Russian just as easily, Ilya thinks. He’s perfect. 

“Perfect,” Ilya smiles. “Perfect, moya lyubóv,”

A blush starts to spread over Shane’s cheeks, this pretty dusty pink that reminds Ilya of strawberries. 

“Okay, you can stop now,” Shane leans back into his chair and motions for Ilya to actually start eating again. They can be here for hours. The pasta can go cold, his beer warm. He won’t mind. 

“Maybe,” Ilya acquiesces. “Or maybe not,” 

He nudges Shane’s foot under the table. One, two, three taps of his bare foot against the wooden floor.

Shane passes him the parmesan. Ilya sprinkles a hefty amount onto his pasta.

–

One day left.

Their last day at the cottage.

It feels like they’d only just driven through the rolling drive, the narrow road. Felt like they’d been at that shitty motel the night before. Or at the parking lot the morning after, Ilya crouched on the ground and smoking, watching as Shane walked back to the jeep. 

Time is weird on vacation. It had felt so sluggish when they got here. Like it had barely moved at all when they started to drive. But now that they are about to leave, it feels like there’s no more time at all. 

Ilya isn’t really an early riser but he gets up early on the last day. Right when the sun seeps through their sheer curtains and falls on Shane’s exposed shoulder, down the length of his arm. 

Ilya watches him for a long time. Fingers brushing through Shane’s hair carefully, slowly. He listens to him breathe. The gentle rise and fall of his chest. He counts the freckles on his cheeks and smiles radiantly when Shane’s eyes flutter open, slow at first and then recognition dawning on him right after when he sees that Ilya is already awake.

“Good morning,” Shane whispers into the early morning between them. The sheets rustle as he moves, cheek pillowed just over Ilya’s chest, right next to where the cross rests. “How are you?”

“Good morning,” Ilya says first. “Good, I think. Not sad, no. But maybe a bit nervous about flying back,” 

Shane drags his fingers agonisingly slowly down the length of Ilya’s back. He hums. He’s golden in the morning, with his hair a mess and the sun washing his skin a beautiful gold. 

“Me, too,” Shane admits, tucking his head under Ilya’s chin. His arm tightens around Ilya’s middle. “You know, before this trip, I was really anxious about you leaving. Thought about you never coming back,” 

“Fuck,” Ilya swears, first thing in the morning. “Fucking impossible.” 

“I mean, that’s where your family is and they’d always needed you,” Shane continues, smoothing over the sting of Ilya’s leaving with a hand rubbing circles on the small of Ilya’s back. 

“My family back in Russia is a brother who is always angry at me and my niece,” Ilya squeezes his eyes shut. 

He feels Shane nod.

“You love Katya,” Shane says gently. “Ilya, what I’m saying is, you don’t have to come rushing home. You can spend time there, if you want,”

“If I want,” Ilya thinks about his brother. He doesn’t feel as angry thinking about him anymore. Anger was so easy to feel back when he was in Moscow. It was so easy to respond in anger, with fists and harsh words. “For a long time I didn’t know how to be anything with my brother but angry.”

Shane continues to rub his hand over Ilya’s back. It’s comforting. Relaxing. Ilya relaxes in Shane’s arms. 

“He’s an asshole, yeah,” Shane agrees. 

“Yes,” Ilya nods. “But he loves his daughter. Even if he will be angry with me for the rest of his life, as long as he loves Katya, then it’s fine, I think,” 

Their father had loved them in a complicated way, if he ever did. But Ilya had respected him. Even revered him when he was a child. He doesn’t resent his father, at least not now that he’s gone. But then again, after his mother’s death–the anger had been all Ilya had. Anger and grief, and this constant hurt in his chest that felt impossible to get over. Sometimes Ilya feels like he’s just under the surface of the water, unable to burst through. Sometimes. 

It’s something he carries with him, this hurt. 

But the anger. The anger he has let go of. Slowly. Surely. Fists unclenched. Eyes softer. Smile coming to him easier. Laughter quicker, faster. 

“Your hands are warm,” Shane holds onto Ilya’s hand, bringing it up to his mouth to kiss each knuckle. Ten kisses and a smile that he presses against the back of Ilya’s hand right after. 

Ilya’s hands are warmer. They’re open. 

“I spoke to Andrei the other night,” Ilya admits, finally. A conversation he didn’t want to have on their last day at the cottage. On their last day of vacation. “I told him I will sign everything over to Katya. He should not need me anymore. I’m not sure how long that will take,” 

“Okay,” Shane says sleepily. He closes his eyes as Ilya continues to brush his hair. 

“I will come back, okay?” Ilya needs him to know this. It’s just going to be papers. The legalities of it they’ll need to go over with a lawyer. His father had a large estate. Inheritance split evenly between Ilya and his brother–to their complete and utter shock. To Ilya’s horror, really. But it had been all left to them. Ilya does not want to hold onto it. He has what he needs from his first home, sitting just over his chest, right next to where his heart is. “Remember what I said? If I don’t come back in three days, you can fly to Moscow and kick Andrei’s ass,” 

“You’re not coming back in three days,” Shane says quietly. “That’s okay, you know that, right? Just–just come back,”

“I promise,” because the world can end in smoke before Ilya will ever tell Shane the seat’s not taken. Before he gets up from the table. Before he lets go of this. One day where Shane feels alone without him is a day where Ilya has failed. 

“I’ll still miss you, though,” this time, it’s not like Shane’s talking about some distant future. He’s talking about a week from now when Ilya has to leave. He doesn’t sound as sad, at least, not to Ilya. He’s even smiling. 

Shane presses his smile into the hollow of Ilya’s throat. 

Ilya’s fingers continue to card through Shane’s hair. A mess. This boring haircut. Shane is so beautiful in the morning. 

“I will call everyday. Maybe even the whole day,” Ilya kisses Shane’s forehead, smiling against his warm skin. “Make it my mission to talk until your phone dies. And even then, I will just switch to calling your iPad,” 

“I have a powerbank,” Shane says with a little laugh.

“Perfect,” Ilya kisses the top of Shane’s head three times in quick succession. “Always ready. Always thinking ahead,”

Shane shifts on top of Ilya. His hand coming up to grip tightly around Ilya’s bicep. “You’ll call?”

“You will have to fucking beg me to drop the call,” Ilya laughs wetly. “Maybe you will. You will get tired of me calling all the time–”

Shane kisses his jaw, the easiest thing he has quick access to. He smooths a hand down Ilya’s arm and Ilya feels him shake his head. 

“Ilya,” Shane says gently. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of talking to you,”

“I mean,” Ilya starts. Pauses. Then tries again. “You have had eight years of practice,”

“And eight years is nothing. Hardly enough time,” Shane kisses his chin again. “Can I ask a question, though?” 

Ilya tightens an arm around Shane’s shoulder, pulling him impossibly closer. 

“Yes,” 

“Will things change when you come back?” 

Shane is so warm on top of him, hand moving over Ilya’s arm gently. Tracing over Ilya’s moles again, he’s sure. 

Ilya thinks about the boy he met that first day of class. Thinks about the sound of Shane’s laughter when he saw Ilya try to do a crossword the old fashioned way; newspaper and all. About the puzzle they’d done that one summer Ilya’s wifi had been out for a few days. An autumn spent in Ilya’s dark apartment because something had gone wrong with the wiring and the lights wouldn’t be coming back on until the afternoon, and his Switch had died, and Shane had still spent it with him, a box of pizza shared between them.

Ilya thinks about spending the holidays with Shane’s family. Meeting his parents for the first time. A seat at the table, David had told him. Always a seat. I love you, Ilya, drive safe, okay? Yuna would always say to him whenever he drove over on his bike. Shane meeting Svetlana for the first time when she’d visited Ottawa. God, Ilya had felt so happy that day–his two favourite people finally meeting. He thinks about all the nights spent staring out at the window, looking out for the moon. Talking to his mother whenever he got the chance. 

Ilya thinks about the feeling of being touched by Shane. Tentative touches at first, then more sure, more confident. A squeeze of his hand. Their fingers tangling together. Shane carding through his curls, cradling Ilya’s face in his hands and looking at him. The feeling of kissing him for the first time and then the second time, and over and over since then. 

When Ilya had first realised he’d loved him years ago. A second time when he realised the feeling was still there, maybe something he’ll always carry with him. And then the third time, when he said it out loud and Shane said it back. 

Good things always come in threes but the best come as a pair. 

Ilya threads their fingers together, this time bringing their joined hands up to his mouth to kiss the back of Shane’s palm.

It’s all encompassing, this love. Something he knows for certain that he’ll always carry with him. 

“You and me, Shane,” Ilya says quietly. If there is one thing he is sure of, then it is this. “I just think it is time for everything else, now.” 

Shane was right. Eight years is hardly enough time. But then that just means all the years after that will be for everything else. 

Ilya likes the idea of that.

“I am so in love with you,” Shane takes Ilya’s face in his hands and kisses him. Warm like sunlight. Patient for everything else. Perfect. 

“Ah,” Ilya breathes, smiling against the curve of Shane’s lips. “Good, because I love you very much, too. That will never change.”

–

It’s a nice day. 

They’re loading their things in the back of the jeep when Ilya pulls on Shane’s hands, covering them completely with his, and asks, “You said you had message. For mama,”

“I do,” Shane looks at their hands and smiles. “Tell her thank you,” 

Ilya rubs his thumb over Shane’s knuckles.

The sun is warm above them. 

Shane continues, “Ilya, you look just like her,” he sweeps Ilya’s curls away from his eyes, his smile so warm it feels like eight different summers, all rolled into one. “I never got to meet her but it feels like I know her already,” 

Ilya turns their hands around, lets his hold glide down to Shane’s wrist, and then kisses the pads of his fingertips. One for each finger. Ten different ways. 

“You carry her,” Shane says, smiling shakily. 

“I carry her,” Ilya says. “Let’s talk to her together next time,”

“Okay,” Shane kisses Ilya’s knuckles. Five different ways. “When?” 

“When sky is clear. Moon is out,” when the whole world is glowing. 

“Okay,” Shane pushes Ilya up against the trunk of the car and kisses him, fingers running through his curls and tugging playfully. “Okay. I’d love that.”

–

They go around the cottage, one last time. Shane inspects every room carefully to check if they missed anything.

Ilya pushes him up the glass windows one last time to kiss him silly, kiss him breathless. 

Shane rounds the kitchen. Pokes his head in the fridge and comes back out with half a pack of cherry tomatoes. 

Ilya raises an eyebrow.

Shane shakes his head.

“For the road,” Shane says, taking it with him. 

Ilya takes the cherry tomatoes and starts eating them before they even get to the jeep. 

Shane just shakes his head and laughs at him. 

They walk to the dock, one last time. 

“I tell you secret,” Ilya says as they’re looking at the water. “This was where I felt bravest,” 

“Oh yeah?” Shane’s smile is playful. “Honestly, me too,”

“Is just you and me, yes?” Ilya winds his arms around Shane’s waist. Kisses his forehead. Then his cheeks. The tip of his nose. The gentle curve of his smile.

Shane sways a little in his arms.

“My favourite thing,” Shane says.

“Can we come back?” Ilya asks. “Don’t think I have climbed enough trees yet,” 

“Of course, Ilya,” Shane says, looking entirely too serious. “Just stop climbing trees. You’re going to give me a heart attack,”

Ilya leans away from Shane’s face, pops his mouth open dramatically, and declares, “Oh, because you like me that much?”

“No, you idiot,” Shane knocks their foreheads together. Laugh spilling out from his pretty mouth as he says, “Because I love you. Keep up, Rozanov,”

Shane kisses him, short and sweet. Steps out of the circle of Ilya’s arms and then makes a run for the jeep.

Ilya chases after him. 

He loses.

“Cheater,” Ilya has dissolved into a fit of giggles. 

Shane wraps Ilya up in a hug and squeezes him tightly. 

“You started it,” Shane laughs. 

Three different facts: the lakeshore is rocky. Shane has the most beautiful laugh ever. It’s a nice day. 

“I love you,” Ilya says, hugging him just as tightly. “Ya tebya lyublyú.”

Only twice this time because the best things come as a pair. 

–

It’s a nice day. 

The drive back home is shorter. They stop at the same lookout point but it’s early in the afternoon and this time Ilya can grip the wooden fence tightly and peer down at the fall. The view of the tree tops and the winding river is breathtaking.

The drive back home is shorter. They stop at a gas station so Ilya can restock on his redbulls, mostly sugarfree. Shane sneaks in a candy bar and Ilya smiles, kissing him loudly on the cheek when they jog back to the jeep. 

The drive back home is shorter. They stay at a better motel. An actual inn this time. They make use of the jacuzzi when everyone else has left, Ilya’s hands wandering everywhere. Shane leads him back to their room, with the queen sized bed that doesn’t threaten to swallow them whole, and rides Ilya until Ilya’s mind completely whites out.

Ilya doesn’t make an emergency stop at the side of the highway to tell Shane how serious it is that he finds him very pretty. He says it every few minutes whenever he can and Shane just shakes his head, taking Ilya’s hand and holding it over the centre console as he drives one handed and with his sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose. 

Time goes back to normal, vacation over. 

Shane drives them back home on the final stretch of the trip, the last three hours. Ilya spends it eating strawberries. Fresh ones they’d gotten from a market they passed after they’d checked out. Real juicy ones that he feeds to Shane as he drives. 

They save a box for Yuna and David.

Shane explains the concept of omiyage. 

“We were away for two weeks,” Ilya says. “We just drove to Ontario,”

“Doesn’t matter,” Shane says. 

A box of strawberries and a fresh bouquet for Yuna. Omiyage. 

“Okay. I will bring you omiyage from Russia,” Ilya is already making a mental note of it. “We have cookies–Oreshki. Is filled with caramel,”

“It’s gonna be too sweet,” Shane laughs. Ilya feeds him another strawberry and waits until Shane finishes chewing. He swallows. 

“Is gonna be perfect, you will love it,” Ilya waves a hand in the space between them, grinning. “I like this. O-mi-ya-ge,” He says each syllable carefully.

They stop at a light and Shane takes the chance to kiss Ilya quickly. 

“We can go shopping in Japan,” Shane says. It’s a promise, Ilya knows. Shane is making his own mental notes for this, too. “I have a list,” 

“List will be long. I will go broke before we even come back,” Ilya is excited for it, for everything else. There’s so many things to look forward to. 

“Doesn’t matter,” evening has fallen and Shane’s laugh is still golden. “It’s vacation.”

–

Time goes back to normal.

Shane pulls into the driveway. 

Yuna and David are standing by the door, already waiting for them. 

Ilya rounds the jeep quickly, hopping over to Shane. He twines their fingers together as they walk, Shane holding onto the box of strawberries and Ilya the bouquet.

“Hey,” Shane calls, smiling at his parents. “We’re home.”

Ilya raises their joined hands together as they walk up to the front door in a wild demonstration for Yuna and David. He pulls Shane to his side and kisses his cheek, playful and loud, an obnoxious mwah ringing out into the warm summer evening. 

Shane laughs next to him, cheeks pink. 

“Welcome home, you two.” David greets, his smile beaming. 

Yuna leans against David’s shoulder. She catches Ilya’s eye. Smiles softly at him and nods her head. 

This time around, Ilya understands perfectly.